Bond of Darkness (4 page)

NEW ORLEANS, ONE WEEK LATER

The Pierce-Arrow town car had barely come to a stop before Don Rafael's mesnaderos closed around it, forming a solid barrier against attackers.

A shiver of delight ran through Celeste. Even Napoleon's beloved
Chasseurs a Cheval
—his bodyguards while on campaign—couldn't have done it any smoother or faster. It was even better than seeing cars scatter before Don Rafael's speeding motorcade, like pigeons fleeing a pair of hawks. Stepping out of the shadows into the limelight, as she'd been born to do, was more exhilarating than a dozen new wardrobes.

Ethan Templeton, Don Rafael's handsome alferez, yanked open the door.

Rumor had said Don Rafael required his men to obey him in all things, whether in the boudoir or on the battlefield. Templeton was a superb soldier and had already proven to be as skilful in the bedroom under his patron's eye. He'd clearly had the best of teachers.

Now
de dieu
, no woman could ask for a better lover than Don Rafael. Her derrière had taken almost an hour to heal from last night's spanking and fucking before she could sit comfortably. Every movement had made her moan, reminding her of the exact pleasures which had given her those bruises.

Even the orgies with other French exiles hadn't left her so delightfully sated, and those companions had disappeared in the Civil War's chaos, taking their diversions with them. Oh, she'd gotten anything she wanted from the fumbling patrones who followed. But,
merde
, it was magnificent seeing the world fall into place before a strong hand.

Don Rafael rose from the car, drawing Celeste with him.

An instant later, they passed through the warehouse's double doors into a world of etched glass, gilded tracings, thick carpets, and sparkling lights.

They'd arrived late for this party, and the room was empty of guests. The Texas patron never allowed anyone to guess his schedule, either where he was going or when he'd show up—no matter how much Celeste argued or wept for a chance to prepare the best possible attire.

He stripped off his cape and handed their wraps to a uniformed attendant, his midnight gaze sweeping the gaudy antechamber. The maid was a prosaica, of course, and under compulsion by Monsieur Armand never to speak of tonight's activities. God forbid prosaicos learn of vampiros, even here in New Orleans with its wide tolerance for other peoples.

Celeste preened in front of the mirrors, making sure her velvet kimono hadn't mussed her fancy dress, especially the few layers of embroidered silk chiffon which formed her skirt. Her bandeau top a la Cleopatra barely managed to support her breasts, making it hardly worth thinking about—except for how easily her lover could take it off.

His mesnaderos fanned out around them, blocking him from any hidden dangers or enemies with their bodies, as they always did whenever he entered a room.

She watched them from the corner of her eye, gauging their attentiveness, while she tweaked the fragile chiffon into perfect symmetry.

The men were eager—indeed, hungry—to serve him with their lives. And their blood and sex, of course, as befitted his hijos.

In the past, she'd only gained such a strong reaction by forcing it out of men—first focusing her gift of seduction on them, then telling them their lust would only be assuaged after they carried out her orders. But his warriors behaved like this all the time, simply because he was their patron. What would it be like to have so much power at one's command, without ever needing to demand it?

Oh, she'd manipulated patrones before. But they'd all died so damn fast, within a few dozen years, as patrones always seemed to do. Something about the role seemed to inspire as much greed in its holder, as it did envy in all onlookers. Don Rafael was the first patron she'd met who seemed worth latching onto. Why, he was even powerful enough to keep his men obedient to him, rather than falling at her feet.

And how very splendid her life had become, since the richest patron in North America had chosen to pay attention only to her. Having the best dressmakers in town hurling other clients aside in order to work on her orders, getting the best seat at every nightclub, the rare vampiras hissing jealously when she danced with him. Wonderful, simply wonderful.

After a century's exile from Paris, she'd finally started enjoying life's true richness again.

"Are you ready, sir?" Templeton asked, poised beside one of the great double doors into the ballroom. "The second parade should begin in another five minutes."

She concealed her grin with an effort. The great carnival parades, with their immense floats, costumed revelers, trinkets, and wild carousing, were the year's most spectacular events.

Celeste threw back her shoulders a little bit more, making sure her breasts were displayed to their finest advantage. Damned if she'd let anyone else catch Don Rafael's eye.

He offered her his arm without looking at her, an excellent sign of how much he relied on her presence. She accepted it and tilted her chin high, as haughtily as her mother would have done at Versailles.

"We're still in the private box, correct?" Don Rafael asked.

"Yes, on the square and only a few feet away from the dance floor."

"We'll be able to be seen by everyone," Celeste cooed, delighted. "
Merci bien
for obtaining exactly the seats I wanted!"

"
De nada
," Don Rafael disclaimed politely.

Templeton's mouth tightened and he turned, leading the way inside.

Too delighted to worry about a servant's megrims, Celeste strutted proudly on Don Rafael's arm. The guards closed around them before they'd taken two steps.

Despite everything he'd heard of Monsieur Armand's grand balls, Rafael hadn't been prepared to see a New Orleans city square resting cozily inside a great warehouse. Every building had been precisely recreated, from the tin roofs and stone and stucco walls, to black wrought iron signs and balconies. Cobblestones lurked underfoot to trip the unwary. Commonplace business signs, like hotels and drugstores, offered normality to the prosaicos present yet implied boundless opportunities to the vampiros crowding the sidewalks and square.

Most startling of all, great lamps hung overhead, bathing the entire space in light until it seemed to be a spring midday. Hollywood trickery made it possible, aided by huge fans and vents which could be glimpsed beyond the roofs. It was an incredible sight for vampiros, who rarely attained the two centuries after El Abrazo to see the sun again.

Music came from every corner, in a wild melange of styles that burst together in a single glorious mix. A jazz band's instruments were starting to build a strong marching beat. Monsieur Armand was half-dancing, half-strutting in front of them, highly conspicuous in his golden excuse for a Roman toga. Other vampiros were dancing with him, ready to escort the musicians. Their equally gaudy costumes could be easily discarded for fucking or shapeshifting, should there be any disturbances.

Vendors offered wines and cocktails from pushcarts. A few enterprising men pitched pennies at plates, probably hoping to earn fancifully dressed dolls for their paramours.

The partygoers included both vampiros and prosaicos. Most of the women were prosaicas, of course, given the extreme difficulty of creating a vampira. Lust scented the air, but no fear from any side. Clearly, both vampiros and prosaicos were familiar with each other. Vampiros were always wary of dropping their guard around strange prosaicos, especially since it was wisest not to let prosaicos know exactly how old vampiros truly were. A frightened prosaico was a dangerous being who could create a mob, the only thing every vampiro feared.

Dancers, brilliant in orange and gold and black with exotic embroideries, were pounding out the latest steps on a great raised dance floor, high above the square's center. Other guests were laughing and chatting, spilling from the sidewalks onto the streets. Many corners held couples, although few did more than explore each other. Nobody seemed to have fed yet, a nicety that wasn't likely to last.

Rafael's nose told him the wines were the finest French and German vintages, while the cocktails were mixed with the best Cuban rum. He sniffed again, testing for every possible scent. Perfumes, synthetic silk and real silk for clothing, even fresh-made beignets and pralines for the prosaicos. What else was here? Something wasn't in the right place.

He followed Ethan through the crowd, allowing his men to make a path for them and keeping Celeste close. Rowdy as she was, this should make her very hot indeed tonight.

He smiled slightly, a fang touching the inside of his lip. She was a surprising diversion, although nobody he'd ever turn his back on. In this dangerous town, it was a pleasure to have an
amante
who was at least somewhat predictable.

Jean-Marie lifted his hand in a two-finger salute, from a narrow balcony half-hidden above the crowd.

Bien
. All was well and it was safe to use the assigned box. At least matters with Monsieur Armand were relaxed for now, the overly aggressive bodyguards having been reined in by calls to French brotherhood with Jean-Marie.

He'd still like to know what his nose disliked about this party.

Ethan led them up a few stairs to a pretense of a sidewalk cafe, barely two tables wide. A wrought iron railing separated them from the crowd, while more ironwork hung from the roof above. Even the tables and chairs were made of fanciful iron.

Jean-Marie slid over to the far side, allowing space for Celeste between himself and Rafael. Celeste stiffened and made very sure nothing of herself touched the Frenchman.

Ethan edged in next to Rafael, while his men flanked them in front. Most of them were in a loose-knit defense, of course, pressed in even tighter by the throng. Others, not obviously identified as his mesnaderos, were hidden throughout the partygoers, scanning for men with revolvers or perhaps a shapeshifter.

The crowd wouldn't stop him—or Ethan or Jean-Marie—from shapeshifting, of course.

"Thank you for arranging this. It's an excellent spot to watch the parade and bring a date," Rafael commented to Jean-Marie, automatically making small talk.

"Yes, indeed. In fact, I believe Gray Wolf might want to invite his beloved Caleb here next year, if the young man agrees, of course," Jean-Marie responded, his eyes sliding over the crowd.

"Indeed, spending Mardi Gras with only one man could be seen as a pledge by such an independent fellow."

Celeste yawned, bored with the conversation. A quick wave persuaded a street vendor to bring his selection of pearls to them.

"Our friend would have to work very hard to persuade him. It takes feats of strength and daring to impress Caleb."

The vendor jumped up and down and Celeste leaned forward, pushing past the mesnaderos.
Madre de Dios
, did she need a bribe to keep her quiet?

"Quite the courtship," he corrected Jean-Marie. "But a man in love will do much for his heart's delight as you and I both know, Jean-Marie."

He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her back from any potential danger. A C-note filled his hands with pearls, which he politely offered to her. Her eyes lit up and she bounced up to kiss him, then quickly draped the jewels around her neck.

His mouth quirked. Apparently detailed thanks would have to wait until later, in the bedroom.

Snipers
? Rafael asked Ethan, automatically checking the other threats.

We negotiated a deal with the other patrones to put guards up on the rooftops, as backup to the more public protections. Didn't mention it to Monsieur Armand, though.

Of course not.

There's never been an assassination attempt during Mardi Gras
, Jean-Marie commented, his eyes coldly assessing the street exits. As one of the finest vampiro assassins in the world, they were probably where he'd work from.

Of course not. It would be bad for business
, Ethan remarked cynically.

Celeste bounced up onto her toes and waved at a passing vampiro, all the while clinging to Rafael's arm.

He gritted his teeth but smiled as she obviously required.

The vampiro did a double take, becoming noticeably friendlier to Celeste.

One of the many things Rafael had adored about his late wife was that she'd never used him to advance her position at court.

Trumpets flared in an attractive, irregular pattern. The crowd roared happily, even the couples paying attention to it.

Celeste pointed. "Look! Here comes the parade."

Rafael's nose twitched again. What was he smelling? This had to be something not usually found at street level.

Somebody had been taking photographs here. But surely not of the ball. No vampiro ever permitted that to happen, since it could become irrefutable proof of his age.

His skin prickled.

Don Rafael
? Jean-Marie asked.

Of course his oldest hijo would notice his preoccupation first.

Tell Ethan to call in the outlying guards. Now.

Jean-Marie asked no questions, simply slipped off the more intimate channel and spoke privately to his fellow Texan.
Gracias a Dios
.

Rafael sniffed again, hard, hunting for every faint aroma. Maybe it had happened so long ago he was the only one who could scent the residue. After all, he was the sole vampiro mayor here, guarded by the sharp senses that had kept him alive for so damn long.

He turned his head and a flash flared briefly into his eyes before dropping away.

His heart slammed hard against his ribs.
¡A
y,
mierda
!

He looked up sharply and off to one side. Not toward the ceiling and the huge lamps, or the roofs with his guards.

But to the attics, where someone could see his face and record it with a camera. A photographer up there would be high enough he'd probably be beyond even a vampiro's keen nose—except for a vampiro mayor.

His fangs pricked his lip. Surely there'd been a reflection from a camera, where no polished metal should be.