Bond of Fire (10 page)

The latch clicked shut.

Celeste turned away from the mirror, silk whispering around her feet.

She had only one goal now: revenge for Raoul’s death. On the English spies for arranging the ambush, and on Hélène for killing him.

She intended to destroy every English agent she possibly could, to carry on the work Raoul had left behind.

Her hands curled into claws, and she slashed at the air. Ah, if she could tear her so-called loving sister’s eyes out! But no, she had to smile and coo and pretend that she was grieving solely for their parents. And that she loved Hélène. Bah!

She’d wondered a thousand times how Hélène had forced that barn to burst into flames. But there were only two possible killers—the Blues soldiers or Hélène. After a summer and fall spent following an army, Celeste had known exactly what soldiers did to cause fires, whether accidentally or deliberately.

On that bitter night, she’d had an excellent view of the barn and its surroundings from the attic. But she’d seen nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing to indicate any military cause for that great explosion of flames. No shouted orders, no continuous spiral of smoke from a fuse, no stench of sulphur from a match, no clatter of hooves or creak of wheels to indicate a wagonload of black powder being pulled stealthily into position.

The only one who’d done anything whatsoever was Hélène. Celeste had heard her chanting under her breath, felt her tenseness—seen the fire start with her own eyes.

Heard her scream, “Die, damn you, die!”

For that alone, the bitch deserved destruction.

When the ordinary was ruled out, only the extraordinary remained, no matter what the means were. Celeste had no doubts left. Witchcraft or not, Hélène had caused it to burn and thereby knowingly murdered Raoul.

Therefore, Hélène must die.

When all the English spies were gone and Hélène—who’d been foolish enough to join them—knew herself alone, as Celeste was now…Ah, then and only then, would Celeste kill her. It was a very simple plan and would be easy to carry out, since Hélène suspected nothing. Their protectors wouldn’t watch Celeste, since men always thought with their dicks around willing women.

She’d seduced Andrew as quickly as possible. It had been easier after he’d sworn he couldn’t give her children, swearing he was a
vampiro
.

He’d offered to make her one of the same half-mythical beings as himself, and she’d promptly agreed. Whether or not it was true, he believed it. If it wasn’t real, turning over a madman to Paris would be easier. If it was true, becoming someone so powerful would make it that much easier to destroy the British Secret Service from the inside.

She hadn’t expected he’d make Hélène the same offer, damn him, or that Whitehall would insist Hélène become a
vampira
first. The murderess had been one for more than a year now. They’d said they needed her powers desperately, not Celeste’s skills as a seductress, which was where even Andrew agreed her talents lay. And the bitch had been one of the rare females who’d made it through
La Lujuria
smoothly, keeping her sanity intact.

Ces salopards!
She’d show the bastards who laughed last.

She hoisted a brandy decanter over her head by its neck but stopped herself in mid-swing.

She needed to regain her discipline.

She could hardly explain why she’d broken it when she was supposed to be eagerly anticipating Andrew’s embrace and becoming his
hija
, the
vampira
he sired.

She laughed at herself.

That was no hardship. The true pain—the agony that was tearing her heart—was the certainty she needed to stop thinking of Raoul.

She couldn’t permit Andrew to know she plotted revenge on England, not on the revolutionaries in Paris—and all because of her lover’s death, not her parents’.

Andrew had warned her he could read every thought in her head once she drank his blood and he became her
creador
. He’d honored her grief before now and stayed out of her mind. But the blood bond between
creador
and
hija
would not permit him to do so afterward.

It felt like the worst form of adultery. Yet it was necessity and must last for years. If nothing else, revenge for Raoul would surely give her the emotional focus Andrew insisted she needed if she was to survive
El Abrazo.

But to tear Raoul—dearest, most beloved Raoul, the light of her life for as long as she could remember—out of her heart?

She whimpered, hiding her face in her hands.

“My dear Celeste! If I had known you were so nervous, I would have knocked first.”

“Andrew!” Celeste whirled to face him, forcing a tremulous smile. “
Mon cher
, it is nothing—only a silly girl’s vapors at finally gaining what she wants.”
That at least is the truth.

“There’s no need to rush, my dear.” He was holding a bouquet of red roses, dew still beaded on their petals. But his eyes were searching her face, and he wasn’t eagerly kissing her hand or another portion of her anatomy, as he usually did.

No need to rush? She would not wait another minute, if she had any choice.

Raoul, please forgive me. You are, and will always be, my angel. But you cannot accompany me on the paths I must walk now. Please forgive me.

She mentally closed a door on her memories, locked it, and forbade herself to open it again.

“Andrew, my pet.” Was that a properly saccharine British endearment? It seemed to be, judging by how he straightened up. She walked her fingers up his chest. “Please forgive me a silly girl’s nerves. I’m somewhat overwhelmed by the thought of finally becoming completely yours.” She traced his lower lip with a single finger. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Of course.” He was still eyeing her cautiously, dammit.

She needed something more, something to keep her mind away from Raoul and Andrew’s thoughts far from her motives. What games had they enjoyed the most during the past year?

Something to sharpen the senses, with a bright edge of pain.

“Or should I call you my lord now?”

His eyes lit, recognizing their codeword, before he veiled them. “Those games are too risky at this time, Celeste. Your first taste of emotion sets the stage for all following drinks. To have it colored by pain…”

“Is it so bad if I enjoy it?” She cupped his face between her hands.

He was watching her mouth. His tongue slid over his lips, showing his fangs for an instant.

“If it takes us both to the heights?” She sharply twisted his earlobe and quickly released it.

He arched up onto his toes and grabbed her, his cock thrusting hard against her belly. “Bitch!”

His mouth crushed down on hers, his teeth ravaging her lips. She yielded immediately, drunk on pain and her management of him.

The great bouquet fell unnoticed to the floor. The scent of crushed roses slid into the room, no more noticed by its occupants than vanished memories or destroyed promises.

GENEVA, AUGUST 1808

Jean-Marie took another sip of Turkish coffee and slowly perused the latest issue of
The Monitor
, looking for the latest news from Paris about important aristocrats. This was, after all, part of his job as a British spy, even if nobody had asked him to look for the
marquise
d’Agelet. Beside him, a proper English breakfast of eggs, bacon, and buttered toast with strawberry jam steamed gently in the morning air.

The bacon and jam had been expensively smuggled in from Britain, using funds gained from playing cards with recuperating French officers at this lakeside resort in the Alps. No matter what government ruled in Paris—the Committee of Public Safety, the Directorate, and now the
Emperor
Napoleon, hah!—their servants still preferred to heal here.

He’d done well at last night’s game, enough to indulge himself with the ostentatious treat, although he was doing so out here on the terrace overlooking the lovely Alpine lake, rather than inside where his
vampiro
housemates slept.

Here at the crossroads of Europe, almost anything was acceptable, so long as one was discreet and paid the necessary bribes. Their business of operating a letter drop for the British Secret Service had gone very well, especially with their gambling and frequent amours to cloak the presence of strangers. Rodrigo had also, of course, managed to find at least a dozen other more respectable ways to make money.

The big Spaniard appeared in the doorway, as if conjured up by Jean-Marie’s thoughts. His skin lacked its usual golden glow, and his mouth was very tight, with white lines bracketing it.

Jean-Marie began to carefully fold his newspaper. If Rodrigo was disturbed, any sane man would be sharpening a sword. He chose the gentlest greeting possible. “Good morning,
mon frère.
Would you care for some coffee?”

The dark chocolate eyes broke away from the placid waters and snowcapped peaks to consider him. “I—yes, thank you.”

A chill ran down his spine. Rodrigo, talking in broken sentences?

Jean-Marie poured a cup of black coffee and set it down across the table.

“Will you look at these accounts for me, please? I’m not sure if I’ve tallied them up correctly.” His friend handed Jean-Marie a piece of paper and folded himself into a chair.

Double-check that Rodrigo had accurately deciphered the latest message from London? What the hell was Whitehall asking them to do, to have upset him so much?
Nom de Dieu
, if those British pigs wanted them to turn traitor against the United States…

“It’s only a matter of accounts, Jean-Marie, although it does make me wish I was back in Texas, where Englishmen never come.” Rodrigo’s fingers slowly released their abruptly gained, brutally tight grasp of Jean-Marie’s wrist. “If you would, please?”

“At once,
mon frère.
” He abandoned his bacon and strawberry jam without a backward glance.

He encountered Sara, her peignoir falling off her shoulders, as soon as he reentered the house. “Coffee? Isn’t there any tea?”

“Sara, hush.” He jerked his head toward the terrace.

“Mierda.”
She bit her lip, studying Rodrigo. “I was hoping never to see that expression on his face again.”

She was worried enough about Rodrigo to stop thinking about herself?

“Do you know what’s wrong?”

“No, not yet. I’m about to find out.”

“I will wait with him until you return.” She patted him on the shoulder—reassuringly?
Mon Dieu
, that was a change in their relationship.

“Don’t be too frightened. As long as he turns to one of us for help, he hasn’t let his darker memories overwhelm him.”

Jean-Marie nodded his understanding and went to the library. Ten minutes later, he’d deciphered the message twice. Pursing his lips, he burned the
en clair
version and strolled back to the terrace.

Sara was sitting beside Rodrigo, her hands wrapped about his arm and their glossy heads close together. They were speaking very softly—far too quietly for even him to hear—and their attitude resonated of years of trust and shared experiences. Not equals or lovers, but dear friends.

Rodrigo’s shoulders had even lost some of their previous tautness, and his mouth curved a little.

No matter how much Jean-Marie loathed Sara for what she’d done to him, he had to admit that he himself could not reach Rodrigo during the nightmares. Only she could, because the same agony touched her.

Five hundred years ago, Rodrigo had been captured and forced to become a
vampiro
. When a century of torture had failed to break him, his brutal master had purchased a young Jewish slave girl—Sara—planning to make Rodrigo watch her being tortured. A century later, neither Rodrigo nor Sara had shattered from the continuing horror. Instead, Rodrigo had managed to kill their master and escape with Sara.

Sara had privately told the story to Jean-Marie in fragments, confiding few details and none whatsoever from before her time in captivity. But sometimes, she or Rodrigo would have nightmares. Then the other one would offer comfort, speaking in whispers like now.

Curious though he was about almost everything, Jean-Marie wasn’t sure he wanted to know what they said.

Rodrigo’s head snapped up at the all-too-deliberate thud of a boot heel. Jean-Marie was far too graceful a dancer and too experienced a spy to have accidentally announced his presence. He must be giving them time to compose themselves.
Dios mío
, had he allowed so much of his alarm to show that his young
hermano
would try to protect him?

He quickly rearranged his features into a more social mask. “You’ve studied it,
amigo
?”

“The orange and lemon harvest in Spain this year needs looking into.” Jean-Marie tossed the sheet onto the table, with its three neat columns of figures, and sat down.

At least they could talk freely in front of the servants who were blood-bonded to himself and Sara. They came from Turkish families who’d spent generations serving in
comitivas
, a
vampiro
’s retinue, and considered it a special honor to serve
vampiros mayores
like himself and Sara. They knew their lives and family honor were forfeit if they were anything less than completely loyal and discreet. Their term of service was ten years, after which they’d return home to be replaced. Even so, he excused the butler, signaling him to keep watch.

“Not surprising there’d be some upheaval after the Spanish trampled that French army at Bailén,” Jean-Marie added, pouring a fresh cup of coffee.

“We’re going to Spain?” hissed Sara, sounding horrified.

“Madrid,” confirmed Rodrigo in only slightly happier tones.

“Surely you can refuse?”

“Why?” He disentangled himself and sat up straight, his face a stony mask. “We serve the cause of peace and liberty. How can I invoke sentimental reasons for not returning to my native land, especially when nobody in my family is still alive?”

“But the pain and the nightmares…” She shook her head. “You haven’t been back in over five hundred years.”

Rodrigo refused to allow himself to flinch. Rape, being forced to become a
vampiro
, and two hundred years of torture and captivity provided ample fuel for terrors in the night. A simple journey would not make him run.

“It does mention they have few experienced Spaniards for this role,” Jean-Marie said quietly. Ever the trained soldier and diplomat, who could couch military necessity in the sweetest of terms.

May he never learn that the older brother he loved so well was a knight who’d committed mortal sin after mortal sin, in order to stay alive long enough for revenge. Who barely tolerated those memories now and had never taken them into a confessional. Or had walked into a church since he’d been rescued.

“Bah!” Sara spat fiercely on the carpet. “Who cares what London does or does not want, has or can get? They can find somebody else!”

“Sara,
mi dulce
, we have aided them—flawlessly—for almost twenty years since the first bloodshed in Paris.” Rodrigo took her hands, forcing her to look into his eyes. “If they demand my presence now—someone senior, in such a difficult, important location—it probably means they’re about to send an army there.”

“So they want the best help possible, of course. But they shouldn’t risk you, especially when I need you.”

Jean-Marie rolled his eyes.

“I must go.” Rodrigo’s voice was very harsh. He would not let his fears rule him and keep him from his duty.

“We will all go,” Sara dictated.

Risk the only family he had left? “No! You two can stay here.”

“Never!” Sara and Jean-Marie shouted simultaneously—and stared at each other, shocked by their first unforced agreement on anything. United, they turned to glare at Rodrigo.

Rodrigo gaped. Those two, who fought viciously over anything and everything—except how to seduce information out of unsuspecting fools—
both
wanted to accompany him into danger?

“You’ll be safer here.”
Sabe Dios
, it was the truth.

“Don’t be absurd.” Sara sniffed loudly, fluffing up her silk ruffles until she looked like an empress in coronation regalia.

“You’re the leader of our family, and we’re a team. We stay together,” Jean-Marie declared, linking hands with Sara. “If you leave without us, we’ll follow on the next ship.”

Rodrigo muttered disgustedly but couldn’t bring himself to destroy Jean-Marie and Sara’s rare unity. They’d be at each other’s throats if he left them behind. Matters would be much worse if Jean-Marie suddenly started to age.

A chill draft brushed the nape of his neck but he shrugged it off. Jean-Marie was over a century old, but he’d lived well, even if he’d done so without the carnal emotions a
concubino compañero
craved. Surely there’d be no problems any time soon.

Even so, it would be best to keep together their team of three, who had done so well together for so long.

“
Bien.
I wouldn’t be happy without my family.” He rose, holding out his arms, and they embraced.

He spared one last prayer to the Savior who’d rescued him and kept him safe for so long.
But may I not have to visit the northwest and my wife’s tomb…

THE CORPUS CHRISTI CHAPEL IN THE CATHEDRAL OF TOLEDO, SPAIN, SEPTEMBER 29, 1808

Rodrigo slipped into the back of the small chapel, wondering yet again why he’d spent a day journeying from Madrid to Spain’s ancient capital. Why had he come to the church where he’d last seen his beloved wife—and on the day she’d always kept vigil for him during the long years she’d waited for him?

The small chapel was crowded, many people having come to ask for San Rafael Arcángel’s protection for their escape or for the healing of their loved ones, who’d been wounded fighting the invaders. Yet Rodrigo was isolated, as if an invisible shell kept the others away from him where he stood beside a pillar.

He automatically crossed himself, the beauty of the ancient Mozarabic rite embracing him. Only six parishes in all of Spain still celebrated this version of the Catholic rite daily, with this chapel as its center. How many centuries since he’d heard this most Spanish of Christian rites, which had survived and flourished under the Muslim conquest? The rite which sang the most eloquently of the
Santísima Virgen
, the Mother of God and Lady whose purity makes all men better?

The congregation answered the priest, their voices ringing out lovingly and trustingly, certain that the Lord and San Rafael Arcángel would bring their loved ones home safe and sound.

For the first time, Rodrigo wondered if healing might be possible, instead of always carrying scars and doing penance.

Touched by their faith, he bowed his head and prayed harder than he had in years.

The priest elevated the Host, sunlight striking the golden chalice until it seemed to rise up to Heaven. Everyone was utterly silent, transformed by the moment’s power.

A single strand of golden light danced off the high altar and fell squarely on Rodrigo’s forehead, soothing the great scar like holy oil.

MADRID, LATE OCTOBER 1808

Jean-Marie cursed everyone calling themselves a servant of George III
and
intelligent. He set about deciphering the message again.

“Well?” Sara demanded, hanging over him. “Are they still idiots or merely forgetful?”

“Probably idiots.” He flipped open the marine dictionary and started counting pages, looking for the first one listed in the ciphered message.

“Let me bring you some more light. You will go blind, sitting here in the dark, reading those scribbles.”

“But—”

“We don’t need to maintain a romantic atmosphere. I’ve already had a nice tumble with Señor Garcia, who believes deep growls and sweet talk make every woman want to fall into his arms.”

Despite the decades they’d been together and all the seduction techniques he’d seen and heard, Jean-Marie still leaned back and stared at her. “You’re joking,
oui
?”

“Hardly.” She shrugged, setting a candelabrum down on the table. “Of course, almost any phrase and setting can be amorous if the tone and glances accompanying it are.”

He shook his head, well aware they were chattering to distract themselves until Rodrigo came home.

Last spring, the Spanish people had spontaneously risen up against their French occupiers, climaxing with their startling defeat of a large French army at Bailén. Napoleon hadn’t risen from nowhere to emperor by ignoring barefaced challenges to his rule, especially when the puppet Spanish king was his brother. Now rumors were running rampant that Napoleon himself was lurking at the border, ready to invade Spain with his Grande Army.