Bond of Fire

by Diane Whiteside

  The house roared its fury, destroying all traces of their parents. Flames leapt to the skies, competing with the black smoke. Sparks swirled across the landscape like demons, seeking to destroy the unwary. The heat was like a living enemy, pushing them away from everything she’d loved. And the smell—of burning sweet hay, of crisp wood, charred meat, sweet flowers, and the mustiness of old books and older furniture…

  The flames hammered at the barn’s roof, ripping through sections of it. With a great whoosh and crackle of sparks, the entire thatched expanse slowly fell in upon itself. The walls swayed, battered by the wind, and tumbled toward the house—into the courtyard, onto her family’s bodies.

  Now her parents’ remains were beyond their enemies’ most twisted notions of revenge, together with the Blues officer.

  Hélène crossed herself and turned away, her lungs and heart seared.

  DOVER, TWO DAYS LATER

  “Good morning, madame. A word alone, if I may?” Sir Andrew ffoulkes bowed politely.

  It was a very direct approach from a man she’d already learned favored indirect tactics whenever possible. Even so, she could agree to it, since Celeste was out walking with their hostess and a young naval lieutenant.

  “Certainly, Sir Andrew. Please sit down.”

  He did so with his usual grace, and Hélène poured him a cup of coffee, reflecting on the differences a few hours had made. She was clean, well fed, as well rested as her nerves would allow, and certainly quite safe under the roof of a retired general. She’d cried but not much, possibly because she was still vibrating with rage at how her parents had died.

  Her clothes were the only oddity. She and Celeste were both now wearing new and very fashionable garments, although wholly suitable for full mourning. When she’d attempted to demur, her hostess had waved off the subject, saying something about Hélène’s protection and necessities coming from the Crown.

  It was probably a misunderstanding. Someone was being kind because of Papa’s valor.

  She considered Sir Andrew over her coffee cup’s rim. He had something of Donal O’Malley’s restrained lethality, although she didn’t think he would ever dominate a room as well as Monsieur Perez could. He certainly had nothing of Jean-Marie’s elegance, or the lurking laughter living side by side with the ability to whip a blade up against a bully’s throat.

  She bit back a sigh and waited, calling upon all of her training as Bernard’s hostess to conceal her thinking.

  Sir Andrew briefly lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. She had the strange notion he might have caught her thoughts, which was impossible.

  “Madame,” he began sweetly enough, “have you considered what you will do next?”

  “As the marquis d’Agelet’s widow,” she began, concealing her surprise at his frontal attack, “I have some expertise in explosives, vouched for by my lectures to the Royal Academy and the Gunpowder Administration. I had hoped the British Crown might find my skills useful.”

  “So you’d be willing to risk your life, even kill your fellow countrymen?”

  Hélène lifted an eyebrow at his idiotic question. Did he think explosives experts grew flowers? How did he imagine Bernard had died so abruptly—falling into a pond while throwing bread to ducks? She snorted privately.

  “Of course I would. The revolutionaries killed my parents. I will risk everything, to make sure no one else goes through the same agony.”

  “What else would you do?” He leaned forward.

  “M’sieu?” Her gut tightened, bringing her alert as it always had before a key discovery. He was too intent, making this interview very tricky.

  “At Sainte Marie des Fleurs, the wood was very wet since it had been raining for several days. Yet it managed to catch fire and blaze very quickly.” He leaned forward, watching her intently and speaking intimately.

  “So? The Blues brought incendiaries, as they always did.” Hélène watched him placidly, refusing to be drawn into any trap. Firestarting without any visible aids would be considered witchcraft in most places, making one liable to be hanged or worse.

  He drummed his fingers for a moment on the arm of his chair, watching her face very closely, before he spoke again much more softly.

  “What if Shakespeare spoke the truth when Hamlet said there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy? What if there are firestarters—and vampires. Or, more properly, vampiros?”

  Hélène’s eyes widened. Memories flashed past, of a summer day and a man groaning in delight while a woman drank from his neck.

  “Do you believe in firestarters, madame?” Sir Andrew’s voice was very soft, scarcely loud enough to be heard two paces away.

  “Why are you asking?” she parried, recovering some of her nerve.

  “Because explosives experts are easier to find than firestarters. I didn’t see all of the fight at Sainte Marie des Fleurs, but I saw you start the fire.”

  She turned pale, her skin rapidly flashing hot and cold.

  “And I’m damned glad you did because otherwise you and your sister wouldn’t have lived. Please believe me. You know those troops would have searched the house and killed you both, long after you’d started begging them to grant you mercy.”

  She flinched, but gritted her teeth and nodded.

  “You could fight Paris far better as a firestarter, madame,” he coaxed.

  She snorted with disgust at the unlikely role. “What, torch the entire Committee of Public Safety?”

  “Unlikely. They have their own guards, who are very powerful. But we play our own nasty games on them.”

  Mon Dieu, he sounded completely serious. Perhaps she could probe for a few of his plans. “Such as?”

  “You could become more powerful. Mind powers, like firestarting, increase when someone becomes a vampiro.”

  She set her coffee cup down so abruptly, she completely missed the saucer, and it landed in the tray. “Vampiro? Me become a vampire?”

  “So you have seen them before,” he purred triumphantly.

  She nodded distractedly, a thousand possibilities chasing themselves through her mind—mixed with relief at finally being able to speak freely. “But how could I do that? I’d have to drink blood for the rest of my life!”

  “We live on the emotional energy carried in the blood, not the blood itself. The more powerful the emotion, the less often we need to feed.”

  “Carnal pleasure.” As in the passion on the vicomte’s face.

  “It’s one of the greatest. But so is death and terror.”

  She sprang out of her chair. “I would never do that!”

  “Nor have I, nor will you be asked to. Please calm yourself, madame, and return to your seat. We have much to discuss.”

  “Will you swear to me that I will never kill for food?”

  For the first time, he allowed his mask of indolent good humor to slip and show the steel underneath. His gray eyes were very hard above his strong jaw.

  “You have my most solemn oath. The first emotion a vampiro tastes is the emotion they must feed upon for the rest of their lives. Should you agree, you would not be taught to feed upon death or terror—since the British Crown would never trust a vampiro who required such meals.”

  She propped her fists on her hips and hooted with cynical laughter. “So very pragmatic of you. Very well, I believe you now and I will listen to the rest of your proposal.”

  She sat back down with all the elegance of a marquise, who’d been born to the ancient régime’s oldest and proudest class of nobility.

  “You would also live forever,” he added.

  “Years and years as a servant of the British Crown? No!” Better to die now.

  “It’s a powerful gift and takes long, difficult training.” Granite was more flexible than his countenance. “A suitable period of service must be given in recompense.”

  “Such as?” Why was she considering this?

  “As long as you’re a ‘creature of the night’ who mus
t avoid sunlight at all costs, without considering twilight. I myself have never been able to see twilight since I became a vampiro.”

  “How long would I have to serve, in years?” Did he think French-women were so foolish as to be tricked by pretty words from Englishmen? Dolt. She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee.

  “Approximately two hundred years.”

  “That’s far too long!” Twenty decades sworn to a foreign king?

  “As one, you would be able to start a fire so quickly and precisely you could kill a vampiro before he took a step. That’s faster than a cannonball can leave the gun’s muzzle.”

  Hélène shot him a sideways glance and stirred more cream into her coffee. “Impossible.”

  “No.” The very flatness of his response made it believable—and tempting.

  “I would be your creador, unless you object to me.”

  “My creator? Is the bond very intimate?”

  “More than you can imagine.” His eyes danced briefly, unsettling her stomach. “My loyalty to the British Crown is absolute, and your loyalty to me, as your creador, would also be certain.”

  She whistled unhappily but said nothing.

  “Exactly,” he agreed. “Our branch of the Secret Service is deeply hidden but we are controlled from the very top.”

  On the other hand, who else did she know in England since she’d never been here before? He had brought her out of France, and he’d always been very kind to her and Celeste. “Your handlers are trying to be generous to me.”

  He shrugged, a small splotch of color appearing high on his cheekbones.

  “They truly must want me.” She probed a little harder.

  “Very much so.” His tone was extremely dry and she laughed for the first time in days.

  “Will they pay me well?”

  “Excuse me, ma’am?” She’d obviously shocked him out of his British sangfroid.

  “No war between Britain and France has ever lasted for two full centuries. Besides, I can hardly believe that those Parisian donkeys are competent enough to provide for an army that long,” she announced haughtily, testing the limits of her newfound influence. “So I will need some diversions, which means fashionable clothing for every season. I am a Frenchwoman, after all.”

  He gaped at her. Excellent; she’d managed to completely knock him off balance. She needed at least one victory in this sea of newness and uncertainties.

  “And my sister…”

  “Has already accepted the same offer.”

  Hélène glared, catching his momentary smugness. “How dare you seduce an innocent like Celeste?”

  “Mind powers run in families, and we need every possible advantage in this war. Besides, she is twenty-six, madame.”

  On the other hand, la petite was distraught from seeing her parents’ murder. Hélène had noticed she’d seemed calmer this morning. Perhaps Sir Andrew’s body had provided some comfort. Hélène could hardly deny her sister the right to find healing wherever she found it—and revenge, as well.

  Even so, as her older sister, she did need to keep an eye out for her.

  “If you hurt her, I will gladly kill you. Slowly,” she warned him.

  “Understood.” He bowed slightly. “She has also received one last warning: Very, very few females’ sanity passes intact through El Abrazo, the process of becoming a vampira. The worst will be La Lujuria, the lechery at the beginning.”

  “Oh, I will survive your El Abrazo, Sir Andrew,” Hélène assured him. “It will be a pleasure to do so, in order to protect my sister and avenge my parents.”

  She had no doubts at all.

  OXFORD, JUNE 1795

  Celeste revolved slowly, examining herself critically in the mirror from every possible angle.

  The peignoir and nightgown were both made of the finest silk, trimmed with exquisite Valenciennes lace and fluttering ribbons. The entire ensemble was dyed black and slightly transparent, to remind Andrew she’d been his lover for months. The neckline exposed her breasts, which fascinated him—the masculine idiot!—and also allowed free access to her neck.

  She would have worn something far less revealing with fewer ribbons for Raoul, of course. White and virginal, to celebrate the perfection of her life and the hope of a child. Displaying the beloved ring he’d given her, the one she’d been forced to destroy, lest its implication of a lover be questioned.

  Her eyes closed in agony.

  “Ma’am?” the maid questioned cautiously.

  “Go!” Celeste waved her off, for once not throwing something at the clumsy bitch.

  All Englishwomen were bitches; it was an article of faith. She had to believe that, if she was to have revenge on the entire race for Raoul’s death.

  The latch clicked shut.

  Celeste turned away from the mirror, silk whispering around her feet.

  She had only one goal now: revenge for Raoul’s death. On the English spies for arranging the ambush, and on Hélène for killing him.

  She intended to destroy every English agent she possibly could, to carry on the work Raoul had left behind.

  Her hands curled into claws, and she slashed at the air. Ah, if she could tear her so-called loving sister’s eyes out! But no, she had to smile and coo and pretend that she was grieving solely for their parents. And that she loved Hélène. Bah!

  She’d wondered a thousand times how Hélène had forced that barn to burst into flames. But there were only two possible killers—the Blues soldiers or Hélène. After a summer and fall spent following an army, Celeste had known exactly what soldiers did to cause fires, whether accidentally or deliberately.

  On that bitter night, she’d had an excellent view of the barn and its surroundings from the attic. But she’d seen nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing to indicate any military cause for that great explosion of flames. No shouted orders, no continuous spiral of smoke from a fuse, no stench of sulphur from a match, no clatter of hooves or creak of wheels to indicate a wagonload of black powder being pulled stealthily into position.

  The only one who’d done anything whatsoever was Hélène. Celeste had heard her chanting under her breath, felt her tenseness—seen the fire start with her own eyes.

  Heard her scream, “Die, damn you, die!”

  For that alone, the bitch deserved destruction.

  When the ordinary was ruled out, only the extraordinary remained, no matter what the means were. Celeste had no doubts left. Witchcraft or not, Hélène had caused it to burn and thereby knowingly murdered Raoul.

  Therefore, Hélène must die.

  When all the English spies were gone and Hélène—who’d been foolish enough to join them—knew herself alone, as Celeste was now…Ah, then and only then, would Celeste kill her. It was a very simple plan and would be easy to carry out, since Hélène suspected nothing. Their protectors wouldn’t watch Celeste, since men always thought with their dicks around willing women.

  She’d seduced Andrew as quickly as possible. It had been easier after he’d sworn he couldn’t give her children, swearing he was a vampiro.

  He’d offered to make her one of the same half-mythical beings as himself, and she’d promptly agreed. Whether or not it was true, he believed it. If it wasn’t real, turning over a madman to Paris would be easier. If it was true, becoming someone so powerful would make it that much easier to destroy the British Secret Service from the inside.

  She hadn’t expected he’d make Hélène the same offer, damn him, or that Whitehall would insist Hélène become a vampira first. The murderess had been one for more than a year now. They’d said they needed her powers desperately, not Celeste’s skills as a seductress, which was where even Andrew agreed her talents lay. And the bitch had been one of the rare females who’d made it through La Lujuria smoothly, keeping her sanity intact.

  Ces salopards! She’d show the bastards who laughed last.

  She hoisted a brandy decanter over her head by its neck but stopped herself in mid-swing.

  S
he needed to regain her discipline.

  She could hardly explain why she’d broken it when she was supposed to be eagerly anticipating Andrew’s embrace and becoming his hija, the vampira he sired.

  She laughed at herself.

  That was no hardship. The true pain—the agony that was tearing her heart—was the certainty she needed to stop thinking of Raoul.

  She couldn’t permit Andrew to know she plotted revenge on England, not on the revolutionaries in Paris—and all because of her lover’s death, not her parents’.

  Andrew had warned her he could read every thought in her head once she drank his blood and he became her creador. He’d honored her grief before now and stayed out of her mind. But the blood bond between creador and hija would not permit him to do so afterward.

  It felt like the worst form of adultery. Yet it was necessity and must last for years. If nothing else, revenge for Raoul would surely give her the emotional focus Andrew insisted she needed if she was to survive El Abrazo.

  But to tear Raoul—dearest, most beloved Raoul, the light of her life for as long as she could remember—out of her heart?

  She whimpered, hiding her face in her hands.

  “My dear Celeste! If I had known you were so nervous, I would have knocked first.”

  “Andrew!” Celeste whirled to face him, forcing a tremulous smile. “Mon cher, it is nothing—only a silly girl’s vapors at finally gaining what she wants.” That at least is the truth.

  “There’s no need to rush, my dear.” He was holding a bouquet of red roses, dew still beaded on their petals. But his eyes were searching her face, and he wasn’t eagerly kissing her hand or another portion of her anatomy, as he usually did.

  No need to rush? She would not wait another minute, if she had any choice.

  Raoul, please forgive me. You are, and will always be, my angel. But you cannot accompany me on the paths I must walk now. Please forgive me.

  She mentally closed a door on her memories, locked it, and forbade herself to open it again.

  “Andrew, my pet.” Was that a properly saccharine British endearment? It seemed to be, judging by how he straightened up. She walked her fingers up his chest. “Please forgive me a silly girl’s nerves. I’m somewhat overwhelmed by the thought of finally becoming completely yours.” She traced his lower lip with a single finger. “Can you ever forgive me?”