Bond of Darkness Read online

  Rough Bear shifted slightly, sending his linen trouser legs whispering against each other. He was as much of a dandy in his own way as Jean-Marie, yet he retained all of the superb tracking skills which had won him Gray Wolf’s respect more than a century ago.

  The quiet warning of danger immediately made Ethan’s head snap up and he warily scanned the perimeter.

  Oh hell. The nighttime stars were just starting to dim in the east, letting the sky fade from black to indigo.

  He lifted his hand and silently signaled his men. He’d better get his vampiros under cover now and his compañeros out in the open.

  They obeyed him smoothly, his vampiros filing into the buildings and the stairs leading deep into the earth. The compañeros leapt up onto the roofs and took up their posts in the gardens and around the drives. Within minutes, every gun port, every rifle pit, every sentry post was occupied by a hard-eyed man ready to kill or be killed in defense of his family and his home.

  It wasn’t enough. He hated leaving Don Rafael pacing the garden when he was agitated.

  Ethan hesitated for a moment, his heart beating uncomfortably fast. He brusquely ordered a handful of his oldest vampiros—Rough Bear, Hennessy of Dallas, Peter of Houston—to stand watch with him in the deepest shadows of the main house’s great wraparound porch.

  Gray Wolf and Jean-Marie joined them, their faces impassive. Given Gray Wolf’s finely tuned sense of balance—or any lack thereof—and Jean-Marie’s intuition, Ethan was hardly eased by their presence.

  Don Rafael gave him a frosty glare, clearly disapproving of these dispositions. Ethan stared straight back, his face expressionless, certain his patrón wouldn’t openly challenge his choices in front of the men. He could stand a lecture, or punishment, later, once the sun came up and there was no chance Madame Celeste and Devol would be back.

  The radio crackled to life. “Don Rafael?” Caleb’s voice asked politely. “May I speak to you, please?”

  Ethan’s throat tightened. Caleb Jones was their second-eldest compañero and Gray Wolf’s cónyuge, his life mate. Despite having a redhead’s temper, he was very unlikely to start a fight under any conditions. What had happened to make him call for help from where he stood watch?

  Don Rafael flipped the two-way radio open, the casual gesture at odds with his intent expression. “Certainly, amigo. What is it?”

  “We have a limousine here, at the ranch road east, out of San Leandro. The driver has an invitation in your name for Miss Shelby Durant, the Oscar-winning actress. He keeps apologizing for being late, saying he became lost on the ranch roads.”

  What the hell? She wasn’t supposed to come here until tomorrow, to talk about the Special Olympics.

  “And?” Don Rafael prompted Caleb.

  “I haven’t seen Miss Durant but her scent is, ah, unlike anything I’ve smelled before, sir. It’s not prosaica. But it’s not vampira or compañera, either.”

  What did that mean?

  Don Rafael growled, baring his fangs completely.

  Ethan’s gun was in his hand before thought reached his mind. If his master was in a killing mood, then he’d be there as backup.

  “Who else is with her?” Don Rafael snarled, his voice deeper and harsher than Ethan had heard in years.

  Quietly, using the mind-to-mind link, Ethan told his men not to show any mercy if there was fighting.

  “Lucien Saint-Gerard is the driver, sir.”

  The worst kind of New Orleans street trash. How much worse could matters get?

  Don Rafael met the long, black limousine in front of the main house, where the drive made a great circular sweep before a spectacular view of the eastern valleys. The sky was still dark, with only Venus to give any illumination, although the sun would soon change that.

  The grassy sweep between the house and the drive was in full shadow, as were the house and the porch, shielded from the rising sun by the eastern hills. The sun’s rays would only shine down on Compostela when it rose high enough to be seen over those hills.

  The sleek limousine slid to a stop on the macadam drive’s east side, with Caleb’s armored Suburban pulling in to block him from behind. The limo driver stepped out promptly and turned to face the house: Lucien Saint-Gerard, still just as much of a pimp as he always was. His fancy Italian silk suit was disheveled and bloodstained.

  Luis Alvarez, Don Rafael’s oldest compañero and siniscal, moved to flank Don Rafael, while Caleb blocked Saint-Gerard from returning to the limo. The two oldest compañeros were a deadly force in their own right, especially since they could act in daylight, unlike a vampiro such as Lucien.

  Only fifty more years until Ethan could be on guard during the day, as well.

  “Don Rafael?” Saint-Gerard gave a very formal bow—one leg forward and flourishing his arm.

  Don Rafael must have been furious. He only gave the minimum response—a perfunctory nod.

  Saint-Gerard glanced hopefully at the stairs into the house. Don Rafael made no response but Luis took a single step sideways, completely closing off the steps. The visiting vampiro was now trapped in the open, hemmed in by Texans.

  Saint-Gerard cast his eyes down, more like a snake than a courtier studying how to mend fences. They flickered sideways, hunting for escape routes from the rising sun. “Forgive me for being late but I was overwhelmed by the magnificence of your mountain scenery.”

  The longtime city dweller had probably been thoroughly lost. Ethan repressed a snicker.

  Don Rafael twitched a finger, indicating the newcomer should continue.

  “I have brought your gift as Madame Celeste ordered.” Saint-Gerard turned and pulled the limo’s door open with a flourish. A stench rolled out, worse than the foulest of sewers.

  Ethan sniffed—and almost gagged. It had been decades since he’d had anything solid in his stomach, but now? It was a giant knot, writhing and twisted like a rattlesnake’s den, fighting to hurl itself into his throat. More than blood, more than death, more than . . . The only time he’d smelled its like was on that trip to Chicago during the thirties.

  Jean-Marie said something liquid and deadly in French under his breath.

  Then Saint-Gerard yanked Shelby Durant, the hottest actress in Hollywood for the past year, out of the black conveyance. Today, a sewer rat would have been more attractive.

  She was covered in blood, vomit, and excrement. Her dress had been clawed to shreds, as had her underthings. A few drops of blood welled sullenly, slowly, from long scratch marks on her breasts and belly. Two great, purple bite marks gleamed at the base of her neck. Other than those, she was ashen white, as if she could fade into a mist. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face was contorted into a grimace, while her tongue darted out over her lips. One hand plucked at her nipple, while the other rubbed continuously at her crotch.

  Time slowed. Even Ethan’s breathing came to a halt, wrenched from his throat by pure horror.

  Shelby Durant was a newly risen cachorra, who’d received El Abrazo only a few hours ago. Holy shit, women almost never survived it.

  What the hell was Saint-Gerard thinking? Everyone knew a newly risen cachorro couldn’t tolerate any strong sensations, not even the slightest of noises. Yet he’d driven her around the countryside in a limousine, full of machine sounds, unexpected jolts, and bizarre swerves.

  When Ethan had awoken—not that he’d remembered much—he’d done so in a clean bed, on smooth linen sheets, in a darkened room, safe in the arms of his trusted lover.

  Crap, there could be no trust between Saint-Gerard and Shelby Durant! Still, she was strong enough to have survived this long, even though she’d needed to claw at herself for blood and sex.

  Ethan shuddered. How was she going to survive? La Lujuria was upon her now, the terrifying months when all a cachorro wanted—or needed—was blood and emotion. Where would she get it?

  His chest tightened around his heart.

  “What the fuck—” Caleb muttered.

  Her once-golden head of h
air came up in a terrible echo of her famous beauty. “Fuck? Yes. Now. All of you. We fuck.” She stumbled across the grass toward the men, fumbling at the remains of her clothing.

  Maybe—maybe Don Rafael would make an exception, just this once. Maybe? He’d sworn never to create a vampira and he was a stubborn son of a bitch. But perhaps he’d take pity on her now.

  Lucien sauntered after Shelby, beaming like a proud father while she staggered forward. “You see, Don Rafael, the perfect fuck and the perfect meal, to seal the bargain with Madame Celeste. Durant will do anything and everything, just to get a little blood and sex from you, even when you kill her. Nothing like feeding on a dying vampira, while you’re fucking her. We’ll finish her off in the main house, then share a bottle of champagne.”

  Ethan closed his eyes for a moment. He’d have done whatever it took to obtain blood and sex during La Lujuria—and he’d been damn lucky to have Don Rafael as his creador. Don Rafael, the only patrón in North America who’d never lost an hijo.

  Mother Mary, please soften Don Rafael’s heart just this once—just enough to save this woman’s life. Please. He’s the only vampiro who can do it. I don’t pray often but I beg you . . .

  Don Rafael started toward the young woman, speaking very gently. “Dulce Shelby—”

  This might work . . .

  Suddenly the first bright shaft of daylight lanced across the hilltop. It caught her in the back, the shock arching her slender body like a flare from a welder’s torch. Oh shit.

  Shelby blazed—incandescent as a nuclear bomb, brighter than the sun itself. Within two seconds, she became a pillar of ash that quickly crumpled upon itself.

  A pain too sharp and too deep to be named sliced Ethan’s heart. Gray Wolf chanted something very, very quietly.

  Maybe it was better this way. At least she’d had a fast, clean death, rather than the uncertainty of whether Don Rafael could tolerate rearing her.

  “Merde,” the murderer muttered.

  Don Rafael crossed himself.

  “Don Rafael, she was only a female, nobody to fuss over,” cooed Lucien, fingers twitching nervously below his bloodstained cuffs.

  Time to clean up the trash. Ethan growled an order.

  Behind Don Rafael, soft clicks told of safeties being set on sniper rifles, soft thuds as boot heels snapped into place. Another order and the compañeros began to march. They took up places as an honor guard, their weapons at rest before them, lining up around the drive until they encircled Don Rafael and Saint-Gerard.

  “What is the first law of La Esfera de Texas?” Don Rafael asked, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the hushed space.

  “Only El Patrón de Texas may create a vampiro in Texas,” the assembly growled behind him.

  The oldest law. Sometimes the most logical—and sometimes the most bitter.

  Saint-Gerard muttered something profane under his breath. “What is the penalty for breaking this law?” Rafael continued, his voice as implacable as water breaking through a dam.

  “Death.”

  How many friends had he seen welcome that ending, when their lover lay gibbering from La Lujuria? Knowing Don Rafael had the strength they lacked, even when it meant a quick execution?

  Ethan closed his ears against the ghosts’ voices. He barely saw the dawn’s fire rip through Saint-Gerard, or the few ashes drifting away afterward.

  His final thought, while he sent his vampiros deep inside to complete safety from the sun, was alarmingly self-centered: At least it had been Shelby Durant who’d died and not his Stephanie Amanda. He could handle knowing his Steve was married to another man, if it meant she was alive.

  TEXAS STATE PARK EAST OF THE TEXAS HILL COUNTRY RAPTOR CENTER, JUNE 1, MIDNIGHT

  Ethan seethed, more or less silently, and told himself again to just do his job—protect Don Rafael, no matter what the cost.

  Even if it meant guarding a procession of vampiros and one prosaica through a Texas state park, while another prosaica trailed them.

  The lady veterinarian—Grania O’Malley by name, although that made no difference to anything except her tombstone—had seen Don Rafael feed on a woman. So why the hell was she still alive? Worse, why had Don Rafael so changed his usual pattern as to display Brynda’s delight in being his paramour? He had unnecessarily extended the woodland encounter, time which his watcher could have used to call in her friends for another assassination attempt.

  After that evening’s damn-near-successful sniper attack, Ethan was in no mood to take any chances with his master’s life, no matter how lovely the lady was.

  Crap, Don Rafael had almost behaved like some sort of love-sick suitor. As if he’d scented the lady’s sexual arousal at the sight of his dalliance, then turned exhibitionist to increase her excitement and build her link to him. Incredibly unusual, especially when Don Rafael publicly had an orgasm. The most obvious trigger was the lady vet’s climax but nobody influenced El Patrón that strongly.

  No, Don Rafael had to be playing some wild, risk-seeking game, just to blow off steam after the sniper attack. A piece of folly which would have earned any mesnadero a week’s stay in a punishment cell.

  Not that a punishment cell was an option for the ruler of all Texas and Oklahoma.

  They finally reached the lakeshore a mile from Calatrava Resort, a plush all-seasons resort and Don Rafael’s latest investment. The road here was lined with great palm trees, tall but fat and round at their bases, providing good cover for surveillance. Beyond the public park’s mesquite thickets lay a series of tiered gardens and, finally, the marina and resort itself.

  The marina’s bright lights flickered across the water, showing docks full of small sailboats and powerboats. Above it rose the resort’s main buildings in an Arabian Nights fantasy. The nightclub was still open, sending country-western anthems pulsing through the night.

  I’ll say good-bye to Brynda here, Don Rafael said calmly. Have a mesnadero shadow her steps to make sure she’s safe and healthy.

  Of course, sir.

  Thank God this was almost over. Don Rafael was well fed and they could get back to safety. God only knew who else was watching.

  I’ll go wipe Dr. O’Malley’s memories now, Ethan announced, a pro forma statement if there ever was one. Rough Bear and the other mesnaderos can escort you home.

  Hell no, Don Rafael barked. I will talk to Doctora O’Malley.

  Ethan stared at his master, his free hand gesturing a man into motion after the departing female.

  The vet has been spying on you! What if she’s in league with others who want to kill you?

  You will protect me, as always. Don Rafael’s lips thinned to an unyielding line.

  Ethan cut himself off before he argued with El Patrón on an open channel. Don Rafael might be strong-willed and inclined to push boundaries, but he’d never openly gone against all safety precepts before. Why the hell wouldn’t he leave interrogating a suspect to his alferez, whose job it was?

  Ethan nodded curtly. Of course, sir.

  An instant later, a great horned owl, all golden wings and black talons grabbing to take command, burst into the sky from where Ethan’s master had stood. Don Rafael’s shirt and jeans crumpled onto the dirt followed an instant later by his boots. No vampiro’s clothing went with him when he shapeshifted.

  Shit. Well, the Old Man would arrive at her location without a so-called logical explanation, which should spook her and make her more easily controlled. Not a tactic which would have worked with Steve, though.

  On the other hand, it made protecting him a hell of a lot harder. If Ethan, too, shapeshifted, he couldn’t take his weapons.

  Rough Bear, grab El Patrón’s clothes. I’m on point.

  His friend dashed across the open expanse at full speed and snatched them up without breaking stride. Even a high-speed camera would have had a hard time glimpsing him, let alone a prosaica with a distant, blocked view. The lumps of clothing and leather vanished in an instant.

  Et
han faded into the nearby shrubbery, knowing Don Rafael wouldn’t land until his men were ready. He hid himself close to Doctor O’Malley, knowing her prosaica senses couldn’t smell him, and waited, keeping his rifle close.

  The lady vet poked her head out from behind the palm tree, her eyes wide and staring.

  Hold her while we talk, Ethan. I won’t use mind control.

  But—

  It didn’t work earlier, when I couldn’t make her stop watching, Don Rafael said on their private channel. Forcing her would destroy her and I won’t do that. Do you understand?

  Yes, sir. He’d never been able to make himself use mind tricks on Steve. But he wouldn’t let anybody, even a woman, hurt Don Rafael.

  She stepped all the way out into the open, her hand to her heart, and looked around. Who did she remind him of, with her long neck and coronet of red braids? His eldest sister? Surely not. His failures had left his family dead.

  Don Rafael landed in the gardens next to the road and donned his clothes quickly, although he didn’t take the time to pull his boots back on.

  Come on, hurry it up. We need to get out of here.

  Now, Ethan.

  Thank God.

  Ethan pounced. He grabbed her from behind in that most basic of holds, slamming his arm around her neck in a choke hold and dragging her back against him.

  Startled and angry, she fought him damn hard, using every dirty trick she’d ever learned, but to no avail. She kicked; she jabbed him with her elbows; she tried to throw him. She’d been taught well in some very vicious schools. If he’d been a prosaico, he wouldn’t have wanted to fight her.

  But, dammit, they needed to finish this. He started to twist so he could throw her.

  Don’t hurt her! Don Rafael ordered.

  Of course not, sir! Ethan froze immediately. After that, he simply used his strength against her and held her, letting her exhaust herself. Finally, she relaxed, although she was probably only waiting for an opportunity to escape.

  Then Don Rafael walked onto the road, clad only in his shirt and jeans, and faced her.