Christian (Vampires in America: The Vampire Wars Book 10) (8 page)

Well, Raphael was about to discover he wasn’t the only game in town. Anthony would return to New Orleans all right, but he would do it on his own terms. And once there, he would rule absolutely, with no one to question his abilities or dictate his actions.

Baudin shoved some rubble around as he walked over and sank onto the velvet loveseat. He appeared completely relaxed, unfazed by the destruction all around him. It was part of what made him such a good spy, the ability to adapt with ease. Well, that, and enough power to deceive almost any vampire, short of an actual vampire lord. And since he was one of Anthony’s own children, his loyalty was as reliable as it could be. His assignment this time around had been to check on Hubert and his secret army down in Mexico. Anthony had been briefed by Raphael’s lieutenant, Jared, about the predicament in Hawaii while it was still going on. He didn’t know all of it, because he wasn’t part of the Western lord’s inner circle, despite the fact that
he
was Lord of the South. Lucas had been there, naturally. It was disgustingly obvious the way Raphael favored the Plains lord. But Anthony had been shut out, left with whatever tidbits of information Jared chose to share.

He
had
been warned, along with all of the other North American lords, that a European invasion might be imminent. No one thought Mathilde’s attack on Raphael was the sum total of the Europeans’ effort to take the continent. And with the revelations still coming out of Mexico regarding the late Enrique’s collaboration with their European enemies, Anthony had assumed his territory would be next on the invaders’ list. Especially since Vincent was still busy cleaning up the mess Enrique had left behind. But had
Raphael
considered that before announcing his plans for the South? No, he’d rushed ahead, leaving Anthony to make his own arrangements. And that’s what he’d done, too. Fuck Raphael.

Pretending a calm he didn’t feel, he settled back in his desk chair, ignoring the unpleasant roughness caused by several deep tears in the expensive leather.

“What’s Hubert up to these days?” he asked Baudin.

“War, my lord,” Baudin said bluntly. “Ever since Mathilde died, he’s been preparing frantically, dead set on taking the South. It’s almost as if he thinks someone—most likely Raphael—is going to show up at any minute, and he needs to finish his personal invasion first. He seems to believe that once he’s pre-empted the challenge by launching a successful bid for the territory, all will be forgiven, that Raphael will simply accept him as a
fait accompli
. As Lord of the South.” Baudin aimed a questioning look in Anthony’s direction. “He won’t, will he? I mean, if Hubert manages to take over, Raphael will step in and slap him down, right?”

Anthony’s gaze narrowed on the spy. It didn’t escape his notice that Baudin assumed it was
Raphael
whom Hubert feared, and
Raphael
who would be the one doling out punishment. Hell, it didn’t even seem to bother Baudin that if he was right, and Hubert took the South by force, he’d probably kill Anthony in order to be sure the mantle of the South fell to him. He wouldn’t want to trust that Anthony would willingly surrender outside of the formal challenge. After all, Hubert would still be viewed as an invader, not a challenger.

“You could always leave the territory,” Anthony said mildly. He needed Baudin too much right now to kill him.

“Nah, I like it here. And I don’t like that bastard Hubert. I especially don’t trust his self-made army. Most of those vamps should be put down. They’re more like animals than humans.”

That caught Anthony’s attention. “There’s something wrong with them?”

“Nothing enough time and attention couldn’t heal. But Hubert’s turning too many, too fast, and he’s not being selective. Most of them can’t even read, much less understand the tactics of war. And they’ve all been turned without consent. He’s going to remote villages and taking anyone he can get his fangs into. Anyone male, that is. He wants fighters, and he’s old enough to think women can’t get the job done.”

“There must be a few of them who have potential.”

Baudin shook his head. “Yeah, but he doesn’t let them live. He offs those before their first night is over. He doesn’t want independent thinkers, he wants an army of zombies.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Anthony scoffed.

“Wait until you see them; you’ll understand.”

“You say that as if I’ll be seeing them soon.”

The spy nodded. “It’s why I’m here. Hubert’s accelerating his plans. I expect him to move on your territory within the week.”

Anthony straightened in surprise. “One week? Your last report said we had a couple of months.”

“That was before Mathilde died, and before your plans to resign went public. I told you, he wants to take the South before the challenge is settled, thinking Raphael will go along with it.”

“Raphael isn’t the only one Hubert needs to worry about,” Anthony snapped.

“As you say,” Baudin replied, unperturbed by Anthony’s fit of temper. “But that’s not how Hubert sees it. Raphael’s like his personal nightmare. He was plainly terrified when he heard the big guy had escaped, and then had killed Mathilde. He was so scared that he didn’t, or couldn’t, even control his reaction. Not great for morale among the troops, by the way. Especially not those of us who’ve retained the ability to think.”

“Raphael will be here this weekend,” Anthony said thoughtfully.

“For the challenge kick-off,” Baudin agreed. “Hubert had hoped to be sitting in your place before then, but he’s given up on that.” His lips twisted in a wry smile as he took in the battered condition of Anthony’s chair, but he didn’t say anything out loud. Apparently, his survival sense had finally kicked in, and he’d realized he’d been less than flattering toward his own Sire.

But Anthony had much bigger problems. If Baudin was right—and he trusted the spy’s judgment on this, at least—then Anthony would be forced to put his plan into motion this week. He’d counted on being long gone by the time Hubert made his move, had assumed his successor—preferably one of his chosen candidates—would face Hubert and his vampire army.

“We’ll have to deploy closer to the border,” he said thoughtfully, thinking out loud. “The outpost near Laredo is well-positioned to cover wide stretches.”

Baudin nodded. “You don’t want to let him get too deep into Texas before you hit him.”

Anthony pursed his lips, staring blindly at the destruction of what had been an antique sideboard. Baudin was right again. Hubert would have to be met at the border.

But Anthony couldn’t risk himself so early in the conflict, which meant someone else would have to lead the forces against Hubert. He tapped a finger thoughtfully on the desktop. He could send one of his own children, but that could destroy his larger plan for New Orleans. On the other hand . . .
Duvall
wanted to rule the South, didn’t he? And what better chance to prove his fitness than by championing her defense? He wouldn’t be able to refuse either. What kind of message would that send to the vampires who might someday look to him for protection?

Anthony smiled slowly at his own cleverness. Sending Duvall to the front would solve more than one problem for him. And if Hubert happened to kill him . . . so much the better.

Chapter Four

Mexico City, Mexico

“DUVALL’S IN HOUSTON already?” Vincent Kuxim spoke in the general direction of the speakerphone, as he paced restlessly in front of his desk. Conference calls like this weren’t the norm in the world of vampires. Hearing was too acute and eavesdropping too common. But tonight, the party in the next room—a party he’d much rather be enjoying—nullified even the best vampire hearing, and it was more efficient this way.

“In Houston, and already fighting challenges, according to Jaclyn.” That was Juro, Raphael’s security chief. If anyone knew the comings and goings in Raphael’s territory, it was Juro, especially when it involved an unexpectedly powerful vampire, even if the South wasn’t precisely Raphael’s territory.

“Jaclyn,” Vincent repeated. “Why isn’t she going after the South herself?”

“No interest,” Raphael said simply. He and his people were on speakerphone, too. “She and her staff want to come home.”

Vincent glanced at his lieutenant, Michael, who shrugged back at him. Some vampires were wired to be ambitious, and some weren’t. It was a good thing. Kept the bloodshed to a minimum. But he still didn’t understand it.

“Is the challenge open already? Then why am I dragging my ass to Houston this weekend?”

“Because it’s not officially open yet. Anthony claims Duvall ambushed one of his vampires and took him out preemptively.”

“Which vamp?”

“Noriega.” That was Jared speaking this time. He’d spent a lot of time in the South, and probably knew the players better than any of them.

Vincent frowned. “I don’t know him. Guess I never will now. But it doesn’t sound like you believe Anthony’s story.”

“It’s becoming obvious that Anthony wants one of his own to succeed him,” Jared replied. “Noriega would have fit the bill, except for one thing. He didn’t have the power to win the challenge.”

“And Duvall?” Vincent asked, knowing he was missing something in this conversation.

“He would have flicked Noriega aside like a bug,” Jared said flatly. “Anthony’s claiming Duvall saw Noriega as a threat. That just doesn’t fit.”

Vincent paced back and forth a couple more times. “You think Anthony set his own child up to take the fall. If Noriega managed to succeed, then Duvall’s dead and out of Anthony’s hair. If not, then Anthony files a claim with the Council, and gets rid of him that way.” He walked over to join Michael who was now busy on the computer, searching incoming files. Michael looked up and shook his head.

“I don’t have a formal complaint from Anthony yet. Do you?”

“I received a courtesy phone call from him,” Raphael provided in his deep voice. “The formal claim will arrive tomorrow.”

“Anthony has to know this won’t stand up to scrutiny. So what game is he playing?” Vincent asked.

“He’s delaying,” Raphael said. “The question is why.”

“Shit. I don’t need this. I’ve got those European fuckers lurking in every corner of my territory, thanks to Enrique. Can I at least trust the intel that Duvall provided on Hubert?”

“We’re still checking it out, but as far as we can tell, it’s good,” Juro replied. “The biggest question is whether most of it is still relevant. Mathilde had intended for Duvall to work with Hubert, and he did go to Mexico to meet with him initially, but he’d already blown Hubert off by the time Mathilde died. If I were Hubert, I’d have changed things up by now, just in case.”

“Send it to me anyway. I’ll see what we can make of it.”

“On its way,” Juro confirmed.

“Fantastic. Now I’ve got a party to get back to.”

“If you’ve got time to party, things can’t be too bad,
mi amigo
,” Jared joked. He and Vincent had known each other long before Vincent became Lord of Mexico.

“It’s Lana’s birthday,” Vincent told him. “And it’s almost time for presents.”

“Tell her happy birthday!” Cynthia Leighton spoke up for the first time, although Vincent wasn’t surprised to discover she was there. Raphael’s mate was a fighter in every sense of the word. Just like his own Lana.

“I will,” Vincent told her. “And, Raphael, I’ll tap my sources in Texas, and let you know if anything interesting crawls out. See you in Houston.” He punched the disconnect button, then turned to Michael. “Or maybe not. It sounds like the challenge might be over before it gets started. You know anything about Christian Duvall?”

Michael closed the computer and stood. “Not a thing. But that’ll change by morning. I’ve set up some searches.”

“Excellent. Party time.”

The noise level swelled as Michael opened the heavy door to a combination of music and laughter, and multiple conversations all going at the same time. But as Vincent stepped into the room, his gaze tracked unerringly to the birthday girl. Lana Arnold, human, bounty hunter, the love of his life. She was wearing a dress tonight. The short, playful skirt made her legs look even longer than they were, and the killer high heels made his dick hurt. The dress was red, a color his Lana had been born to wear. It added a warm glow to her gorgeous mocha skin, and contrasted with the black silk of her hair. He thought about ripping the dress off her later on. Thought about all that long, silky hair sliding over his belly as she—

“Does she know?”

Vincent turned to find his “sister” Camille standing next to him. They’d been nest mates for decades under Enrique’s tutelage, and had believed themselves to be vampire siblings. Until Vincent had discovered, just recently, that Enrique was not, in fact, his Sire. But that hadn’t changed anything about his relationship with Camille. She was his sister in every way that counted, and he loved her. She was one of the very few vampires he trusted absolutely.

“Does who know what?” he asked her.

Camille smiled. “You look at Lana with such hunger in your eyes,
manito
. Does she know you love her?”

“Of course, she does,” he scoffed, bristling a little at the question. “You were there the day I fought Enrique. I crawled through a soup of my own blood and bones to get to her after I dusted that bastard. I gave her my wrist, even though I was gushing so much blood, she could have lapped it up with a spoon instead.”

Camille shook her head, then reached up to cup his cheek. “Idiot. Tell the woman you love her.”

Vincent smiled confidently. Covering Camille’s hand with his, he brought it over to his lips and kissed her fingers. “Have a little faith.”

He made his way across the room, the partygoers clearing a path ahead of him automatically. He could have cleared the room with a touch of his power, but that wasn’t necessary here. These were his people, his friends. Lana turned to watch him approach, eyes bright with excitement, her mouth turned up in a smile that was just for him.

Hell, yes, he loved her.

“Dance with me,
querida
,” he said, lowering his head to brush his mouth against hers.

“The music is—” She started to protest that the music was too fast. Lana was a graceful woman, but she’d never learned to dance, and didn’t believe she could. But at that moment, the music changed to something slow and sexy. She rolled her eyes at his smug look. “Lord of all he surveys,” she muttered.

“Not all,” he murmured, pulling her into his arms. “Just the playlist.”

She laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Sexy beast.”

“That’s me.”

Their bodies fit together perfectly as they swayed to the music, her breasts warm and soft against his chest, his cock swelling where it rubbed against her belly. Lana closed her eyes and rested her cheek against his, as other couples moved onto the dance floor around them.

“This is perfect,” she whispered, lifting the fingers of one hand to trail through his hair and around to caress his bearded jaw.

“You are,” he agreed.

She smiled and kissed his neck.

“Lana.”

“Mmm?”

“Will you marry me?”

Her heartbeat stuttered, and she froze for an instant against his chest.

“What?” she asked, sounding breathless.

“Will you marry me,
querida
?”

She leaned back enough to stare up at him, her eyes wide. “Really?”

Vincent laughed, then taking her left hand in his right, he dropped to one knee. The music faded away. So did the crowds, the talk, the laughter. Only Lana remained.

Sliding his hand into one pocket, he produced the ring he’d had custom-made, and held it out to her.

Her eyes went impossibly wider, and filled with tears, as she dropped to her knees next to him and threw herself into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” she was whispering.

Vincent snugged an arm around her back and pulled her close. “No god,
mi amor
. Only me.”

“Only . . . I love you,” she choked out.

“And?”

Lana blinked in a moment’s confusion, then laughed happily. “Yes! Of course, yes!”

Vincent slipped the ring on her left hand, then stood, helping her to her feet along with him, as everyone around them started cheering. Resting a hand on Lana’s hip, he pulled her close, then leaned down and whispered in her ear. “You know I love you, right?”

She
tsk
ed loudly, and elbowed him in the side. “Of course I know that.”

It was Vincent’s turn to laugh as he met Camille’s eyes over the crowd, and winked. She grinned back at him, and shook her head.
Bastard
, she mouthed at him.

“MAYBE IF WE GET married here, your dad won’t come,” Vincent muttered two hours later. The party was over, the congratulations rung, and the sun was looming.

“Vincent,” she chided, slapping his arm. “Of course, he’ll be here. I’m his only child.”

“And you’re marrying a vampire.”

“He likes you.”

“He’s afraid of me. And for good reason. If he hurts you—”

“He won’t hurt me. When should we do this? And can we invite Cyn? Will Raphael let her come?”

Vincent snorted. “Right, like Raphael dictates where Cyn goes.”

“You know what I mean. Vampire politics. You’re a lord, he’s a lord . . . it’s all very twisted.”

“Haven’t you heard? We’re all buds now.”

“Uh huh. What was that phone call you got earlier?”

Vincent watched as she stepped out of the red dress, leaving her in nothing but a matching bra and a pair of barely-there silk panties. And those shoes.

“Vincent?”

His attention snapped back to her face. “Sexy,” he commented. “Come here, wife.”

She made another
tsk
ing sound. “Not yet,” she said, coming into his arms. “Tell me about the phone call.”

“Not sexy,” he grumbled. “It was Raphael. There’s a new player on the board for the South, and it sounds like he’s throwing a wrench into Anthony’s plans for the succession.”

“I thought it was kind of a winner-takes-all thing.”

“It is, but it’s beginning to look like Anthony had a winner in mind, and it isn’t the new guy.”

“Does it matter to us?”

Vincent shrugged. “Not really. According to Raphael, this new player—Christian Duvall’s his name—is pretty damn powerful, and he wants to join the alliance, so . . .”

“But you’re worried about something.”

“I’d like it a lot better if the South was settled once and for all. We’ve got problems of our own, and I don’t need their shit bleeding into mine.”

“Lovely imagery.”

Vincent slapped her firm ass. “You asked.”

“Uh huh. You have too many clothes on.” Pushing his jacket off his shoulders, she started working on the buttons of his shirt.

“About the wedding,” he said, sliding his hands around her hips and cupping the round globes of her ass beneath the silk of her panties. “As soon as possible.”

Lana gave him a quizzical look.

“Anything you want works for me, as long as it’s here in Mexico City, and we get married sooner, not later. A month is too long.”

She grew very still, staring up at him. “Vincent, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“It’s war, Lana. Things happen. And I want you to be mine.”

She met his eyes for a long time, searching. “Okay,” she said finally. “One month. I need you, a dress, and my dad. Maybe a few friends. And my mom if she wants to come. One month.”

“It’s a date.”