Bond of Fire (20 page)

“Not yet.” He tore open his cravat, the broken linen sounding like a gunshot. Buttons popped on his coat and waistcoat.

“Every minute counts.” Jean-Marie’s voice strengthened into a lecture.

“So does your life. Where’s Sara?”

Jean-Marie tilted his head slightly, indicating a corner of the landing.

Dios!
White silk lay across a pair of the largest, most heavily armed soldiers, as if preventing them from attacking.

“She killed many of them…But the last one shot her in the heart, and she turned into dust. I will have to thank her for sacrificing herself for me.”

She’d finally given back something to Jean-Marie, in recompense for the life she’d stolen from him? He would have to say the Viddui for her, the traditional prayer her Jewish people said at the time of death. Thank God, she’d found that much grace to light her way home to her people and to Heaven.
Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One…

“Not in heaven,
amigo
. You’re about to become a
vampiro
.” Rodrigo tugged his cravat and coat away from his neck, baring his throat. Blood from his jugular was the richest, giving it the best chance of saving Jean-Marie’s life.
Gracias a Dios
, he’d fed so well for the past few days. He had more than enough strength for this—and to meet other trials.

“It’s too late—I’m dying. They gutted me.”

“All the better,” Rodrigo assured him, infusing his voice with a confidence he didn’t entirely feel. “The weaker you are, the faster the
vampiro
elixir will seize you and heal your wounds.”

Jean-Marie’s gaze sharpened. “I’ll kill more Imperial bastards.”

“Exactly! Now center your mind on a single thought.” The eastern courts always said there were two keys to
cachorro
survival: willingness to become a
vampiro
and concentration on a single thought during
El Abrazo.
God send they were right.

“Hélène at Versailles, the first time I saw her and blazing like a star under the candles, in the mirrors’ reflections.” Jean-Marie smiled beatifically, his gaze turned somewhere Rodrigo couldn’t follow.

“Perfect.” At least his old friend was focused. “Are you still certain? You could go insane or die when you awake.”

“Don’t be a damn fool,” Jean-Marie snapped, glaring at him. “I will serve you with all my heart when I awaken.”

Rodrigo smiled humorlessly, wishing he’d done this once before—so he could be certain that Jean-Marie would awake the next night, not too appallingly insane. But all was in God’s hands. If Jean-Marie was to live, he needed to become Rodrigo’s
hijo
.

By all the Saints, Rodrigo would be the finest
creador
ever known, to protect his best friend.

He lightly touched Jean-Marie’s mind, washing away the pain but not reading any of the memories. Rodrigo gently carried Jean-Marie into his bedroom, setting him down on the bed that had been prepared for him so long ago. He lay down beside him and drew him close, his heart beating faster than the first time he’d ridden into combat.

Dios mediante
, this would work.

“Thank you for granting me
El Abrazo
, Rodrigo.” Jean-Marie smiled at him, his blue eyes completely untroubled in the scant light from the hallway.

His breathing ground to a halt.
Thanks?
For the first time, he truly believed his oldest friend was at peace with what was to come.

“Mi amigo.”
He stroked Jean-Marie’s cheek—and slashed open his jugular.

Jean-Marie feebly lunged for it, his gaze avid.

“Think of your lady,
mi hijo
!” Rodrigo commanded and lifted his friend’s head onto his shoulder. Jean-Marie’s mouth clamped down on Rodrigo’s neck and sucked fiercely.

Rodrigo cradled him close, praying to the Blessed Mother he’d survive.

And San Leandro would not be too greatly injured when he reached it…

Luis tested his bonds once again, tears and blood caked on his face. He was tied to one of the pillars inside the church, where the French had tried to make him tell where the town’s treasure was. But there was no gold in San Leandro, and they’d soon used Luis only for sport.
Dios
, what they’d done to his hands—the pain burned through his arms and into his lungs until he could no longer control his screams.

He could have forgiven them that, just as he could have forgiven them eating every scrap of food to be found—and drinking every drop of wine. But if they’d been beasts before, the wine had made them a hundred times worse. They’d hunted and stolen every chalice, every plate, every gift given to the church over the centuries.

He could have ignored that, too—but not what they were doing to his people. Not what his eyes and ears and nose told him.

Howls of agony tore at his ears, and the church reeked of foulness. Torches shook in the drafts, while candles burned and wept in their sconces.

The French bastards were raping every woman in town, even using the high altar to defile the nuns. Many of the men were dead, starting with
Tío Carlos
, and the others were either bound or broken. Emilio had been shot down for bravely—futilely—trying to protect his wife. Sweet Ana had been slaughtered before Luis’s eyes, the last of his beautiful darlings to die. Beatriz, Inez, Bianca, Ana—all dying in agony and horror, the sights and sounds and stench burned into his memory.

Damn the French bastards, damn them! No matter what it took, or how long it took, he would find revenge. There would be no peace for him as long as he remembered his darlings’ murders.

He clenched his fists, sending bone grinding against bone. He flung his head back and howled in frustration.

The soldiers were so damn confident now that they’d laid aside their weapons. Some were laughing almost continuously while they drank and urged each other on. If he had his pitchfork—or his scythe, which he’d sharpened yesterday—he could destroy many of them. If, if, if…

Luis wasn’t sure he still believed in miracles, but he knew mortal men could offer them no aid. The church was dedicated to San Rafael Arcángel, patron saint of travelers and healers. Perhaps the archangel would send a traveler to cleanse his church and heal them.

Behind him, tied to the other side of the same pillar, he could hear the Irish priest praying continuously in his own language, his voice harsh from hard usage.

The great tocsin bell rang, probably because the soldiers were mocking it again. A woman screamed, only to be cut off abruptly.

The great doors slammed open, reverberating against the wall. Cold air washed through the room, bringing the forest’s crisp scent. A man roared in fury.

Luis’s eyes flashed open, allowing him to once again witness what was happening.

A tall man stood in the church door, his broad shoulders and swirling cape blocking sight of the plaza beyond. He carried a great sword in his hands—and his harsh features were those of the knight awaited by
Doña
Blanche.

The soldiers gawked at him. Someone snickered. None bothered to leave their perversions.

“By all that is holy, you shall not foul this church,” the knight shouted. He leapt forward, swinging his sword as if it were a featherweight—and beheaded the rapist closest to the door. In the same superbly smooth move, he killed a second Frenchman—and a third.

“Santiago y cierra España!”
He bellowed the Knights of Santiago’s ancient battle cry: St. James and close in Spain! He contemptuously kicked one brute so hard that he flew off Ana’s best friend and slammed against a wall, never to move again.

Luis echoed his rescuer in the war-cry that had terrified invaders for centuries, giving all the support he could. Other villagers lifted their voices, even a few women.

Gracias a Dios
, Don Rodrigo—or his near kin—had returned to save them in their hour of greatest need, even as the legend foretold.

Luis laughed mirthlessly for not previously realizing the mysterious newcomer was their long-awaited paladin. But perhaps his foolish eyes had needed the flashing sword to melt the scales.

Time slowed to a crawl—or did Don Rodrigo move so quickly the soldiers couldn’t move fast enough to harm him? Their drunkenness and lack of loaded guns left them clumsy and vulnerable, falling to Don Rodrigo all too easily despite their greater numbers. None could do more than stagger to his feet and point an unloaded weapon before he too was slain.

Was Don Rodrigo a magical being or a mortal man? Who cared? Not when he walked safely in church and fought to cleanse it from its desecrators.

Luis’s hands closed, disregarding any agony. Here at last was a fighter, someone to follow—unlike their absent grandee or their dithering—and now dead—
alcalde
.

Jean-Marie’s heartbeat throbbed again, faint but very steady.
Gracias a Dios
, the
vampiro
elixir had taken him. He was fast asleep, and his wounds had already started to heal. With luck, he would awaken tonight with some trace of sanity besides the lust for blood and emotion.

Rodrigo stood up and stretched, relieving the aches caused by his cramped position. Measuring a pulse took unusually long when it was measured in beats per hour, not per minute.

Here at his house, he’d scattered Sara’s few ashes in the sleeping rose garden and prayed for her. She’d ruined Jean-Marie’s life when she’d grabbed him away from his role as prince of the Blood—but he’d never have met his Hélène if she hadn’t. And at the end, she’d fought to save him. God knows, she’d done much to save Rodrigo’s life time after time.
Sabe Dios
, she’d found peace at last.

He sighed and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. It was time to go downstairs and help his own household.

Jean-Marie had not yet awoken as a
cachorro
, of course, but he should do so tonight. Rodrigo would be there to greet him—and give him that all-important first taste of blood and emotion. The emotion for which he would hunger as a
vampiro
. It would not be terror, the powerful—and all-too-typical—emotion that sustained most
vampiros
. No, it would be carnal passion, equally strong but far harder to create and sustain in pure form when faced with a crazed
cachorro
who wanted only to feed.

As for himself—when he’d heard the screams and realized last night what those
hijos de la gran puta
were doing—
Santa Madre de Dios
, in the church!—all he’d wanted to do was kill. And so he had.

He’d destroyed every one of those foul brutes. The smoke carrying their ashes to Heaven teased his nostrils now, even though it was distant and well disguised by fragrant pine boughs. He’d suggested the locals dispose of their remains on a single pyre, since the ground was frozen iron-hard. It would be difficult enough to provide proper burials for their own beloved dead—like Luis Alvarez’s ladies.

He pounded his fist into his palm, wishing yet again he could have stopped the attack from happening. An impossibility since he was not the local grandee—but he was a trained warrior and a leader! He could have kept the French out and could still prevent them from returning, if San Leandro wished to fight. Because the French would be back, bringing the same flood of terror they’d perfected in the Vendée to terrify innocent people into cooperating with tyrants.

Yet it was entirely likely that the good people of San Leandro would believe
he
was the monster and refuse to listen to him, given the unnatural speed and strength with which he’d destroyed the foreign despoilers.
¡Ay, mierda!

At least he’d killed every one of the French soldiers last night. It wouldn’t bring back San Leandro’s dead or dry the survivors’ tears. But he had bought them some time to find a new leader, since their
alcalde
was dead. He’d also helped clean up and comforted the injured as much as he could, including the women.

He ground his teeth, biting back a snarl. Nobody would hurt those people again, not while he was around—even if he had to sneak around in the dark.

The doorbell rang, a surprisingly polite interruption in the bloodstained foyer.

Rodrigo’s eyebrows rose, but he opened the door without waiting for his servants.

A careworn Father Michael touched his hat in greeting. A young boy hovered behind him, holding a mule’s reins. What on earth was the priest doing here, when he must have a thousand things to do in town after last night’s tragedy?

“Welcome to my home, Father.” Rodrigo bowed formally, careful to mask his surprise. “Please come inside where it is warm. Your servant can take the mule around to the back, where there is refreshment for both.”

“Good day, my son.” The good priest seemed to have aged a decade in one night, which wasn’t surprising. He nodded to his servant and followed Rodrigo inside, his expression calm.

“Would you care for coffee, wine, or other refreshments?” He led the way into the formal sitting room, furnished with the same music-box gilded extravagance of everything else in the house.

“No, thank you. I came to talk to you.” He took a seat, glancing around with a connoisseur’s eye.

Rodrigo waited, curious—and a little concerned. Had he displayed so much of the
vampiro
that he’d frightened the priest? But he’d only done so to protect the people!

A brook sang from within the forest. Peace settled into the room.

“I came to thank you for aiding my people last night,” Father Michael said finally, looking straight at his host. “You rescued them when no one else could.”

Rodrigo bowed, his throat very tight at the unexpected—and complete—acceptance. “I am honored to have been of service, Father.”

“If there is anything I can do to help you, in this world or the next, you have only to ask, my son.” Gray eyes, startlingly perceptive as ever, watched him—demanding nothing.

Rodrigo swallowed. How could he ask for what he’d never been able to voice even to himself?