Authors: Diane Whiteside
“Killing her would cost as much as a
patrón
,” she remarked finally. “Which takes cash I do not have, dammit.”
“I could do it myself,” Georges offered, baring his teeth with an anticipatory grin. She smiled at him fondly, remembering all the people he’d destroyed wearing the same expression.
“No, you need to return to Texas and turn up the heat there. Don Rafael and this damn task force deserve to have far too much to think about on that side of the Brazos.”
“What do you want me to do first?”
She’d escalate the war to whatever pitch was necessary in order to win. If modern methods didn’t work, she’d go back to the old rules, the ones that had worked so well during the Reign of Terror. If Don Rafael caused trouble for her, she’d repay him tenfold.
“Start with the public attack we planned. I want it carried out as soon as possible.
Georges’s jaw dropped, and an ugly gray tint suffused his skin. He swallowed hard before speaking. “But, madame, the greatest casualties will be among children—very small children. It could raise passions extremely high, too high for us to predict and counter.”
“Exactly what I want!”
He blanched. “But children…” he whispered.
“The sanctimonious Texas bastard will either call off his hounds and negotiate with me—or come charging out of his den so we can attack him.”
Georges blinked, life and animation seeping back into his face. He flexed his fingers absentmindedly, testing the grips needed for different necks. Celeste hid her smirk at the familiar gesture.
“
Mais certainement
,
madame
, all shall be as you wish.” He bowed low, sweeping his arm wide in a courtier’s homage.
She nodded formally before frowning. “Unfortunately, you’ll need to leave immediately to reach the San Antonio safe house before dawn.”
He grunted his acknowledgment, his face turning expressionless.
She caressed his cheek. “Remember, the more devilry you awaken in Texas, the faster we’ll be reunited.”
Delight flooded his eyes. He dropped to his knees and silently kissed her fingertips. A moment later, he was gone, the elevator doors whispering shut behind him in the hallway.
Celeste prowled into her own bedroom, this one mahogany and velvet in the finest tradition of the Antebellum South. A massive four-poster bed held pride of place, matched to a splendid armoire and chests, all carved with stylized sprays of rice. Gold velvet looped and swirled around the windows, heavily fringed with darker gold. The carpet was French and covered in brilliant yellow roses and chrysanthemums. She’d known it was perfect for her the moment she spotted it at the Charleston
patrón
’s home thirty years ago. She’d killed him, of course, to get it.
She opened the hidden bar and poured herself another glass of Calvados, debating whether to snatch a
prosaico
from the casino or use one of her
vampiros
for dinner. Unfortunately, by keeping her
vampiros
young enough not to be a threat, they also lacked strength and stamina in the bedroom.
She curled her lip at the prospect and drank the golden liquid, enjoying its reminder of the apple orchards back in France.
“You should not attack children,” a deep voice commented. “You risk pushing your lieutenant too hard, since they’re the only beings which melt his heart. Or you might lose your immortal soul.”
“Nonsense,” Celeste retorted, the fragile crystal raised for another swallow. “Georges is completely mine. No matter what I order him to do, he will always obey.”
She poured it down her throat, losing herself in the heady, slightly sweet aromas—and froze. Who the hell had spoken?
She whirled around, searching for the disturbance’s source. Her
mesnaderos
could enter within seconds, once she shouted for help. Not that she’d need it.
Raoul looked back at her from within a great mirror, surrounded by an immense gilded frame. His face was that of the warrior she’d glimpsed on that last night at Sainte Marie des Fleurs, but without the wickedly disfiguring scar. His dark eyes were alive with intelligence and worry.
Joy undreamed of, unhoped for, raced through her. She held out her hands to him and took a few tottering steps toward him. “Raoul!” she breathed.
His gaze swept over her, lingering briefly on the meagerness of her dress and the immense glass of brandy.
She flushed and instinctively put the drink down before pride stiffened her spine. “You cannot be real,” she insisted. Perhaps he was a phantom, something created by a magician’s arts to manipulate her.
“Am I not?” He lifted an eyebrow. “I may not be alive, but I am still on this earth, not a tool of your enemies. Do you wish me to recite the combination for your safe? Or the password to your computer? What about the account numbers for your various Swiss bank accounts?”
“You’re bluffing.” Celeste drew back, chills running down her spine. No single person knew those items except Georges. Even a combination of her enemies didn’t, or Don Rafael would have already used them against her.
“Let me see.” Raoul paused, his gaze going slightly unfocused, and began to recite. She stopped him after the fourth tightly held password.
Merde
, what would happen if any of her
mesnaderos
heard him?
“Very well, I accept that you are a supernatural being…”
He bowed ironically.
“Who may be the man I once knew as Raoul.”
Pity swept over his face. “My angel, how I wish I could bring you joy so you could learn to relax again.”
“What the hell are you talking about now?” Temper flushed her cheeks.
“You must trust me again.”
“If I’m going to chat with ghosts, why not one of the thousands of others living in New Orleans?” She glared at him, her hands propped on her hips.
“Count me faithful beyond death, as I have sworn before, as I will swear again.”
The words rang through the room, bringing echoes of a country lane where two young lovers had pledged themselves to each other for eternity.
Celeste’s heart stopped beating, and her legs lost all strength. She caught at the table for support. “Raoul.”
“Yes, my heart. I still love you, but I have only recently been given the grace of talking to you.”
“Why are you here?” She stumbled forward and put her hands on the mirror, trying to touch him. “It’s a bitter joke to be able to see each other but not be together! Damn—”
“Do not soil yourself with blasphemy, Celeste!” Raoul ordered sharply.
She bit her lip and nodded, closing off her recriminations against the Almighty. Her fingers stroked the unyielding glass, aching to find a path through to his warmth. “As you wish, Raoul. But—why are you here? Can you stay long?”
Will I survive if you do? Will I survive if I lose you again?
She’d spent so many decades hunting amusements—no matter how dangerous or disgusting—to avoid remembering the awful moment when she’d seen his head shattered. How could she go back on that bitter treadmill again?
“Shouldn’t you be in Heaven?” she ventured.
“No.” He shook his head, grimacing.
“Why not?” She flared up, instantly protective. “You were an honorable officer.”
“Was I? I ordered my men to kill women and children who hadn’t harmed them. I helped them to do so, and I made sure we did so very well. We committed sin, Celeste.”
“I cannot believe that, Raoul,” she insisted. “Not of you.”
“Do so and learn from my example.” He suddenly seemed decades older. “I have glimpsed the pits of hell and understand the error of my ways. But the Lord has been merciful because of why I sinned, when I thought it would terrify fools into silence, so you and our children would be safe.”
“Then you should be in Heaven. You are the best of men, Raoul!” Tears blurred her eyes.
“I must first be purified in the fires of Purgatory, my heart.”
She flinched. Purgatory’s flames caused suffering which was more severe than anything experienced in this life. How could he endure that for years and years, perhaps millenia to come?
“If you did penance for your sins and came with me to Purgatory, my angel, we could be together for eternity.”
An eternity with Raoul? To stand hand in hand with him before the throne of God, united under the light of glory? What ecstasy!
But was she worthy of him? She had committed too many sins to remember, starting by betraying her fellow British agents. And the centuries since, when she’d sought out ways to drive men insane with pain so she wouldn’t think about her own screams of loneliness. And the long climb to the top as
patrona
, when she’d ruthlessly killed—or worse—anyone who stood in her way.
How many mortal sins did she have to her name, after all? Hell was for the likes of her, whose very core was destroyed and befouled. Purgatory’s fires, however long and agonizing, burned away only venial sins in preparation for admittance to Heaven.
Besides, what did any of that matter when there were tasks left undone?
“No. First I have to bring Hélène, your murderer, to justice.”
“Celeste!” His jaw dropped, and he almost leapt out of the mirror at her. “That’s fratricide, a mortal sin. There’d be no reconciliation for us. Ever.”
“I cannot rest while Hélène’s sins go unpunished.” She slowly shook her head, her jaw firming. “Do not wait for me, Raoul. I am not worthy of you and will never join you there. The sooner you leave this world, the sooner you will join the saints.”
She forced herself to meet Raoul’s gaze, while remembering the most bloodthirsty details of the planned attack. Surely it would make him understand how little he should have to do with her.
“
Nom de dieu
, Celeste, how can you even contemplate such a thing?” Raoul grimaced, his hands clenching and unclenching. “Remember everything Hélène did for you, for us while I was alive…”
“I told you what I am.” She shrugged, keeping her expression masked.
“Perhaps that’s what you are—but it’s not what you must remain!” he flung back at her.
Her eyes narrowed before she shook her head. Could he be right? Surely not.
“Do not dismiss me so quickly, my angel. There is still confession and absolution—and yes, penance to purify you, too. We still have hope.”
“Such optimism is for you, who have a chance to see the gates of paradise,
mon amour
. I have far too much sin on my soul to accompany you. I will remain here and live as I am accustomed to. It is, after all, a very comfortable life.” She flung her arms wide, indicating her spectacular room.
He dismissed it without a second glance, his hands flying in one of the abrupt gestures she’d loved so well.
“You still have time, my angel, to think and to act. Do so, I beg of you—for both our sakes.”
He blew her a kiss and vanished.
Jean-Marie gritted his teeth, listening to Luis detail all the mental health professionals flooding into Central Texas. There were fewer suicides to set his phone ringing—but far more unexplained deaths and outright murders than ever before in history. The Texas media weren’t as hysterical as their New Orleans brethren. On the other hand, they hadn’t endured two weeks of widespread killings, while two
vampiro
assassins regained their strengths through drinking death energies. That would incense any population and their guardians, including the press.
Reflecting their strained resources, tonight’s council meeting was a small one—only Rafael, Ethan, Gray Wolf, Luis, and himself. They were gathered in Rafael’s library amid the heavy, leather-clad chairs and towering bookcases for a rare moment of quiet.
Jean-Marie suspected
Doña
Grania had suggested the setting, with its combination of intimacy and masculinity—and its distance from the accumulated memories in Rafael’s office. If so, it was yet another example of how much she’d helped him relax since they’d become
cónyuges
.
Maybe it was also a good omen for his mood tonight.
“Anything else, Luis?” Rafael steepled his fingers, his dark eyes alert and steady. Once they would have been narrowed and tense, and he would have been pacing like a caged cougar.
“No, Don Rafael. More are going to New Orleans, of course, plus folk practitioners.”
“Voodoo,” murmured Ethan.
“And others,” agreed Gray Wolf. “Our friends are keeping us informed.”
“Excellent. And you, Jean-Marie?” Rafael shifted his gaze, undoubtedly seeing far more than he’d speak of.
“Lars is doing very well in New Orleans.” He didn’t add—
of course
.
Gray Wolf stirred slightly but said nothing. Ethan’s mouth tightened. Luis glanced at Rafael, who nodded approvingly. The Texas
patrón
was the only man present who’d immediately relaxed at hearing Lars’s name.
“Yes, he is the only one of us who can say that.” Jean-Marie glanced around, spreading his hands in a very Gallic shrug. “Unfortunately, too many people have died in New Orleans and continue to fall in Texas. We need to grow wise very quickly, faster than even Lars can help us.”
“Can he tell us how many killers there are?” Gray Wolf asked, bringing his usual ruthless pragmatism to bear.
“We believe the number of
bandolerismo
stabilized at approximately thirty, just before the duel.”
“Too damn many,” snarled Luis.
“Verdaderamente,”
agreed Rafael.
“Do you know where all of them are?” Ethan leaned forward eagerly.
“No. Lars is trying to find out, but the information is very closely guarded.”
“They must be hiding out as individuals, not in a pack. Without a guide to where they are, it’s like looking for dozens of needles in hundreds of haystacks.” Ethan smacked his fist into his palm. “We’ll find them but it’s taking so damn long.”
“Take more men off my escort,” Rafael ordered.
“No,” snapped Gray Wolf. “That’s exactly what
she
wants and why
she
’s sent them here. If she wanted to do anything else with them, they’d have already attacked.”
Rafael and Gray Wolf glared at each other in a silent argument. The others held their breath, waiting for the result. Only Gray Wolf, the heir, would—or could—have challenged Rafael on this subject.
Even after all these centuries, Jean-Marie would have hated to do so. But maybe, if his
creador
bent a little on this subject, he might be rational about another.
Finally Rafael nodded. “You are probably correct.”
Thank God, he was being flexible tonight. His plan might just work…
“But rotate the searchers and
mesnaderos
so both remain fresh,” Rafael ordered crisply. “Also organize a special strike force from among my
mesnaderos
, in case we have to respond to a sudden attack.”
“Have you Seen something?” Jean-Marie asked, caught by a subtle shift in the older man’s voice.
“Not an event.” Rafael frowned, framing his answer carefully. “Just a troop of men, larger than Ethan’s usual
compañía
, which drills very hard. Later, they rush to board my Gulfstream jet.”
More than a half dozen
vampiros
? Who needed to go farther and faster than in one of the usual helicopters? Shit.
“It shall be done as you envision.” Ethan bowed in his seat before pulling out his smartphone to make notes.
“What else? Nothing? Very well, gentlemen, you have my permission to depart. I look forward to the time when we will not meet every night at this time.” Rafael rose, and the others followed, quietly making their good-byes.
Jean-Marie lingered, straightening books while he waited for his moment alone with his
creador
. He wanted to have this conversation in the house’s intimacy, when Rafael was relaxed and could scent his
cónyuge
’s presence. Maybe it would make him sympathize with another’s plight. Maybe.
Rafael turned back from the door, raising his eyebrows at the sight of his eldest
hijo
. He’d known Jean-Marie had stayed behind, of course, but he’d never seen him twitching with nerves before. He’d have to talk to Grania about this later.
He pulled on an affable smile—so very much easier to do these days, despite the war’s worries—and gestured toward the fireplace. “Would you care to join me for a whisky?”
“Thank you,” his
hijo
accepted simply, without one of his usual conversational flourishes.
Rafael handed Jean-Marie a glass and was surprised the favored Glendronach scotch didn’t bring a release in tension. He took a sip of his own Pikesville Rye and waited, refusing to frown. Whatever the problem, there’d be time to solve it.
Jean-Marie swirled the superb whisky, letting its complex aromas rise into the air, before speaking. He wasn’t fool enough to waste time on trivialities.
“You know Hélène d’Agelet, the British firestarter, is currently visiting town.”
Rafael inclined his head, allowing Jean-Marie’s rush of words to run its course.
“She’s staying at my house.”
A defensive note? Why? Jean-Marie was the chief
heraldo
and therefore properly entitled to have foreign warriors and diplomats as guests.
“She’s welcome to stay in Texas for a week, like all other visiting
vampiros
,” Rafael murmured politely. “After that, I’ll need to give my blessing for a longer stay.”
Jean-Marie squared his shoulders. Rafael set down his glass, his attention well and truly caught.
“Hélène is also the British spy I worked with during the British army’s retreat to Corunna.”
Dios mío
, she was the one he’d relied on so completely? And she was the one woman Jean-Marie had ever lost his head over. Sara’s capture of him had been the result of a young man thinking with his cock. Under other circumstances, it would have been forgotten within days. But Hélène d’Agelet had been an entirely different matter, their encounter a true melding of hearts and minds.
To have her come here now, during a war which threatened everything, could only mean the greatest danger.
Rafael searched Jean-Marie’s face and found only steadfast loyalty and honesty. He could bore in more deeply, root out every detail of Jean-Marie’s days with that female, using his
vampiro
powers and his ruthless ownership of Jean-Marie’s psyche, thanks to being his
creador
. But would he learn anything new and useful? Probably not.
Damn. What hold didn’t she have on his eldest
hijo
?
“Continue.” Rafael’s voice deepened to a general’s rasp.
“Hélène is also my
cónyuge
.” Jean-Marie’s voice shifted into the pure music of a chant, joy lilting through it.
Rafael stared, terror chilling his bones.
Cónyuge
for Jean-Marie? What wouldn’t this stranger, this greatest of all Britain’s secret agents know about him through Jean-Marie? Jean-Marie could name every entrance to this house, the gun vaults, where he and Grania slept…
Santísima Virgen
, Grania who needed to hibernate at least eighteen of every twenty-four hours! Could he tolerate a stranger knowing where to find his defenseless lady? Let alone someone who was famous as the most ruthless weapon Britain had ever wielded?
Like hell he’d ever allow that bitch near his darling!
He’d never be able to trust Hélène, because he wasn’t her
creador
. He couldn’t stop her with a single thought, the way he wielded a shield against insubordination, or mutiny, or murder by one of his
hijos
. When he remembered fighting his
creador
, the clang that had roared through his entire body the first time his sword had rung against his
creador
’s, how his blade had sliced through his
creador
’s neck, sending that filthy head bouncing across the room—and all he’d felt was transcendent joy…
No
hijos
of his were ever going to have an opportunity to experience that sensation! Especially not when Grania’s life was at stake.
“And?” he murmured, hoping against hope for a request he could dismiss without offending his oldest friend.
“May I have your permission to marry her and live here in Texas?” Jean-Marie’s eyes came back to him, their kingfisher blue alive with wary hope. “If you ever believe she is a threat to you,
Doña
Grania, or to Texas, you may kill
me
.”
Marriage? Permanently bring the firestarter into Texas? If anything went wrong—
destroy
Jean-Marie for another’s offense? Impossible. He could no more kill his oldest friend than he could tear out his own heart.
He could feel his body squaring into granite, together with his countenance. “I am sorry but the answer is no. You know the laws of Texas as well as I do.”
Jean-Marie’s expression shifted into that of a skilled negotiator, offering another bribe. “Perhaps you could make an exception, in light of her value as a military weapon. She is willing to swear fealty to you,” he coaxed.
“Others have forsworn their oaths,” Rafael remarked, chilled at the thought of trusting such a dangerous stranger.
“You insult her—and me!—by suggesting that,” Jean-Marie snapped.
Rafael flung up a hand in silent apology. “I cannot command her fully since I am not her
creador
. In time of war, such as now, any hesitation could become critical,” he said, carefully choosing his words.
“I have spent three centuries in your service. If you don’t trust my judgment now, those years mean nothing.” Jean-Marie’s face hardened, and he rose to his feet, a move that Rafael matched. “I became a
vampiro
to finish Hélène’s work.” His voice crackled with determination. “I am not bound by oaths to Texas. When this war is over, Hélène and I will leave Texas together.”
Santa Madre de Dios
, must he lose his oldest friend, the foundation of his family? But better that than risk any danger to his own
cónyuge
.
Rafael bowed an icy acknowledgment.
Jean-Marie waited another moment, searching his
creador
’s face. When Rafael said nothing, he cursed under his breath and walked out, boot heels drumming on the floor like an executioner’s march.
Rafael slapped the granite fireplace and cursed, before leaning his forehead against it. Never to play chess with Jean-Marie again, or argue with him about how to improve the breeding program in the Santiago Stud…
Soft arms wrapped around his waist, and a tall woman pressed herself against his back.
“You’ve been eavesdropping,” he accused mildly without lifting his head.
You were shouting
, his
cónyuge
corrected and kissed his shoulder.
He snorted, half in derision and half laughing at himself. Trust
la doctora
, his beloved wildlife veterinarian with the impressive collection of degrees, to precisely define his previous conversation—no matter how unflattering the term might be.
He turned in her arms and embraced her, resting his chin on the top of her head. Her sweet curls tickled him, bringing a lump to his throat.
Dios
, how he’d missed these simple pleasures.
Have you considered you two seemed to be describing two entirely different women?
Grania asked after a long pause, still snugly ensconced against his heart.
Rafael blinked, caught completely off-guard. He’d personally been pondering how best to tempt his adored
cónyuge
into wearing some of the very expensive lingerie he’d ordered for her. Was she putting that splendid mind of hers to work on solving the impasse between him and his eldest
hijo
?
Thank God their
conyugal
link had brought her through
La Lujuria
so quickly. Feeling her insane lust for blood and emotion had shredded his wits nearly to the breaking point. He’d been ecstatic when she’d grabbed the edge of this
vampiro mayor
stability and started healing so quickly, until she was now well able to reason. Like every other
cachorra
, she still needed to sleep often—but those times provided them with excellent opportunities for cuddling.
Grania,
querida,
who his lady is doesn’t matter,
he reminded her.
Texas law says that only I can create
vampiros.
Yes, yes, I know. I wasn’t discussing that.
She tilted her head back to look at him, her dark blue eyes quizzical.
But he was describing a woman he’d known and loved for two centuries, while you spoke of a British secret weapon. They don’t sound like the same person to me.
Rafael opened his mouth to argue with her, stopped, and shut it. She waited patiently, any smile discreetly hidden.