Bond of Fire

by Diane Whiteside

  She leaned forward. What on earth?

  Roald Viterra. Gerald Hunter, a common enough name but when followed by Yoshi the Fair, it was enough to make any vampiro demand protection from their local patrón. And even more names and faces, adding up to a horrific bandolerismo, every one located in Texas.

  Icy cats’ feet danced through her spine. If she took this list, Celeste would be furious, probably angry enough for murder. Even so, Texas needed to know how to find these brutes—and she’d already planned to find Jean-Marie, hadn’t she?

  She scrabbled through drawers and was lucky enough to find a jump drive’s silvery rectangle. An instant later, she had it fully loaded with the address book, then threaded onto her necklace and hidden behind the jade pendant. Hopefully, nobody would notice her jewelry didn’t lie entirely flat.

  She closed the file, covering her tracks, and started to shut down the PC—before stopping abruptly. What the hell was Celeste planning to accomplish with those fiends? Nobody should have that list unless they meant to use them as an army.

  The only solution was to destroy the list itself—which would tell Celeste she’d been snooping in her PC.

  Hélène’s lungs tightened, her pulse drumming a little faster. Was it worth risking her life? Undoubtedly.

  Ice rolling over her skin, she commanded the disk to spin faster and faster. A thin thread of smoke slipped into the room and strengthened, followed by the flat stench of burning electronics. The PC was on fire.

  She headed back toward her bedroom, pulling on her short tropical print jacket. She was wearing a black bandeau top above matching print Capri pants and fairly stylish comfortable shoes—not what she’d choose for a run through the forest but good enough for sneaking around a mansion. Another minute to change into her jeans and boots, then she’d be out of here, God willing.

  The door opened and closed.

  Shit.

  “Why does my computer carry your stench?” Celeste’s voice could have sliced through sheets of steel.

  May she not breathe any deeper…

  “Because you have the best games?” She turned slowly but didn’t come all the way back into the room. She was only a few steps from the French doors and the balcony beyond.

  “Don’t play me for a fool, Hélène.” Celeste’s ivory skin was sallow with fury. “I know you came back here to kill me.”

  What? The saving grace of anger ran through her, clearing her vision and slowing time.

  “You might cold-bloodedly plan to kill family, sister mine,” Hélène retorted, “but I don’t. I came to build peace between you and Texas.”

  “Like hell.” Celeste snorted in derision. “The old bull Don Rafael deserves to be blown into ashes, and I’m the patrona who’s going to do it. Just like I’m the one who’s going to finally put you in the ground, gaining justice for Raoul’s murder.”

  “What murder?” Hélène frowned and edged sideways, wondering if she’d ever heard how de Beynac had died.

  “You killed him, you bloodthirsty bitch,” Celeste snapped. “He came for me at Sainte Marie des Fleurs, but you destroyed him.”

  Hélène paged rapidly through her memories, looking for forgotten details from a day two hundred years in the past.

  “The Blues officer?” she finally ventured.

  “The same!” her sister spat. “You destroyed the only man I ever loved, and you will die for it.”

  “He killed our parents—and you arranged it,” Hélène snapped back, forgetting her own danger. “If it hadn’t been for you, they’d have escaped to England—”

  “If it hadn’t been for you, I’d have married Raoul and borne his children.”

  Hélène’s skin turned cold at the red rage in her sister’s eyes. Were there any stakes higher for a woman than a husband and children?

  “Guards!” shouted Celeste.

  The hallway door slammed open.

  “Shoot her,” screamed Celeste. “Shoot her now.”

  Hélène bolted through the doors, ran across the balcony, and swung herself over the railing, to drop into the ancient camellia garden below.

  She slammed a thought into the columns above her, sending a line of flame running over the balcony floor. A fiery curtain leapt up, shielding her from view, and lunged greedily for the floor above.

  Shit, just how fast could this house burn?

  An instant later, the sprinklers sprang into life, and water poured over the railings like a waterfall, quenching the fire before it had time to do more than scorch paint.

  Celeste’s bodyguards raced forward, propelled by her imprecations.

  Bullets shredded the blossoms and leaves around Hélène. Her vampiro speed would only take her out into the open, where they could see her all the better. Where could she go?

  Jean-Marie, ah, Jean-Marie, if only you were with me now…

  Hélène? Jean-Marie’s head snapped around. Was he dreaming out of sheer loneliness?

  Jean-Marie!

  He closed his eyes briefly in thankfulness. His conyugal bond had finally reappeared. Hélène, what’s wrong?

  I’m trying to escape, but Celeste’s men are shooting at me.

  Shit. Never mind that he’d warned her. What now?

  “Jean-Marie, what is it?” Ethan’s voice crackled into his ears. “You should be giving us the final count of the rooftop sentries.”

  “Let the aerial observers handle that. My cónyuge Hélène is escaping from the house.”

  He slammed out of his seat so fast the chair fell over, and ran for his bike. Emilio had already departed for it. Like the SEAL he was, he didn’t need an explanation, just a call to arms.

  Which side, chérie?

  The camellia garden, on the east. Her mental voice was equally mixed with relief and desperation.

  “On the east. Madame Celeste’s men are shooting at her.”

  Ethan never hesitated. “You’ll have to go in after her.”

  “I’ll take my shots early, to distract them,” Lars put in.

  “Like hell you will!” Jean-Marie objected. “This risk is mine.”

  “Damned easy shots,” Lars countered. “Same places, just a different time. The boys will pick me up before dawn.”

  “No way—”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Ethan cut in. “I’ll tell the Mustang we’re going in early.”

  Jean-Marie yielded to the alferez mayor’s leadership and boarded his bike, cursing the fate that risked brave men’s lives. If this got Lars killed…

  Only way to give you a chance, Lars added over their link as Rafael’s hijos.

  I’ll tell the Mustang to hit the gatehouse extra hard, Jean-Marie said viciously. That should buy you a little extra distraction to get out of the trees.

  Thanks.

  “We’re good to go, then,” Ethan agreed. “You’ll have to head straight back for Texas, Jean-Marie. You won’t have time to hang around and wait for us here in Louisiana, after Madame Celeste raises the alarm.”

  “Agreed.” He’d known that was coming, as soon as he’d heard Hélène’s voice. “You can tell me how you and the boys clean out Bacchus’s Temple when we meet again. Good luck and good hunting.”

  “First one back buys the beer at River Oaks,” said Ethan.

  “Or whisky at the Lucky Star,” countered Lars.

  Jean-Marie smiled slowly, feeling family’s warmth wrap completely around him. He reached for his cónyuge.

  Hélène, I’ll be coming up the driveway on my motorcycle. You’ll have to meet me there.

  There was a brief, anguished pause before she answered. Yes, of course. Just picture it for me, when you get closer.

  That’s my girl. A thrill ran through him. She still trusted him, proven by their conyugal bond’s continuing existence. She hadn’t balked at going out into the open where they’d be shooting at her. They had a future, if they made it through tonight.

  He put his hand up, signaling his readiness, and brought his Hayabusa snarling into life. />
  Emilio answered with a matching wave and pressed a panel on the wall. The overhead lights inside winked out, and a single red light began to blink. Five, four, three, two, one…

  A small door flowed upward, barely tall enough for a man and wide enough for a small car. The night outside was black velvet.

  Jean-Marie casually stomped down once, hard. His peregrine falcon burst out of its coop, swooped down the ramp, and alighted on the open road. It was traveling eighty miles per hour before he shifted it into second gear.

  Celeste’s mesnaderos hung over the balcony, spraying the foliage and everything else below with bullets. Rosemeade’s expensive sprinkler system had proven as efficient as its makers claimed and had put out the fire very quickly. The guns’ noise was deafening, even for vampiros, and mixed with the sibilant hiss of cut vegetation and thud of bullets diving into wood and earth. But no yelps or yowls of pain.

  It didn’t mean that the bitch wasn’t alive, muffling her cries of anguish as they killed her. It just meant that Celeste herself would have to go and lead the hunt.

  She sniffed—and saw smoke rolling out of her PC’s case. It had lost all of its data forever—including the priceless list of bandolerismo. Hélène must have found it and had probably copied it, the bitch.

  Recreating it meant a single call to Georges—but leaving it in Hélène’s hands? Never!

  She cursed viciously, slipping back into the gutter French she’d used two centuries ago as an Imperial spy. Life had been so simple then: Kill the British and wait for the chance to kill Hélène. Now she had even more reasons to do so.

  She headed for the door.

  “Celeste.”

  She froze, the beloved voice like a knife to her heart. Slowly she turned around and faced the mirror.

  Only Raoul’s face was visible, haloed in light as if viewed down a long tunnel.

  “Be very careful, my angel.”

  “She can destroy my plans for my esfera,” Celeste growled.

  “She is still your sister.”

  Celeste gestured violently, too angry to find words. “I have to go. As the eldest vampira present, I’m the only one who can catch her scent and find her.”

  He didn’t, quite, sigh. “You still have a choice, my angel.”

  “Do not wait for me.” She looked back at him, her head high.

  He inclined his head formally, his dark eyes shadowed.

  Hélène was crouched underneath an enormous old rhododendron, quite possibly fifteen feet tall. She’d crept through the garden, concealing herself underneath its brethren and behind equally ancient camellias, taking every advantage of their glossy dark foliage. A single fountain dripped halfheartedly into the gloom, marking the paths’ center point. The garden’s boundary was marked by a waist-high brick wall, topped by occasional brick pillars with marble globes.

  Like many great plantations, Rosemeade’s grounds had been laid out in a T, with the house at the two bars’ junction. The driveway started at the heavy gate and gatehouse, concealed by cypress trees, and curved through the swamp before bursting onto the main approach. It ran up the long main axis to meet the house, with the camellia garden on the east side and the rose garden—its twin in everything but plants—on the west. Here it was flanked by a great expanse of green grass, once used for horse racing, and magnificent live oaks. The entire grounds had been brilliantly lit for nighttime parties, such as this evening’s.

  To reach the pavement, Hélène would have to vault the brick wall less than two steps away, run across the grass, and meet Jean-Marie somewhere on that barren stretch of asphalt. She’d done her best to minimize the distance, having come as close as she dared to the wall.

  She was only a few feet away from the rose garden and apparently downwind of it, too. There was a distinct aroma of gasoline drifting toward her from the parked cars.

  Jean-Marie rode his Hayabusa up the highway toward Rosemeade. Get ready, Hélène.

  On your mark, she answered stoutly.

  He grinned, remembering how they’d worked together in the Spanish mountains. Finally they were a team again.

  “Three, two,” Ethan chanted in his headset.

  He whipped his bike around the last turn and turned onto the narrow road, Rosemeade’s only weakness. Two centuries ago, it had led to the plantation’s dock on the Mississippi River. But the river had moved while the road hadn’t. It remained, a short stretch of asphalt pointing straight at the concrete gatehouse—just long enough to suit their needs.

  He impatiently brought his bike to a stop and waited. A 1985 Canyon Red Mustang idled just ahead of him, its two passengers’ identity hidden by full-face helmets which matched his. Only a racing aficionado might have guessed at the extensive modifications its pristine exterior hid.

  “One.”

  Ethan’s number two lifted his finger in a brief salute.

  “Go!” ordered Ethan.

  Now, Hélène!

  The Mustang charged ahead, facing Rosemeade’s gate and gatehouse. Fire burst out of its left front, hurling a rocket-propelled grenade full of high explosive at the gate. The heavy steel shattered under the blast of molten metal, pieces flying into the air and lancing through the explosion’s dust.

  Barely pausing, the Mustang swerved slightly and fired again an instant later at the gatehouse. The rocket leapt ahead eagerly and smashed into the squat building, tearing it and the vampiros within to ashes in a choking cloud of dust and debris.

  The twin explosions rocked the air and the ground, sending birds squawking into the air and shaking the sports bike. Their secretive friends would be interested in hearing this report about test firing RPGs from their small, rapidly moving vehicle, its ostensible purpose.

  Before the vibrations had fully died, Jean-Marie gunned his bike into the new opening, flashing a quick thumbs-up at the Mustang’s crew. God willing he’d reach Hélène before Celeste’s men recovered from their shock.

  Celeste stood on the front steps, trying to spot her treacherous sister. No sign of her, either sight or smell.

  There were, however, lots of mesnaderos tramping around with guns, shooting at things and scenting the air with cordite. Most of them were searching the rose garden, having given up on the camellia garden. Two, however, stood beside her, their rifles at the ready.

  Her idiot vampiros from the commanderies had started to spill out of Rosemeade to watch the show.

  Celeste’s temper snapped. This, at least, she could deal with. “Damn you, go back inside and wait for me there!” she snarled, slamming her order at them with all of a creador’s power.

  They muttered and obeyed reluctantly, a few slamming doors. Georges had warned her it was risky bringing so many together at the same time, causing dissension and other disloyal feelings to spread without tight supervision. Well, she’d make them pay for their insolence in a few minutes.

  Now where? The bitch would have to go through the swamp to escape. The journey on this side was the shortest, even if it meant crossing the lawn.

  Twin explosions suddenly ripped the air, from beyond the grounds.

  What the hell? Celeste desperately held on to the massive column, while the land rolled underneath her and clouds of smoke billowed above the swamp. Dammit, she was being attacked.

  A motorcycle’s whine sounded within the woods. Hélène leapt out of the garden and began running to meet it.

  Maman had hurled herself toward Papa that way at Sainte Marie des Fleurs…

  Goosebumps ran over Celeste’s skin.

  Her mesnaderos brought their guns up and aimed them at Hélène. Her blood kin. Her sister.

  “Be very careful,” Raoul had said.

  Surely she had time to think, to be more creative with Hélène’s punishment.

  “No!” Celeste shouted. “I want her alive.”

  “Madame?” Two bewildered faces stared at her.

  “You heard me. Catch her.” She snapped her fingers and pointed. The overly honorable bitch would cert
ainly never fry two men who were simply doing their duty.

  “Oui, madame.” They obediently set their rifles on safety and ran.

  Celeste went with them, hoping she wasn’t being too much of a sentimental fool.

  “Almost there,” Jean-Marie announced.

  “Ready here,” Lars agreed.

  “Baby Mine is turning for her final run,” Ethan drawled.

  Jean-Marie nodded grimly. Like hell he was staying around for the plane’s arrival.

  He took the last few corners a little tighter, glad when his knee scraped the asphalt he’d put a full set of armor into his racing leathers. Hélène wouldn’t have the same protection, though, on the way out.

  He burst out of the forest into the open and immediately drew a cloud of bullets. He hunkered down a little lower.

  His darling was running as fast as she could across a wide expanse of green. She seemed a vibrant flower in her colorful clothing, with her hair streaming out behind her. His love, his life, his world.

  He opened the throttle a little wider.

  Hélène?

  Yes, my love?

  Run down the driveway, and I’ll toss you a helmet.

  She never hesitated. Of course.

  She jumped out from between the great trees and onto the road, bringing her into the bullets’ path. Praying hard, Jean-Marie reached behind him, unclipped the spare helmet, and threw it to her.

  It flew damn near straight and true, thank God and vampiro reflexes, and she caught it. Barely breaking stride, she jammed it over her head and fastened it.

  He slammed the bike into a one-eighty and a screeching halt, just before she reached him. She swung her leg over and slid onto the pillion seat, neatly avoiding the back rest and pack rack, locking her arms around his waist. Warmth spread where they touched, despite his leathers.

  Ready, mon coeur?

  Always. I’ve got your back, she added firmly.

  “On two,” announced Lars, his voice dropping into the measured cadence of the true professional.