Bond of Blood

by Diane Whiteside

  She gulped.

  Her face was as filled with unassuaged lust as his.

  He took a deep breath—and she did the same.

  He rocked his hips forward, thrusting his cock back and forth into his hands. Her hips moved in exactly the same rhythm, there on the couch. She was dancing with him, as she sat.

  As passionate a woman as he longed for. Mierda, he could see her now when she sheathed his cock, with her legs wrapped around his hips, urging him on…

  The image rattled his discipline and he began to move faster and faster. He fought to regain control, first by using only his left hand, with which he was slightly less skillful. She chewed on her lip, drawing blood, her eyes huge and her breasts heaving. His blood pounded desperately through his veins.

  Still, he tried to slow down and managed to delay his orgasm longer than he'd thought possible, until his balls were tight beneath his cock, screaming for release.

  Ay, mierda, she hadn't climaxed yet. He'd have to climax first and hope she'd let him take her over, if he was to taste her highest emotion. Easy enough to do normally but not when sanity was shredding under the pressure of an imminent orgasm.

  He caught up his T-shirt and roared as he ejaculated into it. Climax shot through his body and he rode it out with gritted teeth, using all his experience not to lose control.

  Then he dropped to his knees in front of her, betting she wouldn't let him drink from her if he dominated her physically.

  Gracias a Dios, Grania reached out to break his fall, catching his shoulders, steadying him. He lowered his head, panting, ignoring his orgasm's aftermath, looking for her pulse.

  She caressed his hair, crooning to him. She was vulnerable, poised on the brink of a sexual climax—and he could take her there.

  He turned his head to find the pulse point on the inside of her wrist. She relaxed slightly, probably expecting another kiss.

  He sucked her skin hard, preparing her. She choked.

  Then he bit quickly into her vein, taking only a few drops of blood as he'd promised, no more. Given in complete trust and accepted in sheer joy of the moment, as he'd done so many thousands of times before. Her emotions tasted excellent, rich and dark, like an old burgundy. He'd want so much more of her, as often as he could have her, given that vibrant taste.

  In the next instant, the world changed forever.

  Grania's thoughts and pleasure came roaring into him. Her ecstasy in the midst of orgasm, pulsing brighter and deeper with every swallow he took of her blood, like a brilliant pinwheel of ecstasy, tumbling through him over and over again. The sting of his teeth in her wrist and the gentle wash of his tongue over her wrist. The feel of his hair—his!—through her fingers.

  Her absolute trust that he was honorable and would never hurt her.

  Shock raced through him, turning his veins to ice.

  His fangs tied them together as he tapped her blood. The bond transformed pleasure into raw delight, blazing through Grania like the flame from a welder's torch. She cried out, as fire raced through her and centered deep within her. The orgasm burst through her in a series of Shockwaves, tsunamis of feeling that consumed every cell and every thought.

  But the aftermath, what the French call le petit mort, was different from anything she'd ever felt before. When she'd always before been separate somehow from her lover no matter how closely joined their bodies were, this time she felt Rafael somehow in her mind, part of her as she was part of him, ecstasy roaring through both of their bodies and minds together.

  When she could think again, she was seated on his lap with her face buried against his chest. He smelled of sandalwood, sweat, and sex, and his heartbeat, like hers, was more than a little irregular. She snuffled happily and went to sleep, as comfortable in his arms as if they'd sheltered her a thousand times before.

  Rafael glared at the unconscious innocent in his arms. A conyugal bond snapped into place between them and she had the nerve to sleep, instead of giving him an explanation?

  A conyugal bond tied a vampiro and another person together at all levels of their minds, both conscious and unconscious. They could share both their thoughts and their instincts, to the point where they could share each other's senses during a duel, even give each other strength. Because the link was so complete, not even the slightest barrier existed between them. So a conyugal bond could never be forced in any way; it simply appeared when two people completely trusted each other and least expected it to happen.

  All of which made it incredibly rare. A vampiro could spend his entire life—even become a vampiro mayor and walk in daylight—but never see two people who shared a conyugal bond.

  Proof positive of a conyugal bond was knowing and feeling what someone else thought and felt, as if you yourself were simultaneously thinking and experiencing it. As had happened when he bit her wrist and somersaulted her into orgasm, the ecstatic waves ripping through him—he, the sated one!

  If he'd known everything she thought and felt in that moment, then she must have known everything he thought and felt. His lip curled. After two hundred years as a tortured sex slave, he trusted no one that well.

  And yet, how many vampiros had he heard say they would give everything to have the conyugal bond with someone, anyone?

  What the hell was he supposed to do now?

  * * *

  Chapter Eight

  Diego threw Rodrigo into the cell. "Did you truly think you'd dine tonight?"

  Rodrigo rolled and staggered to his feet, glaring at his nemesis. "I feed on freely given blood, not on fear and death."

  Diego laughed at hint. "Pobrecito Rodrigo," he mocked. "Four years since El Abrazo but you're still the toy of any vampiro who chances by. Whatever they want, sex or blood, you will give."

  Rodrigo gritted his teeth, ignoring the hunger roiling his belly. Gracias a Dios, Fearghus's courage had gifted Rodrigo with the ability to feed from trust and physical pleasure. And with luck, if Rodrigo continued to distract Diego, the pendejo would never notice that he was learning to evoke carnal pleasure as a power source equal to death.

  "But I have never committed murder for pay, as you do," he snarled. "I have still kept my oaths, as you have not."

  Diego slapped him, sending him back against the wall. "Our master—"

  "Your master," Rodrigo corrected, spitting out a tooth. It would grow again, as everything else had, thanks to the vampiro elixir in his veins. Only his head and heart could be broken now.

  "Feeds me his blood regularly," Diego spat, "while you beg for scraps from any vampiro who finds you amusing. I am a mature vampiro, able to stand erect in a gathering of vampiros. While you, you grovel and cringe if so much as one vampiro raises so much as an eyebrow at you."

  "And you run to him like a mindless fool, whenever he lifts a finger," Rodrigo snapped back. Cachorros matured fastest when they drank often from their creador, especially during La Lujuria. The bond formed then ran deep and strong, ensuring lifelong obedience.

  Diego had outgrown being a cachorro in two years; he'd been a full vampiro when Rodrigo was forced into El Abrazo. He was infinitely stronger and faster than Rodrigo, as he delighted to prove time and time again. But Rodrigo would far rather take longer to mature, if he gained it through feeding on carnal pleasure and without The Syrian's blood.

  Diego lifted an eyebrow. "You are jealous of my status, as his adopted son."

  "¡Nunca!" Sometimes he was glad of the numerous vampiros who used his body, then grudgingly fed him their blood. Every taste of a different vampiro's blood was one more brick in his mind's wall against The Syrian and Diego.

  Diego snickered. "Of course you are. Look at you, wearing only that filthy loincloth, soiled with blood and—need I list everything else? Then consider my clothes. The embroidered cotton, the gilded leather, the Damascus steel—"

  "The symbols of a coward who sold his soul for a comfortable bed," Rodrigo sneered. His wife had warned him against this worm. He desperately feared he had fallen too far
for Dios santo to hear him, now that the vampiro elixir ran in his veins. But if prayers from one like him were of any use, then may his wife and children be safe and well…

  Head held high, he looked straight back at Diego. At least he'd done his best to keep his vows.

  "I love my father! He has given me love, not cold duty!" Diego slapped him, knocking Rodrigo's head against the stone wall and half stunning him. "If he didn't want to see us fight duels, I would kill you now!" he shouted, smacking his hand against the wall. "I will ask him to reconsider, that I may paint the arena with your guts." He stormed out, slamming the iron door. Unfortunately, he remembered to lock it.

  Rodrigo allowed himself to slide down the wall, eyes shut. It smelled as if he'd left a blood trail a handsbreadth wide on the wall, which made it a nastier blow than usual from the pendejo. Not surprising, since The Syrian was teaching Diego his family business of assassination, which enhanced any tendencies he held toward efficient bloodshed.

  Still, he'd be healed before sunrise. And tomorrow night, there'd be another vampiro—whether The Syrian, Diego, or someone else—to torture or fuck hint, or both. And the night after that, and after that… ¡Ay, Dios!

  Sounds reached him from the courtyard, growing louder and louder—steel against steel? His head came up alertly. Could it be? He sprang to his feet and went to the door, pressing his face against the bars to listen. Men's grunts and groans but no shouts. Yet.

  Golden light slipped down the hall, astonishing in this place of shadows and foul smells. Borne by a clean man—a stranger—carrying a sword that dripped blood. "Tío Rodrigo?"

  Joy flooded his veins. Every sense was brighter. Even the tiny cell seemed suddenly large and gracious.

  Ah, family! And the hope of seeing Blanche and his children.

  "Hassan, mi sobrino!" Achmed's son, now a man grown, holding aloft a glimmering lantern in his other hand. He could smell two men behind him, armed and watchful.

  The door whispered open and, joy of joys, Hassan hugged him. Family touching him again. Treating him as a person, not a beast. Tears slid down his face.

  "My wife? The little ones?" His voice broke.

  "All well," Hassan assured him. "Your son grows more like you every day and your daughters are enchanting. Your wife has refused all offers, insisting you are still alive."

  Madre de Dios, she has remained faithful to me, despite untold pressures.

  Hassan tossed him a robe and sword. Rodrigo quickly donned the clothing, then swung the blade, testing the balance. Not his sword but a fine one; it would do for now. He'd return later at sunset, and kill The Syrian.

  An instant later, Rodrigo and Hassan, with their men, were creeping through the corridor, alert to every sound. "There's a gap," Hassan whispered, "where the old Roman aqueduct comes in. We'll go back through there."

  Suddenly voices sounded behind them. They froze, listening. Rodrigo cursed. "They know I'm missing. Hurry!"

  They moved faster, trying to be quiet. Feet thudded, metal clanked behind them. Diego shouted.

  Rodrigo froze, listening. How far away was the pendejo? "We have less than two minutes, mi sobrino. Run!"

  Hassan stared at him but didn't argue. They ran.

  The corridor twisted and turned, on its way to the old Roman aqueducts. At one of those turns, an arrow thudded into the wall above Hassan's head. "Faster!" he panted.

  The arrows came closer and more often.

  Rodrigo calculated the odds automatically. In a corridor this narrow, there could be very few bowmen. More to the point, they would be backed by multiple armsmen and Diego.

  Still, one determined vampiro or cachorro could put up an effective defense, long enough for Hassan and his men to escape. It was almost dawn; if they could reach the bottom of the cliff then cross the valley floor, they'd be safe.

  But he'd never see Blanche again. Never wrap his arms around her or laugh at her small jokes, or lie abed with her on a long winter's night. Never play with his children or stand proud of his grandchildren. Never, never, never.

  The Syrian and Diego would deal out worse torments than before, if that was possible. And for how many years? Decades, even centuries, if his vision was to be fulfilled. He prayed that he would survive so long.

  Rodrigo gathered his courage and came to a stop. "Take your men and go on, mi sobrino. I will stay here and fight."

  "Impossible! They will kill you." Hassan waved his men forward impatiently. Good soldiers, they went obediently but reluctantly.

  "They cannot. I will live for years yet, even centuries." I pray to Jesuscristo this is true.

  Hassan frowned at him, his face unearthly in the lantern light. An arrow nicked the corner beside them and they moved back automatically. "There are rumors that this castle's master has lived longer than possible for ordinary men," he said slowly.

  Rodrigo nodded. "Verdaderamente. But you must save yourself and go."

  Hassan ducked for another arrow. "We cannot leave you like this."

  He was too damn much like his father. Better give him a quest to fulfill, so he'd feel he was accomplishing something. "Tell your sons to return two centuries from now, at sunset."

  "Two centuries?"

  An arrow clipped Rodrigo's sleeve, drawing blood.

  "Just come back then at sunset—and bring my knightly sword. Now promise and go, Hassan!"

  His nephew's brown eyes, so like his father's, searched Rodrigo's. "Very well, you have my word and the family's. On our honor, we will return."

  He kissed Rodrigo's cheek and ran to the next turn in the corridor. He paused at the very end to wave the lantern, which Rodrigo returned with his hand. Then they disappeared.

  Rodrigo raced toward Diego, roaring his battle rage. Por Dios, he would enjoy killing as many of Diego's creatures as he could—and maybe Diego himself.

  In time, he'd escaped that hellhole and built a new life, one based on service. For so long, he'd thought his hijos y compañeros were all the companionship he needed to be happy. But then the red-haired doctora had shaken him to the bone.

  Dios santo, Grania had touched him with the heart-deep intimacy of a cónyuge, which was absolutely impossible. How could she have done it? They'd only known each other a few days, a handful of hours—when every other pair of cónyuges he knew had taken years to form their bond. Perhaps he'd been distracted and mistaken what had happened.

  Impossible, impossible, impossible!

  There was no way a man could keep secrets from his cónyuge; some of the things he'd done in his life were nothing to tell a woman. And if his enemies knew she was his cónyuge, they'd destroy her in a moment.

  Even if he believed they were cónyuges—or trusted that she wasn't working with his enemies, since he still didn't know her motives—she was a prosaica and would be dead in fifty years, seventy at the most. If she tried to become a vampira, it was a near certainty she'd go mad and die. No man could ask that of his cónyuge. It would be far better to cherish her for the short time they'd have together, before she passed on. If la doctora waited patiently to be cherished, that is.

  He was forced to laugh privately at the unlikelihood of her ever doing that and returned his attention to his surroundings. Three of his hijos were loudly arguing about Devol's most likely hiding places, while the others ran and reran search patterns for the options discussed. None of the actions discussed required his participation.

  Again, he was waiting for others to act. Seven hundred years after his captivity and a hemisphere away from The Syrian's castle—but he still hated it, even when he fully trusted the men.

  Rafael leaned back in his seat, surveying the gathering in the Austin Commandery's council chamber. He'd built this hall almost two hundred years ago to stand against Kiowa and Comanche attacks, but it remained remarkably useful against twenty-first-century attacks. The stout limestone walls were originally constructed to stand against cannon fire, and had recently been reinforced against modern bombs and mortar fire. Narrow windows hig
h above admitted moonlight and permitted marksmen to dissuade attackers. Heavy steel shutters could be closed for additional protection, if needed. The walls were hung with magnificent Indian weavings, given as gifts over the years, while others covered the polished wood floor.

  The furniture was equally massive and simple. An enormous, heavy table ran down the center, littered with paper and twenty-first-century electronics. It was surrounded by armchairs, upholstered in leather, all of them carrying scars from decades of close contact with booted and spurred feet. Narrow tables against the walls offered a variety of liquid refreshments.

  The most impressive occupants were, however, the men.

  Gray Wolf faced Rafael from the opposite end in his role as adelantado mayor and Rafael's designated heir. Caleb was at his right, his cónyuge and the other half of an almost invincible dueling team.

  Ethan lounged at Rafael's right, as alférez mayor and the leader of Texas's armies, his hazel eyes deadly and cold as he considered how to hunt their enemies.

  Jean-Marie sat on Rafael's other side as heraldo, his chief diplomat and spy. A litter of papers lay before him, as well as an exquisitely thin computer, all manipulated by his supple fingers. He'd also convey reports from the distant warriors, such as Lars, a World War I Marine who was currently worming his way into Madame Celeste's entourage.

  Lars was a vampiro and one of Rafael's deadliest warriors, with an unspoken understanding between them—that of two men who'd stood on the precipice of mortal sin too often yet somehow survived. Only Rafael gave orders to Lars; none of his other hijos was permitted to.

  Luis sat in the center, his headset all but hidden in his dark hair. He knew more of Austin and its defenses, the esfera's center, than anyone else and could change them in an instant.

  There were a dozen others, all deadly warriors. All of them talking, turning over papers, clicking keys on electronics, and pointing to bright lights on panels invisible a few feet away.