“They’ve placed a very tight lock on that one.” Rodrigo kissed Sara on the cheek and rose, drumming his fingers on a bookcase. “It must be very important.”
“Or the courier is.”
They both looked askance at her, and she shrugged. “There can be more than one explanation!”
“True, which makes it all the more vital one of us remains here in the capital to deliver it.” Rodrigo lightly slapped the table. “I will do so, and you two will go to Galicia.”
“Don’t be absurd, Rodrigo. You’re Galician. You have to go so you can speak the local language—Gallego, oui?—to the Galicians.”
“I will not leave you here in Madrid.”
“As a native, your Gallego is far better than mine.” Jean-Marie didn’t mention the years they’d used that language as a form of code. He also kept his tone level, striving to remain casual. If he let his family think about his proposal, they’d object—and they’d be the ones risking their lives, not him. He wouldn’t, couldn’t allow that.
Rodrigo hesitated. “Surely the British must arrive soon and claim their message. Perhaps if you came within a week, it would work.”
“No! Rodrigo, look at his hair!”
“What are you talking about?” Jean-Marie stared at her and started to rise.
Rodrigo’s eyes narrowed. His hand came down on Jean-Marie’s shoulder, forcing him back into his seat. He gently brushed back the strands at Jean-Marie’s temples before stepping back. His harsh features were graven harder than stone, except for a single tear touching one eye. “Madre de Dios,” he groaned.
“You see it, too.” Her voice was tight and hoarse.
Rodrigo nodded. “There is no doubt.”
“Will you two tell me what the hell is going on here?” Jean-Marie roared, coming out of his seat to pound on the table.
Rodrigo hitched himself onto the desk’s edge. “Compañeros have a long life but are not immortal.” His voice was darker than his eyes.
Jean-Marie’s stomach promptly knotted. This conversation did not sound promising.
“They can die of mortal causes, with death coming very quickly after it first approaches. You have lived for more than a century, always looking the same age you did when you first tasted Sara’s blood. Now…” He swallowed hard before continuing. “Silver touches your hair. You have very little time left.”
Jean-Marie vehemently shook his head, but Rodrigo nodded, inflexible certainty written across his face. “I am sure of this, mi hermano. Would that I was not!”
And Rodrigo never, never lied.
Jean-Marie turned away to the window. Dying? Dead? Surely Rodrigo must be wrong, and yet, he was growing slower, less interested in blood or carnal excitement. Were those signs his bond to Sara—and the long life he’d gained through that bond—were finally slipping away from him?
No, Rodrigo had to be wrong. He wasn’t going to die, dammit, not like this. Not when he’d dreamed for so long of outliving the war and finding Hélène d’Agelet again. He’d gone back to Sainte-Pazanne, her family home, during the false peace and learned she’d survived the first year of the Reign of Terror—but hadn’t been seen since. He’d allowed himself to hope somewhere, somehow, they’d be reunited, and this time, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to walk away from her for her own sake.
He was going to fight, even if he had to play dice with fate.
He leaned back against the shutters and studied his friend.
“How long do you think I have?”
“Based on what I learned as a sex slave in the eastern vampiro courts?”
“Out with it, mon frère.” Jean-Marie waved his hand, encouraging Rodrigo to talk.
“Three months, six at the most, if you spend the entire time in bed with a vampiro mayor.”
Jean-Marie grimaced despite himself. Too damn soon. But Rodrigo had to be wrong—at least this once.
“In that case, I’m staying in Madrid.” The first necessity was to get them to safety.
“No!” they shouted in unison.
Mon Dieu, they meant so much to him—even Sara. He couldn’t let them be trapped here, on his account. The risks were too great to chance anyone else’s life.
“Be reasonable.” He slapped his thigh, demanding they accept his logic. “If—when—the French army comes, I am a Frenchman and can be accepted as a French officer. But I can also pass muster as a Castilian.”
“Barely,” Rodrigo muttered.
“But enough—more than you can say for your grasp of French military protocol, Rodrigo. I am the only one of us who can do both. I’ll stay here and wait for that so-important British messenger.” Who would surely come soon. After all, he was supposed to have been here last week.
Rodrigo growled something under his breath but didn’t openly disagree.
“You’re the best for speaking Gallego to a Galician, Rodrigo. Sara will go with you.”
“Nooo,” she moaned, sinking back into her own chair. “You’re mine. I can’t let you go like this.”
“There is no other choice.”
“You could turn him into a vampiro, Rodrigo, or he could become your lover?”
Jean-Marie stared at her, knowing damn well his horror was more than equaled by his friend’s.
“You of all people should understand why I wish no hijos of my own, after how our creador tore our sanity apart when he gave us El Abrazo,” Rodrigo protested.
“You’re a far better man than he was, Rodrigo,” she countered. “Your hijos would be cherished and protected.”
“I will not take the chance on destroying the sanity of anyone I care about by giving them El Abrazo. He would be better off dead than insane for all eternity.”
“And I—while I care for Rodrigo as a brother, I do not wish him as my lover.” Jean-Marie came to stand beside him. “Even if I did, it would only gain me a few more months.” It was an easier option to refuse than Rodrigo’s vehement rejection of siring vampiros. Rodrigo’s hijo would have an eternity to find Hélène, if she still lived.
“Perhaps if you used force, Rodrigo?” Sara suggested hopefully.
“Never.”
Even Sara went no further down a path slammed shut in that tone of voice.
Rodrigo took a turn around the room before he planted his feet and faced them squarely. Jean-Marie had never seen him so stern, or look so much a leader of men.
“Very well. Sara and I will depart for Galicia. There are rumors part of Napoleon’s army is clearing the way for him to its east. After we fulfill our mission—or if we cannot because matters are in worse shape than we’ve heard—we will go to my ancestral lands in San Leandro. They are so remote, no invading army should disturb them. You can rejoin us there, a day’s walk north of Lugo, the old Roman capital.”
“I will do so.” Jean-Marie committed the names to memory. He’d leave for Galicia once he delivered the message. Even if gray hair was dangerous for him, surely nothing would change that quickly. Or if it did, he might slow it down by spending a little time—not too much, please God!—in Sara’s bed.
“We will also leave blood for you, in bottles of wine.” Rodrigo glanced down at Sara, who vigorously nodded. “A month, perhaps two months’ supply.”
“Merci bien!” He ground his teeth at his overenthusiasm.
“It is not much, not nearly enough.” Rodrigo shrugged. “Only blood and sex with a vampiro would help you live longer. But there are no vampiros left in Madrid, its few natives having been slaughtered by the mob during the spring uprising. The closest are in Andalusia, the opposite direction from Galicia.”
“One could almost wish mobs weren’t so very prone to slaughtering vampiros,” Sara commented. “If even one survived, we could compel it to feed Jean-Marie.”
The intended beneficiary shuddered.
“But he’d be a most untrustworthy protector,” Rodrigo pointed out.
“True.” She sighed. “What a pity, since he makes such a deliciously scented concubino compañer
o.”
Nom de Dieu, much as he loathed her description of himself, he had to admit she was right: He’d need to be very careful. After a century as a compañero, his body was very well attuned to vampiro blood and emotion, something vampiros found almost as attractive as feeding on one of themselves.
“Jean-Marie will do better relying on his wits and his speed, which are as great or greater than those of any young vampiro,” Rodrigo countered, “even with the French army coming back—and bringing their own vampiros with them.”
“I’ll watch for them,” Jean-Marie promised dryly. “And I’ll do my best to join you as quickly as possible.”
THE VALENCIA ROAD EAST OF MADRID, EARLY DECEMBER 1808
Hélène d’Agelet took another step and another, straining to lift her feet out of the mud rather than slogging through it. The weather was worse than appalling, changing from snow to rain and back again with the frequency of a drunken madman intent on causing the most misery possible. Her team had ridden mules until yesterday, horses being nearly impossible to find in this war-torn land. After painfully learning even that much wealth made them far too conspicuous, they’d chosen to walk instead, keeping only one mule for their baggage.
Snow tumbled down from the sky, promising a wretched end to a dreadful journey. She batted it off yet again from her widow’s heavy black veil, trying not to let her vampira strength inadvertently tear the fragile silken layers protecting her from suspicious watchers.
On every side, hordes of strangers—on foot or in carts—shoved and pushed against her, desperate to escape the victorious French. Progress was slow, motion accomplished by facing forward or edging sideways. And always fighting the smothering cloth for every breath of air.
She wanted to tear it from her face. Or fall into bed and sleep. Or simply be held in the arms of a strong man who’d loved her long and well. Not that she’d experienced that simple delight since her time with Jean-Marie St. Just.
Celeste, on the other hand, could turn ripping her veil into a seductive prelude for a good feeding, an art Hélène had never mastered. Instead, she went on prearranged rendezvous with gentlemen sent by the British Secret Service. Sometimes she even saw the same man twice, but it still seemed calculated, especially since they always watched her out of the corners of their eyes. Worried, no doubt, she might lose her temper and incinerate them.
Which was probably why the veteran spy Harry Wade was up in front with Celeste and Sir Andrew. He apparently felt his presence was necessary to make sure la petite’s eye-catching femininity could distract any Frenchman who might become suspicious of them.
He was not walking with her, which would have ensured the team’s “secret weapon” remained safe. As a prosaico, he was the only one who could protect her, since he alone could walk the streets at all hours of day or night.
Hélène sighed and reminded herself not to be jealous. She should look after her younger sister, even if she did sometimes long for the attention their creador seemed to shower on Celeste. Hélène had managed to survive without it, although dreams of Jean-Marie St. Just occupied far too many of her nights.
She drew her cloak around her, ducked her head, and hauled herself up another steep slope, the night’s bitter misery destroying any lingering pleasure from heated dreams.
A bell began to ring sweetly in the distance, from high atop a hill. It was probably the monastery of Our Lady of the Angels at Cerro de los œngeles, just south of Madrid. It sounded like angels singing.
Similar little things would have pleased Maman and Papa during the Vendée’s rebellion. Papa would smile at Maman, from where he led his troops along a muddy road, and their expressions would say so much of shared love and trust.
Hélène’s eyes misted. For a moment, she thought she saw Maman and Papa walking hand in hand along the side of this abominable highway, although it didn’t resemble the Vendée’s wooded roads in the least. They were strong and healthy, dressed in the same sturdy, honest clothing they’d worn throughout that summer.
They looked back at her over their shoulders, just as they had then, and beckoned to her.
Instinctively, she sidled closer to them. The chaotic horde somehow made way for her, and the ground was firmer under her feet.
Her parents smiled, and Papa began to whistle a march, very softly. She hummed it under her breath, dreaming she was a child again when he would keep her safe from all dangers.
The road slanted downward, changing the pressure on the back of her legs. Her brain stirred, turning away from days long past and reluctantly reacquainting itself with icy mud.
She was now marching straight ahead with nobody bumping against either of her shoulders. In fact, there was only a narrow file hurrying past on the opposite side of the road—and a mere scattering of people ahead of her.
She came to a complete halt and stared.
Celeste? Wade? Sir Andrew?
Surely she should be able to see two tall men and one small female.
Ahead of her, the wide road stretched to the outskirts of the city less than a league away, under the clear sky. Even with the night’s darkness, her vampiro eyesight allowed her to be certain there were only a few unmistakably short, impoverished beings.
Nom de Dieu…
She spun around and ran the few steps back up to the crest of the hill. A long look to the east reluctantly convinced her no one there answered her team’s description.
Worse, the eastern sky was starting to lighten. If she didn’t take cover before the first ray of dawn, she’d die—whether or not she found her sister and her creador.
Merde.
She’d have to use the backup plan: find someplace on her own to hide. She’d make her way later to pick up the message, which only she and Sir Andrew knew how to read.
She’d need to feed, too, and very soon. She’d only been a vampira for fifteen years, so she still needed sweet emotion and blood every day. Wade was supposed to have taken care of her this morning.
Still cursing under her breath, she hastened toward Madrid, plotting where to go, using gossip she’d overheard during the journey from the port. It was probably a far better guide than anything their London lecturer had said weeks ago.
God willing, the French wouldn’t seize her companions before they were reunited. The tactics of Napoleon’s police minister, to break vampiros and British spies, would begin with the stuff of nightmares.
To have la petite subjected to that? Best pray for a swift death.
Hélène shuddered and crossed herself.
SEVEN
A DAY’S RIDE NORTH OF LUGO, THE PROVINCIAL CAPITAL OF GALICIA, THE SAME DAY
Despite his best efforts, Rodrigo could not stop himself from leaning forward every time the road rounded another bend to commit another set of changes to memory. His knight’s sword, forged from the finest Toledo steel and given to him over five centuries ago by the king of Castile, thumped his horse’s flank regularly, reminding him of what he’d sworn to defend and how he’d failed.
New shrines and chapels, a farm here and there, or a bridge. And always the sights and sounds of the land fed his soul, soothing aches he’d tried to forget. Crystalline webs of ice, willow trees arching down to the river under a gust of wind only to spring back, a golden eagle spiraling overhead, a roe-deer springing away through the ferns, the music of the many rivers singing over the rocks…
“Do you think there are any French around here?” Sara asked, casting an uneasy glance at a small church’s bell tower, starkly prominent atop a knoll.
“Perhaps, since a sentry could see for miles from the church tower. These mountains are why Galicia was one of the first kingdoms the Moors left. But it’s unlikely since we’re too far from the coast or a main road.” He didn’t point out that anyone traveling hard and fast from Madrid to Corunna, especially in a foul winter like this one, was hardly likely to want to visit San Leandro.
She shuddered, visibly fighting not to clutch at her horse’s reins. He eyed he
r warily, ready to rescue the patient mare yet again.
“All I’m certain of is that these mountains will keep us from any form of civilized entertainment.” She did not, quite, pout. Even she had agreed they needed to leave the Galician Junta’s arrogance and idiocy behind before Napoleon arrived, even if it meant retreating to a distant village for the winter.
Thankfully, as vampiros mayores, they required very little blood to survive. San Leandro should be more than large enough to support the two of them.
“My latest lover—you remember, that cabinetmaker in Lugo?—said San Leandro is a very prosperous little town, thanks to San Rafael Arcángel’s church.”
A chapel dedicated to San Rafael Arcángel? To whom my beloved wife prayed for healing and a safe return for me?
“Many people are healed there, even though it’s a very difficult journey climaxed by crossing a narrow bridge. Apparently there’s also a convent, hospital, and a couple of good inns,” she chattered on, casting a considering glance at him. “Don Fernando Perez, the local grandee, is so well-off that he sent his wife and family off to England, while he’s in Seville with the Junta Central.”
“Flourishing, indeed,” Rodrigo agreed, finding it hard to speak past his throat’s tightness. Gracias a Dios, his prayers for all these long years had been answered.
“Enough people”—Sara’s voice dropped to the softest of whispers—“You could give El Abrazo to someone.”
“Sara, no!” Rodrigo roared. His mount shied violently, nearly tossing him out of the saddle and onto the road. Sara’s horse reared, whinnying its alarm. Their servants’ mules brayed their alarm, and some tried to buck off their packs.
By the time peace was restored, Rodrigo had sworn he would never allow the subject to be raised again. He would also remain completely disciplined, no matter what happened when they reached his birthplace.
Even so, he still unconsciously drew rein at the top of the pass leading into San Leandro, his heart leaping with joy.
It was nestled in a high mountain valley, as it had always been, surrounded by great peaks which took the brunt of the worst weather and turned it into soft flowing rivers. The town itself was full of golden buildings, stucco sweeping over sturdy stone, with warm red tile roofs and stone chimneys. The church’s graceful arches and spires lifted to the skies, as if reaching up in prayer.
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