But it wasn’t the murder of his former owner that haunted Enrique. It was the years he’d spent at the mercy of others, tortured, starved, too young and weak to defend himself. It was a horrible childhood and one that would have gained him sympathy and even understanding, if he hadn’t become a monster himself.
If he hadn’t threatened the life of the woman Vincent loved.
So the battle was joined. Vincent was familiar with Enrique’s power, familiar with how he used it to punish and intimidate. While Vincent’s talent was a thing of subtlety and intricate manipulation, Enrique’s strength was a blunt instrument, a cudgel wielded by a bully, quite literally. He would try to physically destroy Vincent, to crush organs and shatter bones. Vincent could have cudgeled him back, but only at the expense of his efforts to destroy Enrique’s mind. Instead, he hardened his shield, determined to survive the battering long enough to permit his own unusual talent to work on Enrique’s mind, to dig into his memories and savage without pity until there was no intellect left to drive the vampire lord’s tremendous power, until he was trapped in a circle of his own thoughts, his own childhood nightmare.
Vincent tore through Enrique’s memories like tissue paper, digging recklessly, shunting aside any memories that didn’t help him, anything that gave Enrique pleasure or satisfaction, obliterating them in his wake. He didn’t care about the destruction he left behind. Enrique would no longer need a functioning mind when Vincent was through with him. He’d be nothing but a pile of dust.
But Enrique wasn’t defeated yet. Vincent felt the wave of power slice through him a moment before he was slammed to the floor with such force that the parquet cracked beneath his weight. Flesh split and muscles screamed and still he held on, burying Enrique in the horror of his past, forcing him to relive every humiliation, every instant of childhood terror, until Vincent was certain the tide was about to turn.
But again, Enrique rallied, pummeling Vincent with a series of blows that were like boulders flying through the air, smashing into him with such speed and force that one of Vincent’s arms broke under the assault. He howled in agony, but he held on, forcing himself to ignore the pain, to forget the grinding of his bones as he gripped Enrique in a headlock, hindering his assault while Vincent continued to plow through his mind, leaving a trail of ruin and torment.
The two of them had long ago rolled to the floor, Vincent crushing the smaller lord beneath his greater bulk while Enrique shouted his fury, punctuating his attacks with enraged screams. But even as Enrique continued to fight, as his defiant shouts shook the glass dome overhead, every vampire in the room sensed the moment when the momentum shifted, when their lord’s defiance turned hollow. The mood among the watching vampires shifted in that instant, as they realized—many for the first time—that Enrique could very well die in the next few minutes.
Fear became a monster lurking in the dark depths of the huge room, fear that Enrique would die, that they all would die with him, fear that in victory, Vincent would execute Enrique’s followers; and there were many of those. And that fear sucked the power out of Enrique even as he fought for his life, as he reached out to his vampires, willing to drain them dry to save himself, only to find them shrieking in terror, siphoning his strength instead in their desperate need for reassurance and safety.
Without warning, something . . . changed, an indefinable something, a sudden deprivation of air, a bubble of static electricity exploding outward, clinging to the skin of every vampire present and cutting off Enrique’s enraged roar mid-howl. The whimpers of a small boy emerged to replace the snarls of the powerful lord. And Vincent knew immediately what had happened. He grabbed hold of the memory he’d found and spun it ruthlessly, forcing the grown man to confront the horrors of the child, to relive it over and over again, the terror, the helplessness, the hunger and thirst.
Until finally the blows that had been driven by the force of a vampire lord’s might became nothing but the fists of an ordinary man.
Vincent straightened with a roar of victory, a roar flavored with agony as he clenched his broken hand and slammed it into Enrique’s chest. In an act of sheer willpower, he squeezed the life out of the vampire lord’s heart, destroying the organ and finally, finally ending the long life of Enrique Fernandez del Solar, Lord of Mexico.
Vincent knelt in the blood and dust of Enrique’s destruction with only one goal—to get to Lana. The image of Enrique’s savagery when he’d thrown her across the room was stuck in the forefront of Vincent’s mind, playing in a loop eerily similar to the one he’d used to torture Enrique to his death. He forced himself to turn, ignoring the pain, blinking against the blood filling his eyes as he searched for Lana, when suddenly he was struck by a blow from nowhere, a blow more powerful than anything Enrique had delivered. Shoved backward until he was bent nearly flat, he would have collapsed if Michael hadn’t caught him, if he hadn’t felt the power of his vampires surrounding him, if they hadn’t protected him as the mantle of lordship crashed into him. Thousands of vampires all cried out at once, clinging to him, demanding life and protection, pleading for comfort as the order they’d known for centuries under Enrique now disintegrated and coalesced around a new center, a new Lord of Mexico. Vincent.
Vincent rocked back, ass on his heels, eyes closed, head held in bloody, broken hands. He groaned, amazed that there was any new pain left to feel, that there was a single inch of him that could hurt more than it already did. Enrique had spoken once of the burden of leadership, complaining about the whining and the demands, about the constant barrage of need, until he felt like he was never alone in his own head. Vincent had dismissed it, thinking it was simply one more sign of Enrique’s hateful personality. But now he understood. And he wondered why he couldn’t have left well enough alone, couldn’t have let some other vampire kill Enrique and take on this burden of responsibility and leadership.
But even as he thought it, he knew it wouldn’t have worked. Maybe when he’d still been human, he would have willingly accepted a secondary role in life, accepted the inherent limitations of his bastard birth and followed someone else’s lead. But from the moment he’d been made Vampire, something had been born inside him, something that had goaded him into action and made him claw his way to the top, seizing power from vampire after vampire until it culminated in this moment in time.
Vincent was Lord of Mexico. It was what he had been reborn to become.
He reached out to the thousands of vampires who were now his to protect. Shielding them from his pain, he sent them a message of reassurance first, a soothing balm of care. But he followed it with a taste of his power, a demand that they cease whining like toddlers and go back to their lives. They were safe, and they should now shut the fuck up.
Silence descended and Vincent had only one thought. Where was Lana?
He opened eyes bleary with sweat and blood and scanned the huge room. The scent of her blood struck a hammer blow—it was too strong, there was too much blood—and he knew real fear for the first time in decades. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t hold him, so he crawled. She lay where Enrique had thrown her, limp and unmoving, still hidden behind Carolyn who crouched protectively, fangs gleaming, glaring daggers at anyone who drew too close. Her head snapped around and she hissed a warning at Vincent’s approach, before her gaze cleared and she blushed in recognition.
“My lord,” she whispered, cringing back as if expecting punishment.
“Thank you, Carolyn.” He managed to say it softly, without growling, though all he wanted to do was shove her aside to get to Lana.
Seeming to understand, Carolyn scooted away, clearing his approach.
Vincent did growl then. When he saw what Enrique had done to Lana, he wished he could bring the bastard back, wished he could keep him alive for weeks, toying with his memories, making him relive every torment, every humiliation over and over again.
La
na’s soft moan snapped him out of his fantasies of torture. He crawled closer and stroked the back of his fingers over her cheek.
“Lana,” he said quietly.
Her eyes fluttered opened and her lips curved into a bare smile. “Vincent,” she whispered, her voice so weak and so laced with pain that he wanted to howl.
Scooping her into his lap, he ignored her cries of pain and wrapped his arms around her. Then leaning back against the wall, he ripped open his wrist with his fangs and held it to her mouth. “Drink, querida.”
She turned her head away at first, eyes closed, her face scrunched in protest.
“I need you strong, Lana,” he murmured, knowing it would persuade her. “The fight isn’t over yet, and I need you with me.”
She sighed, a long, exhausted exhale, then rolled her head back and parted her lips. Vincent placed his bleeding wrist over her mouth, then closed his eyes and rested his head against hers as she began to suck. Every draw of her mouth, every touch of her tongue felt as if it was his cock in her mouth instead of his wrist. He fought back a groan, keenly aware of the many eyes watching his every move.
“Michael,” he said finally.
“Sire?”
Vincent opened his eyes to look at his lieutenant. “Find secure quarters for my people and bring in our own daylight guards.” Even as he said it, he realized that every vampire in the room was now included in his people. But that would take some getting used to, and Michael would know what he meant.
Vincent looked down to see Lana’s eyes open and looking up at him. She drew her mouth away from his wrist with a lingering stroke of her tongue and said, “Jeff Garcia.” Her voice was weak but urgent. “He’s injured, but he’s alive. In the room where they held me.”
“Michael,” Vincent said, never looking away from her.
“I heard, Sire.”
Lana closed her eyes and breathed, as if gathering her strength, then her eyes opened again. “Did we win?”
Vincent grinned. “We did. Thanks to you and your knife.”
Lana smiled and tried to laugh, but she only managed a breathless cough. “I feel like I could sleep for a month,” she breathed.
“We’ll both sleep,” he said, holding her to his heart. “There’s just one more thing you need to know.”
She looked up at him in question and he bent his head low, speaking for her ears only. “I’m not your fucking partner.”
Epilogue
Malibu, California
RAPHAEL GLANCED over when the dedicated phone line rang, noting the caller’s number on the display. He exchanged a knowing look with Cyn, who understood as well as he did who was likely to be calling on that line and from that number.
“Vincent,” he said, picking up the phone and greeting North America’s newest vampire lord. He didn’t even try to conceal the smug satisfaction he felt at Enrique’s death, nor did he need this phone call to let him know the old lord was dead. He, along with every other vampire lord on the continent, had felt Enrique’s demise the moment it happened.
“Raphael,” Vincent responded, using no title or honorific. Intentionally, Raphael knew, a way of establishing that the two of them were equals now, both lords, both members of the Council.
“Congratulations,” Raphael said. “Enrique will not be missed.”
“Not by anyone I know,” Vincent agreed.
“And Xuan Ignacio?”
“Alive last I saw him. Although he if wants to stay that way, he’ll find himself a new lord sooner rather than later.”
“Very generous,” Raphael said, and meant it. If he’d been Vincent, he’d have executed Xuan on the spot.
“Lana pled his case. She was eloquent.”
“Ah.” Raphael understood exactly what Vincent meant. One’s lover, or mate, could be very persuasive if one cared enough about her. And apparently Vincent did. Interesting.
“Speaking of such things,” Vincent said, “I have a gift for you.”
“A gift,” Raphael repeated, letting his doubt flavor the words. He and Vincent did not exchange gifts. They were not friends. His role in Vincent’s nascent rise to the Council had been purely out of self-interest.
“A rather unique gift,” Vincent continued. “Parisian in origin, I believe. Difficult to transport, but Lana and I would welcome you and your mate to Mexico City if you’re interested in taking a look.”
Raphael was silent for several minutes as he considered what Vincent was saying—and what he wasn’t.
“We’ll be there tomorrow night,” he said finally. “My people will contact yours with the details.”
“Excellent. I’m quite confident you’ll find your visit . . . fulfilling.”
Mexico City, Mexico
Cyn strolled into the building on Raphael’s arm. Raphael was as devastating as always in one of his elegant suits, while Cyn had chosen a dark gray silk sheath. It was sleeveless, in deference to the muggy heat of a Mexican spring, form-fitting and simple, except for the plunging neckline in back, which bared skin down to her waist. Raphael loved that dress, which was why she’d worn it. Meetings among powerful vampires reminded her of those Mafia movies where a guy’s success was judged by how his woman dressed. Except, of course, in those movies the women had no taste at all, whereas Cyn had an excellent sense of style . . . if she did say so herself.
She hugged Raphael’s arm closer as they left the muggy nighttime air behind and entered the building. Jared and Juro followed, while the rest of Raphael’s security took up positions outside. To all outward appearances, this was nothing but a friendly visit from one lord to another, a welcome-to-the-club sort of meet-and-greet for the new Lord Vincent.
But no one was fooled. The tension level soared the minute Raphael stepped foot into the foyer of what used to be Enrique’s Mexico City villa. Cyn glanced around. It was an ancient dinosaur of a house, dark and dusty. She preferred a more modern style, more air, more sunlight . . . or at least moonlight.
“How old is this place?” she asked Raphael, fighting to keep her distaste from showing.
“Nearly as old as Enrique . . . before he died, of course.”
“You are so proud of yourself for that one,” she chided softly.
Raphael paused as a pair of doors opened directly in front of them. Jared started to move around, to take up a protective position, but Raphael stopped him with a low signal.
“It’s Vincent,” he assured his lieutenant.
The doors opened fully and Vincent emerged. Cyn had only seen him once before, and that was from a distance. He was big, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a dark jacket and slacks, but with a black silk shirt and no tie. He had longish black hair and a rather elegant and neatly-trimmed beard and mustache. Combined, the hair and beard gave him a rakish handsomeness, although he didn’t need the enhancements. He was a very good-looking guy. Nothing compared to Raphael, of course, but good-looking nonetheless. And he’d definitely perfected that master-of-the-universe attitude that Cyn associated with all of the powerful vampires. It was more than arrogance, it was a confidence that when he walked into any room, anywhere, he’d be the toughest badass in the place.
Except in this case, that wasn’t quite true. Vincent was certainly one of the toughest badasses in the world, but in this room, he was outclassed by Raphael. And he knew it.
That was part of the reason for the soaring level of tension she was sensing. The other part came from the simple fact that two powerful vampire lords were meeting in a confined space. Vampire lords didn’t play well together.
Which was another reason that this meeting was a little unusual. In the normal course of things, it wouldn’t be one lord, but the entire Council who would meet to welcome to the new lord to the club. And they would in this case, too. Just not until after Raphael took home the gift that Vi
ncent was holding for him.
Vincent stepped forward, looking relaxed, belying the tension in the room. “Raphael, welcome to Mexico.”
Raphael kept several feet between them. “Vincent,” he said, nodding an acknowledgement. “I don’t believe you’ve met my mate, Cynthia Leighton.”
“Ms. Leighton, a pleasure,” Vincent said smoothly, giving her a smile that she was sure had charmed the pants right off of women all over Mexico.
“Call me Cyn,” she said dryly. She might have offered her hand if Raphael hadn’t been there, but then she might not have. Cyn tended not to trust vampires she didn’t know. And for all that Raphael had played a crucial, behind-the-scenes role in Vincent’s rise to power, neither he nor Cyn really knew Vincent.
“Cyn,” Vincent amended, then turned slightly and put out his hand, as if reaching for something . . . or someone, Cyn saw, as a tallish woman took Vincent’s outstretched hand and stepped up next to him.
“Lana, this is Raphael,” Vincent said. “And I believe you’ve spoken to his mate, Cynthia Leighton.”
Lana either didn’t feel or didn’t care about the stress in the room. She came right up to Cyn and offered her hand, saying, “Cynthia, it’s so good to finally meet you in person.”
Cyn met her halfway. “Call me Cyn, and likewise.”
Lana Arnold was lovely and not at all what most people would have expected from a bounty hunter. She was dressed much more simply than Cyn, in black slacks and a red silk blouse that did wonderful things for her coloring, with a pair of stylish, but simple black pumps.
Someone who didn’t know the two of them might think Cyn and Lana Arnold had nothing in common, but Cyn knew better. Cyn dressed the way she did, looked the way she did, because she enjoyed it. But her looks didn’t define her any more than Lana’s did. Lana Arnold was going to be a terrific addition to the Mates Club, although that conversation would probably have to wait for the next full Council meeting. Or maybe a nice long Skype chat. Tonight’s visit wasn’t going to last long enough for social niceties. Vincent had told Raphael he had a gift for him. And Raphael had told Cyn that the so-called gift was almost certainly the vampire who’d killed Raphael’s sister, Alexandra. And very likely the one who’d orchestrated the assassination attempt on Raphael, too.
Vincent (Vampires in America Book 8) Page 36
