Bond of Darkness

by Diane Whiteside

  She watched them from the corner of her eye, gauging their attentiveness, while she tweaked the fragile chiffon into perfect symmetry.

  The men were eager—indeed, hungry—to serve him with their lives. And their blood and sex, of course, as befitted his hijos.

  In the past, she’d only gained such a strong reaction by forcing it out of men—first focusing her gift of seduction on them, then telling them their lust would only be assuaged after they carried out her orders. But his warriors behaved like this all the time, simply because he was their patrón. What would it be like to have so much power at one’s command, without ever needing to demand it?

  Oh, she’d manipulated patrones before. But they’d all died so damn fast, within a few dozen years, as patrones always seemed to do. Something about the role seemed to inspire as much greed in its holder as it did envy in all onlookers. Don Rafael was the first patrón she’d met who seemed worth latching onto. Why, he was even powerful enough to keep his men obedient to him, rather than falling at her feet.

  And how very splendid her life had become, since the richest patrón in North America had chosen to pay attention only to her. Having the best dressmakers in town hurling other clients aside in order to work on her orders, getting the best seat at every nightclub, the rare vampiras hissing jealously when she danced with him. Wonderful, simply wonderful.

  After a century’s exile from Paris, she’d finally started enjoying life’s true richness again.

  “Are you ready, sir?” Templeton asked, poised beside one of the great double doors into the ballroom. “The second parade should begin in another five minutes.”

  She concealed her grin with an effort. The great carnival parades, with their immense floats, costumed revelers, trinkets, and wild carousing, were the year’s most spectacular events.

  Celeste threw back her shoulders a little bit more, making sure her breasts were displayed to their finest advantage. Damned if she’d let anyone else catch Don Rafael’s eye.

  He offered her his arm without looking at her, an excellent sign of how much he relied on her presence. She accepted it and tilted her chin high, as haughtily as her mother would have done at Versailles.

  “We’re still in the private box, correct?” Don Rafael asked.

  “Yes, on the square and only a few feet away from the dance floor.”

  “We’ll be able to be seen by everyone,” Celeste cooed, delighted. “Merci bien for obtaining exactly the seats I wanted!”

  “De nada,” Don Rafael disclaimed politely.

  Templeton’s mouth tightened and he turned, leading the way inside.

  Too delighted to worry about a servant’s megrims, Celeste strutted proudly on Don Rafael’s arm. The guards closed around them before they’d taken two steps.

  Despite everything he’d heard of Monsieur Armand’s grand balls, Rafael hadn’t been prepared to see a New Orleans city square resting cozily inside a great warehouse. Every building had been precisely re-created, from the tin roofs and stone and stucco walls, to black wrought iron signs and balconies. Cobblestones lurked underfoot to trip the unwary. Commonplace business signs, like hotels and drugstores, offered normality to the prosaicos present yet implied boundless opportunities to the vampiros crowding the sidewalks and square.

  Most startling of all, great lamps hung overhead, bathing the entire space in light until it seemed to be a spring midday. Hollywood trickery made it possible, aided by huge fans and vents which could be glimpsed beyond the roofs. It was an incredible sight for vampiros, who rarely attained the two centuries after El Abrazo to see the sun again.

  Music came from every corner, in a wild mélange of styles that burst together in a single glorious mix. A jazz band’s instruments were starting to build a strong marching beat. Monsieur Armand was half dancing, half strutting in front of them, highly conspicuous in his golden excuse for a Roman toga. Other vampiros were dancing with him, ready to escort the musicians. Their equally gaudy costumes could be easily discarded for fucking or shapeshifting, should there be any disturbances.

  Vendors offered wines and cocktails from pushcarts. A few enterprising men pitched pennies at plates, probably hoping to earn fancifully dressed dolls for their paramours.

  The partygoers included both vampiros and prosaicos. Most of the women were prosaicas, of course, given the extreme difficulty of creating a vampira. Lust scented the air, but no fear from any side. Clearly, both vampiros and prosaicos were familiar with each other. Vampiros were always wary of dropping their guard around strange prosaicos, especially since it was wisest not to let prosaicos know exactly how old vampiros truly were. A frightened prosaico was a dangerous being who could create a mob, the only thing every vampiro feared.

  Dancers, brilliant in orange and gold and black with exotic embroideries, were pounding out the latest steps on a great raised dance floor, high above the square’s center. Other guests were laughing and chatting, spilling from the sidewalks onto the streets. Many corners held couples, although few did more than explore each other. Nobody seemed to have fed yet, a nicety that wasn’t likely to last.

  Rafael’s nose told him the wines were the finest French and German vintages, while the cocktails were mixed with the best Cuban rum. He sniffed again, testing for every possible scent. Perfumes, synthetic silk and real silk for clothing, even fresh-made beignets and pralines for the prosaicos. What else was here? Something wasn’t in the right place.

  He followed Ethan through the crowd, allowing his men to make a path for them and keeping Celeste close. Rowdy as she was, this should make her very hot indeed tonight.

  He smiled slightly, a fang touching the inside of his lip. She was a surprising diversion, although nobody he’d ever turn his back on. In this dangerous town, it was a pleasure to have an amante who was at least somewhat predictable.

  Jean-Marie lifted his hand in a two-finger salute, from a narrow balcony half hidden above the crowd.

  Bien. All was well and it was safe to use the assigned box. At least matters with Monsieur Armand were relaxed for now, the overly aggressive bodyguards having been reined in by calls to French brotherhood with Jean-Marie.

  He’d still like to know what his nose disliked about this party.

  Ethan led them up a few stairs to a pretense of a sidewalk café, barely two tables wide. A wrought iron railing separated them from the crowd, while more ironwork hung from the roof above. Even the tables and chairs were made of fanciful iron.

  Jean-Marie slid over to the far side, allowing space for Celeste between himself and Rafael. Celeste stiffened and made very sure nothing of herself touched the Frenchman.

  Ethan edged in next to Rafael, while his men flanked them in front. Most of them were in a loose-knit defense, of course, pressed in even tighter by the throng. Others, not obviously identified as his mesnaderos, were hidden throughout the partygoers, scanning for men with revolvers or perhaps a shapeshifter.

  The crowd wouldn’t stop him—or Ethan or Jean-Marie—from shapeshifting, of course.

  “Thank you for arranging this. It’s an excellent spot to watch the parade and bring a date,” Rafael commented to Jean-Marie, automatically making small talk.

  “Yes, indeed. In fact, I believe Gray Wolf might want to invite his beloved Caleb here next year, if the young man agrees, of course,” Jean-Marie responded, his eyes sliding over the crowd.

  “Indeed, spending Mardi Gras with only one man could be seen as a pledge by such an independent fellow.”

  Celeste yawned, bored with the conversation. A quick wave persuaded a street vendor to bring his selection of pearls to them.

  “Our friend would have to work very hard to persuade him. It takes feats of strength and daring to impress Caleb.”

  The vendor jumped up and down and Celeste leaned forward, pushing past the mesnaderos. Madre de Dios, did she need a bribe to keep her quiet?

  “Quite the courtship,” he corrected Jean-Marie. “But a man in love will do much for his heart’s delig
ht as you and I both know, Jean-Marie.”

  He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her back from any potential danger. A C-note filled his hands with pearls, which he politely offered to her. Her eyes lit up and she bounced up to kiss him, then quickly draped the jewels around her neck.

  His mouth quirked. Apparently detailed thanks would have to wait until later, in the bedroom.

  Snipers? Rafael asked Ethan, automatically checking the other threats.

  We negotiated a deal with the other patrones to put guards up on the rooftops, as backup to the more public protections. Didn’t mention it to Monsieur Armand, though.

  Of course not.

  There’s never been an assassination attempt during Mardi Gras, Jean-Marie commented, his eyes coldly assessing the street exits. As one of the finest vampiro assassins in the world, he would probably work from one of those openings.

  Of course not. It would be bad for business, Ethan remarked cynically.

  Celeste bounced up onto her toes and waved at a passing vampiro, all the while clinging to Rafael’s arm.

  He gritted his teeth but smiled as she obviously required.

  The vampiro did a double take, becoming noticeably friendlier to Celeste.

  One of the many things Rafael had adored about his late wife was that she’d never used him to advance her position at court.

  Trumpets flared in an attractive, irregular pattern. The crowd roared happily, even the couples paying attention to it.

  Celeste pointed. “Look! Here comes the parade.”

  Rafael’s nose twitched again. What was he smelling? This had to be something not usually found at street level.

  Somebody had been taking photographs here. But surely not of the ball. No vampiro ever permitted that to happen, since it could become irrefutable proof of his age.

  His skin prickled.

  Don Rafael? Jean-Marie asked.

  Of course his oldest hijo would notice his preoccupation first.

  Tell Ethan to call in the outlying guards. Now.

  Jean-Marie asked no questions, simply slipped off the more intimate channel and spoke privately to his fellow Texan. Gracias a Dios.

  Rafael sniffed again, hard, hunting for every faint aroma. Maybe it had happened so long ago he was the only one who could scent the residue. After all, he was the sole vampiro mayor here, guarded by the sharp senses that had kept him alive for so damn long.

  He turned his head and a flash flared briefly into his eyes before dropping away.

  His heart slammed hard against his ribs. ¡Ay, mierda!

  He looked up sharply and off to one side. Not toward the ceiling and the huge lamps, or the roofs with his guards.

  But to the attics, where someone could see his face and record it with a camera. A photographer up there would be high enough he’d probably be beyond even a vampiro’s keen nose—except for a vampiro mayor.

  His fangs pricked his lip. Surely there’d been a reflection from a camera, where no polished metal should be.

  Madre de Dios, maybe two.

  Ethan. He didn’t waste time looking at his alferez. Tighten the cordon around us.

  His mesnaderos stamped their feet, their bootheels thudding on the cobblestones in unison, and started to close ranks. Would they be in time?

  The drum was pounding. Lights sparkled and glass beads twisted, falling out of the sky. Celeste squealed and jumped for them, then cursed when her hand bounced off a man’s shoulder.

  “Photographer!” a vampiro shouted, and pointed.

  The entire crowd fell silent and stared, following the long black exclamation mark of his arm. High above, a man leaned out of a window, a camera’s damning black box clasped in his hands.

  A man growled, and another, and another. A great rumble ran through the throng like an avalanche’s beginning. “Sacré mille diables!”

  Rafael yanked Celeste next to his chest.

  A great hawk lifted from the throng and flew at the interloper, leaving a golden toga behind on the cobblestones. Monsieur Armand had shapeshifted to go on the hunt.

  The spy ducked back inside, slamming the window shut. The horde roared and began to run toward him, wolves outpacing the others. Vampiros and prosaicos stormed down the sidewalk, howling for blood, trampling the vendors’ pushcarts. They slammed into the mesnaderos—and the Texans swayed but managed to hold.

  The mob surged past them and raced across the street. Doors and shutters were ripped off the buildings there with inhuman strength to allow for faster access. From inside, somebody screamed but the crowd kept breaking in.

  There’d be no holding the rabble until they killed the bastard, raising bloodlust in every vampiro who tasted him. And bloodlust was an instinctive, demanding fire, long-lived and treacherous beyond belief. It was very unlikely only the photographer would die.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here,” Rafael ordered sharply. “We’re heading for the Matagorda Lady.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ethan agreed, and started issuing orders over the mind link. There was too much noise to do so verbally.

  They stepped down from the small dais and began edging toward the doors to the warehouse’s antechamber, dodging wild-eyed vampiros. Rafael locked his arm around Celeste. Anyone trying to harm a priceless vampira would have to go through him.

  Are we breaking off negotiations? Jean-Marie asked, his Colt graceful and deadly in his hand.

  Rafael didn’t have to think twice. No, the deal’s almost done.

  Do you think the photographer was the start of an assassination plot by Monsieur Armand? Ethan asked, his voice almost casual.

  Damn town’s a sieve for gossip, snarled Jean-Marie, who’d first encountered conspiracies in the womb. It would be impossible to keep such a large ball secret. Plus, he’s been giving twice-weekly balls every Mardi Gras for years.

  And his trigger-happy mesnaderos hate your guts, Ethan, Rafael warned. They’d do damn near anything to make you look the fool.

  Including murder Don Rafael, added Jean-Marie, and shot an onrushing rioter, dropping him in his tracks. As they tried the night you arrived.

  Ethan cursed under his breath but didn’t disagree.

  Celeste kicked Rafael, twisting and clawing to break free.

  “Be careful, Celeste! They’ll kill you, too.”

  “Let me watch!”

  He choked, bile rising in his throat. Surely she didn’t know what she was asking for. He shuddered, remembering the screams echoing down the streets of a vampiro court’s mountain capital, hour after hour during that endless winter night. Cries which still lingered in his dreams, underlain by the snick of knives slicing through flesh and the crunch of boots shattering bone.

  He started to touch her mind but withdrew. He had no right to force her into a changed opinion unless she threatened his life. Assuming he had the time—which he did not.

  Fighting every protective instinct, he carefully eased his grip on her.

  She promptly turned her head to look back over his shoulder and sighed. Rapturously.

  His hand clenched on the Mauser in his pocket.

  “Oh, mon amour, look! They’ve hung him out the window for everyone to take a bite!”

  Why the hell had he chosen this bloodthirsty bitch to sleep with? Unfortunately, he owed her his protection until the city settled down.

  If he was lucky, there was only one photographer.

  He snorted in disbelief and raised his pistol, ready to start fighting.

  THREE

  Celeste fondled the satin-smooth teak paneling framing the stained glass image of a river maiden and reconsidered her cabin’s potential.

  No danger here of catching a splinter, if she entertained Don Rafael while standing up.

  She smiled at her reflection and tried a pose, one hand on her hip.

  And the lighting was certainly very flattering.

  The wall sconces and overhead chandelier were made from mother-of-pearl, their many petals curving like water lilies. The carpet u
nderfoot was a soft, silken ribbon of color flowing through her cabin, carved with rippling lines like waves. A matching silk coverlet swept over the enormous bed, while its twin was quilted into the headboard.

  He could take her on the floor, or the bed, and she’d still look beautiful.

  She twisted slightly, letting the light’s soft glow reflect off the wood and highlight her own skin. Much, much prettier than naked bulbs.

  The entire room was a delicious jewel box which begged to be used as the setting for a long, frenzied round of sex with Don Rafael. There were no secret cubby holes or hiding places full of his secrets. So he was obviously keeping her close at hand for some more delectable pleasures.

  Which she hadn’t enjoyed yet, dammit. Unfortunately, it had taken them forever to work their way out of the grand ball and the warehouse—and through the uproar on the streets. Mon dieu, they’d had to walk for blocks, dodging running vampiros and searching policemen, before his limousine could pick them up. She’d thought Monsieur Armand had bribed the police well enough to stay away from his parties no matter what happened.

  She snorted in disgust, remembering how her feet had ached when she was finally able to sit down. If she were the patrona here, she’d make sure the police never came near her parties, whether it took money or terror.

  Don Rafael had remained infinitely patient, while the night got later and later. She’d matched his calmness more easily once they’d left that exciting riot but hunger and keeping her temper had exhausted her. When he’d shown her to this cabin and left her alone, she’d lain down, expecting him to join her in a few minutes.

  Instead, she’d woken up early the next evening. Alone, dammit.

  He must have come in, found her asleep, and decided to let her recover, rather than wake her for his own greedy needs. She knew he’d been here, thanks to the faint whiff of his scent—and a very elegant new evening gown. Last night’s contretemps had badly damaged her dress.

  She purred, throwing her head back and caressing her breasts through the fragile silk. How marvelous to finally have a paramour who was focused on satisfying her needs first.