“Too damn many,” snarled Luis.
“Verdaderamente,” agreed Rafael.
“Do you know where all of them are?” Ethan leaned forward eagerly.
“No. Lars is trying to find out, but the information is very closely guarded.”
“They must be hiding out as individuals, not in a pack. Without a guide to where they are, it’s like looking for dozens of needles in hundreds of haystacks.” Ethan smacked his fist into his palm. “We’ll find them but it’s taking so damn long.”
“Take more men off my escort,” Rafael ordered.
“No,” snapped Gray Wolf. “That’s exactly what she wants and why she’s sent them here. If she wanted to do anything else with them, they’d have already attacked.”
Rafael and Gray Wolf glared at each other in a silent argument. The others held their breath, waiting for the result. Only Gray Wolf, the heir, would—or could—have challenged Rafael on this subject.
Even after all these centuries, Jean-Marie would have hated to do so. But maybe, if his creador bent a little on this subject, he might be rational about another.
Finally Rafael nodded. “You are probably correct.”
Thank God, he was being flexible tonight. His plan might just work…
“But rotate the searchers and mesnaderos so both remain fresh,” Rafael ordered crisply. “Also organize a special strike force from among my mesnaderos, in case we have to respond to a sudden attack.”
“Have you Seen something?” Jean-Marie asked, caught by a subtle shift in the older man’s voice.
“Not an event.” Rafael frowned, framing his answer carefully. “Just a troop of men, larger than Ethan’s usual compañía, which drills very hard. Later, they rush to board my Gulfstream jet.”
More than a half dozen vampiros? Who needed to go farther and faster than in one of the usual helicopters? Shit.
“It shall be done as you envision.” Ethan bowed in his seat before pulling out his smartphone to make notes.
“What else? Nothing? Very well, gentlemen, you have my permission to depart. I look forward to the time when we will not meet every night at this time.” Rafael rose, and the others followed, quietly making their good-byes.
Jean-Marie lingered, straightening books while he waited for his moment alone with his creador. He wanted to have this conversation in the house’s intimacy, when Rafael was relaxed and could scent his cónyuge’s presence. Maybe it would make him sympathize with another’s plight. Maybe.
Rafael turned back from the door, raising his eyebrows at the sight of his eldest hijo. He’d known Jean-Marie had stayed behind, of course, but he’d never seen him twitching with nerves before. He’d have to talk to Grania about this later.
He pulled on an affable smile—so very much easier to do these days, despite the war’s worries—and gestured toward the fireplace. “Would you care to join me for a whisky?”
“Thank you,” his hijo accepted simply, without one of his usual conversational flourishes.
Rafael handed Jean-Marie a glass and was surprised the favored Glendronach scotch didn’t bring a release in tension. He took a sip of his own Pikesville Rye and waited, refusing to frown. Whatever the problem, there’d be time to solve it.
Jean-Marie swirled the superb whisky, letting its complex aromas rise into the air, before speaking. He wasn’t fool enough to waste time on trivialities.
“You know Hélène d’Agelet, the British firestarter, is currently visiting town.”
Rafael inclined his head, allowing Jean-Marie’s rush of words to run its course.
“She’s staying at my house.”
A defensive note? Why? Jean-Marie was the chief heraldo and therefore properly entitled to have foreign warriors and diplomats as guests.
“She’s welcome to stay in Texas for a week, like all other visiting vampiros,” Rafael murmured politely. “After that, I’ll need to give my blessing for a longer stay.”
Jean-Marie squared his shoulders. Rafael set down his glass, his attention well and truly caught.
“Hélène is also the British spy I worked with during the British army’s retreat to Corunna.”
Dios mío, she was the one he’d relied on so completely? And she was the one woman Jean-Marie had ever lost his head over. Sara’s capture of him had been the result of a young man thinking with his cock. Under other circumstances, it would have been forgotten within days. But Hélène d’Agelet had been an entirely different matter, their encounter a true melding of hearts and minds.
To have her come here now, during a war which threatened everything, could only mean the greatest danger.
Rafael searched Jean-Marie’s face and found only steadfast loyalty and honesty. He could bore in more deeply, root out every detail of Jean-Marie’s days with that female, using his vampiro powers and his ruthless ownership of Jean-Marie’s psyche, thanks to being his creador. But would he learn anything new and useful? Probably not.
Damn. What hold didn’t she have on his eldest hijo?
“Continue.” Rafael’s voice deepened to a general’s rasp.
“Hélène is also my cónyuge.” Jean-Marie’s voice shifted into the pure music of a chant, joy lilting through it.
Rafael stared, terror chilling his bones. Cónyuge for Jean-Marie? What wouldn’t this stranger, this greatest of all Britain’s secret agents know about him through Jean-Marie? Jean-Marie could name every entrance to this house, the gun vaults, where he and Grania slept…
Santísima Virgen, Grania who needed to hibernate at least eighteen of every twenty-four hours! Could he tolerate a stranger knowing where to find his defenseless lady? Let alone someone who was famous as the most ruthless weapon Britain had ever wielded?
Like hell he’d ever allow that bitch near his darling!
He’d never be able to trust Hélène, because he wasn’t her creador. He couldn’t stop her with a single thought, the way he wielded a shield against insubordination, or mutiny, or murder by one of his hijos. When he remembered fighting his creador, the clang that had roared through his entire body the first time his sword had rung against his creador’s, how his blade had sliced through his creador’s neck, sending that filthy head bouncing across the room—and all he’d felt was transcendent joy…
No hijos of his were ever going to have an opportunity to experience that sensation! Especially not when Grania’s life was at stake.
“And?” he murmured, hoping against hope for a request he could dismiss without offending his oldest friend.
“May I have your permission to marry her and live here in Texas?” Jean-Marie’s eyes came back to him, their kingfisher blue alive with wary hope. “If you ever believe she is a threat to you, Doña Grania, or to Texas, you may kill me.”
Marriage? Permanently bring the firestarter into Texas? If anything went wrong—destroy Jean-Marie for another’s offense? Impossible. He could no more kill his oldest friend than he could tear out his own heart.
He could feel his body squaring into granite, together with his countenance. “I am sorry but the answer is no. You know the laws of Texas as well as I do.”
Jean-Marie’s expression shifted into that of a skilled negotiator, offering another bribe. “Perhaps you could make an exception, in light of her value as a military weapon. She is willing to swear fealty to you,” he coaxed.
“Others have forsworn their oaths,” Rafael remarked, chilled at the thought of trusting such a dangerous stranger.
“You insult her—and me!—by suggesting that,” Jean-Marie snapped.
Rafael flung up a hand in silent apology. “I cannot command her fully since I am not her creador. In time of war, such as now, any hesitation could become critical,” he said, carefully choosing his words.
“I have spent three centuries in your service. If you don’t trust my judgment now, those years mean nothing.” Jean-Marie’s face hardened, and he rose to his feet, a move that Rafael matched. “I became a vampiro to finish Hélène’s work.” His voice
crackled with determination. “I am not bound by oaths to Texas. When this war is over, Hélène and I will leave Texas together.”
Santa Madre de Dios, must he lose his oldest friend, the foundation of his family? But better that than risk any danger to his own cónyuge.
Rafael bowed an icy acknowledgment.
Jean-Marie waited another moment, searching his creador’s face. When Rafael said nothing, he cursed under his breath and walked out, boot heels drumming on the floor like an executioner’s march.
Rafael slapped the granite fireplace and cursed, before leaning his forehead against it. Never to play chess with Jean-Marie again, or argue with him about how to improve the breeding program in the Santiago Stud…
Soft arms wrapped around his waist, and a tall woman pressed herself against his back.
“You’ve been eavesdropping,” he accused mildly without lifting his head.
You were shouting, his cónyuge corrected and kissed his shoulder.
He snorted, half in derision and half laughing at himself. Trust la doctora, his beloved wildlife veterinarian with the impressive collection of degrees, to precisely define his previous conversation—no matter how unflattering the term might be.
He turned in her arms and embraced her, resting his chin on the top of her head. Her sweet curls tickled him, bringing a lump to his throat. Dios, how he’d missed these simple pleasures.
Have you considered you two seemed to be describing two entirely different women? Grania asked after a long pause, still snugly ensconced against his heart.
Rafael blinked, caught completely off-guard. He’d personally been pondering how best to tempt his adored cónyuge into wearing some of the very expensive lingerie he’d ordered for her. Was she putting that splendid mind of hers to work on solving the impasse between him and his eldest hijo?
Thank God their conyugal link had brought her through La Lujuria so quickly. Feeling her insane lust for blood and emotion had shredded his wits nearly to the breaking point. He’d been ecstatic when she’d grabbed the edge of this vampiro mayor stability and started healing so quickly, until she was now well able to reason. Like every other cachorra, she still needed to sleep often—but those times provided them with excellent opportunities for cuddling.
Grania, querida, who his lady is doesn’t matter, he reminded her. Texas law says that only I can create vampiros.
Yes, yes, I know. I wasn’t discussing that. She tilted her head back to look at him, her dark blue eyes quizzical. But he was describing a woman he’d known and loved for two centuries, while you spoke of a British secret weapon. They don’t sound like the same person to me.
Rafael opened his mouth to argue with her, stopped, and shut it. She waited patiently, any smile discreetly hidden.
Mierda, he’d always been caught by her wisdom, whether it came seven hundred years ago from Blanche’s throat or now from Grania.
You may have a point, he conceded grudgingly. He wasn’t sure where she was going with that observation. He already knew better than to use their conyugal bond to discover things she hadn’t offered. What do you suggest I do?
Invite her here for a glass of sherry, so I can meet her.
No! he thundered.
She winced and raised an eyebrow.
A thousand pardons, luz de mi vida. He kissed her fingertips one by one until she smiled at him again. He took her to the leather sofa and held hands with her, a pose in which civilized behavior would hopefully come more instinctively.
What if I am right and she is a dangerous weapon?
How many mesnaderos do you have? How many cameras, hidden weapons—and fire extinguishers? Surely she can’t cause any trouble here, Grania countered. Trust Ethan and Luis to arrange everything.
Rafael fumed, unable yet again to find a hole in her logic.
Mi amor, I alone have no preconceived ideas of her, unlike you and Jean-Marie. You know I have years of experience meeting people at academic cocktail parties. Let me have an hour to form an opinion, as an impartial judge. With you and Jean-Marie present, of course.
You ask for the world. He filled his eyes with her. To risk you, even for that long…
Then do not. She brought his hands up to her cheek. Teach me how to shapeshift into mist, which should be enough protection.
He froze, his fingers tangled in the silk of her hair. The idea could work. He was a fast enough shapeshifter even a firestarter probably couldn’t kill him. A cónyuge could teach their beloved through the conyugal link how to shift into a new shape. If he gave Grania his own ability to shift into mist, even Hélène d’Agelet shouldn’t be able to kill her.
Dios, how he truly hoped Jean-Marie hadn’t lost his heart to a conniving bitch.
Very well, we’ll invite Jean-Marie and his lady here for a civilized glass of sherry. Ethan and Luis will protect Compostela more thoroughly than when Madame Celeste visited, he gritted, yielding as gracefully as possible.
And my beloved will show me what’s in the secret package from Paris, yes? Grania’s voice was sweeter than honey.
His gaze shot back to her face.
She peeped up at him through her lashes. It had been one of Blanche’s most endearing tricks whenever she’d wished to escape court politics for the privacy of their rooms. La doctora had never before displayed any of Blanche’s flirtatious mannerisms.
Rafael’s heart turned over, and his cock surged in response to her invitation.
Everything shall be as my lady wishes, he responded in mock obedience and swept her up in his arms.
She giggled, just a little, and wrapped her arms around his neck. They kissed enthusiastically, while he commanded the war to mind itself for the rest of the night. Having regained his lady, he would not permit anything to come between the two of them again.
Hélène snuggled closer into the comfort of Jean-Marie’s arms in the roadhouse’s back booth. He slid a fresh Corona over to her and kissed the top of her head, casting a possessive glance around the bar.
The frowns subsided but didn’t quite disappear. She ran a fingernail down her longneck bottle of beer and wondered just what was going on here.
Elmer’s Roadhouse served “the best BBQ this side of the Colorado River” and “more beers than anywhere else in Austin.” It was a sturdy wooden building, built years ago for function more than looks, and adorned with menus from years gone by. Most of those still seemed to apply except for minor changes in price, judging by the complex spice aromas wafting through the hall and the many meats available—beef, chicken, pork, innumerable sausages, bison, goat…
Goat? She shook her head at Texan tastes.
It also boasted of superb desserts, and the patrons argued over those far more than which meat to choose. At least on the roadhouse’s respectable side.
The other side was devoted to the bar and its accompanying dance floor. Booths and hordes of cheap tables and chairs provided seating, clearly designed to be easily replaced after a fight. The wall behind the bar was covered with a collection of empty beer bottles, dating back more than eighty years, and backlit to look like stained glass.
The band rejoiced in the safety of its chicken wire screen, which was currently clean although fragrant with beer and tomatoes to her vampira nose. During a break, large monitors in the room’s corners showed sports games or news broadcasts.
It would have been cozy, with its few ceiling fans patting the air, except for its patrons. For a Saturday night at 11 p.m., there wasn’t a drunk to be seen. Even stranger, everybody in sight looked sober. The most popular dances were line dances, where everyone danced in rows without searching out partners—and nobody was alone.
“We’re invited to Compostela for sherry tomorrow night,” Jean-Marie drawled, slowly turning his bottle of Shiner Bock beer.
“Sherry? To drink copitas of sherry?” Hélène blinked at him. “Isn’t that very civilized?”
“Do you doubt Texans can be polished?”
She blushed. “Well, I, uh…”
“Hmm?” He rubbed her shoulder, his eyes twinkling.
How could she tell him the invitation had unified her two worlds for a moment—the rougher world of action she enjoyed with him and the urbane formalities of peacetime life?
“For a moment, I’d envisioned cocktail parties with Oxford dons, where one drank not particularly good wine but enjoyed excellent conversation.”
“I can promise you excellent wine, from the best wineglasses—a Riedel’s Sommeliers’ sherry copita, if you’d prefer?—and pleasant discourse on a range of topics.” Jean-Marie’s voice was overly casual, while his eyes offered wry understanding of her shock. “A variety of sherries to choose from, of course—Manzanilla, Fino, Amontillado…”
“And all from the best bodegas?” she queried, regaining her footing amid the language of wine connoisseurs. If she was to drink out of a glass made from over twenty-four percent lead crystal, the sherry itself had to be the very best.
“But of course!” His shoulders lifted in a very Gallic shrug, finished by a swig from his bottle. Through their conyugal bond, she, too, could savor the darker taste of his beer. From the largest independent brewery in Texas—in utter contrast to his fine talk of a sherry tasting party.
“I could give Don Rafael the photograph from the New Orleans Mardi Gras at the same time.”
“An excellent idea.” Jean-Marie nodded agreement. “It would certainly prove you come with good intentions.”
The dancers stomped and twisted, advancing and retreating across the floor, every woman within easy reach of another.
Hélène was seriously tempted by Don Rafael’s offer. She could wear something very ladylike—nothing seductive or too businesslike. Her green-and-white Oscar de la Renta dress with the matching green silk cardigan should be perfect. It would give her the chance to convince Don Rafael that she was a person who could be trusted, not the living equivalent of a nuclear bomb.
But sherry? Mint juleps or whisky she could have understood. Or playing poker or billiards. But not something as extremely polite and associated with the academic world as a fortified wine from Spain. She needed to know more.
Bond of Fire Page 30