Ties of Blood

By Jay Greenstein

Vampires are fun, but silly. Blood has no magical power. It can’t reanimate the dead or give super strength. And it certainly can’t give a full sized human the power to turn into a bat weighing less than four pounds.

Yet Romi is a vampire, beautifully and uniquely so, though not at all like any you may have encountered.

Disappearing fangs make little sense either. Still Romi’s are very, very real. And if she chooses to use them on you, you’ll thank her, and beg her to return.

But Romi, the world’s only living vampire, is trapped in a situation from which she can see no escape. And in all the world, only Curt Simon has the skill and talent to recognize just how unique she is. But rescuing her, if he can, is just the beginning, because Romi has a secret, one she can never reveal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Greenstein
• Release date: Jul 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311649249

Jay Greenstein

I'm a storyteller. My skills at writing are subject to opinion, my punctuation has been called interesting, at best—but I am a storyteller. I am, of course, many other things. In seven decades of living, there are great numbers of things that have attracted my attention. I am, for example, an electrician. I can also design, build, and install a range of things from stairs and railings to flooring, and tile backsplashes. I can even giftwrap a box from the inside, so to speak, by wallpapering the house. I'm an engineer, one who has designed computers and computer systems; one of which—during the bad old days of the cold war—flew in the plane designated as the American President's Airborne Command Post: The Doomsday Jet. I've spent seven years as the chief-engineer of a company that built bar-code readers. I spent thirteen of the most enjoyable years of my life as a scoutmaster, and three, nearly as good, as a cubmaster. I joined the Air Force to learn jet engine mechanics, but ended up working in broadcast and closed circuit television, serving in such unlikely locations as the War Room of the Strategic Air Command, and a television station on the island of Okinawa. I have been involved in sports car racing, scuba diving, sailing, and anything else that sounded like fun. I can fix most things that break, sew a fairly neat seam, and have raised three pretty nice kids, all of who are smarter and prettier than I am—more talented, too, thanks to the genes my wife kindly provided. Once, while camping with a group of cubs and their families, one of the dads announced, "You guys better make up crosses to keep the Purple Bishop away." When I asked for more information, the man shrugged and said, "I don't really know much about the story. It's some kind of a local thing that was mentioned on my last camping trip." Intrigued, I wondered if I could come up with something to go with his comment about the crosses; something to provide a gentle terror-of-the-night to entertain the boys. The result was a virtual forest of crosses outside the boys' tents. That was the event that switched on something within me that, now, more than twenty-five years later, I can't seem to switch off. Stories came and came… so easily it was sometimes frightening. Stories so frightening that one boy swore he watched my eyes begin to glow with a dim red light as I told them (it was the campfire reflecting from my ...

Book preview

The vampire studied her victim’s throat and smiled, both for what was and for what would be. Unable to move, other than for the constant small spasming of his body, he who would satisfy her need lay blind to the world—waiting for the kiss of life.

Searching for the pulse that lay so close to the surface of the throat, wine-dark lips descended, parting wetly. Had the victim been capable, there would have been a shiver at the first touch of breath—cooling, then gently warming his throat. There would have been wonder at the touch of a tongue—like a blind snake, delicately seeking the hidden life that throbbed beneath the skin. There might have been a gasp at the moment of pain, but there was none of that. This one was beyond such trivial things, beyond hearing the soft sigh of satisfaction as precious blood filled a need that could not be denied. Could never be denied.

° ° °

Curt Simon stared gloomily into his glass wishing he could be somewhere else, somewhere dark and quiet. But it was Tuesday, and Tuesday belonged to Mike, a brotherly thing done without thought or question for as long as he could remember. Tonight it was hard to leave the cares of business behind, though, and the half-filled club only served to deepen that depression.

He glanced to his right, where his brother sat, leaning back against the bar and watching the dancers—choosing his victim.

But brooding solves nothing, so he sat up and said, Tell me, Mike. What the hell am I doing here?

What? The music had overwhelmed his words.

He leaned closer. I said, why did you drag me here?

Mike swiveled on the barstool and poked his nose with a fingertip. To get us laid, kid. What else? If it wasn’t for me you’d be a damn monk. He indicated two women, just returning from the dance floor. What do you think? They’re not with anyone, and didn’t think enough of the guys who danced with them to keep them around. Personally, I favor the dark one. You can— Curt?

But he was no longer looking in the indicated direction. He was studying someone who had just entered—someone who caused his eyebrows to lower in a frown.

Mike studied the woman. Her? You’re kidding. The one I picked for you is better looking, and, in case you missed it, she’s taken.

I know. The woman was indeed taken. Of only middle height, she had what appeared to be an excellent figure, muffled by a bulky red sweater—an odd choice on a warmish spring night. It complemented the ebony hair that lay soft against it, though, and looked expensive, as did the rest of her wardrobe. While the man with her scanned the club she stood waiting, as if wearing a royal crown, her face that of an ice queen. Her eyes, though, took in everything, dancing around the room in flickers of movement—a hunter checking for danger—and seemed almost to glow as if lit from behind.

Breathtaking was the only word that fit.

The man with her was well-groomed, if not handsome, and carried himself with that indefinable something that says, I get what I want, when I want it. The possessive way he held her arm said she was one of the things he wanted.

Curt?

He shook his head, waving off conversation while he studied the woman. Next to him, Mike, finished with his own evaluation, dismissed her with, Interesting, I’ll give you that, kid, and a lot better looking than I first thought, but definitely out of your league.

He threw a frown in Mike’s direction. Interesting? That’s all you can say? He waited, as the couple passed close enough to overhear their words, on their way to a table further into the room. Unable to see anything but her back after they were seated, he turned back to his brother, lifting his glass and gesturing in her direction. Interesting, you call her? The most fascinating face on the planet, and you call it interesting? He turned back to his study of the woman, chewing on both his knuckle, and the problem of how to get her in front of his camera.

Uh, Curt?

Mmm?

I’ll concede that she has a lot going for her, but haven’t you lost sight of the fact that she’s not exactly up for grabs? You’re not going to do something stupid, are you? Don’t forget I bruise easily.

Smiling, he turned and punched his brother’s arm. Relax, Mike, this isn’t love, it’s art. At the mouthed word, Art? on Mike’s lips, he laughed, then sobered, nodding in the woman’s direction. No shit, Mike...art. Somehow, I have to get her face in front of my camera. I just hope I can afford her rates.

Rates? You’ve lost me again.

I’m pretty sure she’s a model. With that he put his wine aside and stood, saying, Be right back.

Excuse me, but can you give me just a moment? he dropped his business card on the table near the woman, who looked up, eyebrows raised in question. Pale eyes, almost iridescent blue, had a disquieting effect that made him blink in surprise. She was also younger than he thought, probably not over twenty-two.

With an effort, he tore his attention from her face. Including the man in the conversation, but still speaking to her, said, I’m sorry to intrude, but I was wondering if the lady would mind telling me the name of her agent? I’m a photographer.

A small frown marred her face. Agent? I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else. I’m not an actress.

Her voice, a husky contralto that surprised and intrigued, was raised to overcome the music. He shook his head, leaning down and raising his own voice. I meant for modeling. I’d like, very much, to capture your face on film, perhaps do a study, or even a portfolio. A trace of curiosity showed, but little enthusiasm. Still, he kept on pitching, adding, You really should be modeling. Your face is both beautiful and unique. When that resulted in no response he added. I’d be willing to pay for your time, of course.

The man’s voice showed annoyance. She doesn’t model. Thank you for the offer, but the answer is no.

He glanced back at the woman but she avoided his eyes, so there was nothing to do but apologize and leave, hoping she would, at least keep the card. It had been pushed aside when he turned back to look.

Ah well...

Struck out? At his shrug, Mike said, I figured you would. That was a nice try, giving her the card, but she’s not the type to bite on the ‘let me take your picture, I’ll make you famous,’ ploy. Mike then took his shoulders from behind, turning him toward the dance floor. Now, which one do you want, the blonde or the red-head? They’ve both smiled in this direction, and time’s running out. Make your choice and let’s get this show on the road!

With a shrug and a smile, he let go of the mood that had been ruining most of his day and surrendered to the inevitable. He bowed, theatrically, motioning his brother out of the chair, saying, I’ll take both.

Ha! That’ll be the day.

° ° ° °

Chapter 2

Curt pushed his way through the front door of the studio. As always, Selma was there before him, getting things ready for the day.

She pointed to the clock, which showed 7:45 AM.

Well, good afternoon, boss-man. Nice of you to finally show up. She crossed her arms, gazing at him from over her half-glasses. I sure hope you’re in a better mood today. ‘Cause if you’re not I’m out of here right now.

Remembering, he scowled and flipped a disgusted hand in her direction.

My mood depends on whether Zalman shows up with the film and video from the Hoffman wedding.

Selma grabbed her handbag. Well, that’s it. I’m out of here. If he does show up, I wouldn’t want to be here to witness it.

His scowl left and his lips curled upward, unbidden, as he helped his old aunt on with her jacket. It was hard to stay in a bad mood with her around.

Get me a jelly doughnut, he called, before the door closed, her waved hand indicating that she’d heard.

Voicemail held no messages and the bridal studio was ready for the two portrait sessions scheduled for the morning, so he worked his way toward the rear of the building, verifying that nothing needed immediate attention.

He stopped, just inside the door to the coloration studio to watch Candy Sanders at her easel, before interrupting her—clearing his throat to attract her attention. Both the lady and her work generated a warm feeling, one that helped offset his simmering anger. He cleared his throat again, louder this time.

With a frown she laid down her brush and turned, the frown converting to a smile when she saw it was him.

Oh hi, Curt, I didn’t hear you come in. What’s up?

Good morning, Milady. By some miracle, Bob Zalman hasn’t given you the work from the Hoffman wedding, has he? A yes was unlikely, but he had to ask.

At her headshake, his smile dissolved.

I didn’t think so. The question was mostly wishful thinking. He gestured toward the portrait and said, Okay, don’t let me keep you from your work, then moved out of her line of vision, so as not to disturb her. She picked up the brush and went back to studying the portrait, deciding on where to work next.

He stood for a moment, shaking his head in wonder at the woman before him, lost in her study of the portrait. In seconds, she’d virtually forgotten his existence.

What had possessed the girl’s mother to name her Candy? Luck, or prescience? In any case, she was almost exactly what her name implied: sweet, pretty enough to bring a smile from any man, loving—and empty of any real nourishment. Still, she was talented at converting photographs into painted portraits and had a husband who adored her.

The thought came that perhaps the necessity of great intelligence was overrated. Certainly, his supposed intelligence caused him to hire Bob Zalman, despite what his emotional side tried to tell him. If that was what intelligence did for you, he might be better off without it.

° ° °

Curt! Line one’s for you, and it’s Zalman. You might want to take this one in your office, though, and be sitting down before you pick up the phone.

Selma’s shout pulled him away from the viewfinder. Time for another discussion on the joys of using the intercom, though that was no more likely to be effective than in the past.

With the client in front of his lens, he could only mutter, shit, under his breath. Aloud, he called, Have him hold on, Selma. I have to finish this shot...and use the intercom next time.

Anger at Zalman or not, the picture couldn’t be hurried. It would probably hang on someone’s wall for twenty years or more, and be seen every day, so he damn well better get it right.

Able to excuse himself, at last, he stalked to his office and threw himself into his chair. Not expecting to be happy with what he might be forced to do he reached for the phone,

About to lift the handset he stopped. No sense starting off angry, so with an effort, he counted to five, and reined in the anger.

Okay Bob, he said, in as reasonable a tone as he could manage. Talk to me. Tell me where the stuff from Sunday night is. You’ve left a hole in my schedule, and I’ve got process people idle, waiting for it.

Zalman was silent for a time. Finally, he said, Well, I’ve got a problem with that, Mr. Simon. Somebody stole my car, and I had everything in the trunk.

What? That brought his feet to the floor with a thump. When did this happen, and where?

The whine in the man’s voice grated, as Zalman said, It’s not my fault. It happened Sunday night, after the wedding. I stopped for a bite to eat, and when I came out, the car was gone. A hopeful silence followed. What he said might be believable were this the first, or second time the man’s drinking got in the way of his job. But it wasn’t, and part of the blame rested on him, for not arranging to have someone else transport the work to the studio.

Obviously, what Zalman said was bullshit. But that was for later. Now was for trying to salvage something. And for that he needed information.

Okay, where did this happen, and when did you report the theft to the police?

That brought another long silence, finally broken by, Well, actually, I never did report it. The wheedling voice hurried on—somewhat unsteadily. I mean, the car’s old, and you never get the damn things back, anyways...right?

And you figure they’ll just sell the cameras and the memory sticks, right? Suppressing the sarcasm that wanted to come was difficult, but for now, necessary. But at the man’s comment of, Well...uh, sure, that’s about what I figure, said, And did you manage to lose Monday and Tuesday, too? Today is Wednesday.

When Zalman made no response, he let his anger break free. For Christ’s sake, Bob, how dumb do you think I am? You’re not fully sober now, are you? Do you even remember where you left the goddamn car? That’s what you did, didn’t you: get so stinking drunk you have no idea of where you’ve been?

Hey! You got no call to talk to me that way, I—

The hell I don’t. You just screwed me, this studio, and a nice lady who depended on you to preserve the memories of her wedding. Those pictures can’t be duplicated. Added to that, five thousand dollars worth of camera equipment was in your car, and that belongs to me, not you. Ignoring the sputtering going on at the other end of the line, he plowed on. Now just shut up and listen, because here’s how it’s going to go.... If I don’t hear from the police within two hours, telling me you’ve reported the stuff stolen, I’m going to report it myself, with you named as the thief, so you had better either remember where you parked the car or start shopping for cameras to replace what you lost. He took a breath to let Zalman absorb the message, then added, And what we owe you for the past two weeks’ work will only be the down payment.

Without waiting for a reply, he slammed the phone into the cradle.

The sound of clapping brought his attention back to the present. Selma stood in the doorway, arms crossed, hip resting comfortably against the doorframe. Obviously, she’d heard at least his side of the conversation. She straightened when she saw she had his attention.

Well, I’ll be damned. The kid has balls. I always figured you did, I just never had proof. I knew you had muscles, but it’s nice to know there’s also a little steel in there where it counts. She pointed a shooting finger at him as she pushed herself fully erect. Welcome to the world, kiddo. It ain’t always nice, but things do get interesting at times. With that she turned and walked to the reception desk, leaving him gaping. She’d almost jarred him out of his angry mood. But then he remembered that he was probably going to have to explain to the Hoffmans that their wedding photos, and video, had been lost.

° ° ° °

Chapter 3

Seventeen days later the woman came through the club’s door. Memory hadn’t failed, and the time spent visiting the establishment since seeing her, to scan the room’s occupants for her after closing up the studio, hadn’t been wasted. She was, quite simply, the most fascinating woman he’d ever encountered. Unfortunately, she wasn’t alone, which eliminated a good number of his fantasies.

She was arm-in-arm with someone new, an oddity, given the loving attention paid by her first escort. This man was expensively dressed too, and every bit as possessive in the way he guided her to the table. And, this man was just as obviously under her spell. Perhaps she was a call girl? That made sense, but mattered little. It was her face that fascinated, not her body. Though on reflection, there was nothing wrong with her body.

The woman showed signs of affection, but it seemed perfunctory—a form to be observed. Apparently, she wasn’t excited to be out with him. Still, she was attentive, if not loving.

He sighed and brought that line of speculation to a halt. Not only was it none of his business, he was probably reading things into her actions more because he wanted her for himself than for any other reason. But that, too, mattered little. A portfolio of her face, captured in a series of portraits, was what he really lusted after.

Okay, Curt, this is why you’re here, isn’t it? A deep breath, a hardening of resolve, and he pushed himself off the barstool to march toward their table. Time to try a new approach.

Good evening. Sorry to bother you, folks, he said, as he dropped his business card on the table in front of the man, saying, I’m with Advantage studios, and I’m a professional photographer. I don’t usually solicit business in bars, but I couldn’t help but notice that you’re here with the most beautiful woman in the room...perhaps even.... He left the rest unsaid, but spread his hands to indicate a much wider area and pasted on a hopeful smile as he added, It might be immodest of me, but if you don’t already have a portrait of your lady, I don’t think there’s any studio in the city that can capture her as well. Holding his breath he waited.

The man stared for a moment, absorbing his words, then grunted, in what seemed a positive way and cocked his head at her in question. Well, there’s an idea, and it’s one I fancy. What about it, my dear? May I have a likeness of your beauty to grace my mantle and help me remember our time together?

She flicked a glance in his direction, then turned her attention back to the man, giving a tiny shake of the head. Finally, she turned her eyes fully on him, studying him for a long moment, the intensity of her gaze unnerving.

Her voice was cold. No thank you, Mr. Simon. I prefer not to have my soul trapped in a photograph.

I.... He stopped, unable to form a coherent reply to such a statement. Reluctantly, he surrendered.

I thank you for your time, then. He pointed to his card. In case you change your mind?

Nearly an hour later he stopped, frozen in the act of slipping into bed. She’d called him by name without having read it from the card. Obviously, she’d not only read the card he’d given her on their first meaning, she remembered his name.

What in the hell does that mean?

° ° ° °

Chapter 4

The intercom buzzed, followed by Selma’s voice, an oddity since she normally shouted for him to answer the phone.

Curt, Bob Zalman’s here to see you, do you want me to send him in?

He leaned back in the chair. Did seeing the man make any sense? Rehiring him was out of the question. Yes, the wedding pictures and camera equipment had been found, but he’d made the studio appear inept in the eyes of a client and damaged its reputation. The answer to Selma’s question was easy.

No, Selma, I have nothing to say to him. Send him away.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be that easy. Seconds later Zalman stalked into the office, to lean across the desk, his palms resting on the proofs he was evaluating.

Hey, damn it, don’t brush me off. I did a lot of good work for you. That should count for something. I—

It doesn’t. He leaned forward, forcing the man to back off. "You hurt a nice lady, who never did a damn thing to you, except provide a night’s work. And, you screwed with the reputation of this studio. My studio.

The work you once did—and it wasn’t all that great, either—kept your job the first time. My sympathy for you, and your promises, kept it the second time. But you lied. It’s three times and you’re out, mister, and this was number three. He stood, then, leaning forward to rest his own hands on the desktop, forcing the other man to give even more ground. Behind Zalman, Selma stood, just outside the door, a heavy picture frame in her hands, ready to give aid, if it came to that, he assumed.

But, Curt, have a heart, Zalman said, his voice filled with false camaraderie. I’ve tried the other studios, and they aren’t hiring. I promise you—swear to you—that you won’t have any trouble with me. I’m clean now, and I’m going to stay that way. I’m attending AA meetings every week.... Really! I—

Once, he might have been tempted to say yes. The man certainly needed help. But only a fool believes promises twice broken, so he straightened and cut Zalman off with, The answer is no now, and will be no again tomorrow.

The man stood there for a moment, his mouth working, then with a look of pure hatred, spun on his heel and stalked out,