Vincent (Vampires in America Book 8)

by D. B. Reynolds

  Vincent looked away and his gaze fell on Lana’s black, zippered vanity case. She didn’t wear much in the way of makeup, wasn’t a high maintenance woman who fussed with creams and lotions. Her one vanity, if she had one, was her hair. She had travel bottles of expensive shampoo and conditioner, and a variety of hair ties and bands to secure her braid. But the one thing she used the most was her brush. He’d noticed it because it was unusual, not one of the typical plastic kind found in a local big box store. Lana had told him that she’d had it for years, that it was designed for long hair like hers and had cost her a fortune, but it was worth it. And when he’d watched her brush her braid out every night, watched the long, slow strokes through the black fall of her hair, he’d had to agree with her. Just watching her made him want to throw her on the bed and fuck her ‘til she screamed. He’d buy her a hundred of those brushes if that’s what she wanted.

  So why, if she’d decided to leave him, would she not at least have gathered up her brush and hair ties to take with her?

  “We’re going to Enrique’s,” Vincent told Michael. Because he was convinced that’s where he’d find Lana. And if Enrique had hurt her . . . well, the vampire lord was already going to die tonight, but Vincent would make sure his suffering was so excruciating that he’d beg for death before it was over.

  NO ONE CHALLENGED Vincent when he arrived at Enrique’s headquarters on the outskirts of the city. It was a huge estate, acquired long before the city reached its current limits. Vincent arrived with only a small entourage—three SUVs, filled mostly with his security people, but every one of them had taken his blood. Everyone was sworn to him personally and would back him in a fight if he needed it. And that was in addition to his less obvious supporters, like Tulio, who would already be with Enrique.

  The gate guards took one look at him and rolled the heavy wood and iron gates open. Not even Enrique would expect his guards to bar the gates to Vincent. The Mexican lord would suck them dry if he needed their strength to defeat Vincent’s challenge, but he wouldn’t expect them to stand against Vincent on their own.

  No one was in the courtyard when Vincent climbed out of the SUV and headed inside. His security team formed a circle around him as they moved through the deserted corridors, boots striking the tiles, echoing in the empty spaces. Michael walked at his side, Ortega and Zárate at his back, along with Jerry, Salvio, and Carolyn. Vincent figured they had as much at stake in this battle as he did. They deserved to be here. Everyone else, supporters and detractors alike, had either vacated the estate to avoid being caught up in the conflict, or they were waiting with Enrique behind the big double doors where Vincent was headed.

  Vincent didn’t need anyone to tell him where Enrique would be waiting for him. It would be the room where Enrique held court, the place Vincent had always thought of as the throne room. It was huge and mostly empty, with no furniture and no place for anyone but Enrique to sit, because, after all, subjects didn’t sit in the presence of their king, did they? The ceiling overhead was vaulted, with a small glass dome at the center. The glass had once been clear so that Enrique could gaze out at the stars—or maybe so the stars could shine on Enrique—but it had become too much of an effort to stop the pigeons from shitting on it, or to clean it up when they inevitably did. So, Enrique had compromised, installing a stained glass nightscape instead. Even back then, when Vincent had known very little about such extravagances, he’d still understood that the glass inserts had to have cost a small fortune. Now, it was just one more reminder of Enrique’s selfishness, that he’d devote so much to decorate this one room at a time when most of his own people had been sleeping unguarded in holes dug beneath their homes.

  Vincent pushed open the doors without a word and strode forward until he hit the middle of the room, not willing to stand like a petitioner in front of the vampire lord he was about to kill.

  Michael and the others spread out behind him, making their allegiance clear. Their support would cost them their lives if he failed tonight. And that certain knowledge forced Vincent to put aside the last shred of doubt he had over whether he could defeat Enrique, the final reservations as to whether he really wanted this job. He pushed back his worries over Lana’s safety, too.

  Too many lives rested on his success tonight. He couldn’t afford to fail, and so he wouldn’t.

  “Vincent. What a surprise,” Enrique sneered, hatred in every syllable.

  “Let’s not pretend, Enrique,” Vincent responded. “You’re no more surprised to see me here than I am to find you surrounded by your gaggle of worthless sycophants.”

  The vampires in question shuffled in affront, but not one of them had the balls to challenge Vincent’s assessment. He dismissed them with a glance.

  “I see you’ve acquired a gaggle of your own,” Enrique observed, then raised his voice. “Jerry, Salvio, oh, and especially you, darling Carolyn, on your knees,” he commanded, putting enough power into it that several of the vampires in the clique behind him dropped to the floor in submission.

  But none of the three vampires Enrique had named moved a muscle.

  Enrique’s face distorted with anger. “I am your master and your lord, and you will obey me,” he snarled.

  Vincent again felt the power in Enrique’s command and drew on his own power to shield the vampires standing behind him.

  “They are no longer yours, Enrique,” he called, diverting the vampire lord’s ire. “You never had their love, and you lost their loyalty the day you enslaved them to human masters.”

  A mutter of shock ran through the room as this piece of history was absorbed.

  “So you’ve made them your slaves instead,” Enrique said dismissively. “How is that any better than what I can offer?”

  “Not slaves. They’ve given me their loyalty in return for my protection. That is the ages-old bargain between vampire and master, between a vampire lord and every vampire living in his territory. It is a responsibility, not a right.”

  “Oh, listen to you,” Enrique scoffed. “Such lofty words from the bastard son of a whore.” He meant the barb as an insult, something to enrage Vincent into acting foolishly. But Vincent only shook his head, mocking the weakness of his opponent’s verbal volley.

  “Your words mean nothing, Enrique. I know who I am, who my parents were.” He paused, seeing Xuan Ignacio enter the room to one side. “I also know who my brother was,” Vincent continued. “And I know how he died.”

  Enrique saw Xuan, too, and his eyes went wide in surprise, an uncontrolled reaction that was there and gone so quickly that Vincent wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking for it. But it was the final confirmation he needed that Xuan had been telling him the truth. The same truth that Raphael had known would set Vincent on this path.

  “I see you’ve met my old friend Xuan Ignacio,” Enrique said smoothly. “Has he been rewriting history again?”

  “Don’t bother, Enrique,” Vincent said. “Blood speaks to blood.”

  “Perhaps, but it changes nothing. You speak so eloquently of loyalty, what of yours to your rightful lord?”

  “A vampire lord owns only what he can hold. It has always been thus.”

  Enrique’s response was a smile so smug that it sent a chill worming into the tiniest and most distant of Vincent’s bones.

  “I thought you might feel that way,” the vampire lord said and gestured at the small door behind his throne.

  The door was pulled back, but Vincent didn’t need to look to know what he’d see. He’d scented her blood the moment the door cracked open. This was where Lana had gone, where she and her guard had disappeared to. She hadn’t gone into hiding, hadn’t run from him and everything he represented. Somehow, one of Enrique’s spies had succeeded in kidnapping her, sneaking her out of the building, despite all of Vincent’s security.

  But the how of it could be dea
lt with later. The why of it was now and very clear. Enrique thought to bargain with Vincent, to exchange Lana’s safety for Vincent’s surrender.

  It might have worked if Vincent hadn’t known Enrique as well as he did. But he did know him, knew the duplicity, the depravity the vampire lord was capable of. Even if Vincent fell on his knees in this moment and pledged eternal fealty to Enrique, the old lord would not let Lana live. He would slit her throat in front of Vincent and let her blood paint the floor simply to prove that he could, to punish Vincent for even thinking of defying him.

  Enrique had thought to weaken Vincent by producing Lana like this, but he’d only hardened Vincent’s resolve instead.

  Lana’s gaze found Vincent as she was dragged into the room. She was wearing nothing but a bathing suit and sweatpants, not even shoes, despite the chill in the room, and her hair was a tangled mess. Her arms were gripped to either side by vampires who each outweighed her by fifty pounds, as if she was such a threat that two of them were needed to contain her. Vincent wanted to smile at the stupidity of that, and to show Lana that there was nothing to worry about. But there was. As long as Enrique remained alive, she was in danger.

  Enrique signaled when the vampires drew closer, and they released Lana with a shove that would have thrown her to the floor if Enrique hadn’t caught her first, wrapping a casual arm around her neck, his thin fingers caressing her throat.

  “Your taste in women has improved, Vincent. This one had spirit . . . before I fucked it out of her.”

  “He’s lying,” Lana rasped as loudly as she could with Enrique’s hand gripping her throat. “He tried, but he couldn’t get it up.”

  Enrique snarled furiously, curled his free hand into a fist, and plowed it into her stomach. She dropped to the floor and curled over her knees, clutching her stomach and retching. Enrique reached down and casually twisted her long hair around his fist, yanking her head up so that Vincent could see the tears streaming down her face, the blood flecking her lips.

  “Too much spirit is not attractive in a female,” Enrique said fastidiously.

  Vincent ground his teeth against a rage so powerful that it felt like he had a wild animal trapped within his body, raking long claws over his ribs and against the walls of his chest, demanding to be released, howling for revenge against the monster who had dared to harm his woman. Vincent’s fists curled into claws in an unconscious mimicry of the creature as he stared at Lana, her face crumpled in pain, tears streaming from beneath lowered lids as she gasped for breath.

  But then her eyes suddenly flicked open, and her gaze, when it met his, was direct with intent beneath the pain. Vincent saw her determination, but didn’t know what she wanted, what she intended to do. He stared at her, wishing she wasn’t so resistant to his telepathy, wishing she could tell him somehow . . . He caught the slight movement of her right hand, saw the flash of fear in her eyes as he followed the move, lest he give it away. And in that instant, Vincent knew what she planned, and it was so dangerous that the beast inside him that was his rage against Enrique began to howl and thrash in its effort to break free.

  But Vincent held on, and he waited. He would not buy Enrique’s death at the cost of Lana’s. He needed her free of Enrique’s grip before he attacked.

  “Vincent,” she gasped, and he stared at her sharply, alarmed at the weakness in her voice. “Salvio,” she whispered. “It was Salvio.”

  Salvio broke from behind Vincent, seeming intent on reaching Enrique’s side, as if he actually believed the vampire lord could protect him. But it was too little and far too late. The moment Vincent heard Salvio’s name, he reached out with his power and froze the lesser vampire in place.

  “Sire,” Salvio breathed, his pleading gaze on Enrique who sat on his makeshift throne, watching the tableau unfold with a gleeful expression.

  “Why?” Vincent demanded. “I gave you your freedom.”

  Salvio turned a vicious look on Vincent. “But you never asked me if I wanted it,” he snapped. “Maybe I liked my life as a nightmare in the shadows. I had power, I was feared. And what did you give me instead? The life of a lowly soldier.”

  Vincent stared at him. “Then why not walk away? You could have gone back to Enrique. I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

  “Because my Sire had a better use for me within your circle, close to your woman,” he added, with a smug smile.

  Vincent’s rage redoubled. “I told you when you swore to me,” he said, his voice low and harsh with anger. “I do not tolerate betrayal.”

  He didn’t lift so much as a hand in Salvio’s direction, didn’t waste the energy on unnecessary theatrics. A thin thread of power slashed the air between him and Salvio, becoming a hot poker that slammed into the traitor’s heart, ripping into the muscle, heating the flesh.

  Salvio fell to his knees, hands tearing at his chest, keening in anguish as he turned to stare in disbelief at Enrique who did nothing but lean forward on his chair, eyes burning with hunger, lapping up the fear and pain radiating off of Salvio like sweat from his pores.

  Vincent bared his teeth. “Look at your Sire now,” he snarled at Salvio. “Do you still think he’ll save you?”

  And with that, he increased the power burning in Salvio’s chest until the traitor screamed in agony, until the fire incinerated his heart in an instant. Until Salvio was no more.

  Vincent shook his hand, as if sloughing off the residue of Salvio’s death, and then he turned to face Enrique once again.

  “He was loyal to you,” he said loudly, mostly for the benefit of the many vampires crowded into the big room. “He gave you what you wanted, he betrayed his oath to me. And still, you made no effort to save him.”

  “He was of no more use to me.”

  “And so you killed him.”

  “Oh, no, that was you, Vincent. Champion that you are.”

  Vincent barely heard Enrique’s sneering reply. His attention was focused instead on Carolyn who’d remained staunchly at his back in the face of Enrique’s cruel taunt. She was a low-burning fire of anger and determination behind him and he reached out with his mind, finding her easily, her bond to him still strong and shining brightly.

  “Carolyn, when I go after Enrique, you grab Lana and protect her. Do you understand?”

  “I will protect her with my life,” she responded immediately.

  Vincent hoped it didn’t come to that, but he didn’t insult Carolyn by telling her so. The young vampire’s confidence, her sense of self-worth, was too recently restored. So, he sent his gratitude down the link, then turned and waited for Lana to make the first move in this dance.

  As if she understood that he was ready, that he might not like it, but he accepted her plan, Lana gave him a bloody smile that defied her predicament and conveyed so much love for him that it broke his heart.

  And then in a single practiced move, she slipped the little knife out of her pocket, popped it open, then twisted around and stabbed Enrique in the thigh.

  Several things happened at once.

  Enrique roared in mingled fury and pain, and threw Lana across the room.

  And Vincent . . . attacked.

  Most battles among powerful vampires were fought at arm’s length or better, battles of power and mental strength, with weapons made of energy and magic. But that wasn’t enough for Vincent, not today and not for Enrique. He needed to rend the old lord’s flesh, to feel his blood spurt hot and wasted as he tore out his throat.

  Vincent crossed the room in an eyeblink and grabbed Enrique by the throat, his hand so big that it nearly circled the smaller vampire’s neck entirely. But he wasn’t such a fool that he thought physical strength alone would be enough. Even as he choked the breath from his former master, he snapped a shield of power into place around himself, sealing it a split second before Enrique lashed out with his own consider
able might. Enrique was an asshole and a traitor to his own people, but he was also a damn powerful vampire lord who’d ruled Mexico for nearly 200 years. And while Vincent had a handful of loyal vampires at his back, Enrique had the full resources of a lord. He could draw on every single one of the souls who looked to him for protection, thousands of vampires whose hearts beat by Enrique’s will alone. And Vincent knew the bastard would drain the territory dry before he’d surrender.

  Gathering every ounce of his own strength, relying on every hour of experience he’d acquired, every technique he’d learned over his long life, Vincent delved into Enrique’s mind. Using the unique ability that was his alone, he forced the vampire lord back into his youth, back to when he’d first come to Mexico, and then back farther still, to his childhood on the streets of southern Spain.

  Because just as Enrique knew Vincent’s history, so did Vincent know Enrique’s. It was his talent, after all, to know the secrets that every vampire hid from the world.

  And Enrique’s secret was one that he’d guarded desperately, not only from Vincent but from himself. Because although Enrique had taunted Vincent as being the bastard son of a whore, it was Enrique himself who’d been born on the streets, the child of a teenaged prostitute who’d sold her son for the price of a good meal. He’d been the lowest servant in a wealthy household, everyone’s dogsbody, kicked and abused, forced to see the rewards of tremendous wealth every day, but existing in abject hardship and degradation. It wasn’t until he was older and slaving long hours loading cargo for his owner that he’d caught the eye of a vampire on the hunt for new followers—young, strong men who could serve him in the vampire wars so common in that time. The vampire had turned Enrique, and Enrique’s first act upon waking as a vampire was to hunt down his human master and rip out his throat.