Bond of Darkness (12 page)

He jumped out without looking at her, slamming his baton into his belt. "You're welcome to look around, of course."

An instant later, he'd shoved his way into the crowd, heading for the vortex of activity in the center.

She shook her head slightly, not envying him. San Leandro was famous for its First Saturday concerts, when half of Texas sometimes seemed to descend on it. The rest of the month, it was a very sleepy little town. Having a crowd gather for something like this must seem like hell incarnate.

Steve settled her white hat onto her head and followed him. She stopped at the alley's entrance, unwilling to taint a potential crime scene. Still, she could see everything from here, not that there was much to observe.

Rookie cops had gone whistling past this spot for decades during daylight, certain the numerous trash cans hid only empty milk cartons. But tonight somebody had borrowed spotlights, normally used for First Saturday concerts, and mounted them on the rooftops. Glaring white lights taunted the narrow slot between buildings, chasing out every once-friendly corner. The ancient asphalt was cracked and dry under their remorseless beams, although a few corners and deeper crevices still gleamed darkly with the heavy rain's last traces.

A detective methodically worked over the ground, looking for any traces of a crime. Only her shoulders' slight relaxation revealed that she acted more from routine than outrage. A handful of cops echoed her movements more clumsily, occasionally silhouetted against the spotlights like gargoyles. San Leandro was so small and peaceful, it usually sent all its evidence to Austin for processing rather than having criminalists on hand as specialists to search crime scenes. A photographer methodically quartered the area, his closeness to the square suggesting either a long time since he'd started or a lack of items to be recorded.

Steve didn't envy those who'd have to search the trash cans. But the ice cream parlor itself used a locked modern dumpster, which meant there was nothing close-by accessible to strangers.

Damn, this felt like the worst of bad dreams.

Still more cops, their colorful uniforms telling of other jurisdictions come to help, stood watch over the onlookers in the square, their voices crooning reassurance about what a terrible shame this was.

In the center, like an ancient sacrifice, lay the shrouded center of their attention. She was still in the same posture and location in which she'd been found, sprawled beside the ice cream parlor.

Maribeth Rogers, age twenty-two, her family's darling. The star of the state synchronized swimming team and poised to succeed in the national, even the international arenas, according to the dispatcher.

There had to be a simple explanation.

"But I don't understand!" wailed a woman. "She'd just had her physical, by the Olympic team doctors, and they said she was perfect!"

Steve frowned. Doctors had been wrong before—but Olympic-quality physicians?

She straightened up and started pacing back and forth along the alley's entrance, watching the shadows cross the shroud. Even for a corpse, it was remarkably ungainly.

Roger stopped beside her, looking years older than he had at dinner. He looked a question at her.

She shrugged. "Could be natural."

"Drugs maybe."

Was he hoping for a comfortable explanation? If so, they'd been partners for too long to let her give him the easy out.

"Maybe." She kept her voice deliberately noncommittal.

He grunted, unhappiness settling deeper into his face.

A deputy came up, talking fast and soft. "Sheriff? We're finished here. Can we move Miss Rogers now? The crowd's growing and her mother would like some privacy."

"Are you certain?" Steve asked sharply. This was damn soon to move a corpse.

"You know tonight's storm was a gully washer, Steve." Roger spun to face her, his tone sharp. "How much evidence do you think is likely to still be here, even if there was a crime?"

She made a sharp gesture, unable to disagree. But her nerves jangled every time she saw the light spill over that silent body.

Don't worry, Maribeth. I'll keep an eye on your autopsy and the investigation for you
, she promised silently.

She studied every instant of the corpse's transfer and journey. By the time the slight figure had almost reached her, her previous doubts had crystallized into something more solid. "May I take a quick look, when she goes past?"

"Of course, Steve." Roger stiffened. A moment passed before he spoke again, painfully casual. "Looking for anything specific?"

She didn't answer him directly. Texas Rangers had jurisdiction over any crime committed in the State of Texas. Usually that meant crimes occurring across multiple jurisdictions, like racketeering conspiracies. But it often meant helping out small towns with nastiness they didn't see very often—such as murder.

She gently lifted the cloth up just high enough to see the girl's head and neck. Her torso and legs were stretched out smooth and straight, as befitted someone who'd soon be going into a coffin. But her neck was canted awkwardly to one side, the tendons achingly taut and her T-shirt's shoulder was so badly wrinkled it looked pleated.

"Odd position for her head and neck, since she was found lying on her back," Roger commented. "Well, maybe she'd been using her cell phone, even though there was a storm coming. After all, she was just a kid."

"Hmm." Unfortunately for that theory, Steve had seen the crime scene tech pick up the girl's cell phone from a few feet away. Plus, none of the wrinkles showed any impressions of a phone.

More important, what the hell had put that look of sheer horror on the girl's face?

Steve carefully covered Maribeth Rogers's face again. She was willing to bet a month's pay natural death hadn't contributed to her expression.

COMPOSTELA RANCH, JUNE 9

Ethan prowled in front of the bookshelves, the two revolvers in his shoulder holsters thin comfort. He'd expected bad news when he was summoned during full daylight. But this?

Don Rafael was leaning on the stone fireplace behind his desk, next to his centuries-old knightly sword. He could instantly snatch up the still-deadly blade and behead any intruder in an instant, from that pose.

Luis was pacing like a lost soul in front of the heavy steel shutters on the window. Jean-Marie was at the big conference table, searching out more information on his stealthy little PC.

Caleb sat on the leather sofa, with Gray Wolf only inches away. They didn't often openly indulge in physical displays of affection, relying instead on their conyugal bond to link them together. Born of complete trust and confidence in each other, the rare bond allowed them to share each other's thoughts and sensations, a union that would last for the rest of their lives.

Ethan cast another fulminating glance at them and spun on his heel, heading toward the desk and the fireplace. Contentment in a relationship—especially security that the loved one was safe!—wasn't something he wanted to see right now.

"How many such rapes have been reported?" Don Rafael snapped out.

"Two so far, both in Waco," Luis gritted out, as he strode restlessly, his white shirt brilliant against the steel shutters that protected them from daylight.

Thank God Steve was in Austin, a hundred miles away. With her safe, he could start thinking about other women, the nameless ones he was sworn to protect.

"But there's been a half-dozen attempted suicides by healthy young women for no apparent cause. Or at least, no prior signs a mental health professional noticed," Jean-Marie amended, double-checking the messages on his PC. "And one successful suicide."

"
Coño
," Don Rafael cursed.

"The rapes fit Devol's pattern: respectable women, badly beaten," Ethan commented. It was so damn easy to recognize the brute's handiwork. "But the suicides?"

"Beau's doing," Rafael said flatly, looking up from Jean-Marie's computer.

Ethan snarled, his fingers twitching. Beau was Madame Celeste's blond escort—and a legendary assassin? The fellow they'd thrown out of Compostela but hadn't been able to kill because he'd arrived protected by the hospitality laws.

Crap, he should be wiped off this earth. Killing him would be ten times harder now that he was a vampiro mayor, the hardest kind of vampiro to find.

"He feeds on fear then wipes the memory, but he's never been the best at controlling minds." Rafael's mouth worked for a moment as if trying not to spit. "Many times, the women remember something, even if it drives them insane."

Christ, they'd better keep this quiet. If prosaicos heard about these attacks, they'd come hunting for the rapist, no matter who he was.

"Jean-Marie, have your men watch all the mental health databases very closely. We must be alerted immediately when young women commit suicide or suffer unexplained depressions."

Jean-Marie nodded, his fingers flying over the keys. "
Certainement, mon père
. We should also probably scale back San Leandro's Fourth of July picnic. It's a First Saturday, so there'll be large crowds coming in for the music. We don't want our prosaicos wandering about when Beau and Devol are nearby."

"Agreed," Ethan seconded immediately. "It's the only public event at which you, Don Rafael, are scheduled to appear next month. All Madame Celeste's rabid wolves will certainly be lying in wait."

"Then you will simply have to chase them off," Don Rafael retorted. "I will not break my promise to appear, especially since I am an American and this is my national holiday."

What the fuck
? Ethan slammed his fist into the fireplace. If Don Rafael died, everything would be lost.

"You cannot risk yourself so foolishly!" Gray Wolf erupted. Jean-Marie and Caleb, both normally relaxed, came to their feet yelling. Luis cursed Don Rafael in a steady stream of
Galego
, their mother tongue.

Their master allowed them to vent for a minute before putting his foot down. "
¡Silencio
!" he roared at the top of his lungs.

The sound shook Ethan to the bone, taking him back to when he'd been a slave, prostrating himself in justifiable terror before the big Spaniard's wrath. Being forced to learn discipline and respect. He flinched—and reminded himself he was fighting for Don Rafael's safety.

Ethan's shoulders hunched. But he growled softly and bared his teeth—slightly—like a man, when his master looked him in the eyes.

"You will obey me in this," Don Rafael ordered, spitting out every word. "I gave my word to the mayor that I would light the fireworks and so I will."

Jean-Marie snarled deep in his throat. Don Rafael's eyes flashed to him but his heraldo spoke nothing in words.

"Your duty is to secure the area—by whatever means necessary. Do you understand?"

Don Rafael's will slammed into Ethan and bowled him over, as overwhelming as a tornado. He could no longer argue but he didn't approve.

"
St
, Don Rafael." Was he agreeing to help his master commit suicide? "We can pull vampiros and compañeros from the commanderies to form a perimeter around San Leandro that weekend."

But, dear God, how that would leave gaps in their defenses.

"Which will leave the borders very thinly protected, if bandolerismo try to sneak into Texas," Gray Wolf pointed out, his fangs showing in a rare display.

Don Rafael nodded emphatically. "We'll take the risk. What else?"

Ethan closed his eyes for an instant, then began planning how to redeploy his men. Thank God, they had Peter and his compañía in Houston, guarding the eastern frontier against Madame Celeste's forces. Even her most subtle moves couldn't easily dodge the former buffalo soldier with a grizzly's lightning reflexes.

Gray Wolf inclined his head in acknowledgment and began to tick off points on his fingers. "Roving patrols of all likely vampiro hunting grounds. Parks, nightclubs, hotels…"

"And honey pots, of course. Using entrapment to pull 'em in, not just guns," Caleb added.

Don Rafael shot him a quick glance, listening hard.

"And thin out the nightclubs in Austin and San Antonio along the River Walk, to make it harder for vampiros to feed close by," Luis put in. "We can yank their ABC licenses and get half of them closed down within a week or two."

"Before the Fourth, kill every foreign vampiro who's entered Texas without a passport," Jean-Marie suggested.

Now
that
would head off a lot of problems. But they could do more. And the faster the better, to protect Steve and other Texas ladies.

"I want to eliminate the criminal element, too, especially the prosaicos who'd help Devol for money. Those bastards have enough guns to be dangerous, even if they're not vampiros." Kill every prosaico who might be a threat—and forget about waiting for Steve's idolized judicial system to take action, if it ever did.

There was a murmur of agreement.

Ethan smiled, fangs pricking his lip in anticipation.

TEXAS STATE CAPITOL, AUSTIN, JUNE 10

Steve jerked her arms out from behind her back, refusing to assume parade rest, even though her lieutenant was pacing across the tiny room, made even smaller by ancient metal desks and filing cabinets. He'd told her to relax and she'd tried to obey.

Yeah, right.

She tapped her toe inside her boot, stopped that, and stretched her shoulders.

She'd have been happier if Posada had called her back to company headquarters in San Antonio—two hours south—for a chat, rather than the state capitol building. Dodging bureaucrats was more nerve racking than facing armed robbers, especially when she didn't know what was coming. Surely even the worst message could have been delivered on home turf.

But heck, almost anything was better than hanging around, pretending to relax. If she spent any more time at the range or in a gym, her duffel bags might wear out. Her grandfather and father had first taught her how to relax that way, before Grandpa died of the heart attack. Hell, so much practice had even let Dad take out the three bank robbers who'd mortally wounded him.