Bond of Darkness Read online

  Drink blood for the rest of her life? Live in darkness? Give up the Rangers? Uh, no. “What about the cónyuge option?”

  “The conyugal bond is one of complete trust and can exist between a vampiro and anyone—a prosaico, a compañero, or another vampiro.” He swallowed hard.

  A prosaico? Somebody like her? That sounded promising. She trusted Ethan a lot. “How can we make this happen?”

  “We can’t.” He laughed but it provided no mirth. “The conyugal bond can never be forced. It usually takes a long time to form.”

  “Months?” Maybe if they worked at it?

  “Years or decades.” He tipped his hat back onto his head.

  “Shit.”

  He nodded, the lines in his face deeper than she remembered. “It’s extremely rare, Steve. There are two pairs of cónyuges living in Texas, which is astonishing.”

  “But surely if you like somebody enough . . .” She struggled, trying to find a path for developing this all-important bond.

  “You must trust them completely if they are to communicate with you body and soul, on a level below speech or even telepathy. For example, since I became a vampiro, I’ve only slept with one lover who I trusted enough to sleep through their rising.”

  “Well, that’s promising!” she encouraged.

  “I was lucky with my creador. Not every vampiro can trust theirs.”

  Shit. She shivered at the ugly images that conjured up, if a vampiro had to obey somebody they didn’t have complete confidence in.

  He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “It’s okay, Steve. He’s always done the best for me.”

  He’d misread her misgivings. Had there been incidents where his creador mistreated him?

  “Your scars. The son of a bitch!” She spat and spun on her heel. If she could track Ethan down, she could find his boss, too.

  “Hey, Steve, calm down.” He caught her by the shoulders.

  “How can you defend him?” She stared at him, her heart in her throat. Good Lord, she’d seen many dysfunctional families and studied a lot more. But she’d never thought Ethan came from one.

  “The whip scars are a constant reminder of the destructive fool I once was,” he said flatly. “Like a tattoo, in some ways.”

  “Ethan!”

  “He healed all my other wounds, Steve. Have you ever seen a gunshot scar on me? Or a knife scar?”

  “Well, no, but still—”

  “Nothing else would have reached me. Don’t judge us and our world, Steve, until you’ve walked in it.”

  “A world of darkness.”

  “We keep you—and them”—he jerked his head toward the chattering tourists milling along the sidewalk—“safe, while we live in the night.”

  “Never to see the sun.” She could barely force the words out.

  “If a vampiro is lucky and survives two centuries, he can walk in twilight. Three centuries and he’ll enjoy high noon again.” He shrugged. “It’s a pretty good deal.”

  Protecting people for centuries, at the risk of his own life? How much recreation did he ever get, especially when killers like Devol started running wild?

  She shook her head, letting her hair conceal her blurry eyes before she was thought weak. Best to change the subject. This conversation was going nowhere and it was time to talk about something else. Surely their relief must have showed up by now, ready to keep Devol’s men away from the Austin tourists.

  “Hey, cowboy, care for a ride?” she crooned, and managed a flirtatious wiggle of her hips.

  He blinked and started to grin. “Why, ma’am, I thought you’d never ask.” He swept her up against him and headed out of the alley at a trot, snarling at a traffic light that dared to delay them.

  Steve chuckled and stuck her tongue out at him when he shot her a mock glare.

  A lifetime with him might be worthwhile, however long.

  VALENCIA, THE NEXT NIGHT

  Ethan jumped down out of Steve’s Expedition, controlling the urge to shake himself like a dog. The big truck’s interior had suddenly shrunk with a woman at the wheel, even though she was a damn good driver.

  Steve closed the hatch and met him, now openly carrying a Remington 11-87 shotgun in its tactical sling.

  His eyebrows flew up. “Do you think we’ll need that? This is a ghost town being turned into a high-class golf resort.”

  “Pattern’s wrong here. Can’t you feel it?”

  Too many ripples were pattering over his skin for him to argue.

  “Yeah. Just testing you, honey.”

  She sniffed and turned slowly, considering their surroundings. He grabbed his Benelli M2 tactical shotgun from the backseat and joined her.

  “And you call me paranoid,” she muttered.

  “At least mine doesn’t sound like a car crash going off next to your head,” he pointed out.

  She gave him the finger and went back to studying the quiet landscape. He concealed a smile but slipped an extra speed-loader for his Benelli into his belt. At least she was wearing full tactical gear, including her Kevlar vest and a well-equipped weapons belt.

  “If you need to shoot, go for head or heart. Anything else will only give you a short delay.”

  “Head or heart? Do you mean I’ve got to immediately stop the brain or the blood flow in order to have a chance?” She didn’t bother to look at him, the concept clearly being so foreign to her training as to be not worth talking about.

  “Exactly.” It was that simple and that serious.

  His answer’s flatness brought her swiveling around to test its truth in his eyes.

  “Gotcha,” she agreed, her face a little white as the implications sank in. He didn’t blame her for quickly stepping out to study the old town.

  Late in the nineteenth century, Valencia had been the center of a prosperous granite quarrying industry, high in the Texas Hill Country northwest of Austin. But when the railroad chose to bypass it in favor of carrying both cattle and granite, Valencia’s citizens had speedily departed, leaving behind few residual signs of their presence.

  Ethan and Steve stood on a bluff overlooking the river, babbling softly while it curved around the hill and dived toward the rickety old bridge. A gentle rise on the opposite side held the few marble placards and iron fences, which marked Boot Hill. Beyond that were acres of rolling pasture and cornfields, dotted with cedar and live oaks.

  A few square blocks—of scattered buildings, tire tracks, and old gardens—showed where the residents had once lived. The town fathers had built for the ages, even in their simplest shelters, and the results proved it over a century later.

  The top of the hill was crowned by Valencia’s remaining glory, its courthouse and surrounding park. The park was a beautiful swath of green, bordered by elegant walks and guarded by a Confederate veteran, proudly carrying his rifle with its bronze bayonet over his shoulder.

  The town had once prided itself on being the county seat and built a magnificent stone edifice to showcase its power—two full stories of exquisitely faced granite blocks plus an intricate mansard roof and an immense clock tower. Similarly sturdy construction had laughed at Hitler’s best bombers for months in Malta. All of which was crowned by a golden ball which could be seen, some had said, in Austin.

  Carved owls, the symbol of wisdom, hovered over the four entrances, built at every point of the compass. Balconies jutted out above them, the perfect focal point for political speech making. The dedication ceremony had taken eight hours, one of the many times Ethan had been glad he could no longer go out in daylight.

  “How did you find it?” he asked more quietly, listening hard with more than his ears. Something or someone was watching them.

  She shot a quick glance at him and didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t push her.

  “I put my finger on the map, which showed possible targets. This place insisted that we come,” she said slowly.

  “Then we had to be here,” he agreed promptly.

  “You don’t think
I’m insane?”

  “For using more than your eyes? Hardly.”

  “Thank you.”

  Companionable silence fell.

  “Is there a balcony around the edge of the roof, too?” Steve asked, eyeing the great building.

  “Yup. Be careful, though—the railing is no more than a foot high.”

  “Until they restore that, too.”

  “They’ll probably fix the windows first,” Ethan pointed out. At least one pane was broken in every window, while some of them were completely missing. The fifteen-foot-tall windows on the second floor had been magnificent in their day, when all the chandeliers were lit. He’d be glad to see them brought back to their old glory. “Who bought this?”

  “El Gallinazo’s holding company did, two weeks ago. Our analysts have been working to track his assets, especially the more recent acquisitions.”

  Ethan frowned, remembering Luis’s last report. “One of the president’s cronies filed the paperwork to turn this into a golf resort. Isn’t the courthouse supposed to become the clubhouse?”

  “Correct. But that went through a year ago, when they cleaned out the unsafe buildings and designed a championship-quality course. Now they’re in the first development phase.”

  “During which the courthouse is supposed to be readied for human occupancy.” They started walking toward it.

  “At least enough to permit entrance into it,” she agreed, half turning to scan the horizon, her shotgun always at the ready. “You probably wouldn’t notice a change in ownership, given all the permits and other paperwork going through.”

  He grunted, unable to argue with her logic. Still—“But there’s nothing here. We’ve already searched the quarries.”

  “Are you sure?” She frowned, considering the half-ruined buildings. “All of them? And the town?”

  “Of course. Checked with the ghosts, too.” Who had just gone back to sleep in Boot Hill.

  “You’re joking, right?” She gaped at him.

  “Hardly.” His mouth twisted. “When you become a vampiro, all your senses increase, including your psychic ones. For example, my best friend as a child was a ghost but he was the only one I could hear. Now I can speak to any ghost who wants to talk to me.”

  “That must be fun.” Oddly enough, she didn’t seem to completely disbelieve him.

  “We’ve had some interesting conversations,” he admitted. Which hadn’t told him a damn thing about where Devol’s bandolerismos were!

  “I’ll bet.”

  He stopped in front of the entrance. “Does the town still seem edgy to you?”

  “Yes, but the threat isn’t imminent.” She blew out a breath and rotated slowly, then let her sling take her shotgun’s weight. “Let’s go upstairs and look around. Those balconies and that clock tower would make great dummy sniper hides.”

  “Always the professional.” And his blood ran faster for it.

  “Are you making eyes at me, mister?”

  His voice must have changed, which wasn’t surprising. Classic Western clothing on a figure like hers would be an enticement to any man. If he could persuade her into a striptease, where she’d carefully take off her guns one by one, then the belt. And slowly unbutton her shirt, teasing him with the knowledge of how little skin he’d see at first . . .

  Hell, he’d be hotter than Hades to get her out of that Kevlar so she could reach her bra!

  After that, would he want her to take off the boots first or unzip her pants? One would let him go down on her sooner but the other would let him kiss his way up her legs—and bring his cock into action sooner.

  Decisions, decisions, decisions.

  “Would I dare—when you’re armed and dangerous?”

  She blew him a kiss, from just inside the courthouse. “After we get back to my apartment, mister. After.”

  He followed her, whistling softly.

  DPS HEADQUARTERS, THE NEXT DAY

  Steve took the stairs two at a time and moderated her pace just enough not to burst out of the door. A quick survey of the room numbers gave her the necessary direction and she spun on her heel, checking her watch. Only a couple of doors to go, although it was hard to tell how far a room might stretch. Bosses needed extra room for hot air in their offices and conference rooms.

  Yup, that was it: Chief, Texas Rangers.

  A quick double-check of her uniform, thanks to reflections from the trophy case opposite, and she walked inside, glad her heart was no longer pounding double time. “Ranger Steve Reynolds, ma’am,” she announced to one of the two women guarding the anteroom.

  Laser-sharp blue eyes under faded gray hair drilled through her. Immaculate desktops with neat stacks of paper dared her to cause trouble.

  Steve perfected her stance, having heard all the legends about the chief’s secretary.

  “Please make yourself comfortable.” A knowing smile dawned. “He should be back from the governor’s office any minute now.”

  Governor’s office?

  “Thank you, ma’am.” She sat down next to Posada and pretended to watch CNN on the overhead monitor.

  “How many new cases did we get this morning?” he asked, sotto voce.

  “None, officially. But we had two calls—from Brownsville and Victoria.”

  He shot her an appalled glance. “That’ll be Victoria’s first.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Distribution network is spreading off the interstates.”

  “Or widening its grip by moving into smaller towns.”

  “Is that supposed to be comforting?” he demanded.

  “No.” How could she tell him Devol and his men weren’t interested in drugs?

  “Hmph.”

  They both watched the big monitor with all the enthusiasm of a hospital waiting room’s crowd.

  “Today, the New Orleans cathedral was full of worshipers praying for protection from vampires after the latest round of attacks. Supplies of silver crosses and even garlic are dwindling in the city.” The dark-haired announcer leaned forward, his face serious above his extremely expensive suit.

  A chill ran down Steve’s spine.

  “What the hell is he talking about?” Posada demanded.

  “Two more women were discovered drained last night,” the announcer intoned, “fang marks over their jugulars and their necks extended.”

  Oh shit.

  “As you know, we’ve sent three reporters to New Orleans but we haven’t heard from them since they left Atlanta.”

  Posada stared at her. “He’s crazy, right?”

  “Must be.” Her throat wasn’t working very well.

  “We have this report from our New Orleans affiliate . . .”

  The monitor spun into pictures of Dracula, Southern plantations with fog-drenched gardens, and black-clad women, dripping blood from their necks, while they lay crumpled against wrought iron balconies.

  “After we return from break, we’ll go to our Dallas affiliate for a report . . .”

  “He’s not going to say what I think he’s going to say?” Posada’s horrified eyes met hers.

  “God, I hope not.”

  “On this morning’s attacks in Brownsville and Victoria . . .” Her stomach twisted and heaved.

  “Posada, Reynolds.” The chief’s quiet voice cut through the journalistic hysteria.

  “Sir.” They sprang to their feet.

  Chief Baker was a big African American with a pronounced twinkle in his eyes and an amazing ability to sniff out criminals, whether he personally brought them to justice or not.

  But Steve’s jaw dropped at the sight of his companion—Captain Zachariah Howard. He was the Ranger who’d tracked and found the two kidnapped fifteen-year-old daughters of a senator, while accomplishing the equally unbelievable feat of turning every Texas TV station into his ally. He was tall and very weather-beaten, as if he’d been enjoying his favorite hobbies of bass fishing and hunting white-tailed deer even more since he’d retired.

  “Howard, do
you remember Posada and Reynolds?” Chief Baker asked.

  “Yes, we’ve met several times at the Ranger Museum’s annual picnic.” They shook hands, Steve trying to appear coolly professional. But she’d grown up on stories about Zach Howard’s exploits, as told by her grandfather, one of his classmates at the DPS academy.

  “Let’s talk in my office.” Chief Baker held his door open and they trooped in after him to find seats at the table. This was a working office unlike the antechamber, full of papers and books, tumbled over tables and bookcases, leaving just enough room for visitors to sit down on the classic leather furniture. The curtains were wide-open, allowing sunlight to pour into the room and strike sparks off the gold eagle atop the Texas state flag.

  Baker didn’t waste any time giving them the bad news.

  “The New Orleans folks are half-hysterical because they’re having so many murders. The national and Louisiana media believe there are vampires.”

  Posada opened his mouth to object but the chief held up his hand. “I know, I know, they’re probably only saying so to sell advertising. But, frankly, nobody’s got a better idea.”

  Steve kept her mouth shut. If nothing else, it was a great way to avoid throwing up—or talking about Ethan.

  “Furthermore, somebody has finally figured out we’ve got a lot of deaths in Texas which look like the same thing.”

  “Damn,” Howard said very softly.

  Posada flashed him a wry smile.

  “I don’t want to mention any Mexican drugs, because some fool will figure out how to buy and sell them even faster. Vampires aren’t real.”

  Steve’s skin tightened further around her polite expression.

  “So nobody will take them too seriously, making them a great cover story, while we hunt down the real crooks.”

  She smiled wryly.

  “How?” Posada asked bluntly.

  “Louisiana and New Orleans cops, acting secretly, have formed an anticorruption task force to investigate the murders.”

  “Whooeee,” Steve whistled.