Bound By Sin (A Cin Craven Novel)

  Experience the dark power, dangerous passion, and

  deadly pleasures of the acclaimed Cin Craven series

  by Jenna Maclaine

  “A wonderful blend of fantasy, romance, and intoxicating adventure, wickedly spiced with danger.”

  —Gena Showalter, New York Times bestselling author

  “ Maclaine’s attention to detail and description brings this sexy, adventurous paranormal romance to life…Clever Cin matches sass and bravery with an innocence and vulnerability that will allow her to grow and develop through what promises to be a highly entertaining series.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “An imaginative new series…With danger omnipresent, compelling characters keep the story lively and the relationships intriguing. Here’s to the next installment.”

  —Romantic Times

  “I enjoyed the hero, the heroine, the plot, the secondary characters, the setting, the pacing…you name it, I liked it. Do yourself a favor…if you’re looking for something different in the paranormal or historical romance arena, pick up Wages of Sin.”

  —Good Reads Reviews

  “A unique plot and setting, as well as a diverse and well developed cast of characters. Filled with danger, passion, and magic, Wages of Sin is sure to please fans of paranormal romance. I highly recommend it.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “I am a particular fan of vampire stories in which vampires are defenders of humanity, to the point of slaying their own kind. Those books are few and far between, but when they come along, they tend to be quality and this is no exception. The author’s ability to build a complex world where there is well defined good vs. evil makes her prose strong and vivid. Seeing how Dulcinea, or Cin as she comes to be called, evolves will be intriguing.”

  —Huntress Reviews

  “ A great love story…I can’t wait to find out what happens next with The Righteous. A definite keeper!”

  —Night Owl Reviews

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by

  JENNA MACLAINE

  Wages of Sin

  Grave Sins

  Bound by Sin

  BOUND

  BY SIN

  Jenna Maclaine

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  BOUND BY SIN

  Copyright © 2010 by Jenna Maclaine.

  All rights reserved.

  For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  ISBN: 978-0-312-94618-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / January 2010

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To my friend Jamie, who got me started in this genre. And by that I mean she nagged me with author recommendations until I gave in, even though I kept telling her that “I don’t read vampire books.” Thanks for sticking in there, girl!

  And to the late, great Kathryn Wright—my teacher and my friend. She opened doors to worlds I had never imagined, and she will always be greatly loved and missed.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to take this opportunity to thank some people who perhaps have not gotten a mention in the acknowledgments of the previous books. They have helped me with storylines, character names, research, editing, or simply with moral support. With much appreciation I’d like to thank: my dogs (for keeping my feet warm while I write), Anna, Bill & Amy, Brian, Brianna, Callie, Carol, Caroline, Cecily, Charlie, Chris, Colin, Dana, Don, Donna, Freda, Heather, Jennifer K, Jennifer V, Jerry, Joyce, Kacey, Kait, Kerry, Kristen & Sam, Linda C, Linda R, Lynn, Marci & Randy, Marie S, Marie T, Misty, Natasha, Niki, Pat, Sarah & Channing, Shannon & Jeremy, Shannon S, Sheri, Tracy & David, Ulrike . . . and, as always, Mom & Dad.

  CHAPTER 1

  There is darkness inside all of us, though mine is more dangerous than most. Still, we all have it—that part of our soul that is irreparably damaged by the very trials and tribulations of life. We are what we are because of it, or perhaps in spite of it. Some use it as a shield to hide behind, others as an excuse to do unconscionable things. But, truly, the darkness is simply a piece of the whole, neither good nor evil unless you make it so. It took a witch, a war, and a voodoo queen to teach me that.

  Le Havre, France 1862

  The House of the Crescent Moon was a brothel where the blood whores plied their trade. For a few coins a vampire could get a quick meal. For a few more, one could buy an evening’s entertainment. I had no need for the latter but it was nice, on occasion, to drink from a willing donor—someone who wasn’t a rapist, cutthroat, or thief who had the misfortune to accost the wrong woman, namely me, in a dark alley.

  Buying blood certainly didn’t carry with it the same thrill as hunting in the aforementioned dark alleys, but the drinking was undeniably more pleasant. Instead of a rank, filthy alley, tonight I was reclining on a chaise lounge in a private parlor that was sumptuously decorated in silks and satins of varying shades of blue. The young man whose blood I had purchased was no ruffian smelling of sweat and gin. He was beautiful, blond, and shirtless—and perfectly willing to let me to sink my teeth into any vein of my choosing. Yes, quite a departure from my usual fare.

  I looked at the young man again as he silently ran his fingers through my long, curling, blood-red hair. He was undeniably lovely but I knew that I could never grow accustomed to drinking from a blood whore on a regular basis. Many vampires do but, to me, it was rather like feeding a tiger in a cage. The tiger will live, it may even thrive, but it will always miss the hunt. Sometimes, however, a change of pace was nice and the vampire brothels were convenient.

  The blood whores actually commanded quite a lucrative trade. Even in the smallest cities, vampire brothels are on par with the most exclusive houses of prostitution in Paris or London. Vampires, as a rule, have expensive taste and are willing to pay for the luxuries these houses provide. The men and women who serve in such places are the most beautiful creatures that money can buy. And why wouldn’t they be? If selling your body was your chosen profession, you couldn’t find a better place to do it. The houses were magnificently well-appointed, the money they made was ten times better than what they could have earned in even the best human brothels, vampires carry no diseases, and the clientele was . . . well, suffice it to say that there are humans who would pay a high price for the pleasures to be found in a vampire’s bed.

  Thoughts of such passions made me turn my attention from my human to the vampire lounging on a sofa across the parlor. I watched as his sensual lips moved against the lovely, pale throat of a buxom brunette, searching for the perfect spot to strike. She clung to him, her head thrown back, and when his teeth slid into her flesh she clutched his dark blond hair and let out a moan of pleasure. I felt a twinge of jealousy at the sight. He was my husband, after all.

  Let her enjoy it while she can, I thought.

  As if he sensed my gaze on him, Michael looked up. His need for blood almost quenched, there was now lust in his eyes. And it was directed at me. He pulled back from the brunette’s neck and a trail of crimson blood flowed down her white skin. Never taking his gaze from me, Michael caught the trickle of blood on his tongue a
nd licked his way up the side of her throat in one long stroke. A shudder ran through me as I imagined taking him back to the hotel and letting him fulfill the promise that was evident in that one smoldering look.

  “Come to me,” I said to my human.

  The young man sat up and I rolled onto my back, stretching out across the velvet-upholstered chaise. He leaned over me and I admired the way the muscles in his arms and shoulders tightened as he moved closer, exposing his neck. I stared into his chocolate brown eyes until I felt the familiar click in my head that meant he was now under my control.

  You could certainly drink without bespelling a human but I didn’t want him to feel the pain of my bite, only the pleasure. When you take someone’s blood you make a mental connection with them, sharing their thoughts and feelings. It could be horrifying, pleasant, or downright erotic, depending on whom you were drinking from and to what degree you allowed that connection. I think of it as a door inside my head and I control how far I open it. Considering the caliber of men whose blood I generally took, I was used to keeping that door firmly closed. When I was a young vampire I’d learned very quickly that I didn’t want to know what went on inside their minds.

  Tonight, though, was different, and I thought it only polite to allow this human to experience some measure of the satisfaction I felt in drinking from him. I opened the door in my head, wanting him to feel what I felt as his hot blood poured down my throat and filled me with life. I was not prepared for the reciprocating emotions and images I received from him.

  Hot pleasure rolled over me in waves and I was aware of him moving between my legs, pushing against me. As I drank from him, I closed my eyes and was overwhelmed with flashes of what he was thinking. He was imagining me on top of him, moving down his naked body with the cat-like grace of a vampire, parting his legs and sinking my teeth into his femoral artery. I quickly severed the connection, pulling away as he threw back his head and shuddered in rapture against me. I let out a shaky breath as he looked down at me with glazed eyes.

  “Buy me for the night,” he pleaded. “Let me make love to you.”

  Suddenly his weight was pulled from me and Michael was standing between us. My husband’s blue eyes glittered and his sharp cheekbones seemed even more pronounced when he clenched his jaw that way. I smiled up at him, my body humming with excitement at the predatory look on his face.

  “Sorry, boy,” my husband said sharply as he held his hand out to me. “The lass has other plans tonight.”

  I placed my hand in his and let him pull me up from the chaise. When I’d gained my feet he snaked one strong arm around my waist and pulled me against his body.

  “Tonight and every other night,” I promised.

  He kissed me swiftly. “For eternity, mo ghraidh,” he whispered against my lips.

  As we left the house I turned my face into the cool breeze, which carried with it the salty scent of the ocean. It was a clear, crisp night and the Hotel Frascati was a few blocks away. It seemed longer, though, with Michael whispering naughty things in my ear every few minutes. I was strolling along, happily contemplating the rest of my evening, when my vision began to blur and a sharp buzzing sound took up residence in my head.

  “Dear Goddess,” I mumbled, stopping short and pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” Michael asked.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “It feels like there’s a nest of bees in my head.”

  I stumbled backward, as if I could somehow get away from the sound.

  Michael grasped my upper arms to steady me. “Is it the blood?” he asked worriedly. “Was he tainted?”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied, shaking my head as I tried to clear the buzzing sound from it. I’d often fed from drunks and several varieties of drug addicts. The aftereffects of taking in tainted blood varied, but you could always tell if a human was . . . polluted in any way . . . the minute their blood hit your tongue.

  I pulled away from Michael and staggered off the sidewalk. I had the feeling that if I could keep moving I could somehow dislodge that horrible sound. Michael plunged into the street after me, catching my arm and pulling me back just before I walked in front of an oncoming carriage. I hadn’t even heard the rumble of the wheels on the cobblestones over the racket that was in my head. As I stood in his arms, facing the opposite side of the street, the sound lessened.

  “I’ll hail a carriage and we’ll drive back to the hotel,” Michael said.

  He put his arm around my shoulders and began to steer me back onto the sidewalk in the direction we’d been headed. The buzzing sound returned, violently. I stopped again and glanced across the street. Grabbing Michael’s hand, I looked both ways and marched across the street.

  Better, I thought. This is better.

  “Michael, what lies in that direction?” I asked, pointing to the darkened row of shops lining the street in front of me.

  “The harbor is in that direction,” he replied. “Why?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “When I performed the summoning spell that brought you to me when we first met . . . what did it feel like?”

  Michael frowned and then the tension eased from his body as he realized what was happening. “It felt exactly like a nest of bees in my head and it only stopped when I went in the direction that would take me to you.”

  “I didn’t know what it would feel like,” I said. “I’m so sorry to have put you through this.”

  Michael cupped my face with his hands. “Don’t ever apologize for that. It brought me to you, did it not?”

  I smiled up at him, able to think more clearly now that I knew I wasn’t losing my mind. “I suppose we must go to the harbor,” I said.

  Michael shook his head. “I am not running after some witch powerful enough to do this to you without first knowing where we’re going and why.”

  He was right about that. At this point I’d have run headlong into no telling what sort of danger, just to get this infernal buzzing to stop.

  “Let’s just go have a look,” I suggested. “First we’ll see where the magic wants me to go.”

  A muscled ticked in Michael’s jaw but he finally relented and hailed a carriage to take us to the docks. The harbor was filled with all manner of vessels, from small fishing boats to larger steamships. I appreciated the convenience of the new steamships but, in my opinion, nothing could match the grace and beauty of a sailing vessel. I laid my head on Michael’s shoulder and closed my eyes as I nestled against his chest. He put his arms around me and we sat in silence as the carriage lumbered along. The buzzing, which had diminished from a dull roar to a soft hum the closer we’d gotten to the harbor, suddenly softened until I could barely hear it at all.

  “Here,” I said and Michael rapped on the roof of the carriage. The driver brought the conveyance to an abrupt halt and I peered out the window, taking in the sleek lines and tall masts of the ship that someone’s magic wanted me to board.

  A sailor passed by the carriage, an Englishman by the sound of his voice as he softly sang a rather vulgar ditty.

  “Pardon me,” I called out to him. “Do you know this ship?”

  “Aye, miss,” he replied, smiling at the sound of my English accent. “That’s the Charlotte Ann.”

  “Where is she bound?” I asked.

  “London on the next tide, miss,” he answered.

  I thanked him and sat back with a sigh. “Well, that’s a relief,” I said. “We should return to the Frascati and find Devlin and Justine.”

  Michael frowned. “Cin, just because that ship is headed for London doesn’t necessarily mean whoever is summoning you is a friend.”

  “You’re right, of course. But how many witches do you think there are in Britain who would not only work a spell to summon me specifically, but are also powerful enough to do it?” I gazed out at the silent harbor, the water silver in the moonlight, and keenly felt the pull of the spell. “Someone is calling me home.” />
  CHAPTER 2

  London

  It felt good to be home, if for no other reason than that maddening buzzing grew weaker the closer I got to Ravenworth. I no longer needed the humming compass in my head to gauge my direction. Now that I was back in England the magic that called to me was stronger; it was an inexorable pull that drew me home. I knew where I needed to go. What bothered me was why.

  It had been nearly a year since I’d been back to see Fiona. She was an old woman now, nearly fifty years having passed since that autumn when I was turned. To save us all from a demon bent on destroying the world, I had become a vampire. I had given up my life so that my friends would live. Fiona had inherited my property and part of my fortune, and had gone on to have the life I should have had.

  They’re all gone now, all but Fiona and Archie, I thought sadly as I watched the scenery change outside the carriage window, the tall buildings of the city giving way to more pastoral scenes.

  Mr. Pendergrass, who had owned the apothecary shop in London and had been so helpful to a young witch unsure of her power, had died of old age two years after my turning. Fiona’s mother, Lady Bascombe, had succumbed to influenza twenty years ago. Even my Aunt Maggie had been gone for nearly a decade now. Archie, who had been Mr. Pendergrass’s apprentice and who still owned the apothecary shop, and Fiona were the only ties I had left to my human life.

  I ran my fingers absently over the smooth skin of my cheek and then down through my dark red curls. The lines of age would never mar my face; silver would never streak my hair. I would forever look twenty-two, exactly as I had in the autumn of 1815 when I had died and been reborn as a vampire.