A new odor sifted toward her—vampiro, older—and very nervous.
She turned to face him, wrapping herself in a marquise’s hauteur, and raised an imperious eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Madame.” The plump vampiro bowed, his face dripping more and more sweat before her. He was well dressed in a modern Armani suit, which implied Celeste was generous—hah!—or he accepted bribes. “La patrona sends her regards and asks you join her for drinks.”
A half-dozen mesnaderos silently appeared and ringed them, hands very close to their weapons.
Hélène’s lip curled. These were some of the missing older generation, with their seventy-year-old wariness and their much greater speed than any of the puppies at the craps table. Of course, none of them were faster than she was—and after centuries with the British Secret Service, she could have torched seven targets in less time than it took to bat her eyelashes.
“My pleasure,” she answered, giving him a bare nod and flicking her fingers, gesturing him forward.
“Dear, dear sister. Thank you for coming to visit—you’ve been far too long in this world.” Celeste cast a last, fond glance at the video monitor in her boudoir, before unlocking her small safe. “Unfortunately since you’re a firestarter, I’ll have to give you a fast death. Otherwise, I’d let Georges play with you for a few weeks before I allowed you to die. Pity.”
She hummed happily, sorting through the bottles in the neatly locked drawer. Strychnine, arsenic…She’d used them all in at least one city to build up her esfera.
“Celeste.”
“Raoul?” She whirled around, clutching the small, dark blue bottle of cyanide.
He regarded her somberly from the full-length mirror on the door leading to her dressing room. She could see his entire, lean body from the top of his dark brown hair to the toes of his highly polished boots—and the heavily embroidered uniform donned when he’d taken his officer’s commission granted by Louis XVI. Her father would have heartily approved of it, if there’d ever been time to see him in it before blood and revolution had swept over France.
“Mademoiselle.” He bowed very formally, mist catching at his outlines.
“Raoul, no! Please stay and talk to me. What’s wrong?” She held out both hands, light sparkling on her rings and the bottle.
If anything, his expression became more forbidding, displaying the general he could have become. “Remember I warned you about sin.” He nodded toward her hand.
She glanced down, startled, having forgotten all about what she held. The skull-and-crossbones label of deadly poison sneered at her, followed by bold print detailing what would happen to the unwary imbiber. A fast death to prosaicos and even vampiros, if taken in large enough quantity, as she’d proven before.
Her eyes shot back to him. “But, Raoul, she murdered you. She deserves to die.”
“She is your sister, Celeste.” His uniform was dissolving into the mist.
“She must die.” She pressed her palm against the mirror, trying to pull him through to her. The bottle fell and rolled unseen into the dressing room.
“At what price, Celeste? Your immortal soul—and parting us forever?”
She flinched, started to argue—and remembered she couldn’t bargain. Not here, not with him, not with these stakes.
He watched her, a wry smile curling his mouth. “I cannot help you, my angel. Only you can choose to join me now.”
His face winked out.
“Damn, damn, damn!” She beat her hands against the unfeeling glass.
A chime sounded, and Celeste froze. Merde. Now where the hell was the cyanide?
In the next instant, the suite’s front door opened, her usual custom since it was so far away from her private rooms. But it was still too damn close for her to spend time looking for the poison. “Madame Celeste, madame la marquise d’Agelet has arrived.”
Oh crap, she’d have to do without the cyanide for now. Well, she could always kill Hélène a little later—maybe slip the stuff into something fruit-flavored and powdered, the way Jim Jones had done, instead of a good glass of wine.
Or listen to Raoul? No! Hélène was a murderess who deserved to be punished, and there was nobody else who could get close enough to her to do it. Her mesnaderos might get close enough to bind her, since the bitch was overly squeamish about harming others, but she’d never let them hurt her.
Besides, according to Celeste’s sources at the airport, Hélène had come here from Austin, which was hardly an international travel hub. She must have friends there, perhaps even Don Rafael himself.
Hélène could be a very useful hostage, should those Texas vampiros still like her. Hell, they were so stupidly chivalrous, they might be polite enough to protect Hélène, even if they didn’t like her. Don Rafael might trade a city or two for the bitch’s safe return.
Celeste began to chuckle softly, liking the vision of the handoff at the border under that scenario. Still buoyed, she sauntered down the long hall toward her sitting room to meet her older sister for the first time in two centuries.
Hélène scanned her surroundings once again, pursing her lips. She hadn’t called on anyone in a room like this for decades.
The sitting room was designed to impress with its velvet draperies trimmed in gold fringe, heavy Aubusson carpets, and portraits of Napoleonic heroes. The furniture was French from the Second Empire, created just before the American Civil War: heavily carved from ebony and rosewood, upholstered and tufted in silk velvet, which was as opulent to look at as it was uncomfortable to sit on.
The air changed, and she came on the alert, mistrusting the vampiro scent coming toward her. Female, more than sated with blood, and sluggish, the usual sign of feeding on the darker emotions such as pain.
La petite posed in the formal sitting room’s doorway, superbly dressed in a highly tailored, crimson Valentino suit which emphasized her breasts and tiny waist. She might be wearing a so-called invisible bra, but Hélène strongly doubted it. It was far more likely men’s eyes were supposed to follow the ruby pendant down her neckline toward her thighs, and lose all control of their brains. An empress’s dress, perhaps—but also a courtesan’s. Damn.
The ground shifted under her feet, and ice ran down her spine. But losing Jean-Marie was worth nothing if she didn’t treat Celeste as family.
“Ma chère soeur,” she cooed and went forward, holding out her hands.
“Dearest sister,” Celeste echoed. They met halfway and embraced, hugging each other—quickly—and kissing each other on the cheek.
“To think that you were alive all this time,” Hélène sniffled, stepping back. The majordomo had silently disappeared.
Close up, Celeste’s scent was even more disquieting, despite her custom-blended perfume.
“Can you forgive me for not having told you? I was so afraid when the French captured me that I lost my head and made a deal.” Celeste’s eyes were enormous. Tears began to well up. “After the war, I didn’t know if you were still alive or how to reach you. I was so embarrassed about what I’d done that when some of my friends decided to come here, I joined them.”
She blinked away the threatening moisture and smiled tentatively.
Hélène’s heart turned over as it always had for her little sister.
“Can you ever forgive me, Hélène? I’m so sorry for disappointing you.” Celeste gulped, and tears left silver tracks down her face, badly smudging her makeup.
The poor darling!
“Yes, of course, I forgive you, Celeste. What’s important is that we’re together now.” They embraced again, sniffling.
“Papa and Maman would be so happy to see us like this,” Hélène chuckled when they broke apart. Celeste shot her a quick glance but said nothing, simply handed her a tissue.
She wouldn’t reminisce about family?
Hélène moved to distract them both. “You look beautiful. Valentino, isn’t it? And your jewelry is magnificent.”
Celeste immediately preened, as H
élène had known she would at any compliment to her attire, and the slight chill in the atmosphere disappeared. “Thank you. And Vera Wang’s severity suits your style quite well.”
Hélène would have preferred to hear it described as simplicity, but whatever. At least they were on friendly terms again.
“Would you care for some wine? Or something stronger? If you’re hungry, I can have one of my men bring a vampiro or two up. Or a prosaico if you’d prefer.”
“Wine please. I’m not hungry at the moment; I’d rather spend time with you.” And she’d much rather do her own hunting than drink what came out of Bacchus’s Temple.
“Well, let me know when you want a snack.” Celeste shrugged, seeming as French as when they’d left Sainte-Pazanne. “There are plenty of men here, and they’ll let you do anything you want.”
Poor darling, didn’t she know the give and take between lovers anymore? She’d once enjoyed that with her Raoul.
Hélène sat down on the sofa, choosing the end closest to the chair clearly designated as the throne.
Celeste handed her a flute of Cristal champagne and seated herself in the massive piece of furniture, accepting its embrace as her due. “To family and the future!” she toasted, lifting her glass high so that bubbles danced in the chandeliers’ glow.
“To family!” Hélène echoed. They touched glasses, and the resulting chime rang through the old room, setting off echoes. Crystals danced softly in answer, flashing gently in the old mirrors.
She sipped her champagne, enjoying its predictably high quality.
“How was Texas?” Celeste’s voice was silky soft.
Oh dear. Two centuries of experience as a spy had taught Hélène both how to recognize danger and how to control her response.
“Hot.” Hélène chose her words carefully. “It’s a nonstop flight from London to Dallas, you know.”
“And the Texas vampiros?” Celeste probed.
“Don Rafael was polite enough to give me safe passage for a week, as is customary, although I didn’t stay that long.” Hélène met her sister’s eyes guilelessly. She was thankful for her slightly older age as a vampira, which made it easier to conceal any dissemblance. “Everyone in London is talking about the war, you know.”
“English? Bah!” Celeste dismissed them with an angry wave and tossed back the rest of her drink. She refilled it to the brim quickly, making Hélène blink at the casual treatment of a very fine, highly expensive vintage.
Still, Celeste had displayed a slight vulnerability, and Hélène took advantage of it.
“Well, do you want the English mocking American manners? ‘Oh, those colonials are having another feud. They’re so childish they can’t stop fighting, y’know,’” she mocked, adopting an overly stylized upper-crust English accent.
“They wouldn’t!”
“What do you think the latest Mayfair gossip is?” Hélène raised an eyebrow and sipped her champagne.
Celeste’s face turned a mottled red. She flung herself to her feet and began to pace.
Hélène watched her for a few moments before she twisted the knife a little farther. “Not to mention the Champs-Élysées.”
“Paris…” Celeste hissed, anger and anguish mingled equally in her voice. “Damn.”
She beat her hands on a narrow, marble-topped table, making its golden vases dance. She spun to face her sister, bracing herself against the table’s ebony like a lioness about to charge.
Hélène instinctively came to her feet, setting her glass down. If she’d had a gun close by, it would have been under her hand. Or Jean-Marie, her cónyuge, would have stood guard at her back.
“Well, the namby-pambies in London and Paris can kiss my ass after I hold Texas and I’m the richest patrona in America.”
“Celeste…”
“No, you listen to me! I’m the patrona of New Orleans, and what I say, goes. It’s war to the death between me and Texas.” An absolute monarch’s fixed determination glared from her eyes, vowing destruction to anyone who challenged her.
Hélène bent her head, unwilling to openly agree to a war. Besides, she’d at least made Celeste rethink its merits. She could work later to widen that opening.
“You’re welcome to stay with me, dearest sister.” Celeste’s voice was softer now, almost cooing sweet. “We can talk about old times and the future.”
“Thank you,” Hélène said and beamed. This had to work. Somehow.
Rafael’s office was crowded tonight, with emotions as much as people. His knight’s sword hung over the mantel, as a reminder of duty and honor, while his desk hid its high-tech capabilities. Comfortable chairs and a long sofa offered plenty of seating near the round table or facing the wall of windows.
Jean-Marie finished summarizing the other patrones’ recent messages and took a sip of coffee, stalling in response to his intuition’s harsh demand. He’d been feeding on companionship, not lust, since Hélène had walked out. Thin sustenance, especially when taken rarely. Working had been a far better distraction, given the increasingly long list of deaths.
The omnipresent knot in the pit of his stomach tightened yet again. Dammit, when he thought of Hélène being in New Orleans, living under the same roof as Celeste…
He yanked his thoughts away from that nightmare and scanned the room again, instinctively checking the only woman present.
Doña Grania was here, her first time at a council meeting. Amazing.
She was clearheaded enough to attend, thanks to drawing on Rafael’s sanity through their conyugal bond. She’d passed through La Lujuria remarkably fast, the time when a young cachorra thought of nothing but blood and emotion. Like Rafael’s other hijos, Jean-Marie found himself treating her with almost more respect than he gave his creador.
Ethan seemed to be unduly tense at odd times, often after he’d gone into Austin. Jean-Marie hadn’t had a chance to ask him about it privately.
Luis was getting too damn old to still be a compañero, at almost two centuries. Jean-Marie hadn’t yet spotted a gray hair in the other’s glossy black hair. But he knew very well both he and Rafael inspected their old friend at every chance. If they lost Luis to old age before he could be given El Abrazo…
Gray Wolf and Caleb seemed uncomfortable with each other, almost unduly polite. Please, God, let them not be fighting about Gray Wolf’s refusal to permit Rafael to become Caleb’s creador. Texas needed every pair of cónyuges it could get.
Lars slipped in like a ghost and took a seat at the back, sending a chill running down Jean-Marie’s spine. He would only have left his post if they needed to plan for the worst possible news.
“We have learned Madame Celeste is gathering all of her commanderies at Rosemeade in two days,” Jean-Marie announced flatly, restarting the briefing—and waited for the eruption.
The room broke out into a buzz. Rafael pounded his seat. Ethan’s hands tightened convulsively, as if reaching for his revolvers. Luis came to his feet, pulling out his smartphone. Gray Wolf snarled something in his native tongue.
“True?” Rafael asked Lars.
“Yes. Most of her mesnaderos will probably stay in New Orleans, though.”
“Even so, the commanderies form an invading army who outnumber us,” Gray Wolf growled, drumming his fingers.
“What about Devol and the bandolerismo?” Ethan snapped. “They’re here in Texas, causing trouble now. They’re undoubtedly planning to help the New Orleans army.”
“I couldn’t find out how to contact Devol and the bandolerismo, even after I broke into Madame Celeste’s comms center in New Orleans.” Lars shrugged, harsh grooves of frustration cut beside his mouth.
“Do we know their destination?” Rafael snapped.
“No,” Jean-Marie answered, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Memphis rumor says Madame Celeste will decide after the commanderies are together and she talks to Devol.”
An unhappy silence fell.
“Crap,” Caleb said, summing up the situation. “Pardon
my French, ma’am.”
“That’s quite all right, Dr. Jones.” Grania—or Dr. O’Malley—exchanged nods with him.
“We’ll have to destroy the commanderies before they reach us. That’s too many men for us to fight here, especially when we don’t know where they’re going.” Rafael started to plan. “Rosemeade’s the only possible target.”
“An impregnable fortress surrounded by an impassable swamp and hundreds of square miles of terrified prosaicos, who’d report a suspicious firefly,” Ethan agreed enthusiastically. He’d always wanted to be the one who finally took down the near-legendary torture capital.
“It will have to be a small party,” Jean-Marie cautioned. “It’s all we can get through on the ground.”
“I’ll be your sniper.” Lars lifted a pair of fingers up.
Which guaranteed the bullets would arrive on target.
“I’ll be observer and getaway driver,” Jean-Marie volunteered. It would be a relief to get out of Texas with its memories of Hélène—and keep an eye on Lars.
Rafael assessed his two volunteers and relaxed slightly. They knew how to work together well.
So why did Jean-Marie’s eyes turn so frozen when he spoke? Grania asked.
What? Dammit, you’re right.
“I’m the team commander, of course,” Ethan added before Rafael could chase down Jean-Marie’s problem.
“If you decide to also raid Madame Celeste’s operations in New Orleans, call on the Dallas commandery for support,” Rafael snapped, handling the immediate issues. “The Houston commandery has their hands full with the floods from that tropical depression. Remember only the interstate is still open all the way through to New Orleans.”
Ethan nodded, his face abstracted.
“Gray Wolf, you’ll form a fast reaction force here in Texas,” Rafael continued.
“Yes, sir. I’ll use the mesnaderos and Waco as its basis.”
“Good. Luis, you’ll muster the daytime version. We’ll probably need to bring the comitiva in on this.”
Luis nodded shortly.
Hell, he’d roust all of Texas if he had to. Any other weapons Madame Celeste might have? Hmm…
Bond of Fire Page 32