He sniffed again, catching another scent. Steve’s blood?
What in the name of everything holy was she doing on the courthouse’s ground floor, especially if she was injured?
Coldness ran through him, and deadly earnest. The world narrowed to Devol—the hungry eyes, the dripping teeth, the furred throat.
No matter what it cost, he had to kill the brute now and get downstairs, before anything else happened to Stephanie Amanda.
Steve considered her hideout—or should she call it a nest? Considering she had four doors to watch, she didn’t have much opportunity to build defensive walls against any of them. But she’d done her best, concealing herself on the ground floor behind the stairs leading to the second floor. She could see both entrances, which should allow her to control the situation, right?
Yeah, right—even with most of the windowpanes cracked.
She settled down, straining her ears to listen.
Suddenly a small object flew in through the entrance and rolled across the floor toward her. A grenade?
Without hesitating, Steve leapt through the closest shattered window, flinging up one arm to protect her face.
KABOOM!
She dived behind a pile of construction debris, her shotgun in her hand. She tucked her limbs closer and tighter, wondering where the hell the bastard was. Dammit, this stack of boards wasn’t enough to completely hide her.
KABOOM!
Shattering agony punched into her, like being simultaneously hit by a dozen semis full of boiling magma. Her right arm was pure, undiluted pain, concentrated fury tearing through her veins. One leg screamed, warning her walking wasn’t an option.
A chorus of shrieking furies swept through her ears, ringing bells loudly enough to drive out thought. Her sight began to fade, blackening at the edges like burning paper. She convulsed, the pain competing with her stomach’s demand to empty itself, and her gun’s hard shape cut into her so-called good side.
Lightning flashed again and a wolf bayed upstairs.
Ethan. Oh, dear Lord, Ethan.
Her shotgun had landed on the ground, its pistol grip next to her hand. She rolled herself onto her back, bringing it into the open, wrapped her fingers around it, and blinked away tears.
A blur resolved itself into boots and a man snickered overhead. “Pity you’re not already dead. Worse, you’re losing blood too fast to make a good meal.”
Bastard.
Her index finger closed over the trigger. She squeezed twice, blasting thirty balls of double-ought buckshot into his black heart.
Devol’s teeth slashed through Ethan’s flank, almost hamstringing him. Ethan twisted back upon himself and bit deep into the other’s shoulder, forcing him to flinch.
They broke away, covered in blood, their breath sobbing through the holes gaping in their windpipes—when two loud explosions sounded from below.
Gunfire. A shotgun, in fact—and more of Steve’s blood scent poured into the air.
Like hell he’d allow her to be injured!
There was only one move left to try, which required perfect timing and the last of his energy. If he failed, he’d lose everything, including her.
He charged, pouring his energy into a burst of speed which would have rocketed him across a football field.
Devol’s jaw dropped in pure astonishment. But he braced himself, growling to show his teeth’s readiness to destroy his foolhardy enemy.
At the last possible instant, Ethan shapeshifted into a wild boar, lowered his head, and tossed Devol high using his mighty tusks. The gray wolf spun, four paws scrabbling the air—and Ethan shifted again, back into a man. He caught Devol and hurled him out the broken window onto the Confederate veteran’s bayonet, in the courthouse square below. Then he lunged for his own, more modern rifle.
Devol screamed, his body thrashing on the great bronze blade. Lightning streaked the sky and thunder drummed the earth.
The Louisiana alferez mayor rippled into dust and fell away from the Texas soldier’s weapon. But who the hell had time to celebrate that?
Ethan raced downstairs to find his lady.
Steve blinked muzzily at the results of her first aid attempt and managed to chuckle. She didn’t have a first aid kit on her, for starters. And the grenade had shredded her clothing too badly to use it for tourniquets. She’d put her belt on her right leg, the worst injured—but that still left her left leg, both arms . . .
At least it had been quiet upstairs for a few minutes and her radio still worked. God willing, the coded phrases wouldn’t sound forced.
“Captain Howard? . . . Yes, I’m praying for that Vegas trip. A vacation looks real good right now . . . Thank you, sir. Reynolds out.”
Her hand dropped and the now-unimportant bit of electronics rolled away. By the time anybody came hunting for her, Ethan would have figured out a good cover story.
Her eyes started to close and she tugged them open. She wanted to talk to Ethan again. No, she needed to talk to Ethan again. But the square was so bright with all those lightning flashes.
She drifted somewhere soft and cold.
“Sweetheart? Stephanie Amanda?”
“Steve,” she corrected Ethan.
He smiled but seemed a little rattled, which wasn’t at all like him.
“How do you feel, sweetheart? I’ve called for an ambulance.”
“Hazy,” she answered honestly. “Bet they were fuzzy on when an ambulance would arrive.”
His mouth tightened, his breath coming hard and fast through his gritted teeth.
Her fingers twitched, trying to reassure him. Then she fell back, exhausted. Poor darling was likely worried sick. Storm had probably washed out the only bridge and kept helicopters from flying.
The world blurred again.
“Steve, do you have a first aid kit in your truck?”
“Yup, just take my keys.”
The world resolved itself into his face. He’d managed to bandage her and apply tourniquets. Then he’d tucked her into a nest of emergency blankets on the entrance portico, underneath some carved owls. But there was blood seeping through the bandages and she was so very, very cold in a world of ice-edged, gray fog.
She wasn’t afraid, though, not of anything with him there.
“Steve.” He kissed her hands. “You’re bleeding to death and there isn’t time to take you to a hospital. I might be able to save you by turning you into a vampira. But my master would probably kill both of us if I did.”
“Probably? Might be able to save?” She blinked, struggling with his logic.
“He might not kill you because you’re a woman.”
Might not kill me? “What about you?”
“My life is forfeit if I do this.”
“You’re risking everything for me. Of course I say yes.” Her tongue was growing clumsy. “And I won’t let him kill you.”
“Steve.” Tears seeped from his green gold eyes. “Steve, my darling.” He hid his face against her palms and she touched his golden hair, offering what comfort she could.
When he lifted his head, his expression was much more under control. “You must focus your mind on only one thought. Exactly one.”
She nodded weakly, wishing she could pin down one of the myriad questions swimming through the fuzzy cavern she used to call a brain.
“You’ve lost enough blood that I don’t need to drain you any further.” He winced and his voice tightened for a moment. “When I offer you my throat, you must quickly drink as much as you can.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Of course.”
He wrapped his arms around her and rolled her close to him. She flowed against him, every bone and muscle knowing exactly where home and comfort could be found, despite the pain.
He kissed her mouth sweetly, a gentle kiss offering everything and demanding nothing. Tears welled in her eyes and she leaned closer. Her love, her heart’s delight. No matter how small the chance, she’d take it to be close to him forever.
; His hand came up, and he slashed his jugular open. He caressed the back of her head, gently turning her toward his throat. “Stephanie Amanda, darling.”
Blood, his blood. She closed her eyes for a moment, then tasted it, her only hope of forever with him. Fiery sweet, running down her throat and into her belly like a ribbon of pure gold, spinning her world into a cascade of stars, every one of which carried his face.
NINETEEN
Even before the helicopter landed, Rafael had unbuckled his seat belt and was straining his eyes for a glimpse of his darling. His men yanked back the door and he sprang out, leaving his bodyguards with their puny weapons far behind.
Dulce Grania ran to meet him, her red hair streaming down her back, and sprang into his arms. Their lips met and paradise was finally granted to him, as he’d never known before. Ah, such delight to fill his lungs with her intoxicating scent! The miracles of modern clothing, which allowed every inch of his body to quickly remember the curves of her sweet body, unlike the stiff formality of his old chain mail! For seven hundred years, he’d never dared to dream of such sweet ecstasy of homecoming, yet now he was enjoying it at last.
San Rafael Arcángel had been more generous to him than he’d ever dared pray for. He would have to make a very generous offering of thanks, perhaps a chapel—after he’d thoroughly cherished his beloved cachorra, of course.
He kissed her with increased enthusiasm.
She shook her head teasingly at him and ran a finger over his lips when he finally lifted his head. “Do you mean to conduct our entire celebration here at the helipad, Rafael?”
“Of course not.” He chuckled and offered her his arm. “We have an hour yet before first light, more than enough time to see you safely indoors.”
She drew herself close to him, snuggling together until they walked as one person along the pathway through the gardens. Fountains sang and the roses bloomed: green grass flowed amid gurgling waters to meet the panoramic vistas of the great Texas hills and valleys. His home and his esfera, safe now for his lady.
His people walked behind them, sharing their joy—Jean-Marie and his Hélène, Gray Wolf and Caleb, Luis, Emilio, Lars, Rough Bear, Hennessy, Peter, and more. All of his men had gathered here in April, wearing their finest garb. Now they were attired in warrior’s garments, with wounds that must be tended and gear showing the signs of hard battle.
But they hadn’t provided an accounting of their activities. He hadn’t demanded one during the flight back from Gilbert’s Crossing, given his Ranger audience—but now?
“How many of Devol’s men did you kill tonight?” he asked idly, more concerned with the supple grace of Grania’s fingers.
No answer came except splashing fountains.
He frowned. Ethan wasn’t present, which was very odd—but perhaps he’d gone out to feed. Given the number of other senior commanders present who’d normally be equal, perhaps they were confused about who should answer.
“Rough Bear”—he enunciated the name with great clarity—“how many of the names on the list did you eliminate tonight?”
“All but seven, mi Señor—Devol and six others.” A rusted watermill would have displayed more enthusiasm than Rough Bear.
Rafael whirled to face them. “All but Devol and six? With those, he could take Compostela, if he had a good enough plan, given the anchor watch we left here. ¡Mierda! What happened?”
“Ethan and his Ranger killed them,” Grania answered, moving to face him. “He went out alone to face them, refusing to weaken Compostela’s defenses by taking even one compañero. But his Ranger learned of it and joined him.”
“A vampiro and prosaica against seven vampiros?” Rafael whispered. A vehicle was working its way up the driveway, in the front of the house. “Madre de Dios, they were lucky.”
“They were your best,” she retorted, “and they served Texas well.”
The noise resolved itself into Ethan’s truck.
“Let us welcome him home to Compostela!” Rafael encouraged. “Such a feat of arms deserves the highest honors we can give.”
Grania inclined her head formally and rested her fingers on his arm, her expression unreadable. She’d raised her mental shields against him, the adamantine ones which he could only bypass through their conyugal bond. He flicked a sideways glance at her but said nothing.
They met the big, black pickup in front of the main house, where the drive made a great circular sweep before a spectacular view of the eastern valleys. Gray Wolf and Rough Bear stood in the house’s shadows with the rest of his vampiros. Compañero snipers lined the roofline in an honor guard for their leader, while prosaico warriors marked the driveway’s edge.
The sky was dark and the evening star was fading. The house’s front was in shadows. They were counting the minutes until the sun rose.
The last time he’d come here at dawn was when Lucien Saint-Gerard had brought Shelby Durant as a young cachorra, only to see her die. Here were the same men, in exactly the same formation, at the same time . . . Shadows whispered over his skin.
The muddy truck jerked to a stop on the macadam drive’s east side. Rafael strode eagerly forward, leaving Grania and Jean-Marie behind on the steps.
Ethan flung open the door, his chambray shirt and jeans filthy beyond belief.
Rafael frowned. Sí, he could accept mud. But the blood wasn’t Ethan’s, nor did it belong to a vampiro.
Ethan’s mouth tightened and he bowed awkwardly to Rafael, while remaining in the truck. “Master.”
He hadn’t publicly addressed Rafael as that in decades, not since before he became a vampiro.
Rafael’s expression hardened into a wary watchfulness, while Ethan stepped out, flung his seat forward, and turned back to the pickup’s shadowed interior.
But when Rafael’s dulce Grania took his hand, he kissed her fingers and held on to them desperately. She was the luz de su vida, the light of his life. No matter if everything else turned strange and unpredictable, he could face anything with her at his side.
Ethan produced a silvery cocoon, a bundle wrapped in layers of survival blanket, out of the truck. His face was hard edged, engraved in exhaustion and bitter resolve. But his head came up, his green gold eyes steady. He held his burden close and carefully, as if it contained everything in the world to him.
Its scent was female, that of an incredibly young cachorra. She was alive.
Grania’s breath hissed out.
Ethan dropped to his knees before Rafael and laid her at Rafael’s feet. ¿Ay de mi, what was he doing?
Terrified for a reason he wouldn’t admit even to himself, Rafael’s nostrils flared and he took a deeper sniff.
The vampiro’s blood on the cachorra—the creador who’d sired her—was Ethan. How could he have betrayed him like this? Rafael had to have only his own hijos in Texas, so he could totally trust them lest he be destroyed, as he’d killed his own creador thanks to his creador’s sloppiness in enforcing the bond. That was the reason for the First Law. If he let Ethan give El Abrazo, where would it stop? Who could he trust? Would he ever believe Grania was truly safe in a world where brutality like Madame Celeste’s was commonplace?
Rafael growled, baring his fangs completely. His men came to attention with a firm stomp but didn’t draw their weapons.
Ethan lowered his head, baring his neck to his patrón and the laws he’d flouted.
“This is Ranger Stephanie Reynolds, who has worked with me, for our esfera, for many years,” he said carefully. “She was mortally wounded in tonight’s fight and I . . . I . . .” He stopped, his throat working. “I couldn’t stand to see her hurting,” he choked out.
He loves her, Grania whispered.
That is unimportant compared to the laws he has broken!
What would you have done to be with me, in Toledo?
Rafael’s mouth abruptly closed on a sharp retort. How many times throughout those tortured centuries in that stinking cellar had he sworn he’d do anything for another hour
with his lady? Risk any trial? Dare any haughty lord?
“Let me see your face,” Rafael snapped, playing for time. “I must be sure I am speaking to an hijo of Texas, not an imposter.”
Ethan sat up but didn’t rise, choosing to settle on his heels. Rafael’s army was motionless and silent, making the predawn breeze sound like a herd of stampeding longhorns.
“I know I don’t have a place to bring her safely through La Lujuria or the strength, let alone the skill.” Ethan’s voice was hoarse but his words were clear. “Will you please give her a home, out of compassion for a good woman? She’d be an excellent addition to the mesnaderos.”
Rafael barely caught his jaw before it gaped most unattractively. Ethan was asking him to raise his hija? To bring her through La Lujuria when the blood bond would be most firmly established? Reynolds would be loyal to him after that, not Ethan.
“And you?” he asked, as haughtily and noncommittally as possible.
“My life is forfeit by the laws of Texas.” Ethan shrugged, the lines in his face deepening. “I will walk into the dawn or you may kill me in any way you wish. All I care about is Steve.”
Rafael frowned and fought not to chew his lip. Lose Ethan, the hijo who’d shown him how to build an army of vampiros to hold Texas? Stalwart, aggravating, but ultimately reliable Ethan? Especially for something he’d have done himself, given the chance.
Plus, the lady was a personage he would have eagerly recruited if she’d only been a man.
Ethan was entirely correct in his estimation of his creador’s softness toward ladies: He could not easily kill a woman and would therefore adopt Ethan’s cachorra, bringing her into Compostela. However, the odds were miniscule that any female would survive La Lujuria, especially the first few hours. Her only slim chance was if her beloved was with her the entire time.
But that siege of the mind and body was far, far worse than what Blanche had faced at Toledo all those centuries ago. He would have hewn his way through armies to be with her, yet her death hadn’t been guaranteed—as Ethan’s Ranger’s death was a near certainty now.
Bond of Darkness Page 27
