She needed to find out what was happening, no matter what it was. Because if Devol was there, not where Ethan expected, there’d be hell to pay.
But before she went, she’d change the sign a bit, especially the directions on how to find Valencia. The development’s owners could fix it tomorrow, if they chose.
And she’d put on her tactical gear—quickly, very quickly. Because her twisting, tightening gut wasn’t happy spending more than a minute without body armor.
VALENCIA, MIDNIGHT
The old town slept under the scudding clouds, its scattered buildings looking more like markers to a forgotten age than a current metropolis. A sturdy stone structure here, a leaning wood shack there, a curving oak tree in a corner, tombstones canted crazily, branches and leaves dancing in the wind, while all roads circled or led to the courthouse square. The old gray courthouse rose tall and strong in the waning moonlight there, its clock tower reaching for the light.
Green streaked the western sky, between banks of deep black and purple. The clouds were running fast before the wind, whipping each other in hissing fits of thunder and blinding light. The earth trembled when they ripped into each other, as if realizing its own turn was coming soon, when wind and water would lash it like saber blows and electricity would pummel it like a prizefighter.
The clock began to strike, its tone as rich and pure as it had been a century ago. One, two, three . . .
Ethan shifted forward another infinitesimal inch until he could see out of the attic window. The courthouse was the tallest building in town, especially situated on the low rise which took up courthouse square. He’d bugged it so Emilio and everyone else at Compostela could listen in to happenings in the square. Not that any of the compañías would return in time to help him, given how fast the bridge was likely to wash out in this storm.
Steve . . . What a joy it would be to have her beside him in this fight. Mercifully, she was safe in Dallas.
He could see everything—and he could smell almost everything, too, since scent rose—without worrying about being detected. None of his enemies was his age so his senses were keener.
On the other hand, if he moved another inch, they’d know where he was and they could see all of his possible exits.
So what? Sometimes a good first strike was worth everything.
Five, six . . .
A man dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans stepped onto the courthouse lawn. Ethan’s eyes narrowed and pure, liquid pleasure filled his veins. He started to purr, very softly. Devol.
And Ethan was finally free to take action against the bastard.
Eight, nine . . .
Other men were stepping out onto the courthouse lawn. But how many would appear? He couldn’t act until he knew what Devol planned and how great the danger was. He’d ordered Emilio to stay back at Compostela, assuming Devol didn’t use mind-to-mind speech.
He bit his lip and waited, a single grenade in his hand, ready for use, his fangs pricking his lip.
Six men faced Devol when the clock finally finished chiming. Seven vampiros ready to attack Compostela—Devol, Yoshi the Fair, Gerald Hunter, Roald Viterra . . . More than enough to cause a damn sight of trouble for the few men there. Damn, damn, damn.
“Is this everyone?” Devol demanded.
Yoshi the Fair shrugged. “Directions were difficult, man. You didn’t give us much time, in case we got lost.”
“Imbecile!” Devol spat and Yoshi flinched.
Ethan grinned wryly, pleased despite himself to see somebody discipline that smart-ass psychopath.
“How much time can we afford to spend waiting?” Viterra asked, a more pragmatic killer.
Devol shot him a look of sincere dislike. “None,” he admitted. “We need to leave for Compostela immediately.”
“Compostela Ranch?”
“Where else would I be talking about?” Devol shot back.
The astonished chorus grew until Devol shut it down with a shout. “You will obey me or die! Do you remember what led you to join me or do we need to repeat the lesson?”
He glared at each of them until they dropped their eyes and begged forgiveness.
Ethan snarled deep in his throat. He’d have been happier to see one or two leave.
“Forget about the others,” Devol snapped. “There are enough of us to carry out my plan and gain the full glory for its success.”
That earned some wary nods.
“We’ll go in on Yamaha Grizzlies.”
What the hell? Big all-terrain vehicles?
“Satellite photos showed me an old horseback trail which cuts across the service driveway, climbing onto the mountain-top. It’s very steep”—No shit!—“but the Grizzlies will take us in fast enough to get past the guards before they can raise the alarm.”
Crap, that really could work. The Grizzlies were sturdy enough to carry the men and their armament up that god-awful trail. And Emilio didn’t have enough men to completely block the entire mountainside against seven vampiros, even knowing they were coming.
“I’ve loaded my explosives in backpacks to cut down on the weight,” Yoshi volunteered. “I’m only taking the minimum necessary, of course.”
Shut up, kid.
“Good. After we’re inside, we blow up the watch center and kidnap Don Rafael’s bitch using mind control. She’s very young, only a cachorra, so she can’t resist any of us.”
Doña Grania under Devol’s control? You bastard!
“We get to enjoy her after that, right?” Viterra asked all too eagerly. Probably picturing her enduring some of his more legendary tortures, or inventing some new ones for her—and photographing their results.
Ethan’s blood ran faster, curving his fingers into claws.
“After we steal Jeeps and break out of Compostela, back to Louisiana,” Devol corrected Viterra. “Then you can have her after I’m done with her.”
The hell you will in my town. A soundless growl vibrated in Ethan’s lungs. He silently pulled the grenade’s pin, curled his arm back, and tossed the now-live grenade into their midst. A quick roll back into the attic’s protection, and he waited for the ensuing explosion to announce their departure to the seven circles of Hell.
“Incoming!” shouted Devol.
Damn his quick eyes!
Somebody yelped in astonishment down below and feet scrabbled in alarm across the dirt. An instant later, the grenade exploded, shattering the courthouse’s few remaining windows.
A brief burst of cordite’s acrid scent touched the air and was gone, ripped away by the storm.
Crap, he hadn’t gotten everyone—and Devol was probably one of the bastards who’d survived. But if the brute was here, he wasn’t causing trouble at Compostela.
The front doors slammed against the wall.
Ethan came to his feet, his blood running cool and steady. He dropped into the old second-story courtroom through a gap in the attic’s floorboards. It had been almost completely gutted in preparation for renovation, with the mantel, mirrors, statues, and chandeliers removed. Even the walls had been opened up to allow plumbers and electricians to work, including the heavy copper conductors for lightning protection. A few piles of debris stood near the corners. There was less trash on this floor than the lower ones.
Once, it had been the stage for great legal duels. Now it would serve very well as the backdrop for his duel with Devol. The bastard’s followers could look after themselves. Like a snake, his attack wasn’t dangerous without a head and fangs to deliver the venom.
ALONG THE RIO OSO BETWEEN GILBERT’S CROSSING
AND THE MEXICAN BORDER
Rafael waited patiently, or at least impassively, in the appalling storm. If he was being buffeted by a thunderstorm like this, his enemies were, too—and El Gallinazo’s pet vampiro would not be able to smell them.
His gut wrenched, twisting itself like a moor’s turban, more unsettled than it had been at any time since his first battle. Grania had been fearless when she’d said g
ood-bye to him, as gallantly as Blanche had kissed him for the last time at Toledo. Blue eyes or brown—always the same expression, loving, direct, fierce with courage.
Grania’s sweet heart and mind touched him again, warm with love and faith—and faded, leaving him free to concentrate on the coming fight.
He shook himself like a dog, ridding himself of stupidity and rain at the same time. Dios, what an arrogant fool he’d been to have separated himself from her wisdom, in order to protect her. Yes, she was a cachorra, but she was also his cónyuge and a proven duelist, thanks to having helped kill Beau, the vampiro mayor assassin.
Rafael pulled out and fiercely kissed the gold cross fleury she’d given him, its ornate curlicues digging into his hand like her eager grip. Ignoring any sidelong glances, he slipped it back inside his T-shirt next to his skin, under his Kevlar vest. He’d make very sure to live and return to her this time, no matter what it cost anyone else.
When he lifted his head, he deliberately looked around with more than his eyes. It had been decades since he’d been here and the land had been soaked by blood even then. Although he suspected watchers, they didn’t seem unfriendly to him or his men. No use wishing he had vampiros with him, whose psychic senses might be strong enough to see or hear deeper than he could. In some ways, he was as isolated as he’d been at Ecija—just himself and a few good fighting men to face down a ruthless enemy on unfriendly ground.
Rio Oso cut through the mountains inside Texas’s border with Mexico, marked now by waterholes frequented by goats and sheep instead of Comanches. Its steep sides were too unstable to be popular with hikers and photographers, keeping it remote and largely unknown to foolish modern men. The ground itself was largely gravel, although heavy boulders were scattered along the mountains’ feet. The remains of an ancient landslide, now reduced to a small cairn, stood at the top of the pass. Even in this condition, it was enough to divide rainwater into interlaced fingers, rather than a single massive sweep of mud and water.
Another sheet of green fire lashed the skies, exploding into sheets of gold when it struck another black cloud. For a moment, it briefly revealed the mountain peak, hidden in a black cloud of rain. None of the prosaico warriors flinched, even the FBI agents from Washington.
A light flashed, long and low along the canyon wall. Could it be? But surely even El Gallinazo would not be so arrogant as to use headlights less than a mile from an official U.S. border crossing.
The beam split into two, and was joined by another, and another. Madre de Dios, he was driving his Toyota Land Cruisers along Rio Oso as though he were delivering groceries!
Worse yet, Posada had been correct: This convoy contained an immense number of vehicles, too many for the small number of Texas Rangers and federal agents to stop, should its commander decide to argue. Or if some of its gunmen went into the rocks to fight. And The Buzzard had never been known for docility, especially when faced with U.S. lawmen.
Rafael sniffed again, fighting not to gag. At least there were no slaves in the vehicles—only enough illegal drugs to make a carnival fun house seem completely logical.
Still, they had to try peaceful means first. Even so, Rafael was personally glad all his men had excellent credentials as deputy sheriffs. Those bits of paper had smoothed the way for their guns’ presence, especially their M-15 clones. His lip curled, flashing his fangs.
The lead vehicle reached the three flimsy wood barriers scattered across the arroyo.
“Halt!” snapped Posada, standing between the barricades and a large boulder, only a few paces away from Rafael. “This is the . . .”
A violent shove bounced off Rafael’s mental shields. El Gallinazo’s pet vampiro had gone into action.
“Texas Rangers,” their leader finished in a gasp, all but doubled over in anguish.
Madre de Dios, he was strong to have spoken at all.
¡Silencio, chingado! Rafael shouted at the enemy vampiro, hurling the full weight of his mind at him. From this close, it could easily be a death blow—and he’d be damn glad if it was. That hijo de su chingada madre had undoubtedly caused more than one fine man’s suicide while serving El Gallinazo.
A single scream split the night and faded, its echoes washed away by the clean rain. The pressure against Rafael’s mind vanished.
The Ranger stood erect again and surreptitiously rubbed his temple. “Stop for inspection,” he ordered in a clearer voice. The lead Toyota lumbered closer and Posada gallantly remained erect, shooting a quick glance at the nearest boulder.
Rafael clucked his tongue and silently signaled one of his men. He’d never willingly permitted good fighting men to die needlessly.
A window spun down, the sound startlingly clear in the brief pause between thunderclaps.
“Go to hell!” a deeply accented voice sneered. Other windows instantly opened and guns sprang into the night, gleaming like miniature lightning. They burst into action, hurling a hail of bullets at the barricade.
The flimsy wood exploded into splinters but the Texans and Feds were already firing back. Posada lunged for the nearest cover and Rafael’s compañero swiftly dived on top of him, rolling him behind the rocks where other Rangers had taken shelter.
Cursing under his breath, Rafael began to carefully fire his M-4T, steadily picking off any of El Gallinazo’s men who were foolhardy enough to try for the rocks. Gracias a Dios for his assault rifle’s light trigger, which gave his vampiro eyesight and reflexes the speed to catch those devils.
Unfortunately, he’d never glimpsed enough of El Gallinazo to ensnare his brain.
So this fight was going to have to be done the old-fashioned way—hand to hand, and very messy, especially if those beasts were armored.
The enemy leapt up the stairs and burst onto the courthouse’s second floor, dressed like the foundling he’d once been, in grubby jeans and flaunting a pistol. Not that prosaico weapons would help him in this duel.
“Good evening, Devol.” Ethan bowed mockingly to him, never taking his eyes from him.
“You should have known better than to interrupt me, you effete bastard, let alone destroy one of my best men.” His gaze swept the room, probably looking for Ethan’s allies or escape routes.
Lightning blazed once again, revealing the space’s utter lack of anything except wood and pipes, plus the narrow gaps in the floors on either side.
Ethan’s mouth twisted slightly. Little chance of any quick retreat from this cockpit.
“Now I must kill you.” Devol’s eyes were brilliant, glazed with a killing lust.
“Now you can try,” Ethan corrected him, and bowed again, using the move to scan his enemy for weaknesses.
“You were a fool to have come alone, Templeton.” Devol spat and began to circle. “But your doing so will save me time.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow and started to pace, always facing his enemy. Damn, how he’d like to see the bastard reduced to a pile of ashes in that fireplace.
Suddenly a jet of mist burst out of Devol’s clothes, instantly transforming him into a great gray wolf. It sprang, jaws widening to rip out Ethan’s throat.
Ethan’s new black wolf shape met it in midair, twisting like a snake for a good hold. Devol’s teeth ripped into his shoulder but he slammed against his opponent’s hips and broke free.
Devol tumbled but landed upright, his clothes falling unnoticed to the ground, followed an instant later by Ethan’s shirt, jeans, and boots. They backed away, spitting out blood and fur, and circled again.
Ethan’s leg burned, a painful wound but not crippling. Better to call it a nuisance since he’d lose blood from it, which he’d prefer to use for shifting or fighting. And the smell would madden them both. Sanity fled quickly, faster than friendship between vampiro duelists.
What the hell had Madame Celeste fed the bastard all these years? Death and terror, yes—but how much? Christ, he was stronger than a vampiro twice his age!
Thank God for all those years when Don Rafael had drilled E
than on tactics. Cunning might be a better weapon than his greater age. Best to shift as seldom as possible. A wolf could give out punishment and receive it for a very long time, longer than logic dictated. Which might just be the length of this bout.
Another thunderbolt rattled the windows’ broken glass and Devol charged Ethan again.
Steve waited and watched, forcing herself to keep her breathing steady. Why had she ever thought that was easy, even during tournaments? Because it sure as hell wasn’t in a darkened, ruined city when her lover was fighting for his life.
She pressed her belly deeper into the mud until she imitated an earthworm. She was downwind of town where no vampiro could smell her, where she’d arrived in time to see seven vampiros talking on the courthouse lawn. She couldn’t hear what they’d discussed, but it didn’t take a fool to realize their plans didn’t involve Christmas presents—especially when two of them flourished bloodstains from their wrists to their elbows. Bastards. An electric chair would be too easy for them.
She’d glimpsed a familiar golden head watching from the courthouse’s second-floor window. Ethan, thank God—but alone? Was that why he wouldn’t answer his phone? What the hell kind of idiot tried to take on seven brutes by himself? The sort who needed help—but good Lord, she wished there was more handy than just her.
The bastards’ chat had been interrupted by a grenade tossed out of the courthouse, like a verdict. God bless Ethan, he had taken out one of the brutes but the rest had scattered like quail. The leader had raced inside after Ethan and was fighting him even now, in a cacophony of snarls and growls and thuds of bodies against walls and glass.
But she couldn’t go there to help, dammit, because they’d smell her coming and make her do—oh, God, who knew what? Scream like a silly virgin and distract Ethan? Shoot him in the back?
Instead she had to crouch out here in the dark and pray they didn’t turn her into a helpless puppet, as they had in San Antonio.
Bond of Darkness Page 25