Bond of Blood

by Diane Whiteside

  They were a very large family now, every babe born healthy and all growing strong and tall. Thirty-one grandchildren would stand under the blaze of light from the chapel's rose window, while Beatriz's Violante was expecting the fifth great-grandchild early next year. Truly, a guardian angel watched over all the children. Her own aches and pains were unimportant, linked as they always were to thoughts of her husband.

  Blanche straightened herself, shifting the pillows they insisted on providing her. She was no more infirm than the chapel behind her, which would stand for centuries here on Rodrigo's lands in Galicia. It was built in the very latest fashion, a miracle of lacy stonework and pointed arches that seemed to fly. The inside was even more breathtaking and had been provided by Rodrigo's Moorish cousins, who'd said simply that prayers for his safe return should be said in his faith. When the time came for her to leave this earth, she'd be laid to rest there in the crypt under the high altar.

  "Well, abuela?" little Rodrigo demanded.

  His sister hushed him and Blanche realized she'd been dreaming again, seduced by the scent of late summer roses, her husband's favorite flower.

  She folded her hands on her black habit, the mark of a married sister of Santiago, and smiled at the young rascal. "Sí, nieto, you are correct. I remember that day as if it was yesterday. My Rodrigo did parry left, then thrust right to defeat the French champion at the tournament. "

  He sprang to his feet, roaring triumphantly, tripped—and fell backward into the mint bed. His siblings shrieked with laughter and sprang upon him. She smiled at their antics and shared a fond glance with Inez.

  Twenty years from now, all these niños would teach their children this story and others, so that her Rodrigo would be remembered. As their cousins and their children would also keep his memory alive here on these lands when she was gone. Forever, she prayed.

  Even forever doesn't seem long enough for loving him…

  Amarte para siempre, no sería suficiente.

  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  Rodrigo thrust hard, whirled with vampiro speed, lifted his shield arm—and fought not to scream as healing flesh tore. Crimson blood gushed from his armpit, a life-threatening weakness he couldn't afford, especially when he hadn't fed for three days. Gritting his teeth, he immediately dropped his wooden practice sword and clapped his hand against the filthy bandage. He leaned against a stone pillar and forced his heartbeat to slow, an old swordmaster's trick that seemed to help even in this hellhole.

  His skin was cold and clammy when the blood flow finally stopped. Rodrigo closed his eyes and began a Pater Noster. He prayed every dawn, sunset, and midnight now—committing his soul to the Lord, the closest he could come to communion without a priest.

  The twenty-eighth day of September in this year of Our Lord 1487, or the eve of the feast day of San Rafael Arcángel. More than a century ago, a sword of ice had ripped through his heart and he'd known immediately that his beloved wife had died. He'd cried then and, afterward, when his first child had died. But his heart had been too frozen for any tears by the time his third child left this earth. His nietos and even his bisnietos must also be dead by now. He still prayed for his descendants and his lands, but with only slightly more fervor than he sought blessings for all of Christendom.

  More important was counting the days and years since he'd seen Hassan. Two centuries and a few months had passed but still no sign of Hassan's descendants, come to fulfill their father's oath.

  Recently, The Syrian had taken to staging duels in western armor, which were little more than an excuse for Diego to dismember Rodrigo—with the minimum time in between for his limbs to grow back. The most damage Rodrigo had yet done to Diego was to nick an ankle. But the intervals between bouts were growing shorter, as The Syrian's temper worsened. Rodrigo feared it was only a matter of time until Diego killed him.

  During the last bout, Diego had carved off Rodrigo's left arm and much of his left shoulder, until only The Syrian's order had spared his life. Then Diego had gone off to assassinate a Turkish general, but this reprieve wouldn't last long, a few days at most.

  He might not be able to feed but he could at least go down fighting.

  His pulse finally steadied. He glanced around the filthy dungeon cell, looking for a fresh cloth to use as a bandage.

  "Psst! Rodrigo," a girl's soft voice whispered. Iron moved in the lock, loud as a blacksmith's forge to his vampiro ears, and the door swung open. There was no use in trying to escape the castle though. The Syrian kept the keys to all external doors, including the secret passages, on his person.

  He tried an unsteady bow, cursing his weakness. "Señorita Sara, you should not be here. You will disgust yourself."

  She closed the door softly, pocketing the key in her cloak, and came to him quickly. Involuntarily, his nostrils flared and he cursed silently, bitterly.

  She was of average height and build, albeit more slender than she should be. But she put her arm around his waist and took his weight with a vampiro's full strength. "Lean on me, Rodrigo. You must sit down on your cot."

  Still cursing but helpless in his weakness, he did so. She eased him onto the pallet, sitting down as he did.

  "You should not be here," he repeated, revolted to his core by what she must have done.

  She put back her hood and gazed at him with those great, dark child's eyes, haloed against the torchlight from the corridor beyond. "How should I not come to the aid of my only friend?" she asked in her little girl's voice, the same as when Diego had brought her to this pit of iniquity. Their abuse had frozen her mind into that age. But her face was that of the forty-year-old woman who'd fought El Abrazo tooth and nail.

  Her expression shifted, suddenly displaying the century she too had suffered here. "If you die, how much longer will I walk this earth? I am only allowed to live so they can torture me, in hopes of breaking you."

  He had no answer for that. Sabe Dios, The Syrian and Diego had told her so often enough. And it was God's own truth.

  Guilt twisted his gut yet again and he vowed to protect her as best he could. He'd have saved her from it if he could have done so without pledging to commit mortal sins at The Syrian's command.

  But still, what she must have done tonight to be so replete with blood. He shook his head. "How many—" He cut himself off.

  "How many partners did I seek?" she asked. Her mouth took on a mocking curve. "Five women and two men. I still cannot persuade myself to trust the male of the species very much, except for yourself. But you are my brother."

  Rodrigo took her hand in his, chafing it gently. "There is love in the world for everyone, Señorita Sara. Be patient and you will find it somewhere."

  The torchlight grew into a nimbus around her dark hair. Her face grew indistinct. Behind it, he saw a man's handsome face, with brilliant blue eyes, light-brown hair curling onto his shoulders, and a mobile mouth. Clad in a broad-brimmed hat with a great feather and a velvet suit trimmed with wide lace collar and cuffs, at first he was laughing as he looked down at Señorita Sara.

  But then his expression closed as his costume changed to a plain one of black, the coat cut short in front but long in the rear, over a white shirt with linen wrapped high around his throat. Great sadness built in his eyes, while his mouth tightened until it held only agony.

  "You have seen a vision! Of someone for me—a man? I can see him now, as you see him. The handsomest man in the world with the most beautiful blue eyes!" Impetuously, she threw her arms around Rodrigo and kissed him on the cheek, like a child promised a Christmas sweet.

  Rodrigo vehemently cursed the link between all of The Syrian's hijos, which left him unable to keep her out of his mind, especially when he was so weak and they were physically close. He must practice his shields more fiercely. "Por favor, Señorita Sara, do not assume this man belongs to you. He might simply be someone you meet, or a good friend."

  She bounced up and down on the cot. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his sh
oulder.

  "Oh no, that is impossible," she cooed. "He will be the one for me, I know it, and we will have such fun together. A cavalier to squire me to all the best parties, where I shall feed on so many beautiful people before falling asleep, safe and sound, in my lovely, narrow coffin."

  His stomach heaved. Arriving here at such a young age, The Syrian and Diego's insatiable carnal usage of her seemed to have taught her that the only survival techniques were carnal. As an adult and as a vampiro, she thus insisted on feeding on as many partners as possible. Furthermore, it had amused The Syrian to never disturb her if she slept in a coffin. Even now, a century later, the only place she could sleep was in that ill-omened box.

  "Oh, I am so sorry, dear Rodrigo. Your poor shoulder must be causing your agony," she crooned, her dark eyes filling with concern. "Here I am, thinking only of myself, when I came to help you." She caressed his cheek, smiling up at him. "I am stuffed with blood, all for you. If you need more, I can obtain it quickly so you'll be healed by tomorrow night when Jamil may return."

  Tomorrow night? Despite his worry for her, his mind raced quickly. Daylight was such a mortal enemy to a cachorro that avoiding it usually became a habit, even as an adult vampiro. The Syrian had retained that weakness and passed it on to Diego, who never went outside in daylight or even twilight.

  If he was healed by the next evening, he would be able to fight Diego again. Not that he honestly thought he'd do much better the next time, after two centuries of Diego learning how to defeat his every move. But if he was healed, he could at least make the pendejo work his ass off.

  Rodrigo bared his teeth in a predator's invitation to fight. If you want to see me dead, treacherous brute, you'll have to work for it.

  Grania glanced at the clock above the big sink at the raptor center's lab. Two minutes, five at most, before one or more of Rafael's men burst through the doors looking for her. If she was lucky, it would be Caleb, who might understand why she was still here. If it was Emilio, on the other hand… She winced and kept talking.

  At least everyone else had left for the Fourth of July, off to family parties or the Fourth of July picnic in San Leandro. Combined with San Leandro's famous monthly First Saturday festival, which celebrated amateur musicians, this year's picnic promised to be quite a festivity.

  "I'm telling you, Bob, Houston's ready now, not two weeks from now. You know the signs as well as I do, including all the wildness coming back in him. I'm sorry if you want to delay until the senator can fly back to release him. But Houston won't wait, with or without the big photo op."

  An explosion of Texas-flavored static burst from the cell phone in her ear. Dammit, he wasn't usually this stupidly obstinate.

  Her temper slipped a gear. "I know exactly how wild a male great horned owl is supposed to be. This one's tougher than most or he'd never have survived a close encounter with a cop car's light bar! You understand—you're the one who named him Houston for the victor of Goliad. You know: the guy who shouted 'Remember the Alamo!' then smashed Santa Ana's army to smithereens?"

  A merciful silence on the other end of the phone. She risked a glance at the clock. Ouch.

  Time to try a little sugar. "I'm sorry you're in Dallas today, for that Fourth of July party, and missed Houston's evaluation. Since you're driving back tomorrow, what if we meet here at the center and I can quickly show you just how ready Houston is?" Sweeten the deal a little more. "I'll also bring my books on North American fossils so your son can write that paper on sabre-toothed tigers for summer school."

  Grumbling noises, not necessarily intelligible. She didn't dare look at the time. Loud boot heels, too many for one man, pounded up the steps. She closed her eyes and tried to end the conversation in a professional manner before they were interrupted.

  "Yes, I do think it's that important." More muttering followed by reluctant agreement. "Thank you, Bob, I'll see you tomorrow at seven p.m."

  The double doors into the lab slammed open, framing a very irritated Rafael, flanked by two glowering men cradling MP5s. Grania grinned, dropped the phone's handset into its cradle, and ran to him.

  He caught her up in a crushing embrace. "You are lucky I don't wring your neck, solaz de mi corazón!" he scolded.

  She kissed his cheek, thrilled to be considered the comfort of his heart. "Later. After I ask you some questions."

  "Always the doctora with the questions." He pretended to frown but his eyes were gentler now. "You're truly safe?"

  "Extremely."

  She bit back a sigh as Emilio retrieved her knapsack. Life would be much more normal if she could take care of the little things for herself. But if life was normal, it wouldn't have Rafael in it.

  She still hadn't figured out how to broach the subject of reincarnation to him, something she'd have to do soon. But not yet, not with the big dance coming up. She'd never gone on a date to a dance before. While she trusted Rafael a great deal, she didn't know how he'd react to her belief that she was his reincarnated wife. If he took it poorly—at least at first—she could miss out on going to the dance, something her newly discovered femininity didn't want to risk. Surely the conversation could wait until tomorrow, after the dance, when he'd seen her new clothes and new hairstyle.

  She happily settled herself next to him in the Mercedes, admiring how the late-afternoon sun highlighted the contrast between his soft, thick black hair and the hard-cut lines of his profile. If she didn't start thinking about something else, she'd go down on him here and now. It was a long drive back to Compostela, given that she was now living in the guest bedroom there.

  "Rafael?"

  He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You wish to begin the inquisition now, querida, rather than wait for an iced drink at the ranch?"

  "I won't have time then. It'll take me a while to get dressed."

  He couldn't quite hide his surprise. Grania smirked privately but adopted a serene, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her-mouth expression.

  To her shock, his dark brown eyes grew slumberous and his voice deepened, as if they were in the bedroom. "¡Ay, querida, you have whetted my appetite most magnificently with your hints! Let us discuss your questions quickly so that you will have ample time to prepare for tonight's fiesta."

  He kissed her hand and she blushed scarlet. Someday, perhaps, she'd know Rafael well enough to flirt with him. For now, it was better to stick to subjects where she felt confident, like science. "I, ah, I was thinking about the night we met."

  He ate her with his eyes. "As do I, querida, very often."

  It was a wonder no husband had killed him before now, given how he could upset a woman's pulses with a single glance. "When you turned into an owl and ran away from me?"

  He frowned. Her heartbeat steadied slightly. Much better; now she could talk to him as an equal.

  Encouraged, she went on. "How did you learn to become an owl?" She wasn't about to discuss his being a wolf, since she couldn't tell him she knew he'd become one. But surely she could safely ask him about changing form into an owl.

  His expression changed, moving from seductive lover into professional colleague. One of the things she most enjoyed about him was being able to converse with him as an intellectual equal. There were so damn few people in this world that she could talk to about anything and everything.

  "I knew how an owl behaved—how it launched itself and flew—by watching them. You know we spend most of our time awake during the night for the first few centuries?"

  She nodded eagerly, memorizing every word. She'd long since burned and flushed all her notes, refusing to take any risk of endangering him or his people by exposing them to public scrutiny.

  "Changing to an animal shape means knowing the beast so well that we understand them instinctively, at a level below conscious thought. Usually this is done by many, many hours of observations until the beast's every move is burned into our brain and every cell of our body. After that, when you wish to behave as the animal did, you simply summon up a picture of it and you b
ecome one."

  Grania sorted through her memory for similar examples. "That sounds like how the Wright Brothers learned how to fly. They spent months watching buzzards fly before they went to Kitty Hawk."

  "Until the men also learned how to soar and could make their mechanical wings do the same. Precisamente. I have a similar ability to reshape individual pieces of my body, which is how I have fangs. But to change my entire body requires a great deal of knowledge, which takes time and extreme amounts of nourishment."

  "Few vampiros can do this," she said slowly, considering the benefits and costs to a predator.

  He studied her, effortlessly balancing himself against the sedan's dance through a hairpin turn. "All cachorros learn some of this early, or they will have no fangs and must die. Also, if a vampiro—or even a cachorro—has a very strong link to another vampiro, the other can show him an animal in sufficient detail to change shape. Then he too can change his body."

  "How many different animal shapes does a typical vampiro know?"

  "None. An expert duelist, who has survived fifty years or more, probably has one or two. I personally know better than a dozen but I have worked hard to learn so many. It takes decades to perfect an animal shape."

  "What are the shapes used for?"

  "Usually for dueling, which is a hand-to-hand, fang-and-claw fight to the death."

  Grania tilted her head, comparing his answer against what she'd learned in her years of study. "Fighting for territory?"

  Rafael's mouth twisted. "Almost always. Occasionally, a challenge can be issued to bring judicial combat."

  She stared at him. "To settle a legal dispute?"

  "If two vampiros come from different esferas, a duel may be the only way to settle their differences, even if no land is involved. So one vampiro will issue a formal challenge, listing his grievances. The other almost always answers it."