Rodrigo slapped the old parapet, cursing with a Galician’s easy fluidity. There were too many people who might be injured if he failed yet again.
Life would be easier if he could adopt Sara’s insouciance. She’d quickly found a dozen or so individuals willing to engage in discreet, carnal pleasures and rotated her time among them. She appeared quite happy and healthy—unless someone happened to mention Jean-Marie. Her conversation would come stuttering to a halt, her eyes going wide and anguished.
He was little better. A thousand demons stabbed his heart whenever he counted the days since Jean-Marie had last drunk vampiro blood. If his best friend was still alive this long after the blood-laced wine had run out, it would be a miracle. Por Dios, how he had prayed to see Jean-Marie again in the flesh!
No wonder he and Sara had an unspoken agreement to change the subject, whenever their conversation fell upon Jean-Marie.
Rodrigo eyed the western mountains yet again. There were rumors a great battle had been fought between the British and the French at Corunna, the seaport. If so, the French would need supplies for the winter, and those murdering locusts would steal from anywhere and everyone.
Simply organizing sentries against such a pestilence would not be enough. Those insects would have to be fought—which could be done successfully here in San Leandro, a natural fortress with few entrances.
If he ground Don Fernando Perez’s pride beneath his boot heel, that is.
He grimaced. Even if Don Fernando hadn’t been the direct descendant of his own Fernando, he’d have hated to deal another man such a blow. As it was—the mere thought was almost insufferable.
He turned toward the stairs, his cape swinging around him. Maybe if he put sentries on the bridge…
Hooves plodded along the northern road, harder and more distinct by some trick of sound than a man’s footsteps might have been. A mule’s hooves—not cattle, nor donkey, nor horse.
A frisson ran up the back of Rodrigo’s neck, and he ran to the opposite side of the watchtower where he could see the road more clearly.
A small party of men emerged into a patch of light, trudging wearily like those who have already traveled far and expect to walk at least as far again. They were roughly dressed but warmly, in heavy cloaks with the hoods pulled up against the coming storm. One of them rode a bony mule, who seemed slightly better off than his master, given how the man swayed in the saddle. Another traveler walked beside them, clearly ready to lend a hand if needed.
Obviously sensing a watcher, the rider looked up. His cape’s thick wool fell back to reveal white hair, brilliantly blue eyes—and Jean-Marie’s face. His teeth flashed in an enormous grin. “¡Hola, Rodrigo!” Jean-Marie rasped, barely audible even to vampiro ears.
Rodrigo’s heart came alive with joy, hurling itself over the ancient stone parapet to his best friend. He flung himself down the stairs, tugging hard on the bell’s rope as he passed. Its sweet cry rang through the small vale, telling of welcome guests.
He ran out onto the road, and Jean-Marie’s companions quickly made way for him, murmuring greetings. He acknowledged them with a bare nod, all his attention on the compañero—who should not be alive, given the days without vampiro blood.
Jean-Marie’s mouth quirked with something of the old insouciance, the smirk of a boy who knows more than his schoolteacher.
Rodrigo’s frantic heartbeat eased from a panicked gallop to a more controlled canter. He’d at least have time to talk to his old friend, even if so much pure white hair meant that death was due within days. It was at least far longer than his original guess of mere hours.
He lifted Jean-Marie off the mule, thinking he was prepared to face any change after his years of exposure to compañeros at the eastern vampiro courts. Underneath the cloak, where Jean-Marie would once have been strong-limbed enough to wrench a recalcitrant horse into submission—now he was as fragile as a sparrow, hunched over in his saddle with skin barely glossing over his bones. Even the stench of long travel and few baths meant nothing compared to that horror.
Rodrigo’s breath caught in his throat, cold terror slashing through his veins. He might have known for decades he’d lose Jean-Marie’s company one day—but this physical reality drove home the coming sorrow as nothing else ever had. He quickly slid his arm around Jean-Marie’s waist, taking the other’s full weight.
“I can walk, old man,” the younger fellow demurred, in a barely audible croak, and fought to free himself.
“Then do me a favor and don’t struggle,” Rodrigo retorted, sotto voce.
Sara and the servants spilled out of the house, their eyes wide with surprise.
Certain she would provide the necessary hospitality, Rodrigo half-carried, half-swept Jean-Marie inside. Sara’s hooded eyes followed them, but she neither asked for—nor did he offer—any explanation.
Jean-Marie’s boots skidded on the heavily polished floor, sending him sliding toward the floor like a marionette with slashed strings.
Rodrigo caught him in both arms, his throat tightening. Never had he seen such appalling clumsiness in his friend—nor lifted him so easily, even after allowing for his own vampiro strength. Sunset was coming all too quickly into this compañero’s life.
“Have I lost that much weight?” Jean-Marie’s voice was a very thin whisper.
“Sí—a surprising amount.” Rodrigo gave him the truth, as he always had. As he always would, no matter how bitter.
“Damn. I was hoping their shock over how fast my hair turned gray was because they didn’t know compañeros.” His French accent was more marked than usual, returning him to the young prince from Versailles. The body had burned away, leaving only the purest of flames—its spirit.
Rodrigo gritted his teeth and quickly changed his hold to his earlier, more casual grip. He’d honor his friend’s pride by only supporting him with one arm around his waist, rather than providing all the support he needed. He eased his feelings by violently kicking the library door shut behind them. He guided Jean-Marie onto the settee, bitterly aware the other’s breathing was growing harsh and faint.
“Beautiful room,” Jean-Marie wheezed, fighting to keep his eyes open.
Social conversation about a sitting room suitable for the Paris of fifty years ago? How many hundreds of times had either of them ignored gilded furniture underneath painted walls, ornate little statues, and collections of music boxes?
A muscle ticked hard in Rodrigo’s jaw. Dammit, must a century of friendship end like this? Not while he had breath.
He rapidly unbuttoned his cloak and let it drop onto the floor. He sat down and shifted Jean-Marie firmly into the crook of his arm. He shook back the ruffles on one sleeve, opened his vein with a single frantic slash, and brought his wrist to Jean-Marie’s mouth.
Pure vampiro major blood, suffused with passionate concern and undiluted by wine, should have an immediate salutary effect. The only way to gain a stronger effect would be to feed his friend from Rodrigo’s jugular, if Jean-Marie was close to dying—but doing so would grant him El Abrazo.
Blue eyes came alive, the only color in that parchment face.
“Do you mean to fight me, amigo?” Rodrigo asked warily, remembering all the times Jean-Marie had objected to prolonging his existence as a compañero. He didn’t want to force him to drink the blood—but he would, at least this time.
“Not at all, mon frère.” A singularly determined smile touched the other’s lips. “Please give me as much blood as you can.”
Dios mío, what the devil had changed? But he could worry about that later.
Before Rodrigo could proffer his wrist politely as he’d been taught too damn well, Jean-Marie snatched up Rodrigo’s arm and brought the bleeding wound to his mouth. He set his lips to the gash and sucked hard.
A current of living crimson flowed between them.
Rodrigo’s heartbeat strengthened, and warmth crept over his skin, like standing near a fireplace on a cold day. He murmured wordless reassurance and a
wkwardly stroked the other’s hair.
Jean-Marie swallowed again, matching Rodrigo’s pulse. And again, in perfect rhythm with Rodrigo’s heartbeat.
Rodrigo rumbled approbation and drew his friend closer, settling him into a more comfortable position.
Jean-Marie drank, taking Rodrigo’s blood almost like a babe taking his mother’s milk. Peace suffused Rodrigo.
Jean-Marie’s pace slowed to only a few drops at a time, licking delicately at Rodrigo’s skin before he lay back against the settee, eyes half shut.
Rodrigo watched him lazily, no longer wondering why those eastern vampiros mayores had chosen to surround themselves with compañeros. This hadn’t been the blinding rapture of sharing blood with another vampiro, but he’d nonetheless enjoyed himself. He was also damn glad he’d fed very well for the past few days—indeed for the past few weeks. He still had enough blood left to work wonders—shapeshift, fight a duel with another vampiro, grant El Abrazo…
“You need a more powerful entourage in these deadly times.” Jean-Marie stretched as elegantly as a cat, clearly recovered from his journey, and reassembled himself into a sitting position.
“Probably. The French are in Lugo and have been patrolling very close to us.” Rodrigo considered the distance to the wine decanters but decided against moving immediately. “What do you have in mind?”
“I want to become a vampiro.”
What the hell? Jean-Marie who hated being a compañero—now wanted to become a vampiro? “What the devil are you talking about?”
“Why do you think I came back here, when I could have died with the British army fighting Napoleon?” Brilliantly alert blue eyes met his. “I intend to live for at least a few more years.”
“That’s an absurd reason to become a vampiro!”
“Hélène d’Agelet died fighting Napoleon’s troops. I have sworn to carry on her work.”
¡Ay, mierda! This news changed everything. To fulfill an oath to the woman he loved, Jean-Marie would probably dare anything—including become a vampiro. As a compañero, he’d be dead within days. His only chance of survival was as a vampiro.
Even so, Rodrigo’s stomach heaved when he remembered how his mind and body had been flayed for years by the agony of becoming a vampiro. The months and years of thinking of nothing else except blood and sex, craving it until he’d begged even the foulest brutes for more—anyone except his hated creador and Diego. He could not, would not, put anyone else through that. It was too appalling a life for even the strongest.
He would never force anyone into El Abrazo as he had been forced, and he would do his best to talk any candidate out of their decision.
“If I grant you El Abrazo, you would become my lover—utterly enslaved to me sexually for at least two years, possibly nine.”
“And I’d run those imperial brutes ragged from one end of Spain to the other.” Jean-Marie’s eyes were as inflexible as the tip of a sword.
“You would also become my servant, completely obedient to me—and nobody else.” The more polite warnings hadn’t worked; now it was time for the bone-deep one.
“Not just the few months of the rut, during La Lujuria?” For the first time, Jean-Marie seemed startled. Of course, Rodrigo wouldn’t be following vampiro custom in this. “Rodrigo—”
“Hear me out, Jean-Marie! I killed my creador.”
“Impossible!”
“I decapitated him—and I won’t permit even the slightest chance any hijo of mine would ever do the same to me. I will therefore be my hijo’s only blood source as long as he is physically immature—a cachorro.”
Jean-Marie stared at him, measuring his resolution.
Rodrigo looked back, absolutely immovable. He had spent too many years in too much agony: Whether it was logical or not, he would not risk meeting the same end he’d dealt to his creador. The only guarantee of complete control over an hijo was to be his only blood source, while he was a cachorro.
Jean-Marie gulped hard, silently yielding the point. He rose and walked to the sideboard.
“Sara can’t provide me any blood?” he asked, turning back to face Rodrigo.
“Other blood sources would weaken the bond to the creador. I had many blood sources, so I was able to ignore my creador’s commands.” He’d felt his need to obey decrease every time he’d found another blood source. Disgusting as many of them had been—much as he’d hated to prostitute himself—he’d still been as promiscuous as possible, hoping to regain his freedom of action. It had worked in the end.
Jean-Marie tapped on the sideboard, beating out an erratic rhythm and looking at something far away.
Rodrigo remained quiet, hoping his friend would see reason and stop talking about becoming a vampiro.
“Would I still be tied to Sara, as I am now?” Jean-Marie’s face was hidden, and Rodrigo couldn’t read his voice.
“No. Your loyalties as a compañero would be dissolved, leaving behind only those of a vampiro to his creador.” That was an easy answer. The link between creador and hijo overwhelmed everything else, except the conyugal bond—which was so rare as to not warrant any discussion.
“But still…” Jean-Marie was very pale. He jerked himself into motion and began to pace the room, his expression a study in horror.
Rodrigo relaxed slightly, careful to keep his own opinions concealed. Those weren’t all of his objections, of course—only the ones most likely to weigh with Jean-Marie, the man so completely focused on women.
“Very well.” Jean-Marie spun around and drew himself to attention. “I agree.”
“To?” Rodrigo raised the haughtiest eyebrow he could.
“To all of your terms. I will be your lover.” To give his courage full credit, Jean-Marie’s voice barely wavered when he described his future activities. “And you will be my only blood source so long as I am a cachorro, which will give you complete command over me for the rest of my life.”
Madre de Dios, his independent friend was willing to completely yield himself? “You trust me that far?”
“With my life and soul,” Jean-Marie said simply.
With his soul? Unaccustomed joy rang through Rodrigo. But what if he betrayed it? What if Jean-Marie experienced the same shattering agony of mind and body Rodrigo had when he became a vampiro? Could either of them survive that horror?
He took a deep breath, grasping for space to regain his footing. “It’s too soon for you to be certain.”
“Rodrigo, there is nothing else in my world.” Jean-Marie frowned at him.
“You may find another reason to live!”
Jean-Marie huffed out a breath, visibly leashing the words quivering on his tongue.
“Take a few days to think it over, while you regain your strength.” Rodrigo shoved his hair impatiently away from his face and picked up his cloak. “I’m going to pray privately at the Blessed Virgin’s shrine, a mile north of here. I’ll give you blood again later tonight and tomorrow.”
“I won’t change my mind,” Jean-Marie warned, his fingers twitching as if eager to demand Rodrigo’s immediate acquiescence.
“Probably not—but grant me the time to think, too.” Rodrigo managed a tight smile. “I have never wished to become a creador.” Only a simple family man with my darling Blanche and our children at my side.
ELEVEN
Rodrigo knelt before the shrine to the Santísima Virgen. For some ridiculously sentimental reason, he had his knightly sword strapped to his back, as if he was on a vigil—even though explaining its presence would be nearly impossible. He might even have to resort to vampiro tricks. Even so, he’d brought it along because his inner eye had Seen him leaving the house with it tonight.
He shrugged the folly away, together with any discomfort caused by the great weapon’s presence. He’d spent too many years traveling and fighting alongside this blade for it to be anything other than an extension of himself. He was free to pray and meditate, as he’d come here to do.
And watch to see if this was th
e night and the road that the French would arrive by.
There’d been a shrine here as long as he could remember, but it had always been very small—a roof large enough to protect two people, a stone floor for them to kneel on, and stone walls on three sides. The beauty was all in the simple statue of the Blessed Virgin and her son, looking out on the wild grace of the surrounding forest and mountain. Here was peace and simplicity, just as there had been five centuries ago when he had been a boy. And the only time he’d brought Blanche here to meet his family.
He’d kept vigil here the night before he’d left for Toledo to join the king’s court. He’d had so many ambitions then—to be a great knight, to become a member of the Order of Santiago, to be famous in battle, to gain great lands and protect his people from all enemies…
He’d even wished to conquer a lovely lady’s heart.
He’d done some of that. He’d been knighted by a king, he’d served a great prince, he’d become a novice in the Order of Santiago, he’d been loved by the sweetest of all ladies.
But had he been truly worthy of her? Would she have approved when he’d let those maidens die in his creador’s torture pits, rather than become another of his creador’s assassins? Perhaps.
Would Blanche understand why he hesitated to give Jean-Marie a chance at avenging his lady, even if it meant giving him El Abrazo?
He winced. Probably not. She’d always had a very blunt, pragmatic outlook toward others’ love affairs, even though she rarely interfered.
Would she have gathered up her household and wandered the world with him all these years? Or would she have sought to help and protect their small ones somewhere along the way? Would she have built a fortress to keep the night’s dangers away from them?
Santa Madre de Dios. Rodrigo’s hands curled into fists, and he pounded them against each other. Blanche had always fought to protect others. She might have traveled the world with him—but she’d have had her charities and her causes at every stop.
Bond of Fire Page 18