Authors: Diane Whiteside
She drew her cloak around her, ducked her head, and hauled herself up another steep slope, the night’s bitter misery destroying any lingering pleasure from heated dreams.
A bell began to ring sweetly in the distance, from high atop a hill. It was probably the monastery of Our Lady of the Angels at Cerro de los œngeles, just south of Madrid. It sounded like angels singing.
Similar little things would have pleased
Maman
and Papa during the Vendée’s rebellion. Papa would smile at
Maman
, from where he led his troops along a muddy road, and their expressions would say so much of shared love and trust.
Hélène’s eyes misted. For a moment, she thought she saw
Maman
and Papa walking hand in hand along the side of this abominable highway, although it didn’t resemble the Vendée’s wooded roads in the least. They were strong and healthy, dressed in the same sturdy, honest clothing they’d worn throughout that summer.
They looked back at her over their shoulders, just as they had then, and beckoned to her.
Instinctively, she sidled closer to them. The chaotic horde somehow made way for her, and the ground was firmer under her feet.
Her parents smiled, and Papa began to whistle a march, very softly. She hummed it under her breath, dreaming she was a child again when he would keep her safe from all dangers.
The road slanted downward, changing the pressure on the back of her legs. Her brain stirred, turning away from days long past and reluctantly reacquainting itself with icy mud.
She was now marching straight ahead with nobody bumping against either of her shoulders. In fact, there was only a narrow file hurrying past on the opposite side of the road—and a mere scattering of people ahead of her.
She came to a complete halt and stared.
Celeste? Wade? Sir Andrew?
Surely she should be able to see two tall men and one small female.
Ahead of her, the wide road stretched to the outskirts of the city less than a league away, under the clear sky. Even with the night’s darkness, her
vampiro
eyesight allowed her to be certain there were only a few unmistakably short, impoverished beings.
Nom de Dieu…
She spun around and ran the few steps back up to the crest of the hill. A long look to the east reluctantly convinced her no one there answered her team’s description.
Worse, the eastern sky was starting to lighten. If she didn’t take cover before the first ray of dawn, she’d die—whether or not she found her sister and her
creador
.
Merde.
She’d have to use the backup plan: find someplace on her own to hide. She’d make her way later to pick up the message, which only she and Sir Andrew knew how to read.
She’d need to feed, too, and very soon. She’d only been a
vampira
for fifteen years, so she still needed sweet emotion and blood every day. Wade was supposed to have taken care of her this morning.
Still cursing under her breath, she hastened toward Madrid, plotting where to go, using gossip she’d overheard during the journey from the port. It was probably a far better guide than anything their London lecturer had said weeks ago.
God willing, the French wouldn’t seize her companions before they were reunited. The tactics of Napoleon’s police minister, to break
vampiros
and British spies, would begin with the stuff of nightmares.
To have
la petite
subjected to that? Best pray for a swift death.
Hélène shuddered and crossed herself.
A DAY’S RIDE NORTH OF LUGO, THE PROVINCIAL CAPITAL OF GALICIA, THE SAME DAY
Despite his best efforts, Rodrigo could not stop himself from leaning forward every time the road rounded another bend to commit another set of changes to memory. His knight’s sword, forged from the finest Toledo steel and given to him over five centuries ago by the king of Castile, thumped his horse’s flank regularly, reminding him of what he’d sworn to defend and how he’d failed.
New shrines and chapels, a farm here and there, or a bridge. And always the sights and sounds of the land fed his soul, soothing aches he’d tried to forget. Crystalline webs of ice, willow trees arching down to the river under a gust of wind only to spring back, a golden eagle spiraling overhead, a roe-deer springing away through the ferns, the music of the many rivers singing over the rocks…
“Do you think there are any French around here?” Sara asked, casting an uneasy glance at a small church’s bell tower, starkly prominent atop a knoll.
“Perhaps, since a sentry could see for miles from the church tower. These mountains are why Galicia was one of the first kingdoms the Moors left. But it’s unlikely since we’re too far from the coast or a main road.” He didn’t point out that anyone traveling hard and fast from Madrid to Corunna, especially in a foul winter like this one, was hardly likely to want to visit San Leandro.
She shuddered, visibly fighting not to clutch at her horse’s reins. He eyed her warily, ready to rescue the patient mare yet again.
“All I’m certain of is that these mountains will keep us from any form of civilized entertainment.” She did not, quite, pout. Even she had agreed they needed to leave the Galician Junta’s arrogance and idiocy behind before Napoleon arrived, even if it meant retreating to a distant village for the winter.
Thankfully, as
vampiros mayores
, they required very little blood to survive. San Leandro should be more than large enough to support the two of them.
“My latest lover—you remember, that cabinetmaker in Lugo?—said San Leandro is a very prosperous little town, thanks to San Rafael Arcángel’s church.”
A chapel dedicated to
San Rafael Arcángel?
To whom my beloved wife prayed for healing and a safe return for me?
“Many people are healed there, even though it’s a very difficult journey climaxed by crossing a narrow bridge. Apparently there’s also a convent, hospital, and a couple of good inns,” she chattered on, casting a considering glance at him. “Don Fernando Perez, the local grandee, is so well-off that he sent his wife and family off to England, while he’s in Seville with the Junta Central.”
“Flourishing, indeed,” Rodrigo agreed, finding it hard to speak past his throat’s tightness.
Gracias a Dios
, his prayers for all these long years had been answered.
“Enough people”—Sara’s voice dropped to the softest of whispers—“You could give
El Abrazo
to someone.”
“Sara, no!” Rodrigo roared. His mount shied violently, nearly tossing him out of the saddle and onto the road. Sara’s horse reared, whinnying its alarm. Their servants’ mules brayed their alarm, and some tried to buck off their packs.
By the time peace was restored, Rodrigo had sworn he would never allow the subject to be raised again. He would also remain completely disciplined, no matter what happened when they reached his birthplace.
Even so, he still unconsciously drew rein at the top of the pass leading into San Leandro, his heart leaping with joy.
It was nestled in a high mountain valley, as it had always been, surrounded by great peaks which took the brunt of the worst weather and turned it into soft flowing rivers. The town itself was full of golden buildings, stucco sweeping over sturdy stone, with warm red tile roofs and stone chimneys. The church’s graceful arches and spires lifted to the skies, as if reaching up in prayer.
In the distance, an old, square watchtower stood guard on the mountainside over the only pass where a northern enemy could approach.
Por Dios
, how many times had he paced that tower, dreaming he was a warrior grown?
Two men approached, driving a half dozen fat blond cattle with the ancient local breed’s curving horns. The senior was a tall man of more than thirty years, with dark hair, olive skin, and dark brown eyes. The other was his teenaged counterpart, dressed in the same sturdy, though not rich, clothing. The adult looked them over curiously, assessing their obviously Spanish clothes and equipment, and nodded politely.
“Bon día, señor,”
Rodrigo greeted him, automatically falling back into his native tongue despite centuries away.
The other’s face lit up.
“Bon dia! Benvido a San Leandro!”
Rodrigo grinned back. Welcome to San Leandro, indeed.
Rodrigo
, Sara whispered, using the mind link they shared as
hijos
of the same
creador
,
he could be your older brother.
I know.
Rodrigo’s throat was as dry as dust.
Madre de Dios
, how completely had his family established themselves in this mountain fastness?
“You haven’t seen anyone else?” Sir Andrew asked quietly.
“No, sir,” Jean-Marie answered for the third time, keeping well back in the shadows. His intuition was kicking him like an angry mule, insisting he leave immediately.
Behind them rose the great
Mudéjar
tower, its square bulk marking a medieval Spanish church built on a mosque’s foundations. Before them, a narrow street led to a broad avenue in the distance, every inch of it overlooked by layers of balconies.
Why the devil were they still standing about, chattering like friends in a London club? Madrid was a lawless city, only barely controlled by its new French masters. If any French soldier or sympathizer happened to overhear a whispered conversation in
English
, there’d be hell to pay.
Even more damning, there were four of them here: himself, Sir Andrew, Wade—his second and a
prosaico
, plus Celeste, a young
vampira
.
Sir Andrew was still silent, one finger tapping the small, leather-bound marine dictionary. It was the British code book, which Jean-Marie had only delivered after a series of challenges and counter-challenges. Its owner would be able to read British Secret Service messages throughout Spain and Portugal. Jean-Marie heartily admired how closely Sir Andrew held it.
What he didn’t understand—or approve of—were Sir Andrew’s companions.
Jean-Marie scanned his surroundings once again with all his senses, this time letting them linger on Sir Andrew’s companions.
Sir Andrew was an impressive man, who looked fully capable of living up to his legend as one of the longest-living, British
vampiro
field agents. Yet he was accompanied by a
prosaico
—the embodiment of clumsiness compared to a
vampiro
, no matter how competent—to this meeting, when the utmost secrecy and speed were required.
He’d also brought a
vampira
, a female who reeked of men’s lust, as if they’d spent days doing nothing but enjoying her carnal favors. Despite that—despite her heavy eyes, swollen mouth, and the odors of stale musk and sweat rising from her flesh—she still eyed them hungrily, gliding her tongue over her lip and flashing a bit of teeth in a
vampira
’s invitation to party. No wonder the
prosaico
sported an erection which made him walk stiff-legged!
Worst of all, Sir Andrew leered at her, too—staring at her mouth or her breasts when she let her cloak fall open. Every time she stretched or arched her back, he’d lose his thread of thought and have to begin again.
He’d introduced her as his
hija
. As her
creador
, she should be helplessly in thrall to him—
not
the other way around.
Jean-Marie shifted, ready to slip away. Thankfully, the
vampira
had paid no attention to him after her initial inspection. Perhaps there was something good to be said for his hair turning salt-and-pepper in the past two weeks, no matter how bleak it made his future. Obviously, appearing forty had removed him from her list of eligible men.
The
vampira
and
prosaico
obviously came to the same conclusion and began to walk off, their heads close together to enable a whispered conversation.
Sir Andrew’s gaze returned to Jean-Marie. “London’s orders are to carry out our mission immediately, regardless of anything else. How much longer will you remain here?”
“Sir?” The unusual question flummoxed him. Frankly, it was none of the man’s business.
“We’re missing one of our team.” For the first time, Sir Andrew’s voice was crisp and professional, albeit edged with worry.
How the hell had one of his people disappeared? Was that a euphemism for a worse fate?
“I don’t believe Hélène’s dead.”
Hélène? Could it be his Hélène? No, surely there had to be more than one Hélène. He had to stop coming on guard every time anyone mentioned a woman named Hélène.
“The French would be more likely to try to capture—and turn her.”
“Her?” Jean-Marie came alert, instinctively sliding his dirk into his palm. A woman in danger from the French? Or the French sympathizers, who’d be more vicious?
“A
vampira
—and a firestarter.” Sir Andrew’s voice was softer than an owl’s wing, relying on Jean-Marie’s
compañero
hearing to catch it—and keep it from
prosaico
eavesdroppers.
Merde
, the greatest of all weapons that could be employed against
vampiros
, especially in wartime. A firestarter could light gunpowder as easily as any artilleryman—or incinerate a
vampiro
with a thought. Only they could act faster than a
vampiro
could move, which made her the only truly terrifying opponent.
His lips tightened, pulling back into a snarl. She had to be found, and quickly, before the French destroyed her.
But could his Hélène have become a
vampira
? No, that would be too much to ask for, to have her gain such a long life.
“I’m glad you recognize her importance,” Sir Andrew commented dryly. “We had to dodge some French sentries, on the Valencia road just outside Madrid. We didn’t see her when we took shelter, and we haven’t seen her since. I don’t believe they have her—but I don’t know where she is.”
“Any ideas?” His throat was sandpaper dry.
“Hélène knows how to contact you, since she too can read the message. I argued against it, but my superiors insisted.”
Indeed? Both of Jean-Marie’s eyebrows flew up. She wasn’t just a weapon—she was considered smart and tough enough to be trusted with codes and contact information. Quite remarkable.
“Or she may be hiding from the sun. She’s only a year older than Celeste as a
vampira
—and not as well fed.” Regret flitted through his voice.
Jean-Marie’s hands clenched into fists. The selfish fool had been enjoying himself, while not seeing to the health of his best asset? How the hell could such an idiot call himself a professional?
“Poor Celeste. She’s been very brave and hasn’t said a word about it.” Sir Andrew watched his lover’s hips sway invitingly beside Wade’s, highlighted in a patch of moonlight. He swallowed before going on. “We’ve tried to distract her, of course.”
“Excuse me?” Why would the slut feel any need to be brave?
“You don’t know? Well, of course I haven’t mentioned their full names.”
A frisson sparked through Jean-Marie’s skin, painful as an electrical charge. Hélène? Surely it couldn’t be…
“Celeste de Sainte-Pazanne is the younger sister of the
Marquise
Hélène d’Agelet.”
Hélène d’Agelet? Here—and possibly captured by the French? Jean-Marie’s core promptly slammed itself into a lava pool, hotter than all the fires of hell and more painful than a sword thrust through his gut. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to regain control. Nobody else would help her if he didn’t.
“Thank you.” Sir Andrew squeezed his shoulder. “I won’t mention this to Celeste; don’t want to bring the darling’s hopes up too high, lest they be dashed.”
Darling?
The bitch had shown no signs of being interested in anything except men and pleasure. Something rang false, very false in any expressions of concern, given her behavior.
May God help this mission, because the Devil certainly seemed to be enjoying himself among it.
“Good luck.”
“And to you, sir.”
They shook hands before Sir Andrew loped after his team members.
Jean-Marie turned his back on them without a second thought.
London had arranged two methods for contacting him. Sir Andrew had used the first—and more cautious—approach, which could only be initiated during daylight. The other was for crises and assumed the contact point was constantly manned.
He stepped back into the shadows, counted to thirty, lest they’d been watched, and took off. He’d plotted a dozen routes between the two points months ago, as soon as they’d reached Madrid, just in case something like this happened.
Even as he kept watch for the unusual, a back corner of his mind considered the worst case. The Valencia road came in from the southeast. He needed to plan how to search it tomorrow, if he didn’t find her tonight.
He’d meant to leave tomorrow for Galicia, after delivering this message. He’d have to wait, even though he was growing old far faster than he’d hoped.
Hélène shrank deeper back into the shredded shrubbery, away from a French sentry’s crisp tread, while the lights of Madrid shimmered invitingly far below. If the London idiots had paid more attention to the actual conditions in Spain, she would not have needed to hide herself in the midst of French fortifications.
Arranging the alternate meeting point for the public gardens at Buen Retiro, near the Observatory, might have seemed a good plan for a city at peace, especially when it was so close to the Valencia road’s end. It was a damn risky one when the buildings and grounds had clearly been torn apart by professional troops. She hoped the city’s people would see it return to its former glory, when all these piles of rubble and shattered trees stood tall and proud again.