Almost as unusual was the dream last night, of Rodrigo being forced—raped, actually—into becoming a vampire. That vision, unlike her earlier dream about owls, felt like a memory, rather than a fantasy. But so many of her dreams about Rodrigo had always felt real. She'd dreamed about Rodrigo all her life, even before she could write her name or his. Those dreams had been one of her few childhood refuges, in a world of solitude and torment.
She blinked rapidly, refusing to admit she was crying. In this situation, as in almost every other trial throughout her life, she was on her own. Her intellect would bring her through, as it had all the others. Dreams were vaporous follies and not to be relied on.
The first step was to come up with a valid theory explaining how Rafael and Brynda had behaved in the woods. The scientific method gave a standard set of steps for developing such a theory. After the years of working for her Ph.D., she could plan rigorous research in her sleep. Surely explaining a man and woman necking in the woods, with a little biting and bloodsucking, would be easy.
Half an hour later, she sat back, furious. How many millions of references could a single topic generate on the Internet? Too damn many to be useful, at any rate. She'd have to look at books and articles. Hopefully, they'd have some useful analysis of vampires.
At least it was finally late enough in the morning that she could go check on Brynda, to see if Rafael had hurt her.
Grania settled into a chair outside the coffee shop and slid her sunglasses on top of her head, ignoring her omnipresent male shadows across the street. Her table gave her a superb view of the lake, marina, and Brynda reading a letter on pink stationery. It was also the most comfortable place she'd ever set up watch in, with the graceful chair, the delicious iced coffee, even a free newspaper waiting for her, as contrast for the daily paper she'd bought.
She flipped a page, trying not to watch the other woman too openly. Sales of jewelry, shoes, lingerie—all at prices that made her head spin. New shipments just in from Mexico sounded more interesting. She sipped her coffee, enjoying the extravagance of splurging on hazelnut liqueur and cream.
Smaller ads for smaller shops and restaurants. A consignment store in Austin's historic district advertised its supply of stylish women's wear…
"Excuse me?"
Grania's head snapped up at that all-too-familiar Brooklyn accent. Her eyes swept over Brynda. "Yes?"
"Are you looking at today's Austin American-Statesman?" Blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, tank top cut low, capris, sandals. Good color, with no sign of any serious injury. If summarizing her condition for a medical chart, the only items Grania might note would be the two small red papules directly above her jugular. But they were so small and insignificant that even an acne specialist might not mention them.
"No, I'm not." Grania put down the free newspaper, leaving it open at the current page, and pulled out the respectable daily. "Here you go."
A long, superbly manicured nail tapped the consignment store's ad in the free newspaper. "Great place. I picked up a barely worn Richard Tyler cocktail dress there. Normally twelve hundred dollars but I bought it for twenty-four ninety-five. That's ninety-eight percent off."
Grania was impressed. Anyone who could do that kind of math, this early in the morning, was definitely of sound mind. "Extraordinary."
"You should check them out. It'd be a sin not to make the most of your height and coloring. Classic look for you, I'd say—very Jackie O or Catherine Zeta-Jones."
Grania gaped, barely managing not to glance down at her brilliant purple T-shirt with its ten-K-race logo. "You think so?"
"Oh, yeah. You'd have to brush your hair out, of course, or maybe wear a high ponytail. A little makeup too, nothing very heavy. But the guys would follow you around like puppies with their tongues hanging out. Well, thanks for the paper." Brynda picked it up, nodded in a friendly fashion, and returned to her seat.
Grania carefully ripped out the store's ad before she left.
She was frustrated and irritable by the time she grabbed lunch at a burrito restaurant in a heavily painted, hole-in-the-wall storefront. An exhaustive search of Austin's public libraries, including the University of Texas's superb collections, had uncovered no impartial, third-person accounts of vampires. Oh, she'd found some speculations by sociologists and anthropologists, but nothing useful to a biologist. Let alone a veterinarian trying to explain a man sucking blood from a woman's neck, while she was in the heights of orgasmic ecstasy.
Surely somebody else must have seen something like this before now. She could not be the only person who wanted to describe a vampire incident.
She cursed, considered her bank balance, and cursed again. This time in Spanish, which triggered awed looks from the teenage Hispanic males at the next table. She raised an eyebrow. They applauded. She laughed reluctantly.
Then she departed to search the local bookstores, starting with the ones most likely to carry speculative literature. If there were no fact-based observations recorded, then she'd have to look at the accounts commonly dismissed as pure fantasy.
She reached the final bookstore on her list just before dark. A fifty-year-old business in an eighty-year-old store, it advertised itself as providing old-fashioned service and books for all tastes. More to the point, its website had prominently mentioned vampire literature.
It was located on a street corner in an upscale western suburb, once a placid farm town. The businesses nearby were prosperous and friendly—a bank, a twenty-four-hour drugstore, restaurants and coffee shops, an ice cream parlor where teenagers giggled. There was even a park with green grass and a bandstand, designed to entertain both children and parents. But no families played there tonight.
The sunset's normal blaze of gold and red was framed by scudding black clouds, edged in eerie green. Lightning sparked and flashed in the western skies as Grania whipped into a parking place in front of the bookstore. Her truck's radio blared a nearly continuous litany of counties watching for severe thunderstorms. Driving home into that storm could be tricky, especially if it decided to spawn a tornado. But this was the last bookstore on her list and the only one carrying those European academic studies on vampires and Dracula.
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, considering the risks. Bags of vampire books on the floorboard seemed to mock her hesitation. Finally, she shrugged and went in, determined to find the books and leave as quickly as possible.
The revolving door delivered her into a shadowy world, with bookcases rising up on three sides. Placards advertised books, both recent and far older. Lining the walls above the bookcases were pictures of famous gunfighters, every one prominently displaying his firearms. Hanging from the rafters above were the flags that had once flown over Texas, their faded colors shimmering in the last glow through the skylights. Half of them were Confederate battle flags, companions to the wall of books dedicated to the American Civil War.
A battle flag twitched and swayed in a faint breath of air. It settled sullenly, sending dust swirling down.
The hair rose on the back of her neck. In another time and place, she'd have double-checked her guns.
"Can I help you, ma'am?" a man asked politely from beside her.
Grania spun, startled. He was young, perhaps twenty, and probably a college student. Objectively speaking, she'd describe him as her height, blond, and quite muscular for his age, with regular features. Given the way he was smiling at her, he knew exactly how attractive he was—and expected her to fall at his feet. Why hadn't she heard him approach? And why did he seem so familiar?
"I'm looking for some vampire books," she answered equally politely, quickly masking her expression and making herself unreadable. The worst situations—at the orphanage, boarding schools, boardrooms, examination halls, anywhere—had never broken her composure. Something told her that she needed to be on guard here.
The bookstore's two clerks ignored the byplay. They were far too busy checking out a stream of customers desperate to ret
urn home before the storm.
The blond's eyes narrowed and a frown flickered over his face before he smiled sweetly. "Which ones in particular? As you can see, the staff is occupied at the moment."
Well, it was a public building so what harm could he really do?
And she really did need to leave as soon as possible so help finding the books would be useful. "Thank you. I'm looking for some vampire nonfiction."
His smile broadened. "A very popular topic. Most of those books are over here." He led her toward the back wall, his arm reaching out to wrap around her waist. "And please, call me Beau," he crooned.
Grania sidestepped his hand. "I'm specifically looking for the Proceedings of the Fifth Ravenna Conference on European Folklore Traditions," she announced briskly, deliberately not sharing her name.
She hadn't given it to him by the time she left either, thirty minutes later, with all the books she wanted.
Masking his irritation, Beau waved good-bye to the tall redhead as she sped off. She'd definitely been the best prospect he'd seen for dining since arriving in this rough-edged town; someone who depended on logic always fell so much harder and tasted so much better when forced into terror. But surely the next time they met, he'd be able to seduce her into meeting him alone. And then…
He smiled, testing his fangs' tips with his tongue.
He wasn't worried about not being able to reach past her shields. They'd been in a public place so he hadn't tried very hard. Next time, he'd succeed.
When he did, he'd plant the compulsion for her to return, so he could feed on her again and again. As his creador had taught him, there was no need to kill a good meal immediately. Not when you could train it to return to your hand, thus saving you the trouble of hunting.
Even if one of his victims accidentally died, it wouldn't look like a vampiro had killed him or her. After all, he didn't want Rafael to know he and Devol were nearby too soon. That alférez mayor of his was too damn good at hunting down foreign vampiros. He was the leader of all of Rafael's troops, both the mesnaderos at Compostela Ranch and vampiros and compañeros from the commanderies in all of Texas's important cities. Not a vampiro touched Texas soil but Rafael's alférez mayor didn't hear of it, sooner or later, and demand an explanation. If their reasons were weak, they were either exiled or killed—usually the latter. He was brutally effective, whether he did so alone or with dozens of his men.
Still, if truth be told, Beau was more concerned about what Devol might do, since that cutthroat had never been taught discretion by Madame Celeste. But surely even Devol wasn't vicious enough to kill Texas prosaicos in such a way that they'd look like Hollywood's idea of vampiros—and bring the mob howling down upon every vampiro in North America.
Besides, if Devol started anything like that, Beau would rip off his head immediately, no matter what Madame Celeste might say. He'd seen the Russian mob in action and he had no desire to repeat the experience on another continent.
Plans made, Beau's eyes crinkled happily as he strolled down the street, all the while considering various ways to break the tall redhead. Pain? Visions? Telepathy? Combinations of any or all?
He spotted a girl fumbling with a cell phone, in the alley beside the ice cream parlor. "Can I help you, honey?" Honey. What a perfect description of her usefulness.
"My battery's dead and I need to call my folks." Desperate brown eyes looked up at him, filled with the innocence of someone who'd never encountered anyone who'd harm her. He catalogued her quickly. Five and a half feet tall, with an athletic build, wearing a T-shirt shouting "synchronized swimmers do it together," brown hair, tanned skin. Even better, she was at least twenty years old so she'd be able to provide him a very long drink. Excellent.
His body tensed, as heat started to build in his groin. Beau quickly slouched and fumbled for his cell phone like a graceless American boy. "Would you like to borrow mine?"
"Oh, thank you!" She took the proffered phone and flipped it open.
Call the weather, Beau ordered, mind-to-mind, and step behind the parlor.
She obeyed promptly.
Good to know that Texas prosaicas were as easy as all the other prosaicas to command.
Except for that damn redhead.
His chest was tight, his breathing fast, as he followed the brunette, anticipating the feast to come. His cock filled with blood and semen built in his balls.
The phone filled the alley with reports of possible tornado sightings. The little athlete tucked it against her shoulder, listening as he'd ordered. Arching her neck perfectly for his bite.
His fangs came to full extension, sharp as daggers.
He touched her mind and located her worst nightmare.
Then he took her by the shoulders and washed her mind in pure terror, knowing that no matter how greatly her nightmare frightened her, her fear would deepen tenfold—or more—as soon as he began to drink…
* * *
Chapter Six
Blanche paced under the colonnade by the herb garden, staying in the shade lest a stray beam of light strengthen the misery inside her skull. She'd awoken last night with stabbing pains, similar to but greater than what she'd felt the day of the great battle at Ecija. Rodrigo's pain echoed in her flesh now, as it had then. As a knight's wife, she would keep vigil with him, even though she was physically separated from him.
The children played happily by a stand of rosemary, next to a shallow pool of water watered by a statue of a lion. As usual, Fernando and Beatriz, the five-year-old twins, had their hands full keeping two-year-old Inez out of mischief. All happy, healthy, lively children. Rodrigo would be so proud if he could see them.
Blanche fingered her rosary, reassuring herself that all would soon be well. It would be, as soon as she was released from waiting for the Princesse. Then she could pray for Rodrigo in a chapel, while Fernando took the other children off to Maria. She'd been selfish, keeping the children here with her, as a reminder of their father, while she waited for her mistress.
As for the Princesse, all she thought about was her sons, los Infantes de la Cerda, and their grievances.
Sancho, Alfonso X's younger son, had recently prevailed upon his father to follow this frontier kingdom's ancient customs—and make him the heir to the throne. In one stroke, the Princesse's two sons were disinherited, against her marriage contract and the customs she'd grown up with. Ever since, the Princesse's temper had fulminated like water drops sizzling on an overheated stove. She'd even spoken wildly of fleeing the Castilian court.
Blanche's hand tightened around the gold cross Rodrigo had given her, its heavy carvings digging into her skin. If she left with her mistress, how could she obtain news of her husband?
The stout wooden gate slammed open, banging against the door. Blanche quickly slipped the precious cross down her camisa's neck, next to her skin. The Princesse was always encouraging her to forget all traces of Rodrigo.
Then she gritted her teeth, opened her eyes, and stepped into the light. "Your Highness." She managed a steady curtsey.
The Princesse stood in the center of the small garden, chest heaving like a warhorse ready to charge. Her eyes circled the plants sightlessly, her hands clenching and unclenching. Fernando and Beatriz clustered together, gathering Inez between them, as far away from the Princesse as possible, which wasn't enough, given her past behavior.
Blanche swallowed hard, praying to Notre Dame that the Princesse would not become more difficult than usual. She was usually sweet-tempered in public, but in private, with those who'd accompanied her from France. . . "Fernando, please take your sisters to Maria. Their new shoes should be ready."
Fernando nodded, his eyes alive with understanding and worry. "New shoes" meant that all three children were to stay with her maid until Blanche came for them. It also meant that he must go immediately and ask no questions. "Oui, maman."
He was always careful to use French around the Princesse. A diplomat, just like his father.
The gate's closing
triggered a flood of French invective from the Princesse. Blanche handed her mistress a goblet of French wine when the calumnies eased. A short laugh was her only thanks but at least the Princesse spoke more softly.
"Ce sale bete—"
"The Infante Sancho?" Blanche asked dryly.
"Oui." They shared a brief smile before the Princesse sank down on a bench, swirling her embroidered skirts around her knees. "I cannot speak of it. Even his mother, the Queen, agrees that he has gone too far this time."
Blanche perched on a low wall. "I grieve for all of your family, Your Highness."
The Princesse drank most of the goblet before she spoke again. "One thing at least is going well: We've now found a way to escape."
Blanche gaped at her. Flee Castile for Aragón, the kingdom's principal Christian rival on the Iberian peninsula? The Princesse nodded impatiently.
"Mais oui, where else? Of a certainty, mon frère Philipe will recognize them as heirs to Castile. And with the kings of France and Aragón behind them, my sons will be restored to their rightful place." Her eyes shone with a madwoman's intensity as she imperiously held out the goblet.
"Their kinsmen can bring great force on their behalf," Blanche agreed politely as she refilled the goblet. Her head was aching as if a blacksmith's hammer was pounding on it. What had happened to Rodrigo?
"Bien, you understand perfectly." The Princesse tapped a long finger against her cheek, as she did when planning a trip to the market. "Don Salvador Lopez will smuggle us out as soon as you marry him."
Blanche stiffened in outrage.
Oblivious, the Princesse continued talking, still steadily tapping her cheek. "Père Bernard will perform the ceremony tonight at—"
"No, Your Highness."
The Princesse gaped at her but quickly recovered. She set down the goblet and rose to her full height, towering over her lady-in-waiting. "What did you say?"
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