“We now invite you to return to your daily lives, to go out among your friends again.” The Texas governor’s voice was vibrant and confident. “We ask you to remember the little people whose businesses have been hurt in the past few weeks—the restaurants, the nightclubs . . .”
Mute buttons were punched around the room, silencing the platitudes.
“Well now, isn’t that just too convenient for words,” Grania drawled.
“They’ll never prove they’re wrong,” Emilio pointed out.
“And they’ll never prove they’re right,” retorted the scientist and veterinarian.
“We don’t need them to have a perfect answer, querida,” Rafael soothed her. “They only need enough to keep them quiet.”
“And the people have been terrified so long they should be glad for an excuse to settle down.” He could almost hear the cogs in her fine brain working, while she considered all aspects of the politicians’ pablum.
His men began to shake themselves into action, preparatory to leaving the room. Emilio caught Lars just before he disappeared and the two left together, talking quietly about China.
“Did you have anything to do with this explanation, dearest?” she asked, turning to face him.
“¡Por Dios, no! Neither its creation nor its acceptance. But it will last longer because I didn’t.”
“Since it’s more detailed and originated with more people, rather than being as a single vision into one person’s mind.”
“Precisamente.” He beamed at her. She would be a deadly warrior on Texas’s behalf in the coming centuries, using her fine intelligence like a lance. “I doubt either O’Malley or Gorshkov did, either. Gorshkov loathes politicians; he took Trenton rather than Manhattan because there are fewer to be found there.”
“And O’Malley’s a California patrón so he has good ties to the media, giving him the ability to create the basic idea—but not the law enforcement connections to polish the story.”
“Sí.” He kissed her hand. “Do you want to keep discussing political secrets in a room full of leather chairs, mi corazón? Or can we continue this privately, where I can also sing of how your beauty drives men wild, mi vida?”
She blushed adorably, the hot color mantling her cheek until it blended with her fiery hair’s silk. Dios me salve, she’d always have the ability to do that.
TWENTY
Grania waved to the crowd again, her heart full. A year and a half ago, she’d been terrified to even appear in public with Rafael lest it get him killed. Now she was riding to her wedding and everyone in San Leandro had come to cheer.
She’d asked for an old-fashioned wedding, and Rafael had turned the world upside down to give her the ceremony she would have enjoyed seven centuries ago. It was midnight on the winter solstice, the longest night of the year. The sky was so clear she could count every star and almost kiss the Man in the Moon.
San Leandro’s sturdy granite buildings were decked in wreaths and bows of evergreens, wrapped with red and gold ribbons. Brilliant white lights sparkled throughout the courthouse square and surrounding streets. Her darling autocrat had even managed to persuade the independent Texans to avoid colored lights just this once.
He’d covered the streets with dirt, too, returning the town’s appearance to the frontier it had once been. The residents were so delighted they’d dressed in nineteenth-century fashions. Now cowboys and gunslingers, barely respectable ladies and schoolmarms with bright-eyed children at their knees, waved to her from the boardwalk or tossed roses and sweet-smelling herbs into the road to make a carpet. Afterward, they’d eat barbecue and a wedding cake from an old Toledo recipe at the concert hall, where San Leandro’s First Saturday festivals were normally held.
She blew kisses to them from under her magnificent lace mantilla, her heart light enough to float her over the rooftops.
Ahead of her, old-fashioned carriages conveyed the most distinguished guests to the ceremony, which would be performed by the Archbishop of San Antonio. To her surprise, the governor of Texas had invited the U.S. president, who’d jumped at an early escape from DC’s year-end squabbling. Of course, his presence meant the Secret Service as well—and an excellent excuse for metal detectors and the speedy confiscation of all recording devices. Even the locals hadn’t seemed to mind that, given their own procession to church the night before, ostensibly as a dress rehearsal.
O’Malley and his cónyuge were here, too. Their mesnaderos stood watch, allowing her Texan mesnaderos the freedom to attend.
Most of the guests had chosen to walk to the ceremony, especially the men, following the old Castilian custom. Boots and horses’ hooves released the flowers’ and herbs’ sweet scents into the air, providing a delicious accompaniment.
Emilio was on leave from the SEALs, avoiding the desk duty his rank and ribbons had earned him. She suspected he’d retire in another year—but maybe not, unless he had something lined up here she didn’t know about. He’d never dated Brynda, for example, even though he always seemed to know where she was.
Gray Wolf and Caleb had spent time in New Orleans after Madame Celeste’s death, making sure the town was quiet and going through her papers. They’d returned as quickly as possible, of course, since Gray Wolf would never be content away from Texas.
Hennessy, New Orleans’s new patrón, had brought Eldridge, his police chief, tonight. Rafael had allowed him to take almost nobody from the Dallas compañía to New Orleans; he’d be building up his esfera’s vampiros and compañeros from scratch. But Rafael had claimed him as an ally, rather than the more rigid bonds of a vassal.
The rest of Madame Celeste’s former domain—Atlanta, Miami, Memphis, Nashville, and so on—was still in chaos, almost a Wild West. Rafael had allowed some of his vampiros to travel there, though, and attempt to build their own esferas.
“¡Mira, mama, las estrellas!” a child called.
Grania swung around in her saddle and waved. To be singled out as a star was definitely worth a special acknowledgment. Hélène and Steve did the same beside her, their cloth of gold coats blazing in the light.
All three of them rode, signaling the bride’s transition from maiden to wife. After all, a wife was important enough to enjoy a knight’s protection, as symbolized by his most prized possession—his horse.
Grania was mounted on Atalanta, Rafael’s beautiful white Andalusian mare, on the most important journey of her life. Atalanta’s tack and harness were covered in silver until she seemed a dream. She held her head high, pacing as sweetly and smoothly as any fairy queen’s mount. Her half sisters were equally lovely under Hélène and Steve.
Each of their cónyuges’ most trusted subordinates led their steeds, guaranteeing their safety should the crowd frighten the animal. Lars led Hélène’s horse, Rough Bear had Steve’s, while Atalanta’s bridle was in Luis’s steady hand.
All three women rode sidesaddle, wearing dresses made by Carolina Herrera, the same brilliant Latina couturier who’d garbed Grania for the duel with Beau. They had matching cloth of gold coats, outwardly shining like stars but cunningly lined with the latest high-tech fibers for warmth. The coats’ full skirts were smoothly draped over the saddles and horses for the maximum display of Rafael’s wealth and ability to support his new bride. (How she’d teased him about his medieval thought processes! And how utterly unrepentant he’d been, of course.)
Hélène’s and Steve’s dresses were red velvet, blazing like rubies. Steve had been absolutely incoherent at the first fitting, apparently rendered almost speechless by having a bridesmaid’s dress designed to make her look good.
Grania sniffed privately again and waved to another pair of little girls. She’d be very interested to watch Ethan coax more of a “Stephanie Amanda” out of his Steve. Or maybe not—they’d have time to build their own version of happiness.
Hélène, of course, simply focused on spending every waking minute with Jean-Marie. Being French, she never allowed herself to look abominable. Otherwise,
she spent the minimum time necessary in the fitting rooms.
Grania’s wedding dress was somewhere between Elizabethan splendor and modern comfort. Brilliant crystals honored Texas’s star, while seed pearls outlined Blanche’s fleur-de-lis across its silken skirts. The tightly boned bodice was so perfectly fitted it was extremely comfortable. Great belled sleeves concealed for now her beautiful betrothal ring, which would soon be completed. Rafael, ever the traditionalist, had chosen to follow the medieval pattern and make their betrothal rings into the center-piece of three-band puzzle rings, which would be their weddings bands.
Hélène and Steve disappeared around the corner in front of her, triggering a roar of acclaim. They must have entered the courthouse square and be able to see the church, where Rafael waited on the steps.
Oh dear Lord, make me worthy of him and keep me strong for him. Help me make him happy and always give him the truth. He needs someone he can trust . . .
Atalanta’s gait shifted and her ears pricked forward. Luis’s head and shoulders stood a fraction taller. He gripped the lead rope a little tighter. They turned the corner and the world changed.
The square was crowded with people, all cheering and laughing. They’d hung so many garlands interlaced with white roses on the old Confederate veteran, he’d almost become an Elvis impersonator. Lights blazed and evergreens filled the air with sweet pungency.
But none of that mattered. Only a few feet away, she could see the church steps where Hélène and Steve were dismounting. Best of all, Rafael and the archbishop stood at the top, Rafael handsome beyond belief in his Charro suit, sparkling with silver embroidery and solid silver coins. Jean-Marie and Ethan stood a step lower in slightly more sober versions of the same attire, openly grinning.
She kicked Atalanta into a faster pace. She’d been good for far too long. Soon it would be her wedding night and she couldn’t wait to hold her love, her cónyuge, her life.
Luis spluttered but jerked into a jog alongside Atalanta.
She slid down from the saddle barely a minute later in front of the church, ignoring the rush of men to assist her and help settle her skirts.
Querida, the wedding planner is fussing, Rafael observed from the top of the steps.
Her response wasn’t truly printable. And I’m ready for the lazo now, she added, picking her skirts up.
It won’t tie us together until after our vows are made.
Jean-Marie and Ethan stepped back on each side to give him space, their ladies on their arms. People started to clap in unison.
Exactly!
Luis barely managed to toss Atalanta’s reins to a groom and leap to her side before Grania started to run.
Rafael leapt down the stairs to meet her, without a second glance at the archbishop, and held out his hands to her.
She gripped his, trembling with joy. Their eyes met and they smiled, too happy to need words.
The crowd cheered loudly, drowning out anything they might have said.
Luis bowed, his brown eyes dancing, acting in loco parentis to show she’d been formally presented to and accepted by her betrothed. Rafael returned the bow with a few formal words of thanks, before worshiping her once again with his eyes.
Mi corazón. He kissed her fingers, lingering over the ring. La luz de mi vida.
Mi cónyuge. She smiled at him, longing to smooth back his hair. But if she started touching him now, she wouldn’t be able to stop.
Es verdad, he agreed.
They turned to face the archbishop, who lifted an indulgent eyebrow. “Are you finally ready to become husband and wife, my children?”
“Yes, father,” they chorused. And added more privately, Always.
“May I have this dance, Stephanie Amanda?” Ethan held out his hand, looking handsome beyond belief in his black Charro suit. Texas was so peaceful now, he wasn’t even wearing a revolver at the reception.
Steve frowned at him. They were at Calatrava Resort’s largest ballroom, among prosaicos who knew nothing of vampiros. The U.S. president and the Texas governor sat a couple of tables away.
Posada and his wife were farther back, closer to the chocolate fountain, near Captain Howard and his wife. They were still good friends even now that Steve’d officially retired from the Rangers for medical reasons. Ethan had told them she’d been badly wounded during the last shoot-out and needed to recover in a private, out-of-state hospital. Given her rocky health until recently, it’d been easy for them to believe.
The room was superbly decorated in the same red and gold colors used throughout the wedding, with flowers, ribbons, balloons, plus dozens of different expensive trinkets. A lavish buffet was being served to all comers, allowing vampiros’ nonparticipation to avoid notice. The quality of the liquid refreshments was equally stunning and enjoyed by all.
She’d been a bridesmaid before; she knew what to expect, the duties and the awkwardness. But this outing hadn’t gone that way, starting with her dress. Ruby red velvet, high-waisted, and long-sleeved, it was simple and elegant, and made her feel like a princess. There was nothing to trip over or tear. Instead, men looked at her as if she’d become beautiful. Odd, very odd.
She’d had a hard time during La Lujuria, spending months in a frenzied search for blood and sex. Thank God she didn’t remember the very beginning when the hunger had been worst; the later memories were humiliating enough. At least Ethan had been constantly with her—feeding her, cherishing her, giving her the blood and sex she lusted for. Where would she have been without him? If that was what a creador did for his hija, Ethan was a first-rate example. She never knew exactly what he was thinking, though, only what he chose to tell her through the mind-to-mind link.
Even so, she’d only lately stabilized enough to start learning the basics of her new life, like how to control running with vampira speed or shooting with vampira eyesight and strength. She’d visited the Austin Compañía’s armorers about customizing her first pistol and she’d watched her first muster, while Ethan carefully explained its principles and how she could participate.
Tolerating the fittings for her dress had been more difficult and more recent, given the necessity to allow somebody other than Ethan close contact with her body. She certainly hadn’t had time to think much about what she’d do in it—like dance.
Other couples were dancing, led by the bride and groom. Don Rafael and Doña Grania were twirling around the dance floor, her skirts celebrating their joy better than any scene from a Disney movie. Jean-Marie and Hélène were doing a simpler version of the same dance, her eyes half shut and her face tilted ecstatically back.
Could Steve waltz well enough to look that good? No, especially after her previous experiences at weddings, the only place anybody would ever do that kind of dancing. She’d always worn abominations which punished any attempt to draw a deep breath or move freely.
“Steve?” Ethan prompted.
I can’t dance, she answered, choosing honesty and discretion. She’d already learned it was useless to even try lying to her creador.
We can do a box waltz, he answered, not backing off.
Is that supposed to make me feel better? she demanded.
Yes. His eyes flashed with something more than laughter. You can learn the steps easily, especially if I hold you very close.
She eyed him suspiciously before rising. At least she could perform that movement graciously in this dress, thanks to taking lessons from Hélène.
He found a quiet corner of the dance floor, currently unoccupied by either of the other two couples, and held out his hands—left hand high and right hand low.
She considered him, remembering a lot of old movies on the late, late show. “Did you seduce many women this way when you were growing up?”
“Not particularly, no. It was much too obvious a tactic. Why?”
“Just wondering.” She stepped into his arms, dropping her right hand into his left and placing her left hand onto his shoulder. His right hand promptly clasped her waist and t
hey were joined, slightly off center. She stiffened, all too aware of his boots’ closeness to her ankles.
“Relax,” he whispered into her ear. “How can I hurt you?”
“This feels more intimate than . . .” She turned her head to look at him.
“Sex? Sometimes it can be.” He stood perfectly still, his muscles absolutely relaxed. “When we start dancing, our center of gravity will be through our solar plexus—not our shoulders and definitely not our lungs. Try to remember that.”
“Not our lungs?” She tried to imagine it. “But at a rock concert—”
“We’ll do something different. This is here and now.” He was tracing delicate circles on the small of her back, while his breath warmed the top of her head. Her fingers eased into his hold, instead of squeezing them.
“The waltz has a three-four beat. Just hold yourself upright, while keeping your shoulders steady, and follow me.” His voice was soft and gentle, totally believing in what he said.
“Ohkayyy.” She could trust him; she knew it after going through La Lujuria under his guidance. This had to be easier than that.
“And—one.” He stepped forward, the movement conveyed through their bodies more easily than through their hands, and she stepped back.
“Two.” He drew his feet together, settling into place, and hers gratefully echoed his.
“Three.” His foot, not the one he’d started with, slid to the side. Hers leapt to follow, sending her skirts flaring.
Good girl, he crooned.
She blinked, startled by how easily she’d accomplished the moves and how feminine she’d felt.
“Let’s do that again,” he announced.
She nodded, her head whirling, and followed him a little more easily the second time, ending up exactly where they started. Her skirts whispered around her ankles and his buttons rippled down the outside of his legs. His shoulder was strong under her hand, its shape warmly familiar—bone under the layers of muscle and tendon.
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