Bond of Darkness (8 page)

A single fountain flung itself toward the moon on a nearby hill. It was the only waterworks never silenced, even in drought or when a vampiro awoke for the first time, shaken and uncertain. A few white tombstones slept nearby, in between ancient oak trees.

A helicopter's blades beat through the night, fast and desperate. Nunez was the steadiest of their pilots; otherwise, he'd never have been chosen to convey their hell-born visitors here. But after Don Rafael threw out the uninvited third guest, Nunez had also been needed to take the sleek blond bastard back to the airport.

Only a few minutes' spent with those bastards but it had left him spooked enough to fly like a rookie the next time he took off? Damn.

Well, if it had been the legendary Russian assassin, disguised as a boy toy, they'd kicked him out before he could cause any trouble or see anything important.

A whisper ran over Ethan's skin, despite the hot night, but he forced his expression to stay relaxed.

Devol, their unwanted second guest, strolled beside him around the helipad. He stank of blood and worse, until Ethan could hardly stand to draw breath nearby. It was probably a tactic to drive Ethan off, besides the mark of having fed far too well. Disgustingly so, on the emotions he and Madame Celeste preferred. He wore funereal black which would have done credit to the most stylish rock star. His pace was steady, his features calm. But his fingers twitched and his eyes never strayed far from the guest house.

Ethan glanced up briefly, scanning for the returning helicopter. If there was to be trouble, it would come soon, especially with Don Rafael and Madame Celeste closeted inside the guest house—thus removing Texas's greatest warrior.

Tendrils of scent slipped reassuringly down the hillside toward him. Something solid flashed briefly beside a chimney and was gone. One of his men.

The massed compañías—the great warrior companies of vampiros, compañeros, and prosaicos—guarded Compostela like great horned owls, those legendary tigers of the forest. Snipers lurked on the rooftops and sentries prowled every path, ready to take action at the first sign of trouble. A vampiro who'd shapeshifted into a wolf couldn't have slipped through their cordon without notice.

But Madame Celeste, the New Orleans patrona, had captured Memphis twenty years ago by treachery. She and Devol had slaughtered its large garrison with a bloody ruthlessness, which had shocked even vampiros mayores. How many had she killed that first night—and how many had she saved to destroy the second?

"Think you have enough men to protect you from a single unarmed man and woman?" Devol's mocking drawl cut through Ethan's tally.

"Think you have enough to steal another esfera?" Ethan shot back, wishing he could use his guns.

"We won't need to. We're going to be invited in."

"Like hell!"

"Oh yes. Up there—in that ugly little building—Don Rafael and Madame Celeste are
negotiating
an alliance." Were Devol's features taut with certainty—or anguish?

"Alliance?" Did he mean more than a simple treaty to ward off the reckless young Mexican vampiros?

"Consorts."

That slut? Ethan glared at him. "Not on your life. Don Rafael would never form an alliance with her."

"Don Rafael's just another man, as he proved back in New Orleans. You and I are about to become hermanos." Bitterness threaded through Devol's voice.

Brothers? Like hell. "I'll destroy you."

"If you can." Devol's expression regained its familiar angry mockery. "You aren't much, hiding behind a big estate and all these guards."

"If you weren't protected by the laws of hospitality, you'd already be dead. I'm fifty years older than you are and faster."

"Think you're such a big man? And just how well have you fed all your life—or did your fancy patron make you beg for your prey, eh?"

"Beg? I
pleasure
my partners, in exchange for blood."

"My patron made sure every meal was the best—rich and satisfying, as much as I could drink." He drew out the syllables, curling his lip at Ethan's far too blatant restraint.

Ethan clenched his teeth, wishing he could flash his fangs and challenge the bastard to a duel instead of playing the dissembling diplomat. Devol and Madame Celeste's orgies were legendarily long and vicious, making them incredibly good meals if you were a vampiro who fed on pain or worse. Vampiros matured faster the more they ate, so the son of a bitch could be more deadly than his years would normally permit.

The former Bayou Butcher chuckled, liquid evil rippling through the innocent night.

"You're a fool, Devol, if you think Don Rafael will ask Madame Celeste to be his consort." Ethan's patience slipped a notch.

"Are you insulting my creador?" The Cajun whirled on him, a knife handle appearing out of his cuff.

Ethan's fingers stretched for his gun. Just how the hell had Devol drawn first?

A door slammed open up above and Madame Celeste stormed out of the guest house, Don Rafael a step behind her. The air almost crackled around them, seething with an interrupted fight. They came down the stairs to the helipad fast, lethal and supple as cobras.

Their conversation had gone foul already? Shit.

Ethan's eyes met Devol's, both of them snarling at the other, before they assumed expressionless masks. The fight would be continued another day—and would be far more vicious for the delay.

"I will dance on your grave, Don Rafael," Madame Celeste vowed, glancing over her shoulder, her voice all the more deadly for its utter quiet. "If I can't have you, then nobody will have you."

"If you try, you'll fail." His voice had deepened, gained a chain saw's harsh eagerness.

A young man's irrepressible joy flashed over Devol's face, an expression so utterly at odds with his callous, dissolute history that Ethan could hardly believe he'd seen it. Then it was gone, leaving the harsh, vicious strength of New Orleans' alferez mayor behind.

Two vampiros scrambled to open the backup helicopter's door before she reached it. Devol smoothly handed her into the bird, careful to protect her dress.

She looked down her nose at Don Rafael, haughty as an Egyptian pharaoh. "Just watch me—and weep while you crumble into dust."

"It is you who will dig your grave here," he retorted sharply, finishing with an all too-polite, "madame."

Devol slammed the door shut and ran around to the other side, an unusual lightness in his step.

An instant later, the helo raced off, carrying the two unwelcome guests back to the airport and thence out of Texas.

Jean-Marie and Gray Wolf came up to stand behind Ethan and Don Rafael.

Ethan flexed his fingers, double-checking their speed and suppleness. He'd have to start practicing even more, now he'd finally have the chance to blow Devol's head off. He wanted to have his choice of shots.

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 patron 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 fuck? 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 was 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.