Bound to the Infinite

By Caroline Hanson

Even without my memory there were three things that were so deeply burned into my soul that they had to be true.

First, I should be dead.
Second, Someone is watching me every moment of every day.
And Third, Vampires might be real.

Bound by the Infinite is the first book in bestselling author Caroline Hanson's new urban fantasy series. Sizzling and suspenseful, Bound by the Infinite is a twisted story of lust, blood and what happens when a monster loses control.

Please note: This book was formerly called Forgotten but has been revamped (ha ha) with a new title and cover by the publisher.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caroline Hanson
• Release date: Nov 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310804892

Caroline Hanson

Caroline Hanson grew up in California and moved to London in order to dance and go to pubs. Eventually, she matured enough to marry and imported an Englishman, returning to the United States.After passing the bar, she had two children and now tries to parent, read, write and play tennis. She's heard rumors that other mothers clean and cook but is putting in serious effort to make sure those rumors don't reach her family.Caroline grew up listening to Brit pop and reading about vampires. As a teenager her favorite authors were Anne Rice and Jude Deveraux. Now she loves Laurell K. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris, Patricia Briggs, Laura Kinsale, Lisa Kleypas, Loretta Chase, Nalini Singh and JR Ward-- that's the short list.She is also the proud owner of a WWJD t-shirt, (What Would Joss do?) which she hopes is apparent in her books.She loves to hear from fans!

Book preview

1

In my dreams I’m consumed by lava. This is how it starts: there I am sitting on a beach, a soft breeze blowing across my golden skin, my hair loose, the sand hot against my toes, the water so blue it makes me ache…It’s really perfect is what I’m getting at. I’m minding my own damned business when I see something odd on the horizon. It’s bright, shiny, red with shades of brilliant burnt orange. It glows and glistens, and all I can think is that it’s beautiful. It’s the lava, of course, so hot and deadly that it leaves nothing behind, not even ash. And there I am thinking it’s pretty.

I’m a moron in this dream.

Unfortunately, it’s quite apt for my life and sums me up quite neatly. You could put it on my tombstone. Rebecca Finner: Hypnotized by that which will kill her.

And then I see the smoke, just a curl, and a dense, dark shadow that spirals up from the sluggishly moving mass, a little inkling of what’s to come. Then it expands, this darkness, this all-consuming blackness, like a tumor that devours until it consumes every bit of healthy tissue, growing and growing until it blocks out the sun, casts everything around me in shadow.

I don’t feel the heat of the sun any more, that’s all gone, but I’m not cold exactly because I’m too busy watching—maybe even waiting—as this pouring river of lava moves closer.

Is there sound? the psychiatrist asks, snapping me out of my memory. Not memory, I remind myself, just a dream.

I blink. I always get caught up in it, as if I’m almost there. And now he’s talking to me, and I feel like a moron in real life too. Which is a bummer. I don’t like feeling stupid. I already can’t remember anything because of the amnesia, so the last thing I need is to be an idiot on top of that.

I swallow and think back, trying to remember if there is sound in this dream. But the more I try to grab on to that memory, the more elusive it becomes. Like trying to get eggshells out of raw egg. They’re slippery little bastards.

I’ve never noticed any sound, I say and feel myself shrugging apologetically. I’ve had the dream almost every night for as long as I can remember. How come I don’t know if there is sound?

I laugh. The therapist appears concerned. What’s funny, Miss Finner?

I was just thinking how silly it is that I don’t know if there is sound when I’ve had the dream every night for as long as I can remember. Even if that is only two months ago.

My first memory is waking up in a hospital. And then I watched a lot of TV. For two weeks it was all I did. There was a strangeness to it. Seeing all of these things for the first time. Cars, electricity, dishwashers, phones. You get the idea. These people on television used them as though they were normal, and I found myself watching it in fascination and horror. How could I have forgotten all of this? Simple things like working a remote control?

Dr. Brown gives me a smile. I think it’s supposed to be kind, but it seems perfunctory. He can check it off his list now: smiled to put the patient at ease. I’m not at fucking ease. But we’re both puppets in this. I come to his office every few days, we talk about nothing, and all the while there is someone standing behind a one-way mirror. I can’t see who’s watching me. And I really don’t know why anyone would want to. I’m just a nameless girl who is probably in her early twenties and has no family. At least none that can be found. And I go to a shrink.

Brown’s an average guy. Average age, average brown hair, average brown clothes, maybe even browning teeth. His fingers press the tip of his pencil down hard into the yellow pad of paper. That’s a tell. A poker term that means he gives information away by making that gesture. He does it every time he’s heard something he doesn’t like. I repress a smile, feeling proud of myself for figuring that out.

Poker is another thing I’ve learned from television. It’s very important to pay attention to people. Not just what they say, but how they look when they say it; where their hands are, their eyes, if their posture is open or closed. People lie with words. And if I miss that, if I’ve read a situation wrong, it could kill me. My hands are shaking. Why do I think that? Because surely that’s a little extreme.

And then what? he says, and he reaches up, touching the earpiece he has in. A psychiatrist with an earpiece, a patient with a microphone, a wall made of glass, and it’s all so ridiculous that I could scream and scream and never stop. I do know that none of this is normal. I know because I’ve seen shrinks on TV, and this is more like a good cop investigating a crime I may have committed rather than a therapeutic experience.

Whoever is on the other end of that earpiece, the person speaking, has said something the doctor doesn’t like. Brown’s brown eyebrows rise a little. He even makes a sound of negation, looks toward the large mirror in the office and gives a small shake of his head.

Even I’m intrigued now. Brown doesn’t usually put up much of a fuss. In fact, he seems quite bored by our appointments. He asks me the same questions every time, fills out his forms, and then asks a few others that seem a bit random. And then there are the questions that the watcher asks. Watcher or watchers? How many people are behind the mirror? How many people are interested in the mundane details of my life? Yesterday was a pasta day, and I broke down and ate a Kit Kat too. King-size.

What’s he want to know? I ask, unable to help myself, and now the doctor looks flustered. He doesn’t like it when I acknowledge the person on the other side of the glass. Probably because it undermines his authority. Lets everyone know he’s not the top banana.

Top banana. I like that expression. When I’m not here or watching TV or going to school, I read. Terrible stories of villains and monsters. I read about vampires. In fact, that’s all I read. I discovered them in a bookstore. I think one of the authors uses that phrase. Top banana. Brown doesn’t know about the books I read. Too lurid. I would feel a bit ridiculous explaining that a vampire bite is just another form of penetration.

Ahem.

Brown says, Let me remind you that the person or persons behind the glass may not be male. He sounds annoyed. I don’t really know that the person on the other side of the mirror is a man, but in my mind it is. Plus it annoys Dr. Brown, and since I don’t really want to be here talking about my dreams and the blank spots in my head, I try to annoy him whenever the opportunity presents itself.

You say ‘he’ sometimes, I say oh, so casually.

A flash of a glance to the mirror and all I can think is, Gotcha!

As I’ve told you before, it’s easiest to refer to your benefactor as a generic ‘he.’

Like God?

He purses his lips.

Because God could be a woman, but everyone says he, so we assume it’s a he. What’s God want to know? Isn’t he my gGod, the man behind the mirror? He pays for me, after all.

Brown clears his throat and presses the pencil into the paper so hard that I see his fingertips turn stark white.

Like a vampire.

Your benefactor wants to know why you’ve not mentioned this before. You’ve been coming here for weeks, you say you have it every night, and yet this is the first we are hearing of it. There is…skepticism, which is, in my medical opinion, counterproductive, he says, his tone superior. It’s one thing the doctor and I share—an annoyance at being bossed around by whoever is behind the glass.

I turn my head to the window, away from Brown and the watcher. Beyond the glass is an endless view of buildings and life. What are all those people doing behind those windows? Do they wish they were somewhere else? My gaze drifts to the sky. It could be bluer. It’s slate grey, like it’s going to start pissing buckets of rain.

The back of my neck prickles, and I have the sensation that someone is staring at the back of my head very hard, almost willing me to turn around and look at the mirror. To answer the question. I suppose my looking out the window is my own tell. I do it when I’m annoyed, feeling vulnerable, or when all I want to do is start screaming about how unfair it is that I have no history, no memory, no family, just this appointment like clockwork.

Sometimes they ask me to look at the mirror, and I really don’t like that. Especially because it’s not a request from Brown, but from my benefactor, my watcher. He wants to see me.

I take a deep breath, watching a pigeon strut by the window, looking pleased with himself because he’s two hundred feet up in the air and unafraid. Do I envy a pigeon? A heavy sigh oozes out of me. I do. I do envy a pigeon.

Miss Finner? Brown asks, and I realize I’ve done it again, disappeared into my thoughts longer than I should have. Sometimes I think that my head is so empty that my thoughts get lost in there, and that’s why I space out. Because my mind is like an empty warehouse when there should be densely packed boxes of memories.

Can I have some water? A stall for time.

He points to the cup beside me with his pencil.

It’s empty, I say, not looking at it. Out of the corner of my eye I can see it’s half-full. Whoops.

I’ll get it while you answer, he says and stands, heading to the back of the room.

What’s the question? I ask, all faux-innocence.

His silence manages to convey how irksome I am. I don’t know how, but it does.

Why have you not mentioned this dream before now?

And suddenly I’m tired. Too tired for this bullshit. The dream scares me, I confess, feeling blood heat my cheeks. I don’t like confessing fear. It’s weak. It can be dangerous. My fingers dig in to the soft leather of the chair.

He brings me some water, and I take it, drinking a small sip before putting it next to the other cup. He is staring at the other cup, half-filled, and he rolls his eyes before he goes back to his seat. Let it be noted that Miss Finner’s water cup was not empty when she asked for another one. These diversionary tactics help no one.

The doctor settles himself back in his chair. He opens his mouth, closes it again and then flashes a look to the mirror. He clears his throat and makes eye contact with me. I apologize, Miss Finner, he says and it’s obviously not by choice. Whoever is behind the glass made him say it. They don’t like it when he’s rude to me.

I make my expression bland. What are you apologizing for, Dr. Brown?

A glare.

More blank face from me.

You’re perfectly entitled to fresh water when you want it, he says begrudgingly. His pencil slaps the pad of paper in a staccato rhythm. As you were saying, Miss Finner.

I wasn’t saying anything. I said it already. The dream scares me, so I didn’t want to talk about it. I lean back in the chair, aware that I’ve just crossed my arms over my chest. This is what they call a defensive posture. The doctor makes a little note of it, and I’m tempted to give him another gesture. A minimalist, one-fingered gesture.

It’s quite all right to be scared of our dreams. They can be very powerful and give insight into our most private fears and desires. He nods, clearly pleased at this doctor-like explanation. In that moment I hate him. It doesn’t last for long though. Hating someone is a lot of work and he isn’t worth it. All right. So you are at a lake, on the beach, and there is lava in the distance.

I didn’t say lake. It’s the ocean. I’m on an island, I say, correcting him. I like to point it out when he gets it wrong as I think it undermines him to whoever is watching. Wait, did I say island? I let that roll around in my vacant mind. It sounds right. An island. I take a steadying breath and try to sound casual. The lava reaches me and it’s suddenly around me, like, everywhere, and I know I couldn’t escape it if I tried, My voice trails off. Do you know how they cook a frog?

Who? he asks quietly, hoping I remember something or disturbed by the non sequitur, I don’t know which.

People. French people, I guess. Because I don’t think anyone else is cooking frogs. They have to put the frog in cold water because if it’s too hot, she’ll jump out. So they start out with cool water, and it warms up slowly, and the frog doesn’t try to save herself. She cooks to death.

He frowns. The frog is a she?

I meet his gaze, the instant anger making me want to snarl. Frogs are male and female. It doesn’t mean anything that I describe her as female.

His eyes nearly twinkle as he leans forward. That damned pencil of his is pointing at me, and I want to grab it, break it in half and kill him with it. Deep breath. Of course I don’t want to kill him. "That’s not quite true, Miss Finner. In our sessions I’ve