“You also have your mesnaderos and all of your compañías from the rest of the Southeast.”
Compañías? She’d forgotten about them. Those wonderful groups of vampiros from each of the esferas she’d grabbed in the Southeast. Hmm…
“With them…”
“We can attack those Texans on two fronts!” She tossed the champagne bottle to him. He caught it, his yellow teeth flashing.
Raoul watched them silently, invisibly, from a gilded mirror, his eyes narrowed and alert for every detail.
The TV’s previous staccato patter died away, to be replaced by a burst of saccharine music.
“And now for our lead st-tory,” stammered the announcer, his bald pate sweating under the studio lights.
Celeste sniffed. The network had brought in a third-string newsreader from Iowa after the previous anchors had mysteriously found attractive engagements elsewhere. Freedom of the press had always meant important stories needed to be approved by her first, if you wanted to live in her esfera.
“Patience, cher. We must hear what they think they know.” Georges lifted his glass to her.
“Think? Hah! They can’t even paint by numbers.”
“The governor announced today the formation of a joint task force,” the newsman blurted, “with the FBI and Texas Rangers to investigate the string of deaths terrifying the Crescent City.”
Celeste’s head snapped up. Joint task force? With the FBI and Texas? What the hell was going on now?
A simply dressed, gray-haired woman appeared, wearing excellent pearls as befitted the matriarch of one of the South’s greatest political families.
“Damn the bitch.” Celeste hissed a string of curses and began to pace. “I haven’t been able to touch her since her son was executed for interfering with my mesnaderos.”
“Do you want her silenced?” Georges offered cautiously, practical as ever. “We own almost everyone else in state government.”
“Not yet. She can call Washington privately, which they can’t. Plus, the Justice Department wants to investigate all the unexplained law enforcement deaths in the southeastern esferas we took over.” Her stomach knotted, and she fought to think. If Beau hadn’t needed so much blood to prepare for the duel, there wouldn’t have been so many killings. She’d always been careful to keep New Orleans clean and quiet, so the tourists would keep coming back. Damn him!
“The president has pledged his full cooperation,” the governor purred, “and promised to put all the resources of the federal government to work solving these murders.”
The camera pulled back, showing the others on the dais. A group of strong, very tough men moved up to flank her. One was tall and very weather-beaten, his eyes all too observant under his white Stetson. The only female among them also wore a white hat but was small and lithe with the poised, exotic stillness of a handmade knife. A foolish man might have been mesmerized by her sensual but firmly controlled mouth.
They were a damn good lot, looking far more dangerous than the usual politician’s hangers-on—meaning the governor had finally grown wary enough to demand deeds rather than pretty words from her entourage. Who the hell had that bitch dragged in this time?
“We are lucky to have Ranger Captain Zachariah Howard come out of retirement to lead this joint Texas, federal, and Louisiana task force. The Texas Rangers are bringing what they’ve learned from the unusual deaths there, while the FBI—”
Celeste hurled a priceless bust of Nefertiti through the screen. White light burst across it, and the governor’s saccharine drawl ended abruptly—and satisfyingly. The huge TV shattered into pieces and rained onto the floor, leaving a few bits of electronics protruding from the wall.
Georges straightened up, eyeing her cautiously.
“Stupid slut,” Celeste snarled, ignoring the longtime politician’s reputation for high personal morals. “I’m putting a million-dollar price tag on her head.”
A moment’s unhappy silence followed. “That might not be enough, cher. Gorshkov of Trenton has provided her with bodyguards.”
“Why the hell would a top patrón do that?” Celeste stared at her enforcer. “No patrón interferes in the inner workings of another’s esfera, unless he plans to attack it—and Gorshkov is too far away for that.”
Georges shifted uneasily, but his gaze remained steady. He was the one messenger she’d never damaged for an unpopular message. “Killing a governor could bring the Feds down on us, cher madame, thereby attracting attention to all vampiros.”
Cursing as she hadn’t in decades, Celeste swept champagne and antiques onto the floor. She ground the shards into dust with her foot, consigning Gorshkov and the governor into hell with the fragments.
When she slowed down, Georges pressed a glass of Calvados into her hand. She snorted her disdain for any weakness but knocked back the strong brandy all too quickly.
“Killing her would cost as much as a patrón,” she remarked finally. “Which takes cash I do not have, dammit.”
“I could do it myself,” Georges offered, baring his teeth with an anticipatory grin. She smiled at him fondly, remembering all the people he’d destroyed wearing the same expression.
“No, you need to return to Texas and turn up the heat there. Don Rafael and this damn task force deserve to have far too much to think about on that side of the Brazos.”
“What do you want me to do first?”
She’d escalate the war to whatever pitch was necessary in order to win. If modern methods didn’t work, she’d go back to the old rules, the ones that had worked so well during the Reign of Terror. If Don Rafael caused trouble for her, she’d repay him tenfold.
“Start with the public attack we planned. I want it carried out as soon as possible.
Georges’s jaw dropped, and an ugly gray tint suffused his skin. He swallowed hard before speaking. “But, madame, the greatest casualties will be among children—very small children. It could raise passions extremely high, too high for us to predict and counter.”
“Exactly what I want!”
He blanched. “But children…” he whispered.
“The sanctimonious Texas bastard will either call off his hounds and negotiate with me—or come charging out of his den so we can attack him.”
Georges blinked, life and animation seeping back into his face. He flexed his fingers absentmindedly, testing the grips needed for different necks. Celeste hid her smirk at the familiar gesture.
“Mais certainement, madame, all shall be as you wish.” He bowed low, sweeping his arm wide in a courtier’s homage.
She nodded formally before frowning. “Unfortunately, you’ll need to leave immediately to reach the San Antonio safe house before dawn.”
He grunted his acknowledgment, his face turning expressionless.
She caressed his cheek. “Remember, the more devilry you awaken in Texas, the faster we’ll be reunited.”
Delight flooded his eyes. He dropped to his knees and silently kissed her fingertips. A moment later, he was gone, the elevator doors whispering shut behind him in the hallway.
Celeste prowled into her own bedroom, this one mahogany and velvet in the finest tradition of the Antebellum South. A massive four-poster bed held pride of place, matched to a splendid armoire and chests, all carved with stylized sprays of rice. Gold velvet looped and swirled around the windows, heavily fringed with darker gold. The carpet was French and covered in brilliant yellow roses and chrysanthemums. She’d known it was perfect for her the moment she spotted it at the Charleston patrón’s home thirty years ago. She’d killed him, of course, to get it.
She opened the hidden bar and poured herself another glass of Calvados, debating whether to snatch a prosaico from the casino or use one of her vampiros for dinner. Unfortunately, by keeping her vampiros young enough not to be a threat, they also lacked strength and stamina in the bedroom.
She curled her lip at the prospect and drank the golden liquid, enjoying its reminder of the apple orchards back in Franc
e.
“You should not attack children,” a deep voice commented. “You risk pushing your lieutenant too hard, since they’re the only beings which melt his heart. Or you might lose your immortal soul.”
“Nonsense,” Celeste retorted, the fragile crystal raised for another swallow. “Georges is completely mine. No matter what I order him to do, he will always obey.”
She poured it down her throat, losing herself in the heady, slightly sweet aromas—and froze. Who the hell had spoken?
She whirled around, searching for the disturbance’s source. Her mesnaderos could enter within seconds, once she shouted for help. Not that she’d need it.
Raoul looked back at her from within a great mirror, surrounded by an immense gilded frame. His face was that of the warrior she’d glimpsed on that last night at Sainte Marie des Fleurs, but without the wickedly disfiguring scar. His dark eyes were alive with intelligence and worry.
Joy undreamed of, unhoped for, raced through her. She held out her hands to him and took a few tottering steps toward him. “Raoul!” she breathed.
His gaze swept over her, lingering briefly on the meagerness of her dress and the immense glass of brandy.
She flushed and instinctively put the drink down before pride stiffened her spine. “You cannot be real,” she insisted. Perhaps he was a phantom, something created by a magician’s arts to manipulate her.
“Am I not?” He lifted an eyebrow. “I may not be alive, but I am still on this earth, not a tool of your enemies. Do you wish me to recite the combination for your safe? Or the password to your computer? What about the account numbers for your various Swiss bank accounts?”
“You’re bluffing.” Celeste drew back, chills running down her spine. No single person knew those items except Georges. Even a combination of her enemies didn’t, or Don Rafael would have already used them against her.
“Let me see.” Raoul paused, his gaze going slightly unfocused, and began to recite. She stopped him after the fourth tightly held password. Merde, what would happen if any of her mesnaderos heard him?
“Very well, I accept that you are a supernatural being…”
He bowed ironically.
“Who may be the man I once knew as Raoul.”
Pity swept over his face. “My angel, how I wish I could bring you joy so you could learn to relax again.”
“What the hell are you talking about now?” Temper flushed her cheeks.
“You must trust me again.”
“If I’m going to chat with ghosts, why not one of the thousands of others living in New Orleans?” She glared at him, her hands propped on her hips.
“Count me faithful beyond death, as I have sworn before, as I will swear again.”
The words rang through the room, bringing echoes of a country lane where two young lovers had pledged themselves to each other for eternity.
Celeste’s heart stopped beating, and her legs lost all strength. She caught at the table for support. “Raoul.”
“Yes, my heart. I still love you, but I have only recently been given the grace of talking to you.”
“Why are you here?” She stumbled forward and put her hands on the mirror, trying to touch him. “It’s a bitter joke to be able to see each other but not be together! Damn—”
“Do not soil yourself with blasphemy, Celeste!” Raoul ordered sharply.
She bit her lip and nodded, closing off her recriminations against the Almighty. Her fingers stroked the unyielding glass, aching to find a path through to his warmth. “As you wish, Raoul. But—why are you here? Can you stay long?”
Will I survive if you do? Will I survive if I lose you again? She’d spent so many decades hunting amusements—no matter how dangerous or disgusting—to avoid remembering the awful moment when she’d seen his head shattered. How could she go back on that bitter treadmill again?
“Shouldn’t you be in Heaven?” she ventured.
“No.” He shook his head, grimacing.
“Why not?” She flared up, instantly protective. “You were an honorable officer.”
“Was I? I ordered my men to kill women and children who hadn’t harmed them. I helped them to do so, and I made sure we did so very well. We committed sin, Celeste.”
“I cannot believe that, Raoul,” she insisted. “Not of you.”
“Do so and learn from my example.” He suddenly seemed decades older. “I have glimpsed the pits of hell and understand the error of my ways. But the Lord has been merciful because of why I sinned, when I thought it would terrify fools into silence, so you and our children would be safe.”
“Then you should be in Heaven. You are the best of men, Raoul!” Tears blurred her eyes.
“I must first be purified in the fires of Purgatory, my heart.”
She flinched. Purgatory’s flames caused suffering which was more severe than anything experienced in this life. How could he endure that for years and years, perhaps millenia to come?
“If you did penance for your sins and came with me to Purgatory, my angel, we could be together for eternity.”
An eternity with Raoul? To stand hand in hand with him before the throne of God, united under the light of glory? What ecstasy!
But was she worthy of him? She had committed too many sins to remember, starting by betraying her fellow British agents. And the centuries since, when she’d sought out ways to drive men insane with pain so she wouldn’t think about her own screams of loneliness. And the long climb to the top as patrona, when she’d ruthlessly killed—or worse—anyone who stood in her way.
How many mortal sins did she have to her name, after all? Hell was for the likes of her, whose very core was destroyed and befouled. Purgatory’s fires, however long and agonizing, burned away only venial sins in preparation for admittance to Heaven.
Besides, what did any of that matter when there were tasks left undone?
“No. First I have to bring Hélène, your murderer, to justice.”
“Celeste!” His jaw dropped, and he almost leapt out of the mirror at her. “That’s fratricide, a mortal sin. There’d be no reconciliation for us. Ever.”
“I cannot rest while Hélène’s sins go unpunished.” She slowly shook her head, her jaw firming. “Do not wait for me, Raoul. I am not worthy of you and will never join you there. The sooner you leave this world, the sooner you will join the saints.”
She forced herself to meet Raoul’s gaze, while remembering the most bloodthirsty details of the planned attack. Surely it would make him understand how little he should have to do with her.
“Nom de dieu, Celeste, how can you even contemplate such a thing?” Raoul grimaced, his hands clenching and unclenching. “Remember everything Hélène did for you, for us while I was alive…”
“I told you what I am.” She shrugged, keeping her expression masked.
“Perhaps that’s what you are—but it’s not what you must remain!” he flung back at her.
Her eyes narrowed before she shook her head. Could he be right? Surely not.
“Do not dismiss me so quickly, my angel. There is still confession and absolution—and yes, penance to purify you, too. We still have hope.”
“Such optimism is for you, who have a chance to see the gates of paradise, mon amour. I have far too much sin on my soul to accompany you. I will remain here and live as I am accustomed to. It is, after all, a very comfortable life.” She flung her arms wide, indicating her spectacular room.
He dismissed it without a second glance, his hands flying in one of the abrupt gestures she’d loved so well.
“You still have time, my angel, to think and to act. Do so, I beg of you—for both our sakes.”
He blew her a kiss and vanished.
SIXTEEN
Jean-Marie gritted his teeth, listening to Luis detail all the mental health professionals flooding into Central Texas. There were fewer suicides to set his phone ringing—but far more unexplained deaths and outright murders than ever before in history. The Texas media weren�
�t as hysterical as their New Orleans brethren. On the other hand, they hadn’t endured two weeks of widespread killings, while two vampiro assassins regained their strengths through drinking death energies. That would incense any population and their guardians, including the press.
Reflecting their strained resources, tonight’s council meeting was a small one—only Rafael, Ethan, Gray Wolf, Luis, and himself. They were gathered in Rafael’s library amid the heavy, leather-clad chairs and towering bookcases for a rare moment of quiet.
Jean-Marie suspected Doña Grania had suggested the setting, with its combination of intimacy and masculinity—and its distance from the accumulated memories in Rafael’s office. If so, it was yet another example of how much she’d helped him relax since they’d become cónyuges.
Maybe it was also a good omen for his mood tonight.
“Anything else, Luis?” Rafael steepled his fingers, his dark eyes alert and steady. Once they would have been narrowed and tense, and he would have been pacing like a caged cougar.
“No, Don Rafael. More are going to New Orleans, of course, plus folk practitioners.”
“Voodoo,” murmured Ethan.
“And others,” agreed Gray Wolf. “Our friends are keeping us informed.”
“Excellent. And you, Jean-Marie?” Rafael shifted his gaze, undoubtedly seeing far more than he’d speak of.
“Lars is doing very well in New Orleans.” He didn’t add—of course.
Gray Wolf stirred slightly but said nothing. Ethan’s mouth tightened. Luis glanced at Rafael, who nodded approvingly. The Texas patrón was the only man present who’d immediately relaxed at hearing Lars’s name.
“Yes, he is the only one of us who can say that.” Jean-Marie glanced around, spreading his hands in a very Gallic shrug. “Unfortunately, too many people have died in New Orleans and continue to fall in Texas. We need to grow wise very quickly, faster than even Lars can help us.”
“Can he tell us how many killers there are?” Gray Wolf asked, bringing his usual ruthless pragmatism to bear.
“We believe the number of bandolerismo stabilized at approximately thirty, just before the duel.”
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