Bond of Fire

by Diane Whiteside

  If she’d been with him, he’d have built her a home long before now, just to protect her and those she guarded. It would have been part of his knightly vows—the part he hadn’t done much of all these years, the command to protect the weak.

  He closed his eyes and crossed himself. Then he began to pray for forgiveness and the strength to do better.

  Luis hummed softly while he strolled to Vespers at the church, happily listening to his wife and daughter’s eternal chatter about her pregnancy. One might think nobody had ever had a baby before, the way his wife fussed over the imminent arrival of her first grandchild. But he was almost as bad, especially since Emilio, Inez’s husband, was his oldest friend’s son.

  Bianca, his second daughter, would be married in the spring, while his youngest had her eye on a boy from another village. He knew they were fine lads, and his wife assured him they’d make good husbands, although he wasn’t entirely sure of that. Even so, there were a few things he could do to test them before the knots were tied and his darlings left his protection.

  Light sparked from the hillside and was gone in an instant, leaving black spots in his eyes and chills pattering down his back.

  He frowned. He rolled his shoulders, willing the shivers to leave his spine. He was a prosperous farmer and well dressed for this weather. He should not, could not, be cold.

  He counted up his beloved ladies, determined to distract himself. Beatriz, his wife, still as slim and lithe as when he’d married her. Inez, their eldest, ready to give birth within the next few weeks. Bianca, tall and dark as himself—a good girl, gracias a Dios, but her laughter drew men the way flowers lured bees. And little Ana, quiet, hardworking, and beautiful beyond belief.

  They stepped from the cobblestone plaza into the colonnade bordering San Rafael Arcángel. More of their friends greeted them and began to exchange scraps of gossip in the last few minutes before entering church.

  Luis caught sight of his godfather, Carlos Alvarez—the alcalde and San Leandro’s most important official—talking earnestly to two other men. Lacking any instructions from Don Fernando Perez, the local grandee, Tío Carlos hadn’t even been able to decide whether they should hide more of their livestock and food. The lines in his face were deep set, almost engraved into his skin, making him appear as fragile as an ice bridge.

  If Tío Carlos proved too sick, Luis would have to lead the next town council meeting, since he was second to Tío Carlos. In that case, he’d be the one to answer his neighbors’ questions and make the decisions.

  However grievous their concerns were, they were all subjects that had been discussed many times before and did not have to be reconsidered tonight.

  Surely, here—on sacred ground!—he could ignore how his hair prickled under his collar and the iciness of his palms inside his good gloves. Instead, he could fill his eyes with his beautiful family. God had blessed him beyond anything he had ever prayed for.

  Luis relaxed and resolved to make an extra donation to the poor box.

  A bugle rang out, the long, angry note ripping apart the valley’s peace. Horses’ hooves pounded over the cobblestones, metal clanging and rattling with every beat. Men shouted and swore in the distance, echoes rising up and beating against each other in a cacophony of terror.

  Children flung themselves against their mothers’ knees. Women screamed or turned pale. Men stared at each other. A few turned to run.

  The horses galloped into the plaza, as dreadfully as any plague ever foretold. Their riders were ragged, armed to the teeth—and French. In an instant, every exit was blocked by a soldier with a leveled gun.

  Predatory eyes marked the location of every woman.

  Inez gasped—and wrapped her arms protectively around her enormous belly. Glaring, Emilio placed himself between the intruders and his wife. Cursing softly, Beatriz gathered her two youngest daughters to her.

  Overhead, the great tocsin bell began to ring out the alarm.

  Tío Carlos drew himself up and strode forward to demand an explanation, magnificent in his dignity but showing every one of his eighty years.

  His heart in his throat, Luis crossed himself, silently yielded his family to God’s protection, and fell into step with his alcalde.

  Jean-Marie came down the stairs to the landing, chuckling softly. Given good food, hot baths, and clean clothes, his Galician friends had managed to fully enjoy them all. Now they slept in the attic, their faces as innocently relaxed as babes despite their hard lives.

  Perhaps he could persuade them to rest here tomorrow but probably not. They were all eager to reach their homes as quickly as possible.

  Horses’ hooves clattered on the courtyard’s cobblestones. French, of course—and he was the only armed man in the household, since Rodrigo was at the shrine.

  He crossed himself and asked for God’s help.

  Someone demanded admittance in clumsy Spanish.

  “Niquez vos mères!” he shouted and pulled out his pistols.

  The extremely vulgar insult to their mothers, given in French by a Frenchman, brought an instant of stunned silence.

  He locked the door to the upstairs, which would keep his friends safe for a few minutes. They were good brawlers, but they’d never last against professional soldiers.

  A bell began to ring madly in the distance—the town’s tocsin bell, calling desperately for aid.

  Jean-Marie’s mouth tightened, and he made sure he could draw his saber quickly. Thank God Rodrigo kept an arsenal here and had encouraged him to take what he wished. The sights he’d seen on his journey had made him go armed, even indoors.

  A muffled chant, a solid weight hit the door—and it burst open, disgorging filthy, ragged French soldiers into the room. There were at least a dozen of them, more dangerous than rabid wolves—and a nasty contrast to the house’s quiet elegance.

  If only he’d had time to regain his compañero speed and strength, instead of only a prosaico’s. But with luck, he could fight them off long enough for Rodrigo to return and save Sara and his friends.

  He’d be able to see Hélène once again in the next world.

  One of the Frenchmen leveled his musket, but Jean-Marie’s shot took him first.

  Another waved a sword, ordering the others on—and Jean-Marie brought the leader down with his last bullet.

  He thrust his pistols into his belt, knowing he wouldn’t have time to reload them. But they’d be useful as clubs, should his sword fail him.

  He drew his saber and smiled at his enemies.

  “Come along, lads, who wants to be the first to die? You know as well as I that your muskets are ancient—and less accurate than a drunken pissing contest. Your chances of killing me are pitiful from down there—so you’ll have to come up here to dance with me.”

  They eyed him warily, obviously trying to gauge how well he could fight.

  His grin grew broader. They’d have to pass him to reach the valuables in the bedrooms—and Napoleon’s soldiers could never resist looting. He just needed to buy time for Rodrigo.

  Two of them charged him.

  The bell’s notes ripped into Rodrigo, snatching him away from his prayers. For an instant, he didn’t know whether he stood in the thirteenth century or the nineteenth.

  But his body didn’t care about which century it was, and it jerked him to his feet. Invaders had come, and a knight’s duty was to protect. To fight enemies.

  He crossed himself. Then he ran—with all of his vampiro speed.

  His home was on the way to San Leandro. He would stop there first.

  Sara woke slowly, blinking and confused. She loathed moving around in daylight, and greeting Jean-Marie’s friends earlier that day had left her sleepy and irritable.

  Her coffin was familiar territory, small and dark, infinitely comfortable with its satin cushions and fine woods. It was the only sanctuary her creador had allowed her, and nobody had ever troubled her there in the years since. She hated bestirring herself, but something was wrong in the wor
ld beyond.

  Her beloved coffin vibrated again, shaking her to the bones.

  A bell was ringing, frequently and loudly. The tocsin bell from the village?

  She pushed the lid off, sending it slamming onto the floor.

  Jean-Marie was taunting someone on the landing, his voice ragged with exhaustion and pain.

  No! He’d been hers and Rodrigo’s ever since she’d first seen him in Rodrigo’s vision, back in their creador’s dungeon. She’d taken him as soon as she’d met him, of course. Why bother with discussion, when she knew they were fated to be together? She would not let him be hurt now.

  She erupted from her nest, her hair trailing down her back, and ran to the door, still clad in her frothy lace and silk nightgown. She flung it open, only to be met by a horrific sight.

  Jean-Marie was surrounded by dead and wounded soldiers—but he was bleeding as much as or more than any of them. One side of his face was covered in blood, while his right arm hung uselessly at his side. He favored one leg, but his sword’s point was still high, however much it wavered.

  “Why are you standing there? Come on, you cowards—or don’t you want to join your fellows in Hell?” He coughed—and choked on blood.

  Someone growled and charged, bayonet lowered. How could his sword parry that?

  Jean-Marie’s face hardened.

  Sara shrieked one of her creador’s favorite curses and hurled herself into the fight.

  Sword drawn, Rodrigo raced into the courtyard, startling a handful of gaunt horses. French military horses.

  The terror gripping him throughout his mad run tightened its hold on his throat. If he lost Sara or Jean-Marie because he hadn’t been here to protect them…

  He shoved past the unhappy beasts, all his attention on the swinging door and the reek of blood and death from within.

  An abattoir awaited him, not the gracious room he’d left with gilded furniture, floral rugs, and painted walls. Now more than a dozen men lay dead or dying in his foyer, on the stairs, and on the landing beyond. Some had been killed by prosaico means—with a bullet or a sword. But a few had been almost ripped apart, and none would be alive for more than a few minutes more.

  Men were pounding on the door to the attic bedroom, demanding to be set free. Since they were obviously alive and healthy, they could be ignored for now.

  What the hell had happened? Jean-Marie had not had the strength to kill so many.

  Rodrigo leapt up the stairs, barely managing not to step on any bodies.

  Gracias a Dios, Jean-Marie was slumped against the wall, his face white as parchment under a coating of blood. His hands were clasped over his belly, a foul seepage oozing under his fingers. The door to Sara’s room was open, showing an empty coffin.

  A wordless prayer formed itself in Rodrigo’s heart.

  “Jean-Marie.” He dropped to his knees and unbuttoned his cloak.

  “Rodrigo.” His friend blinked slowly. Agony was braided into every muscle of his face and throat. Death lurked behind his eyes. “Thank God. You must go…to the village.”

  “Not yet.” He tore open his cravat, the broken linen sounding like a gunshot. Buttons popped on his coat and waistcoat.

  “Every minute counts.” Jean-Marie’s voice strengthened into a lecture.

  “So does your life. Where’s Sara?”

  Jean-Marie tilted his head slightly, indicating a corner of the landing.

  Dios! White silk lay across a pair of the largest, most heavily armed soldiers, as if preventing them from attacking.

  “She killed many of them…But the last one shot her in the heart, and she turned into dust. I will have to thank her for sacrificing herself for me.”

  She’d finally given back something to Jean-Marie, in recompense for the life she’d stolen from him? He would have to say the Viddui for her, the traditional prayer her Jewish people said at the time of death. Thank God, she’d found that much grace to light her way home to her people and to Heaven. Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One…

  “Not in heaven, amigo. You’re about to become a vampiro.” Rodrigo tugged his cravat and coat away from his neck, baring his throat. Blood from his jugular was the richest, giving it the best chance of saving Jean-Marie’s life. Gracias a Dios, he’d fed so well for the past few days. He had more than enough strength for this—and to meet other trials.

  “It’s too late—I’m dying. They gutted me.”

  “All the better,” Rodrigo assured him, infusing his voice with a confidence he didn’t entirely feel. “The weaker you are, the faster the vampiro elixir will seize you and heal your wounds.”

  Jean-Marie’s gaze sharpened. “I’ll kill more Imperial bastards.”

  “Exactly! Now center your mind on a single thought.” The eastern courts always said there were two keys to cachorro survival: willingness to become a vampiro and concentration on a single thought during El Abrazo. God send they were right.

  “Hélène at Versailles, the first time I saw her and blazing like a star under the candles, in the mirrors’ reflections.” Jean-Marie smiled beatifically, his gaze turned somewhere Rodrigo couldn’t follow.

  “Perfect.” At least his old friend was focused. “Are you still certain? You could go insane or die when you awake.”

  “Don’t be a damn fool,” Jean-Marie snapped, glaring at him. “I will serve you with all my heart when I awaken.”

  Rodrigo smiled humorlessly, wishing he’d done this once before—so he could be certain that Jean-Marie would awake the next night, not too appallingly insane. But all was in God’s hands. If Jean-Marie was to live, he needed to become Rodrigo’s hijo.

  By all the Saints, Rodrigo would be the finest creador ever known, to protect his best friend.

  He lightly touched Jean-Marie’s mind, washing away the pain but not reading any of the memories. Rodrigo gently carried Jean-Marie into his bedroom, setting him down on the bed that had been prepared for him so long ago. He lay down beside him and drew him close, his heart beating faster than the first time he’d ridden into combat.

  Dios mediante, this would work.

  “Thank you for granting me El Abrazo, Rodrigo.” Jean-Marie smiled at him, his blue eyes completely untroubled in the scant light from the hallway.

  His breathing ground to a halt. Thanks? For the first time, he truly believed his oldest friend was at peace with what was to come.

  “Mi amigo.” He stroked Jean-Marie’s cheek—and slashed open his jugular.

  Jean-Marie feebly lunged for it, his gaze avid.

  “Think of your lady, mi hijo!” Rodrigo commanded and lifted his friend’s head onto his shoulder. Jean-Marie’s mouth clamped down on Rodrigo’s neck and sucked fiercely.

  Rodrigo cradled him close, praying to the Blessed Mother he’d survive.

  And San Leandro would not be too greatly injured when he reached it…

  Luis tested his bonds once again, tears and blood caked on his face. He was tied to one of the pillars inside the church, where the French had tried to make him tell where the town’s treasure was. But there was no gold in San Leandro, and they’d soon used Luis only for sport. Dios, what they’d done to his hands—the pain burned through his arms and into his lungs until he could no longer control his screams.

  He could have forgiven them that, just as he could have forgiven them eating every scrap of food to be found—and drinking every drop of wine. But if they’d been beasts before, the wine had made them a hundred times worse. They’d hunted and stolen every chalice, every plate, every gift given to the church over the centuries.

  He could have ignored that, too—but not what they were doing to his people. Not what his eyes and ears and nose told him.

  Howls of agony tore at his ears, and the church reeked of foulness. Torches shook in the drafts, while candles burned and wept in their sconces.

  The French bastards were raping every woman in town, even using the high altar to defile the nuns. Many of the men were dead, starting with Tío C
arlos, and the others were either bound or broken. Emilio had been shot down for bravely—futilely—trying to protect his wife. Sweet Ana had been slaughtered before Luis’s eyes, the last of his beautiful darlings to die. Beatriz, Inez, Bianca, Ana—all dying in agony and horror, the sights and sounds and stench burned into his memory.

  Damn the French bastards, damn them! No matter what it took, or how long it took, he would find revenge. There would be no peace for him as long as he remembered his darlings’ murders.

  He clenched his fists, sending bone grinding against bone. He flung his head back and howled in frustration.

  The soldiers were so damn confident now that they’d laid aside their weapons. Some were laughing almost continuously while they drank and urged each other on. If he had his pitchfork—or his scythe, which he’d sharpened yesterday—he could destroy many of them. If, if, if…

  Luis wasn’t sure he still believed in miracles, but he knew mortal men could offer them no aid. The church was dedicated to San Rafael Arcángel, patron saint of travelers and healers. Perhaps the archangel would send a traveler to cleanse his church and heal them.

  Behind him, tied to the other side of the same pillar, he could hear the Irish priest praying continuously in his own language, his voice harsh from hard usage.

  The great tocsin bell rang, probably because the soldiers were mocking it again. A woman screamed, only to be cut off abruptly.

  The great doors slammed open, reverberating against the wall. Cold air washed through the room, bringing the forest’s crisp scent. A man roared in fury.

  Luis’s eyes flashed open, allowing him to once again witness what was happening.

  A tall man stood in the church door, his broad shoulders and swirling cape blocking sight of the plaza beyond. He carried a great sword in his hands—and his harsh features were those of the knight awaited by Doña Blanche.

  The soldiers gawked at him. Someone snickered. None bothered to leave their perversions.