Bond of Fire (19 page)

Jean-Marie swallowed again, matching Rodrigo’s pulse. And again, in perfect rhythm with Rodrigo’s heartbeat.

Rodrigo rumbled approbation and drew his friend closer, settling him into a more comfortable position.

Jean-Marie drank, taking Rodrigo’s blood almost like a babe taking his mother’s milk. Peace suffused Rodrigo.

Jean-Marie’s pace slowed to only a few drops at a time, licking delicately at Rodrigo’s skin before he lay back against the settee, eyes half shut.

Rodrigo watched him lazily, no longer wondering why those eastern
vampiros mayores
had chosen to surround themselves with
compañeros
. This hadn’t been the blinding rapture of sharing blood with another
vampiro
, but he’d nonetheless enjoyed himself. He was also damn glad he’d fed very well for the past few days—indeed for the past few weeks. He still had enough blood left to work wonders—shapeshift, fight a duel with another
vampiro
, grant
El Abrazo…

“You need a more powerful entourage in these deadly times.” Jean-Marie stretched as elegantly as a cat, clearly recovered from his journey, and reassembled himself into a sitting position.

“Probably. The French are in Lugo and have been patrolling very close to us.” Rodrigo considered the distance to the wine decanters but decided against moving immediately. “What do you have in mind?”

“I want to become a
vampiro
.”

What the hell? Jean-Marie who hated being a
compañero
—now wanted to become a
vampiro
? “What the devil are you talking about?”

“Why do you think I came back here, when I could have died with the British army fighting Napoleon?” Brilliantly alert blue eyes met his. “I intend to live for at least a few more years.”

“That’s an absurd reason to become a
vampiro
!”

“Hélène d’Agelet died fighting Napoleon’s troops. I have sworn to carry on her work.”

¡Ay, mierda!
This news changed everything. To fulfill an oath to the woman he loved, Jean-Marie would probably dare anything—including become a
vampiro
. As a
compañero
, he’d be dead within days. His only chance of survival was as a
vampiro
.

Even so, Rodrigo’s stomach heaved when he remembered how his mind and body had been flayed for years by the agony of becoming a
vampiro.
The months and years of thinking of nothing else except blood and sex, craving it until he’d begged even the foulest brutes for more—anyone except his hated
creador
and Diego. He could not, would not, put anyone else through that. It was too appalling a life for even the strongest.

He would never force anyone into
El Abrazo
as he had been forced, and he would do his best to talk any candidate out of their decision.

“If I grant you
El Abrazo
, you would become my lover—utterly enslaved to me sexually for at least two years, possibly nine.”

“And I’d run those imperial brutes ragged from one end of Spain to the other.” Jean-Marie’s eyes were as inflexible as the tip of a sword.

“You would also become my servant, completely obedient to me—and nobody else.” The more polite warnings hadn’t worked; now it was time for the bone-deep one.

“Not just the few months of the rut, during
La Lujuria
?” For the first time, Jean-Marie seemed startled. Of course, Rodrigo wouldn’t be following
vampiro
custom in this. “Rodrigo—”

“Hear me out, Jean-Marie! I killed my
creador
.”

“Impossible!”

“I decapitated him—and I won’t permit even the slightest chance any
hijo
of mine would ever do the same to me. I will therefore be my
hijo
’s only blood source as long as he is physically immature—a
cachorro
.”

Jean-Marie stared at him, measuring his resolution.

Rodrigo looked back, absolutely immovable. He had spent too many years in too much agony: Whether it was logical or not, he would not risk meeting the same end he’d dealt to his
creador
. The only guarantee of complete control over an
hijo
was to be his only blood source, while he was a
cachorro
.

Jean-Marie gulped hard, silently yielding the point. He rose and walked to the sideboard.

“Sara can’t provide me any blood?” he asked, turning back to face Rodrigo.

“Other blood sources would weaken the bond to the
creador
. I had many blood sources, so I was able to ignore my
creador
’s commands.” He’d felt his need to obey decrease every time he’d found another blood source. Disgusting as many of them had been—much as he’d hated to prostitute himself—he’d still been as promiscuous as possible, hoping to regain his freedom of action. It had worked in the end.

Jean-Marie tapped on the sideboard, beating out an erratic rhythm and looking at something far away.

Rodrigo remained quiet, hoping his friend would see reason and stop talking about becoming a
vampiro
.

“Would I still be tied to Sara, as I am now?” Jean-Marie’s face was hidden, and Rodrigo couldn’t read his voice.

“No. Your loyalties as a
compañero
would be dissolved, leaving behind only those of a
vampiro
to his
creador
.” That was an easy answer. The link between
creador
and
hijo
overwhelmed everything else, except the
conyugal
bond—which was so rare as to not warrant any discussion.

“But still…” Jean-Marie was very pale. He jerked himself into motion and began to pace the room, his expression a study in horror.

Rodrigo relaxed slightly, careful to keep his own opinions concealed. Those weren’t all of his objections, of course—only the ones most likely to weigh with Jean-Marie, the man so completely focused on women.

“Very well.” Jean-Marie spun around and drew himself to attention. “I agree.”

“To?” Rodrigo raised the haughtiest eyebrow he could.

“To all of your terms. I will be your lover.” To give his courage full credit, Jean-Marie’s voice barely wavered when he described his future activities. “And you will be my only blood source so long as I am a
cachorro
, which will give you complete command over me for the rest of my life.”

Madre de Dios
, his independent friend was willing to completely yield himself? “You trust me that far?”

“With my life and soul,” Jean-Marie said simply.

With his
soul
? Unaccustomed joy rang through Rodrigo. But what if he betrayed it? What if Jean-Marie experienced the same shattering agony of mind and body Rodrigo had when he became a
vampiro
? Could either of them survive that horror?

He took a deep breath, grasping for space to regain his footing. “It’s too soon for you to be certain.”

“Rodrigo, there is nothing else in my world.” Jean-Marie frowned at him.

“You may find another reason to live!”

Jean-Marie huffed out a breath, visibly leashing the words quivering on his tongue.

“Take a few days to think it over, while you regain your strength.” Rodrigo shoved his hair impatiently away from his face and picked up his cloak. “I’m going to pray privately at the Blessed Virgin’s shrine, a mile north of here. I’ll give you blood again later tonight and tomorrow.”

“I won’t change my mind,” Jean-Marie warned, his fingers twitching as if eager to demand Rodrigo’s immediate acquiescence.

“Probably not—but grant me the time to think, too.” Rodrigo managed a tight smile. “I have never wished to become a
creador
.” Only a simple family man with my darling Blanche and our children at my side.

Rodrigo knelt before the shrine to the
Santísima Virgen
. For some ridiculously sentimental reason, he had his knightly sword strapped to his back, as if he was on a vigil—even though explaining its presence would be nearly impossible. He might even have to resort to
vampiro
tricks. Even so, he’d brought it along because his inner eye had Seen him leaving the house with it tonight.

He shrugged the folly away, together with any discomfort caused by the great weapon’s presence. He’d spent too many years traveling and fighting alongside this blade for it to be anything other than an extension of himself. He was free to pray and meditate, as he’d come here to do.

And watch to see if this was the night and the road that the French would arrive by.

There’d been a shrine here as long as he could remember, but it had always been very small—a roof large enough to protect two people, a stone floor for them to kneel on, and stone walls on three sides. The beauty was all in the simple statue of the Blessed Virgin and her son, looking out on the wild grace of the surrounding forest and mountain. Here was peace and simplicity, just as there had been five centuries ago when he had been a boy. And the only time he’d brought Blanche here to meet his family.

He’d kept vigil here the night before he’d left for Toledo to join the king’s court. He’d had so many ambitions then—to be a great knight, to become a member of the Order of Santiago, to be famous in battle, to gain great lands and protect his people from all enemies…

He’d even wished to conquer a lovely lady’s heart.

He’d done some of that. He’d been knighted by a king, he’d served a great prince, he’d become a novice in the Order of Santiago, he’d been loved by the sweetest of all ladies.

But had he been truly worthy of her? Would she have approved when he’d let those maidens die in his
creador
’s torture pits, rather than become another of his
creador
’s assassins? Perhaps.

Would Blanche understand why he hesitated to give Jean-Marie a chance at avenging his lady, even if it meant giving him
El Abrazo
?

He winced. Probably not. She’d always had a very blunt, pragmatic outlook toward others’ love affairs, even though she rarely interfered.

Would she have gathered up her household and wandered the world with him all these years? Or would she have sought to help and protect their small ones somewhere along the way? Would she have built a fortress to keep the night’s dangers away from them?

Santa Madre de Dios.
Rodrigo’s hands curled into fists, and he pounded them against each other. Blanche had always fought to protect others. She might have traveled the world with him—but she’d have had her charities and her causes at every stop.

If she’d been with him, he’d have built her a home long before now, just to protect her and those she guarded. It would have been part of his knightly vows—the part he hadn’t done much of all these years, the command to protect the weak.

He closed his eyes and crossed himself. Then he began to pray for forgiveness and the strength to do better.

Luis hummed softly while he strolled to Vespers at the church, happily listening to his wife and daughter’s eternal chatter about her pregnancy. One might think nobody had ever had a baby before, the way his wife fussed over the imminent arrival of her first grandchild. But he was almost as bad, especially since Emilio, Inez’s husband, was his oldest friend’s son.

Bianca, his second daughter, would be married in the spring, while his youngest had her eye on a boy from another village. He knew they were fine lads, and his wife assured him they’d make good husbands, although he wasn’t entirely sure of that. Even so, there were a few things he could do to test them before the knots were tied and his darlings left his protection.

Light sparked from the hillside and was gone in an instant, leaving black spots in his eyes and chills pattering down his back.

He frowned. He rolled his shoulders, willing the shivers to leave his spine. He was a prosperous farmer and well dressed for this weather. He should not, could not, be cold.

He counted up his beloved ladies, determined to distract himself. Beatriz, his wife, still as slim and lithe as when he’d married her. Inez, their eldest, ready to give birth within the next few weeks. Bianca, tall and dark as himself—a good girl,
gracias a Dios
, but her laughter drew men the way flowers lured bees. And little Ana, quiet, hardworking, and beautiful beyond belief.

They stepped from the cobblestone plaza into the colonnade bordering San Rafael Arcángel. More of their friends greeted them and began to exchange scraps of gossip in the last few minutes before entering church.

Luis caught sight of his godfather, Carlos Alvarez—the
alcalde
and San Leandro’s most important official—talking earnestly to two other men. Lacking any instructions from Don Fernando Perez, the local grandee,
Tío Carlos
hadn’t even been able to decide whether they should hide more of their livestock and food. The lines in his face were deep set, almost engraved into his skin, making him appear as fragile as an ice bridge.

If
Tío Carlos
proved too sick, Luis would have to lead the next town council meeting, since he was second to
Tío Carlos
. In that case, he’d be the one to answer his neighbors’ questions and make the decisions.

However grievous their concerns were, they were all subjects that had been discussed many times before and did not have to be reconsidered tonight.

Surely, here—on sacred ground!—he could ignore how his hair prickled under his collar and the iciness of his palms inside his good gloves. Instead, he could fill his eyes with his beautiful family. God had blessed him beyond anything he had ever prayed for.

Luis relaxed and resolved to make an extra donation to the poor box.

A bugle rang out, the long, angry note ripping apart the valley’s peace. Horses’ hooves pounded over the cobblestones, metal clanging and rattling with every beat. Men shouted and swore in the distance, echoes rising up and beating against each other in a cacophony of terror.

Children flung themselves against their mothers’ knees. Women screamed or turned pale. Men stared at each other. A few turned to run.

The horses galloped into the plaza, as dreadfully as any plague ever foretold. Their riders were ragged, armed to the teeth—and French. In an instant, every exit was blocked by a soldier with a leveled gun.

Predatory eyes marked the location of every woman.

Inez gasped—and wrapped her arms protectively around her enormous belly. Glaring, Emilio placed himself between the intruders and his wife. Cursing softly, Beatriz gathered her two youngest daughters to her.

Overhead, the great tocsin bell began to ring out the alarm.

Tío Carlos
drew himself up and strode forward to demand an explanation, magnificent in his dignity but showing every one of his eighty years.

His heart in his throat, Luis crossed himself, silently yielded his family to God’s protection, and fell into step with his
alcalde
.

Jean-Marie came down the stairs to the landing, chuckling softly. Given good food, hot baths, and clean clothes, his Galician friends had managed to fully enjoy them all. Now they slept in the attic, their faces as innocently relaxed as babes despite their hard lives.

Perhaps he could persuade them to rest here tomorrow but probably not. They were all eager to reach their homes as quickly as possible.

Horses’ hooves clattered on the courtyard’s cobblestones. French, of course—and he was the only armed man in the household, since Rodrigo was at the shrine.

He crossed himself and asked for God’s help.

Someone demanded admittance in clumsy Spanish.

“Niquez vos mères!”
he shouted and pulled out his pistols.

The extremely vulgar insult to their mothers, given in French by a Frenchman, brought an instant of stunned silence.

He locked the door to the upstairs, which would keep his friends safe for a few minutes. They were good brawlers, but they’d never last against professional soldiers.

A bell began to ring madly in the distance—the town’s tocsin bell, calling desperately for aid.

Jean-Marie’s mouth tightened, and he made sure he could draw his saber quickly. Thank God Rodrigo kept an arsenal here and had encouraged him to take what he wished. The sights he’d seen on his journey had made him go armed, even indoors.

A muffled chant, a solid weight hit the door—and it burst open, disgorging filthy, ragged French soldiers into the room. There were at least a dozen of them, more dangerous than rabid wolves—and a nasty contrast to the house’s quiet elegance.

If only he’d had time to regain his
compañero
speed and strength, instead of only a
prosaico
’s. But with luck, he could fight them off long enough for Rodrigo to return and save Sara and his friends.

He’d be able to see Hélène once again in the next world.

One of the Frenchmen leveled his musket, but Jean-Marie’s shot took him first.

Another waved a sword, ordering the others on—and Jean-Marie brought the leader down with his last bullet.

He thrust his pistols into his belt, knowing he wouldn’t have time to reload them. But they’d be useful as clubs, should his sword fail him.

He drew his saber and smiled at his enemies.

“Come along, lads, who wants to be the first to die? You know as well as I that your muskets are ancient—and less accurate than a drunken pissing contest. Your chances of killing me are pitiful from down there—so you’ll have to come up here to dance with me.”

They eyed him warily, obviously trying to gauge how well he could fight.

His grin grew broader. They’d have to pass him to reach the valuables in the bedrooms—and Napoleon’s soldiers could never resist looting. He just needed to buy time for Rodrigo.

Two of them charged him.

The bell’s notes ripped into Rodrigo, snatching him away from his prayers. For an instant, he didn’t know whether he stood in the thirteenth century or the nineteenth.

But his body didn’t care about which century it was, and it jerked him to his feet. Invaders had come, and a knight’s duty was to protect. To fight enemies.

He crossed himself. Then he ran—with all of his
vampiro
speed.

His home was on the way to San Leandro. He would stop there first.

Sara woke slowly, blinking and confused. She loathed moving around in daylight, and greeting Jean-Marie’s friends earlier that day had left her sleepy and irritable.

Her coffin was familiar territory, small and dark, infinitely comfortable with its satin cushions and fine woods. It was the only sanctuary her
creador
had allowed her, and nobody had ever troubled her there in the years since. She hated bestirring herself, but something was wrong in the world beyond.

Her beloved coffin vibrated again, shaking her to the bones.

A bell was ringing, frequently and loudly. The tocsin bell from the village?

She pushed the lid off, sending it slamming onto the floor.

Jean-Marie was taunting someone on the landing, his voice ragged with exhaustion and pain.

No! He’d been hers and Rodrigo’s ever since she’d first seen him in Rodrigo’s vision, back in their
creador
’s dungeon. She’d taken him as soon as she’d met him, of course. Why bother with discussion, when she knew they were fated to be together? She would not let him be hurt now.

She erupted from her nest, her hair trailing down her back, and ran to the door, still clad in her frothy lace and silk nightgown. She flung it open, only to be met by a horrific sight.

Jean-Marie was surrounded by dead and wounded soldiers—but he was bleeding as much as or more than any of them. One side of his face was covered in blood, while his right arm hung uselessly at his side. He favored one leg, but his sword’s point was still high, however much it wavered.

“Why are you standing there? Come on, you cowards—or don’t you want to join your fellows in Hell?” He coughed—and choked on blood.

Someone growled and charged, bayonet lowered. How could his sword parry that?

Jean-Marie’s face hardened.

Sara shrieked one of her
creador
’s favorite curses and hurled herself into the fight.

Sword drawn, Rodrigo raced into the courtyard, startling a handful of gaunt horses. French military horses.

The terror gripping him throughout his mad run tightened its hold on his throat. If he lost Sara or Jean-Marie because he hadn’t been here to protect them…

He shoved past the unhappy beasts, all his attention on the swinging door and the reek of blood and death from within.

An abattoir awaited him, not the gracious room he’d left with gilded furniture, floral rugs, and painted walls. Now more than a dozen men lay dead or dying in his foyer, on the stairs, and on the landing beyond. Some had been killed by
prosaico
means—with a bullet or a sword. But a few had been almost ripped apart, and none would be alive for more than a few minutes more.

Men were pounding on the door to the attic bedroom, demanding to be set free. Since they were obviously alive and healthy, they could be ignored for now.

What the hell had happened? Jean-Marie had not had the strength to kill so many.

Rodrigo leapt up the stairs, barely managing not to step on any bodies.

Gracias a Dios
, Jean-Marie was slumped against the wall, his face white as parchment under a coating of blood. His hands were clasped over his belly, a foul seepage oozing under his fingers. The door to Sara’s room was open, showing an empty coffin.

A wordless prayer formed itself in Rodrigo’s heart.

“Jean-Marie.” He dropped to his knees and unbuttoned his cloak.

“Rodrigo.” His friend blinked slowly. Agony was braided into every muscle of his face and throat. Death lurked behind his eyes. “Thank God. You must go…to the village.”