Bond of Darkness (5 page)

Madre de dios
, maybe two.

Ethan
. He didn't waste time looking at his alferez.
Tighten the cordon around us
.

His mesnaderos stamped their feet, their bootheels thudding on the cobblestones in unison, and started to close ranks.
Would they be in time
?

The drum was pounding. Lights sparkled and glass beads twisted, falling out of the sky. Celeste squealed and jumped for them, then cursed when her hand bounced off a man's shoulder.

"Photographer!" a vampiro shouted and pointed.

The entire crowd fell silent and stared, following the long black exclamation mark of his arm. High above, a man leaned out of a window, a camera's damning black box clasped in his hands.

A man growled, and another, and another. A great rumble ran through the throng like an avalanche's beginning. "
Sacré mille diables
!"

Rafael yanked Celeste next to his chest.

A great hawk lifted from the throng and flew at the interloper, leaving a golden toga behind on the cobblestones. Monsieur Armand had shapeshifted to go on the hunt.

The spy ducked back inside, slamming the window shut. The horde roared and began to run toward him, wolves outpacing the others. Vampiros and prosaicos stormed down the sidewalk, howling for blood, trampling the vendors' pushcarts. They slammed into the mesnaderos—and the Texans swayed but managed to hold.

The mob surged past them and raced across the street. Doors and shutters were ripped off the buildings there with inhuman strength to allow for faster access. From inside, somebody screamed but the crowd kept breaking in.

There'd be no holding the rabble until they killed the bastard, raising blood lust in every vampiro who tasted him. And blood lust was an instinctive, demanding fire, long-lived and treacherous beyond belief. It was very unlikely only the photographer would die.

"Come on, let's get out of here," Rafael ordered sharply. "We're heading for the
Matagorda Lady
."

"Yes, sir," Ethan agreed and started issuing orders over the mind link. There was too much noise to do so verbally.

They stepped down from the small dais and began edging toward the doors to the warehouse's antechamber, dodging wild-eyed vampiros. Rafael locked his arm around Celeste. Anyone trying to harm a priceless vampira would have to go through him.

Are we breaking off negotiations
? Jean-Marie asked, his Colt graceful and deadly in his hand.

Rafael didn't have to think twice.
No, the deal's almost done
.

Do you think the photographer was the start of an assassination plot by Monsieur Armand
? Ethan asked, his voice almost casual.

Damn town's a sieve for gossip
, snarled Jean-Marie, who'd first encountered conspiracies in the womb.
It would be impossible to keep such a large ball secret. Plus, he's been giving twice-weekly balls every Mardi Gras for years
.

And his trigger-happy mesnaderos hates your guts, Ethan
, Rafael warned.
They'd do damn near anything to make you look the fool
.

Including murder Don Rafael
, added Jean-Marie and shot an onrushing rioter, dropping him in his tracks.
As they tried the night you arrived
.

Ethan cursed under his breath but didn't disagree.

Celeste kicked Rafael, twisting and clawing to break free.

"Be careful, Celeste! They'll kill you, too."

"Let me watch!"

He choked, bile rising in his throat. Surely she didn't know what she was asking for. He shuddered, remembering the screams echoing down the streets of a vampiro court's mountain capital, hour after hour during that endless winter night. Cries which still lingered in his dreams, underlain by the snick of knives slicing through flesh and the crunch of boots shattering bone.

He started to touch her mind but withdrew. He had no right to force her into a changed opinion unless she threatened his life. Assuming he had the time—which he did not.

Fighting every protective instinct, he carefully eased his grip on her.

She promptly turned her head to look back over his shoulder and sighed. Rapturously.

His hand clenched on the Mauser in his pocket.

"Oh,
mon amour
, look! They've hung him out the window for everyone to take a bite!"

Why the hell had he chosen this bloodthirsty bitch to sleep with? Unfortunately, he owed her his protection until the city settled down.

If he was lucky, there was only one photographer.

He snorted in disbelief and raised his pistol, ready to start fighting.

Celeste fondled the satin-smooth teak paneling framing the stained glass image of a river maiden and reconsidered her cabin's potential.

No danger here of catching a splinter, if she entertained Don Rafael while standing up.

She smiled at her reflection and tried a pose, one hand on her hip.

And the lighting was certainly very flattering.

The wall-sconces and overhead chandelier were made from mother-of-pearl, their many petals curving like water lilies. The carpet underfoot was a soft, silken ribbon of color flowing through her cabin, carved with rippling lines like waves. A matching silk coverlet swept over the enormous bed, while its twin was quilted into the headboard.

He could take her on the floor, or the bed, and she'd still look beautiful.

She twisted slightly, letting the light's soft glow reflect off the wood and highlight her own skin. Much, much prettier than naked bulbs.

The entire room was a delicious jewel box which begged to be used as the setting for a long, frenzied round of sex with Don Rafael. There were no secret cubby holes or hiding places full of his secrets. So he was obviously keeping her close at hand for some more delectable pleasures.

Which she hadn't enjoyed yet, dammit. Unfortunately, it had taken them forever to work their way out of the grand ball and the warehouse—and through the uproar on the streets.
Mon dieu
, they'd had to walk for blocks, dodging running vampiros and searching policemen, before his limousine could pick them up. She'd thought Monsieur Armand had bribed the police well enough to stay away from his parties no matter what happened.

She snorted in disgust, remembering how her feet had ached when she was finally able to sit down. If she were the patrona here, she'd make sure the police never came near her parties, whether it took money or terror.

Don Rafael had remained infinitely patient, while the night got later and later. She'd matched his calmness more easily once they'd left that exciting riot but hunger and keeping her temper had exhausted her. When he'd shown her to this cabin and left her alone, she'd lain down, expecting him to join her in a few minutes.

Instead, she'd woken up early the next evening. Alone, dammit.

He must have come in, found her asleep, and decided to let her recover, rather than wake her for his own greedy needs. She knew he'd been here, thanks to the faint whiff of his scent—and a very elegant new evening gown. Last night's contretemps had badly damaged her dress.

She purred, throwing her head back and caressing her breasts through the fragile silk. How marvelous to finally have a paramour who was focused on satisfying her needs first.

She obviously needed to tell her stallion she was fully recovered. He must be hovering outside, eager for admittance.

Humming softly, she waved good-bye to the room and put her hand on the doorknob.

"Bring the agreement into my cabin, where I can sign it," Don Rafael said from the corridor just outside her door.

Celeste went completely still. She'd known he'd come to negotiate something with Monsieur Armand but she'd thought he'd forgotten that nonsense, in favor of enjoying her attractions.

"Are you satisfied with it, Jean-Marie?" His deep voice was crisp and calm, appallingly businesslike.

"Completely, sir. Monsieur Armand would probably have bargained longer but he wants us gone so he can concentrate on quieting his city."

Gone?

She was certain he adored her. He'd proven that a thousand times over during his visit, especially with his talk at the ball about all the feats a man in love would do. When he'd hugged her afterward, she immediately knew he meant her.

But passion, even slavish worship, was not the same as a life together.

If he left, what would she do? Go with him—to Texas? The land of cows and dirt and Indians? Never, even if she could leave New Orleans.

Maybe she was wrong and he planned to stay. He was certainly strong enough to take over New Orleans, if he wanted to.

"And we can silence those drunken riots in the West Texas oilfields."

"The mesnaderos will shut them down within a few days, once we're back," the Frenchman agreed, and their steps faded down the hallway.

Celeste sagged against the door. Oilfield riots meant less oil and less money. Don Rafael couldn't remain here—and she'd hate living in Texas.

She flung herself across the bed and tried to think.

No, the only answer was to persuade him to move here, which meant binding him into a permanent alliance with the New Orleans patron.

Monsieur Armand, who couldn't even manage to throw a Mardi Gras ball? Bah!

Plus, the idiot barely controlled New Orleans and its suburbs, not even as far as Baton Rouge, only eighty miles away. All of Texas and Oklahoma bowed down before Don Rafael, more than three hundred thousand square miles.

A New Orleans patron would probably have to hold everything from Louisiana east and south of the Ohio River, in order to have an esfera Don Rafael would consider impressive. And worthy of forming a lifetime bond with.

She rolled over onto her back and flung an arm over her eyes. But if she had such an esfera, she'd have a damn good chance—if not a certainty—of claiming Don Rafael for herself, for always. And ending this cycle of loneliness forever.

Her jaw set hard. She could do it. After all, she'd seen it done often enough in New Orleans that she'd memorized the techniques by now.

But every successful candidate for patron always started with an absolutely deadly alferez. A killing machine to make everybody else fall back in fear…

Georges Devol blinked, forcing a little water out of his eyes, and tried to kick. The sun had long since set, making this a good time for traveling.

His right leg was no damn good with two bullets in it—but nobody's legs were worth much against the Mississippi, even when they were healthy. It was more important to travel far and keep the damn warden guessing as long as possible, no matter what.

He'd escaped Angola by turning the tables on a guard during an affair. The fool had thought he controlled Devol but had wound up serving him. Now he'd certainly keep his mouth shut as long as possible about Georges' methods and route, just to save himself.

Georges had to be close to the Mouth of Passes, where he could catch an oceangoing ship.

He was cold, so very cold. Probably because it was spring and the river was in flood. Hopefully not because the guards had gotten lucky and done more than nick him in the side.