Blanche stood up too and looked her in the eye, refusing to be cowed. Her duty as a wife, a vow made during a holy sacrament, came before any oath to a worldly overlord. "I am the wife of Don Rodrigo Perez and I will not marry another."
"He has been dead these two years and more!"
"No body was found."
"The infidels made a pyramid of their heads'."
Blanche tilted her chin higher. The agony in her skull threatened to split it apart. But now the pain reassured her that Rodrigo was alive. "Others have come back alive since then. Until a body is found or someone swears a holy oath they saw him dead, I am still married."
The Princesse glared at her. "Do you understand how difficult it was to find anyone who could smuggle us out of here? The only thing Don Salvador asks for is you. He is willing to marry you, you stupid fool."
"I am afraid what you ask is impossible, Your Highness."
The Princesse visibly fought to control herself. "He's far richer than Don Rodrigo could ever have hoped to be," she coaxed.
Blanche shuddered and crossed herself, as appalled as if Satan himself had tried to tempt her. What did money have to do with adultery?
The Princesse's control snapped and she slapped her, sending Blanche staggering. She came after her again, her hand raised for another blow.
Blanche saw red then. She was a married woman and would defend her honor against anyone who sought to besmirch it. She shoved the Princesse hard, sending her over backward into the pool with a mighty splash. The lion imperturbably poured water over the Princesse's head.
"Do not speak to me again of adultery, Your Highness," Blanche warned, glaring at her erstwhile mistress.
The Princesse screeched in rage, her hands clenching and unclenching as if she wanted to rip out Blanche's eyes. She erupted out of the pool, water streaming from her ruined dress. "Salope! Queen Violante will force you to obey me!"
An instant after she left, Blanche ran in the opposite direction. Betrayal had walked through this small courtyard, ripping her away from any ties to her birthplace. Tears burned in her eyes but there was no time to weep.
She couldn't go to the King. A blind fool about his womenfolk on the best of days, he wouldn't believe her and would simply return her to the Princesse and the Queen for discipline.
She had to escape with her children to the Santiaguistas. As the wife of a Santiaguista novice and the mother of his children, Blanche had the right to claim protection and shelter from them. Besides their stout fortresses and hundreds of knights, they had numerous convents and priories. Surely in one of them, she and her children would be safe. There she could pray to San Rafael Arcángel for Rodrigo's health and safe travel.
Grania's eyes snapped open, assessed the scene, and shut again. Her own bed, the very narrow cot set diagonally across the tiny, brilliantly painted bedroom. The white curtains swaying, as the rain pounded against the windows. Definitely her house, late at night after a thunderstorm.
So where the hell had another dream about Blanche come from? She'd only once before dreamed about that medieval woman, hoping to dream about Rodrigo. She'd thought that first dream was a wet dream, finally arrived after years of daydreaming about her knight. But this hardly fell into that category. Worse, it was about the same woman—and her children had the same names.
Better to forget those dreams.
She hadn't seen Emilio and the other guy since before the thunderstorm, which might be why she was so damn uneasy. Was there so much of a threat to Rafael that he needed every available man on guard duty?
She punched the pillow, rolled over, and tried to go back to sleep. Long, fruitless minutes later, she gave up. She'd done much of her Ph.D. thesis before dawn, after eighty-hour weeks as a vet and student. Analyzing data on vampires at night would be a cinch after that. For one thing, she'd gathered a whole lot less scientific data on vampires than she had for her thesis.
At the Commandery in Austin, the rain was coming down almost loudly enough to deafen a vampiro. Inside the great hall, Ethan was holding the morning muster of compañeros. This hall had once been a barn and it retained the honest simplicity of those origins, with stone walls and floors, wooden beams, and steel shutters, despite its high-tech equipment. The furniture was comfortable, old enough that a man didn't need to worry about being polite, yet young enough that he didn't fear to break it.
Two dozen compañeros, dressed in a variety of clothing, from the roughest work clothes to the most impressive office attire, occupied the chairs and the benches.
The Commandery's great hall had been impossible to break into when Ethan first entered in 1860. Now it was both impossible to break into or break out of, if you were impure of heart, as Don Rafael liked to say.
For this muster, as all others, every door was bolted from the outside except two, one which Gray Wolf guarded, substituting for Ethan's top lieutenant, who was at the Dallas Commandery tonight with Hennessy.
Gray Wolf stood at the back of the hall, apparently casual, his black eyes sweeping the room. Jean-Marie leaned against the side door, turning a coin over across the back of his hand as he watched.
"Any more questions?" Ethan asked.
The men shook their heads.
Gray Wolf straightened up. The muster is wrong tonight, he said softly, his words whispering across their link. Keeping the conversation soft so that only the three of them, Don Rafael's eldest three hijos, could hear.
Shit. Implications and contingency plans raced through Ethan's head. Are you sure? Do you know who or how many?
I'm sure of it but I don't yet know how many men. Gray Wolf's tone was grim.
Jean-Marie came erect, the coin stilling between his fingers like a knife blade. Beau must have managed to capture and take over at least one of our men.
He'd need a blood exchange to do that. Damn. The roll call will tell us who it is.
Or flush out the mole before Ethan reaches him, Jean-Marie remarked.
Agreed. Ethan raised his voice. "Line up for inspection, boys, so we can have you out of here and on the job."
Chatting to each other, the men followed the same ritual they did every morning before going on patrol, moving into a single, long line that stretched the hall's length.
The inspection looked like that performed in any police station at the start of a shift. The biggest difference was invisible to the naked eye: Ethan, as the leader of this muster, also sniffed each man, looking for traces of hostile foreign vampiros.
Inspecting the first few compañeros went quickly and quietly. Focused on the men in front of him, Ethan had little attention to spare for the others further away.
There's trouble building toward the rear, Gray Wolf warned. A half dozen are jostling each other like horseplay. But they're getting closer to the side door by Jean-Marie.
The Frenchman laughed. If they try to rush me, I'll stop them.
Warn me when it's about to start. Ethan continued the inspection, repeatedly encouraging his men to carry more firepower and wear their body armor.
His ears caught Jean-Marie's footsteps moving away from the door. What the hell?
Jean-Marie's voice was very relaxed, almost placid. It's almost time, mon frère. You will need room for the dance. The heraldo's damn intuition had kicked in again.
There's only one, Gray Wolf announced. But I'm still not sure exactly who…
Now! He's making a run now! Jean-Marie shouted.
Every compañero spun but only the vampiros and the traitor knew what to look for.
Teixeira, who'd been a compañero for less than five years, bolted for the side door an instant after Jean-Marie's shout—and a second after Ethan leaped into motion. He caught the young compañero from behind within two strides and held him brutally tight, ignoring the other's struggles.
Interrogating him was next. If Teixeira survived that, then Ethan could either execute him himself (the more merciful death, no matter how he chose to do it) or take him to Don Rafael.
&
nbsp; Gray Wolf and Jean-Marie paced around them, watching Teixeira's every move. The other compañeros formed another circle, growling, anger growing in their eyes.
Ethan got a single whiff of Teixeira's scent and nearly gagged. "Christ, you reek of Beau and Devol. What did you do, roll in New Orleans filth?"
Teixeira spat at Gray Wolf.
"Asshole." Ethan tightened his grip, breaking his captive's shoulder.
The other screamed and sagged, but his eyes still flashed defiance.
"The penalty for treason is death. But before then, his memories will be stripped. Ready, men?"
"They'll grind you into dust, Templeton. The rest of you, Madame Celeste will pay you a fortune—"
Ethan cut Teixeira off ruthlessly as he probed deep and fast, projecting the answers to everyone else present. Not many people, even vampiros, let alone a compañero, could survive telepathy done this forcefully. But it was the only way to discover what had happened before any suicide compulsion could kick in.
Images flashed: Teixeira making a phone call to Madame Celeste's New Orleans casino, Teixeira meeting Beau and Devol in a Houston hotel room, Teixeira handing over a map showing the old smuggling routes from Mexico, Teixeira dropping to his knees and drinking blood from Devol and Beau…
Teixeira screamed like a lost soul and sagged against Ethan. He released him immediately and stepped back.
An instant later, Teixeira crumpled to the floor, his windpipe locked and his heart stopped, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. The scent of death spilled across the room.
The other compañeros snarled, aggrieved at being denied a share in killing him.
Ethan propped his fists on his hips and glared at his recalcitrant compañeros. When they were finally quiet again, he spoke. "Remember this, men. If you're tainted unwillingly, which could be done damned easily, then Don Rafael is willing to forgive and cleanse you. But if you're willing—as Teixeira was—then death to all traitors!"
"Death!" they howled, like wolves baying at the moon. "Death to all traitors!"
Hours later, Grania was willing to shoot everyone who'd ever written a so-called rigorous study of vampires. None of them seemed to agree on even the fundamentals, such as what a vampire was or did. She paced her cottage, ignoring the litter of papers on the kitchen on the table.
Snarling curses, she settled down again with a fresh cup of coffee and pulled over a new lab notebook. Computers were all well and good, but sometimes it was best to use the old standbys. She'd describe a vampire herself, by listing the most distinctive characteristics.
Apex predator at the top of the food chain.
Feeds primarily or solely on blood.
Hunting technique emphasizes sexual attraction.
May, or may not, kill prey.
May, or may not, be seen in daylight.
May, or may not, be capable of sexual acts, specifically orgasm and/or ejaculation.
The last characteristic really left a lot of activities open for further questions. Had Rafael climaxed while he was feeding on Brynda?
Could he climax when he wasn't feeding? Could he climax when he was alone?
Grania crossed out that list of questions, which had nothing to do with distinctive characteristics. Better to concentrate on the details of a vampire's attack, such as where the vulnerabilities were. All the sources at least agreed that vampires were too strong and fast for standard escape and evasion tactics.
Outrun? Not unless you were another vampire.
Shoot? You'd need a first-shot kill, given their speed, which meant accuracy and stopping power. Semiautomatic weapons weren't accurate enough for that, if vampires were as fast as these accounts indicated. An excellent revolver would provide the accuracy if it had the stopping power, or maybe a heavily loaded shotgun at close range.
Gory prospect. She'd be better off unpacking her books and thinking about animals she could do something with.
But it was more fun thinking about Rafael. His beautiful, graceful body—just like her knight. His fangs—so much like every description of a vampire.
Cursing her unruly libido, she took another shower, using lukewarm water. Her body promptly remembered what it had enjoyed the last time she had stood in the small, green tiled enclosure and her fingers started playing with herself again.
Strumming her nipples, squeezing her breasts, and lifting them to the water's caress, as to a lover's. Stroking down over her belly to her hips.
She wondered if Rafael ever did something like this. Did he truly enjoy women like that loudmouthed blonde? Or did he sometimes pleasure himself, if only for some quiet?
Her hips rocked, as her hand slipped between her legs and began to play with her folds.
Wasn't this how he'd teased Brynda's clit in the woods?
She moaned, her hand working harder, deeper. Cream slid down her thigh in answer, as her body heated and tightened.
She called herself names and tried to think of other things, like grant applications for research money or examining an eagle.
But the image of Rafael kept coming back. What would he look like if he fondled himself? Would he look ecstatic or pained? Or both?
Her hand moved faster and faster, her hips thrusting hard against it. Her head fell back, her body arching into the water as she sought more.
Would Rafael move with style, like the way he'd handled that woman? Or would he be direct?
Would he prefer to touch just the shaft of his cock or someplace else?
She climaxed, crying out as the orgasm raced up her spine, as if running up a man's shaft. Her body bowed, face freezing in a rictus of pleasure too great to be expressed. Her feet and legs unable to hold any more, she collapsed slowly against the wall as consciousness slipped away.
She woke up to a cold-water shower. Again. Just as the sun started to rise.
* * *
Chapter Seven
Pain, so intense that nothing else existed. Light bursting into his eyes. He cowered back, shaking. Tried to curl himself into a ball. The thudding inside his body. The rush and whoosh of a mighty river, noises so loud as to crush all else.
He was hungry, ached with it. Could not have formed words to say what he needed.
Someone jerked his head back, tightening his skin over his skull. He screamed as his eyes opened to a whirling display of lights. He retched, voided himself, fought to escape from the light and the sound of his own voice.
"Filthy brute!"
A snort of laughter. "You were worse."
"Impossible!"
He cowered away from their voices, pounding like spikes into his brain.
Rough hands lifted and cleaned him, uncaring when skin tore. He howled, fighting. They restrained him easily.
"Few remember their awakening," the older voice mused above him, continuing to turn and scrape him contemptuously. "It is a time of insanity that destroys most."
"You said before it always kills children."
"And pregnant women."
The words were sounds only, with no meaning behind them yet. But bone-deep instinct told him these beings were enemies to be avoided as much as possible.
Vertigo swept him when they lifted him, carried him to another platform. He bucked against their hands and screamed. Fought again to escape. He jackknifed away, almost breaking the fetters binding him.
Close at hand, someone cursed them. But they laughed.
He fought on, heedless of the bonds they laid over him. Eyes dry and burning. Skin tight and aching. So very, very thirsty.
Someone spat. "Will he never stop fighting?" The young one's voice.
"It is said that those who are forced into El Abrazo, struggle the hardest when they rise for La Lujuria. But you were very willing to become my adopted son, so matters went much easier for you."
He was hungry, so very hungry. Every cell of his body was starving. But for what? Something to fill his throat and something else.
"Bring the blond over. This one's ready for his first
meal." Great satisfaction in the older man's voice now. "And deepen the cuts in the blond's belly."
A breeze touched his face, redolent with sweet perfumes. Ah, si, that was what he longed for. He turned his head from side to side, seeking the source. There!
They tied a warm body down next to him. He cringed from its heat but the coppery smell was too attractive to keep his distance. His nostrils flared and he purred.
"Unfasten him and step back."
The younger voice was uncertain. "Are you certain, yaa 'abi? He might turn on us, even with the other half gutted."
"While vampiro blood is far tastier than prosaico, neither of us have a thousand cuts in our skin. No, he'll tear the unbeliever's throat with his bare hands, plunge his hands into the heart, and gorge himself on the blood."
"And rape him as well." The younger voice sounded eager.
"It is how the first meal is always taken. The way you, as all other cachorros do, took your first taste of emotion—the emotion that you will crave as an immortal vampiro."
"And after that critical first meal, there are the months and years of thoughtless lust that so very few cachorros survive." The younger one happily smacked his lips.
"Yes, La Lujuria, the mindless hunger for blood and carnal satisfaction. Only two years for you, but as many as ten for others."
Loud sounds as bolts turned. Disorienting feelings as air played over him, when the chains loosened then disappeared. He flinched but didn't completely curl into a ball. The smell lured him closer.
Thuds echoing through his bones as the two speakers withdrew. Clinks of glass on glass as they poured refreshments for themselves. He tried to gather his body together so he could feed. But his muscles wouldn't answer.
A very soft voice touched him. Friendly and kind, unlike the others. But laden with great pain. "Rodrigo," it groaned.
He stilled. The word meant something. It sank into him, claimed him. It belonged to him.
But he was starving for the blood. He could hear it rushing through that body, so close, a delicious river he could pour over himself for fulfillment. He started to curl his fingers, one by one, so he could drive them deep. Drink deep.
Bond of Blood Page 12
