Bond of Darkness

by Diane Whiteside

  “Ethan!” she shrieked, climaxing again, and higher, before she’d fully come down from the first.

  His smile was edged with a tight triumph. Surely he could wait a little longer.

  He kissed her throat, her pulse vibrating against his tongue, and delicately teased her clit with his finger.

  She rocked against him, moaning—and scratched his shoulder. The salty-sweet scent of blood filled the air.

  Sanity snapped.

  He rocked deeper into her, finding her sweet spot and sending her straight over the edge. She howled in ecstasy and threw her head back. He bit down, hard and fast, plunging his fangs into her jugular, and tasted the rich perfection of her passion. Fire bright, whirling through his blood like torches through the night.

  Orgasm raced through him, shattering his links to the earth. He poured himself into her, filling her with his heat and his fire.

  Stephanie, his love.

  He cradled her afterward, watching her sleep. She needed her rest, after all, so she could live a long time. Regardless of how he’d cope with watching her die of old age, when he’d barely handled being without her for a month or nearly seeing her die tonight.

  He kissed the top of her head, gathering in her scent, storing up the memory of her soft breathing.

  They’d think about the war tomorrow.

  THIRTEEN

  AUSTIN, JULY 19

  The Gulfstream jet circled the Texas hills, its luxuries no comfort now for Celeste. Even her entourage remained strapped silently into their seats, too astonished—and cowed—to speak.

  The football stadium below was all too easy to spot, its banks of lights blazing into the sky. Streams of people danced across the grass, forming and re-forming colorful knots under the great heraldic lion. Soon they’d be frolicking horizontally, the ecstatic bastards.

  “Imbécile!” Madame Celeste threw another bottle of champagne into the galley, its door wisely left open by her steward. The bottle burst against the cabinet like a shotgun blast, wine and glass shards spewing over the floor. “We should be drinking this in that stadium, while they beg us for mercy. Another minute and Don Rafael would have been dead!”

  “Beau is lucky he died so cleanly, cher,” Georges agreed, rage running clean and cold through his belly. “Otherwise, you’d have made his last hours hell on earth for such an elementary mistake as to let Don Rafael slip away.”

  “Only to win, with the help of his cónyuge bitch! There is no other answer.”

  “No, only a cónyuge could have fed him strength when he’d been almost dead.” Georges’ fangs pricked his lip. If Templeton’s mesnaderos hadn’t been in the way, he’d have shot Don Rafael while he was on the ground—and that fool was indulging in an early celebration. But no, Don Rafael recovered and won. Merde.

  The plane began to level out, heading east for the Mississippi and home.

  “So Don Rafael still lives to attack us, while his heraldo will make more supercilious announcements of Texas virtues.” She spat. “Until we kill them both.”

  “We have another weapon at our disposal, cher madame,” Georges pointed out. “As you have mentioned before.”

  “Hmm?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “We’ve been feeding on Texas women but discreetly, except in Galveston. If we were more blatant about our presence . . .” He paused suggestively.

  “Those Texas cattle would stampede and destroy him.” She chuckled, a wickedly mirthful sound.

  He grinned back at her, anticipating his rewards for evoking that much glee.

  “Excellent idea! And you did so well in Galveston, too. The broken hands, to increase pain.”

  “The femoral artery—a major blood vessel, yet unexpected, exquisitely sensitive, and linked with sexual violation.” He sighed, remembering the excellent meal. “Ah, madame, you taught me so well!”

  She patted his arm. “And you shall do even better when you return, mon brave.”

  COMPOSTELA RANCH, JULY 22

  Grania screamed, full-throated, the sound piercing Rafael’s heart like a lance.

  Grania, mi vida!

  His men rushed to their feet, reaching for their weapons, but he utterly ignored them. He bolted for his bedroom, slamming his office door so hard it reverberated and shattered a hinge.

  Grania, luz de mi corazón! He skidded on the hardwood floor, his feet hurling the soft rugs under the bed. Her face was buried in the pillows and she was sobbing as if her heart would break. Grania, mi alma, he crooned, and dropped to his knees beside her.

  Loneliness battered him through the conyugal bond, heart-breaking and despairing. Her throat was raw, shredded with pain, as if she’d wept for hours instead of the few minutes since he’d left her.

  “Grania, querida,” he croaked, her agony instantly lacing deeper into his bones. He choked for breath but laid his arm over her shoulders. “I am here. Please wake up, my darling.”

  She shuddered. Did her sobs slow, just a trifle?

  “Grania, mi corazón.” He gathered her closer, coaxing her to shelter against his chest. “All is well, querida. Content yourself and relax. Shh.”

  Dios, he couldn’t reach her emotions, the deepest levels where cónyuges always understood each other.

  She whimpered, sobs shaking her slender body.

  What now? He trusted his own instincts and bit his lip until blood flowed, scenting the air, calling to his beloved vampira. He eased himself onto the bed until they were lying down side by side, bringing his entire body to comfort her.

  Gracias a Dios. She kissed him fiercely, clutching his shirt and tasting him. He gave her everything, his heartbeat thudding until he couldn’t think. She shook her head—and he clutched her closer. But she buried her face against him, clinging as if the end of the world were near. Her sobs began to moderate and the daggers stopped tunneling into his heart.

  Grania, mi alma y mi vida. He rocked her gently, tears trickling down his cheeks. If he lost her, his life and his soul, there would be no light in his heart and he would follow her to the grave. He could not bury her twice.

  She finally gulped, the sobs long gone. He unceremoniously dumped a pillow out of its case, and handed her the fine linen. She sniffled and blew her nose hard, looked at her handkerchief, then glanced at him.

  He shrugged off any concerns. This was his house and he’d do as he damn well pleased, especially to ensure his lady’s comfort.

  She smiled a trifle, her eyes very red. But at least she could feel laughter.

  “Querida,” he breathed, and kissed her gently, his heart starting to beat at a more normal rhythm. “Would you like some wine or a bath or . . . ?”

  “No!” Terror, searing as acid, flashed through their link and he flinched, before snatching her closer.

  Her heart was pounding again. He cuddled her close, unable to speak.

  “All I want,” she said slowly, keeping to the spoken word, “is to hold you close.”

  “You have me,” he assured her promptly, “always. Your creador is dead and no one else can come between us.”

  Her lips curved into a smile but there was little pleasure in it.

  “I dreamed . . . No, I remembered,” she corrected herself.

  He came to full alertness. Grania was the reincarnation of Blanche, his long-dead wife, and could usually control when and how she accessed those memories. But sometimes she relived them fully, unable to control what events she saw or how deeply.

  “¿Sí, querida?”

  “After the Infante’s army was destroyed by the Moors and you were captured, Toledo was besieged. For months.”

  Her voice was almost colorless. But so was fine steel, or a knife twisting through darkness to rip through his own memories. “Ay de mi, no Moorish army had come that close to the capital in decades. There was no army, no knights of the blood royal to lead the small garrison, nobody. And your Princesse—”

  He stopped short, careful even after all these centuries not to speak his true thoughts about t
hat feminine monument to selfishness and stubbornness, lest he offend her most faithful servant.

  “Was in hysterics, day and night, over her husband’s death.” Grania sighed, her eyes very dark with memories.

  “Demanding all your strength.” The bitch.

  “I had your little ones to give me joy,” she protested mildly.

  But they were so very young . . .

  “Fernando and Beatriz could walk just well enough to find diversions”—mischief—“everywhere, while Ana was a newborn babe.” Her voice trailed off, old lines of worry and exhaustion scoring her face.

  And you were alone, he whispered, mind to mind.

  Yes, she agreed, a single tear trembling on an eyelash.

  “Dios mio, I should have been there!”

  “How? You were a captive and close to dying, as well. But I was so deadly afraid without you.”

  He caught her hand and kissed it, offering comfort and apologies in the only way he could.

  “Relax, my love.” Her blue eyes poured love’s true light over him, brilliant as Santísima Virgen’s mantle. “Sobs will never tear me apart again, now I know in my bones you’re alive.”

  He could give her earthly assurances, such as they were.

  “I swear, mi vida, you will never have to face such trials by yourself again.”

  “Ah, darling, do not swear to do what circumstances may force you to change. You are the Patrón of Texas and your duty must come first, especially when there is war.”

  He winced but nodded, accepting her grasp of brutal necessities. Even so—mierda, how he’d fight not to see her suffer again!

  RANGER TASK FORCE, AUSTIN

  The door clicked rapidly, paused, and clicked again before swinging open. Posada quickly stepped inside and yanked it shut, carefully blocking the view of any passersby.

  His unusual caution made Steve narrow her eyes. But she stood up from her computer, as casually as possible. “Hi, Lieutenant. Come to grab a doughnut before they go stale?”

  “Thanks but no thanks. I’ve already hit the gym this morning.” He set a stack of newspapers down on the center table.

  She glanced at it thoughtfully, considering its unusual dimensions. “Coffee then? We’ve got some espresso, plus some new cases to look at. Just arrived from outside of Waco.”

  “Waco?” His head jerked up and he stopped smoothing out newsprint.

  “Mmhmm. Technically, halfway between Waco and Galveston. The local sheriff heard of us and brought the two cases down.”

  “We’re starting to get attention,” Posada muttered.

  She nodded. “At least by fellow cops. Nothing on the streets that we know of.” Or that Ethan’s men had heard.

  Ethan. She shifted slightly, testing for tenderness after last night. Around them, men had gone back to work, providing a screen of phone calls and clattering keyboards.

  Posada tapped the newspapers with a long, callused finger. “Brought this week’s small-town and special-interest papers. This one’s the Corncobs and Cows Gazette.”

  “Corncobs and cows?”

  “Yes, it’s a weekly, specializing in organic farming and energy issues.”

  “Ohkayy.” She eyed it again, giving it the same enthusiasm she’d offer a rotting rattlesnake.

  “It has an article on how the increasing health of Texas pastures is causing sinus infections, as evidenced by the higher death rates among young women this summer,” Posada said very softly. “As further shown by their arched necks and terrified expressions.”

  Her head shot up and she stared at him.

  “One commentator to their online edition suggested those symptoms sounded more like a date rape drug and murder. He was quickly shot down. Date rape drugs weren’t used in farm towns.”

  Steve hooted in disbelief.

  “Exactly. Even so, we’re running out of time before other media carries the story.” He paused significantly. “And the public really starts getting nervous.”

  Chills shimmied over her spine. “We know single women rarely frequent bars anymore.”

  “But that’s not mass hysteria,” Posada pointed out. “It’s not high school girls being forbidden to go near an ice cream parlor or young mothers letting their babies scream because they’re afraid to pick up a prescription after dark. If that happens, or worse—”

  “Texas is toast,” she said flatly. And the real villain is a vampire, who you have no chance of defeating.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  FOURTEEN

  AUSTIN, JULY 26

  Steve strolled along the sidewalk with Ethan, contemplating the uneasy mix of tourists and nightclubs. At least this was Austin, where manners were generally civilized. Plus, it was summer so the university wasn’t in session, cutting down on any football fan rowdiness. Even so, Austin’s legendary live music scene had brought in enough out-of-town gawkers and drunks to fill the bars and fray the traffic laws. But it was a happy crowd, enjoying the songs which spilled out through open doors or were screeched into the steamy night air by electronics.

  They slipped into a recessed entryway, its door blocked to encourage usage via a paid portal.

  “Anyone interesting here tonight?” she asked.

  “Nope.” His gaze reassessed the Driskill Hotel’s white and gold bulk, lingering over every spotlit arch. “No sign of any bandoleros or snipers,” he added, lowering his voice.

  “Nothing at the capitol, either.” She jerked her head slightly toward its fairy-tale dome, barely visible between a covey of skyscrapers.

  His head shot around and he stared at her. “Have they upped the guards on that, too?”

  “Yeah, the governor’s feeling nervous.”

  “Shit.”

  She couldn’t agree with him more. “At least he’s being close-mouthed about the threat.”

  Ethan glanced down at her, a smile playing around his mouth. “He’s been encouraged to be discreet.”

  She blinked, sorting through the implications. “The way I can’t talk about our affair?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  She whistled softly. “Do your folks do that often to politicians?” she asked a few minutes later, after the traffic light had changed and a new set of tourists had ambled past.

  “Only when necessary.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Best one you’re going to get.”

  She sniffed. He might look like an old-fashioned cowboy in his Western shirt, jeans, and fancy boots. But he didn’t have to be just as laconic.

  He suddenly stepped onto the pavement and watched a gleaming black and chrome motorcycle stop for the light. Steve immediately joined him, caught by his intensity.

  “That’s a fine Road Star,” she commented.

  “Top of the line.” Ethan’s gaze never wavered from the bike. The man and woman aboard were hidden behind motorcycle leathers and full face masks, and golden hair could be glimpsed beneath the woman’s mask. She pressed herself against her companion, graceful as a cat, while he gently caressed her leg.

  “Do we need to worry?” Steve asked.

  The woman ran her hand gently over the man’s chest, anticipating and yet also somehow amazed.

  Steve swallowed, fighting down jealousy.

  Ethan lifted his hand and the male rider waggled two fingers in response.

  “Your friend.” Steve turned away. What would it be like, to find such joy with a lover?

  “My oldest hermano,” Ethan said flatly. He lowered his voice. “The first vampiro my creador sired, as you would say, and truly my brother.”

  The light changed again, bidding the Road Star and its lovers good-bye.

  A woman who was confident with a vampiro? If Steve could quickly pull off similar unspoken communication with Ethan, like a well-trained team, they could try another ambush. Setting up sentries and marching around cities wasn’t going to work. They might be having fewer attacks but the ferocity was growing far worse.

  “What if—” She stopped
, tripping over her tongue, but tried again. “What if we tried another ambush? Instead of guarding hunting grounds and searching out likely ‘nesting’ places?”

  “What are you talking about?” He stared at her.

  She firmed her jaw and took a deep breath, prepared to argue for as long as she needed to.

  He glanced around, obviously concluding they needed privacy, and guided her into an alley, finding a jagged corner between buildings.

  “Go on.” His tone was barely civilized.

  “Suppose you and I worked together as a team? You know, where we’ve trained together so long each of us knows what the other will do before they do it?”

  “Steve, there’s no time for that much practice.” His voice was much gentler. “I’ll work with you and nobody else. Hell, I’m the only vampiro who’ll do that much. But—”

  Good, she had the first crack in his armor.

  “Can’t your vampiro biology help us?”

  “Huh?”

  “Speed things up so our bodies communicate better? Like something in the movies, maybe?” She waited hopefully. The alley was quiet, with the street far away like a distant curtain.

  “Ah, Jesus.” He pulled his hat off and slapped it against his leg, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “Movies—and books—lie, honey. Or at least they tell so little truth it might as well all be false.”

  “Explain it to me then.” Something whimpered inside her heart. But she wasn’t giving up, not that easily. “Well, skipping over the vampira option . . .”

  For a moment, his eyes blazed with green fire and his fangs flashed. Her chest tightened, sending treacherous heat diving into her pussy. She gulped and hurried on. “Isn’t there an option where I could remain a Ranger?”

  His expression shifted into an icily polite mask and she found herself mourning the loss of her heated lover. “No, only becoming my hija or cónyuge—my life mate—would give me the access you’re talking about.”

  “Hija?”

  “If you became a vampira and I was your creador.” He could have been discussing a library cataloging system, except for the muscle throbbing in his cheek.