Authors: Diane Whiteside
Perhaps another approach might persuade her beloved to act. “What about women?”
If anything, the grooves around Jean-Marie’s mouth deepened. “Especially not them, given their small chance of surviving
La Lujuria
.” He held up a finger, forestalling her lunge into speech. “And before you ask about his
patrona
—Doña Grania was forced by the Russian assassin, who planned to use her against Don Rafael.”
“Forced into
El Abrazo
?” Hélène crossed herself, her stomach knotting itself in a dozen different directions. When she remembered the mental horrors she personally had endured during those mad days and compared them to what Doña Grania must have gone through…“The poor lady.”
She began to look for a robe, rather than relive all of her own memories.
“Don Rafael rescued her, since he was her
vampiro primero
, and she’s his late wife’s reincarnation. Thankfully, their
conyugal
bond survived and they destroyed Beau, the assassin.”
“So that ends the war with Celeste, right?” Hélène said hopefully, ignoring Whitehall’s veiled warnings about her sister’s greed. She pulled on the silk kimono Jean-Marie tossed her and belted it. At least something good had come of that horror, if the Texas and New Orleans
esferas
were reconciled. Dear Lord, if everyone could be as happy as she and Jean-Marie were.
He snorted bitterly and shook his head. “I wish it had ended the conflict, but it has not. If anything, matters have grown worse. I cannot leave my family while this continues, Hélène.” He shrugged, silhouetted against the beautiful gardens and a stone staircase. “After that, I will leave Texas to be with you.”
“If we can’t live here, where will we go? What will you do?” Her heart turned over and she stared at Jean-Marie, all her fine plans for their future falling into ash.
Dear God, she’d hoped for so much but how could she ask him to give up everything? At least she could ease him by ending the war. “I’ll go to New Orleans tomorrow and talk to Celeste. I’m sure if we speak face-to-face, I can find a settlement.”
“Why would Madame Celeste talk to you?” Jean-Marie whirled to face her. “She’s never shown the slightest interest in negotiating with anyone before, unless there was serious money in it for her.”
Hélène swallowed a curse at his words, which had the uncomfortable ring of truth, and tried to sound composed. “She is my sister—Celeste de Sainte-Pazanne.”
“Your
sister
?” Shock washed across his face, before he looked back at scenes she couldn’t envisage. Finally he studied her again, his expression guarded. “How long has it been since you’ve met each other in person?”
“November 1808, the day before you and I met in Madrid. She was part of my team, but we were accidentally separated.”
“Ah.” He made the single syllable sound incredibly significant, and a chill ran through her skin. “The day you nearly died in Madrid.”
“That has nothing to do with her.” She stared at him, stunned by the disgusting overtones creeping through his words.
“The same team whose
prosaico
was killed by French cavalry, patrolling far beyond their normal range?” His eyebrows went up. “The same French troop who you thought killed your sister.” He was watching her very closely.
“Are you telling me she was a
double agent
?” Hélène raised her hand to slap him but he caught it easily, holding her arm to make her look him in the eye.
“No, I’m not saying that—but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it was true either.”
“Jean-Marie!” Hélène shrieked and wrenched herself away from him. To gain a
cónyuge
but have her sister’s honor besmirched in the same hour was a situation no woman should have to live through.
She stormed into the big living room and began to pace, ignoring the massive stone fireplace and the comfortable mix of carved wood and leather-covered furniture. At another time, she might have asked him where he’d found such superb brass sculptures, or the paintings of horses. But not now.
Not when
la petite
was at risk. She could remember all those long years when Papa and
Maman
had prayed to have another living child. She’d wept so many times when
Maman
was delivered of a child, only to see it gathered to heaven a few days or weeks later.
But then
la petite
was born after they’d almost given up hope.
La petite
, dark-haired and squalling her appetite for life from the moment she came into this world. They’d all loved her so very dearly and they’d vied to make her happy.
How could they be talking about the same woman?
Jean-Marie followed after a moment, clad in jeans, and started making coffee in the well-equipped kitchen.
When she thought she had her temper under control enough to talk, she followed him.
“My sister has always loved me.” She faced him from the door, arms akimbo, daring him to contradict her.
He nodded, his expression carefully neutral, and popped the switch to turn the coffeemaker on. “So why didn’t she contact you in England all these years?”
“Because she was ashamed of having made a deal for her life, after the cavalry captured her,” Hélène hurled back at him.
“It’s one possibility.” Sympathy, mixed with a bitter knowledge of grief, washed over his face. He took a step, lifting his hand to her.
She instinctively bristled at his unsought sympathy. She’d fought her battles alone for too long to accept help easily. His mouth tightened, and his hand fell back to his side. His gaze returned to its earlier, relentless clarity.
“Still, two centuries of guilt with no word for a loving sister? I’d call it unlikely.”
Hélène flinched at the logic in his words. But loyalty kept her stubbornly arguing the same point. “Jean-Marie, she is my only living relative. I cannot believe ill of her.”
“Hélène, I have seen her try to kill my family.” He looked straight at her, truth naked as a saber in his gaze. “Do not ask me to believe she is entirely good.”
Hélène stared back at him, colder than she could recall on any mission. Must she choose between her little sister and her
cónyuge
, between her family and her one true love?
Celeste’s “guest” bedroom had never been more beautiful—or more frustrating. Two centuries later, she still enjoyed reminders of Josephine Bonaparte, the great courtesan who’d risen to become an empress. Her bed was an enormous four-poster in the pseudo-Egyptian style Bonaparte had popularized, draped in yards of red silk to hide its many opportunities for tying a man up. Silk wallpaper gleamed behind furniture carved with lions and sphinxes, in a veiled warning to tattlers. Enormous gilded mirrors offered views of whichever
prosaicos
she was enjoying, while the heavy carpets and hidden paneling concealed the men’s shouts. Usually of pleasure, of course.
Not one to waste money, she’d also chosen to use its heavy soundproofing for her private videoconferencing center. It was therefore blessed with an enormous monitor and superb sound system, both normally hidden behind a sliding panel. Tonight the monitor was in the open, bleating a plea to buy used vehicles.
Celeste shot a fulminating glare at it and started donning a new dress to distract herself. Versace this time, not Chanel or Armani. Daring, not staid for a
patrona
. Red to make those
prosaicos
know who they should crawl to, despite the damn TV crews stirring them up.
“If that overconfident ass, Beau, hadn’t celebrated too soon and turned his back on Don Rafael,” she hissed, continuing her previous maledictions against the dead, while she yanked the dress’s silk down her arms.
“The Texas cretin would have been butchered,” Georges agreed and started carefully hooking her into the exceptionally miniscule example of
haute couture
.
“We’d be sitting high atop his hills, dining on his arrogant, holier-than-thou men.” She tapped her foot impatiently, reviewing all the lovely plans she’d had for breaking those oh-so-superior
vampiros
. Beginning with Jean-Marie, he of the always perfectly composed expression.
Merde
, but she’d have enjoyed seeing him beg for mercy.
“At least they’ve made enough enemies that
bandolerismo
have flocked to us from around the world, begging to help take over Texas,” Georges reminded her.
“Locusts.” She curled her lip.
“But very useful—and totally under my thumb.”
“True.” She dragged her nail down his cheek affectionately, making his eyes close in momentary pleasure.
She stepped away and poured herself another glass of champagne, debating whether to punish her sommelier for the second-rate vintage. Probably not, since she didn’t give a damn about the stuff, and Georges only drank it for the bubbles. Just another sign of the increasing economies Don Rafael’s attacks were forcing on her. Damn, damn, damn!
“You also have your
mesnaderos
and all of your
compañías
from the rest of the Southeast.”
Compañías?
She’d forgotten about them. Those wonderful groups of
vampiros
from each of the
esferas
she’d grabbed in the Southeast. Hmm…
“With them…”
“We can attack those Texans on two fronts!” She tossed the champagne bottle to him. He caught it, his yellow teeth flashing.
Raoul watched them silently, invisibly, from a gilded mirror, his eyes narrowed and alert for every detail.
The TV’s previous staccato patter died away, to be replaced by a burst of saccharine music.
“And now for our lead st-tory,” stammered the announcer, his bald pate sweating under the studio lights.
Celeste sniffed. The network had brought in a third-string newsreader from Iowa after the previous anchors had mysteriously found attractive engagements elsewhere. Freedom of the press had always meant important stories needed to be approved by her first, if you wanted to live in her
esfera
.
“Patience,
cher
. We must hear what they think they know.” Georges lifted his glass to her.
“
Think
? Hah! They can’t even paint by numbers.”
“The governor announced today the formation of a joint task force,” the newsman blurted, “with the FBI and Texas Rangers to investigate the string of deaths terrifying the Crescent City.”
Celeste’s head snapped up.
Joint
task force? With the
FBI
and
Texas
? What the hell was going on now?
A simply dressed, gray-haired woman appeared, wearing excellent pearls as befitted the matriarch of one of the South’s greatest political families.
“Damn the bitch.” Celeste hissed a string of curses and began to pace. “I haven’t been able to touch her since her son was executed for interfering with my
mesnaderos
.”
“Do you want her silenced?” Georges offered cautiously, practical as ever. “We own almost everyone else in state government.”
“Not yet. She can call Washington privately, which they can’t. Plus, the Justice Department wants to investigate all the unexplained law enforcement deaths in the southeastern
esferas
we took over.” Her stomach knotted, and she fought to think. If Beau hadn’t needed so much blood to prepare for the duel, there wouldn’t have been so many killings. She’d always been careful to keep New Orleans clean and quiet, so the tourists would keep coming back.
Damn him!
“The president has pledged his full cooperation,” the governor purred, “and promised to put all the resources of the federal government to work solving these murders.”
The camera pulled back, showing the others on the dais. A group of strong, very tough men moved up to flank her. One was tall and very weather-beaten, his eyes all too observant under his white Stetson. The only female among them also wore a white hat but was small and lithe with the poised, exotic stillness of a handmade knife. A foolish man might have been mesmerized by her sensual but firmly controlled mouth.
They were a damn good lot, looking far more dangerous than the usual politician’s hangers-on—meaning the governor had finally grown wary enough to demand deeds rather than pretty words from her entourage. Who the hell had that bitch dragged in this time?
“We are lucky to have Ranger Captain Zachariah Howard come out of retirement to lead this joint Texas, federal, and Louisiana task force. The Texas Rangers are bringing what they’ve learned from the unusual deaths there, while the FBI—”
Celeste hurled a priceless bust of Nefertiti through the screen. White light burst across it, and the governor’s saccharine drawl ended abruptly—and satisfyingly. The huge TV shattered into pieces and rained onto the floor, leaving a few bits of electronics protruding from the wall.
Georges straightened up, eyeing her cautiously.
“Stupid slut,” Celeste snarled, ignoring the longtime politician’s reputation for high personal morals. “I’m putting a million-dollar price tag on her head.”
A moment’s unhappy silence followed. “That might not be enough,
cher
. Gorshkov of Trenton has provided her with bodyguards.”
“Why the hell would a top
patrón
do that?” Celeste stared at her enforcer. “No
patrón
interferes in the inner workings of another’s
esfera
, unless he plans to attack it—and Gorshkov is too far away for that.”
Georges shifted uneasily, but his gaze remained steady. He was the one messenger she’d never damaged for an unpopular message. “Killing a governor could bring the Feds down on us,
cher madame
, thereby attracting attention to all
vampiros
.”
Cursing as she hadn’t in decades, Celeste swept champagne and antiques onto the floor. She ground the shards into dust with her foot, consigning Gorshkov and the governor into hell with the fragments.
When she slowed down, Georges pressed a glass of Calvados into her hand. She snorted her disdain for any weakness but knocked back the strong brandy all too quickly.