Bond of Darkness (6 page)

He turned his head sideways, trying for a little pocket of air inside the waterlogged tree branches. But he overbalanced the fragile wood and it dipped, sending his mouth into the muddy river.

He spat and choked, gasping for air, and his stomach spasmed again. Water lit a trail of flame inside his nose.

Stars spun behind his eyes, fading into blackness, while his chest's objections eased into slow flutters then stilled. The bayou had never seemed farther away.

"Man overboard!"

What? Police wouldn't be that polite.

He blinked, barely aware of the greedy river spilling over his head and shoulders. A light danced over the water and caught the tree, casting a net around him.

He'd be warm again, back in the pen. Back on Death Row.

Yeah, and they'd ask him again to be sorry for killing all those
respectable
women. Like hell. His only regret was he hadn't done it sooner. Or meaner.

Now, scarlet women—those beautiful bitches were something different and far, far better. He especially loved how the top-drawer bitches could have those high-powered SOBs pleading for a moment of their time. Hell, they were even immune from being sent to Death Row if they caused trouble.

He tried to push the tree away but it bobbed, catching his arms, dragging him down.

Water swept over him and he began to fight, thrashing, clawing, kicking, heedless of any injuries.

Suddenly, somebody caught him by the scruff of his neck and lifted him bodily from the Mississippi, as if he'd been a child. Something shifted nastily in his side and he passed out, a curse slipping from his lips.

Georges came to, stretched out on a fancy sofa in a very grand saloon. Polished brass everywhere, and teak glowing as if it wanted to be a mirror. Ducks were carved into the furniture and woven into the upholstery, yet everything was sturdy enough for a man's frame, not flimsy and stupid.

It was a rich man's palace, probably somebody who knew the governor and would start yelling as soon as they recognized him.

But how much did it really matter? His head ached, his throat was sour and sore as if he'd poured acid down it. His leg had no more feeling in it than a dead snapper. His body was icy cold, his clothes stiff against his clammy skin.

"Who is he?" a woman asked.

A woman? A
genuine
Frenchwoman? He tried to turn his head toward her voice.

"We just finished cleaning his face and don't know yet. He hasn't said anything, mademoiselle."

He managed to open his eyes just as she arrived beside him. She was a small woman, with ivory skin, raven hair, and the most superb breasts he'd ever seen, unashamedly displayed by a green silk dress which clung to her curves. She was beautiful, definitely not a respectable woman, and absolutely perfect.

"
Bon soir, ma cher madame
," he greeted her, offering her the highest accolade he could award, something he'd never willingly given another woman—the honorific of
lady
.

She smiled, red lips curving over sharp white teeth.

Lovely, truly lovely.

"
Bon soir, mon brave
," she cooed, her long black lashes magnificently framing her eyes.

She called
him
brave? Why was she being polite, let alone complimentary? Who the hell cared, when he felt like he could tap dance across the Mississippi?

A long shadow fell over them. A tall, blond man was watching him, his good looks insufficient to mask his deadly calculations. Two more men stood beside him, one an impassive dandy with the lightly balanced stance of an experienced knife fighter.

The third was the most dangerous. Massively built, his hooded gaze, crooked nose, and scarred face bore witness to the deadly fights he'd already won.

"Georges Devol," the blond announced flatly.

"The Bayou Butcher?" the lady squealed.

Damn. Now she'd run. He kept his eyes fixed on the men but couldn't stop stealing quick glances at her.

"Are you sure?" the big man asked.

"Look at him. Average features, average coloring, but very strong. The perfect camouflage for murdering thirteen women, the officers and board of St. Mary's Orphanage."

All of those bitches had been liars and worse, pretending they knew nothing of the goings on there. The boys and girls used for slave labor, or worse, raped night after night in their beds. And every month, those respectable vouduns had visited the orphanage for their fine luncheon, smiled at the children—while ignoring their bruises!—and left.

Georges kept his mouth shut. Talking had never helped, not from the day he'd been born at St. Mary's. But killing those female hypocrites had made him feel a damn sight better.

He concentrated on breathing slowly and pushing back the pain. The longer he lived, the better chance he had of escaping.

A woman's slender fingers curved over his wrist. His eyes shot up to her face, startled.

She smiled down at him, her small red tongue teasing her lips. "You'd fight that hard for me, too, wouldn't you?"

"I'd do anything for you,
cher
," he assured her fervently. Unlike most Cajun men who used the phrase freely, he'd never called a woman sweet before. But she was finer than whiskey or honey. Perhaps there truly was a God, to have allowed him to meet her.

"You wonderful man." She sank down onto the sofa beside him, still holding his hand.

"Get away from him, mademoiselle," the blond ordered.

"No." Her retort was machine-gun sharp. "He'll be my first hijo."

"The Bayou Butcher? The man who tied up thirteen women, one by one, and raped half of them?"

She'd shocked the knife-fighter out of his stillness.

"Before poisoning them all with strychnine, one after the other—and drinking champagne while he watched them die? Ten to twenty minutes each of agonizing pain, while the woman's every muscle separately locked into rigor mortis.
¡Chingado
!" The scarred brute looked angry enough to take revenge for their deaths here and now.

The scarred brute grabbed for Georges' throat, moving faster than a swinging scythe.

Despite himself, Georges flinched, as he never had in Angola.

"Don't touch him!" the lady snapped, holding up her hand. "You can't have him, since I've already taken hold of him."

"He should be executed for murder, Celeste!" The big man's fingers tensed again. "You cannot be so reckless as to claim somebody like him."

"A most creative and sadistic killer,
oui
?" she purred and scraped her teeth over Georges's hand. A thin line of crimson sprang up in response, as if begging for her.

She began to lick him delicately, her tongue digging at him, delving into his sweat and his flesh, making him want to give more. Anything, everything.

He moaned softly, warmth building wherever she touched. Joy flickered over his skin and danced through his blood.

Her fingers fondled his hip, despite the reeking river bottom mud which enveloped him. None of the partners he'd sought oblivion with, had ever cherished him like that.

He didn't know everything involved but if it included her and not Angola's Death Row, he'd agree in a heartbeat.

"Celeste!" the big man snapped.

She stopped slowly, even reluctantly, and looked up.

"Celeste, he's a murderer," the big man warned.

She shrugged. "But he'll be
my
murderer."

Horror swept over the other's face and Georges hid his grin, enjoying his strengthening heartbeat, and watched his lady trample society's conventions.

"The perfect weapon, since he has no morals to stop him from doing exactly what I want." Celeste glanced back at him. "Isn't that right,
mon brave
?"

Do anything she wanted, in exchange for being her idea of perfection? His cock swelled, flaunting his masculine triumph. "Oh yes," he whispered.

Her tongue started sweeping over his wrist again, melding her saliva with his blood, driving Georges slowly insane. He made a rude gesture at the big blond, who had to live around a moralizing bastard.

The other flushed and took a step forward, reaching for his weapon. An abrupt gesture from his master halted him.

"I can't take him away from you, Celeste, since you've already sealed your claim by drinking his blood," the senior man warned, his deep voice rumbling through the saloon and making the guards even more alert. "But I ask you to think again before you give him El Abrazo."

"Oh, I know exactly what will happen, Don Rafael." She smiled blissfully, kissed her fingertips, and brushed them against the bruise on Georges's temple.

His eyes turned to slits in pleasure at her open claim.

The blond all but hissed.

"He'll be the best alferez mayor in North America."

Whatever that meant, he'd do it for her, better than any other man in the world.

SOUTH WEST TEXAS, FIFTY MILES FROM THE MEXICAN BORDER, APRIL, PRESENT DAY

Steve Reynolds pulled her Expedition to a stop, flicked her turn signal on, and waited patiently for a count of three. She was well aware nobody could see the black beast at this time of night, even under a nearly full moon. She might not be able to bake a cake or clean candle wax from a tablecloth, but she could drive a cop car damn well. When no other vehicles passed by, she decorously turned left onto Avenida dos Lagartos and headed back to Gilbert's Crossing.

The state road led through nameless mountains, following an ancient riverbed filled with scattered boulders and sand. Limestone bluffs towered overhead, with century plants' tall spikes protruding like sentries. Almost two centuries ago, her ancestors had served in the Rangers along this border.

She'd first met Ethan Templeton on a night like this, when she'd pulled his black pickup over for speeding. He'd been handsome as a dream of sin, too, and just as irresistible.

Humming between her teeth, Steve automatically lined up for another tight turn. Half an hour ago, she might have tried to cut the corner a bit or push the speed limit in hopes of making one of her rare dinner invitations. But fifteen years as a cop, including all those as a state trooper, had taught her both the benefits of driving well—and the penalties of driving recklessly.

She still hated to have missed it. She'd have enjoyed drinking margaritas and watching Fred drive off to a lifetime of guarding Chihuahuas for the bottle blonde he'd married. Yappy little dogs, just like their mistress, that gave him no chance of ever having his own child.

Served him right, the bastard. Steve had dreamed of being a twenty-first century Donna Reed, thought his big family and steady job qualified him as a great husband. Shit, she'd even been willing to talk to counselors about their endless arguments when she wasn't around to do the things he demanded, like smile at prospective clients. But she wasn't about to put up with a third party in their marriage, least of all somebody like that bitch.

Her foot sank a little harder onto the accelerator.

An instant later, she emerged into a broad plain, its thousands of cacti shimmering in the moonlight like rifles at an assassins' convention. Another range of mountains offered their dark canyons and promontories a few miles ahead.