Bond of Fire (32 page)

Mierda
, he’d always been caught by her wisdom, whether it came seven hundred years ago from Blanche’s throat or now from Grania.

You may have a point
, he conceded grudgingly. He wasn’t sure where she was going with that observation. He already knew better than to use their
conyugal
bond to discover things she hadn’t offered.
What do you suggest I do?

Invite her here for a glass of sherry, so I can meet her.

No!
he thundered.

She winced and raised an eyebrow.

A thousand pardons
, luz de mi vida. He kissed her fingertips one by one until she smiled at him again. He took her to the leather sofa and held hands with her, a pose in which civilized behavior would hopefully come more instinctively.

What if I am right and she is a dangerous weapon?

How many
mesnaderos
do you have? How many cameras, hidden weapons—and fire extinguishers? Surely she can’t cause any trouble here
, Grania countered.
Trust Ethan and Luis to arrange everything.

Rafael fumed, unable yet again to find a hole in her logic.

Mi amor,
I alone have no preconceived ideas of her, unlike you and Jean-Marie. You know I have years of experience meeting people at academic cocktail parties. Let me have an hour to form an opinion, as an impartial judge. With you and Jean-Marie present, of course.

You ask for the world.
He filled his eyes with her.
To risk you, even for that long…

Then do not.
She brought his hands up to her cheek.
Teach me how to shapeshift into mist, which should be enough protection.

He froze, his fingers tangled in the silk of her hair. The idea could work. He was a fast enough shapeshifter even a firestarter probably couldn’t kill him. A
cónyuge
could teach their beloved through the
conyugal
link how to shift into a new shape. If he gave Grania his own ability to shift into mist, even Hélène d’Agelet shouldn’t be able to kill her.

Dios
, how he truly hoped Jean-Marie hadn’t lost his heart to a conniving bitch.

Very well, we’ll invite Jean-Marie and his lady here for a civilized glass of sherry. Ethan and Luis will protect Compostela more thoroughly than when Madame Celeste visited
, he gritted, yielding as gracefully as possible.

And my beloved will show me what’s in the secret package from Paris, yes?
Grania’s voice was sweeter than honey.

His gaze shot back to her face.

She peeped up at him through her lashes. It had been one of Blanche’s most endearing tricks whenever she’d wished to escape court politics for the privacy of their rooms.
La doctora
had never before displayed any of Blanche’s flirtatious mannerisms.

Rafael’s heart turned over, and his cock surged in response to her invitation.

Everything shall be as my lady wishes
, he responded in mock obedience and swept her up in his arms.

She giggled, just a little, and wrapped her arms around his neck. They kissed enthusiastically, while he commanded the war to mind itself for the rest of the night. Having regained his lady, he would not permit anything to come between the two of them again.

Hélène snuggled closer into the comfort of Jean-Marie’s arms in the roadhouse’s back booth. He slid a fresh Corona over to her and kissed the top of her head, casting a possessive glance around the bar.

The frowns subsided but didn’t quite disappear. She ran a fingernail down her longneck bottle of beer and wondered just what was going on here.

Elmer’s Roadhouse served “the best BBQ this side of the Colorado River” and “more beers than anywhere else in Austin.” It was a sturdy wooden building, built years ago for function more than looks, and adorned with menus from years gone by. Most of those still seemed to apply except for minor changes in price, judging by the complex spice aromas wafting through the hall and the many meats available—beef, chicken, pork, innumerable sausages, bison, goat…

Goat? She shook her head at Texan tastes.

It also boasted of superb desserts, and the patrons argued over those far more than which meat to choose. At least on the roadhouse’s respectable side.

The other side was devoted to the bar and its accompanying dance floor. Booths and hordes of cheap tables and chairs provided seating, clearly designed to be easily replaced after a fight. The wall behind the bar was covered with a collection of empty beer bottles, dating back more than eighty years, and backlit to look like stained glass.

The band rejoiced in the safety of its chicken wire screen, which was currently clean although fragrant with beer and tomatoes to her
vampira
nose. During a break, large monitors in the room’s corners showed sports games or news broadcasts.

It would have been cozy, with its few ceiling fans patting the air, except for its patrons. For a Saturday night at 11 p.m., there wasn’t a drunk to be seen. Even stranger, everybody in sight looked sober. The most popular dances were line dances, where everyone danced in rows without searching out partners—and nobody was alone.

“We’re invited to Compostela for sherry tomorrow night,” Jean-Marie drawled, slowly turning his bottle of Shiner Bock beer.

“Sherry? To drink
copitas
of sherry?” Hélène blinked at him. “Isn’t that very civilized?”

“Do you doubt Texans can be polished?”

She blushed. “Well, I, uh…”

“Hmm?” He rubbed her shoulder, his eyes twinkling.

How could she tell him the invitation had unified her two worlds for a moment—the rougher world of action she enjoyed with him and the urbane formalities of peacetime life?

“For a moment, I’d envisioned cocktail parties with Oxford dons, where one drank not particularly good wine but enjoyed excellent conversation.”

“I can promise you excellent wine, from the best wineglasses—a Riedel’s Sommeliers’ sherry
copita
, if you’d prefer?—and pleasant discourse on a range of topics.” Jean-Marie’s voice was overly casual, while his eyes offered wry understanding of her shock. “A variety of sherries to choose from, of course—Manzanilla, Fino, Amontillado…”

“And all from the best
bodegas
?” she queried, regaining her footing amid the language of wine connoisseurs. If she was to drink out of a glass made from over twenty-four percent lead crystal, the sherry itself had to be the very best.

“But of course!” His shoulders lifted in a very Gallic shrug, finished by a swig from his bottle. Through their
conyugal
bond, she, too, could savor the darker taste of his beer. From the largest independent brewery in Texas—in utter contrast to his fine talk of a sherry tasting party.

“I could give Don Rafael the photograph from the New Orleans Mardi Gras at the same time.”

“An excellent idea.” Jean-Marie nodded agreement. “It would certainly prove you come with good intentions.”

The dancers stomped and twisted, advancing and retreating across the floor, every woman within easy reach of another.

Hélène was seriously tempted by Don Rafael’s offer. She could wear something very ladylike—nothing seductive or too businesslike. Her green-and-white Oscar de la Renta dress with the matching green silk cardigan should be perfect. It would give her the chance to convince Don Rafael that she was a person who could be trusted, not the living equivalent of a nuclear bomb.

But
sherry
? Mint juleps or whisky she could have understood. Or playing poker or billiards. But not something as extremely polite and associated with the academic world as a fortified wine from Spain. She needed to know more.

“Did he come up with the idea?”

Jean-Marie glanced over at her. “
Doña
Grania asked to meet you.”

If anything, Hélène’s jaw dropped even farther than it had when she’d first heard the invitation.

Don Rafael, the brutal warrior who’d threatened her with death because she’d been forced into knowledge of
vampiros
—was now willing to let her come close to his most precious treasure, his
cónyuge
? Incredible!

For him to meet her in a neutral setting would have been declaring his trust in Jean-Marie’s judgment of her as a reasonable being. For him to yield his prerogative and let his
patrona
choose what risks to take—
Doña
Grania must indeed be an amazing woman to inspire such confidence.

And his
patrona
had chosen to exert her influence on Hélène’s behalf. Or more likely, on Jean-Marie’s.

Hélène shivered slightly, her chest very tight.

“I’ll be honored to accept.” She had to clear her throat before she could continue. “I’d like to meet
Doña
Grania. She’s a veterinarian, isn’t she?”

“A wildlife veterinarian, specializing in owls and other raptors.”

“Like eagles and hawks? If she taught him how to shift into those birds during duels…”

Jean-Marie’s mouth twitched.

“She has?” Hélène sighed enviously. “I wish I knew more shapes. All I can manage is to shift into mist and some birds.”

“The British never gave you anything else, not even a wolf to use during a retreat?” Jean-Marie’s eyes narrowed.

“No, they said it was too dangerous to let me shapeshift, too. It’s too easy to be separated during a retreat.”
Instead I held them back and they paid in blood. Dear God, how they paid to keep me safe.

“Fools. Twice-damned fools.” He signaled a waitress far too abruptly.

“But I’m here with you, because of their care.” She turned back to face him, touched by his concern.

“Or despite it,” he growled. “If you ever had to run for your life from a fire…”

Her heart clenched at his understanding of the risks she’d faced. She kissed his cheek, snuggling against him.

“If I meet any of them, I’ll kill him,” he muttered under his breath and wrapped his arms around her.

She pretended not to hear him and slid her hand up his arm.
The crowd here looks calm. Can we go home now?

Did you see anybody else in the restroom who was alone?
Jean-Marie asked.

No, I was the only single woman. The other women in there were all in pairs, who were clearly watching out for each other.

Same here in the bar. They won’t pick up men unless they can stay together—and Elmer’s bar is one of the biggest pickup joints on this side of town.
He surveyed the room, his jaw setting hard.
Shit
, he hissed.

Even so, it’s still quiet here.
She nuzzled him behind his ear encouragingly. And that appalling phone of his hadn’t rung for the past couple of days.
We’re only supposed to stay until ten…

When the nightly news comes on, since they may have sources I don’t.
He suddenly seemed to have far more lines in his face.
I won’t turn my phone off when we leave.

His blue eyes were as unyielding as a glacier.

Of course not.
She held up her hand in surrender, agreeing she hadn’t expected him to do that. He’d fulfill his obligations to Don Rafael until he died, no matter what the cost.

He kissed her fingertips, his face softening a bit.

The dancers stomped to a close and spilled off the dance floor. The band gathered up their instruments and quickly disappeared through a hidden door. The TV sets immediately sprang to life above the crowd, racing through ads for any kind of feed, equipment, or clothing a farmer might need.

Ignoring the staccato patter, Hélène slid out of the bar and took Jean-Marie’s hand. They started filing out with the others, squeezing between tables and chairs, starting and stopping when people stood up or said good-bye. Others chattered of the day’s gossip or the night’s plans, or just held on to each other. The stale aromas of sweat and beer filled the air, underlaid with a nameless fear’s sour edge.

Jean-Marie pulled Hélène closer against him, his breath very warm on her neck and his body pressed protectively close.

The TV sets shifted gears, the news broadcast’s opening bells sounding like the warning of a village’s tocsin bell.

“We open with this tragic story from Uriah, a few miles outside of Dallas, where tonight one child and two adults were killed at the famous Uriah Pro Rodeo, when bulls stampeded into the stands,” the announcer’s rich voice cut in, sounding surprisingly unsteady. An instant later, women and children’s tinned screams filled the hall, mixed with men’s shouts and animals’ bellows.

The entire crowd stopped in their tracks and stared at the horrific scene being reenacted.

An enormous bull had leapt into the stands and was storming along the aisles, trampling or tossing aside any panicked spectators who couldn’t escape him. Casually dressed people in Western wear were running before him, leaping over seats, or standing in place—but always screaming. And far, far too many of them were children, battered, bloody, and small.

Hélène’s head didn’t seem to be connected very well to her body. Jean-Marie’s arm was an iron bar around her waist, the only thing holding her up.

“Oh my God,” a woman whispered in Elmer’s bar. “I grew up going to the Uriah Rodeo.” Her voice broke, and she bolted for the restroom. A woman whimpered, while a man began to curse without being reproved.

Bulls raced around the Uriah Rodeo’s ring, doing their best to attack the cowboys and men chasing them. “At least twenty people are in critical care at local hospitals,” the announcer continued, before his voice was drowned out by sobs and comments on the carnage.

Jean-Marie started shoving their way through the crowd, making a bare pretense of politeness.

Why? Who could have started it?
Hélène whispered.
Bulls, especially so many, don’t get out of their pens on their own. They must have had help.
She suspected she’d relive in her nightmares the bull charging up the central aisle toward the little boy.