Dios mediante.
* * *
Chapter Sixteen
Rodrigo and Diego circled each other in the arena, while The Syrian watched silently from above. After almost two centuries, The Syrian didn't need to tell them when to start fighting. But they fought now in the latest European armor, heavy suits of plate mail, not animal forms. They'd both grown so fast and vicious that a shapeshifter's duel caused too many injuries and thus happened too rarely for The Syrian's taste.
Diego charged and Rodrigo countered in a complicated flurry of blows that even other vampiros would have been hard put to follow. Cono, it was the same old pattern: No matter what he did, Diego was always there, waiting for him to strike—and getting in the first blow! When they separated, both vampiros lacked their shields and Rodrigo's left arm ached.
Barely pausing, Diego charged again. Rodrigo parried automatically and knew immediately that he had done exactly what his enemy wanted. An instant later, after a series of moves whose final outcome was preordained given that beginning, he lay on his back in the sand, cursing his luck. Next time, dammit, next time. Next time, he'd find a I way somehow to break this training and kill the pendejo.
Singing in triumph, Diego raised his sword high over Rodrigo's head, ready to give the coup de grace.
Rodrigo cleared his mind, saying his final prayers. After more than two hundred years of torment, he'd be glad to finally rejoin his wife—but he'd hate to leave this world without ridding it of these two devils.
The Syrian's voice snapped across the arena. "Do not kill the unbeliever. We have not broken him yet."
"What!" Diego spun to face his adopted father, pulling off his helmet with one hand. "But what more can we do to him? He's a boring opponent because he always loses to me, no matter how we fight."
"He has never begged." The Syrian dismissed all opposition with a brisk wave. "Finish this quickly so we can have dinner. There are some new Armenian slaves to play with."
Diego's expression was filled with frustration as he turned back to Rodrigo. He raised his sword, twirling it. An evil thought danced into his eyes.
Rodrigo started to lift himself up on his right elbow.
Diego giggled, nastily. He swung his sword up and brought it down hard and fast. It smashed through Rodrigo's left arm at the shoulder joint.
Rodrigo screamed as his life's blood spurted across the arena.
Grania sat bolt upright in Rafael's bed, her heart pounding.
Dear God in heaven, she hadn't had a nightmare like that in years, not since she was a child. She crossed herself slowly, as she'd done in the orphanage.
A big, strong, warm arm wrapped around her waist. "Querida? Are you well?" He propped himself up to look at her, dark eyes soft with concern.
She smiled at him. "Very well, darling. How could I be anything else, when I'm with you?"
She lay back down and he promptly cuddled her close.
She hid her face against his chest and prayed the dream was only one of the nightmares from La Lujuria. Because if it was one of his memories, then what did he truly face in the coming duel?
Grania frowned at Rafael from the other side of the Mercedes's backseat. Agonizing as La Lujuria had been, at least it had passed uncommonly quickly for her. Apparently the damn thing normally took two to three months.
She shuddered. Two weeks of waking up only to find the first available being to fuck and drink blood from as often as possible before crashing back into sleep. Thank God, Rafael had been there to provide for her. If left to her own devices, she could have cared less who'd seen them or what they did, as long as it had included blood and sex.
If La Lujuria had taken months instead of weeks and she'd had to find enough blood and emotion to survive on, while not thinking any better than a newly hatched eaglet… No wonder so many cachorros went insane or died.
Now it was Friday night, almost two weeks after that dreadful Sunday, and she could form complete thoughts, enough to know Rafael was a pigheaded fool.
A fine pair they made for the world's oddest Friday night date, if you could call it that. He'd provided a long cream silk chiffon dress for her, made by a brilliant coutourier named Carolina Herrera, echoing his all-white attire. Hers had long sleeves and skirt and was almost medieval looking, with its embroidery and fine hand-sewing. She wore low-heeled, fragile sandals and delicate pearl earrings. Her hair was pulled back simply, with curls on both sides of her face.
"Dammit, Rafael, you have to let me help you tonight!" She went straight back to the same fight they'd been having all evening, ever since she found out he planned to duel Beau. They were both so angry that the conyugal bond no longer existed between them.
The full moon illuminated his stubborn expression. "No, I will not risk using our conyugal bond. You are too precious to me and must be protected at all costs."
"There's all sorts of things I can do. For one thing, you've sated me so much that I can be a reservoir of strength for you."
He cast a knowing glance at her. She blushed but went on determinedly. "I can watch your back, let you know what he's up to."
"You're too young a cachorra, Grania. You could lose your sanity very easily, if you're inside my head when I shapeshift."
She glared at him, clinging to her temper. "I'm also a vet. I can give you more animal shapes than you can dream of. Not just from today but from millions of years back in time! How about a T. rex or a velociraptor? Or a terror bird that ruled a continent for twenty-six million years? Or something simple like a sabre-toothed tiger?"
"I have a dozen shapes of my own. They will be enough."
The car turned off the road, rumbling over a different pavement. They were almost at the stadium.
There was so little time left for them. Tears welled up, unbidden. "Doesn't it mean anything to you that I'm Blanche reborn? I have all her memories of your children and grandchildren. We'd have a better chance of sharing them together, if you let me help you."
His hand closed over hers and his throat worked. "Grania, don't you see that's why I can't risk you? I know you're Blanche; I touched the edges of those memories during La Lujuria. I will do everything in my power to protect you—and that means keeping you off the dueling field, even if you'd only see it through the conyugal bond."
"Rafael, you're treating me just as you did her, as if I'm made of glass. But I'm not."
"I've had five hundred years to learn how to defeat Beau. Trust me—and pray for me, mi alma."
She sniffled and yielded. "With all my heart, Rafael."
"All will be well, Grania. You can watch from the penthouse, where Gray Wolf and Caleb will guard you."
The car slowed and stopped on a broad stone plaza. The door swung silently open, outlining Ethan and a pair of his mesnaderos,
garbed in heavy black body armor. Ethan's hazel eyes were deadly calm, as if he was prepared for Hell.
Behind them rose a high steel grate, twice Rafael's height, glowing under streetlights. Humid air streamed in, laden with the scent of fresh-cut grass.
Grania's lips tightened before she put on her best expressionless mask. Damned if any of Madame Celeste's pals were going to see that she was scared.
Rafael handed her out of the Mercedes and wrapped his arm around her waist affectionately. Heads high, they moved rapidly across the plaza, Ethan in the lead, while his men fell in behind them. A mesnadero opened a narrow gate for them and Grania gaped in astonishment at the building beyond.
The immense, curving brick edifice was emblazoned santiago stadium, and a lion snarled defiance at all its enemies. Five arches supported its base, allowing ample room for people to pass under. Two enormously tall poles climbed toward the sky beside it, topped by platters of glimmering lights. Vampiros and compañeros, most dressed in full body armor, guarded the plaza.
The visitors wore brilliant evening clothes, fragile and gaudy, as they too hastened into the compound. They were both men and women, of all races, all adult, very fit, and m
entally tough—and all vampiros. They were hardly the remarkably beautiful people of fiction; in fact, some were scarred or even ugly. But all of their clothing was too flimsy and minimal to hide the smallest weapon. They studied her curiously but most gave Rafael genuine smiles.
A few minutes later, Rafael and Grania entered a narrow passage, guarded by hard-faced mesnaderos. A luxurious elevator, complete with high-tech television screens and operated by a ferociously armed Emilio, carried them upward.
Grania moved closer to Rafael, grasping at one last chance to be near to him. He kissed her brow and she remained quiet, memorizing every detail of him.
The door opened silently on an opulent room with rows of windows spanning one wall. Light shimmered beyond the glass, while rows of massive leather chairs faced the expansive view. Tables stood ready by the chairs, ready for visitors to take notes on whatever occurred. Rows of monitors high above showed a dim view of a superb natural grass football field. On the other side, big comfortable sofas and armchairs offered conversation centers, outlined by soft lights. Beautiful murals showed warriors in battle and in camp, from the Civil War through World Wars I and II, Vietnam, to the present. A beautiful clock chimed the hour—11 p.m.
More comforting to her than those martial displays were her friends. Caleb came forward, followed by Gray Wolf, and kissed her on the cheek. "Good evening, Doña Grania."
She smiled back and returned the salute, without leaving the shelter of Rafael's arm.
"Luz de mi corazón." Rafael turned to her, his dark eyes agonized in the soft lighting. The others stepped away and pretended to study the murals.
He opened his mouth but nothing came out immediately. He closed it again and swallowed.
His distress cut her to the bone. She couldn't keep fighting him. Tears sprang to her eyes and she touched her fingers to his lips. "Te adoro, Rafael."
"Te adoro, Grania." He swept her up and kissed her, crushing the breath out of her. She tightened her arms around his neck and kissed him back, giving him everything she had.
Then he set her down and strode to the elevator, Ethan at his heels. She waggled her fingers at him, the smallest of movements, her body hiding it from Caleb and Gray Wolf.
His eyes blazed and he returned it in kind, as the metal doors cut him off from her. She was left gazing at the image of a charging cavalryman.
Rafael stared at the elevator doors, as he commended Grania once again to the protection of San Rafael Arcángel. He'd have preferred to have left her at Compostela Ranch or the Austin Commandery, his strongest fortress. But he didn't have enough men to guard both the stadium and either ranch. So he'd brought her here, to the penthouse suite in this fortress called the Santiago Stadium, where Gray Wolf and Caleb would protect her.
He'd been shriven by a priest earlier, safeguarding his soul. His men would protect Texas's peace to their dying breath.
He had no more worries. The only thing left to do was fight. His old prebattle calmness swept into him as he turned his full attention to the coming duel.
"Who did you finally obtain as judges for the duel?"
Ethan turned to face him, white teeth flashing in his hard grin. "O'Malley of San Francisco, Alioto of Chicago's South Side—and Gorshkov of Trenton. Three patrones, one accompanied by his cónyuge, with ninety-five mesnaderos between them."
Rafael clapped him on the back. "Added to ours, it's a match for Madame Celeste's army. Plus, it's the three patrones least likely to ally themselves with her."
"She'd be a fool to try anything during the duel." Ethan was obviously hoping she would.
"Although Alioto and Gorshkov could change sides."
"Not while you live," Ethan said flatly. "So there's nothing to worry about."
The elevator came to a stop before Rafael could find an answer to that.
Grania wrapped her arms around her knees, rocking the big leather armchair, and tried not to think about the odds against Rafael. She wished there was some way she could sneak some help through the conyugal bond to him. But she just didn't know enough about how the damned thing worked to do anything with it.
She was at the top of a five-story tower, in the penthouse suite. The grandstands below were full of gaudily dressed people. Close to the field, an excellent mariachi band was playing bullfight music.
"Place is almost full," Caleb observed from behind Grania.
"Vampiros have come from all over North America, as well as Europe. It's not often you see two vampiros mayores fight a duel." Gray Wolf thumped Caleb's shoulder. "It'll be different from any duel we've fought. In our case, we've got the advantage that it doesn't matter how old cónyuges are, as long as one is a mature vampiro. The conyugal bond usually makes them a match for anyone, even a vampiro mayor."
"Seen that work for us before," Caleb admitted.
Ethan's mesnaderos ringed the track oval, dressed in black, all carrying carbines and looking fierce. A few cars and trucks were hidden in the darkness at the short ends of the oval. The moon shimmered on the hills but there were no signs of people living anywhere nearby.
The clock began to chime midnight—one…
Instantly, with the roar and hiss of great power unleashed, the massive lights above Santiago Stadium came to life, turning night into day on the football field below. Friday night lights in Texas.
A moment later, trumpets sounded, calling across the field and echoing back from the hills beyond, their martial cry underlain by drums. They sang an ancient music that rang in the blood, a song that a gladiator or a bullfighter would have understood.
Gray Wolf and Caleb immediately came to frozen attention, on either side of Grania. The crowd quickly rose to their feet on both sides of the field.
Grania sprang up and slammed the two great, sliding glass doors open, desperate to see as much as she could. Every monitor showed the same image: Ethan, his expression deadly calm and carrying a rifle, marched onto the field and took up position on the center of the fifty-yard line. A tall, broad-shouldered mesnadero, his face hidden by his helmet, strode beside him, ready to use an even bigger rifle.
A single trumpet sounded, as soon as Ethan and his second were established, summoning the challenger to do battle.
Rafael entered the field from the tunnel, his right arm raised in salute to the crowd. The crowd under the great lion, so like the Castilian banner he'd once fought under, roared its approval.
He wore white linen from head to toe, beautifully embroidered and tailored. An impressive outfit, it was also an easy one to shift out of to start a duel. He was, of course, barefoot, for the same reason. The ultimate insult, one rarely achieved, would be to kill one's opponent while dressed as a human.
"Who are you?" Ethan demanded as soon as Rafael came close, the traditional challenge given by a duel's marshal. The words echoed around the stadium, borne by the public address system.
"I am Don Rafael Perez of Texas, who comes here to fight Beau of New Orleans, a sniveling coward." He bowed formally to Ethan and retired to the forty-yard line.
A very long five minutes later—six minutes and the challenged would forfeit the duel—a single trumpet sounded a flourish. Beau appeared on the opposite side of the field, with Madame Celeste hanging on his arm and Devol following close behind.
Beau wore a brilliantly colored silk shirt and trousers, the latest resort wear from Europe and a startling contrast to Madame Celeste's black leather bustier and trousers, topped by her gaudy ruby and diamond jewelry. He appeared perfectly healthy, of course, as the reports from New Orleans had told. They'd also spoken of unease and fear over the strange killings, as the prosaicos began to band together and whisper about vampiros.
When the deadly trio reached the fifty-yard line, they paused to exchange a passionate embrace. Rafael wondered if Madame Celeste truly cared for the pendejo—or was she simply reminding him what side his bread was buttered on?
Then she broke free and ascended the stands on Devol's arm, her head high, and accepted a cushioned
seat.
Beau stood erect on the sidelines until he'd regained the throng's full attention. Holding his chin a little higher and with a pleased curve to his mouth, he marched onto the field as the trumpet sang again.
Upon hearing the marshal's challenge, he reared up in aristocratic hauteur, as if he ruled everyone and everything in sight. "I am Beau of New Orleans, who comes here to destroy my creador's murderer."
Madame Celeste's coterie screamed approval. The other side yawned. Anyone called a coward usually came up with the most blood-curdling countercharge possible, whether or not it was true. Usually it wasn't.
Beau's mouth tightened slightly before he bowed to Madame Celeste and retired to the opposite forty-yard line. He flexed slightly, eyeing the setting and his opponent, then assumed the supple posture of the ready duelist.
Their eyes met across twenty yards of living grass.
Breathe the night air for the last time, yaa ibn sharmuuTa, Beau snarled. You murdered my beloved father and for that you will die.
Rafael curled his lip. You will die before you touch Grania or Texas, apóstata.
A low rumble sounded in Beau's throat, his eyes promising slow death.
Jean-Marie's clear tenor rang out through the loudspeakers. "All present are reminded that no one, for any reason whatsoever, may enter the field of combat, upon pain of death. Should anyone cross the center of the track surrounding the field and survive, the marshal shall exact the appropriate penalties, after conferring with the judges."
Ethan and his second took their seats in the grandstand, centered under the great lion. Rafael spared a quick glance at the top of the tower where Grania waited. Safe, plegué a Dios, although he couldn't see her.
"As is customary," Jean-Marie continued imperturbably, "the duel will continue until one vampiro dies or a half hour before sunrise. Should both vampiros still be alive at that time, the duel will be considered a draw and will begin again an hour after sunset, on the same day."
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