Immortal Angel (An Argeneau Novel)

by Lynsay Sands

  Smiling faintly at the idea, Ildaria closed up the program and the computer, and then scooped up a sleepy H.D., murmuring, “Time to go upstairs, buddy. Do you need to potty?”

  Twisting his head, H.D. gave her cheek a swipe with his tongue and Ildaria smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  H.D. could have walked, but she had to take him out into the hall leading to the bathrooms and bar. She didn’t trust the little guy not to take off on her and rush into the bar so she always carried him out when she finished up for the night. It was that or a leash, and leashing him in what was basically his home seemed cruel.

  The noise from the bar when she stepped out into the hall made her glance toward the tables. Someone had the jukebox on and there was the general rumble of conversation, but it was loud enough to suggest it was busier than usual for a Wednesday.

  Shrugging, Ildaria turned left and pushed through the door leading to the outer door and the stairs to the apartments, then continued through the outer door into the parking area.

  Once he had possession of the Night Club, G.G. had brought in landscapers to break up the pavement in the parking space nearest the door and put in a green space for H.D. to do his business. Ildaria set the fur ball down there and leaned against the wall as she waited for him to be done. It could be a time-consuming event, since H.D. tended to sniff almost every inch of the grass twice before deciding on the spot he wanted to use this time. She didn’t know if he was sniffing to be sure his turf hadn’t been invaded, or looking for the freshest spot, but she didn’t mind usually. She suspected she’d be less patient when winter came with its biting cold, but was hoping H.D. would be less picky then.

  H.D. had just finished and was kicking at the grass with his back feet when the door beside her opened. Ildaria didn’t glance around to see who had exited the building. Regular customers sometimes parked in the small lot back here, and she was more concerned with grabbing H.D. before he launched into barking and ankle biting mode and went after the exiting patrons.

  “Angelina Pimienta?”

  Ildaria froze just steps from H.D., a shaft of ice sliding up the back of her neck at the use of her birth name spoken with a deep Spanish accent. This hadn’t happened for a very long time. Not for over a century and not since she’d left South America. Still, it brought about the same response as it had the last time it had happened. Her body surged with adrenaline and she crouched and spun, attacking before she could be attacked.

  Ildaria didn’t exactly look like a kick-ass fighter. But she was. Two hundred years of training in everything from Capoeira to Vale Tudo had made her a finely honed weapon, and while the Enforcers she’d gone up against had always been surprisingly careful not to hurt her, trying to restrain rather than maim, she didn’t pull punches or hold back on kicks in return, at least not with immortals. She struck with purpose, not satisfied unless she heard the crunch or snap of bones breaking. Ildaria did the same now, her leg coming up as she spun, aiming for the general direction the voice had come from. She was right on the mark, connecting with the speaker’s face. Ildaria had forgotten that she was wearing high heels, but didn’t feel the least guilty when her stiletto pierced the man’s cheek. It was just inconvenient because she had to leave her shoe behind or be slowed down trying to drag it out again, and there was no time for that. The man wasn’t alone. A curse, and movement to her side alerted her to that and she turned abruptly to see a large brute with dark hair charging, arms open to try to grab her.

  Ildaria almost dropped and swept his feet, but then spotted H.D. attached to the man’s ankle. The little dog had joined the fray. Not that the attacker seemed to notice the little teeth that were sunk into his boot. Afraid of H.D. getting hurt, Ildaria backed up, trying to think of what to do. She’d never had to worry about anyone else while she was fighting, and it took her brain a second to change strategy. She had to hit higher, and in a way that wouldn’t have the big behemoth falling on the tiny dog, Ildaria decided, and struck out with her still shod foot, aiming for the man’s groin. That, she thought, should bring him to his knees as it had Juan, and give her the chance to scoop up H.D. and run inside.

  Her aim was again good and she put enough force into the strike that her heel was buried in the front of the man’s black jeans. As she’d hoped, it brought him to his knees, and as he screeched in agony, she ran around behind him, snatched up H.D., pulling him off the man’s ankle, and then turned to head to the door, only to slam into Tybo.

  “Whoa,” the dark-haired Enforcer said as he caught her arms to keep her from stumbling back. Glancing down at H.D., he frowned. “Is the gremlin okay?”

  Ildaria glanced down with concern, but relaxed when H.D. immediately began to bark at Tybo.

  “Yeah, I would say so,” Valerian said dryly, drawing her attention to the second man. Once he had her attention, he explained, “We saw them follow you outside, and came to see if you needed assistance.” His gaze slid to the two men, the first still trying to remove her shoe from his face, and the second now rolling on the ground, clutching himself around her shoe. “I guess you did not need our help though.”

  Ildaria shifted slightly, her gaze sliding between the two sets of men, and then muttered, “No. I handled it.”

  “Yeah. Good job,” Tybo said. “Ever consider becoming an Enforcer? We could use you.”

  Ildaria started to shake her head, but then paused. “Would becoming an Enforcer mean they couldn’t drag me back to the Dominican?”

  “You do not need to be an Enforcer for that,” Valerian assured her firmly. “Lucian already told them they were not allowed to force you out of the country.”

  “Lucian knew they were here and didn’t tell me?” Ildaria squawked with a combination of shock and anger.

  “He called to warn you, but you didn’t answer the phone so he left a message and then had us follow these guys to make sure they didn’t cause trouble,” Tybo explained patiently.

  Ildaria scowled at this news. She hadn’t answered her phone because it was presently up in her apartment in a Ziploc bag full of rice. She’d stuck it in her back pocket while she and G.G. were bowling, and forgot about it . . . until she went to use the public washroom and it had tumbled out of her pocket into the toilet. She’d been having such a good time on her date that she’d laughed at it at the time. She wasn’t laughing now, and made a mental note to herself to keep her phone safe and on her person at all times. It was an important lifeline now that her past had caught up to her.

  “Sadly, it appears they decided to ignore Lucian and come after you anyway,” Valerian commented, drawing her attention back to the men as the one with the shoe in his mouth tried to talk. The shoe made his speech too garbled to understand.

  “Can you read him?” Tybo asked Valerian, obviously curious about what the South American was trying to say.

  The blond shook his head. “With the pain he is in I am not even going to try.”

  Tybo grunted, looking disappointed, but then shrugged. “Well, I guess we’ll find out once we get him back to the Enforcer house and heal him up.”

  Nodding, Valerian glanced at Ildaria. “Are you all right?”

  “Si,” she murmured, but didn’t mention that the two men hadn’t got the chance to lay a hand on her.

  Valerian hesitated and then asked, “Are you done out here?” When she nodded, he suggested, “Then perhaps you should take H.D. inside. We do not know how many of them are in the city and will not be here to watch you until we deliver these two to Mortimer.”

  Ildaria stiffened at that. She hadn’t even considered that there might be others. Now her arms tightened around H.D. and her wary gaze slid over the dark parking lot. She didn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone there, hiding behind a vehicle or something.

  “There could be others inside,” Tybo pointed out.

  Valerian clucked with irritation at the suggestion and then turned back to Ildaria. “On second thought, wait until we knock these t
wo out and truss them up, then one of us will walk you up to your apartment and check it out before we go.”

  Ildaria considered refusing the offer. She’d been alone a long time with no one to turn to for help before Vasco and Cristo had entered her life ten years ago. And she hadn’t turned to them so much as they’d looked out for her, whether she liked it or not. Jess and then Marguerite had followed, both insisting on helping despite her best efforts to avoid it. But that didn’t mean she was used to accepting aid.

  On the other hand, she didn’t really feel like having to fight again if a compatriot of one of these two was waiting inside. Besides, she was out of shoes.

  A hissing pfffft of sound caught her ear, and she glanced around to see that Tybo had just shot the man who presently had her shoe heel buried in the side of his face. Once he fell, she saw that the heel had entered through his maxilla—the bone that forms the upper jaw. It had entered at a slanted upward angle too, going in just below and to the side of his nose and she suspected hitting and piercing his nasal bone at the top between the eyes. At least, there was a lump there that could be the end of the shoe heel.

  Ildaria eyed the shoe now stuck to his face and felt her shoulders droop unhappily. They’d been super expensive because of the metal heels, but she hadn’t been able to resist buying them. She’d really liked the little black bows on the back. So had G.G. At least he’d had her wearing them, or a version of them in every dream they’d shared. Sometimes, they were all he had her wearing.

  “We’ll get the shoes back to you,” Valerian said beside her.

  Ildaria watched Tybo move on to shoot the man with her other heel in his groin and grimaced. She didn’t really think she wanted them back now, but she didn’t say that. Valerian was already moving to pick up the shoe-faced man while Tybo bent to the other one and heaved him over his shoulder.

  “Fortunately, we parked back here,” Tybo told her as he and Valerian carried the men to a black SUV parked next to G.G.’s pickup.

  “Convenient,” Ildaria murmured, petting H.D. soothingly as she watched the Enforcers dump both men in the back of the SUV.

  The two men didn’t debate who would do what, Valerian simply told Tybo to wait with the vehicle and shoot the men again if they stirred, then returned to Ildaria.

  He took her elbow to lead her to the door, but pulled her behind his back and took the lead when they reached it, so that he could check inside first and be sure the way was clear. He then led her up to her floor and did the same there.

  “Which one?” he asked glancing toward the two doors in this hall.

  “The left,” Ildaria answered and shifted H.D. to one arm so that she could retrieve her keys from her pocket and hand them to him. She waited patiently as he unlocked the door and slid inside to check the apartment, but her gaze kept sliding to the door to the stairway as she waited, half afraid another South American Enforcer would come rushing out and try to grab her. But nothing like that happened before Valerian returned to tell her the place was fine.

  “Keep your door locked and call if you have any problems. Lucian will probably order Tybo and I to watch the building for any more trouble, but it could take us an hour to get back here. Of course, Tybo is probably calling to report in right now, and Lucian might send another team rather than risk leaving you alone. I will have Tybo text you either way so you know what is happening,” he promised as he handed her the keys and ushered her into her apartment.

  “Thanks,” Ildaria called as he closed the door. The minute it was shut she locked it, and heard Valerian’s satisfied grunt on the other side. She suspected he’d waited purely to be sure she locked it, but he needn’t have worried. Damn right she was locking that door, Ildaria thought as she set H.D. down. Her problem now was deciding if she shouldn’t pack a bag and run. Juan had found her.

  Ten

  G.G. rolled over in bed and opened his eyes, feeling just wonderful. Well rested, and well sated from the dreams he’d shared with Ildaria. Damn, if life mate sex was ten times better than that as he’d once heard an immortal claim, it might kill him. But what a way to go, he thought with a grin and closed his eyes to savor the memories still swimming in his head.

  The dreams had changed since Ildaria had told him they were shared and told him he was a possible life mate. She no longer just came along for the ride. She was starting to instigate things and really get involved. Last night she’d taken their dream to a beach he suspected was in Punta Cana. They had been alone, the sand soft as silk beneath them, the moon and stars bright overhead and a balmy breeze caressing their bodies as they’d kissed. She’d been wearing the pirate costume she’d described to him, explaining with a grin that it was just for him. However, his costume, she’d added, was just for her and he’d looked down to see that he was in boots and tight black pants, a blousy, white cotton pirate shirt open to show off his chest.

  “Will you ravish me, El Capitan?” she’d asked, her eyes glowing golden brown as they always did when she got excited. “Or should I stake you out in the sand and ravish you?”

  G.G. had to admit the idea of being ravished had been an exciting one. It must have shown on his face, because the next thing he knew he was flat on his back on a blanket on the sand, his arms and legs tied to stakes in the ground. He’d been a little surprised to see his clothes still on, until he noticed Ildaria standing over him twirling a wickedly sharp knife in her hands.

  “I will, of course, unwrap my gift,” she said with a grin and then knelt and began to do just that, slicing through the cloth of his clothes with deft movements that quickly left him in nothing but the boots. But while the cutting away of his clothes was quick, her attention afterward was painfully slow as she’d licked and nibbled and kissed her way up and down and around his body, exploring every inch of him except the part that wanted her attention most. G.G. had been hard pressed not to take over control of the dream, free himself of his bindings, grab her, roll her in the sand, and make love to her. But he’d held back, interested to see where this would go, and most interested to see if she would find her way to his very hard cock, and lick it or freak out and bite it off.

  Ildaria didn’t bite it off, and by the time she finally closed her mouth over him, G.G. was crazy close to spilling himself. It had taken mad concentration to keep from doing that, and he’d only managed it for half a dozen strokes of her beautiful mouth before losing it. Fortunately, he recovered quickly in dreams, and within moments he had turned the tables on her, and she was suddenly staked out on the ground while he stripped and loved every inch of her until she was crying out with her release too.

  After that, they’d gone for a swim and ended up making love in the surf. Then Ildaria had dragged him to his feet and pulled him behind her as she raced up the sand and into the palm trees. They were naked when they started out, but by the time they stepped out of the forest and into a crowded street, he was in his pirate gear again and she was in a lovely white dress with red and blue stripes running around it in ruffles. The top was what G.G. thought they called a peasant top. He wasn’t sure, he was no fashionista, but she wore the short sleeves off the shoulders and her hair was piled on top of her head, and falling away down one side in large curls that were interwoven with white, red, and blue flowers. She looked magnificent . . . and G.G. wanted her all over again, but a sudden shout drew his gaze around to see a man in the crowd clutching his behind and howling in pain.

  G.G. had barely taken that in when his attention was drawn to another man, this one dressed in a red cloak, shiny shirt, and broad trousers covered in tiny bells, ribbons, and what looked to be bits of broken mirror. This character was also wearing a horned mask with bulging eyes and large teeth that included fangs. The teeth were stained red as if with blood.

  “That is Diablo Cojuelo,” Ildaria shouted into his ear to be heard over the merengue music a small band of costumed men were playing.

  “A vampire?” G.G. turned to ask in a shout. Even in dreams he wouldn’t shout the w
ord immortal out loud.

  “No.” She laughed and explained in a yell, “This is Carnaval. He is the Limping Devil. He was banished to earth because of the childish pranks he pulled. But his leg was injured when he landed, so he limps. At least, that is the official story. My grandmother used to say that he really represented the Spanish who invaded the island and enslaved the native people.”

  “What is that he’s carrying?” G.G. asked, eyeing the balloon-like thing the Limping Devil was carrying. It really did look like a pale sort of pinkish skin-colored balloon, but G.G. was pretty sure that was what the howling man had been hit with. A balloon wouldn’t make a man shriek in pain like that.

  “His vejiga. A dried and inflated cow bladder, cured with ashes, lemon, and salt. It is very hard. Come, he is getting too close. If he hits you with his vejiga it hurts and you will be bruised for a week,” she warned, and began to pull him away.

  G.G. nodded, but glanced back over his shoulder as she pulled him along and thought he caught a glimpse of a naked woman with long black hair, or maybe wearing a dress of long black hair. Only there was something wrong with her feet. Turning back to Ildaria, he yelled, “What—?”

  “La Ciguapa. Like a succubus. She walks naked, her long hair her only cover. Her feet are backward to confuse anyone who follows her footprints. She comes out at night and enchants men,” Ildaria explained, as they made their way through the crowd.

  “Is this where you grew up?” he asked, catching glimpses of other costumed figures. A man in a woman’s dress carrying a chicken, a woman shrieking hysterically, a large group dressed in attire that looked almost native American but with much more intricate and colorful beading than he’d ever seen.

  “Si. It is my village during Carnaval,” she yelled, and then paused and took a quick look around. Seeming satisfied that they weren’t near the Limping Devil and his vejiga, she turned her attention to the street scene and smiled faintly. “This was how the Carnaval was when I was young. Now it is as commercialized as Christmas, with sponsors and concerts and . . .” She shrugged unhappily. “It is not the same anymore.”