Bond of Fire (11 page)

Nobody knew what had become of the small British army, who’d landed in Portugal last summer and defeated its French invaders.

Or at least, he and Sara hadn’t known until this message had arrived a few minutes ago.

The last candle caught fire. It leapt high briefly before settling down, bringing a circle of surprisingly bright light into the small library.

Sara’s breath hissed out. “Oh no…”

He stiffened, wondering what she’d seen in his hair.

The front door opened and shut, slamming back into place against the bitter weather outside. Not in living memory had anyone seen such a winter.

“Sara? Jean-Marie?” Rodrigo was home at last.

Jean-Marie immediately set down his pencil and shoved back his chair.

She stared at him, her eyes wide and staring. Her hand covered her mouth for a moment before she patted him on the cheek and ran into the hallway. “We are here, dearest Rodrigo.”

Why the hell had she done that? Sara was never affectionate with him unless she hoped for sex.

In the foyer of their small town house, Sara was clasping Rodrigo fiercely, totally disregarding his snow-splattered greatcoat in a startling need for comfort. He was hugging her and crooning to her protectively. But he held out a hand to Jean-Marie, to equalize their circle as he always did.
“Mi hermano.”

He entered the embrace gladly, clinging to the only family he’d ever known. For all its faults, it was the one who’d welcomed him and sheltered him. Long minutes passed before they were gathered around the library table.

Massive shutters and heavy velvet curtains muffled the storm’s sounds, while the massive bookcases filled with gilded leather-bound books lent the conversation a spurious air of relaxation. A heavy desk offered space for writing or impressing visitors.

The fire hissed and sparked on the hearth. Given Madrid’s chaos, Rodrigo had felt it best to adopt a bourgeois level of comfort, not their usual lavish opulence.

“What does the new message from London say?” Rodrigo asked, leaning back in his chair and sipping a glass of sherry. Ever since they’d arrived in Spain, he’d taken great delight in drinking only Spanish wines, especially the finest sherries.

“Go to Galicia, in the northwest, and help the British navy supply the Galician and Asturian Juntas. There’s a big port there called…” Jean-Marie looked for the exact name.

“La Coruña, in Spanish. Or Corunna, in English,” Rodrigo supplied. A muscle ticked rapidly in his jaw.

“Correct. They want it done immediately, of course.”

“Is it ever anything else?” Sara muttered and perched on the arm of Rodrigo’s armchair.

“Has anyone picked up the other message?” Rodrigo queried.

“Where we must give the proper messenger the code book and the message?” Jean-Marie shook his head. “Nobody has arrived with the password.”

“They’ve placed a very tight lock on that one.” Rodrigo kissed Sara on the cheek and rose, drumming his fingers on a bookcase. “It must be very important.”

“Or the courier is.”

They both looked askance at her, and she shrugged. “There can be more than one explanation!”

“True, which makes it all the more vital one of us remains here in the capital to deliver it.” Rodrigo lightly slapped the table. “I will do so, and you two will go to Galicia.”

“Don’t be absurd, Rodrigo. You’re Galician. You have to go so you can speak the local language—Gallego,
oui
?—to the Galicians.”

“I will not leave you here in Madrid.”

“As a native, your
Gallego
is far better than mine.” Jean-Marie didn’t mention the years they’d used that language as a form of code. He also kept his tone level, striving to remain casual. If he let his family think about his proposal, they’d object—and they’d be the ones risking their lives, not him. He wouldn’t, couldn’t allow that.

Rodrigo hesitated. “Surely the British must arrive soon and claim their message. Perhaps if you came within a week, it would work.”

“No! Rodrigo, look at his hair!”

“What are you talking about?” Jean-Marie stared at her and started to rise.

Rodrigo’s eyes narrowed. His hand came down on Jean-Marie’s shoulder, forcing him back into his seat. He gently brushed back the strands at Jean-Marie’s temples before stepping back. His harsh features were graven harder than stone, except for a single tear touching one eye.
“Madre de Dios,”
he groaned.

“You see it, too.” Her voice was tight and hoarse.

Rodrigo nodded. “There is no doubt.”

“Will you two tell me what the hell is going on here?” Jean-Marie roared, coming out of his seat to pound on the table.

Rodrigo hitched himself onto the desk’s edge. “
Compañeros
have a long life but are not immortal.” His voice was darker than his eyes.

Jean-Marie’s stomach promptly knotted. This conversation did not sound promising.

“They can die of mortal causes, with death coming very quickly after it first approaches. You have lived for more than a century, always looking the same age you did when you first tasted Sara’s blood. Now…” He swallowed hard before continuing. “Silver touches your hair. You have very little time left.”

Jean-Marie vehemently shook his head, but Rodrigo nodded, inflexible certainty written across his face. “I am sure of this,
mi hermano.
Would that I was not!”

And Rodrigo never, never lied.

Jean-Marie turned away to the window. Dying? Dead? Surely Rodrigo must be wrong, and yet, he was growing slower, less interested in blood or carnal excitement. Were those signs his bond to Sara—and the long life he’d gained through that bond—were finally slipping away from him?

No, Rodrigo had to be wrong. He wasn’t going to die, dammit, not like this. Not when he’d dreamed for so long of outliving the war and finding Hélène d’Agelet again. He’d gone back to Sainte-Pazanne, her family home, during the false peace and learned she’d survived the first year of the Reign of Terror—but hadn’t been seen since. He’d allowed himself to hope somewhere, somehow, they’d be reunited, and this time, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to walk away from her for her own sake.

He was going to fight, even if he had to play dice with fate.

He leaned back against the shutters and studied his friend.

“How long do you think I have?”

“Based on what I learned as a sex slave in the eastern
vampiro
courts?”

“Out with it,
mon frère
.” Jean-Marie waved his hand, encouraging Rodrigo to talk.

“Three months, six at the most, if you spend the entire time in bed with a
vampiro mayor
.”

Jean-Marie grimaced despite himself.
Too damn soon. But Rodrigo had to be wrong—at least this once.

“In that case, I’m staying in Madrid.” The first necessity was to get them to safety.

“No!” they shouted in unison.

Mon Dieu
, they meant so much to him—even Sara. He couldn’t let them be trapped here, on his account. The risks were too great to chance anyone else’s life.

“Be reasonable.” He slapped his thigh, demanding they accept his logic. “If—when—the French army comes, I am a Frenchman and can be accepted as a French officer. But I can also pass muster as a Castilian.”

“Barely,” Rodrigo muttered.

“But enough—more than you can say for your grasp of French military protocol, Rodrigo. I am the only one of us who can do both. I’ll stay here and wait for that so-important British messenger.” Who would surely come soon. After all, he was supposed to have been here last week.

Rodrigo growled something under his breath but didn’t openly disagree.

“You’re the best for speaking
Gallego
to a Galician, Rodrigo. Sara will go with you.”

“Nooo,” she moaned, sinking back into her own chair. “You’re mine. I can’t let you go like this.”

“There is no other choice.”

“You could turn him into a
vampiro
, Rodrigo, or he could become your lover?”

Jean-Marie stared at her, knowing damn well his horror was more than equaled by his friend’s.

“You of all people should understand why I wish no
hijos
of my own, after how our
creador
tore our sanity apart when he gave us
El Abrazo
,” Rodrigo protested.

“You’re a far better man than he was, Rodrigo,” she countered. “Your
hijos
would be cherished and protected.”

“I will not take the chance on destroying the sanity of anyone I care about by giving them
El Abrazo
. He would be better off dead than insane for all eternity.”

“And I—while I care for Rodrigo as a brother, I do not wish him as my lover.” Jean-Marie came to stand beside him. “Even if I did, it would only gain me a few more months.” It was an easier option to refuse than Rodrigo’s vehement rejection of siring
vampiros
. Rodrigo’s
hijo
would have an eternity to find Hélène, if she still lived.

“Perhaps if you used force, Rodrigo?” Sara suggested hopefully.

“Never.”

Even Sara went no further down a path slammed shut in that tone of voice.

Rodrigo took a turn around the room before he planted his feet and faced them squarely. Jean-Marie had never seen him so stern, or look so much a leader of men.

“Very well. Sara and I will depart for Galicia. There are rumors part of Napoleon’s army is clearing the way for him to its east. After we fulfill our mission—or if we cannot because matters are in worse shape than we’ve heard—we will go to my ancestral lands in San Leandro. They are so remote, no invading army should disturb them. You can rejoin us there, a day’s walk north of Lugo, the old Roman capital.”

“I will do so.” Jean-Marie committed the names to memory. He’d leave for Galicia once he delivered the message. Even if gray hair was dangerous for him, surely nothing would change that quickly. Or if it did, he might slow it down by spending a little time—not too much, please God!—in Sara’s bed.

“We will also leave blood for you, in bottles of wine.” Rodrigo glanced down at Sara, who vigorously nodded. “A month, perhaps two months’ supply.”

“Merci bien!”
He ground his teeth at his overenthusiasm.

“It is not much, not nearly enough.” Rodrigo shrugged. “Only blood and sex with a
vampiro
would help you live longer. But there are no
vampiros
left in Madrid, its few natives having been slaughtered by the mob during the spring uprising. The closest are in Andalusia, the opposite direction from Galicia.”

“One could almost wish mobs weren’t so very prone to slaughtering
vampiros
,” Sara commented. “If even one survived, we could compel it to feed Jean-Marie.”

The intended beneficiary shuddered.

“But he’d be a most untrustworthy protector,” Rodrigo pointed out.

“True.” She sighed. “What a pity, since he makes such a deliciously scented
concubino compañero
.”

Nom de Dieu
, much as he loathed her description of himself, he had to admit she was right: He’d need to be very careful. After a century as a
compañero
, his body was very well attuned to
vampiro
blood and emotion, something
vampiros
found almost as attractive as feeding on one of themselves.

“Jean-Marie will do better relying on his wits and his speed, which are as great or greater than those of any young
vampiro
,” Rodrigo countered, “even with the French army coming back—and bringing their own
vampiros
with them.”

“I’ll watch for them,” Jean-Marie promised dryly. “And I’ll do my best to join you as quickly as possible.”

THE VALENCIA ROAD EAST OF MADRID, EARLY DECEMBER 1808

Hélène d’Agelet took another step and another, straining to lift her feet out of the mud rather than slogging through it. The weather was worse than appalling, changing from snow to rain and back again with the frequency of a drunken madman intent on causing the most misery possible. Her team had ridden mules until yesterday, horses being nearly impossible to find in this war-torn land. After painfully learning even that much wealth made them far too conspicuous, they’d chosen to walk instead, keeping only one mule for their baggage.

Snow tumbled down from the sky, promising a wretched end to a dreadful journey. She batted it off yet again from her widow’s heavy black veil, trying not to let her
vampira
strength inadvertently tear the fragile silken layers protecting her from suspicious watchers.

On every side, hordes of strangers—on foot or in carts—shoved and pushed against her, desperate to escape the victorious French. Progress was slow, motion accomplished by facing forward or edging sideways. And always fighting the smothering cloth for every breath of air.

She wanted to tear it from her face. Or fall into bed and sleep. Or simply be held in the arms of a strong man who’d loved her long and well. Not that she’d experienced that simple delight since her time with Jean-Marie St. Just.

Celeste, on the other hand, could turn ripping her veil into a seductive prelude for a good feeding, an art Hélène had never mastered. Instead, she went on prearranged rendezvous with gentlemen sent by the British Secret Service. Sometimes she even saw the same man twice, but it still seemed calculated, especially since they always watched her out of the corners of their eyes. Worried, no doubt, she might lose her temper and incinerate them.

Which was probably why the veteran spy Harry Wade was up in front with Celeste and Sir Andrew. He apparently felt his presence was necessary to make sure
la petite
’s eye-catching femininity could distract any Frenchman who might become suspicious of them.

He was not walking with her, which would have ensured the team’s “secret weapon” remained safe. As a
prosaico
, he was the only one who could protect her, since he alone could walk the streets at all hours of day or night.

Hélène sighed and reminded herself not to be jealous. She should look after her younger sister, even if she did sometimes long for the attention their
creador
seemed to shower on Celeste. Hélène had managed to survive without it, although dreams of Jean-Marie St. Just occupied far too many of her nights.