The Bitten

by L. A. Banks

His gaze slid down her legs, which ended in a pair of monochrome, stiletto heels that tied at the ankles and were the same hue as the dress. Her hair was swept up and held in place by a long, gold, dagger-shaped barrette. Pendulous, smoky topaz and diamond teardrop earrings set off a shimmer right at the midpoint in her throat. Her hand took his in a soft caress, French manicure flawless and matching her pedicure, then he saw the ring—a thirteen-karat smoky topaz crusted with diamonds with his crest etched in the center of it, set high on her ring finger just as he’d always imagined.

  She gazed up at him, her mouth moist, inviting, colored deep caramel, her eyes revealing a bit of chocolate-colored charcoal that made them mysterious, sensual, a sheer teasing sprinkle of gold dust along her collarbone leading him to study her cleavage one more time.

  “El Excellency approves?” she murmured.

  He nodded. “Most assuredly.”

  He gave her hand a brief squeeze as the limousine door opened and the international courier who drove them stood aside for him to exit. This was getting good to him, perhaps too good. The armed entities from the choppers lowered their weapons before him, gave him a bow of deference, and then motioned that he and his limo checked out. They had no eyes in their blackened sockets. Their pale faces were half hidden by hard black safari hats tipped low—their black-and-gray camouflage fatigues straining against their bulk. Carlos held out his hand, and Damali’s filled it as she stepped from the vehicle to stand by his side.

  The lead entity nodded, appreciation rippling through his silent assessment of her as he used the silver-shell-loaded crossbow to motion toward the Black Hawks. Carlos nodded to his driver, and the dogs dismounted from the top of the Hum-V limo and climbed inside, waiting until the driver locked them away.

  Without discussion, they followed the somber retinue and entered the choppers. But he kept his eye on Damali. She looked totally fascinated as the swift uptake propelled the helicopters at supernatural speed to their destination—the Australian master’s lair.

  Below them, he could see his limo creating a long dusty trail in the night as it drove away and knew that even if his dogs were still mounted on the roof of it, they wouldn’t have been able to dodge the highly maneuverable death choppers. He materialized and handed her a pair of black shades. “Don’t look down without these.”

  Blue-white prayer lines created a blur beneath them and zigzagged the open plains of the Northern Territory’s Tanami Dessert, and the huge rock formations at Ayers Rock and Kata Tjuta.

  The aircrafts dodged the deadly markers that had been on the land’s face since before biblical record, taking a circuitous route over hundreds of miles in a matter of minutes through the Great Artesian Basin of Queensland, dropping low within the spectacular expanse of the Great Divide mountain range toward the Great Barrier Reef.

  He squeezed her hand, and resisted the urge to bring it to his lips. This was what he’d wanted to show her, the lights on the ground, lines that marked man’s earliest battles with the darkness, a breathtaking display of indescribable beauty amid profound struggle. And, yet, her team would be so far away from her in Sydney, down in the area of New South Wales . . . but given time, he’d show her the Victoria Falls on a private airborne journey in his arms, would show her beaches of unimaginable majesty . . . mountains that would steal her breath. Didn’t she understand what resources he had at his disposal to show her over an eternity? But as soon as the thought entered his mind, he also knew that she didn’t care about any of that.

  Carlos looked straight ahead, no longer glimpsing her from the corner of his eye. The helicopters were descending and it was game time. No distractions allowed.

  “It was beautiful,” she murmured, her voice low and private, slicing through the helicopter drone.

  She squeezed his hand and from the side opening in her glasses he could see that tears of appreciation had formed in her eyes, making them shine in the night before burning away. They drew his fingers to her cheek before he pulled his hand away from the softness of it. That she’d heard him meant the world to him, because from this point forward, she’d have to pick up on his senses, walk in lock-step with him, her every action tightly choreographed with his. Didn’t she know that all the territory below didn’t equal her value to him?

  When the choppers touched down, he waited for the blades above to slow, and for an armed escort to open their door. The helicopters faced a huge stone castle built into the side of sandstone cliffs overlooking the Great Barrier Reef. Moonlight washed the rough beige surface pale blue, and the smell of the surf brought back intoxicating memories of Rio.

  Sixty-six service personnel stood at attention at either side of the sixty-foot-wide central stairs, each waiting for his approach and inspection. Carlos got out first, and turned back to Damali. He gave her a glance to tell her to stay put, and walked with the armed entities toward the castle staff.

  Row by row he walked by each individual—some vampire, some human helpers, from chefs to butlers, maids, couriers, and the like, his powers of detection keen. Finally satisfied that it was safe for her to join him, without looking back at her, he summoned Damali to his side. It was protocol; at his level he should be able to call her to him with just his will. As she neared him, he held out his hand, palm turned up and open for her to grasp it. Only when her soft heat filled his hand did he begin to relax.

  “Councilman Rivera,” a deep voice said, booming from the center of the huge staircase. The voice echoed in the night, giving way to a presence that materialized and began walking down the stairs.

  The large vampire, who was obviously a Master, didn’t look a day over thirty-five in human years. He stood six foot six, was formally attired in a black and white tux, his shock of strawberry blond hair flowing in the wind behind him as his presence parted the staff on the stairs. He stopped on the landing, gave Carlos a bow of deference, and then moved closer.

  “Master McGuire,” Carlos said with a nod. “Thank you for opening your main lair estate to us on such short notice.” He assessed the other master quickly: died in his mid-thirties, impulsive, around since the eighteen hundreds, just after the previous Australian master was sunlight outted by pirates.

  “Think nothing of it,” the tall Aussie said, momentarily appraising Damali while speaking to Carlos. “I am honored to have a council-level visit . . . with such lovely company.”

  “Permit me to introduce my wife, Damali,” Carlos said, not the least offended when the host master took her hand in a grand sweeping gesture and kissed the back of it.

  “Councilman,” McGuire said, smiling broadly, “you are a very fortunate man.” He dropped Damali’s hand slowly and turned to the stairs. “My mate of eighty years, Evelyn,” he said, gesturing toward the stairs.

  Damali and Carlos kept their eyes trained on the place that gathered density until a long-stemmed honey-blond with Playboy bunny dimensions appeared in a dangerously revealing black sheath, and then slinked down the steps to stand by her husband’s side. Sensuality exuded from her and was as toxic as snake venom . . . and had a way of making a man hold her gaze for a moment longer than was respectful. She had golden-brown cat’s eyes, intense fire behind the glittering irises that let anyone with sense know she was as deadly as she was beautiful.

  “Welcome,” she murmured, looking Damali up and down, her smile seductive, suggestive before her eyes left Damali’s body to rake Carlos’s. “If there’s anything either of you need during your stay . . . do let us know.”

  The Aussie gave Carlos a knowing smile. “No worries. Everything at this castle is at your disposal.”

  For a moment, neither male spoke—the offer wasn’t reciprocal. The Aussie chuckled, but there was tension in it.

  “I’m sure after your long journey from the States, you want a few moments to collect yourselves.” He motioned to the service staff. “Settle in Councilman Rivera and his lovely wife. Bring his luggage to the head-of-state suite.” Then he looked at Carlos, and allowed his gaze to linger
a moment upon Damali before pulling it away. “We’ve left dinner in your room, sir, given the late hour. I can be found in my study, should you want to discuss a few state-related matters before you retire. Tomorrow, we will have a banquet proper. Do accept my utmost apologies at the lack of—”

  Carlos held up his hand to stop his host’s prattle, sensing that he was growing unnerved by his visiting councilman’s few words. He watched the man’s wife gently touch her husband’s arm, as though trying to sense if her unaccepted invitation may have displeased their guests. Carlos issued her a look of total appreciation, and she smiled, seeming relieved. On a slow, deceptive inhale, the vocabulary of true diplomacy and detente from his throne knowledge came to the fore. He dropped the slang and replaced his urban vernacular with old world culture. Carlos played the role of his office to the max. He might be a newbie, but he was fucking good—the best . . . and not new to games at all.

  “I am extremely pleased,” Carlos said, in cultured tones, “and will join you in your study for a nightcap . . . after I settle my wife into our suite.”

  “You are more than gracious, sir,” the Aussie said, and then was gone. Evelyn lingered only a moment, then dissolved away, her sexy smile the last to vanish.

  Carlos touched Damali’s arm as he sensed his limo finally coming down the long drive behind him, but never turned to look at it. The driver knew what to do with the dogs—let them guard at his front bedroom door and terrace. He was just glad that they’d eaten well before they arrived.

  Awesome did not describe the environs he entered. Carlos glanced around as a silent human manservant, followed by two scantily clad maids, and a huge armed guard carrying their luggage, led him and Damali through the city-block-long foyer, past a huge central fountain that rose up out of the marble floor that had a pattern of Hell’s seven levels inlaid. Just the expanse of the stairs alone was enough to make Carlos quietly give the Aussie props. Now this was handling one’s business.

  Knights of armor flanked the halls that led to an endless spiral of doors and polished banisters above him, and as he stood in the center of the first landing, the plush red carpet running down it like a thick tongue, he looked below him at the massive vampire-nation receiving rooms, hotel-sized banquet rooms, smoking parlors and gemstone-inspired stained glass.

  This was what he was trying to explain to Damali. His Beverly Hills lair, plus several of his offshore villas, would fit into the Aussie’s castle ten times. Everything was super-sized in Australia, and the wealth in the U.S. couldn’t put a scratch in old-world money.

  He nodded for the butler to proceed after they’d paused on the landing, just soaking in the ornate corridors beneath double-height cathedral ceilings that were wound at the crown moldings with gold leaf, wallpaper that seethed life . . . this motherfucker was so wealthy that the capillary pattern of veins in the walls pulsed blood. He saw Damali nearly reach out and touch it, but sent her silent censure. She couldn’t show that she was the least bit impressed, lest she shame him. This castle belonged to an older master, true, but he was council, and should have had her in this type of setup already.

  That reality made him focus on the other masters who would be in attendance at the meeting later. Just thinking of the Transylvanian diplomat made him feel his eyeteeth in his mouth. The bastard was arrogant, old as dirt itself, and wealthy as shit . . . plus he held disdain to an art form that only true bluebloods could dispense.

  Yeah, Carlos reminded himself, none of them liked his quick descent to a throne and would have claws readied for him. But talk about rich territory . . . the castles in Europe were so opulent, especially the German, Austrian, and Dutch holdings, which had such blood spilled in the courtyards that a man might be able to go down on his knees and siphon it from the earth itself, if he’d wanted. France and London were ridiculous, as was Spain . . . no doubt about it, the European master was gonna be a problem.

  The territories of Asia were like that, too. Gothic rich. Horrific wars that went back thousands of years to make Europe’s time on the planet seem ephemeral—a damned flash in the pan, comparatively. The Chinese and Indian castles and lair estates demanded pure respect, even down in council chambers—just like the pyramids did.

  But the Asian ambassador was cool, smooth about his holdings, didn’t have to act cocky—there was no reason for him to be insecure, which is why he was also very shrewd . . . brother had developed some of the most effective methods of torture and had been around since the days of the Samurai. Yeah, in a few hundred years, he might be able to build his North American and South American line back up, get his holdings in order, and truly represent like he was supposed to . . . maybe take over one of the old Incan ruins and retrofit it . . . or perhaps, if his lady liked, go Mayan in his home state, Mexico . . .

  Carlos kept walking, trying to remain relaxed as he watched Damali from a side-glance. If the African master showed, it would definitely come to a pissing contest. His region was so productive right now with bodies from wars, disease, and corruption that it made North and South America with the Caribbean, his territory—look like Disneyland. And buried deep in the Congo, with favor from council, that bastard might laugh in his face at the table.

  See, women didn’t understand shit like this. The crown jewel where the big battle for the Armageddon, the regions Gog and Magog, plus the Middle East, would be annexed to the territory most worthy when the dust settled. He knew each one of the topside masters would want a word alone to lobby him for favor, or assassinate him for a shot at immediate descent. But he was equally disturbed at the way he could feel a dark, thunderous desire sweep through his woman. She liked this shit just as much as he did . . . the VIP treatment and living very large. He glanced at her. You want this? I’ll give it all to you in due time, baby—no holds barred. This is what I’d meant about power.

  She just smiled a very sly smile and kept walking.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “YOUR ROOM, Councilman Rivera,” the butler announced, opening the wide French doors of the suite and standing back to allow Damali and Carlos to proceed ahead of him. He motioned for the henchman to bring in their luggage, and addressed the maids. “Let there be nothing that our honored guests call for that hasn’t been supplied.” He turned to Damali and Carlos. “Pull the bell tapestry, and they will be at your service.”

  The ebullient manservant waited as Carlos perused the villasized suite. A small Greek-styled fountain running blood with a Grecian stone love seat surrounding it was the focal point in the outer room. A long marble bar was to the left, and was filled with the black private-label bottles that he’d come to know by now contained blood. Tuscany-designed stools faced it, and just beyond the bar, two Egyptian carved stone doors opened out to a castle terrace. To his right was an overstuffed Louis the XIX–style sofa and matching chair upholstered in burgundy satin, with an armoire and German writing desk beside it. Just beyond the fountain was a long, eighteenth-century, plantation-style banquet table with full linen, ornate candelabra, and two high-back, midnight blue silk upholstered chairs.

  The spoils of war, Carlos thought to himself, as he checked the ornate stone doors that led to the terrace, coming away satisfied that the light seal on the room was adequate.

  “Shall I turn down your bed for you before dawn?” the servant asked, his voice rich and inviting.

  “No,” Carlos said as he walked toward the bedroom, holding Damali’s elbow, “but I do want to appraise the seal in there.”

  The butler nodded and followed the couple through the innerroom, double-steel doors that were engraved with Hell’s crest, down five steps into the sunken inter sanctum. He pulled heavy burgundy drapes away from the terrace’s vault doors and stood back as Carlos inspected the room.

  Fully keening his senses to detect a possible threat, Carlos spun the heavy gold-plated airlock mechanism that allowed him to pass out of the room and onto the terrace through one ton of banker’s steel. He glanced back toward Damali and addressed the butler
.

  “Can my wife close these easily?” he asked, not waiting for an answer as he strolled out to the terrace and glanced down the two hundred foot cliff-side decent into thunderous surf.

  “To be sure, Councilman,” the butler replied. “These have been balanced to Masonic-level specifications.”

  Carlos nodded, satisfied, and snapped his fingers to call his dogs. “I want one on the terrace and one posted outside in the hallway at all times—and only I feed them.”

  The butler again nodded, the small retinue of staff watching Carlos’s every move, occasionally glancing at Damali. Carlos scanned the steepled ceiling over the bed, his eyes narrowing to be sure there was no light source that could cook them both at dawn, then his gaze slowly roved over the crème and burgundy raw silk wallpaper to ensure there were no hidden panels or secret doors that could be opened. He nodded to the butler to pull back the drapes surrounding the bed that sat in the middle of the floor fully curtained by thick Turkish tapestries, his gaze scanning the lush Moorish textiles on the double-wide king-sized bed.

  His eyes took their time sliding over the exquisite Egyptian cottons, raw silks from Asia, and burgundy goose-down duvet. The bed sat up high on a three-foot solid marble pedestal, but after assessing it, he nodded. He just needed to first be sure that there was no portal beneath the bed.

  The huge French armoire, antique dresser, and ladies vanity sans mirror checked out. But the bathroom could pose unimaginable risks. He and the butler shared a knowing glance, and one of the maids came to Carlos’s side. He leaned in to her throat and caught her scent as her eyes slid shut. He could feel her near ready to arch into his hold. Definitely vamp. She’d do.

  “Would you mind turning on the water sources for me?” he murmured to her, giving Damali a glance to be cool and remain steady.

  “As you like, sir,” the female vamp said, her voice husky as she left his side, beckoning him with her eyes to follow her.