Bond of Fire (33 page)

He gave her a quick look of mingled sorrow and frustration.
Who do you think?

No…
She slowed, dragging her feet.

See the cowboy over by the bull pen? That’s Devol, Madame Celeste’s
alferez mayor
—the most soulless enforcer in North America.

You’re seeing phantoms, just because you’re in a war with her
, Helene retorted instinctively.

Behind her, a woman pointed a finger at the monitor. “See him, Madge? That’s the guy I told you about—the fellow we saw yanking the girl out of the New Orleans casino, the brute who the police wouldn’t even question. What’s he doing in the ring at a Texas rodeo?”

Oh no…

Only Madame Celeste would deliberately stampede bulls at a rodeo
, Jean-Marie said viciously and slammed into the door, breaking them free into the Texas night.

“That’s nonsense!” Hélène spun to face him beside his motorcycle, parked at the edge of the parking lot near the hillside’s oak trees. It was an excellent spot for a quiet rendezvous between
vampiros
, should Don Rafael need to send him a message.

He began to yank their helmets out of the saddlebags.

A chill ran down her spine.

“My sister is not a callous murderer!” Not her, never
la petite
.

“She is fighting a war with us. Does anyone else have equally good motivation?”

Hélène stopped, unable to counter his reasoning. “That’s ridiculous,” she said automatically, her fingers fumbling on her helmet’s chin strap.

“And the New Orleans pit boss? You must know Madame Celeste runs the largest, shadiest casino in New Orleans.” Jean-Marie tossed her a helmet.

“Who cares if one of her employees gets nasty on his weekend off?” She kept her chin up, refusing to back down.

“Hélène!” He glared at her and yanked off his helmet an instant after he’d fastened it. The
conyugal
bond, which had always hummed with warmth even when they weren’t talking, began to turn chilly. “Do you honestly believe a
patrona
’s enforcer would dare to cause this much trouble without permission?”

She stiffened, the icy logic ringing all too true.

“This makes her an accomplice in the murder of one child and two adults, plus who knows how many more will die. Do you believe she’s completely innocent?”

Hélène closed her eyes for a moment, thinking back to all she’d heard in London of the war between Texas and New Orleans. Remembering all she’d known, while growing up, of her little sister’s sheer determination to obtain what she wanted. And yet…

And yet there was also baby Celeste, the infant who’d come after her parents had buried so many other little ones. The adorable child with great dark eyes who’d made slaves of everyone who saw her, who’d cooed and gurgled so sweetly. The laughing playmate and companion who could bargain for an hour to obtain the best silk for her new party dress.

Determined? Yes. Completely evil? No!

“I believe my sister could authorize such an attack as a stratagem of war. I cannot believe she’d deliberately have children killed.”

“Hélène!” Anguish and frustration raged through Jean-Marie’s voice.

“At least let me talk to her first.” She flinched, his pain cutting her to the bone—but she would not, could not, back down.

“No, Hélène, no.” He grasped her by the shoulders, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Can’t you see? She’s a coldhearted bitch who can’t be allowed to live.”

“Allowed to live?” Hélène violently shook herself away from him. A spasm of grief twisted his features before his hands dropped away. “I don’t believe she’s worthy of death. Certainly not on your word alone.”

“Wasn’t that video enough?” He shoved his hand through his hair.

“Never.” She flung out her hands. “I’d have to hear it from her mouth first.”

“I can’t wait that long.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Not when children are dying.”

Her stomach suddenly started to somersault like a dying satellite. “What do you mean?”

“Her death is the only way to end this war.”

“You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

She read the answer in his somber face before he spoke. “Yes, I would, especially because I’m probably the only one who can get close enough to her. I’m Don Rafael’s eldest
hijo
, which makes me the strongest. Devol will watch Ethan very closely because they’re both enforcers. He won’t expect me to move against her since I’m younger than she is. I’m just a
heraldo
so I’m the freest to act, since I’m not supposed to be a threat.”

Chills were running up and down her spine, making her teeth chatter on a very hot and humid night.

“If you kill my sister, we will have no future!”

“If she kills my family, how can I live with myself?” he countered, a pulse ticking in his jaw.

“Then we are not
cónyuges
.” She threw the helmet at him and turned away, half-blinded by tears. What good was falling in love when your beloved destroyed everything you treasured?

“Where are you going, Hélène?” His beautiful voice was ravaged by far too much control.

“To New Orleans and my sister’s house.” With luck, her presence would keep Jean-Marie from destroying Celeste. Maybe.

For a Sunday night in a popular travel destination, New Orleans didn’t have many tourists. And Hélène’s heart still lacked the warm reassurance of her
cónyuge
’s presence, just as it had ever since she’d left him in Texas.

Her throat tightened.

She reminded herself she was viewing the Crescent City’s beauties undisturbed: the patient mules of the French quarter and their jaunty straw hats; the cathedral’s silvery-blue bulk like an invitation to enter another world; the innumerable flourishes of wrought-iron, as if a city playing dice with a swamp needed to somehow remind itself of solidity, however unique; the broad white smiles of its residents, of every creed and race…

But there should have been more smiles, just as there should have been more tourists to distribute largesse and evoke those happy beams. But there wasn’t, at least not from where she stood outside a deserted coffeehouse.

Instead there were half-empty boulevards and echoing alleys, where sheets of newsprint whispered about dead women and police task forces. Pairs of policemen, in a variety of uniforms, were never far from sight on the main streets, in between the scents of fried oysters, cheap rum, and stale river water. The few people who strode the sidewalks did so briefly and with purpose. But the cars and taxis were very, very busy, flitting from building to building, ignoring streetlights, and dodging near disaster sometimes by less than an inch.

A steady stream of them disgorged their gaudily dressed passengers at Bacchus’s Temple, the largest casino in New Orleans. It was located on the edge of the Warehouse District, halfway between a burst of rigid modern high-rises and the French Quarter’s ancient cobblestones. Gaudy in its purple and gold, the four-story building was a lavish recreation of an ancient Roman temple, complete down to a great, semicircular portico with columns that covered the entire front. It was designed to attract both attention and awe, while inviting onlookers to enter.

And all Hélène wanted to do was run back to Jean-Marie’s garden and hurl herself into his arms. The man she loved. The man who planned to kill her sister.

Not walk into there and face a woman she hadn’t seen for centuries, no matter what name they shared. A
patrona
who was whispered about even in Europe, and not kindly.

Surely Jean-Marie had to be wrong, just a little. Just enough for there to be something of
la petite
left inside
la patrona
, someone she could appeal to, negotiate with, stop the war.

After all, the same blood flowed in both their veins. They were Sainte-Pazannes, of the oldest nobility in France and they didn’t know how to lose.

She drew herself up proudly and shook her hair out. A streetlamp flashed on it and reflected off a window, catching her eye. Its reflection’s golden sliver slid off peeling black letters into the gloom and disappeared into an alley, startling a cat. The feline hissed a warning and leapt away.

Hélène shivered involuntarily before telling herself not to be a fool. If she’d turned back before every mission when she’d been nervous, she’d never have been a spy. She shook herself firmly and set out across the street, her very simple, black silk Vera Wang dress floating behind her.

One day, she would hold hands again with Jean-Marie, her
cónyuge
, her heart. She had to—or life would not be worth living.

The so-called security guards at the door were
vampiros
, making her raise an eyebrow at that bit of blatant caution. For an inner sanctum, yes—but on a public street? Did Celeste honestly believe
prosaicos
would never learn there were
vampiros
?

She tut-tutted privately but didn’t overtly acknowledge them. Let Celeste or her minions make the first move. The fact they didn’t made the hair prickle on the back of her neck.

Hélène had to admit her familiarity with casinos was limited to a few in Europe and those in the movies. Even so, Bacchus’s Temple seemed extremely ornate and loud. Purple and green were emblazoned across every surface, while every edge and curve seemed to be gilded. Lights streamed across the ceiling in myriad patterns, while crystal chandeliers competed over which could be the most blindingly tawdry. Closely packed banks of narrow machines flashed, beeped, and screamed, according to their mood, while people stared deep into their bowels. Wary, half-naked women moved among them with small trays of drinks. Burly men and even more dangerous women strode brusquely along the carpeted aisles, their badly tailored suits failing to hide electronic leashes.

A plump man with a golden crown beamed from the walls and the ceiling, encouraging everyone to gamble. Judging by the few visitors here, he was as unsuccessful as any other barker in the Big Easy. Less than a quarter of the slot machines were occupied, and there were players at only a few of the blackjack, roulette, and craps tables.

Two dealers were spinning a roulette wheel invitingly at an empty table, its rattle echoing through the half-deserted, high-ceilinged section.

Given the lack of gamblers, Hélène could catch the casino’s true scents more easily, without the sharp tang of
prosaico
fear and excitement. She found a private spot by an empty video poker game and sniffed, testing for signs of
vampiros
.

There were a great many young
vampiros
here—not completely surprising, since Celeste had only fully mastered her
esfera
recently. However, she’d taken over New Orleans almost seventy years ago. Ordinarily, a sizable proportion should have been that age. But almost all of them were no more than thirty years old, with most being ten to twenty years. They’d be little more than puppies—high energy, easy to manipulate, but little stamina in a fight. They’d make good troops for conquest but not for a siege.

Hélène had heard rumors New Orleans’
vampiros
were unusually young, but she’d paid little attention, considering it too outré to be worthy of consideration. Why had Celeste kept them this way?

She sniffed again, more deeply, straining for signs of the
prosaicos
.

Alcohol—and drugs, illegal drugs. If Celeste was allowing her
vampiros
to mingle with
prosaicos
who imbibed of such potions, then she permitted her
vampiros
to feed upon
prosaicos
whose emotions came from those false wells. Not the clean, bright taste of passion whose wellspring was the heart, but the sluggish, chemical-born stuff. The old maxim, “you are what you eat,” was truer more for
vampiros
than for anyone else—and
vampiros
died fast and young if they fed on drunks, however easy that prey might be.

And such
prosaicos
could die easily while the
vampiro
was feeding because they didn’t know if it was a true fantasy or a drug-induced dream.

Shit. Hélène shuddered, her gorge rising fast and hard into her throat. She forced it back, her fingernails digging into her palms. She was on a mission—and peace was worth anything, anything at all, even consorting with the likes of these.

A new odor sifted toward her—
vampiro
, older—and very nervous.

She turned to face him, wrapping herself in a
marquise
’s hauteur, and raised an imperious eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Madame.” The plump
vampiro
bowed, his face dripping more and more sweat before her. He was well dressed in a modern Armani suit, which implied Celeste was generous—hah!—or he accepted bribes. “
La patrona
sends her regards and asks you join her for drinks.”

A half-dozen
mesnaderos
silently appeared and ringed them, hands very close to their weapons.

Hélène’s lip curled. These were some of the missing older generation, with their seventy-year-old wariness and their much greater speed than any of the puppies at the craps table. Of course, none of them were faster than she was—and after centuries with the British Secret Service, she could have torched seven targets in less time than it took to bat her eyelashes.

“My pleasure,” she answered, giving him a bare nod and flicking her fingers, gesturing him forward.

“Dear, dear sister. Thank you for coming to visit—you’ve been far too long in this world.” Celeste cast a last, fond glance at the video monitor in her boudoir, before unlocking her small safe. “Unfortunately since you’re a firestarter, I’ll have to give you a fast death. Otherwise, I’d let Georges play with you for a few weeks before I allowed you to die. Pity.”

She hummed happily, sorting through the bottles in the neatly locked drawer. Strychnine, arsenic…She’d used them all in at least one city to build up her
esfera
.

“Celeste.”

“Raoul?” She whirled around, clutching the small, dark blue bottle of cyanide.

He regarded her somberly from the full-length mirror on the door leading to her dressing room. She could see his entire, lean body from the top of his dark brown hair to the toes of his highly polished boots—and the heavily embroidered uniform donned when he’d taken his officer’s commission granted by Louis XVI. Her father would have heartily approved of it, if there’d ever been time to see him in it before blood and revolution had swept over France.

“Mademoiselle.”
He bowed very formally, mist catching at his outlines.

“Raoul, no! Please stay and talk to me. What’s wrong?” She held out both hands, light sparkling on her rings and the bottle.

If anything, his expression became more forbidding, displaying the general he could have become. “Remember I warned you about sin.” He nodded toward her hand.

She glanced down, startled, having forgotten all about what she held. The skull-and-crossbones label of deadly poison sneered at her, followed by bold print detailing what would happen to the unwary imbiber. A fast death to
prosaicos
and even
vampiros
, if taken in large enough quantity, as she’d proven before.

Her eyes shot back to him. “But, Raoul, she murdered you. She deserves to die.”

“She is your sister, Celeste.” His uniform was dissolving into the mist.

“She must die.” She pressed her palm against the mirror, trying to pull him through to her. The bottle fell and rolled unseen into the dressing room.

“At what price, Celeste? Your immortal soul—and parting us forever?”

She flinched, started to argue—and remembered she couldn’t bargain. Not here, not with him, not with these stakes.

He watched her, a wry smile curling his mouth. “I cannot help you, my angel. Only you can choose to join me now.”

His face winked out.

“Damn, damn,
damn
!” She beat her hands against the unfeeling glass.

A chime sounded, and Celeste froze.
Merde.
Now where the hell was the cyanide?

In the next instant, the suite’s front door opened, her usual custom since it was so far away from her private rooms. But it was still too damn close for her to spend time looking for the poison. “Madame Celeste,
madame la marquise
d’Agelet has arrived.”

Oh crap, she’d have to do without the cyanide for now. Well, she could always kill Hélène a little later—maybe slip the stuff into something fruit-flavored and powdered, the way Jim Jones had done, instead of a good glass of wine.

Or listen to Raoul? No! Hélène was a murderess who deserved to be punished, and there was nobody else who could get close enough to her to do it. Her
mesnaderos
might get close enough to bind her, since the bitch was overly squeamish about harming others, but she’d never let them hurt her.

Besides, according to Celeste’s sources at the airport, Hélène had come here from Austin, which was hardly an international travel hub. She must have friends there, perhaps even Don Rafael himself.

Hélène could be a very useful hostage, should those Texas
vampiros
still like her. Hell, they were so stupidly chivalrous, they might be polite enough to protect Hélène, even if they didn’t like her. Don Rafael might trade a city or two for the bitch’s safe return.

Celeste began to chuckle softly, liking the vision of the handoff at the border under that scenario. Still buoyed, she sauntered down the long hall toward her sitting room to meet her older sister for the first time in two centuries.

Hélène scanned her surroundings once again, pursing her lips. She hadn’t called on anyone in a room like this for decades.

The sitting room was designed to impress with its velvet draperies trimmed in gold fringe, heavy Aubusson carpets, and portraits of Napoleonic heroes. The furniture was French from the Second Empire, created just before the American Civil War: heavily carved from ebony and rosewood, upholstered and tufted in silk velvet, which was as opulent to look at as it was uncomfortable to sit on.

The air changed, and she came on the alert, mistrusting the
vampiro
scent coming toward her. Female, more than sated with blood, and sluggish, the usual sign of feeding on the darker emotions such as pain.

La petite
posed in the formal sitting room’s doorway, superbly dressed in a highly tailored, crimson Valentino suit which emphasized her breasts and tiny waist. She might be wearing a so-called invisible bra, but Hélène strongly doubted it. It was far more likely men’s eyes were supposed to follow the ruby pendant down her neckline toward her thighs, and lose all control of their brains. An empress’s dress, perhaps—but also a courtesan’s. Damn.

The ground shifted under her feet, and ice ran down her spine. But losing Jean-Marie was worth nothing if she didn’t treat Celeste as family.

“Ma chère soeur,”
she cooed and went forward, holding out her hands.

“Dearest sister,” Celeste echoed. They met halfway and embraced, hugging each other—quickly—and kissing each other on the cheek.

“To think that you were alive all this time,” Hélène sniffled, stepping back. The majordomo had silently disappeared.