Authors: Diane Whiteside
They nodded and moved faster.
One of them stopped.
“What is it now?”
“Madame, there’s a motorcycle hidden in the trees beyond the road. I think it’s the one we saw at Rosemeade.”
Really? Her eyes narrowed. Forgetting about any disgusting things hidden in the grass, she came to investigate what he’d found. A black and silver motorcycle, barely visible beside the trees and smelling of Jean-Marie and Hélène.
Her hands curved into claws, and she grinned in happy anticipation. There were a hundred, a thousand different ways to destroy those two devils. But she wouldn’t give them the easy, fast way out—dying in a cloud of flames atop an exploding motorcycle. Especially since she was certain when time came for the final showdown, she’d have the best weapon of all: Hélène would never have the stomach to fry her younger sister.
“Blow it up,” she snapped at the best explosives man among her remaining escort.
“When he starts it?” the fellow asked.
“Certainly not. Use a timer so it will be useless when they return. I want them to know who’s responsible for their deaths.”
He knew better than to argue with her. He bobbed his head and ran toward one of the sturdy sheds, returning with a wooden crate. He knelt by the expensive motorcycle and went to work, first popping off the fancy trim.
“How do you plan to destroy it?” Celeste asked, her attention caught despite herself.
“Thermite on the fuel tank, madame, contained in a plastic bag and held by duct tape, with my watch as the timer. The bike will be shattered.”
“Even better, they won’t be able to see the bomb or smell it. Congratulations.” She’d commend him to Georges for this.
“Thank you, madame.” He bent back to his work with redoubled energy.
Jean-Marie listened intently to the safe’s lock, hoping it was still set to Celeste’s favorite date. He truly didn’t have time to crack it, not if he wanted to help Hélène.
The last number clicked solidly into position on the day the bitch had become
patrona
of New Orleans.
He swung the door open and whistled softly at how much the gun room’s contents had expanded since his last visit. If he’d wondered before what he’d do when his Beretta ran out of his ammunition, he sure as hell wasn’t worried now.
After he armed himself, he’d change the combination.
After all these centuries, Hélène d’Agelet was back in the countryside with livestock to protect her. If her count was correct, there were more than three hundred longhorns trapped by floods and fencing in this pasture. They were rather closely packed together, all waving horns and long legs with wary dark eyes watching her. No wonder the original Texans had simply turned their animals into the wild and let them wander. These beasts looked as if they could take care of themselves and trample into the mud any human impertinent enough to argue with them.
Amazing—and how very typical of Texas.
She was next to the gate leading to the runway. Once she opened it, all she had to do was run—in wolf form—around the cattle, and persuade them to go through the gate onto the airfield. It should be very easy, as long as none of them decided to kick, or stomp the strange wolf. Or jostle a silly human walking on two legs.
But she would shift because Jean-Marie would teach her.
Cónyuges
always brought each other through.
She smiled faintly, opened the gate, and slipped through to the other side. The plane was on the ground and, so far, none of Celeste’s
mesnaderos
had noticed her.
Jean-Marie, I’m ready whenever you are.
She glimpsed a small, very well-stocked armory through his eyes and whistled.
Impressive.
Isn’t it? There are enough guns here to arm almost a hundred men. I’ve changed the combination so this stockpile won’t help her.
Naughty boy.
He chuckled.
Did you see how many
mesnaderos
she has?
Four, all of whom went into the house.
Thank you, chérie; they should be easy enough to dispose of.
She rolled her eyes at his insouciance but put nothing into words.
It’s time to show you the wolf now.
I’ve already loosened my clothes, so I’m ready.
She slowed her breathing, easing herself into the place where anything—any form—was possible.
Jean-Marie came fully into her, more clearly in some ways than when they made love. He was a wolf inside her head, entirely a wolf from the tip of his nose to his tail. From the pads on his feet to the tufts of fur atop his ears, the wiry strength of shoulders and hips, the driving energy of legs to run and leap, the sense of smell for hunting, the tail for balance and to talk…
And everything he was, she became, too.
She looked up at the fence and sniffed it, her tail swaying her hips.
Good girl
, he approved, his pride and relief coming strongly across the link.
She grinned and wagged harder.
Scents are different like this
, she commented, testing their
conyugal
bond.
I hadn’t noticed when I was a bird.
Birds don’t smell very much. Wolf senses are increased, just like human senses are boosted in
vampiro
form.
She could hear him perfectly, including his relief, which made him repeat what she’d known, thanks to shapeshifting before.
You can shift back whenever you want to. Just think about mist, then go through that to human.
Right.
That’s your biggest risk. You haven’t eaten well, and you’re exhausted from the bike ride. You’ve only got one shift in you, and this is it.
Damn, she’d forgotten about that.
I’ll be okay.
She sure as hell wasn’t going to let him worry.
You watch your back.
Yes, ma’am. Company’s coming.
Cold terror ran through her—but not for herself.
Good hunting, Jean-Marie.
And to you,
chérie.
Jean-Marie closed the vault silently, unwilling to admit, even to himself, how much he was worried about Hélène. The best thing to do was destroy the bastards inside the house as quickly as possible so he could help her.
The house was full of expensive antiques, including furniture, rugs, and portraits, all witnesses to Hollingsworth’s appetite for bribery. The gun room was located off the old library, in what had been the butler’s pantry. Hidden behind polished paneling, it was only steps away from the main staircase and the center hall. None of which hid scents from a
vampiro
like himself with two centuries of experience as an assassin.
Two young
vampiros
were trying to sneak down the hall toward the vault, both sounding heavily armed.
Hmm. He dived behind the sofa, providing himself a good view of the gun room’s door.
The window suddenly shattered and bullets sprayed the room, grazing his shoulder. He cursed his impatience.
Time shifted and slowed.
Watch out, Hélène! The
mesnaderos
know we’re here and they’re hunting us.
Understood. You take care of yourself; I’ll be fine.
Her voice was as icily calm as his own.
A
vampiro
ran for the vault and began to dial the combination.
Jean-Marie came up from behind the sofa and put a single burst into the intruder by the safe. He ran for the door, not waiting to see his enemy turn into dust. Ignoring the bullets, knowing only a heart or a head shot could kill him. Anything else was only pain.
He needed to take out the fellow in the window before he did anything else.
Bullets thudded into his flesh, but he didn’t break stride.
He skidded into the hallway and brought up his submachine gun, the very nice MP5 Celeste had contributed to this party.
The shadow behind the shredded curtains started to dive for cover. But Jean-Marie was faster. He brought the bastard down for good, then turned to hunt the remaining two
mesnaderos
.
Hélène slunk past the cattle, baring her teeth. They eyed her as warily as she did them. Move around, move around to the oak tree, she reminded herself.
Damn, but cattle were huge from a wolf’s perspective. They bit, too, or at least they’d tried to, and they wanted to kick her.
Ah, here it was!
Next step: Charge into the cattle and make them head for the gate.
She panted, considering her prospects with the tall, nasty cattle. Decent odds they could break her back with a good stomp.
Shots rang out from within the house.
Better hurry, Hélène; Jean-Marie would need backup or a distraction soon.
She snarled and advanced on the nearest bull.
He lowered his head and swung it, pawing the earth.
She barked sharply—once, twice, thrice—and charged. A last minute dodge and a quick nip won her a mouthful of hide and a furious bellow. She bit the bull’s nearest neighbor for good measure before returning to the herd’s edge. She harassed another bull, a cow, and a third bull, pushing them always toward the gate.
The cattle milled uncertainly and moved away from her.
She came closer, flaunting her predator’s scent, and set her teeth into more of them.
Dammit, move!
She ran back and forth, barking constantly.
The herd moved away, faster and faster, bellowing their alarm, waving their great horns to ward off danger.
Their only way out was through the gate, and they stormed through it like an avalanche, thundering across the land, moonlight pouring off their horns, mud clots flying up under their hooves.
Yes! Run, you beasts, run!
She howled wildly, hurling herself at them and nipping their legs.
The longhorns burst onto the runway and fanned out across it, heads down and running fast.
Yes, spread out! Fill the runway!
She dodged back and forth, charging, pushing them into position. Like hell, she’d let them leave a blank space.
But the wider space absorbed their original panic until they gradually slowed down.
Hélène dropped back, watching to make sure they didn’t return to their original pasture.
Finally the longhorns were scattered across the big expanse, Celeste’s empty Gulfstream jet standing in the midst like a silver mushroom.
A few cows around the edge looked around for intruders. Finding no sign of their tormenter, they dropped their heads and began to graze on the fresh new grass around the tarmac. Others gradually relaxed, too, and the airstrip became their new pasture.
Nobody would land or take off from Hollingsworth’s ranch until these cattle were moved off.
Hélène grinned and abruptly sat down on her haunches, panting fiercely. Jean-Marie hadn’t been joking when he said this was exhausting. She dropped her muzzle toward the ground, dragging air into her lungs.
She needed a few moments to catch her breath before she went to help him. As a human, of course, even though she’d lose any advantages of wolf form. She was too exhausted, as he’d predicted, to do more than shift back into her native form.
Jean-Marie waited in the hallway, squatting between the chair and table, ready to pounce on the first unwary opponent who came within range. One
mesnadero
was searching the kitchen, while the other prowled the music room at the hall’s opposite end.
Come on, lads, it’s time to finish this party and hunt down your mistress…
A black shadow slipped out of the music room and along the wall.
Jean-Marie fired a single shot, near silent to
prosaico
ears but as good as an alarm to a
vampiro
.
The
mesnadero
dropped immediately, collapsing into a small pile of dust. Jean-Marie ducked into a roll, moving away from danger.
The other came sooner than he’d expected, bursting through the kitchen door and spraying an uncannily accurate hail of bullets.
Jean-Marie twisted and fired, hitting his enemy between the eyes and killing him. Dust drifted from where he’d fallen.
He came to his feet a little too slowly, his hip aching where that last bullet had nicked him.
A quick look established it would heal within a few hours, given some blood, although it would hurt like a son of a bitch until then. He grabbed a napkin from the dining room’s collection and pressed it onto the oozing wound, before limping out the door.
Hélène. He needed to find Hélène.
Plus Celeste.
Devol circled the small runway again. He was Madame Celeste’s only defender, now those four assholes had gotten themselves killed inside the house.
Where could he set down? How could he reach
cher madame
? If anything happened to her…
At this hour of night, landing on a road was not an option, even with
vampiro
eyes.
Crap.
He brought the plane around again, vowing Texas women would pay in blood for any pain
cher
suffered. And God forbid
cher madame
died. Because if she did—if his love, his darling left this earth—he would destroy every
vampiro
in Texas and Oklahoma, no matter what it cost.
Hidden within the woods, Celeste studied Jean-Marie’s motorcycle and her sister walking toward it.
Hélène was exhausted, her face very white and her feet barely lifting out of the dirt in those enormous boots. She’d probably shapeshifted, which must have taken a lot of energy.
The duct tape Celeste’s
mesnadero
had strapped around the motorcycle barely showed at this hour and distance. Hélène couldn’t smell the thermite or see the watch, where it inexorably ticked down the time till this pile of metal became a useless piece of scrap. She didn’t seem to have noticed the bomb either.
But Celeste knew to the second when it would go off, thanks to her Rolex watch.