by L. A. Banks
"Oh, shit, this is way profound."
Rider blinked twice and Jose stood in the center of the garage floor, dazed.
"Yeah," Rider murmured. "I'm scaring myself, this makes so much sense… I have to tell Marlene. We need a weapons-room meeting, pronto."
This time, Jose shook his head, no. "Shabazz went to talk to her. Tell her in the morning."
"Yeah, but—"
" Tell her in the morning, Rider." Jose went to his bike and threw the tarp back over it. "Yeah… we should ship these overseas with us, yo. Get some dirt in our faces."
For a moment, Rider didn't move, then nodded and went to cover his bike. "If we're gonna go out in the big one, man, let's load up the side bags with some colloidal silver grenades and go find a good bar where the girls dance on the pole. Get you a tall, Aussie blonde, and me a redhead with jugs this big," Rider said, chuckling and demonstrating a heavy load with his hands.
"Your old ass ain't gonna get no redhead like that."
Rider laughed. "Fantasy, youngblood, ain't nothing wrong with it. Keeps hope alive." He extended his fist, and gave Jose a bear hug when he came over and pounded it. "It's gonna be cool, man."
* * *
Chapter Thirteen
They sat in Australia's Gibson Desert with Lake Disappointment at their backs, the Aussie Northern Territory before them, time moving like it was wounded while they waited on the diplomatic security check and escort—neither speaking, just tensely watching events unfold. It was as though they both knew that they'd hit a point of no return. Masters didn't visit each other without an expressed purpose, alliances were tense worldwide, and no one had ever jumped borders without an army at their back.
Carlos watched three Black Hawk helicopters land a hundred yards before the black stretch Hum-V limousine with diplomatic flags that had transported him and Damali with Hell's passport, wondering when he'd crossed the line to allow the woman beside him to talk him into the most off-the-hook game he'd ever played? He hated being rushed into play; could have waited another night to solidify his strategy. But she'd argued about catching their adversaries off guard and had won the point.
He glanced at the separation glass that kept his driver deaf to their conversation, and then up at the interior roof. "Stay," he muttered as the limo shifted with the weight of the dogs when they stood to snarl at the choppers.
"All right," he murmured. "It's on, now, baby. Remember, follow my lead."
Damali nodded, her eyes trained on the squad of six henchmen that cautiously disembarked from the dark choppers.
"The Isis stays in the luggage, you stay at my side at all times. This is deep cover—way underground. So deep there may not be a way out."
She stared at him, becoming annoyed. They'd discussed all of this before. Why was he beating a dead horse?
i
"Yeah, but like I was trying to tell you last night, I need to know the language, if—"
"No," he murmured. "We've been over that. I never want you to learn our language. How many times do I have to tell you that it's an ancient language of possession… and it's too complicated for a crash course?" He let his breath out hard and glanced out the window.
Damali softened her stance and touched Carlos's arm. The tension running through him was pure electricity. It unnerved her to see him this worried. Truthfully, she'd never seen this side of him before now. If he'd only let her help and stop being so stubborn!
"Baby, it'll be all right," she murmured.
No matter what she said, the risks were enormous. He could feel her resisting him, ready to tackle this alone. But she had to get it straight in her mind that on this mission she had to follow his lead if either of them were going to make it out alive.
"Its origins come out of Babylon," he said, focusing on the language issue, rather than give into the nervous energy roiling in his gut. "Fused with Sumerian, Aramaic, built upon for centuries, each line adding dialect, tones from Asia, Africa, Mongolia, India… has Romanian sentence structure from the old republics, with a Latin core syntax, and is written like Egyptian hieroglyphics—but read reverse like the old Chinese dynasties scribe… every time a new master is added it morphs, absorbs, and is always changing. Right now, Spanish is the most recent addition." He looked at her with a request to be cool in his eyes. He knew he was babbling, rehashing information he'd explained the night before, but he wanted her to be clear. She just didn't understand how dangerous this situation was, or that for the first time since he'd turned, she might witness him not being able to protect her.
Carlos clenched and unclenched his fist. "Baby, I can't teach you conversational phrases that won't have an effect. It bends wills."
When she sighed hard and looked out the window, he eyed the approaching men. "When we step out of this limo, head-of-state protocol will be in full effect. You remember what I told you, right?"
He didn't even wait for her silent nod of agreement. He simply glanced back at her and instantly changed his clothes into a black Armani suit, black silk shirt, black silk tie with deep, bloodred marbled veins in its pattern, dark glasses and black slip-ons. He adjusted the crimson handkerchief in his breast pocket so that only a quarter-inch of it showed. His council crest ring appeared on his left hand where a wedding band would have normally been, and he smoothed his hair back.
Damali looked down at her jeans then back up to him for assistance.
"Sexy," he muttered. "At all times."
"I know. You told me. Remember?"
While that was true, it still took him aback when she nodded and smiled and changed her clothes herself without his help.
"I think the underground passage gave me a little jump start on another timely fluctuation," she purred, leaning against him. "And you didn't think I was gonna let you pick out my gear for me, did you? Pullease. I never let Marlene do that for me on stage, why should I let you go there? I've been watching how you work, learned a thing or two. That's why I've been telling you not to worry—I got this."
That's exactly what concerned him most. He didn't answer her as his gaze took in her smooth transformation. She'd finessed it like a pro, and had conjured a butter-soft sheath that was the same color as her skin and damned near as supple. The dress gave the illusion at first glimpse that she was naked. It had no shoulders, dipped perilously low in the front to accentuate her cleavage, and was so short that it begged a man to look at her gorgeous legs. The simplistic creation hugged every voluptuous curve she owned, fit her like snakeskin had fit Eden's serpent, and he noted that her legs had been coated with a natural sheen… shea butter making them glisten, filling the vehicle with the sensual fragrance.
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 fat
igues 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.