Vanquished (2 page)

She could feel Estefan watching, observing, wondering why she was thinking of Holgar Vibbard.
Good.
The distraction might weaken his spell.

She let herself imagine Holgar as she’d never actually seen him—his face glowing with love. She thought about kissing him, working hard to make it seem like a memory and not just a fantasy. Estefan’s startled thoughts flared like lightning as his emotions began to skitter out of control. Jealousy, rage, hate.

She was playing a dangerous game, one that could backfire. Fury provided power to those who used the darker arts. She doubted Estefan was that skilled, though. In place of magickal training, he had relied on his looks and charisma to get much of what he wanted. Skye, on the other hand, had been brought up very strictly in White magick. Estefan might have power, but she had knowledge on her side.

She pushed deeper, showing herself passionately kissing Holgar as they lay in the snow. Holgar sliding his hand up her leg as they pressed against each other outside the University of Salamanca beneath the moonlight, their desire blessed by the silver smile of the Lady Goddess.

Estefan’s emotions surged and crashed like stormy waves. And as with the surf that touches the sand, then recedes, she began to slip through his fingers.

Growing hopeful, she pushed harder.

She envisioned making out with Holgar in their Las Vegas hotel. She imagined his hands moving over her, and was surprised at the sudden flash of heat and desire that filled her in response.

She also felt Estefan’s wild stabs of jealousy. The threads of his magickal web frayed as his mastery over himself—and her—threatened to snap.

Skye pictured more kissing, more touching.

Estefan gasped. Though she couldn’t see his face, she sensed he was caught in the grip of frenzied near madness. The last time they’d been together, she had set him on fire—literally—to escape him. He’d hunted her ever since, to wreak his revenge.

Empowered by his weakness, she let real memories slide through too, memories that were sweet or intimate in their own way. Kindness and tenderness were foreign to Estefan and therefore something the two of them had never shared—and never could. But for her they could be used as wellsprings of White magick—power he didn’t possess. And so she let herself think of Holgar tenderly. She remembered when, after one full moon, she had brought him his clothes and let him out of his cage. She’d lifted the tarp that covered his cage to find him still asleep. Naked.

She had quickly turned away, as Holgar whispered—

Noooo!
Estefan screamed inside her mind. His control loosened almost completely. And she knew what she had to do next.

She conjured an image of herself entering Holgar’s cage, then pulling the tarp back down. She watched Holgar drowse awake as she’d seen him do a dozen times. But then she created a vision of Holgar looking at her with love and
joy in his eyes. Holgar reaching for her, and herself reaching for him.

Then Holgar curled himself around her, nuzzling her nose to nose. Sweetly, he cupped her cheek and very slowly and deliberately pushed down the bodice of her blouse just a little. She laughed. They kissed. Kissed harder. The warmth between them heated, then blazed—the greatest gift of the Goddess—as Holgar tore off her clothes and—

Estefan slapped her across the face, and Skye was finally able to scream.

The shrill sound echoed through the caves as Skye grabbed Estefan’s wrist. Yanking him toward her, she pulled the power of his Dark magicks and the energy of his consuming jealousy from him and into herself. Taking back what he had cost her—her self-will, and her self-respect—as she grabbed his face.

Estefan grunted.

She screamed again and it boosted her dominion over his power. Anger surged through her, and she used it, growing stronger as he grew weaker. Gritting his teeth, Estefan struggled against her, but purpose and desperation fueled her. Finally she let go, and he fell to the ground with a cry.

“Stay away from me,” she hissed. She stared down at him as he sprawled, panting, on the rocky cave floor.

He’ll never leave me alone. I should kill him. But I can’t. It goes against everything I was raised to believe.

The thought made her shiver. Everything she was
raised
to believe.
Did
she believe it was wrong to kill him, even in self-defense?

She wouldn’t—couldn’t—answer that question now. She had to get away. As she focused on that thought, a burst of energy swelled from within her, shattering the manacles around her wrists.

“No,” he rasped.

Skye made a wide berth around him as she stumbled forward. Everything hurt, but she couldn’t spare the time or energy to heal herself until she was safe.

Winding her way through the shadowy cave, she staggered out of the darkness and into the bright sunlight. It blinded her, and she tripped, falling to the ground and knocking the air from her lungs.

She scrabbled to her feet as a roar came from behind her. Spinning around, she saw Estefan lurching toward her, his face wild with hatred, his eyes glowing red like a vampire’s.

Panicking, Skye threw up her hands.
“Incendio!”

And just like a vampire, he began to burn, just as he had two years before—the first time she had set him on fire. Near this very spot he had sworn to bind her to the vampires, with or without her consent; she had burned him then, as she burned him now.

Orange flames dancing over his skin like an aura, he screamed, falling back into the opening of the cave. A sob
burst out of her. She had harmed Estefan grievously. That was not the way of the Goddess. White Witches were never, ever permitted to hurt another living human being.

I had to do it,
she told herself.
My Lady will understand. And besides, I don’t think Estefan is completely human.

He had saved himself before. He wouldn’t die. There weren’t even any scars from her first attack.

She ran, trying to outrace her own fear. She was in England. She had friends, family. They had to help. They just had to.

How long had Estefan had her? What had happened back at Salamanca? Was Holgar alive? Jenn? Father Juan? She had to find out. But first she needed a place to hide, and food and drink. Estefan’s torture had taken a toll on her body. The energy she had extracted from him would only sustain her a few more minutes. She was weaker than she had realized.

Skye fell again and pushed herself back to her feet with a sob. She had to think. Where could she go?

She, like Holgar, would be an outcast to her family. She had run away. She fought vampires. Her family was resolute about doing no harm to any creature, no matter how foul or evil they were. That was why the Yorks, along with most witches, had gone underground when the war started. She imagined she would not be welcome, but there was no choice. She needed to hide.

She had to go home.

Seated in a beautifully carved but very uncomfortable monastery chair, Jenn stared at her journal as her frustration simmered. She had asked Father Juan to perform stronger magicks to help them locate Skye, but so far he hadn’t come up with anything. Jenn knew how terrified Skye had been of her ex, and she tried not to think about what Estefan Montevideo might be doing to her.

Exhaling and closing her journal, Jenn stood up and headed for the chapel, knowing she’d find Father Juan there. Incense and the smell of candle wax wafted toward her as she pushed open the arched wooden door. A large crucifix hung above the altar, which was strewn with flowers. To the left of the altar, before a large statue of Mary, small votives flickered. The faithful had been asking her for favors, for help.

In the pew closest to the statue Father Juan knelt in prayer—and he wasn’t alone. Antonio was beside him, head bowed, eyes closed. Jenn’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at Antonio. His dark, curly hair wisped around his ears. His ruby cross earring once again sparkled in his left ear. Antonio had cast it away after Aurora had broken his humanity, returning him to the fiend he had been when
he was first converted into a vampire. Jenn had found the earring on the stairs leading to Aurora’s penthouse and rescued it. She took it as a good sign that he was able to wear it without it burning his skin. Antonio was the only vampire they knew of who could touch a cross.

Antonio stirred, having heard her or smelled her, or both. He touched Father Juan on the shoulder. After a moment they both crossed themselves, bowed on one knee as they left the pew, and faced her.

Jenn swallowed down all her wanting and grief. Antonio seemed so distant, even when she could reach out and touch him. She folded her arms to keep herself from doing so.

“Jenn?” Father Juan asked softly.

“There’s a war to be fought,” she said. “And we can’t do it if we’re hiding here.”

A look flashed across Antonio’s face. She couldn’t tell if it was pride or fear.

Father Juan sighed. “I understand your impatience.”

“No,” she said carefully, “I don’t think you do.”

They each raised an eyebrow at her.

“The two of you are used to spending hours, days, praying and meditating. Meanwhile the rest of us are just
waiting
, alone with our own thoughts, and trust me, none of them are happy right now.”

“We haven’t given up,” Antonio said quietly.

“This feels like surrender to me,” she retorted. “It’s only
a matter of time before Jamie goes off on his own and does something stupid or Sade completely loses it.”

“What do you suggest we do?” Father Juan asked.

“Enough with the skirmishes. It does us no good to kill a dozen, a hundred, even a thousand vampire foot soldiers. They can convert more in a heartbeat. We need to eliminate the leadership.” She frowned. “We shouldn’t have let Greg and the other black crosses stop us from attacking Solomon in Washington when he held that press conference with the president.”

“I’m not so convinced Solomon
is
the real power,” Father Juan said, glancing at Antonio. “Not after what we saw in Salamanca.”

“Even if he’s not, he certainly thinks he is,” Jenn replied. “And so do most of the civilians out there. If we could take him out—”

“We can’t worry about him right now,” Antonio broke in. He winced and turned away.

What is up with him?
she wondered.

“We think we might have found something,” Father Juan said slowly, giving Antonio a concerned glance. “Some
one
.”

“What? Who?” Jenn asked.

“My grandsire,” Antonio whispered without looking at her. “Lucifer, the father of all this misery.”

* * *

Antonio was in hell.

He couldn’t imagine someplace worse, or a more apt description for what it was he was suffering. Even glancing
at Jenn made him yearn to drain her. He still struggled with his bloodlust. It was dangerous for him to be around anyone, even Father Juan.

And Jenn was going through her own changes. Since her knock-down, drag-out fight with Jamie six days earlier, she carried herself differently. She seemed stronger, more aloof.

She’s become the leader Father Juan knew she would.

Antonio was so proud of her, even though he mourned the loss of her innocence, which had so charmed him.
She’s been through too much to ever go back.

They all had.

Jenn was right. They needed to act soon—if for no other reason than they couldn’t hide where they were much longer. Father Sebastian, the monastery’s abbot, had given them sanctuary. But there were three other priests in residence, and Father Sebastian had warned Father Juan that they were loyal to Rome. The Church had outlawed vampire hunters and declared that anyone caught helping them would be excommunicated—cast out from the Catholic community. It was only a matter of time before one of the loyalists figured out who the team was and reported them—and turned in Father Sebastian for aiding them.

Antonio tried to swallow his bitterness. He would never have believed that his beloved Church would turn its back on the hunters they had spent centuries training to fight the Cursed Ones.

The world was upside down.

Holgar had killed a woman he loved.

Jenn, the leader of a vampire-hunting team, was in love with him, a Cursed One.

And he, Antonio de la Cruz, was drowning in guilt and remorse, not only for the lives of the innocents he had so recently snuffed out, but for killing his sire, Sergio Almodóvar, at the last battle against Aurora.

His guilty conscience was proof that he was insane. Killing Sergio before he could harm Jenn’s sister—or any human being—had been the right thing to do. Watching Sergio fall into the fiery pit in Salamanca had brought a rush of relief. A burden had lifted once and forever—Sergio loved to kill churchmen, and when Antonio had served in Sergio’s court, he had killed seven Catholic faithful for him. Why then was he feeling so sinful? Replaying Sergio’s death, torturing himself with it. He hadn’t told Father Juan of his torment. He didn’t need to give anyone more reason to distrust him.

Especially Jenn.

Ay, mi alma,
he thought, crossing himself. My soul.

His soul, named Jenn.

In the ruins of the palace once inhabited by a Spanish princess, Aurora raged with grief.

Sergio was dead.

In fury she paced back and forth on a cracked black marble floor, hurling an empty bottle of sangria at a stained-glass window of some idiotic saint. The window shattered, revealing the bone-white moon hanging above the ravaged garden.