Christian (Vampires in America: The Vampire Wars Book 10) (26 page)

She put her fingers over his lips. “Stop. I told you. You’re what I want. And, don’t forget, it goes both ways. You’re mine, too.”

“Always,” he said, and was surprised to discover he meant it.

Natalie’s smile was beautiful, her feelings written on her face and in her eyes. “I have to shower,” she told him. “You want to join me?”

He shook his head. “I’d love to, but I can’t. I wasn’t being mean earlier. Alon really does need me tonight, and he’ll be waking soon.”

“You were being a little mean,” she said gently, “but that’s okay. I’m going to get dressed, and go through those files that I—”

“We need to talk about that,” he interrupted. “And about last night.”

She frowned. “You think last night had something to do with the files?”

“Maybe,” he said. He wasn’t convinced the two things were connected, but he didn’t believe in coincidence either. Not when it came to vampire politics. “You go ahead and shower, and after I get Alon settled, you and I and Marc will talk.”

“Okay.” She went up on tiptoes and kissed him. “Give Alon a kiss for me,” she said saucily. She spun away and headed out of the kitchen, but not before Christian slapped her pretty little ass and growled a wordless warning.

She was clearly terrified. Or at least, that’s what Christian told himself as she laughed all the way to her bedroom.

Mexico City, Mexico

Vincent stared down at the contract sitting before him. The paragraphs of constipated words went on and on, saying things that any moron would have known without being told. Why did lawyers feel the need to spell out every insignificant detail, covering their asses against the most unlikely outcomes, including possibilities that simple common sense should have argued against?

And why the hell did he have to sit here reading this crap when his territory was in turmoil, with new rebellions seeming to spring up almost daily? It was like that game of whack-a-mole. Every time he put down one rebellion, a new one sprang up. And while he had a good team of people, the ones he could trust absolutely were still few in number. In time, that would change, but for now, he could only rely on those who’d been with him for years. The ones who’d been secretly sworn to
him
rather than Enrique. And as if all of that wasn’t enough, now he had this European bullshit to deal with.

Logically, he knew it would get better, that this instability was typical of any transition in the vampire world. But sometimes his gut rebelled against logic, and it felt as if the crises would never end, that this would be his life from here on out. And when that happened, he had trouble remembering why he’d ever wanted this fucking job in the first place.

Throwing down the pen he’d been using to annotate the contract, he picked up his cell phone and called Lana.

“Hey, baby,” she answered, sounding perfectly happy to hear from him, but a little distracted.

“You want to go for a run? Or a swim?” he asked her.

“Um, can you give me half an hour?”

“What are you doing?” he demanded rather grumpily.

“Aw, is his lordship bored?”

“Just answer the question, smartass.”

“Well, you know that wedding dress I told you I needed for the big day? It turns out those things need to be fitted, and if I move right now, I’m going to get skewered by about a thousand tiny pins.”

Vincent frowned. He’d have time to finish the contract. Damn. “Okay, thirty minutes. I’ll meet you—” He was interrupted when his lieutenant, Michael, opened the door, his knuckles rapping on the wood as he entered. One look at his face, and Vincent knew it was bad.

“Something’s going on,
querida
. I’ll call you right back.”

“Vincent?” Lana’s voice sounded concerned, and Vincent had a feeling she was right to be.

“Finish your dress,” he told her. “And don’t worry.”

“Vincent—” she started to say, but he hung up, reaching for the paper Michael was holding out to him.

He read through it quickly, then looked up. “What the fuck is this?”

“It looks like an intel report from Anthony.”

Vincent read it again, paying closer attention to the small details that made the report seem credible. “Anthony’s supposed to be in hiding. And who the fuck faxes something this urgent? Hell, I didn’t even know we had a fax machine.”

“Maybe this is all he has access to wherever he’s hiding. The bigger question is how the hell he knows what’s going on, and can we trust anything he says.”

“I’m not moving troops without more credibility than
this.
Close the door,” he said, then spun in his chair and picked up the receiver on a slim, silver landline phone sitting on his credenza. Pulling up the speed-dial list, he selected Anthony’s number and waited. This might be the age of modern technology, but international calls still endured a lot of clicking and dead air before finally going through. He was more than half-surprised when Anthony answered himself.

“Vincent.” Anthony’s rough voice was made more so by an unusually bad connection.

“Anthony,” Vincent greeted him in like fashion. “I just received your report.” He didn’t go into any details, waiting to see what the Southern lord would say. If this intel really had come from him, then he’d know what Vincent was talking about.

“My apologies. I intended to call before you received it, but the situation here is . . . difficult.”

Vincent figured that was one way to describe it. But he still wasn’t sure Anthony could be trusted. “Where does this information come from? I was under the impression that you were . . . lying low.”

“Hiding, you mean,” Anthony snapped. “I know what’s being said. But I know the truth of it. Christian Duvall wants my territory, and he doesn’t mind playing dirty to get it.”

“That’s not what I heard from Raphael.”

“Oh, yes, the bodyguard,” he sneered dismissively. “I altered five minutes of his memory, something we’ve all done a thousand times. It’s hardly a killing offense. Raphael’s being manipulated by Duvall and refuses to see it. But why are we wasting time on this bullshit? You got the intel. So what are you going to do about it?”

Vincent contemplated his reply, reluctant to admit that Anthony was right. Twisting Cibor’s mind wouldn’t usually be a killing offense. Except that Cibor was one of Raphael’s children, and he was in Houston on Raphael’s business. Even so, Vincent suspected Raphael’s wrath was motivated at least partially by his dislike of Anthony. He would never have ceded the matter to Christian otherwise. Now, Christian’s vengeance . . .
that
was quite justified. Anthony had tried to get his woman alone, with every intention of capturing her mind, and then raping her. If someone had done that to Lana, if they’d even contemplated such an outrage, he’d have ripped them to shreds.

And none of that had anything to do with this latest intel from Hubert’s camp. Assuming it was valid.

“Let’s say we put personal vengeance aside for the purpose of this discussion,” he told Anthony. “Where’d this intel come from, and how do I know it’s any good? For that matter, how’re you still getting reports at all?”

“I’m in hiding, not living in a cave. And I’m still Lord of the South, no matter what Raphael thinks. My people remain loyal to me, and I to them. More importantly, I don’t want my territory compromised by a war in Mexico. If Hubert gains strength down there, it endangers all of us up here. As for the intel, it comes from my man in Hubert’s camp. That’s why I faxed. I wanted you to see the full text of his report, and fax was the easiest way to get it to you, given my current circumstances.”

Vincent relaxed slightly. That actually made sense. “So the confidence level on this info is high?”

“One hundred percent. My agent is deeply imbedded, and well within the inner circle.”

He frowned. Anthony’s agent must be one hell of a liar, then, because it wouldn’t be easy to fool a vampire as old and powerful as Hubert was reputed to be. Still, he couldn’t afford to simply ignore this.

“Thank you for the warning, then. We’ll handle it.” As he hung up, he heard Anthony wish him good luck. He stared at the phone.
Good luck?
What the fuck was that? He looked up at Michael, whose vampire hearing would have picked up both sides of the conversation.

“My lord?” he asked.

Vincent glanced again at the intel report, then stood, reading off the name of the city where Anthony’s agent claimed Hubert was planning a takeover. “Patrizia,” he said, picturing the map of Mexico. “Ever heard of it?”

Michael shook his head. “No, but I Googled it, and I checked for landline phone listings as soon as this came in. There were several, and I called them all. No one answered. Not one.”

“Not a good sign, but it
is
the middle of the night. Where is this place anyhow, and how big is it?”

“About fifty miles south of Ciudad del Carmen. That’s the closest airport. It’s a fishing village of about 1200 people.”

“That ties in with what Christian said about Hubert, that he likes isolated villages as raw material for his zombie armies. That’s his word for them, but it fits. Raphael has reports from Europe. Hubert doesn’t make half-feral slaves like some of the old-timers used to create to feed their own power. He wants his creatures able to follow orders, to fight and kill for him.”

“They’ll still die like any other vampire,” Michael growled.

“Probably easier. They have to be low on the power scale in order for Hubert to control them. But if I can take out Hubert, they should fall like flies. The shock will kill them.”

Vincent stood, having made his decision. “I’m not taking any chances. If there’s nothing there, we’ll have wasted a few hours, and some helicopter fuel. But if Anthony’s right, then Hubert might have turned half the town by now. I want every warrior we can spare without degrading our security here, and I want all of my own security team. I need people I can trust at my back. Have the jet prepped for departure, and get someone working on transport at the other end. I want those helicopters waiting for us when we arrive.” He came around the desk. “I need to talk to Lana.”

“I’M COMING WITH you,” Lana said, yanking a black, long-sleeved T-shirt over her head and tucking it into the black combat pants that she favored. There was no sign of a wedding dress or the seamstress who’d been sticking her with pins.

“This is war,
querida
. You should remain—”

She was suddenly up in his face, snarling like a wildcat. “If you like your balls, you won’t finish that sentence.”

Vincent was stunned wordless for a long moment, but then he grinned down at her. “You’d never do that. You like my balls too much right where they are.”

“Maybe,” she admitted. “But the sentiment holds. I’m going with you.”

“There’s no maybe about it, and, yes, of course, you’re going with me. What was I thinking?”

“Some bullshit about me staying behind with all the other ladies.”

“Shame on me. You’d better get cracking, then. We leave in thirty minutes.”

Houston, Texas

ANTHONY SET THE phone down, with satisfied smile. That would take care of Vincent for a while. He knew the Mexican lord didn’t trust him, but he wouldn’t be able to ignore the possibility that the intel was right, either. He’d have to check it out, maybe try to contact someone in Patrizia. But no one would answer. Anthony’s allies had seen to that. And they’d also arranged a very nice welcoming party for Vincent when he raced to the rescue. Which he would. He’d have no choice.

Vincent would be out of the picture, and Duvall would be on his own. Now, if Scoville could just find his balls long enough to do his fucking job, the tide would turn, and Christian Duvall would be the one drowning.

CHRISTIAN LEANED back on the pillows piled against the headboard of his oversized bed. One arm was wrapped around Alon, holding the new vampire back-to-chest in front of him, while his other arm was against Alon’s mouth, held there by the fangs dug deep into his vein. He closed his eyes, feeling every tug as Alon sucked down the rich bounty of his blood. The new vampire probably wouldn’t remember much of this night, might even be embarrassed if he did. Taking blood was inherently sexual, even between vampires. The euphoric didn’t hit them the way it did humans, but it was still a deeply sensual act.

It was also exhausting. Both for the new vampire, whose body was still undergoing massive changes, courtesy of the vampire symbiote, and for Christian who had to give far more blood than would normally be the case. In the coming days, after he’d become Lord of the South, he’d undergo a similar ritual many times as vampires in his new territory swore allegiance. But while the mechanics were the same, the amount of blood required was far less than that required to create a new vampire. His new vampire subjects would take only a little of his blood, in order to bind their lives to his. And not every vampire would have to do so, only the stronger ones whose loyalty Christian would need to be sure of.

But while it was fatiguing to create a new vampire, Christian didn’t regret it. He couldn’t. The link between Sire and child was too powerful. It didn’t allow for regrets. Alon was already
his
, and
Christian would throw down his life to save him.

The door opened quietly, and Marc stood there, cell phone in hand and a very troubled look on his face.

“What is it?” Christian asked softly, a sinking sense of inevitability nearly swamping him. Whatever it was wouldn’t be good.

Marc lifted the phone. “Scoville just called. I told him you couldn’t be interrupted.”

Christian was too tired to deal with any more of Anthony’s half-assed challengers. “What the fuck did
he
want?”

“He’ll only talk to you, but . . . no bullshit, Christian, he sounded panicked. I think you should call him back.”

Christian glanced down at Alon, whose sucking was falling off rapidly. He’d sleep for several more hours now, through the rest of this night and right into tomorrow’s daylight sleep. Tomorrow night would be his first true awakening, and then they’d discover exactly what sort of vampire he would be. But for tonight, he was dead to the world.