“By all that is holy, you shall not foul this church,” the knight shouted. He leapt forward, swinging his sword as if it were a featherweight—and beheaded the rapist closest to the door. In the same superbly smooth move, he killed a second Frenchman—and a third.
“Santiago y cierra España!” He bellowed the Knights of Santiago’s ancient battle cry: St. James and close in Spain! He contemptuously kicked one brute so hard that he flew off Ana’s best friend and slammed against a wall, never to move again.
Luis echoed his rescuer in the war-cry that had terrified invaders for centuries, giving all the support he could. Other villagers lifted their voices, even a few women.
Gracias a Dios, Don Rodrigo—or his near kin—had returned to save them in their hour of greatest need, even as the legend foretold.
Luis laughed mirthlessly for not previously realizing the mysterious newcomer was their long-awaited paladin. But perhaps his foolish eyes had needed the flashing sword to melt the scales.
Time slowed to a crawl—or did Don Rodrigo move so quickly the soldiers couldn’t move fast enough to harm him? Their drunkenness and lack of loaded guns left them clumsy and vulnerable, falling to Don Rodrigo all too easily despite their greater numbers. None could do more than stagger to his feet and point an unloaded weapon before he too was slain.
Was Don Rodrigo a magical being or a mortal man? Who cared? Not when he walked safely in church and fought to cleanse it from its desecrators.
Luis’s hands closed, disregarding any agony. Here at last was a fighter, someone to follow—unlike their absent grandee or their dithering—and now dead—alcalde.
Jean-Marie’s heartbeat throbbed again, faint but very steady. Gracias a Dios, the vampiro elixir had taken him. He was fast asleep, and his wounds had already started to heal. With luck, he would awaken tonight with some trace of sanity besides the lust for blood and emotion.
Rodrigo stood up and stretched, relieving the aches caused by his cramped position. Measuring a pulse took unusually long when it was measured in beats per hour, not per minute.
Here at his house, he’d scattered Sara’s few ashes in the sleeping rose garden and prayed for her. She’d ruined Jean-Marie’s life when she’d grabbed him away from his role as prince of the Blood—but he’d never have met his Hélène if she hadn’t. And at the end, she’d fought to save him. God knows, she’d done much to save Rodrigo’s life time after time. Sabe Dios, she’d found peace at last.
He sighed and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. It was time to go downstairs and help his own household.
Jean-Marie had not yet awoken as a cachorro, of course, but he should do so tonight. Rodrigo would be there to greet him—and give him that all-important first taste of blood and emotion. The emotion for which he would hunger as a vampiro. It would not be terror, the powerful—and all-too-typical—emotion that sustained most vampiros. No, it would be carnal passion, equally strong but far harder to create and sustain in pure form when faced with a crazed cachorro who wanted only to feed.
As for himself—when he’d heard the screams and realized last night what those hijos de la gran puta were doing—Santa Madre de Dios, in the church!—all he’d wanted to do was kill. And so he had.
He’d destroyed every one of those foul brutes. The smoke carrying their ashes to Heaven teased his nostrils now, even though it was distant and well disguised by fragrant pine boughs. He’d suggested the locals dispose of their remains on a single pyre, since the ground was frozen iron-hard. It would be difficult enough to provide proper burials for their own beloved dead—like Luis Alvarez’s ladies.
He pounded his fist into his palm, wishing yet again he could have stopped the attack from happening. An impossibility since he was not the local grandee—but he was a trained warrior and a leader! He could have kept the French out and could still prevent them from returning, if San Leandro wished to fight. Because the French would be back, bringing the same flood of terror they’d perfected in the Vendée to terrify innocent people into cooperating with tyrants.
Yet it was entirely likely that the good people of San Leandro would believe he was the monster and refuse to listen to him, given the unnatural speed and strength with which he’d destroyed the foreign despoilers. ¡Ay, mierda!
At least he’d killed every one of the French soldiers last night. It wouldn’t bring back San Leandro’s dead or dry the survivors’ tears. But he had bought them some time to find a new leader, since their alcalde was dead. He’d also helped clean up and comforted the injured as much as he could, including the women.
He ground his teeth, biting back a snarl. Nobody would hurt those people again, not while he was around—even if he had to sneak around in the dark.
The doorbell rang, a surprisingly polite interruption in the bloodstained foyer.
Rodrigo’s eyebrows rose, but he opened the door without waiting for his servants.
A careworn Father Michael touched his hat in greeting. A young boy hovered behind him, holding a mule’s reins. What on earth was the priest doing here, when he must have a thousand things to do in town after last night’s tragedy?
“Welcome to my home, Father.” Rodrigo bowed formally, careful to mask his surprise. “Please come inside where it is warm. Your servant can take the mule around to the back, where there is refreshment for both.”
“Good day, my son.” The good priest seemed to have aged a decade in one night, which wasn’t surprising. He nodded to his servant and followed Rodrigo inside, his expression calm.
“Would you care for coffee, wine, or other refreshments?” He led the way into the formal sitting room, furnished with the same music-box gilded extravagance of everything else in the house.
“No, thank you. I came to talk to you.” He took a seat, glancing around with a connoisseur’s eye.
Rodrigo waited, curious—and a little concerned. Had he displayed so much of the vampiro that he’d frightened the priest? But he’d only done so to protect the people!
A brook sang from within the forest. Peace settled into the room.
“I came to thank you for aiding my people last night,” Father Michael said finally, looking straight at his host. “You rescued them when no one else could.”
Rodrigo bowed, his throat very tight at the unexpected—and complete—acceptance. “I am honored to have been of service, Father.”
“If there is anything I can do to help you, in this world or the next, you have only to ask, my son.” Gray eyes, startlingly perceptive as ever, watched him—demanding nothing.
Rodrigo swallowed. How could he ask for what he’d never been able to voice even to himself?
A breeze caressed the trees outside, making the branches bend. Could he be as flexible? Could he rededicate himself to serving the Lord and protecting the weak, as in his knightly oaths?
Father Michael studied how the curtain’s silk fringe stirred in a draft.
Rodrigo gambled, betting the Irishman would understand the difficult balance Rodrigo had tried to find. “Will you hear my confession, Father?”
“Of course, my son. May the Lord be in your heart and upon your lips that you may truly and humbly confess your sins, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Rodrigo knelt, an aching peace sifting into his bones. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been years since my last confession. Last night,” he began. Dios mío, but he sounded as nervous as any escudero who hoped to one day become a caballero! “Last night, I drew steel and killed men in the Lord’s house…”
The litany of sins fell smoothly from his tongue, and the priest listened to him compassionately.
“May our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you; and by His authority I absolve you from every bond of excommunication and interdict, so far as my power allows and your needs require,” Father Michael said. He slowly made the Sign of the Cross over Rodrigo. “Therefore, I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Gho
st. Amen.”
Oh, dear Lord, what joy to be freed of those burdens.
“May the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ, the merits of the Blessed Virgin Mary and of all the saints obtain for you that whatever good you do or whatever evil you bear might merit for you the remission of your sins, the increase of grace, and the reward of everlasting life.”
“I am deeply grateful, Father.” Rodrigo was unashamed of the tears on his cheeks. “I have lived a long and brutal life, performing deeds that should not be discussed in polite company.”
“Actions which prepared you for last night?” the priest queried sharply.
Startled, Rodrigo inclined his head in agreement.
“In that case, I see no reason to be ashamed.”
“Even so, I have not frequented churches much, as you may have guessed.”
Father Michael harrumphed.
“I may need to fight again and it would—comfort me to be blessed.”
“Ah.” Hordes of meanings dwelt in that syllable. The devout Franciscan propped his chin on his fist.
Terror froze Rodrigo’s veins like glaciers. “But if I’m not acceptable…”
“Why not?” Father Michael raised an eyebrow.
“I am not an ordinary man, Father.” How could he tell him about vampiros?
“It is true that few men could have done what you did. But God did not slay you for besmirching his house, even though your methods might be called—unusual.”
“You are generous,” Rodrigo forced past a tight throat.
The priest shrugged. “I am old and have seen prejudice destroy many things but also much gained through love. Did you know that only Protestants can own property in Ireland?”
Rodrigo nodded, startled by the apparent non sequitur.
“When I was young, my brother converted—to save the land for our family and people. But I left Ireland to study, only to return and live in the open fields while I served as a priest. I could not have done what he did, yet we both served God and the people in our own ways, out of love.”
“Flexibility.” Rodrigo understood both men’s bittersweet choices all too well.
“Aye.”
They smiled at each other in perfect understanding.
“Please kneel for your blessing, Rodrigo.”
Rodrigo went to his knees and bowed his head.
“May the God of the misty dawn awaken you,
May the God of the rising sun stir you up,
May the God of the morning sky send you on your way,
May the God of noonday stillness renew your strength.”
Joy poured over his skin and through his veins like molten gold with every word, couched in terms of light—so rare and precious to a vampiro.
“May the God of afternoon bring you home,
May the God of sunset delight your eye,
May the God of twilight calm your nerves,
May the God of dusk bring you peace.”
He was reborn as a child of the Church again, healed as Blanche had prayed.
“Father, will you baptize me? I wish to take a new name to commemorate this day.”
“Certainly, my son. How do you wish to be called?”
“For the saint who protects travelers and heals even the most grievous of wounds—Rafael.”
“Don Raf-fael?” His majordomo stumbled slightly over the new name.
Rafael nodded encouragingly but didn’t bother to look up. He was cleaning the weapons salvaged from the soldiers Jean-Marie had killed. Those bastards might have been greedy and cocky, but they’d been professional. Their muskets and pistols had been well cared for and would need little work to make them useful again, putting San Leandro’s men on an equal footing with the French bastards.
“Señor Alvarez from the village wishes to speak to you.”
Rafael’s hand stilled for a moment before he resumed carefully sponging out the pistol’s muzzle. “Please show him in.”
Dios mediante, San Leandro’s new alcalde was someone who would fight.
Rafael’s mouth curved slightly, a heady new confidence sweeping through his blood after this morning’s blessing and baptism. If the new alcalde wouldn’t—well, he’d just have to be persuaded, by vampiro means if necessary. The French revenge for last night’s defeat would have to be met by force, or San Leandro would be ground into dust. They had enough men—and enough arms, with what they’d claimed from the dead soldiers—but only with leadership.
Luis Alvarez limped in on a crutch, his hands heavily bandaged. Rafael’s majordomo withdrew, silently shutting the door.
“Señor Perez.” Luis bowed very low, balancing himself awkwardly.
“Please—sit down.” Rafael rose, laying down the pistol and his tools. Dios mío, Luis looked extremely battered. Yet a flame burned behind his eyes, lit by trials too bitter for most mortal men to endure.
“No, thank you. I would prefer to stand.”
“As you wish.” Rafael waited for the news, hoping they’d found somebody he could reason with.
“The town council has elected you the new alcalde of San Leandro,” Luis announced baldly.
Rafael stared at him. None of the options he’d considered included this.
“Why? I am a newcomer who knows nothing of your customs! How can I give justice or make laws?” And he couldn’t linger in San Leandro after the war with Napoleon was over. He’d never compete with his descendant in such a fashion.
“You rescued us last night from our enemies, as the legend foretold.” Luis’s dark eyes were as implacable as granite. “You are the only one who can protect us now.”
“I could destroy you.” Rafael crossed his arms over his chest. Sabe Dios, they’d better understand the magnitude of what they were getting into when they asked a vampiro to lead them. It would be entirely different than if he advised their own alcalde.
“You are our only hope.”
“I am not a mortal man,” Rafael said directly. “I am a vampiro.”
“We have guessed that you are not entirely human.” Luis shrugged. “It does not matter—and we think it is probably an advantage, judging by last night. God does not hate you, so why should we?”
Rafael took a turn around the room, flicking glances at his startling guest.
Dios santo, Luis was calm. If Rodrigo accepted this, he would rule San Leandro and the surrounding valley like a baron, the way his family had done centuries ago. It wouldn’t last forever, of course—only until the war ended. But he’d have a damn good chance of keeping the French bastards away.
He began to smile, thinking about all the tricks he could use. He was distantly aware his fangs were probably showing a little.
“Also,” Luis went on, a small catch in his voice, “I would be honored if you would take me into your personal service for the rest of my life. I will do whatever you want, so long as we defeat the French.”
Cristo! Could he be telling the truth? He’d already admitted he knew Rafael was a vampiro.
Rafael spun to completely face him, using all of his vampiro powers to measure every iota of his guest’s sincerity.
Truth shone through Luis’s mind, as strong as the pain burning in his hands.
Rafael rocked on his heels, thinking hard.
Luis had no close family left in San Leandro, nobody except some distant cousins. The loss of his wife and daughters rode him hard, blinding him to everything except revenge—and the desperate need to find something that would keep him away from reminders of them. Serving Rafael would accomplish that.
Jean-Marie was a vampiro, who’d be a strong right hand—but only at night. Rafael would need someone else to stand beside him during daylight. The best choice would be a compañero, who’d be as strong and fast as a cachorro.
He flicked a glance at Luis, still waiting patiently.
“Very well, I will be San Leandro’s alcalde.” He would trust in God’s blessing, delivered by Father Michael this morning, and accept the mantle.
&nb
sp; “Muchas gracias, Señor Perez.” Luis bowed with a farmer’s directness. “The townsfolk will be greatly honored—and much relieved.”
“I will need an assistant, someone who can help me with my household, call out the army, and fight beside me if necessary.”
Luis was watching him, almost leaning forward to catch every word. Desperate hope deepened in his eyes.
“I would prefer someone who can serve me for a very long time.” Rafael chose his words carefully.
“My life is yours,” Luis said promptly. “You saved it last night, and it belongs to you.”
“For a century? Or two?”
Luis blinked and swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“You will need to drink my blood to accomplish this.”
A farmer’s lifted brow said Rafael’s caution was overly squeamish.
“Be very certain, Luis,” Rafael warned doggedly.
“You are my liege lord, Don Rafael.” Luis clumsily lowered himself to his knees using his crutch, closing the discussion. He pressed his hands together and offered them, in the ancient gesture of fealty.
Rafael’s throat closed. It was the first time someone had willingly entered his service in centuries without being paid. He wrapped his own hands around Luis’s. “You will be my siniscal, my seneschal—and my compañero.”
“I will serve you until the day I die, Don Rafael.” Dark eyes met his, shining with complete trust and certainty.
PARIS, JULY 1815
Celeste paced the small drawing room, barely taking in its elegant furnishings. The house was silent, its few servants having disappeared throughout the day, ending with her maid. She was alone and imprisoned by the sun, more effectively than if she’d been caged in a fortress.
The first man who walked in was going to pay for this, after she seduced him into letting her out, of course.
Napoleon had lost his empire and his army a month earlier at Waterloo. He’d be permanently exiled now, of course. France would try to become a monarchy again, leaving little room for Napoleon’s most loyal supporters—or the most visible ones, like herself.
Which was why she’d become Talleyrand’s mistress, the minister of a thousand corrupt faces, having served every major French administration in the past twenty-five years—including today’s restored monarchy.
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