Bond of Darkness

The Gulfstream jet circled the Texas hills, its luxuries no comfort now for Celeste. Even her entourage remained strapped silently into their seats, too astonished—and cowed—to speak.

The football stadium below was all too easy to spot, its banks of lights blazing into the sky. Streams of people danced across the grass, forming and re-forming colorful knots under the great heraldic lion. Soon they’d be frolicking horizontally, the ecstatic bastards.

“Imbécile!” Madame Celeste threw another bottle of champagne into the galley, its door wisely left open by her steward. The bottle burst against the cabinet like a shotgun blast, wine and glass shards spewing over the floor. “We should be drinking this in that stadium, while they beg us for mercy. Another minute and Don Rafael would have been dead!”

“Beau is lucky he died so cleanly, cher,” Georges agreed, rage running clean and cold through his belly. “Otherwise, you’d have made his last hours hell on earth for such an elementary mistake as to let Don Rafael slip away.”

“Only to win, with the help of his cónyuge bitch! There is no other answer.”

“No, only a cónyuge could have fed him strength when he’d been almost dead.” Georges’ fangs pricked his lip. If Templeton’s mesnaderos hadn’t been in the way, he’d have shot Don Rafael while he was on the ground—and that fool was indulging in an early celebration. But no, Don Rafael recovered and won. Merde.

The plane began to level out, heading east for the Mississippi and home.

“So Don Rafael still lives to attack us, while his heraldo will make more supercilious announcements of Texas virtues.” She spat. “Until we kill them both.”

“We have another weapon at our disposal, cher madame,” Georges pointed out. “As you have mentioned before.”

“We’ve been feeding on Texas women but discreetly, except in Galveston. If we were more blatant about our presence . . .” He paused suggestively.

“Those Texas cattle would stampede and destroy him.” She chuckled, a wickedly mirthful sound.

He grinned back at her, anticipating his rewards for evoking that much glee.

“Excellent idea! And you did so well in Galveston, too. The broken hands, to increase pain.”

“The femoral artery—a major blood vessel, yet unexpected, exquisitely sensitive, and linked with sexual violation.” He sighed, remembering the excellent meal. “Ah, madame, you taught me so well!”

She patted his arm. “And you shall do even better when you return, mon brave.”

Grania screamed, full-throated, the sound piercing Rafael’s heart like a lance.

His men rushed to their feet, reaching for their weapons, but he utterly ignored them. He bolted for his bedroom, slamming his office door so hard it reverberated and shattered a hinge.

Grania, luz de mi corazón! He skidded on the hardwood floor, his feet hurling the soft rugs under the bed. Her face was buried in the pillows and she was sobbing as if her heart would break. Grania, mi alma, he crooned, and dropped to his knees beside her.

Loneliness battered him through the conyugal bond, heart-breaking and despairing. Her throat was raw, shredded with pain, as if she’d wept for hours instead of the few minutes since he’d left her.

“Grania, querida,” he croaked, her agony instantly lacing deeper into his bones. He choked for breath but laid his arm over her shoulders. “I am here. Please wake up, my darling.”

“Grania, mi corazón.” He gathered her closer, coaxing her to shelter against his chest. “All is well, querida. Content yourself and relax. Shh.”

Dios, he couldn’t reach her emotions, the deepest levels where cónyuges always understood each other.

What now? He trusted his own instincts and bit his lip until blood flowed, scenting the air, calling to his beloved vampira. He eased himself onto the bed until they were lying down side by side, bringing his entire body to comfort her.

Gracias a Dios. She kissed him fiercely, clutching his shirt and tasting him. He gave her everything, his heartbeat thudding until he couldn’t think. She shook her head—and he clutched her closer. But she buried her face against him, clinging as if the end of the world were near. Her sobs began to moderate and the daggers stopped tunneling into his heart.

Grania, mi alma y mi vida. He rocked her gently, tears trickling down his cheeks. If he lost her, his life and his soul, there would be no light in his heart and he would follow her to the grave. He could not bury her twice.

She finally gulped, the sobs long gone. He unceremoniously dumped a pillow out of its case, and handed her the fine linen. She sniffled and blew her nose hard, looked at her handkerchief, then glanced at him.

He shrugged off any concerns. This was his house and he’d do as he damn well pleased, especially to ensure his lady’s comfort.

She smiled a trifle, her eyes very red. But at least she could feel laughter.

“Querida,” he breathed, and kissed her gently, his heart starting to beat at a more normal rhythm. “Would you like some wine or a bath or . . . ?”

“No!” Terror, searing as acid, flashed through their link and he flinched, before snatching her closer.

“All I want,” she said slowly, keeping to the spoken word, “is to hold you close.”

“You have me,” he assured her promptly, “always. Your creador is dead and no one else can come between us.”

He came to full alertness. Grania was the reincarnation of Blanche, his long-dead wife, and could usually control when and how she accessed those memories. But sometimes she relived them fully, unable to control what events she saw or how deeply.

“After the Infante’s army was destroyed by the Moors and you were captured, Toledo was besieged. For months.”

Her voice was almost colorless. But so was fine steel, or a knife twisting through darkness to rip through his own memories. “Ay de mi, no Moorish army had come that close to the capital in decades. There was no army, no knights of the blood royal to lead the small garrison, nobody. And your Princesse—”

He stopped short, careful even after all these centuries not to speak his true thoughts about that feminine monument to selfishness and stubbornness, lest he offend her most faithful servant.

“Was in hysterics, day and night, over her husband’s death.” Grania sighed, her eyes very dark with memories.

“Fernando and Beatriz could walk just well enough to find diversions”—mischief—“everywhere, while Ana was a newborn babe.” Her voice trailed off, old lines of worry and exhaustion scoring her face.

“How? You were a captive and close to dying, as well. But I was so deadly afraid without you.”

He caught her hand and kissed it, offering comfort and apologies in the only way he could.

“Relax, my love.” Her blue eyes poured love’s true light over him, brilliant as Santísima Virgen’s mantle. “Sobs will never tear me apart again, now I know in my bones you’re alive.”

“I swear, mi vida, you will never have to face such trials by yourself again.”

“Ah, darling, do not swear to do what circumstances may force you to change. You are the Patrón of Texas and your duty must come first, especially when there is war.”

He winced but nodded, accepting her grasp of brutal necessities. Even so—mierda, how he’d fight not to see her suffer again!

The door clicked rapidly, paused, and clicked again before swinging open. Posada quickly stepped inside and yanked it shut, carefully blocking the view of any passersby.

His unusual caution made Steve narrow her eyes. But she stood up from her computer, as casually as possible. “Hi, Lieutenant. Come to grab a doughnut before they go stale?”

“Thanks but no thanks. I’ve already hit the gym this morning.” He set a stack of newspapers down on the center table.

She glanced at it thoughtfully, considering its unusual dimensions. “Coffee then? We’ve got some espresso, plus some new cases to look at. Just arrived from outside of Waco.”

“Mmhmm. Technically, halfway between Waco and Galveston. The local sheriff heard of us and brought the two cases down.”

She nodded. “At least by fellow cops. Nothing on the streets that we know of.” Or that Ethan’s men had heard.

Ethan. She shifted slightly, testing for tenderness after last night. Around them, men had gone back to work, providing a screen of phone calls and clattering keyboards.

Posada tapped the newspapers with a long, callused finger. “Brought this week’s small-town and special-interest papers. This one’s the Corncobs and Cows Gazette.”

“Yes, it’s a weekly, specializing in organic farming and energy issues.”

“Ohkayy.” She eyed it again, giving it the same enthusiasm she’d offer a rotting rattlesnake.

“It has an article on how the increasing health of Texas pastures is causing sinus infections, as evidenced by the higher death rates among young women this summer,” Posada said very softly. “As further shown by their arched necks and terrified expressions.”

“One commentator to their online edition suggested those symptoms sounded more like a date rape drug and murder. He was quickly shot down. Date rape drugs weren’t used in farm towns.”

“Exactly. Even so, we’re running out of time before other media carries the story.” He paused significantly. “And the public really starts getting nervous.”

Chills shimmied over her spine. “We know single women rarely frequent bars anymore.”

“But that’s not mass hysteria,” Posada pointed out. “It’s not high school girls being forbidden to go near an ice cream parlor or young mothers letting their babies scream because they’re afraid to pick up a prescription after dark. If that happens, or worse—”

“Texas is toast,” she said flatly. And the real villain is a vampire, who you have no chance of defeating.