"Sí." And yet, I wonder … he added, mind to mind.
Ethan gripped his Ruger, ready to draw it from its holster.
The ground shifted, began to steady in the distinctive pattern marking a train's end.
Never mind. Don Rafael shook off his momentary abstraction. Ready? he asked Ethan, mind to mind.
Ready. He found that familiar, fractionally greater alertness and settled into it, perfectly calm now. Death didn't matter, only serving the man and the esfera who'd salvaged him.
"Mount up," he ordered and the men headed for the trucks. Moments later, they were hidden inside, as the trucks waited, engines rumbling at a low roar.
The last train cars clattered down the tracks. The big vehicles burst out of the grove, bouncing down the road as quickly and precisely as their ex-cop drivers could take them. Each compañía simultaneously roared up to their assigned door, a full city block apart, just as the train dropped out oí sight beyond a dry river bed. An instant later, the compañías leaped out of the trucks onto the warehouse's loading dock, under the last blood-red rays of the setting sun.
The doors were unlocked and well oiled, as promised. The vampiros entered silently, guns drawn, and closed the doors behind them, leaving edgy compañeros and prosaicos on the outside.
Once inside, they raised their visors for better observation and fanned out, moving as stealthily as possible in the heavy body armor and boots. Don Rafael was in the lead, with Ethan covering him from the right.
The big refrigerated warehouse was a half mile long and two blocks wide, designed to hold meat. It was solidly built, in order to hold the low temperatures necessary to keep the valuable cargo frozen. Doors, at either end and along the sides, were large enough to admit forklifts, while a huge conveyor belt ran along one side. A single row of bare industrial light panels burned high along the ceiling, providing starkly brilliant illumination.
Outside, the trucks backed away from the loading docks, sending faint vibrations through the warehouse's floor, their drivers careful not to become hostages—or meals for the enemy. The helicopters sidled closer, their rotors' beat faintly reaching Ethan.
Small bits of scent eddied past—motor oil, a long-dead mouse, a bit of cattle meat. Ethan sniffed the air warily, both guns ready, the skin on the back of his neck itching as it had before that Abilene gun-fight so long ago.
Suddenly a padlock snapped and two snarling vampiros erupted ¡into the big center room, in front of Ethan's team. The ones he'd expected, each fifty years old—and unfortunately, well armed with shotguns.
An instant later, another, far older vampiro jumped down behind them. Shit, this brute was two centuries old—more than a half century older than Ethan.
Instantly, the Texas vampiros shifted to cover all three. Ethan held his fire, waiting for Don Rafael's signal. He could barely hope to wing that old buzzard, given the bastard's greater speed, but he could surely create a diversion. Behind him, he could hear Gray Wolf and Jean-Marie's compañías moving closer.
The older one, a singularly ugly fellow even for a vampiro, sneered at Don Rafael. "You're remarkably handsome for a dead man walking. Fifty million dollars for your hide—which I will enjoy spending."
Don Rafael's mouth curved. Ethan shivered, remembering the times he'd felt the lash of that cold greeting decades ago, and turned his attention fully on the two younger vampiros. The fight would turn openly nasty very soon.
"How many children did you kill this week, Lorenzo?"
"Not enough," the old buzzard purred. "There's not much blood in them but a mountain of pleasure."
Only decades of hard discipline kept Ethan from blowing the bastard's head off then and there.
Don Rafael raised an eyebrow. "My condolences on still needing to roost in dusty barns like a bat, Lorenzo," he remarked. "I'll see that your ashes are properly washed when you're gone. No doubt it'll be the first time they've been cleansed."
"Cleansed? You say I, a devotee of the great baths, need washing?" He spat. Claws leapt out from his fingers as he suddenly shifted into a great bear.
Don Rafael snarled something deep in his throat. By the time it finished, an enormous wolf was leaping from Don Rafael's armor toward the bear's throat, almost faster than Ethan could follow.
Don Rafael's armor fell to the floor in a series of thuds, followed by his clothing, empty of the man it had once covered. A few feet away, Lorenzo's chambray shirt, jeans, and boots also lay on the warehouse floor. No vampiro's attire went with him when he shapeshifted.
The younger vampiros screamed insults and began firing, methodically trying to take down the Texas vampiros around them.
Ethan shot fast and accurate, gunslinger instincts paying off again. A young enemy dropped, his shotgun's last blast ripping open a refrigeration line. Coolant hissed into the air. Ethan's men's shots ripped into the walls, whined off metal, and thudded into the concrete floor.
The last enemy youngling swayed, shotgun still at the ready, then slowly crumpled to the floor. His hands turned to ashes, as more ashes fell out of his shoes and clothing. The last thing to go was his head—but no Texan watched that.
Every Texas vampiro now surrounded the fighting wolf and bear, in the classic dueling circle for vampiros. Nostrils flared, as they scented the spilled blood. Hunks of flesh, with fur still attached, flew across the warehouse.
Suddenly the bear lunged at the wolf. The nearest vampiros jumped back, quick to give their creador room to fight.
Rafael panted, tongue lolling out and rich scents rolling in. Blood painted his muzzle, while a tuft of fur clung to the corner of his mouth. He shook his head fiercely, cleaning himself. Kill. He needed to kill.
Once he'd smelled the blood of another vampiro determined to kill him, his own blood had risen in response, also driven to kill. Nothing could stop them until one, or both, were dead. Instinct and bloodlust ruled now. Only through a link as deep as the conyugal could anyone have reached him now. His tools were his centuries of dueling in this form. He'd fought so often as a wolf that every move came readily to him, as easily as he'd once used his sword.
A great flap of skin hung from the bear's throat, half hidden by matted blood, the legacy of Rafael's last attack. He spat the last bits of fur from his mouth and charged in.
It snarled at him and swiped with those great claws. Pain streaked down his ribs.
Rafael leaped for the bear's throat and ripped out the life of a man who'd tormented so many innocents.
Ethan relaxed finally. He was also damn glad he'd never come up against Don Rafael in a duel.
A moment later, Don Rafael stood in the center of the circle, swaying slightly over his would-be assassin's ashes. Crimson painted his chest.
Ethan handed him a survival blanket for temporary clothing and stripped off his glove, preparing to offer his master his own blood.
"Gracias, Ethan," Don Rafael murmured. "Did you smell the locker that Lorenzo came from?"
Ethan shot him a hard look. "No."
"Beau was there, less than a day ago."
Grania sat on the floor, shaking, as exhausted as if she'd run a marathon. She gazed around the prep kitchen, an island of light against the darkness outside, and fought to catch her breath.
She'd been a nervous wreck all afternoon, the way Blanche had paced before the Princesse confronted her. Her stomach had been tied in knots, as if part of herself was about to go into combat, which was a truly ridiculous notion. The only thing that had saved her from taking a sleeping pill, to block the sensation out, was hard physical labor—scrubbing anything and everything first at home, then in the center. She'd called Bob and taken over as on-call vet, then spent her time acting like a charwoman, even putting a mirror polish on ancient stainless steel.
But a few minutes ago, out of the blue, a flurry of intense concentration had overwhelmed her, demanding the utmost from every cell in her body. It was over in a few minutes, leaving her as drained as when she'd performed major surgery—and sitti
ng on the floor. Well, at least she wasn't desperate to find something else to clean any more.
Grania rested her chin on her knees and hid her face in her hands, pushing tendrils of wet hair out of her face. Sooner or later, she'd need to stand up and drink a lot of water. But not quite yet.
She'd behaved entirely too much like Blanche today, nothing like how she'd ever acted before, even during her worst finals week. But everything was different here in Texas.
Her dreams, those nighttime fantasies, had changed after she came to Texas. Before then, she'd often dreamed about Rodrigo but the episodes had always had a pleasant haze around the details. Very enjoyable, very comforting, but easy to forget in daylight.
Last April, she'd arrived for the interview and slept in that tiny but painfully clean motel. There she'd had her first wet dream of Rodrigo, experiencing it as his pregnant wife being well loved before he went to war. It had to be a sexual fantasy—and yet, it was far too vivid. It had held too many details for a pure fantasy, like the names of the young princes.
When she'd started to work here, the dreams had returned in earnest, demanding her attention as they vividly told the story of Rodrigo's life. They'd included so many elements, like the battle at Ecija and The Syrian's castle, that they felt like memories. But how could that be? They couldn't be her memories unless she was Rodrigo reincarnated.
Everything in her rebelled at the thought and she smiled ruefully. Given the number of sexual fantasies she'd had about the man, both waking and sleeping, she'd hate to think she was narcissistic enough to lust after herself in a previous reincarnation.
No, that couldn't be it.
Grania reached over her head to the counter and pulled herself up slowly. She turned on the faucet and rinsed her face with ice-cold water. Cupped her hands and gulped the precious liquid. All the while, her brain kept worrying at the problem.
Rafael looked like Rodrigo, except for that appalling scar on his forehead. If she was the reincarnation of a vampiro's long-dead wife…
She stared at herself in the window, reflected against the darkness outside. Impossible. He'd never given any sign of recognition. Sexually interested, yes, and courteous—but hardly obsessive, as Rodrigo always seemed to be around Blanche. Science or no science, reincarnation didn't come into this.
He was simply a fascinating predator—who happened to also be an excellent companion and a superb lover. Nothing more.
She turned away from her disbelieving reflection and headed for her pickup. Hopefully if she came up with a list of questions, she could pretend their relationship was mostly scientific. Maybe.
* * *
Chapter Eleven
Grania drove her pickup down the badly rutted dirt road carefully, trying to avoid the worst of the monster potholes left by last night's thunderstorm. She had no objections to washing more mud off this old truck but she did not want to break an axle on her way to a date, especially just after dawn.
Not that she could say when the storm had started or how long it had lasted, since she'd been in Rafael's arms the entire time. She'd only known there'd been a meteorological event because of the wet pavement and the many branches across the road on the drive home.
She spent part of most nights with Rafael now and had for over two weeks. They'd meet well after she'd left work, changed, and eaten. Later she'd return home well before dawn. They'd talk, argue, listen to music—and make love. She'd never thought she could have this much fun spending time with a man.
Her dreams of Rodrigo also continued, vivid as ever. She still didn't know what she'd do if Rafael proved to really be Rodrigo.
Just ahead of her was one of Rafael's big Suburbans, loaded with four of his men, her near-constant companions now. She'd talked them out of riding in the cab with her only by allowing two to ride in her pickup's flatbed. One of them was Emilio, the SEAL she'd met weeks ago. Rafael's paranoia about security was spilling over into her own life. She shook her head and kept driving.
She slowed to make a hard right turn past an enormous granite boulder and waved at the totally expected sentry on top. He lifted his hand to her in response, with a quick flash of white teeth.
An old ranch house appeared ahead, whose driveway sported some very elegant horse trailers as well as more armored Suburbans. A dozen deadly-looking men milled around the property, drinking coffee and carelessly tugging their jean jackets down over their holsters. Beyond them, a half dozen saddled horses were patiently waiting in a corral. They were stunning Andalucians, too, with a few elegant Arabians in the next corral. Overhead, Rafael's sleek helicopter flew lazy dragonfly circles in the dawn sky.
She pulled her pickup to a stop in front of the house and hopped down, grabbing her battered old Stetson as she went. An entire day off and Rafael to spend it with. She was perfectly happy to spend her time with him in the open like this, or at fancy hotels. She didn't think she'd be comfortable in the kind of mansion he was likely to frequent. "¡Hob, Rafael!"
The one man who wasn't wearing a shoulder holster reached her. "Querida." He stroked a finger up her throat, her chin lifted to follow it, and he kissed her.
Long minutes later, she murmured, fingers deep in his thick, night-dark hair, "I thought we were going riding."
"Bedroom's right there." He made as if to turn for the house.
"You have a dirty mind, mister." She swatted his ass. One of his bodyguards gasped in shock. Her eyes met Rafael's, sharing his amusement.
"We'd best move out now, while the day's still cool."
She nodded in agreement. With one accord, they turned for the corral.
"Andalucians?" she asked, considering the beauties. "You bred them, of course."
"Sí. We use them mostly for working cattle."
Since they're extremely intelligent. "Except for the ones who don't go into show jumping or dressage."
"Or competitive driving," he agreed amiably. "I hope you'll like Atalanta."
A pure white horse named Atalanta, the name of a famous runner in Greek mythology?
"Do you like Golden Delicious apples, sweet Atalanta?" she cooed to the mare.
The horse whickered eagerly, tossing her nose up.
"Now I wonder who might have taught you that," Grania mused. She gave Rafael a very long look, which he returned with laughing innocence before tossing her a Golden Delicious apple. She offered it to the mare, who accepted it graciously. Soon she and Atalanta had established a warm understanding.
"Ready?" Rafael asked, astride a big gray Andalucian stallion next to her.
Grania gathered up the reins and smiled at him. "Let's go."
They started down the narrow valley beyond the ranch house, closely surrounded by the mounted bodyguards. Sentries, equally wary, watched from the hilltops, while the helicopter patrolled the skies. Voices buzzed briefly over radios and rifle stocks flashed from saddle holsters. A president couldn't have been more closely guarded.
It was all utterly different from a quiet ride with her godfather, especially when Tom was tracking a lost child.
Grania ignored them all, as she would have mosquitoes and black flies. They were at least polite enough to pretend they couldn't hear what she and Rafael talked about. Besides, they kept Rafael alive from whatever the hell threatened him.
It was a glorious summer morning, that she spent riding across the quiet Texas countryside with Rafael. They climbed rugged limestone ridges, made their way through heavy mesquite and white brush, and stepped carefully around prickly pear. She even spotted a white-tailed deer in the shadows once. She grinned happily, thinking of how much Tom would have enjoyed hunting here.
"I started working with Houston, that great horned owl, yesterday," she remarked, eyeing a faded poster about the Alamo, as they reached a rare reminder of civilization. "He should be ready to release in another two weeks."
Rafael glanced sideways at her, obviously reading her excitement. She grinned back at him, more than willing to show her enthusiasm at the bird's diffi
cult, successful rehabilitation.
"Why are you, a doctora, working with the owl? Shouldn't one of the techs be doing so? Testing his wings, making sure he can hunt, and so on?"
A brook sang, full of last night's rain, as they picked their way over a hillside. Atalanta was a pure pleasure to ride, seeming to enjoy the challenge of this terrain as much as her rider did. She waited to answer him until they reached a narrow trail. "Yup, Ryan's been Houston's tech for the past eighteen months. But he sprained his shoulder working on his pickup."
"So he can't have a bird sitting on his fist, certainly not one as large as the great horned owl."
"Correct. We'll both go into the biggest flight pen, with Houston on my fist, and Ryan as backup. But the last couple of times, I'll do it alone, so Houston is as untamed as possible when he's released."
"Untamed and dangerous. They're not called the tiger of the woods for no reason." Rafael's voice was quieter as the hills narrowed above them, blocking the sky, as the trail turned and descended precipitately between the rugged limestone ridges. His men moved around them, like a deadly river sweeping in and out as the terrain dictated, weapons never far from their reach.
"Which is why Houston should be returned to the woods as soon as possible," Grania answered serenely.
"He could fly at your face, rip off your scalp…"
"And that's only what his talons can do. Plus there's his beak, which is also intimidating," she agreed. "I first met a great horned when I was four, Rafael. Trust me: I'll be okay."
"Grania…" He sighed. "Of course you will be."
She considered how to reassure him with more specifics—the heavy gauntlets and clothing she'd be wearing, the years of experience she had, the size of the flight pen, and so on. An appeal to his emotions might silence him but she'd always been better at logic. She summoned up a description of her gauntlets, dwelling particularly on the leather's thickness, just as the trail emerged into a small valley.
It was scarcely more than a wide place in the road, with a handful of houses scattered along the asphalt and separated by magnificent old oak trees. Beyond them on either side, white goats and black goats grazed happily in quiet pastures, threaded by delicate streams. A dairy's unmistakable, well-scrubbed bulk sat comfortably at the road's other end, just before it swept back up into the hills.
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