Authors: Diane Whiteside
Ethan propped his hip on the desk. “You owe me ten bucks, Caleb, for not believing he was obsessed with her.”
“I’d have wagered a hundred times that amount against a display like that.” Caleb pulled out his wallet. “Did any of you get a good whiff of her scent? Horse and sick dogs?”
“She earned it while healing others,” Jean-Marie pointed out.
“Do you think that’s the key to their relationship?” Luis asked, his gaze probing Jean-Marie’s expression.
“No. And before any of you ask—no, I haven’t seen him like that with anyone else before. Not in three centuries.”
And I don’t know why.
“If they hadn’t known each other for only a few weeks, I’d say they were
cónyuges
,” Gray Wolf put in quietly. “Why else would a
vampiro mayor
relax so completely with her?”
“Impossible!” Ethan snapped.
“But it would explain so much, like why he can’t bear to be separated from her,” Luis mused. “No
vampiro
can tolerate more than a few days apart from their
cónyuge
.”
“Which would give us two teams of
cónyuges
for duelists, during this war,” Ethan commented.
Jean-Marie met his friends’ eyes, determination thrumming his veins. “And a far better chance to stop Madame Celeste and her bastards, before they kill any more of those poor women.”
Hélène d’Agelet strolled into the private club in Mayfair just after sunset, very pleased with her new Christian Dior outfit. Its crisp jauntiness, from the ridiculous hat to the miniscule purse and the high-heeled shoes, had proven to be exactly what she needed to take her mind off yet another rainy English day. After two centuries of living on this island (except for trips overseas on Whitehall’s behalf), she’d once expected to grow accustomed to the weather. But that had never come to pass.
She’d originally diverted herself from pining for Jean-Marie by trying to outspend her salary on clothes. She hadn’t succeeded. In fact, she’d become so irritated at the stodgy Britons for continuing to fund her extravagance that she’d learned to make a great deal of money. She still enjoyed fashion more than anything else in Great Britain, except their men. And none of those had kept her attention for more than a few months.
Thank God her team members were doing so well, now that she’d terrified the Secret Service into giving them a generous amount of leave. The bureaucrats had promised not to call her back until her people were ready and had even given her a passport, with a roundtrip ticket anywhere in the world. Amazing.
In the main clubroom, a centuries-old hymn to carved wood, old books, and leather chairs, a dozen
vampiros
were gathered around a table, talking excitedly and peering over something with what looked like a magnifying glass, or perhaps a jeweler’s loupe.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said sweetly.
Their leader rose to face her, his expression unreadable.
“Madame d’Agelet.” Lord Simon, the current West End
patrón
, bowed profoundly and gracefully, as befitted a duke’s son and former colonel. He glanced back at his men, raising a supercilious brow.
They rushed to stand up, looking more like abashed schoolboys than deadly
mesnaderos
. Chairs pushed back rapidly. One fell over.
Vampiros
tried to pretend they’d been behaving like adults, not schoolchildren caught by their teacher.
A glass crashed to the floor. A tall decanter swayed wildly, its golden contents tumbling like an earthquake’s barometer.
Lord Simon lifted her hand and kissed it. “Hélène.”
The white scar slashing his cheek, courtesy of a Prussian general in the dying days of World War I, puckered when he smiled at her. She’d heard the Prussian hadn’t lived long enough after the meeting to count his scars.
“
Mon cher
Simon.” She smiled back at him, letting her genuine affection show.
“You look remarkably beautiful tonight. Christian Dior, I would hazard a guess?”
Senses trained by centuries in the deadliest profession came fully alert. Why the devil had Lord Simon, who had no fashion sense, tried to butter her up by mentioning her couturier?
She nodded confirmation, tossing her head so the silly hat’s finer points could be seen.
“Please, join us for a cognac. Delamain Très Venerable,
s’il tu veux
?”
A polite invitation, and she’d bet a million pounds he was hoping she wouldn’t accept it.
One of the men—a fit-looking fellow, probably one of Lord Simon’s SAS recruits—tried to slide the paper off the table and into a leather portfolio.
Hélène promptly lit the ornamental candelabrum at his elbow. He froze, obviously aware that she could have torched him as easily—or the entire house.
“Sounds good,” she answered. She enjoyed using Americanisms, just to remind the British she wasn’t one of theirs. “Can I have the loupe, too?” She held out her hand and smiled sweetly at Lord Simon.
His eyes narrowed slightly before he gave a resigned shrug and nodded at his underling. He was eighty years old, the oldest of London’s current set of
patrones
, while most of his men were the typical ten—to thirty-year-old
vampiros
. He had a good, tough set of
mesnaderos
that no other
patrón
sought a fight with, even if none of his men could stand up to her.
They’d worked together briefly in Occupied France, against the Nazis, and she still remembered his delight in the more outlandish masquerade costumes. She’d been a firestarter on his team of saboteurs, enjoying his creativity in the use of explosives.
But he’d known her long enough to be certain that she wouldn’t fly off the handle. So why was he unhappy?
Simon watched Hélène closely, wondering how she’d react to the photo. Whitehall had been almost more nervous about letting it fall into her hands than keeping it in Britain.
Not that he expected her expression to reveal anything. She was notoriously self-disciplined, a vital qualification for a firestarter. Most would-be firestarters torched themselves or their surroundings in split seconds of inattention. But not her, not in two centuries. A good friend and a good lay—but not someone who let anybody get too close to her heart.
It was easier to read her emotions by outward details. When she was happy, she bought books. When she was sad or lonely, she went clothes shopping—especially for nonsensical hats, like the one she was wearing.
He eyed its ridiculous silhouette, wondering how any woman could tolerate such an object on her head. It was far more outlandish than the ones he’d seen at the last wedding he went to.
He glanced at the brandy snifter beside her.
Empty. Damn.
A small sob broke in her throat, and his gaze shot to her face.
Tears?
Bloody hell.
He caught his
siniscal
’s eye and pointed at her snifter, silently demanding a refill. The new glass appeared within seconds and was given to him.
Simon set it quietly down beside her, and she gulped it—
Hélène
gulped it?—without glancing at him.
Minutes passed before she put the jeweler’s loupe down.
“Who are the two men?” She tapped the photo, watching Lord Simon.
“One is Jean-Marie St. Just, the
heraldo
of Texas, who I’ve met before. I assume the other is Don Rafael Perez, the
patrón
of Texas.”
A
heraldo
—which made her beloved a master spy and a diplomat, the perfect profession for him. He was still with Rodrigo—no, Rafael—who was the
patrón
of the largest, and probably the richest,
esfera
in North America. They’d done very well for themselves.
And why had Monsieur Perez changed his name from Rodrigo to Rafael? A
nom de guerre
, perhaps? But who cared about him, when she could think about Jean-Marie?
She sternly told her heart to stop frolicking at the absence of Mademoiselle Perez. It was possible, after all, she was missing from the picture, not their lives. It was better to think about more questions than those implications. “Who is the woman beside them?”
A muscle ticked in Lord Simon’s jaw. “Madame Celeste, now the
patrona
of New Orleans. She holds most of the southeastern United States.”
Hélène gaped at him.
La petite
was a
patrona
? Why on earth would she do that? She’d never shown any interest in ruling and, as a spy, she’d always preferred to work through the men she slept with.
Why was she living in New Orleans? Why hadn’t she sought out her older sister in England after the war, if she’d been trapped in Europe by Napoleon’s forces? Was she afraid of what the British Secret Service would think of her having been gone for so long?
And what were Lord Simon and his men so worried about? Proof of
vampiro
immortality could spark a
prosaico
outcry and lead to a mob, the one thing all
vampiros
feared. Possessing a picture of a
vampiro
was therefore very unhealthy. But a photo of two
patrones
, especially when one of them was a
vampiro mayor
notoriously thorough about protecting himself? Even one of
London’s patrones
could fear for his life under those circumstances.
As for her own reaction, it was entirely possible that Whitehall had warned the local
patrones
to keep her from learning
la petite
was alive, lest she ignore her oaths to Britain and visit her sister.
Her hand tightened on the jeweler’s loupe, as if it were a weapon she could hurl at arrogant bureaucrats.
Other questions first, though.
She brought her eyes back to Lord Simon. “How long have they had this?”
“Two years. I warned them you’d be furious.”
“Bastards.” She smiled wryly, caught despite herself by an old friend’s understanding. “They should have told me immediately.”
“They were probably afraid of your reaction.”
“Or Don Rafael’s.”
“Agreed. All of these lads have come up against his Santiago Trust before and have the bruises to show for it.”
A thought flashed through her head.
“Whitehall doesn’t want me to leave, do they?”
He shrugged.
“But I’ll just bet they don’t want Don Rafael to know about this picture either—or that they’ve been hiding it from him for two years.”
Gasps ran around the room. Someone muttered a soft, vicious curse.
“Do you plan to ring him up?” A gleam of appreciation for the situation’s irony lit Lord Simon’s eyes.
“No, I’ll take it to him, since he obviously knew it was being taken,” Hélène announced briskly. “He’s known for his courtesy to women so I can do it in safety, which none of you can. I’ll tell him it came into your hands recently through a rare prints dealer, offered solely because of your interest in pictures of Mardi Gras celebrations.”
Lord Simon started to chuckle. “Whitehall will hate it, but I don’t see they have any other choice.”
They smiled at each other in perfect understanding.
“You might want to keep your eyes open while you’re over there. Don Rafael and Madame Celeste are fighting a rather vicious war, with the lady determined to remove him from this earth.”
“A war? Why would they do that?” Hélène blinked.
La petite
’s temper might be fierce, but it had always evaporated quickly.
“She took over the southeastern quarter of the country through war and assassinations, not alliances.” The old saboteur’s voice conveyed both admiration and warning. “Neutrals aren’t being attacked, but that could obviously change at any moment. Many of the European
esferas
have forbidden travel into the area.”
Assassinations?
Even so, Celeste would never harm her older sister.
But it was far, far more important to be reunited with Jean-Marie first. It was a miracle her shoes were still united with the carpet, when her blood was fizzing so much with joy.
“I’d better be going now, so I can leave for Texas as soon as possible.” She began to briskly tuck the photo into the folio.
“Would you care for some company on the drive home?” Lord Simon offered graciously. “I’m sure one, or more, of the lads would be glad to give you an excellent time.”
The lads froze, like Cornish game hens in a butcher’s window.
She scrutinized them thoughtfully. Lord Simon really did have a fine lot, mostly ex-military, on the whole much stronger and more mature than her usual selection of Oxford college students. They’d all provide an excellent meal. It was even possible one or two could string a sentence together.
Somebody choked. Several others turned pale, as they watched her, as if they expected to be barbecued at any moment.
But she greatly disliked taking the unwilling, even if she needed the meal.
“Thank you, but I’ve already fed. Perhaps when I return.” She kissed him on the cheek.
“Au revoir, chérie.”
She chose to ignore his parting comment, muttered so softly even she could scarcely hear it, “I hope it’s not
adieu
for you.”
SOUTH OF NEW ORLEANS, JULY 4
Gnats and mosquitoes patrolled the hot summer night, hunting for any bit of flesh gleaming with sweat under the clouded moon. An ancient pickup truck chugged down the long road beside the levee, accelerator hard against the floor. Its driver carefully never looked to his left, into a tangled forest of live oaks and Spanish moss.
He took the turn at the end too fast and spun onto the roadside, tires throwing up a rooster’s tail of dust, as they fought to keep him out of the cotton field. A scream of overexerted brakes and a screech of gears returned the pickup to the highway, moving fast amid the spiky remains of a cotton crop.
Rising steep and tall at the roadside behind him, a wrought-iron fence bore formal warning signs to trespassers. It didn’t mention its far more brutal electrified brother only a few feet farther back, or the Mississippi River where any fools would be disposed of. Or the extremely high-tech gatehouse inside the woods, whose suspicious sentries would happily shoot first and ask questions later. Alligators prowled the marshland behind that, helping the clouds of mosquitoes and gnats make the long approach into hell on earth for uninvited guests.
Inside those layers of defenses, the estate crouched like an exotic scorpion, whose opponents are more wary of its poison than its shell.
Rosemeade Plantation was quiet on this midnight, allowing the rich scents of jasmine and heliotrope to tease the humid air. Camellia and magnolia blossoms dotted the luxuriant gardens like Chinese lanterns. White columns marched like Greek warriors at the edge of the mansion’s two floors. Smaller ones lifted a glass cupola on the roof, almost an offering to Zeus, the god of thunder. All of the chimneys were capped, protecting the house’s tinder-dry wood from sparks.
Golden light spilled from doors and windows, their steel shutters left unusually open. A sweeping drive and a huge parking lot showed that the enormous house still offered lavish hospitality, to the right people at least.
It amused Celeste, as it had her predecessors, to maintain Rosemeade as it had been before The War between the States. Back then, Louisiana cotton planters could become millionaires with two excellent crops in a row, and the world had offered its finest goods in homage.
The walls and floors were still the same ancient, highly polished wood, which showcased the great central staircase rising to the cupola. Silk covered the walls and poured from the curtain rods. Ornate wood carvings graced the furniture and accented the high ceilings. Crystal chandeliers and lamps cast dancing reflections across table linens and exotic carpets.
For two centuries, Rosemeade had been the country retreat of the New Orleans
patrones
, ever increasing its reputation for both decadence and impregnability. Celeste and Georges had worked hard to make it invulnerable, proven when they’d successfully fought off multiple attacks by disloyal subjects.
She’d eventually had to purge her realm with Georges’s help, in order to stop those rebellions. Six
vampiros
in Memphis, eleven in Miami…Those two foolish, blond
vampiras
in Atlanta who’d thought their feminine charms could distract Georges from his allegiance! Once he’d made a particularly bloody example of them, she hadn’t encountered any other traitors. They’d had a delicious private party here to celebrate the victory.
But dammit, nothing—nothing at all!—had come together in this war against Don Rafael. He was still strutting like a peacock in Texas, while she was cooped up here in Louisiana, unable to leave her properties to choose a decent meal. This was not the way any of her wars had proceeded before.
She’d given Beau permission, and money, to hunt for a chink in Don Rafael’s armor—find someone whose loss would break him. Had he found anyone? No!
Was she going slowly broke, paying for him, extra guards on all her properties, and lost income from her investments? Yes!
Intolerable!
Celeste pushed herself away from the great column and stomped back inside to her bedroom, ignoring her bodyguards. They might be close at hand, but they’d so far proven too young to be useful for anything more than driving a car and shooting a gun.
Her reliance, as ever, was on Georges. Her darling Georges.
She automatically logged in to the videoconference, her mind elsewhere while she snarled at the impassive menu.
“
Cher
madame.” Georges’s deep voice broke the silence, lingering over the first single soft syllable until it sounded like
shah
.
Unlike other Cajun men who casually addressed almost every woman as
cher
, Georges only gave her that honor, because only she meant sweetness to him. And when he combined two words and called her
cher madame
, it was the very greatest of honors, since he loathed all respectable women. The titles were unforced gifts, too, offered out of his love for her.
Celeste opened her mouth to remonstrate with him and stopped. He had, as ever, been perfect. Ever since he’d escaped from Death Row at Angola Prison, Louisiana’s supposedly escape-proof penitentiary, he’d been hers and he’d always been—
perfect
for her needs.
She threw her martini glass against the wall.
“Has something new happened,
cher
?” Georges’s eyebrows flew up. He had brown hair, brown eyes, average face, average build—all mixed with the intense viciousness of a starving cobra. Except for moments when they were alone and his gaze shifted to an alcoholic’s desperate passion for the only wine cellar in the world.
“Some of my overseas investments have been dropping in value, dammit. I can smell Don Rafael’s filthy hand at work.”
“Salopard!”
She made a very rude gesture of agreement.
“Do you want me to turn my attention to killing the pig,
cher
?”
“No, let Beau be the one to risk his neck. You’re my best hope.”
Georges nodded reluctant acceptance. Beau’s experience as an assassin would be better for this than Georges’s past as a serial killer.
“What false trail is that blond chasing tonight?”
“It’s the Fourth of July, and Don Rafael has promised to light fireworks at the local celebration.” Georges rolled his eyes. “So the famous Russian assassin is crawling through the hills, hoping for a glimpse of the female Don Rafael is supposedly obsessed with.”
“Impossible! Even Don Rafael isn’t enough of an honorable fool to expose himself and his slut at a public gathering. It would serve Beau right if fire ants devoured his private parts.”
“It might be the only way to finally discover a chink in Don Rafael’s armor.”
“The woman—and destroy her? True, very true.” Celeste cheered up, nibbling on a long fingernail. Oh, the delicious ways to have that slut beg for her life while Don Rafael watched!
She beamed at her faithful enforcer, never seeing Raoul’s watchful presence in the great pier glass mirror behind her.
“Have you been feeding well, down there in the wilds?”
“Ah,
cher madame
!” An enormous grin split his face. “The fat Texas cows have been pampered for so long, they fire up immediately when I introduce them to terror. Their blood is the finest I have ever tasted.”
“Excellent! The unexplained deaths—and suicides?” Georges nodded, his smirk deepening. “Must be driving Don Rafael insane. How are your
bandolerismo
coming, those untamed
vampiros
who will infect Texas and destroy it from the inside like maggots?”
Good, old-fashioned bandits, the bane of every law-abiding
patrón
like Don Rafael. Of course, she’d thrown them out of her
esfera
, too. But they did have their uses at times, like now.
“They’re not hard to find, especially since that young Mexican
patrón
started helping us. The difficulty’s been getting them into Texas, and I’ve finished doing that.” He straightened up even more until he was standing at attention.
“You’ve gotten them into Texas?” She stared, her jaw falling open, before glorious possibilities began to suggest themselves. “
Magnifique
, Georges! If I was there with you,
cher
, we’d celebrate for the rest of the night.”
She blew a kiss at him, blood humming through her veins. Oh my, the problems she could cause for the sanctimonious Don Rafael now…
But first things, first.
“
Cher
, your
bandolerismo
need to investigate Don Rafael’s commanderies, those hidey holes for his men and armaments. Since they’re obviously good at sneaking around, your devils should be able to find out—”
“Weak points, watch patterns, garrison size, and so on? Of course, I’ve already ordered them to hunt those out.” Georges eyes shone with excitement.
“Send me the list of
vampiros
and their whereabouts; I may be able to think of other places for them to investigate.”
“Are you sure that’s safe,
cher
?”
“I’m well able to scent—and punish”—she smiled reminiscently—“anyone who’d dare look at private files on my computer. Nobody’d dare risk their life by sneaking around in my rooms.”
“You’ll have it immediately,
cher
. Are we finally going to attack the Texans?”
She nodded, her fangs hinting at the traditional preliminary to a
vampiro
duel. She wasn’t a shapeshifter, of course; that was for duelists, something she’d never needed to become. She’d always done far, far better by selecting a man with the appropriate skills—such as dueling, or shapeshifting—and controlling him with sexual hunger. “Ah,
oui
, it’s time to start some real trouble,
mon cher
.”
They smiled at each other, in perfect accord, despite the miles between them.
THREE WEEKS LATER
Jean-Marie surfaced a mile downstream from Rosemeade, beside Lars. Thankfully, he hadn’t encountered another one of the alligators who’d taken a chunk out of his leg the last time he’d visited that hellhole, just before Don Rafael’s duel. That wound had left him with a limp he’d had a damn hard time explaining to his
creador
.
The two swimmers hoisted themselves into their waiting boat, indistinguishable from hundreds of other shabby weekend cruisers used for drinking beer, bragging about fish, and occasionally getting laid. Neither of them said a word until they’d put another five miles between them and any possible pursuit.
The engine purred, the craft’s sole sign of wealth. Water rubbed against the hull, a more solid form of the humidity which tried to catch a man’s breath. Moss-shrouded trees, and strange calls faded into darkness.
Jean-Marie automatically adjusted his course, following a route he’d known for decades. He’d first marked it during the Texas Revolution to smuggle gold into Texas. It had come in handy during the Civil War for avoiding “Spoons” Butler’s occupation of New Orleans. Private negotiations with the New Orleans’
patrones
before Prohibition had strengthened his knowledge of it. He’d hidden his memories after Madame Celeste came to power, of course. She’d heard of smugglers’ and trappers’ paths through the bayous, but she didn’t know where they were. She focused on urban roads, not muddy, mosquito-ridden waters—and, thankfully, kept Georges so busy he didn’t have time to hunt down every possible route.
He tossed a can of cheap brew to his now-clean companion. “Think we can get anyone inside the house?”
“If we had a year to spare.” Lars settled onto a bench, his eyes sweeping the surrounding bayou with the same unemotional thoroughness as the nearby alligator. “Rice fields are wide open, though.”
Apparently satisfied at the lack of immediate danger, he tilted his head back for a quick taste of the ice-cold beer.
Jean-Marie grunted, wishing he could swill the appalling pap as readily. “Guess we’ll have another look at it, after we take out Madame Celeste’s next transfer point for drugs.”
He was careful, as always, not to give Lars a direct order. Only Rafael did that; nobody else dared to, lest they trigger a flashback to some impenetrable hell. It was far better to give him room to maneuver.
“Tomorrow night we’ll bust that place.” Despite his apparent calm, vicious anticipation glinted briefly in his eyes. After almost eighty years, Jean-Marie still hadn’t found anything Lars couldn’t do for Rafael. Or wouldn’t.
“And we’ll call the Feds…” Jean-Marie mused, rubbing his finger over the boat’s steering wheel.
“
After
the bad guys are disposed of.” The faintest possible emphasis went on the first word, in the equivalent of any other man’s shout.
“Of course.”
They shared a smile. An unspoken understanding of those details was one of the reasons they were able to work together. It wasn’t the same type of teamwork he’d shared so many years ago with his beloved Hélène, and God knows he never quite dared to turn his back on Lars, but it was still satisfying to work with a master craftsman.
Water danced away from the boat under its few running lights, like ripples in time. An echoing frisson danced through his skin.
Lights rippled over his smart phone, and he frowned. Texas, of course, but why? He snapped it open. “Yes?”
“I need my
heraldo
back in Texas immediately,” Rafael announced without preamble. “A private plane has left for Dallas, carrying a
vampira
.”
“Certainly, sir,” Jean-Marie answered, quickly considering ways and means for leaving New Orleans. “Who is she?”
Rafael was silent.
What the hell? Who is she?
Lars was watching him, eyes narrowed.
“Hélène d’Agelet,
mi hijo
,” his
creador
said at last.
Jean-Marie stiffened, a wild roaring in his ears like a thousand cascades pouring out rainbows.
Alive, alive, alive…
Dared he believe after all these centuries of loneliness?
“She has been alive all these years, but the British Secret Service kept her existence a secret, as their greatest weapon.”