They Come by Night (25 page)

E
VENTUALLY DE Vivar came up with the ideal solution: a sabor. Everyone knew a sabor’s blood was the cure-all for whatever was desired: a thicker head of hair, a boost to virility for those with that problem, the ability to father a son… many sons….

But not just any sabor would do! This one must be worthy of a rege: either a Dragomir or a Lupescu. De Vivar would feed from him. It was a shame the vampyr he’d create would be unable to do so as well—being created while he drained her blood and spilled his essence into her at the same time, all she could look forward to was an eternity of drinking a man’s semen rather than his blood—but perhaps de Vivar would make the sabor part of their sex play. Either way, he would fuck her and she would conceive.

To this point, none of the women had been of any use, but he had no intention of giving up on his quest. Without a doubt this would do the trick!

W
HY
DOES
everything have to be so difficult
?

De Vivar gnashed his teeth, frowning when he realized his fangs had extended and sliced his lips. Ordinary sabors could be found by the handful, but the one who would fulfill all his wishes was nowhere to be found!

He released some of his ire by hurling a lamp against the far wall.

“Antonia! Clean up that mess!”

H
E WAS
…
not sulking, because dukes didn’t sulk. Brooding. That was it. He was brooding over this dilemma, which seemed to have no end, when Miguel came to him. “
Maestro
, are you sure this sabor is what you must have?”

De Vivar glared at him. “Do you wish me to destroy your talisman? Then do not ask such useless questions!”

Miguel grinned, used to his better’s displays of temper. “Then you will be very pleased with what I have learned.”

And he proceeded to inform him of the perfect sabor: Phillip Small, a Lupescu who was strong and very well-made.

De Vivar stroked the curve of his mustache. “Excellent. Very excellent work, Miguel. As a reward, seek out a normal and enjoy yourself.”

Miguel kissed his hand and hurried out. De Vivar forgot about him as soon as he was gone.

This was more than excellent. By feeding the sabor judicious amounts of his own blood, de Vivar would see Phillip Small lived five hundred years at the least, more than enough time for de Vivar’s plans to come to fruition! He would breed up an army of vampyrs who would help him overthrow Mondragon!

W
HY
DID
nothing go easily
?

De Vivar had had his eye on Phillip Small and was about to put his plan into effect, only to learn the
hijo de puta
was no longer virgin.

Could
no one
retain their virginity any longer?

Having his plans foiled once again, he’d punished the one-time sabor, and then left him, uncaring of how he fared afterward.

But now things were falling into place even more perfectly: the sabor he would have was both Dragomir
and
Lupescu!

Before long he would father a fine son—many fine sons. He might not have been born a vampyr, but that act would show the elitists his mettle. It would enable him to become the rege, and he would have all the sabors he desired.

Perhaps he would share the lesser ones with his subjects.

And there would be no restriction on how many normals they could drain. After all, with the world population veritably immeasurable, it would be long centuries before it became anywhere near depleted.

Now he stared at Antonia, his lips curled in a sneer. He’d grown bored with her, but she still had her uses. “I wish to feed!” he repeated.

She had the temerity to roll her eyes at him. Of all the vampyrs he’d turned or created, she was the only one who had no fear of him. She sauntered over to him, caught up her long hair and tugged it aside, and offered him her throat.

He palmed her plump buttocks as he drank. Soon, he promised himself. Soon it would be the sabor he fed from.

D
E
V
IVAR gazed around at the mausoleum in the abandoned graveyard that had been his home since he’d come to these shores more than two hundred years before. It was decently decorated, but nothing in comparison to his palace in Andalucía, with its three hundred rooms, eight gardens, twelve patios, and the loggia his father had built for his mother, but times changed. This was good enough, and below were the catacombs that housed the vampyrs he’d turned.

They were out and about now, feeding on normals. When they returned, they would bring one for him.

De Vivar sneered. The rege preferred his vampyrs use blood that came in plastic bags and was warmed in a microwave. This was another reason why a new dynasty was needed.

He’d been forbidden from approaching the Small sabor, but he wasn’t about to let that hinder him. Nor was he going to let the sabor’s refusal of admittance keep him from what was rightly his. All he needed was a way to gain entry into the sabor’s house.

Antonia came strolling into the mausoleum after a night out feeding. No decent woman would take a man’s member into her mouth, but she was a whore, and she’d done that before he’d created her. He smiled. He enjoyed making the distinction between creating or turning a vampyr. No other vampyr had ever done that.

“I have a task for you.”

“¿
Sí
?” It sounded like the hissing of a snake, and his smile changed to a frown. When had this started?

She raised an eyebrow, and he shunted that aside as immaterial. He had something for her to do, something she would be perfect for.

For one thing she couldn’t drink from her prey, not in the usual way, which would leave all that lovely, potent blood for him. And for another, what man would refuse to be fellated, especially one as young as this sabor?

“You will go to the home of Tyrell Small and gain entry. Once you do this, I will come and you will invite me in.”

“Very well,
maestro
.”

Again with the hissing! What should have been a term of respect came across as almost mocking. Damned woman! He gave her a sharp glare, and she lowered her lashes and curtseyed.

“Have I your permission to leave?”

“Yes, yes. Go! And be quick about it!”

She vanished, and he began to pace the length of his mausoleum. Soon, now. His mouth began to water and his fangs to elongate. He flung himself down on the sofa and began to envision how things would be once the sabor was his and he became rege.

F
AILURE
! H
E stared at the whore in disgruntlement. “How can this be? The sabor is little more than a youth, and you… you have centuries of experience!”

“I don’t understand myself,
maestro
. He is, as you say, merely a boy. As for me, I’m but a simple peasant woman.”

“You’re a less than useless whore! Begone!” He strode across the room, coming to a standstill before the portrait Juan de Borgoña had done of him shortly before Terese Mondragon had turned him.

Dios mio
, but he’d been a handsome man!

Of course, since he’d been turned, he hadn’t been able to admire his reflection in a mirror, but he had no doubt he was as handsome as ever. He steadfastly refused to look at his hands.

The slight difference in the air let him know he was once again alone, that the whore had obeyed him.

Now he needed to give this situation some thought. The whore hadn’t been successful. Perhaps the Madonna?

¡Miguel!
One of the first abilities he’d discovered after he’d been turned was how to use his mind to summon his beings.

“I am here,
maestro
.” Miguel had been the first of his
guardaespaldas,
his bodyguards that he’d turned.

“Bring Graciana to me! And find a nun’s habit!”

“
Sí
.”

Graciana would be perfect. She had been an actress, and her greatest role had been as Mary Magdalene. She also had a silver tongue.

De Vivar had no doubt she would persuade the sabor to allow her entry into his home.

“
M
AESTRO
, G
RACIANA has returned.”

“Splendid, splendid! Bring the sabor to me! I wish to taste him before you take him to his cell.”

“
Perdón
, she is alone.”

“¿
Qué
?”

Miguel shifted from one foot to the other.

“¡
Dios mio
! Now what?”

“
Maestro
, the sabor is not with her.”

“
Can no one follow a simple order
?” Infuriated, de Vivar swept his arm along the mantel, knocking the urn with Sor Belicia’s ashes across the room.

He gnashed his teeth and clenched his fingers into fists, uncaring his fingernails would gouge crescent-shaped marks on his palm. Miguel stood there stoically, saying nothing, and de Vivar glowered at him.

“Clean that mess! And put the ashes back into the urn.”

H
E MULLED over the problem for some time, and then it occurred to him—the sabor had fallen into Adam Dasani’s hands like a ripe plum; he was probably one of those who secretly lusted after men. Few sabors were like that, it was more prevalent in normals.

¡Miguel!

“¿
Sí
?”

“Fetch me Áedán Mac Lochlainn.” De Vivar had crossed paths with the younger vampyr a few centuries ago. He hadn’t turned him, but Mac Lochlainn, being Irish, had been dissatisfied with the way things were run and had willingly joined him.

And while he preferred feeding from women, he would do whatever de Vivar ordered him to do.

“M’lord sent for me?”

Ah, now here was the respect due him! “Yes. You will go to the home of the sabor Tyrell Small and ensorcell him.”

“As ye wish, m’lord.”

Yes, that was how it should be! Feeling magnanimous, he said, “As a reward for obeying me, you may sip from the sabor.”

“Aye, m’lord.” Mac Lochlainn dropped to a knee, caught de Vivar’s hand, and brought it to his lips.

He ran his hand over Mac Lochlainn’s hair. “Now, go.”

When Mac Lochlainn returned, it would be with word the sabor would invite him into his home. And once de Vivar had fed from him, he would bring him here, keeping the sabor for himself.

There were some hours until dawn.
¡Miguel!

“¿
Sí, maestro
?”

“The sabor will be coming to reside here. Find a cell suitable for him and have it prepared!”

Miguel bowed and hurried to obey him.

Yes. This was how it would be when he became rege.

“W
HAT DO you mean he wouldn’t let you in?” de Vivar thundered.

Mac Lochlainn licked his lips nervously. “It’s as I said, m’lord. He opened the door, but he wouldn’t invite me in. And… and that beast of his….” He shuddered.

“That beast is the size of my hand! I could twist its head from its body with no effort at all!
What did you say
?” It had sounded like “Then you have my leave to try.”

“Nothing, I assure you, m’lord.”

“Why am I surrounded by fools?” De Vivar howled with frustration. “Get out of my sight before I destroy your talisman!”

Mac Lochlainn vanished, and De Vivar flung himself onto the sofa, drumming his fingertips restlessly on the elegantly crafted arm. He needed to give this more thought.

I
T WAS a week later when it came to him. ¡
Por supuesto
! The sabor had been raised without his mother!

Yes, that might very well be the thing. De Vivar would send a vampyr who exuded a warm, motherly appearance…. Corazón would be excellent.

And meanwhile, he was hungry. “Miguel, is the normal ready?”

“
Sí, maestro
.”

He grinned. A normal always tasted better when seasoned with terror. “Then let us proceed.”

H
E CROSSED the floor repeatedly, gnashing his teeth and swearing. Why had his plan failed? It was exceedingly clever, if he said so himself! Everything should have fallen into place by now!

The whore hadn’t worked. Neither had the nun, and as for the male vampyr, no matter how handsome—de Vivar must have read that situation with Dasani wrong. This last had been too motherly. It had probably struck the sabor as incestuous.

Hmm. He tugged on his lower lip, and once again a brilliant notion struck him. What would a young man want, but a young woman!

Yes! He had the perfect solution.

“Rhiannon!”

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN
:
C
OME
W
HAT
M
AY

I
T WAS the day from hell.

I’d overslept thanks to torrid dreams of Adam, who I hadn’t seen since just after Christmas. As a result, I’d had to skip breakfast, barely having time to feed and walk Mina; the jacket I’d grabbed on the run wasn’t warm enough—the calendar might say April, but it felt like January—and I’d forgotten my lunch.

On top of that, my digital recorder needed to be recharged, and my notes looked like chicken scratches. I squinted down at them, hoping I’d be able to decipher them once I returned home.

And now Dr. von Bulwer was turning his beady black eyes on me and frowning. “What is your problem, Mr. Small?”

I only just stopped myself from looking around for my dad. “I’m sorry, Doctor?”

“Come, come. You’ve been fidgeting throughout the entire class. Do you have ants in your pants?”

There were a few snickers, mostly relieved because I was the target of our instructor’s displeasure. He’d picked on the others, but this was the first time he’d directed his impatience toward me.