Bond of Blood

by Diane Whiteside

  Grania glared at him, unwilling to admit that until she'd met him, she'd never lost consciousness during an orgasm. She'd certainly never come close to achieving that much rapture with a partner.

  Rafael set his mug down, his voice gentler as he turned to her. "Grania, we are skilled lovers and signs of the bite disappear within a few hours. As long as the prosaico thinks we're like them, why should there be any suspicion?"

  She shook her head furiously. "But there's got to be some differences. A slight variation in body temperature or maybe how and where body temperature increases. Perhaps the texture of your body. Something."

  "Grania, we're the same. Exactly the same on the outside."

  "Under stress, your metabolism has to be different. Something has to be apparent to a trained observer."

  "Do you want to test me?" he drawled, his voice deep and soft. "See just how much of an hombre I am, under your hands?"

  Her body clenched, lanced with heat. Touch him, tease him… Oh yes! Be professional, Grania, she told herself. He's just a scientific subject, the first predator you've ever been able to interview. "Yes." She stopped, cleared her throat. "Of course I'd like to test you."

  "I am at your disposal, doctora." He set his arms wide, his eyes still slightly wary. But there was definitely a noticeable bulge inside those running shorts.

  Grania set her mug down on the far counter, beside the coffee-maker, and moved in front of him. He was so much taller than she was that she felt almost fragile.

  She shrugged the sensation off. This was a scientific examination, just as she'd done before with large predators. It was certainly nothing like anything she'd ever done with a lover.

  She'd already seen him, unclothed, at the raptor center. Now she looked him over thoroughly, trying to assess his physical condition. It would be easier to remain detached if she hadn't been jogging next to him and eyeing his sweating biceps. Healthy body, superbly muscled, moved like a god. Next step.

  She took his hand. He gave it to her readily, letting it rest in her more slender hand. Dwarfing hers.

  "Your hand is very scarred and callused. What happened to it? Shouldn't you have lost all the dead skin by now?" She traced the heavy lines and pads with her finger, before glancing up at him. Damn, how she wanted to touch him. How old was he anyway?

  He watched her through shuttered eyes, a sensual half smile on his lips. "Swordplay and old battles," he dismissed. "Whatever muscles and scars your body has when you become a vampiro, it will retain."

  Amazing physiology. She'd have thought a change so radical, as to convert his food source to blood, would also remake his body without visible blemishes, even though she'd seen the wicked ones on his back. "All of them?"

  "Such as this on my chest?" He pulled his tank top forward to show a scar on his collarbone. "I gained from my brother as a child."

  She traced it with a fingertip, her pulse racing at finally touching his body. "Take the shirt off, please."

  One eyebrow lifted, Rafael obeyed silently.

  "Scars on your ribs as well." Grania traced them delicately. None life threatening, all well tended. He caught his breath.

  She ran her tongue over her lips, trying to think over the clamor in her head. This didn't feel like a medical exam, not when her heart was pounding in her chest. She wanted to incite him into lust for her own pleasure.

  She ran her fingers slowly up his arms, feeling the glide of his sweat and the heat of his strength. She closed her eyes at the sensation, slipping back to how much she'd wanted to handle him like this, back there on that quiet Texas road. Her hands slipped over his broad shoulders, barely spanning the massive bulk of his muscles. Her core clenched and purred, cream edging onto her thighs.

  "Rafael," she breathed and leaned up to kiss him, a whisper of a kiss, barely touching his lips. His answer was as light, his lips flickering, parting under hers, his tongue barely touching hers. She sighed again, her hand curling around his neck, and leaned against him. He stroked her waist gently as they kissed, the contact between them sweet and subtle.

  Finally, she stirred and kissed his cheek, rested hers against him for a moment. "Dulce. But that kiss wasn't much of a test, Rafael."

  He chuckled a little hoarsely, his chest rising and falling against hers. She laughed with him before easing away. She scraped her teeth lightly down the tendons in his neck, making him shudder. He groaned softly but stood his ground, his hips shifting restlessly.

  So far, he was reacting exactly as she'd have expected a man to. Flushed, sweating, speaking her name frequently with some urgency. In fact, if she had to compare him to any of her lovers… No, that wouldn't work, if only because there weren't enough of them for a statistically valid sample.

  She stepped back a little farther and spanned her hands over his chest, letting his crisp chest hair tickle her fingers and palms. Definitely furred but not much. Just a neat pelt that narrowed into a treasure trail pointing straight down to those running shorts.

  Oh yes, he was definitely a fine specimen, something her breasts understood all too well as they ached, her nipples furling into tight buds.

  Underneath that dark hair, his musculature would have made any men's fitness magazine beg to photograph him. Or maybe not; he obviously hadn't built that body in any gym. How could she describe her knight's body to them? Was there an Olympic sport it compared to? Heaven knows he made her body ache with hunger, as she fondled and kissed and licked and even—daringly—once nipped.

  "Por Dios, Grania!" His eyes were brilliant with lust, his mouth a thin slit of control. Even his knuckles were white where he gripped the counter.

  She glanced up at him, from where she knelt before him. If she lowered his running shorts just a little more, she'd uncover the head of his beautiful cock—or should she use another approach?

  She bent lower and wrapped her hands around his ankles. "Kick off your shoes."

  He did so with a ferocious growl, sending them thudding off the cabinets. "Grania, what are you trying to do?"

  "I thought we discussed that," she answered demurely, tossing his socks aside. At least his were far cleaner than some of her friends'. "We're conducting a scientific experiment."

  She lightly ran her fingertip under his foot, seeking out the sensitive spots. He cursed—and his cock jerked. Very promising.

  She explored his other foot, establishing that it too had a direct link to his cock. She stroked and petted his feet for a few minutes, stretching out the aches from running. But there was little she could do, while he was standing, no matter how much her core hummed its approval of his shudders and growls.

  She glided her hands up his legs, moving more and more slowly as her fingers reached above his knees. She kissed his thighs, enjoying how her simple movement made his strong legs spread.

  Until finally her fingertips crept up the leg of his shorts, twitched his jockstrap just far enough away, and petted his balls from underneath. Definitely all man.

  Fondled and played and cupped, while she purred, one hand inside her shorts playing with herself.

  "Grania, por Dios, if you don't hurry, I swear—Madre de Dios!" His head snapped back as he gasped.

  She wrapped her hand around his cock and squeezed, gently. Established that she could—almost—encircle it. Began to stroke him, up and down, while her other hand rubbed herself in the same rhythm.

  "Sí', Grania, perfecto," he groaned, his hips thrusting hard against her hand. His face was a mask of pleasure, eyes half shut, utterly focused on what she was doing.

  Given privacy by his self-absorption, her enjoyment built. Her hands moved faster and faster, so that exciting him was exactly the same as exciting herself. She sobbed, eyes shuttering, ecstasy coming closer and closer until finally, she climaxed. And at the same moment, he arched and howled, his hips pounding against her hand.

  She sobbed happily, as the waves of orgasm rocked through her. Wonderful.

  She settled into a kneeling position against his leg a
fterward, rather like a contented geisha. Pity she hadn't sensed even a trace of his thoughts, though, as she had at the raptor center.

  The phone rang in the living room. Grania ignored it, in favor of stroking his thigh gently. As soon as she recovered her strength, the two of them could head for her bedroom and the narrow bed there. If she lay on top of him, there'd probably be room for both of them.

  "Should you answer it?" Rafael murmured, stroking her head.

  She leaned back against him, eyes closed. "Let the machine pick up."

  A few seconds later, the machine buzzed, permitting Linda from the raptor center to speak. "Grania? Since you're not picking up, I'll assume that you're already on the way in and try your cell phone. The conference call with Cornell starts in an hour and Bob wants to review the Great horned's case notes before then."

  "Shit!" Grania sprang to her feet and reached for the counter, a pivot to speed her way into the bedroom.

  Abruptly, she found herself pressed against the wall oven by a very tall, very strong man whose dark eyes burned into hers. Her tiny kitchen, never spacious, became barely large enough to permit a deep breath.

  "When do we finish this, Grania?" he demanded, his naked chest barely an inch from hers. Her breasts promptly tightened, as her body heated. He rolled his hips suggestively against hers.

  She gulped and fought to think. Sex with a vampiro. Soon, her core entreated. Madness, countered her brain. Now, insisted the cream rushing eagerly out of her cunt.

  "I'm supposed to be off tonight at six, so I should be back here by seven. Eight o'clock?"

  "Excelente." His mouth came down on hers and she yielded in surprise. He kissed her thoroughly, passionately—and she was half witless when he lifted his dark head.

  "Wear something very feminine," he whispered, his eyes hot and possessive as they roved over her. "Be a beautiful woman tonight, not la doctora."

  Her jaw dropped.

  He bowed to her and was gone.

  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  Rodrigo pounded his cell's walls, cursing his captors. His fists were bloody wrecks, every bone broken into a pulp. Yet the pain of his wounds meant nothing. He easily ignored the sun rising in the east, bringing with it the threat of imminent death.

  As his master had taught him when he studied to become a knight, as L'Ordene de Chevalerie, the great tale of knighthood said, every knight was bound by the commandment to honor all women and damsels and be ready to aid them to the limit of his power. As he'd sworn holy oaths time and time again to do. Yet he'd failed to aid a damsel, especially one who so greatly resembled his beloved wife, with her dark hair and eyes, fair skin, and curving body.

  The only thing that mattered now was her body, broken and battered on the castle's dung heap, reminding him of the trials she'd undergone. Of how he'd failed her.

  How those devils had used their evil devices on her in the dungeon! Then Diego had proceeded to tear the poor girl's virginity away in every conceivable fashion, as The Syrian made sure Rodrigo understood how completely helpless he was.

  He had offered himself in her place—and they had mocked him, listing all the times and places and ways they had used him.

  Then they had offered him the Devil's bargain: He could save the girl's life—if he promised to become an assassin like Diego. A killing machine, murdering men for gold. Saving one life by taking others again and again and again, for eternity. Satisfy his knightly oaths to protect women by damning himself through repeatedly committing that heinous mortal sin.

  The pits of Hell had opened before him at that moment, when the girl pleaded with him to accept their offer. To do whatever they said, if it would save her life. His enemies' eyes had gleamed with triumph, like jackals eyeing a fresh carcass.

  But like a clean ocean breeze, he'd remembered his wife's words when she'd sent him off to battle, begging him not to dwell on soft thoughts, like her and the children, which might weaken him in time of danger and cost him his life—or worse. But instead, he should focus all his hopes and prayers on Dios santo and his duty. If he did that, surely Jesuscristo would send his angels to protect him and bring him home safely.

  Somehow he'd managed to shake his head. Then he'd called on them to repent and turn from wickedness, using every holy verse he could think of. They'd quickly gagged him at that, as if he'd needed any further proof they were completely evil.

  Diego's fangs had ripped open her neck as he'd raped her repeatedly—while The Syrian had held down Rodrigo and fed on his horror.

  Diego had even gained enough strength from her death that for the first time, he'd changed shape—into a wolf, a howling creature of the night.

  Dios santo, how he prayed for their deaths.

  The dawnlight crept across the dung heap and toward his cell's wall. If it touched any portion of his skin, he'd turn to ash.

  The memory of his helplessness rushed back over him, the complete hopelessness of being unable to do anything whatsoever. Surely Hassan's descendants would come back in two centuries and he'd kill The Syrian, as the vision had shown him. But even if that happened, by then his wife and children would be dead, leaving him old and alone.

  More likely he'd die here, a worthless, forsworn knight on a hellhole's dung heap, drained dry by two demons from hell. Or worse, become like them and start exulting in his power to evoke horror from the innocent.

  A burning tear escaped from his eye and slowly trailed through the dust on his face. First light touched the castle's rough stone wall and began to climb toward his window.

  He was no true knight here, where he could no longer protect the innocent. Did he truly believe that Dios santo heard his prayers, when he wore the same body as those demons. Far better to die quickly than lend any portion of himself to those night-walking terrors.

  If he held his hand out through the bars, into the light, he'd burn like a torch. Or he could wait until the sun entered his cell and let it wrap him like a blanket, the last touch of warmth in his life. Either way, he'd be gone so quickly that he'd have no time for second thoughts.

  Pass by touching the sun again, as if he was truly human once more. A graceful thought.

  But he'd be forsworn if he did so, unable to keep his vow to Fearghus of taking revenge for both of them. After last night, he had no illusions left of being able to protect any unfortunate prosaicas who came here: The Syrian and Diego would prey on them, no matter who was around. Everyone else in this valley was either too well bribed or terrorized to stop those two fiends.

  The sunlight touched the windowsill and started to creep into his cell. He had but to reach out his hand and this agony would end, freeing him for the world beyond.

  But suicide was a mortal sin. He'd be condemned to the lowest reaches of Hell for all eternity, never to see his beloved wife, who'd be with the angels in heaven.

  His choices were therefore whether to spend eternity in hell on earth or Hell with Satan's own demons. Neither was an appealing choice—but one saved a bit of his pride and offered a chance at revenge.

  Even if Dios santo couldn't hear him from this piece of hell on earth, Rodrigo could still act as a knight insofar as he was able. It was very little but it was all he had left. He'd have to do a great many things that the Santiaguista Rule had never dreamed of. But he'd do his best to cherish the principal virtues. And he'd have the chance in two centuries if Hassan's descendants came, to take revenge.

  Far, far simpler to die now.

  The sun was now a nimbus of gold behind his window's iron bars.

  Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Rodrigo retreated deep into the shadows with the spiders and the rats. Two hundred years until he could easily look at sunrise and sunset again. Three hundred years until he could walk abroad at high noon.

  He closed his eyes and wept.

  "How many such rapes have been reported?" Rafael snapped out. Ethan, Jean-Marie, Luis, and Gray Wolf—accompanied by Caleb, of course—were in his office at Compostela, summoned to hear the
disturbing news.

  "Two so far, both in Waco," Luis gritted out as he paced restlessly, his white shirt brilliant against the steel shutters that protected them from daylight.

  "But there've been a half dozen attempted suicides by healthy young women for no apparent cause. Or at least, no prior signs a mental-health professional noticed," Jean-Marie amended, double-checking the messages on his PC. "And one successful suicide."

  "Cono," Rafael growled. How many times had he seen women kill themselves in The Syrian's castle?

  "The rapes fit Devol's pattern: respectable women, badly beaten," Ethan commented, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Today he wore two deadly accurate Super Redhawks in his shoulder holsters. "But the suicides?"

  "Beau's doing," Rafael said flatly. "He feeds on fear then wipes the memory, but he's never been the best at controlling minds. Many times, the women remember something, even if it drives them insane."

  There was a rumble of disgust. Rafael glanced around the room and allowed himself to smile at his hijos's bloodlust. Hearing of women's peril and destruction had strengthened their protective instincts. "Jean-Marie, have your men watch all the mental-health databases very closely. We must be alerted immediately when young women commit suicide or suffer unexplained depressions."

  Jean-Marie nodded, his fingers flying over the keys. "Certainement, mon père."

  "Every day those two live imperils the good people of Texas. Where are you and Caleb looking now, Gray Wolf?"

  "Underground caves, quarries, and so on. According to all the records, Beau operated in cities with usable caves or subways."

  Rafael thought back. "Verdaderamente, Beau has always slept in daylight, a habit he learned from his creador. Plus, Devol is so young that he must sleep most of the day. Hunting them in the dark places is an excellent idea."

  Gray Wolf nodded, his eyes flashing with a hunter's fervor. "We've already searched most of the southeast sector."

  They'd be able to do that quickly, thanks to Caleb's geological knowledge and Gray Wolf's tracking ability, plus their conyugal bond. They were the only one of his search teams who should be able to take on Beau and win. Still… "Be careful. The caves themselves can be tricky, with collapses or landslides, even if there isn't a vampiro to be seen."