Authors: Diane Whiteside
Too many men and too many guards for a single regiment or even a corps, judging by what Celeste had been told in Britain. Who then?
She shot her escort a considering look but continued to follow him meekly into the house. Nobody ever lived to argue twice with a
vampiro mayor
. She was damned lucky he hadn’t killed her for not bringing the codebook when she escaped Sir Andrew.
She’d told them everything she knew. The only remaining question was what would happen to her next. She couldn’t always be used against British spies, since those devils would sooner or later realize she’d changed sides—even if Sir Andrew didn’t make it back to England.
Did she want to work as a spy somewhere else in Europe? Russia perhaps or Austria?
She pulled a face and swept her skirts safely away from another soldier’s boots. Ragged peasant’s clothing, in tatters like her plans for destroying Hélène. She’d prefer to rest and regain her composure—perhaps even enjoy the finer things in life again, which had been wrongfully denied to her for so long. But how?
The upper hallway displayed half a dozen men, all garbed in still more glamorous uniforms and bustling about carrying neat leather portfolios, full of papers. Another edged past her, carefully holding a covered silver tray surmounted by an eagle.
An
imperial
eagle.
Napoleon was here? Why on earth did he want to see her? Did she care?
A guard quickly opened the final door for the servant, grinning at a shared joke. As soon as the door closed, his tanned face swiftly solidified into a suspicious visage again, underlined by the crooked scar splitting his forehead.
Despite herself, Celeste shivered. The penalties for failure would be dealt quickly and ruthlessly in these quarters.
Her escort marched directly up to the same guard, who looked only slightly friendlier than his cohort. A whispered conversation ensued, throughout which the guards eyed her with all the enthusiasm of butchers considering hogs in a marketplace. As if whispering would keep her from hearing anything she chose!
Finally they knocked and opened the door, in response to a growled reply.
“Celeste de Sainte-Pazanne, as you requested, Your Majesty.” The
vampiro mayor
bowed deeply.
Dark eyes swept over her like a thunderbolt. Why, he was just a
prosaico
! Uncommonly charismatic with those eyes and the force of will blazing out of him. Raoul had always set maidens sighing, but this fellow never would, if you concealed his eyes. Even so, he was a man—and fond of bedtime diversions by all accounts.
Perhaps if she always had a lover to protect her, life would improve. And who better than the Emperor?
“Your majesty.” She sank into her lowest curtsy, her eyes sweeping over him lasciviously before her lashes veiled them. She focused her power as tightly as she could, gambling nobody else would hear her.
Desire me
, she commanded the Emperor of the French.
Desire
me
…
A chair was shoved back against the wall. Celeste kept her eyes modestly lowered and her smirk completely private. A well-kept hand lifted her up.
“My dear lady.” Napoleon patted her hand. “Welcome home. We thank you for your great services to us and to France.”
His passionate eyes swept boldly over her.
She allowed herself to smile. Encouragingly, of course.
SAN LEANDRO, JANUARY 1809
Sunset touched the high peaks, gilding a few bits of snow but utterly failing to penetrate the forests or warm the great granite massif.
From high atop the ancient watchtower, Rodrigo measured it and the passing of time, wondering yet again if he should hire men to guard the bridge into San Leandro. Few strangers would travel that road in the dark, with a howling wind in their face. This fortress guarded the northern road, with its coastal trade and seaborne raiders in ages past. He’d rented the house attached to it, even though it was almost a mile outside the town proper.
Days had passed since the last refugees had passed through, fleeing the desperate British army and the pursuing French.
They’d told horrible tales of battles conducted amid the mountains, with men and beasts dying of exhaustion as much as wounds. Any civilians caught in their paths could be destroyed by battle—or demands for food, supplies, and shelter. Most frightening of all, the French made a practice of doing so, backing up their voracious appetite with murder and rapine.
But none of those horrors had touched San Leandro.
Gracias a Dios
, no French raiding party had reached this valley, even though they were in Lugo a day’s walk away.
Rodrigo had Seen the French coming to San Leandro but not by which road or exactly when. That was the damnable thing about his gift—it was most useful about disasters for his people. But it didn’t foretell specifics, and it said less and less the closer events came to him or those he loved.
He’d spent his time doing what he could for the people, even though he’d only be here a few months. He’d hired men to improve the roads and rebuild walls. Women had made cheeses and sausages, storing them deep in caves to last through the winter. He now had mobility and provisions, a military commander’s prerequisites for waging war.
If he used those roads and provisions to build an army, he’d be usurping the rights and honor of this land’s rightful lord. Yet if he didn’t, the ones he’d come to love could be destroyed. Alvarez, with his wife and three lovely daughters. Emilio, Alvarez’s son-in-law with his blatant adoration for his heavily expectant wife. Father Michael’s delight in little children, and old Sanchez the baker’s ability to know every man and woman in town…
Rodrigo slapped the old parapet, cursing with a Galician’s easy fluidity. There were too many people who might be injured if he failed yet again.
Life would be easier if he could adopt Sara’s insouciance. She’d quickly found a dozen or so individuals willing to engage in discreet, carnal pleasures and rotated her time among them. She appeared quite happy and healthy—unless someone happened to mention Jean-Marie. Her conversation would come stuttering to a halt, her eyes going wide and anguished.
He was little better. A thousand demons stabbed his heart whenever he counted the days since Jean-Marie had last drunk
vampiro
blood. If his best friend was still alive this long after the blood-laced wine had run out, it would be a miracle.
Por Dios
, how he had prayed to see Jean-Marie again in the flesh!
No wonder he and Sara had an unspoken agreement to change the subject, whenever their conversation fell upon Jean-Marie.
Rodrigo eyed the western mountains yet again. There were rumors a great battle had been fought between the British and the French at Corunna, the seaport. If so, the French would need supplies for the winter, and those murdering locusts would steal from anywhere and everyone.
Simply organizing sentries against such a pestilence would not be enough. Those insects would have to be fought—which could be done successfully here in San Leandro, a natural fortress with few entrances.
If he ground Don Fernando Perez’s pride beneath his boot heel, that is.
He grimaced. Even if Don Fernando hadn’t been the direct descendant of his own Fernando, he’d have hated to deal another man such a blow. As it was—the mere thought was almost insufferable.
He turned toward the stairs, his cape swinging around him. Maybe if he put sentries on the bridge…
Hooves plodded along the northern road, harder and more distinct by some trick of sound than a man’s footsteps might have been. A mule’s hooves—not cattle, nor donkey, nor horse.
A frisson ran up the back of Rodrigo’s neck, and he ran to the opposite side of the watchtower where he could see the road more clearly.
A small party of men emerged into a patch of light, trudging wearily like those who have already traveled far and expect to walk at least as far again. They were roughly dressed but warmly, in heavy cloaks with the hoods pulled up against the coming storm. One of them rode a bony mule, who seemed slightly better off than his master, given how the man swayed in the saddle. Another traveler walked beside them, clearly ready to lend a hand if needed.
Obviously sensing a watcher, the rider looked up. His cape’s thick wool fell back to reveal white hair, brilliantly blue eyes—and Jean-Marie’s face. His teeth flashed in an enormous grin.
“¡Hola, Rodrigo!”
Jean-Marie rasped, barely audible even to
vampiro
ears.
Rodrigo’s heart came alive with joy, hurling itself over the ancient stone parapet to his best friend. He flung himself down the stairs, tugging hard on the bell’s rope as he passed. Its sweet cry rang through the small vale, telling of welcome guests.
He ran out onto the road, and Jean-Marie’s companions quickly made way for him, murmuring greetings. He acknowledged them with a bare nod, all his attention on the
compañero
—who should not be alive, given the days without
vampiro
blood.
Jean-Marie’s mouth quirked with something of the old insouciance, the smirk of a boy who knows more than his schoolteacher.
Rodrigo’s frantic heartbeat eased from a panicked gallop to a more controlled canter. He’d at least have time to talk to his old friend, even if so much pure white hair meant that death was due within days. It was at least far longer than his original guess of mere hours.
He lifted Jean-Marie off the mule, thinking he was prepared to face any change after his years of exposure to
compañeros
at the eastern
vampiro
courts. Underneath the cloak, where Jean-Marie would once have been strong-limbed enough to wrench a recalcitrant horse into submission—now he was as fragile as a sparrow, hunched over in his saddle with skin barely glossing over his bones. Even the stench of long travel and few baths meant nothing compared to that horror.
Rodrigo’s breath caught in his throat, cold terror slashing through his veins. He might have known for decades he’d lose Jean-Marie’s company one day—but this physical reality drove home the coming sorrow as nothing else ever had. He quickly slid his arm around Jean-Marie’s waist, taking the other’s full weight.
“I can walk, old man,” the younger fellow demurred, in a barely audible croak, and fought to free himself.
“Then do me a favor and don’t struggle,” Rodrigo retorted, sotto voce.
Sara and the servants spilled out of the house, their eyes wide with surprise.
Certain she would provide the necessary hospitality, Rodrigo half-carried, half-swept Jean-Marie inside. Sara’s hooded eyes followed them, but she neither asked for—nor did he offer—any explanation.
Jean-Marie’s boots skidded on the heavily polished floor, sending him sliding toward the floor like a marionette with slashed strings.
Rodrigo caught him in both arms, his throat tightening. Never had he seen such appalling clumsiness in his friend—nor lifted him so easily, even after allowing for his own
vampiro
strength. Sunset was coming all too quickly into this
compañero
’s life.
“Have I lost that much weight?” Jean-Marie’s voice was a very thin whisper.
“
Sí
—a surprising amount.” Rodrigo gave him the truth, as he always had. As he always would, no matter how bitter.
“Damn. I was hoping their shock over how fast my hair turned gray was because they didn’t know
compañeros
.” His French accent was more marked than usual, returning him to the young prince from Versailles. The body had burned away, leaving only the purest of flames—its spirit.
Rodrigo gritted his teeth and quickly changed his hold to his earlier, more casual grip. He’d honor his friend’s pride by only supporting him with one arm around his waist, rather than providing all the support he needed. He eased his feelings by violently kicking the library door shut behind them. He guided Jean-Marie onto the settee, bitterly aware the other’s breathing was growing harsh and faint.
“Beautiful room,” Jean-Marie wheezed, fighting to keep his eyes open.
Social conversation about a sitting room suitable for the Paris of fifty years ago? How many hundreds of times had either of them ignored gilded furniture underneath painted walls, ornate little statues, and collections of music boxes?
A muscle ticked hard in Rodrigo’s jaw. Dammit, must a century of friendship end like this? Not while he had breath.
He rapidly unbuttoned his cloak and let it drop onto the floor. He sat down and shifted Jean-Marie firmly into the crook of his arm. He shook back the ruffles on one sleeve, opened his vein with a single frantic slash, and brought his wrist to Jean-Marie’s mouth.
Pure
vampiro major
blood, suffused with passionate concern and undiluted by wine, should have an immediate salutary effect. The only way to gain a stronger effect would be to feed his friend from Rodrigo’s jugular, if Jean-Marie was close to dying—but doing so would grant him
El Abrazo.
Blue eyes came alive, the only color in that parchment face.
“Do you mean to fight me,
amigo
?” Rodrigo asked warily, remembering all the times Jean-Marie had objected to prolonging his existence as a
compañero
. He didn’t want to force him to drink the blood—but he would, at least this time.
“Not at all,
mon frère
.” A singularly determined smile touched the other’s lips. “Please give me as much blood as you can.”
Dios mío
, what the devil had changed? But he could worry about that later.
Before Rodrigo could proffer his wrist politely as he’d been taught too damn well, Jean-Marie snatched up Rodrigo’s arm and brought the bleeding wound to his mouth. He set his lips to the gash and sucked hard.
A current of living crimson flowed between them.
Rodrigo’s heartbeat strengthened, and warmth crept over his skin, like standing near a fireplace on a cold day. He murmured wordless reassurance and awkwardly stroked the other’s hair.