Raphael

by D. B. Reynolds

  Raphael forced himself to listen politely, to nod in agreement and present a confident face. Until he knew more, he would give no sign of distress, show no vulnerability. Weakness was unacceptable in this company, for between them, Raphael and his fellow vampire lords controlled a continent and beyond. All of the United States, Canada, Mexico—no vampire existed within those bounds, but that they owed fealty to one of these eight lords.

  And yet as powerful as each of them was, none was so powerful as Raphael himself. Some were older, but age was not everything. Some claimed greater skill, but skill was no substitute for strength. These things were never spoken of; they were simply understood. Boundaries were observed, respect was paid. Anything else would lead to war. And none of the men in this room wanted another war. But someone did. Someone thought to use Alexandra against him. And that someone would pay dearly.

  RAPHAEL EMERGED from the conference room, going directly to the elevators, his people forming a cordon of security around him. They were uneasy, tense. He could feel their skin shivering with nerves, could hear their hearts beating rapidly, their blood pulsing with excitement. Likely they already knew more than he did. But not for long.

  The heavy door of the bulletproof limousine closed behind him with a muffled thud. He waited until the vehicle and its escorts had pulled out into traffic, then glanced at Duncan.

  “Moments before dawn this morning, my lord. They must have timed it to the shift change, to limit the number of us they had to deal with. The human guards were already on station for the day, the vampires had gone to the barracks beneath the estate. They knew nothing until they woke this evening.”

  “And our human guards?”

  “Dead, Sire.”

  “Surveillance?”

  “Yes, my lord. Waiting for you in Los Angeles. Gregoire has briefed me—”

  “I want the estate locked down. No one comes or goes until I get there.”

  “Already done, my lord.”

  “Her bodyguards?”

  “One destroyed . . . Matias. We cannot be certain of—”

  “Albin, then?”

  Duncan sighed. “It would appear so, Sire.”

  Raphael’s jaw tightened. “You warned me against him, Duncan.”

  “Sire—”

  “No. You were right. I wanted to trust him.”

  “You couldn’t—”

  “I should have, Duncan. I allowed old ties of friendship to blind me to the truth. I am as big a fool as that babbling old man in there tonight.” He was silent for a time, staring sightlessly at the city passing beyond the darkened windows. “He is mine.”

  “My lord?”

  “No one touches Albin, Duncan. He is mine.”

  “Of course. My lord, we will get her back.”

  A dangerous smile crossed Raphael’s face, his gaze meeting Duncan’s, his fangs extending in a slow, predatory glide. “We will, Duncan. Never doubt it. And then they will pay. No one takes what is mine and lives.”

  Chapter Three

  Malibu, California

  THEY ARRIVED AT his estate overlooking the Pacific Ocean in the deepest dark of morning; already he could feel the sun lurking just below the horizon. There were some, Raphael knew, who trusted human servants enough to lock themselves away in a closed compartment and fly through the sunshine, at the mercy of any who meant them harm. Raphael had not lived so long by trusting. Every member of his immediate entourage, every one of his bodyguards, his chauffeur, his pilot, even his housekeeper, was a vampire of his own making. Every one of them owed his or her eternal life to Raphael and was incapable of betraying him as long as his powers remained potent. He was the undisputed master of his territories and his children were absolutely and completely loyal to him. Or they were dead. There could be no other choice.

  As his limo rolled through the gates of his estate, the vampires on guard stood at stiff attention. Raphael permitted himself a small smile. It was good they feared him, but he would not destroy a loyal soldier for deeds not his own. No, it was Albin who would pay for this treachery. Albin. They had a history, the two of them, a history going back almost to Raphael’s turning.

  They had been children of the same mistress, cut adrift when she fell victim to her lover’s jealous wife, her heart pierced as she slept through the day. It had been a foolish death and yet not entirely unpredictable. She’d been careless, wanton and wasteful, not only of her own powers, but of those of her offspring. Many of her vampiric children had died along with her, sucked into her death throes, unable to bear the shock. The stronger ones survived; some only to fall prey to the very carelessness learned at her feet.

  Raphael had been young as such things were measured, little more than a hundred years old when she died. Much younger than Albin, but already more powerful—not only in the strength of his vampiric magic, but in strength of will, in the discipline necessary to build, to thrive and to grow over the long centuries. The two had spent decades together, parting only when Albin could no longer bear to be the weaker one, to be dependent on Raphael’s greater strength. For his part, Raphael had eventually decided to break altogether from Europe and its ancient vampire royalty. He’d gathered his few minions and undertaken the journey to America and the chance to build a dynasty of his own. Albin had stayed in Europe, wandering from master to master, never finding the power he craved.

  When Albin finally joined him in America, Raphael had been willing to give his old comrade a chance, but the big vampire had wanted more power than Raphael would grant him after so many years apart. Trust was not easily given in Raphael’s domain. Nonetheless, he’d assigned his old friend to Alexandra’s security detail, a coveted assignment. Alexandra was lovely, weak for a vampire and useless in the grand scheme of power, but important to Raphael, bound to him by unbreakable ties that stretched back hundreds of years. He granted her every whim, protecting her against a world she no longer desired to live in, using his money and power to create a bubble in time, a place where, for Alexandra, the world remained unchanged. Until today.

  The limo rolled past the main house with its clean, white lines, its wide panes of glass gazing out over the ocean. Lights illuminated a road through the trees, curving around to what local real estate agents euphemistically called a “guest house.” It was Alexandra’s dream house, an 18th century French manor home plucked from the pages of history. Raphael had it custom built for her; he had spared no expense. She loved this house.

  His bodyguards formed up outside, the limo’s door opening before the vehicle had fully ceased its forward motion. His guards were nervous, keenly aware of Alexandra’s abduction, knowing this was most likely the first move in a much bolder game, that their Sire himself was the true target. Raphael exited carefully, sensitive to his guard’s concerns, willing to go along with their need to get him within the safety of four walls as quickly as possible.

  He smelled the blood as soon as he entered the house. His nostrils flared and anger surged unchecked for the first time since Duncan had told him of the abduction. His power spilled out, expanding to fill the echoing hallway and beyond, spreading dread before him in an unseen wave. Vampires fell to their knees, to their faces, to grovel in the wake of his rage. Human servants, hidden behind doors, cried out in fear, their wails drenching the air with terror.

  “Duncan.” His voice pulsed with fury, the elaborate chandelier above him chiming violently with the force of it.

  “Sire.” Duncan came to his side, the only one who had not cowered in abject terror. Raphael turned a frosty gaze on his lieutenant and watched him swallow his fear like a small, hard apple, before turning those cold eyes on the vampire kneeling directly before him.

  “Gregoire.”

  Alexandra’s chief of security looked up, courage losing the battle against fear as he faced his Master. “Sire,” he all but whispered, his throat to
o dry to do more.

  “Show me.”

  “Sire.” Gregoire jumped to his feet, relief at this temporary reprieve written plainly on his face. “I’ve set up in the command center, my lord. If you—”

  Raphael swept by him, past the elaborate staircase, past the rooms filled with priceless antique furniture and satin-covered walls, to a narrow staircase leading downward. The basement room stood in stark contrast to the eighteenth century home above it. Computers hummed amidst video screens that revealed virtually every corner of the common areas in the large house. To Raphael’s left as he entered was a caged arsenal containing a variety of personal weapons known not only to modern man, but to ancient man as well. Broadswords and heavy axes, all manner and shape of blade, claimed equal space with Uzi submachine guns and AK-47s. Handguns of every variety, from a stubby Smith & Wesson .357 to Dirty Harry’s favorite .44 Magnum and the elegant, and lethal, semiautomatics of today, were racked and shelved along with boxes of ammunition and supplies. A vampire guard knelt at its barred entrance.

  To Raphael’s right, a vault-like door stood open, revealing a corridor of smaller ordinary doors. Behind each of these was a private chamber where Alexandra and her personal bodyguards, as well as all the vampire guards assigned to her security detail, took their daytime rest. Once the vault door was secured, it could be opened only from the inside except by Duncan or by Raphael himself. It was behind this door that the vampire soldiers had been safely entombed while Alexandra was being kidnapped only feet above their heads. He felt a fresh surge of rage.

  “Gregoire?”

  “Here, my lord.” Gregoire indicated a chair in front of the largest console. Raphael sat down and stared at the image on the screen before him. It showed Alexandra wearing one of her ridiculously elegant gowns and sitting at the Steinway he’d bought for her when this house was first built. He could still see the delight on her face when she’d stepped into her new parlor and found the big, black concert grand, its velvet-cushioned bench pulled out invitingly. Raphael blinked away the memory and focused on the image. Matias sat next to her, Albin approaching them from behind.

  Raphael didn’t wait for Gregoire, but covered the mouse with his hand and clicked to begin playback of the security footage. Matias had known of the security system within the mansion, had known their every move was likely being recorded. Albin had not been briefed on the extent of the surveillance, but he would surely have noted the cameras, would have passed through this control room every morning and night for the past several weeks since he had been assigned to protect Alexandra. He would have seen the video security monitors. But did he understand how much was covered by the cameras? Had he known his every action would be caught on video, or did he simply not care?

  Raphael watched Matias die, saw the humans at the door. “Humans?” He did not bother to disguise his disbelief.

  “Humans, Sire,” Gregoire confirmed. “The video from the front gate shows their arrival. When my vampires went out this morning, they found the gate closed, the bodies of our daylight guards piled inside the wall out of sight. I can show you the playback from the gatehouse . . .” He gestured at the next monitor, but Raphael shook his head. “Just tell me,” he said.

  “My lord. Albin waited until I and the others were downstairs in our chambers. He closed the vault door, slaughtered the human guards here at the house and unlocked the outside door for the humans who overwhelmed our guards at the gate, hid the bodies, and drove directly here to the lady’s house.”

  “I see,” Raphael said with a deceptive calm. “So, Alexandra was left upstairs, unguarded but for Albin and Matias?”

  Gregoire swallowed hard. His fear was a stink in Raphael’s nose, sweetened by the scent of bloody sweat dampening his forehead. “It was late, my lord, and it was Lady Alexandra’s habit to come downstairs at the last moment. Albin assured me . . .” He drew a deep breath as if fearful it might be his last. “I heard the vault door close, my lord. I assumed . . .”

  “You assumed,” Raphael repeated softly. “Indeed.” He sat and stared at the final image of Alexandra as she strode past the humans at the door. He leaned back in the chair thoughtfully.

  “Duncan.”

  “Sire.”

  “I will want to see Lonnie.” He closed his eyes, judging the night left to him and sighed. “Tomorrow, then. First thing.”

  “Certainly, my lord.” Duncan stepped away and, since cell phones would not work from within the security room, picked up a land line. He spoke briefly and hung up.

  Raphael stood and rolled his powerful shoulders, then gave a small nod. His guards reacted immediately, flowing up the stairs to the hallway, Raphael moving along with them. He paused before reaching the exterior door, turning around to spear Gregoire with a cool gaze. The guard captain fell to his knees, head bowed in shame and guilt. “You have served me well for more than two centuries, Gregoire.” He placed a gentle hand on the vampire’s lowered head. Without looking, he held out his other hand to Duncan who placed a smooth, sharpened stake in his palm. “I thank you for your years of service and regret you must leave me now.”

  Gregoire looked up in shock as Raphael plunged the stake into his heart with a firm underhanded stroke. The other guards stood still as stone, not knowing who might be next to pay for this unacceptable failure.

  Raphael dropped the stake to the marble floor, watching idly as it bounced once then rolled into the pile of dust that had been Gregoire. He brushed his hands together. “Duncan will advise you before the next dawn as to your new captain. In the meantime, I trust all of you will do your utmost to be worthy of your continued existence.” He swept the frozen guards with a raking glance. “Clean that up,” he said, then turned and walked the short distance to the waiting limo.

  Chapter Four

  THERE ARE WORSE ways to wake up than with a beautiful man between your legs. Cynthia smiled lazily as she smacked Nick on the ass, indicating he should move his great bulk off of her. He rolled over and her digital clock came into view, its bloody red numbers letting her know it was nearly one in the afternoon.

  “I need to take a shower,” she said and stood, giving him a look over her shoulder. “You coming?”

  Nick bounced off the bed with as much energy as if he’d slept the whole night instead of keeping her awake with a marathon of sex. She shook her head in amazement as she leaned in to turn on the hot water, then stepped under the spray, trying to decide if she should wash her hair before or after . . .

  Nick’s strong arms circled her waist, pulling her against him. Guess, it was going to be after.

  SHE WAS FEELING good when she walked into the kitchen. Every muscle in her body felt like she’d been working out at the gym instead of lying in bed. Well, perhaps “lying” wasn’t exactly the right verb. Her soft chuckle was cut off when she saw her sister Holly sitting at the kitchen counter, reading a magazine and eating a sensible snack of yogurt and fruit. Cyn had almost forgotten—and God knew she’d tried—that Holly was spending a few days here while her own house was being painted . . . or fumigated . . . or something. It was one of those house things which was why Cyn lived in a condo.

  “Good afternoon, Cynthia,” Holly said with a pointed look at her watch. Holly didn’t approve of Cynthia’s hours. If Cyn was a night owl, then Holly was the proverbial early bird. And that was only the first of so many differences between them. In Holly’s perfect world, everyone rose at six a.m. and hopped through life like diligent little bunnies in the cabbage patch before returning every night to the perfect house and perfect family. The fact that Holly herself had yet to secure the perfect husband with which to breed the perfect family was a source of great distress to her. Not because she was eager to have children; the nanny would be taking care of those. No, Holly would be spending her days doing whatever it was rich wives did. She had very specific financial requirements for her future husband, whi
ch was probably why she hadn’t acquired one yet.

  “Any word on your house?” Cyn asked, trying to remember how Holly had managed to guilt her yet again into staying here. It seemed every time her sister needed a break, Cyn’s condo on the beach became the local motel. She didn’t mind helping out, but she really didn’t want a roommate either. And the last time Holly had come for a visit—

  “Really, Cyndi,” Holly called her back to the present with the nickname Cynthia hated, which was probably why Holly used it. “Could you make me feel any less welcome? It’s not like you don’t—Oh!” Holly’s cheeks pinkened attractively as Nick came down the stairs into the kitchen, exuding a dark, masculine energy that seemed to fill the room. His wavy brown hair was still wet from the shower, his shirt unbuttoned over low-riding blue jeans that showed his slim hips to great advantage. He was over six feet of well-toned muscle with broad shoulders, long, lean legs, and just enough silky dark hair on his chest to prove he was a fully adult male. While not enough to worry that one had crossed some invisible species boundary. Cynthia enjoyed the view, then walked over and stroked a hand over his bare waist, raising her face for a kiss.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “You remember Nick, don’t you, Holly?”

  “Yes,” Holly said shortly, giving them both a disgusted look.

  Nick smiled and began buttoning his shirt. “I’ve got a flight to catch, babe,” he said to Cynthia as he tucked it in. He walked over to the couch and picked up his leather jacket, pulling keys out of the pocket. “Walk me out?”

  Cynthia followed him down the stairs to the garage on the ground floor of her three-story beach condo. Nick threw his jacket onto the seat of a Ferrari convertible, then leaned against the door, pulling her between his legs. “You know, it’s hard to believe you two are sisters. It’s like you were raised on separate planets.”