Blood Rising

by Amber Anthony

  “That was quite a show,” the elegant vamp said in perfect English, heavily laced with a Castilian accent. “I hope it was worth it?”

  “This has nothing to do with you, Dias, so I guess it’s not worth much,” Matt’s testosterone already boiled from the heat of the dance.

  “You are wrong, my friend.” White teeth flashed under Alejandro’s black moustache. “It is worth your life, for dishonoring me.”

  Matt sneered his disdain. “Oh, get a fucking grip, I’ll have her back to you soon enough.” His hot gaze licked Veronique’s curves. “If you still want her, then.”

  “I do not take another man’s scraps.” Dias sneered in return. “This is now a matter of honor, regardless of the lady’s intentions. You will agree to meet me or I will come for you.”

  “No need. I’m happy to accommodate you.”

  “We meet at moonrise, then.”

  “Where?” With any luck, I’ll be well gone from this place by moonrise.

  “There is a field, very close by, often reserved for me and my…challengers.” Dias snapped his fingers and four burly, insistent vampires encircled Matt, cutting him off from Veronique. “You will be my guest until then.”

  “I have an appointment with the lady,” Matt drew Veronique close and cupped her ass.

  “I am afraid not,” Dias countered darkly. “If you are lucky enough to best me…” He paused and chuckled as laughter went up from the surrounding crowd. “Then, you may see her.”

  “This is business, you asshole,” Matt spit back. “I’m not trying to beat your time.”

  “Until this evening.” Dias bowed to Matt, and then turned to Veronique, planting a steely hand on her arm and tugging her away.

  “Jandro,” Veronique protested as he dragged her away. “He’s no match for you with facóns, and it is just business.”

  “We will talk about what ‘business’ you have with this man in my suite,” Dias countered in a quietly cruel voice.

  What the hell, Matt wondered, was a facón? He sighed as one of the bodyguards pushed him forward to follow Dias. He hoped this was ostentatious enough for Rick.

  * * * *

  Rick held his pose while Moreau scrutinized him. He had the annoying feeling Moreau was not above suggesting they drop their fangs and measure.

  “I do not know you, but you are obviously one of the family,” Moreau accused.

  Rick held steely eye contact. “Obviously.”

  “I don’t recognize the name Jean Martin. I should know you.”

  Rick shrugged casually. “I deliberately keep a low profile. All that should concern you is whether I have the money, and whether I’m willing to spend it on your property. Of course,” a smirk flirted at his lips, “from what I hear in the news, it’s worth much less now.” Whose fangs are longer now, you bastard?

  Moreau glowered, his ebony face hard, his vampire’s body wilting in the sun. He gestured his impatience. “A temporary setback in status. In a hundred years, it will mean nothing.”

  “It could be an uncomfortable hundred years,” Rick countered smoothly. “Once you’re on the DEA’s radar, you’re marked, aren’t you?” His voice hardened. “Tell your men to turn over their weapons.”

  Moreau glared at Rick, as he nodded to his men. They relinquished semiautomatic weapons. Moreau turned to Rick expectantly and attempted to step in out of the sun.

  Rick held up a warning palm. “Giles?” He turned to his head of security.

  Rick’s responder guards stepped forward from the shade to frisk the out-numbered bodyguards. Grinning, they pulled away stakes, machetes and silver-plated stilettos from the now murmuring Haitians.

  Once he received the all-clear from his men, Rick gestured the other four inside. “Will you join me for champagne?” he asked cordially. “We have reason to celebrate.”

  “Women drink champagne, men drink Everclear.”

  Rick had anticipated the choice. For vampires, the one-hundred-and-ninety-proof Everclear actually packed a small punch. Champagne was a soft drink. He turned and nodded to his five mortal guards disguised as resort servers.

  “Please see that Monsieur Moreau and his men have everything I can give them.”

  “Oui, monsieur. We’ll do exactly that,” Ricardo agreed with a bow.

  “Let us talk business,” Moreau suggested, after he’d taken a large draught of his chilled Everclear. “What will you give me for the property?”

  Rick threw prospectus papers onto the coffee table before him. “What will the sale include? There are a number of properties. I want them all.”

  Moreau nodded. “For all. What is your offer?”

  “One hundred million.” Rick’s offer started high, and he knew it. What did it matter? Moreau would never collect.

  It was a sham done for show, but Moreau felt obliged to counter. “One hundred and ten million.”

  Rick pretended to consider. “Your docks are old and need repair. I’m generous to offer a hundred. Take it, or…maybe you think you can get a better offer elsewhere? In prison, perhaps?”

  He could tell it riled Moreau not to have the leverage to truly negotiate, but Rick knew the truth of it. The vampire needed to get out of Haiti with whatever he could salvage of his fortune. The clock ticked lazily, and Rick waited imperturbably until Moreau admitted defeat.

  “Very well. I’ll sign for one hundred million on the condition the money is immediately transferred to my account in the Cook Islands.”

  Rick lifted his gaze to the “servants” stationed unobtrusively around the room. “That’s acceptable.” He waited patiently while Moreau signed the papers, and smiled with satisfaction as he eyed the signature ceding to him all of Moreau’s property. “I’ll step across the hall and alert my personal banker.” He extended a hand to Moreau.

  As soon as the words left his mouth, Rick was out of the room. Within seconds, he’d crawled up the exterior walls of the bungalow like a spider, and positioned himself at the rooftop skylight. From here he would be able to see all the action inside and outside the building. The heavy wooden doors slammed shut on the living area, and as planned, his guards braced them closed from the outside. Trying the doors and failing, Moreau’s bodyguards sprang toward the windows, but the heavy hurricane shutters clamped shut with a resounding clatter and were secured by iron rods.

  Moreau and his guards looked around in shock to find the humans pointing assault rifles at them, and Rick knew they’d assume the weapons were loaded with silver bullets. This attack was too well coordinated for the wrong ammunition. The trapped men dropped their fangs, their eyes taking on the pearlescent glint of vampires ready to fight.

  “Name your price,” Moreau barked to the man nearest him. The mortals looked alarmed, but stood firm.

  “You don’t have enough money,” his jailer taunted.

  The air conditioner kicked on, and Moreau and his fellow vamps coughed, but not so much that it stopped their deadly advance on the human guards. They hissed as they stalked them, their fangs glinting sharp and ominous, their skin blanched. Three of the terrified humans sprayed their weapons wildly, spending ammunition uselessly, and allowing the uninjured vamps to gain the upper hand.

  Rick’s heart sank. “God’s bollocks! The damn thing’s not working,” he called down to Giles. “It’s not strong enough. They’re still fighting.”

  Giles turned immediately to the air compressor while machine gun fire rang out. Peering down into the chaos, Rick realized he couldn’t wait for Giles to correct the problem. Delay might cost the lives of men who’d trusted him.

  He opened the latch securing the skylight vent. “Latch this behind me,” he instructed the responder beside him. “If Giles gets the compressor working, we can’t allow an open window.”

  “You’ll be trapped,” his protector protested.

  “A chance we’ll have to take.” Rick lowered himself through. “Though, I’d appreciate a rescue if things don’t go my way.”

  With a laugh, he
landed nimbly a few feet from Moreau. The silver seeped into his nose. He suppressed the urge to inhale. It wouldn’t stop him, and it certainly hadn’t stopped Moreau, who was nearly double his age and power.

  Rick had the advantage of knowing the silver was airborne, and since breathing was unnecessary, he merely suppressed the instinct. The damn stuff stung as it touched unprotected skin, not enough to thwart him, but perhaps all the effects combined would hamper Moreau enough to give Rick an edge.

  The commotion of the battle was mind boggling, and Rick had been mentally prepared for it. He could only imagine the terror borne by the mortals in the room. Ricardo and Michael, the only mortals who’d remained conscious after fiercely battling the enraged vamps, emptied their supply of silver bullets into Moreau’s vampire guards. The vamps lay immobilized on the floor, blood seeping with a smoking hiss into air which was becoming more silver saturated. Moreau faltered, and so did Rick, as it penetrated more and more into his nearly indestructible body.

  Moreau lunged toward him, with a murderous ferocity. Rick staggered away, dimly hearing the report of Ricardo’s weapon as he spent his one remaining round Moreau’s way. Moreau shook off the shot that hit his shoulder, but missed his heart. He stopped mid-lunge on his way to Rick and turned against Ricardo. In an instant, he’d immobilized the brave man, and gained sustenance from the clean human blood at Ricardo’s neck.

  With a raging surge of power, Rick called upon his last reserves to hurl the vamp away from Ricardo and against the bar. His desperate gaze landed on the two-liter bottle of Everclear they shared earlier. He smashed the remains over Moreau’s head, spraying the one-hundred-and-ninety-proof liquid from head to toe. Moreau was momentarily stunned by the blow, just long enough for Rick to ignite his cigar lighter and toss it.

  Moreau screamed when he caught fire. If Ricardo had not dragged Rick away, the three of them would have been consumed in flames. The two careened out of reach as Moreau flailed, setting the heavy drapes aflame in his quest for escape. Smoke billowed in the room, further compromising the mortals. Moreau’s screams unnerved the responders to the point they opened the doors to see what the hell was happening. In the nick of time, they dragged Rick and the mortals to safety, just as the silver compressor finally kicked in full force. Those vamps who weren’t dead already, soon would be.

  * * * *

  Cat’s hand shook slightly as she applied tinted lip gloss to her generous lips. It was almost the appointed hour. The opulent mirror in the ladies’ room of the five-star hotel where she’d parked the car showed her ready. Hands clutched over her nervous stomach, she waited for the clock to click to nine forty-five. Before she could talk herself out of it, she headed for the Consort Group building, and the forbidden mystery of the exclusive elevator.

  What if I get in there and can’t get out? Cat asked herself, eying the building’s lobby. Though she didn’t know what dangers the initiation held, her feelings at the sight of the lone elevator were an unsettling combination of erotic anticipation, unease and disapproval. Though she couldn’t draw out the reasons behind the feelings, she knew answers awaited her through those elevator doors.

  A long line of initiates wound their way around the stanchions snaking from the elevator and running throughout the lobby. Cat joined the line, wishing she was more inconspicuous. Who would have guessed she’d be distinguished by black business slacks and a silky white camisole? Everyone else in line looked like members of some bizarre private investigator’s club. The women sported teased hair, overdone makeup and ridiculously high heels, while the men wore black slacks and slicked back hair. All were covered knee to neck with closely cinched trench coats. Well, she missed the memo about the dress code.

  Finally, it was her turn in the crowded elevator. As they descended past the garage level, the lights dimmed to a blood red, and the thrum of a human heart pumped its way through the metal chamber. Cat shivered. What the hell is this? The doors opened to red leather walls and flickering carriage lights, and she gasped along with the rest of the awed elevator crowd.

  A greeter ushered the excited occupants toward the locker room, but the titillated crowd were barely able to wait for their keys to find their personal lockers. They relinquished the conservative trench coats, revealing outrageously bawdy costumes. Cat struggled to keep a straight face while watching them.

  A devastatingly attractive, twenty-something next to her played with a curl in the middle of his forehead and smoothed an oily hand down his bare, landscaped chest. Meticulously, he withdrew a hand towel from his locker, wiped and checked his manicure. With obvious pride, he adjusted the generous package in his sleek black trousers, and Cat gulped. Is that thing real? Surely it isn’t real.

  Not to be outdone, the curvy woman to her left divested her coat to reveal a naughty, French maid costume complete with a black ruffled skirt skimming her thighs. The least amount of movement lifted it even higher to reveal a sheer white lace thong, leaving nothing to imagine. Cat couldn’t believe the woman could draw a deep breath in the obscenely tight bustier that barely contained her buxom breasts. All around her, one costume was more flamboyant than the next, and she struggled to keep her composure, thinking wildly that she looked more like a member of the wait staff than an initiate.

  So, who was running the initiation? And what, exactly, were they being initiated into?

  * * * *

  Rick fought to stand and direct the chaos outside the bungalow. It felt like only moments before hotel employees were on site, garden hoses in hand, in a futile attempt to put down the flames.

  “Let it burn,” he told Giles. “The fire will hide most of the evidence. The rest we can remove before the authorities get a look.” His gaze swept the area. “Where’s Ricardo?”

  Giles pointed. “He’s bleeding badly but alive.” One of the responders held a cloth securely against the senseless man’s neck.

  “Get him to a hospital.” Rick teetered on the verge of collapse himself. “What about the others?”

  “Three unconscious. One dead.”

  Rick staggered and fell. “I need blood.” He gasped. His men carried him to the fallen body of a human guard.

  “He’s already gone, sir. You need it.”

  Rick gratefully fell upon the body of the dead soldier, siphoning what blood he could from the lifeless veins.

  At last, he stood, strengthened by blood, and ready to make whatever explanations would satisfy the local police. The three surviving mortals were slowly brought around by his guards, and Ricardo, who saved his life, was in the hands of physicians. Rick heaved a sigh of relief.

  “It was a great plan, too bad it didn’t work.”

  Giles nodded. “The compressor nozzle was too narrow. It clogged with silver.”

  Rick sighed. “Make sure all the weapons are removed from the bungalow before the police get in there. And get those Krugerrands to the men. We need to commend their heroism to their commanders, make sure they’re protected. The one who died, offer his family a home and safe work in the States.”

  “Yes, sir.” Giles was already on the way to carry out his orders.

  “And see to it Ricardo recuperates in Miami and we pay the tab.” Rick looked around as the roof of the bungalow disintegrated and collapsed in a shower of sparks. “We have had just about enough of you, Papa.” He sneered as the rubble burned. Moreau and his petty dictatorship were dead. Ronnie was really going to be pissed about that.

  * * * *

  Matt ground the heel of his hand into his dry eyes, wondering where the hell Veronique was. This whole machismo knife and vampire show was in her “honor”. The least she could do was give him her favor. It would be just like her to let him and Dias kill each other while she took up with the next in command. On the other hand, he was pretty confident he reignited her fantasies with his dominant display on the dance floor. She wasn’t one to walk away from a fantasy.

  A duel! How fucking archaic is this? He tore away his shirt and eyed the oil Juan pr
esented. “Really?” Matt snapped suspiciously.

  Juan replied with all solemnity. “If the blade breaks, and you’re forced to wrestle, it could save your life.”

  “I think… I’d rather … just die.”

  Reluctantly, Matt slicked his skin, watching Dias do the same. He gritted his teeth in irritation. He’d simply been doing what had to be done to attract Ronnie’s attention. Now, he stood on his pedestal of masculine pride in mortal danger, and pissed off his grand gesture was being ignored by the one person he’d sought to impress. How poetic. How vampiric.

  Of course, Alejandro Dias had to go old world in his smack down. Wasn’t that exactly what a five-hundred-year-old vampire from Colombia would do? A fight to the death with twenty-inch double-sided blades, innocuously called facóns. Matt would much rather have rumbled in a back alley until the other guy slapped the ground and cried “Uncle.” That would have satisfied his honor just fine. Instead, he was faced with the risk of disembowelment, and then beheading at moonrise all to impress “the girl”. Leave it to Veronique to inspire insanity.

  Matt dialed back his mounting irritation. He needed to keep his eyes on the prize and move forward. He had to take this guy out, secure the Humanité from Ronnie, and get the hell back to Cat, or at least his twenty-first century bloodsucker lifestyle.

  The jewels in the elaborately carved hilt pressed into his palm as Matt weighed the heavy dueling knife. The wicked blade whistled through the evening air; he tested its arc and reach. Time ticked away what could be the last moments of his existence while he stood surrealistically stoic. What the hell, maybe he’d stake the bastard on his own blade, though he was always one to avoid killing if he could.

  Of necessity, they were relegated to a literal field on the outskirts of the resort. Their barehanded strength would have destroyed the ballroom where the challenge was flung. In what was apparently an opening ceremony of sorts, the duel’s mediator threw the twenty-six commandments of the South American field of honor over his proverbial shoulder. Clearly, these were rules with which the small crowd hovering on the challenger’s side were familiar. There were no seconds. It was Matt and Dias until one of them was à l’outrance, headless in the dirt.