Xavier: Vampires in Europe (Vampires in America Book 14)

by D. B. Reynolds

  Chapter Two

  Sant Andreu De Llavaneres Barcelona, Spain, present day

  COMMANDER FERRAN Casales slumped behind the thick battlement wall and reloaded his weapon with movements so automatic that they’d become a ritual. A prayer to the gods of war. The thought penetrated his exhaustion, making him snort in derision. A prayer to those bastards? Gods had been driving men to kill each other from the moment humans had risen from the primordial ooze. More gods than he could name. It didn’t matter. He no longer believed in any of them. At least, not the kind who answered prayers. He’d seen and done too much in his long life. Killed too many.

  The renewed metallic chatter of machine weapons shattered the fragile moment of thought. Giving the fresh magazine a final slap, he stood and spun in a single movement, gun raised and firing. Not the long useless free-for-all from the people attacking the Fortalesa, but short, controlled three-round bursts that hit every target he aimed at. Young men and women fell to the ground before him. Some screamed, while others went quietly, dead before they knew enough to cry out.

  The Fortalesa where Ferran stood was as anachronistic as its name, an ancient fortress in a modern world—a fitting home for the most powerful vampire in this country and beyond. Xavier Prospero Flores, Vampire Lord to all of Spain. He’d lived on these two-hundred-plus acres for more than a hundred years, had cleared the forest to expand his fortress, and upgraded various parts every few years. Now, in this age of technology, it was as modern as any palace in the greatest cities on earth. And for most of those years, he and his people—vampire and human— had lived in peace. But now, the Fortalesa was being attacked by humans, during daylight hours. The assailants weren’t an army—that was too grand a name for what they were. But they were too organized to be called a mob. Someone with a brain was behind this, someone who’d decided his best chance of succeeding was to attack with the sun bright in the sky. He, or she, clearly thought to penetrate the Fortalesa, uncover the daylight refuge of every vampire living there, and destroy them, with Lord Xavier himself the most sought-after prize.

  Ferran knew all of this. But what he couldn’t figure out was why. The attacks seemed pointless, almost suicidal. So many of the attackers had died or were injured, and with nothing to show for it. At least, not yet. Maybe that was its purpose, to wear down the defenders until they made a mistake. But what were the roots of this sudden anti-vampire hysteria? Was it truly human-driven? Or had a powerful vampire from some other territory decided this was his best chance of killing Lord Xavier and taking not only the Fortalesa, but the considerable assets that went with it?

  His team had held off the day’s assault, just as they had the previous day’s. Despite the seemingly tireless efforts of their attackers, his people had fought with fierce intensity to defend this place, and not purely out of loyalty to Lord Xavier. The Fortalesa was more than a vampire lord’s lair—it was their home. Many of his fighters had vampire mates locked away in the dark catacombs, sleeping through the day. Others had husbands or wives among the Fortalesa’s human residents, along with children and even grandchildren.

  So he knew why his people fought. But the attackers seemed driven by old and tired hatreds that had been dormant for decades or longer. What had happened lately, or more likely who had happened, to chivy these enemies out of their homes just so they could die outside Lord Xavier’s walls? He needed to know. Far better to assassinate one ringleader than to continue mowing down mobs of civilians.

  His finger was once more on the release button of his weapon before his brain caught up, his empty magazine dropped and a fresh one slapped into place before the other hit the stone rampart. He wondered how long this lot would keep at it. They wouldn’t want to risk the darkness and vampires, but sunset was hours away yet and it seemed likely they’d run out of soldiers before then. Unfortunately, his troops were just as human as the enemy’s, and growing just as tired. And tired men made mistakes.

  He leaned out from the wall’s cover and continued firing, picking out the enemy soldiers where they hid among the dense forest surrounding the Fortalesa. A flash of a pale face, the spark of a weapon’s firing. A shot from his or some other weapon, and the enemy gunman fell.

  His arm cramped without warning, a sharp pain that shot from shoulder to elbow, causing his aim to drop. A sudden weakness had him sliding down the wall, while sweat poured down his face and soaked his shirt.

  “Commander!” One of his men ran over in a defensive crouch and dropped to his knees. “Are you shot?”

  Ferran shook his head. “A chip of stone from the wall, I think. Or maybe a near miss. I’m fine.” It was a lie, but a necessary one. He’d told no one about the recurrent pain in his arm, his chest. His people needed him strong, and so he would be. It was that simple.

  “Sir, you’ve been up here for hours. You need to—”

  “I need to stay with my fighters. The enemy forces can’t last much longer. They’ll need time to reach safety before sunset. Wherever the hell their safety lies.” The lack of knowledge about the attackers frustrated him. They seemed to melt into the forests like wraiths, which he knew wasn’t possible. The enemy was human enough, but Ferran lacked the fighters to both defend the Fortalesa and wander the countryside looking for their headquarters, their gathering point. And by the time the vampires woke, giving him freedom to search, there would be no trail for them to follow. That fact alone spoke to a high level of planning. If nothing else, the vamp trackers should have been able to follow the spilled blood from the wounded. But thus far, there’d been nothing, not a trace of trail to pursue. Which was very nearly impossible.

  He swore softly, blaming himself for this conundrum. He’d let reconnaissance lag over the past several years, but it had been so long since they’d been attacked. Decades, really. Decades that had aged him beyond what he realized, made him complacent. And though he hadn’t yet lost any of his people, he knew he would if these attacks went on much longer.

  He needed help before that happened. And not simply more bodies with guns. He needed someone with the intelligence and manpower to investigate and eliminate this threat. Someone to take over a job he was getting too old to perform. Someone to lead the good men and women who had looked to him for leadership all those years. Someone he could trust.

  He knew exactly who that person was. The problem would be convincing her to come home.

  Chapter Three

  Near Bordeaux, France

  LAYLA CASALES’S attention flicked from screen to screen as she reviewed video of the hostage exercise her team had just completed. Officially, it had been a success, with the hostage rescued unharmed and none of the bad guys escaping. But she wasn’t looking for the “official” outcome. She demanded better than “good” from her people, and usually got it. But not this time.

  “You see that?” her lieutenant, Brian Hudson, asked, from where he stood next to her, watching the video just as intently.

  “Yeah. Kerry checked the knob on that door, but didn’t open it. I wonder why. She knows better.”

  “That’s why.” They both watched as Kerry swiveled to take down a bad guy who’d been about to ambush her partner from behind.

  “Hmm. But she still should have gone back and checked the door. Too easy for her to become the next ambush victim.”

  “I’ll mention it. Anything else?”

  “They’re all a bit slower than I’d like,” Layla responded. It was nitpicking, but as Captain, she was responsible for every single life on this team. Some would call them mercenaries, but they were more than that. They were a tight band of skilled, disciplined warriors and friends, who chose their battles for reasons that had little to do with politics or greed. They just plain loved to fight, and when that fight occasionally helped the underdog climb to the top, that was icing on the cake.

  Unfortunately, their current assignment was leaving dust on their
weapons from disuse.

  “It’s been too long since we’ve seen real action,” Brian commented. “Guarding the rich and beautiful from falling down the garden steps after they’ve drunk too much wine doesn’t exactly reinforce a battle- ready mindset.”

  Layla nodded silently, then flicked the big display off as the exercise ended. “I know. I’m not sure what I can do about it, though. We can’t exactly hire out as mercenaries on the side. Our current contract with Clyde Wilkerson, who happens to love these vineyards, doesn’t permit it.”

  Brian chuckled. “That’s the only reason why?”

  “You know what I mean. We’re not allowed to work in any war zones—with a very broad definition of war zone.”

  “Maybe you can persuade Wilkerson to give us a month off, no questions asked. I’m sure we could find a job hot enough to get the juices flowing.”

  “Maybe. I’ll think on it. For now, go ahead and—” Her cell phone’s buzz interrupted them. She glanced at the display. “I have to take this. Release the boys and girls. The exercise was fine. I’ll have a private word with Kerry.”

  “Yes, ma’am. See you in the barracks,” he said, though their sleeping accommodations hardly qualified as such. The entire team was housed in what Clyde Wilkerson called the “guest cottage,” a fucking ten bedroom house with a view of the vineyards beautiful enough to grace postcards. It was so big and comfortable that it almost compensated for the absence of action. Almost. Her people were all adrenaline junkies, and this assignment just wasn’t delivering the necessary rush.

  Layla didn’t wait for Brian to leave before going back to her call. She didn’t care if he overheard. She had no secrets from him. Well, maybe one. But they were best friends, not lovers. Except for anything dealing with the private security firm they’d started together nearly ten years ago, there was no expectation of a midnight confessional. She tapped the screen on her cell phone.

  “Mama?” She swung a chair around and straddled it backwards.

  “Laylita, mija. You are well?”

  She knew some people considered it odd, but she and her parents usually spoke English to each other. It had begun when Layla was only six years old—an exercise to help her learn the language, with the side benefit of refreshing her parents’ skills at the same time. The habit had only been reinforced when she’d gone off to America for college.

  “Of course I’m well, Mama. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Why would something be wrong?”

  “Because you never call on your own. Papa calls, and you talk.”

  “Pfft. You think you’re so smart.”

  “I am smart. I’m your daughter. Tell me.”

  “It’s your papa. He’s . . . ”

  Alarm spiked. “He’s what? Is he sick? Did something happen?”

  “No te preocupes, mija.”

  “Don’t worry? What do you mean? Is there something to worry about?”

  “Oy, I should never have called.”

  “Mama,” Layla said sternly. “It’s too late for that. What’s going on?”

  “He won’t admit it,” her mother said reluctantly, “but there’s something wrong. He’s so tired, and I think . . . ” She sighed. “I think his chest hurts sometimes.”

  Fear hardened to a rock in Layla’s chest. “What does the doctor say?”

  “Laylita, would I be calling you if the old fool had seen a doctor?”

  Of course not. “I’m coming home,” she declared. “We’re not busy here. Brian can handle it.”

  “I don’t know—” Her mother’s voice cut off as the familiar deep tones of her father sounded on the other end of the call. “It’s Layla, mi amor. She called to talk.”

  Ah ha, so that was the way of it. Her father obviously didn’t know her mother had done the calling. The big question was whether he knew her mother suspected he was having chest pains. Chest pains, for fuck’s sake!

  “Layla, mija.” Her father’s voice was as warm and loving as always, no sign of stress. “I was about to call you. How are things among the French, and that foolish billionaire who hired you to do nothing?”

  “The same. I was just telling Mama that I’m coming for a visit. We’re all going crazy here. It’s too boring.”

  “You never should have signed that stupid contract. You’re too good for what he has you doing.”

  “That’s what Brian says. I can’t disagree.”

  “Hmm. How much longer does he own you?”

  “Brian?”

  Her father tsked loudly. “Your billionaire.”

  “Wilkerson, right. One more year, maybe less. He wants us to sign another contract, but I’m not sure. He needs security, but he doesn’t need us. I’m beginning to think he considers my team a trophy he can boast about to his guests.”

  “You could come back here. I’d love to retire and play with my grandchildren instead of going up and down the battlement stairs.”

  “What are you doing up on the wall? The damn gates are always open.”

  “Not so much lately. A bad element has moved in.”

  “Inside the Fortalesa?”

  “No, no. Lord Xavier would never permit such a thing, you know that.”

  Privately, she thought Lord Xavier was worst element of all, but she wouldn’t say so to her father. “You don’t have any grandchildren,” she reminded him instead.

  “I know. I still hope. But for now, I’ll settle for advice. When are you coming?”

  Layla’s eyes squinted in thought. First her mother, with the SOS about her father’s health, and now he, himself, was pushing her to visit soon. Something was up for sure, and if she wanted to know what it was, she’d have to talk to them in person. Damn it. She loved her parents, but Barcelona was the last place on earth she wanted to be. She’d convinced them to visit her in France last year, but apparently that wasn’t an option this time.

  She clenched her jaw. Time to suck it up. “I’ll fly in tomorrow. Don’t pick me up. I’ll get a car.”

  “Tomorrow,” her father said to her mother.

  “Tomorrow, then, mija. Safe travels,” she called happily.

  Chapter Four

  Sant Andreu De Llavaneres, Barcelona, Spain

  XAVIER WOKE ABRUPTLY as he always did, going from sleep to sharply awake in the space of an eye blink. It had taken him some time to grow accustomed to that aspect of being a vampire. He’d always preferred the Spanish way—the slow, leisurely awareness of voices and aromas drifting up from the kitchens, followed by long, slow muscle stretches, until finally, he’d open his eyes. He sighed. He missed that most, he thought. That and the sunlight warming his bedroom, before his valet knocked and discreetly entered the chamber. He’d never understood how the man knew the moment he woke, or later on, when he’d occasionally entertained an overnight guest, how the valet had known he was alone. He’d searched the entire room for spy holes once, when he’d been a teenager with too much energy, though he’d found nothing.

  But such things no longer concerned him. He slept in what had been the dungeon of the fortress he’d taken over and made his own. The space no longer deserved the approbation associated with the word, however. It was closer to an elegant hotel than a dank prison, with his quarters larger and more elegant than any of the others. But it was, at the heart of it, still a dungeon, and he felt the cold earth chilling his bones no matter how many lush rugs or elegant tapestries layered the walls and floor. It wasn’t the stone or the earth beyond that made it cold. It was a bed that was too big and most nights too empty for one man. Or vampire.

  For all that, he was hardly a monk. He’d fucked his share of beautiful women and had sucked the necks of a hell of a lot more. He didn’t really have a choice on that last part . . . unless he wanted to become a monk in truth and drink blood from pl
astic bags. He snorted. Not likely. Celibacy didn’t suit him.

  He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet immediately engulfed by the deep rugs. “Right,” he muttered, then spat out a long curse in Spanish and faced the night, which brought plenty of problems of its own. He’d been all but unconscious through the day, but that didn’t mean he’d been unaware of what was going on. He was a vampire lord. In his own and some others’ estimation, he was also the most powerful vampire in Europe. Especially since Raphael from America had done him the favor of destroying that French bitch Mathilde, and then taken out the few others who’d either supported her suicidal scheme, or tried to succeed her when it failed. He’d have to thank Raphael for that, if he ever met him.

  That brought a smile to his face, one more cynical than cheery. He’d been in the same room with the powerful western vampire lord, just over a century ago. He’d never felt such overwhelming power from another vampire, and had no desire to cross paths with him again. In point of fact, it was that desire which was at the core of his strategy for Europe.

  Xavier had no personal ambitions to rule more than Spain, but he did have plans for greater Europe that mirrored what Raphael had achieved in North America. He’d taken the first step to realize those plans almost a year ago, when he’d convened a meeting of Europe’s most powerful vampires in the dimly lit back room of an ordinary French tavern.

  But while the gathering had served its purpose, it hadn’t insulated him from the kind of petty attacks his Fortalesa had endured over the last few days. This was not the work of a powerful vampire, setting up to challenge him for Spain. This was something else, though he hadn’t yet figured out what exactly it was. It was frustrating and didn’t put him in a happy frame of mind as he considered whether he should take the time to feed before pursuing whoever was responsible for the injuries to his daylight guards, and the fucking insult to himself.