Bond of Blood

by Diane Whiteside

  The smell was greatest in the man's belly. He could start there.

  "No, laddie!"

  The voice, which had been kind, rebuked. He flinched away.

  "Easy now, easy. They said you'd be crazy but I didna expect this."

  Pause. He relaxed slowly but didn't approach the man's middle again, fearing rejection.

  "I dinna want to die." The voice was bitter. "Still, you'll have to kill me."

  He fought the chaos inside his skull and found a word. "No."

  "Yes."

  "No!"

  "Only one of us can live and that's you, Rodrigo. I've prayed and prayed but it's a bitter draught to swallow."

  The others stirred behind them. He twitched, senses coming alert. But their conversation returned to changing their clothing and he relaxed.

  "No," he muttered, still unyielding.

  His friend's voice hardened. "They'll na stay away for verra long, Rodrigo. I give you my strength willingly. In return, I ask that you kill both of those murdering, torturing bastards, should God ever grant you the chance."

  Enemies. Kill. Yes! howled his instincts.

  "Use your teeth on my neck." His friend swallowed hard before going on, still barely loud enough to hear. "You can drink all my blood that way. You'll need it all, lad."

  He shook his head. "No kill."

  "You must. It's the fastest way to die." Complete certainty cut past the pain in his friend's voice. "Or they will spin my death out over days and weeks."

  "No!" Instinct told him his friend was correct. He gulped. Wished for another choice. Wished he could kill the enemies now. Instinct said hurry.

  "You remember how, Rodrigo. You saw them do it to me and they did it often enough on you. Teeth, laddie, teeth. The sharp, pointed bones in your mouth, Rodrigo," the man coaxed.

  Teeth. Is that what they were?

  He ran his tongue over his teeth, exploring. Didn't the two on the front corners need to be longer…

  They suddenly extended, dropping down to touch his lower lip. Razor sharp and deadly.

  A swift, indrawn breath from the other. "Blessed Virgin," the man whispered, "you extended your fangs."

  Fangs. Something done right in this chaos.

  He needed to see.

  He opened his eyes a crack. Squinted against the blinding light. Blinked rapidly until the blurs focused.

  Rodrigo bent over the other man, heavy iron chains clanking around his arms and legs. Big, golden haired, burly.

  "I have prayed all day. God forgives you and so do I, Rodrigo."

  He touched his tongue to the blood flowing down the other's forehead. Sweet, a physical echo of the caring in this man's voice. Emotion was in the blood itself, sí! Tasting of trust and resignation. Confidence in Rodrigo.

  The other sighed, relaxing a bit. "That's it, laddie. You've the knack of it now. But I wish I could have seen the sea just once more. The bright blue and the sea birds flying …"

  Rodrigo's tongue moved faster, gathering the coppery nectar. His hands began to knead the hard muscles, offering comfort. His friend sighed, a sound touched with relaxation and physical pleasure.

  The blood suddenly tasted richer and darker, like red wine. The pain in his head slipped back, clearing his thoughts somewhat.

  "Fearghus," he murmured, eagerly finding every drop of blood on the other's face and neck.

  "Praise God, Rodrigo, you've regained that much of your senses. Yes, I'm Fearghus."

  "He's being very slow, isn't he, to kill the big blond?" The hateful younger voice.

  "Yes. Sometimes young cachorros have no idea how to feed. We may have to disembowel the blond, just to get him started."

  Fearghus flinched. Rodrigo bared his fangs, instinctively possessive. "Kill!"

  "No, you can't fight them, not yet!" Fearghus was frightened and his blood suddenly tasted sour.

  Disgusted, Rodrigo spat the offending drops onto the great table. "Kill," he repeated, more softly.

  "Not yet," Fearghus groaned, tears running down his face. "When you're stronger, laddie."

  Rodrigo stroked Fearghus's forehead. "¡Sí!"

  Fearghus smiled at that, his eyes blazing with a warrior's confidence. "Grind them into the ground for me, Rodrigo. It's all I ask in return."

  Revenge. Rodrigo smiled. The blood's taste strengthened, rich and complex like a fortified wine and so very satisfying.

  He stroked his friend's cheek, silently assuring him that all his wishes would be carried out.

  "He's playing now!" the younger voice roared. "I want to see him kill the infidel."

  A grunt of disgust. "Fetch my knife, yaa ibni l-'aziiz, and I'll gut the blond."

  "Bite me now," Fearghus whispered. "Give me a fast death, Rodrigo. And drink deep."

  "No, not that one!" the older voice roared. "He's not worth dulling my best Damascus steel blade on."

  Rodrigo rose high over his friend, extending his needle-sharp fangs. Tears rolled down his cheek, burning like fire against his skin. His body remembered clearly now how it had felt, when those two fiends had bitten him.

  Fearghus's eyes met his. "Always remember: revenge for both of us." Then he turned his head to one side, baring his neck where the great vein beat so temptingly just below the skin. He closed his eyes, his lips moving silently.

  Rodrigo bit down hard and fast, easily reaching the jugular. He tugged a bit, widening the holes, until the blood gushed into his mouth. Strong, rich, complex, satisfying. Someday he'd understand all the emotions he'd tasted this day.

  "He's biting him on the neck! Can't you stop him? The blond will die too fast and the show will be over too soon."

  "Alas, no. Once a vampiro—even a cachorro—has his teeth set in his prey, there's no breaking him loose." The older man spat in disgust. "Come, yaa ibnii, we'll have to play with those new slaves after all."

  Rodrigo drank deep and long, as he'd seen his captors do to helpless prey they meant to kill. Quickly driving Fearghus into unconsciousness where those fiends could no longer harm him. Giving him the grace of the fastest possible death, as he'd asked, where he'd be free from the demons here.

  Fearghus's eyes closed, his face at peace. The same expression he'd worn when speaking of the ocean.

  Dios mediante, one day he would be able to take revenge and escape these devils.

  Revenge.

  Rafael's fingers twitched as he stared out the window, affecting a calm he was far from feeling. Dios mió, how he hungered to fulfill his promise to Fearghus and kill that treacherous rat. He was free to do so, now that he wasn't bound by the laws of hospitality.

  He ignored the voice of bitter memory, which wanted to remind him of all the times he'd tried to kill that pendejo—and paid dearly for failing.

  He glanced around the boardroom, notable even in Texas for its size, opulence, and spectacular view of the Dallas skyline. He owned the whole damn skyscraper as well, to tell the truth. The entire development was a miracle of the most modern security precautions, backed up by a dozen—or more—of his best compañeros. Only two of them were in sight at the moment, in deference to his current guest's "delicate" sensibilities.

  Three men and one woman, the top corporate raiders of North America, all multimillionaires in their own right, had visited this room, one after another. They'd been appalled to learn that they were expected to forego the comfort of their own bodyguards. However, once they heard how much they stood to gain if they stayed, they'd reconsidered their objections. Now the last one, a petite Chinese-American lady, with the face of Kwan-Yin and the appetites of a great white shark, sat before her computer, studying the detailed analyses Jean-Marie's spies had prepared, intent and quivering with greed. Another hound about to be set loose on Madame Celeste's foreign assets.

  He gave them two months, perhaps as little as one, to impoverish her, in revenge for her fumbling attempts on his fortune. His lip curled, remembering how Gray Wolf had dealt with the most recent corporate raider who'd tried to nip the Sa
ntiago Trust's fringes.

  The Santiago Trust was protected by layers of corporations and trusts, built up over the centuries he'd lived in Texas. A web of relationships created by the finest and most devious minds, both legal and criminal, it was older than any software who'd tried to track it and guarded by programmers who'd built the languages and tools used by hackers. Whenever any of those walls failed to keep out importunate fools, Ethan's men dealt bloody death.

  He glanced at the clock and strolled back to the head of the long table. "Your fifteen minutes are up, señora," he announced. "Are you satisfied with the reports' veracity? Any questions? No?"

  The lady turned off her small, elegant computer with a polite smile and nod.

  "A thousand thanks to you for joining me today," Rafael continued. "Señor Alvarez will escort you out."

  He shook hands politely, kissed the señora's fingers—which fluttered her Chinese-American heart for the second time that day—and escaped to the helipad. Two minutes later, he and his bodyguards were flying toward the airport and his Gulfstream jet. He'd be home well before dark, surrounded by compañeros ready to kill at the slightest disturbance.

  Yesterday afternoon, his sentries had scented traces of a young vampiro, possibly eighty years old, on a cargo jet in Austin. It was undoubtedly Devol, Madame Celeste's enforcer. That bayou slime was arrogant but not a fool, which meant that his blatant announcement of his arrival was a distraction, rather than a mistake.

  And the only asset Madame Celeste had, who was greater than her Bayou Butcher, was Beau with his five centuries of experience as an assassin in Russia.

  When he'd learned of Devol's arrival, Rafael had immediately pulled Grania's watchers, overriding Ethan's objections with the logic that they needed every available man to search for Devol. It wasn't his only reason.

  The searchers had found no furthers traces of Beau or Devol, while he'd been left with far too much time to think about the red-haired doctora. She was a stranger possibly involved with his bitterest enemy, given that he couldn't read her true motives. Yet every instinct he had demanded that he make Grania his lover as soon as possible. As often as possible.

  He growled a curse at his own folly, as he strapped himself into his seat. His men eyed him warily and kept their distance, silently allowing him time to think. The pilot understood his urgency perfectly and took off within minutes after they boarded, shooting the powerful jet toward the south and home.

  Grania. Rafael considered, staring sightlessly at the prairies below. She of the courageous heart and the rich passions and the truly formidable mental shields.

  She was certainly brave. Madre de Dios, none of his vampiros would have challenged him as she had last night. If she were a man, he'd have recruited her in a moment to join his band of compañeros. He'd have expected her to quickly earn the right to become a vampiro in Texas, after which he'd have years to enjoy her company.

  But she was not a man so that could never happen. Instead she'd remain a prosaica, grow old, and die in the traditional way. She'd be dead in fifty years, perhaps sixty—no matter how much his heart cried out that that was only the start of the time they could have spent together.

  But he could still enjoy her company in the time they had, as he'd enjoyed other beautiful prosaicas. It should be enough to satisfy his clamoring instincts, which even now threw up demands to explore her surprisingly delicate wrists or her long legs or… He'd control how and when they came together, of course.

  Such a relationship would certainly present great difficulties. But overcoming hurdles to gain such sweet rewards were the challenges that still delighted after so many centuries. Although she'd responded when he'd kissed her, Grania was rightfully skittish after seeing him with Brynda. Surprisingly, he hadn't been able to touch her mind to soothe her.

  Her mental shields were the greatest shock of all. He'd always been able to touch the mind of anyone he wanted to, except for his maldito creador, of course. But not hers, no matter how hard he'd tried. But that would just make seduction all the sweeter for having to work on it the harder.

  But to make her conquest more certain, he'd need an ally. The best choice was Bob Harrison, the raptor center's director, who wanted to explore the land that Gray Wolf had kept undisturbed for the last century and a half. Now Gray Wolf was willing to allow a few scientists to explore it as well, if they were closely watched by Caleb. And the entire survey was blessed by Rafael, of course.

  If he were given permission to explore, Bob should feel very friendly toward Rafael. Hopefully, he'd create opportunities for Rafael to be near Doctora O'Malley at the raptor center. With any luck at all, Bob would see himself as a casamentero and start throwing them together.

  Rafael silently laughed at himself. He hadn't plotted so hard to be near a girl since he was fifteen and greatly enamored of Maria Sanchez, she of the laughing eyes. Still, he'd call Bob from the plane.

  To Rafael's complete lack of surprise, Bob was more than happy to stay late at the raptor center, in order to nail down the deal. Half an hour after they started talking, an ecstatic Bob was ticking off possible scientists to assist in the survey, when a noise from the driveway beyond made Rafael straighten to full attention.

  Grania's truck had just driven up and parked. Here, tonight, he'd see her. Gracias a Dios, he'd given Ethan strict orders that she was not to see the men or the vehicles. If there was trouble, Rafael would call them. He knew damn well they'd listen to everything that went on inside the building.

  He marked her trip inside the center by the strong, confident sound of her boot heels ringing on the stairs and down the hall. But she stopped in her tracks at the sight of Rafael, shocked and wide-eyed, with a lab notebook in her hand. Adorable too, hair escaping from that long braid and a faint tang of sweat, as if she'd spent the day working at some form of hard labor. ¡Ay, so many other enjoyable ways to make her flushed and sweaty!

  He bit his lip at her wariness. She was even more skittish than two nights ago, more than a woman's affront at a stranger's kiss would account for. If all those windbags who'd stretched the truth and told lies about vampiros had been nearby, he'd have gladly drawn and quartered them for frightening her.

  Bob, an ever-gracious host, performed introductions. "Grania, have you met Don Rafael Perez, one of our local landowners? Don Rafael, may I introduce you to Dr. Grania O'Malley, our new vet?"

  "Encantado, doctora.'" Rafael bowed low over her hand.

  "Señor Perez." Her tone couldn't have been colder as she removed her fingers from his grip.

  Bob, no fool, glanced between the other two in the room before he started to grin. He controlled himself quickly but not before Rafael felt himself begin a slow, almost adolescent flush.

  "Did you know that Don Rafael manages the land bordering us, Grania?"

  "Really?" She shifted from foot to foot, her eyes darting toward then away from Rafael.

  His eyebrows drew together at her unusual fidgeting.

  Grania stared at a window, as if trying to frame a sentence. But she could also see Rafael's reflection there, so terror wasn't her only emotion. Curiosity as well? If so, was it academic or sexual?

  "Well, now, I really must be getting home, so Betsy and I can eat dinner before choir practice," Bob announced, his West Texas twang very pronounced. "Will you give Don Rafael a tour of the center?"

  Grania's head snapped around, sending the dark copper braid thudding against her arm. "What?"

  "Thanks, honey. I knew you could handle it for me." Bob was gone within minutes, whistling softly, as he took the stairs to the parking lot two at a time. Grania seemed torn between outrage and indecision at her predicament, clutching her notebook like a shield.

  Rafael smiled privately. It seemed he'd acquired a casamentero.

  La doctora glanced out the window at her truck and visibly decided against running. Pobrecita. Rafael took pity on her and started an unexceptionable conversation, something she should be able to carry on in her sleep. "Wh
at did you do your dissertation on, doctora?"

  She stiffened, drawing herself up like an affronted nun. Much better; at least she wasn't skittish. "You're really not interested in my research, señor. Let's just talk about the center."

  "Ah, but I am interested, doctora. It will add so much to my understanding of the center's capabilities."

  She eyed him suspiciously, keeping her distance from him. Finally she made up her mind and turned for the hallway without waiting to see if he followed. "Population studies of owls, primarily in wilderness areas. I was interested in projecting the results, based on prey populations and reproduction rates." She glanced at him over her shoulder, then as quickly looked away. "The kitchen's in here. As you can see, we're very careful to keep everything organized so it can be measured out for each individual bird."

  "Most impressive, doctora." He gave a perfunctory glance at a very cramped, clean space. "Por favor, tell me more about your research. What effects did you find the numbers of prey had upon owls?"

  He kept up the flow of polite conversation as she showed him through the center.

  A pair of stout doors intrigued him briefly, named "ICU 1" and "ICU 2," each guarded by an electronic lock. "What are those?"

  "Intensive care units. Soundproofed rooms, steel doors, windowless. The birds have to be kept absolutely quiet when they're very ill."

  "Por supuesto," Rafael murmured, with a reminiscent smile. His father's falconer had blistered his ears—and other portions of his anatomy—with the same lecture.

  He stayed very quiet in the convalescent wards, moving as delicately as if walking on eggshells. A red-tailed hawk with a splinted wing surveyed him with a single eye then shut it, reducing his arrival to the category of trivial interruption. A barn owl blinked sleepily at him, clearly dozing. The room was peaceful and soothing, capable of healing both man and beast.

  Grania started becoming calmer the longer she saw the birds' comfort with him.

  "Tell me more about your work in Colombia," Rafael urged after they left the ward. "Washed down perhaps by a drink for dry throats?"