But this was Jennings's town in Jennings's esfera of Colorado. It could easily be full of watchers, especially prosaicos—who could be assassins, if Jennings had ambitions to take over part or all of Texas. As a guest, Rafael would be well within his rights to refuse to leave his armored SUV if he saw any prosaicos, or even kill them if he felt particularly threatened and prosaico law enforcement members weren't around.
But none of that applied in this case, since there were no prosaicos and no silent watchers on the rooftops. There might be an ambush waiting inside but that would be dealt with in its own time.
Jennings has been running Colorado with a heavy hand. Tortured or killed most of the old vampiros, then replaced them with his own hijos, Ethan pointed out, settling his black parka over the extra ammunition at the back of his waist.
Jean-Marie's shrug was as blatant as his parka's blue and silver. All new patrones do that. He's only held Denver for twenty years, so it's still recent history.
Verdaderamente, Rafael agreed. Relax a little, Ethan—Luis is just behind us with a dozen vampiros. He waited for Ethan to push the saloon's doors open.
The Fallen Angel's interior was an almost perfect recreation of an 1880s Rocky Mountain saloon. Carved wood, etched crystal, flocked red wallpaper, and sawdust-covered floors greeted Rafael's appreciative eyes. An ornate bar covered one wall, while a staircase led to a balcony that swept around the other three sides. The lighting was soft and intimate, mimicking the effect of old-fashioned oil lamps and chandeliers. A stage let beautiful women strut their charms, while small tables invited men to join games of chance. Upholstered booths recessed into the wall invited more intimate encounters.
Poker players, all vampiros, occupied most tables, with pretty girls leaning over their shoulders or sitting on their knees. A pair of bartenders polished glasses, one of them chatting with the cowboys drinking there. A jazz trio played ragtime variations on cowboy standards, providing a comfortable backdrop.
The temperature inside was closer to September than January, with the occupants dressed accordingly. The men wore long-sleeved shirts and jeans, not sweaters and turtlenecks, while the women's dresses left very little to the imagination.
The three Texans crossed to the bar and leaned against it, taking in the scene.
Sure would've appreciated fine clothing like that, first time I rode into Abilene in '66, Ethan drawled, eyeing the closest poker player. Especially these ladies' silks. They're prosaicas, of course, not vampiras. But they're still lovely.
The half-dozen females he gave El Abrazo to didn't even see their first dawn, Jean-Marie remarked. Bad record, but I've heard of worse. Gorshkov actually managed to keep two alive for several days by—
Just because one patrón torments females with El Abrazo doesn't mean that gentlemen need discuss it, Rafael cut in, baring his fangs slightly.
His hijos wisely fell silent as he turned to the closest bartender. "Glass of rye, please. Pikesville Rye, if you have it. And for you, gentlemen?"
A few minutes later, civilized behavior was restored with the arrival of excellent whiskies. Ethan drank his Jim Beam Black bourbon with evident satisfaction, his hazel eyes lazily scanning the room.
Rafael, who'd finished his own survey minutes earlier, drank rye, pleased to find this much civilization in Jennings's domain. Jean-Marie hummed an old tune as he sniffed his Glendronach scotch, a song he'd once whistled before garroting French sentries during the Peninsular War.
Jennings strolled through a side door a moment later, a stocky man, tough and level-eyed, who'd sailed with Drake. Three beautiful young women accompanied him, who smiled curiously at the Texans.
"Don Rafael! What a pleasure to finally welcome you to my esfera."
Rafael embraced him. "Jennings, amigo! You remember Jean-Marie, of course. And this is Ethan Templeton, my alférez mayor."
The two nodded to each other. Rafael smiled to himself, to see them so apparently friendly on the outside, but measuring each other so thoroughly.
"Gentlemen, may I introduce you to my friends, Amber Townsend, Serena McAlpin, and Anya Martinez?"
"Estoy encantada, señoritas." Genuinely delighted, Rafael bowed. All three women were extremely attractive to his vampiro senses, glowing with sensuality and emotion eager to be brought to a carnal boil—and tapped. They were also healthy and athletic, well capable of multiple orgasms to feed him and his hijos many times.
Behind them, other unattached women gathered to watch hopefully, their eyes caressing the three Texans' bodies. Ah si, truly Jennings had prepared a garden of delights to accompany the promised fine skiing and whisky.
Jennings rumbled wordless approval. "Would you care to sit down for a few minutes, Don Rafael? Share some whisky with the ladies? After all, you and I don't need to try the slopes at night."
Rafael smiled down into Amber's glowing brown eyes. "Yes, indeed I would enjoy that." And just where will I take the very first nibble on that long neck of yours, querida?"
They settled into one of the upholstered booths, Jennings bringing both Serena and Anya. Ethan and Jean-Marie took a table close by, where Ethan would have a clear line of fire if necessary. More of Jennings's lovelies joined them there, to be readily appreciated by the younger Texans.
"What do you do back in Denver?" Rafael's keen vampiro senses heard Ethan croon to the blonde cuddled against him.
"I'm a kindergarten teacher." She smiled back up at him, batting her long eyelashes innocently. Rafael shook his head and turned his attention back to Jennings. Ethan might enjoy himself now but he'd be bored within hours.
Amber snuggled closer to Rafael. "Where do you come from in Texas? I've been to Dallas."
"Outside Austin, on a ranch in the Hill Country."
"A genuine cowboy?" Her eyes were huge.
He grinned, thinking of just how long he'd been a vaquero. "Yes, ma'am."
Her hand began to stroke his knee tentatively. "Wow. That's not much like Connecticut, where I was born."
Jennings smiled from the other side of the table, very well pleased. Too well pleased by a minor flirtation.
Rafael's senses came alert. Surely Jennings wouldn't be stupid enough to try anything, especially with so many prosaicas around? Even if the room was full of his mesnaderos?
A shot rang out. The bullet creased Ethan's head, drawing blood.
Time slowed to a crawl.
The gun sounded like an AK-47—single shot or full automatic?
Rafael's eyes snapped back to Jennings. Knowledge lay there—that Jennings's man had fired as planned, but earlier than expected. Then Jennings shrugged and reached for his gun, mouth curving as he anticipated success.
Ambush. The saloon's air was about to fill with lead.
Rage heated Rafael's blood. The fools knew they'd kill every female in the room, yet they'd started this anyway.
Rafael pulled Amber's head onto his lap, palmed his Beretta, and blew a hole in Jennings's head. If he died here, he'd at least do so while saving the women.
He shoved her down his legs and yanked the girl next to Amber onto the floor as well. Jennings's body started to dissolve into dust, as Rafael managed to pull the third girl under the table. A long minute later, they began to wail.
He lunged out of the booth, a Beretta in each hand, killing any of Jennings's vampiros that survived Ethan and Jean-Marie. The room was full of flying lead and women's howls.
The fight was over in less than two minutes, leaving behind dust as vampiros' bodies and blood quickly disappeared. The women remained, sobbing hysterically.
Rafael holstered his guns. How's your head, Ethan?
Already healing, sir. The prosaicas are all alive, although a few will need some stitches.
Good fight, Jean-Marie commented. Plus, thanks to it, we'll have more friends in Colorado now and other places.
They'd have been more dangerous if we were facing Madame Celeste and Devol, her enforcer. Now that'd be a real fight, against a worthy opponent, Etha
n commented, as he hunted for first-aid supplies. We'd have to use all our men, close the borders…
Or that Russian assassin, Jean-Marie agreed, heading for an unconscious prosaica. He's a devil to be truly feared. Only Don Rafael can smell him, since they're both vampiros mayores.
Rafael froze briefly as he bent to the terrified girls, still cowering under the table. Madame Celeste would never leave New Orleans to visit Texas, the home of "cows and snakes." As for that Russian assassin, he's not even on this continent, so why worry about him either?
There'd been no word of Diego since Communism fell. After two centuries of torture at his hands, Rafael knew that pendejo too well to think a prosaico mob could destroy him. But if he ever showed his face in Texas, revenge would be very sweet.
Grania O'Malley swirled the last of the no-name, nonalcoholic beer in her glass. It was as weak as Tiffani's arguments, here at the graduation party. Her advisor's customary bash was a roaring success, as could be expected given the quantity of food and drinks produced by his wife's cooking class. Families bragged loud and long to anyone who'd listen about their member's astounding accomplishments. Students and alumni chattered and argued anything from UC Davis campus politics to the best way to count those elusive ferruginous pygmy owls in Arizona. This was UC Davis's liveliest graduation party, where conversation and music blared from almost every corner.
"Okay, Dr. O'Malley. I'll be going now and you can fix my grades with the registrar." Tiffani, who reeked of perfume and other chemicals, started to turn.
Grania fixed her best glare on the blond freshman. The slender girl froze.
"Final grades for the quarter, and the school year, were due this afternoon at two. Why should I change yours?"
Enormous brown eyes stared at her over a martini glass. "Because I need you to, that's why. Because Toby O'Brien got an A from you. Because…"
"Toby attended all the classes and completed all the homework and the labwork," Grania pointed out.
"But I took all the tests!"
Grania raised an eyebrow. "Is that how you got through high school?"
"Of course. I had all the requirements covered and still had time for parties."
What had her high school really been trying to teach her? Social passing, where a student shows up for class and gets a good grade, whether or not he learned anything? Heck, by those standards, Tiffani was quite accomplished. She at least tested well.
Grania's jaw set. But it wasn't good enough to work with her owls. "Here at the university, you've got to do a lot more than just the minimum in order to earn top grades."
The chit had the honesty to blush slightly before she charged on stubbornly. "So? I need an A to make up for my other grades, so I can come back next year. I want to be a wildlife vet, just like you. It's why I signed up for your section."
Heaven protect me from idiots. "But a good grade in one class won't help you with all the selection boards you'll face in the future. You need to work hard and long."
She lowered her martini, staring. "What do you mean?"
Give her a chance. She does have occasional flashes of brilliance.
If she'd just string them together into a consistent string, she could be something special. "You missed four labs and five take-home quizzes. If you give me some of those by tomorrow…"
"Tomorrow? Tomorrow?!" Total horror was written on her face. "I can't do that! There's Brad's party and Andy's. Then we're all driving down to San Francisco afterward. I can't possibly be back here before Sunday night. No way I'm doing more work on a Saturday, especially when school's out."
"In that case, I really don't see how I can change your grade."
"You're supposed to just give it to me for attending the lectures! Isn't that how you made it through?"
"No, sister, it isn't."
Tiffani shook her head, unwilling comprehension starting to dawn.
Grania began to hammer some lessons home. "Try hard work and paying attention to your advisors. No social life either, and no plagiarizing."
"No parties?"
"The odds are fifty to one—hell, a hundred to one against getting a good job as a wildlife vet. You still want that job?"
Tiffani nodded silently. Tears glistened but she blinked them back fiercely.
"Then start working your ass off for it right now, like I have. And watch your back. Because you won't see the knives coming until they're sticking out of you."
"Knives? Ohmygawd, you're not kidding. Maybe not literally true but not a joke either." She swallowed hard and offered her hand solemnly. "Dr. O'Malley, I'll work on those lab write-ups tonight."
"Good." They shook hands silently.
Tiffani stumbled off toward the gate, shaking her head and mumbling, "Knives?"
Grania shook her head, hoping the child pulled it together, and turned for the bar. Her sudden movement made the ornate gold cross fleury slip free from behind her dress. It swung wildly on its heavy gold chain, an echo of a barbaric past that suited her medieval velvet robes. Its style seemed extremely familiar to her, although it had been made in Texas, just before she bought it.
She started to tuck it back against her skin then smiled. She could afford a little time to dream about dating somebody in Texas.
Grania ran her fingers over the heavy metal curves as an expert tracker would. She slowed her breathing, until the party faded and only the jewelry was real against a haze of light.
Three months after his trip to Colorado, Rafael wished he'd never challenged fate by saying Madame Celeste wouldn't visit Texas. Now he found himself dressed in his finest garb, meeting Ethan and Jean-Marie outside the great hall at Compostela Ranch, his home. He'd originally built it as an indoor riding arena, then converted it later to an exercise yard where the cachorros, the immature vampiros, could master their vampiro strength and speed. The massive limestone walls also made an excellent backdrop for the scented vines and plants of his herb garden.
Tonight, he was wearing a Charro suit, formal attire that emphasized his Spanish origins. The short, tailored jacket, brilliant white shirt, wide leather belt, and narrow necktie all reminded him of his caballero past—except for his entirely modern gun. He was the only one who would openly carry a weapon tonight, the revolver traditionally worn with a Charro suit and the symbol of his authority as host. Given these guests, he wore a Super Redhawk, lethal and accurate, rather than the more sentimental pearl-handled Colt Ulysses Grant had given him.
Jean-Marie was as relaxed as any modern man could be when clad in a fine Gucci blue silk suit. Ethan, on the other hand, wore a black, western-cut tuxedo with embroidered red flames flashing from the shoulders, collars and cuffs, and beautifully tailored to conceal the revolvers holstered underneath. As the host's alférez mayor, he could stretch custom far enough to carry weapons but only if they were hidden.
Gray Wolf and Luis Alvarez, Rafael's siniscal and oldest compañero,
met them at the great hall. After almost two hundred years, Luis appeared barely forty and was as strong and fast as most cachorros. Born a Galician peasant, on the northwest coast of Spain, his eyes still carried shadows from when Napoleon's men had destroyed his family—then been gutted by Rafael.
A compañero was a prosaico who drank vampiro blood frequently, developing a craving for—an addiction to—his vampiro primero. Traditionally, vampiros were leery of creating compañeros, because it was impossible to predict how long it would take for a compañero to develop his craving for a single vampiro. So vampiros only created concubinos compañeros—sex slaves and blood sources.
But despite the stigma attached to compañeros, Rafael had proudly fought beside them, using their strength and their ability to fight in daylight like a vampiro mayor. Later, he'd made all of his recruits serve a novitiate as compañeros, thus allowing him to judge their fitness to become vampiros.
The agony was that it was also impossible to predict how long a compañero would live. During most of his life, he'd appear the same age he'd b
een when he first began to drink vampiro blood frequently. But when the vampiro elixir began to attack him, he would suddenly show signs of aging and die within weeks or even days.
Normally a compañero could hope to live for a century, or a century and a half. For a compañero to attain two centuries was astounding. Death would come fastest, the longer he had lived.
Rafael had fought more battles with Luis at his side than with anyone else, a history that Luis occasionally took ruthless advantage of—such as his absolute refusal to yield his post beside Rafael during daylight battles. At least, not until there was a vampiro who could pick up some of the burden.
Rafael had once thought he could persuade Luis to change his mind. He'd never force him to become a vampiro, since he never forced anyone even when they'd already agreed to do so. Luis, like everyone else, would only become a vampiro when his eyes were open to the consequences and fearlessly accepted them. But, maldito sea, if Luis withered and died of old age before that happened, it would break his heart!
Any day now, Jean-Marie would be able to walk in twilight and Luis would become a vampiro. Until then…
Rafael automatically searched Luis's face for signs of aging—and found none. He relaxed slightly. Luis would be the next compañero to become a vampiro—and no one would be happier than Rafael when that happened.
Luis bore his inspection with his typical slightly paternal forbearance. When Rafael relaxed, he bowed, holding back a smile, before disappearing into the great hall. He, after all, had duties to perform, as he'd reminded Rafael so many times before.
"Ready, Gray Wolf?"
"Yes, sir." Gray Wolf's smile at his creador was quiet but genuine. A Native American and Rafael's second oldest hijo, he was elegantly dressed in a simple black silk shirt and black pants, with his long black hair neatly tied at the nape of his neck. For a man who owned more than one eagle feather headdress, it was a notably inconspicuous appearance. On the other hand, it was probably best to encourage Madame Celeste to overlook him, thereby continuing her usual treatment for men she couldn't seduce.
Bond of Blood Page 2
