Pretty When She Kills (3 page)

When Amaliya had been human and attended the University of Texas for one year, she had liked hanging out on the east side. It had small dives that served the best food in town and she had often chilled on the front porches of the rented homes of friends. Watching the darkened houses slid by, Amaliya wondered what it was like to sleep during the night, safe in the thought that monsters didn’t exist. She couldn’t remember what it felt like to be so innocent and human.

The car was a few blocks from I-35 and downtown Austin when a SUV ran a red light. Amaliya only caught a glimpse of its black shape and tinted windows before it crashed into the car, striking Amaliya’s door. The impact slammed her sideways as the air bags exploded, punching into her body like a fist. Glass filled the air as the car spun across the intersection, wheels shredding on the asphalt, the smell of rubber and gasoline filling the world. The car smashed to a halt against the metal bench of a bus stop.

Chapter 2

Rubbing the stubble on his chin, Santos glanced at his cellphone expectantly. The master vampire of San Antonio was in a sour mood. He was always short-tempered when anxious. He did not like waiting. Since he was unable to determine what the end result of his carefully laid out plans would be, he was very much on edge. There were too many unknown variables to be certain of anything when it concerned Amaliya, the vampire-necromancer offspring of The Summoner.

His fingers tapped on the heavy wood of his throne-like chair. Seated in the office of his mansion tucked into the hills on the northwest side of San Antonio, he glared at the cellphone one more time. Outside, Tejano music was pumping into the night air as his cabal partied on the enormous patio he had recently installed after making sure to remove all the corpses he had buried under his property. He did not want Amaliya resurrecting his former victims to attack him as she had in the past.

The door to his office opened and Etzli slipped inside. Wearing a pale blue strapless mini-dress and silver high heels, she looked ready for the club scene. Her lush black hair was shiny and artfully curled around her face. Makeup and bronzer gave her the appearance of a living, breathing young woman in her early twenties. In actuality she was hundreds of years old.

“No word yet?”

“Manny hasn’t called,” Santos said, shrugging.

“Manny is probably dead,” Etzli reminded him with a smirk.

Again Santos shrugged. “He was disloyal to me. If he dies tonight, he will be absolved in my eyes.”

Etzli walked languidly toward the desk, her hips swaying side to side. She was very aware of her beauty, sensuality, and ability to mesmerize both men and women. Even though they had spent hundreds of years fighting and loving each other, Santos never grew weary of gazing at her. She was the embodiment of the Aztec people. Her blood was pure. His had been tainted by the blood of the Spaniard invaders.

“Manny was just a stupid thug,” Etzli decided as she slinked around his desk, her long red nails lightly skimming over the burnished wood.

“I don’t like it when other men touch my women. You should know that.” Santos gave her a dark look.

The delight in her smile said it all. She loved to make him jealous. The more he rebuffed her, the more seductive she became until he was mad with his passion for her. She was his weakness and he hated that fact. For all he knew she had encouraged Manny to romance the wicked little witch Santos had been sleeping with. It was exactly the sort of thing she would do. In his rage, he had sent Manny and Irma on a suicide run. He was beginning to regret sending Irma, but Manny was expendable. Hopefully, Cian would send Irma back. Cian usually left one person standing to deliver a message to his enemies.

“Do you really think it was wise to send one of your witches?” Etzli asked. She always had the uncanny ability to know what he was thinking. “She was such a dear little thing.”

Santos cast a spiteful look in his half-sister’s direction. “Let me guess. You were also sleeping with her?”

“She was delicious,” Etzli admitted. Her long lashes threw spidery shadows over her face.

Clenching one hand, Santos growled. “Is no one loyal anymore?”

“I am loyal to you always.” Sliding behind his chair, Etzli leaned over his shoulder, her hair brushing his cheek and neck. “I just like to play with your toys sometimes.”

Santos shifted his weight so he was leaning away from her. “Why are you here?”

“I’m just curious. When you capture Amaliya, will she be your woman?”

“She’ll be my minion, my pawn,” Santos said tersely. “I never should have let Cian take her from me when I had her.”

“She’s pretty. Her light eyes are very alluring,” Etzli teased.

“I have no interest in her sexually. She has the power to raise the dead. To control them just like he did. That’s why I want her.”

Though The Summoner was dead, Santos did not dare say his name aloud. His own dealings with the necromancer-turned-vampire had been the stuff of nightmares. In the early 1900’s The Summoner had captured and held Etzli prisoner for nearly a year. Santos had traveled across Mexico and Central America searching for his hideout. Once they had found him, Santos and his band of vampires had lain siege to The Summoner’s haven inside a ruined temple for many nights, fighting off hordes of zombie humans and animals. At last he had managed to fight his way into the temple to find his sister naked, drenched in blood, and surrounded by dead creatures. The Summoner had fled, leaving her behind. He would never forget the vision of her staring up at him, wounds slowly healing on her flesh. In the aftermath of the battle, he had wanted the power The Summoner had wielded so that none would ever dare touch what was his again. That power now dwelled inside of Amaliya, Cian’s second, and he would have it.

“It may be many years before you can use her power,” Etzli reminded him.

“I can wait. I can be a patient man. I deal with you,” he said shortly.

His plan to bring Amaliya under his control was simple. He would drain her of blood, imprison her in a stone casket, and feed her one drop of his blood each night until she was restored and bound to him and his bloodline. He was uncertain of how long it would take to transfer her bond to him, but he was determined to enslave her.

Etzli laughed as she slid one finger slowly down the side of his neck. He batted her hand away like it was an irritating bug. “Cian is not so easy to kill, you know, my dear brother.”

“I know.” Santos’ voice was testy because he knew exactly how hard it would be to kill Cian. He had tried many times before. “But this is about her. I want to know what she can do away from the graveyards. I need to know if she is capable of doing what he did.”

Looping her arms over the back of the chair and around his neck, Etzli leaned over him, her hair a fragrant curtain of black silky hair. “You’re so afraid of her.”

Santos pushed her arms away. “I do not fear her.”

“Yes, you do.” Etzli laughed with delight. “You fear her so much you are willing to kill your own people so you can figure out exactly how much you should be afraid of her.”

“Be silent!”

“You let her go and now you regret it. Now you have a much bigger battle to wage.”

“Stop mocking me.”

Etzli ran her hand over his dark hair then slipped away before he could deflect her touch. “You know I will stand by you no matter what foolish thing you may want to do.”

“You expect me to ignore the fact that The Summoner’s only fledgling to wield his power is eighty miles away? That I could use her to bring all of Texas under my control?”

“No. Of course not.” Etzli rested her manicured hands on the desktop and stared at him. “But I don’t want to see you be a foolish man in your pursuit of her.”

Slapping his hand down on the desk, Santos rose and glared at his half-sibling. “Do not underestimate my power!”

With a simple shrug, she started toward the door.

Rage engulfed him. He clenched his hands at his side, resisting the urge to follow her and strike her for her impudence. Etzli’s ability to enrage him made him feel weak.

With a knowing smile, she slipped out the door and shut it behind her. With a frustrated growl, he dropped back into his chair and stared at the cellphone.

* * *

Innocente awoke with a start. Her heart thudding in her chest, she stared into the shadows filling her bedroom. Instinctively, she knew she was being watched.

“Who’s there?” she asked, her slight Mexican accent edged with a West Texan twang.

When she was younger, she would have assumed it was a ghostly visitor. Her ability to see and speak to the dead drew specters to her, but now she knew that there were much more dangerous creatures that haunted the night. Just a few months before she had helped kill one of the deadliest vampires to walk the earth. Of course, he had killed her granddaughter Amaliya, so he had it coming.

There was no answer, but a presence filled her room.

Drawing her legs up, she curled up against her headboard. Her fingers slid under the covers, closing over the rosary she kept under her pillow. Her other hand found her pistol filled with silver bullets, a gift from Jeff, a vampire hunter in Austin.

“Who’s there? Answer me!”

Again, no answer, but she knew she was not alone. She sensed someone lurking in the darkness. The darkness in her room was absolute. She couldn’t even make out the outlines of her bedroom furniture. The air was heavy and oppressive.

“I’m armed. I will hurt you,” she said in a firm voice. Maybe whatever lurked in the darkness thought she was weak because of her advanced years and the gray in her hair, but she would show them otherwise.

“Can you help me?” a voice asked softly.

It sounded child-like, feminine, and frightened.

“Show yourself!” Innocente ordered. Under her covers she slipped the safety off the gun as she wrapped the rosary around the barrel. All her life she had endured the visitations of the dead, but for a few years she had managed to keep them at bay. It was difficult to hide from the ghosts that were seeking help.

“Help me,” the voice whispered. “He hurt me.”

Innocente tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Her voice slightly rasped as she said, “Show yourself.”

The darkness in her room split like a curtain and withdrew to reveal a young woman dressed in a white lace dress with ribbons woven into her white-blond hair. Her enormous blue eyes gazed at Innocente solemnly. Both of her hands were pressed against her throat. Blood gushed over her fingers and ran like red ribbons over the silky lace of her dress.

Innocente gasped, startled by the vision. “Who hurt you, sweetie?”

“The Summoner,” the girl whispered, her perfectly shaped pink lips barely moving.

“
Dios mio!
” Innocente crossed herself, but kept her hand with the gun and rosary tucked under the covers. “He’s dead!”

Red tears stained the girl’s cheeks as she held out one bloodstained hand toward Innocente. “He hurt me. Please, help me!”

“How?” Innocente whispered, giving in to the plea. The young woman looked so fragile, so desolate, it tugged at her heartstrings. “How can I help you?”

“Save me from her,” the girl’s voice was fading. “She wants me to do terrible things.”

“Who does, honey?” Innocente’s heart was beating faster and faster.

“The woman with the red eyes,” the girl wailed.

The room grew colder as the apparition at the end of Innocente’s bed wept. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Who are you?” Innocente managed to say despite her dry throat and trembling lips.

“Bianca Leduc,” the girl answered. “She’s going to kill Amaliya.”

“No!” Innocente gasped. “No, not my Amal!”

Bianca Leduc’s eyes flashed white as the room fell to freezing temperatures. The moisture of Innocente’s breath turned to ice on her lips.

“Help me! Before it’s too late!” Bianca cried out then the darkness swallowed her. Her departing scream echoed throughout the room.

Innocente cried out in fear, then the lamp next to her bed flashed on. Sergio, her grandson, stood next to her bed clutching a bowl of cereal. Innocente slowly sat up, startled to realize she had dreamed the entire encounter.

“What’s up, Grandmama?” Sergio asked, spooning more cereal into his mouth and crunching it loudly.

“I had a nightmare,” she answered, pressing her shaking hand to her chest. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest. She flipped over the pillows revealing the rosary and firearm. “It was just a nightmare.”

“What about?” Sergio asked, frowning slightly.

Innocente grimaced, the nightmare already beginning to fade. “I’m not sure. There was a girl in it and she needed my help.”

Cynthia, Sergio’s wife, appeared behind him. She was bleary-eyed, yawning, and looked half-asleep. “Everything okay?”

Since the encounter with The Summoner a few months before, Innocente had been living with Sergio’s family. She had hated losing her independence, but now that she understood the true dangers of the supernatural realm she knew she had to be careful. Sergio had moved his family in with her and there had been some difficult adjustment as the house had become a home to all of them. She had reluctantly allowed Cynthia to redecorate the main rooms of the house and send off boxes full of clothes, toys, and other items she had been storing in the extra rooms in her house. Innocente always found it difficult to let go of objects from the past. She loved to feel the energy of her long dead husband and daughter in their old possessions, but she had finally let those old things go.

“Grandmama had a nightmare,” Sergio answered his wife.

Cynthia stole his spoon and ate a mouthful of cereal. “I hate nightmares. Especially the ones with clowns.”

Innocente stared at the end of the bed, her mind struggling to hold onto the image of the girl she had seen in her dream. There had also been a name said by the apparition in her nightmare, but she had already lost it. “This one had a ghost. A girl. She needed help.”

Arching an eyebrow, Cynthia tilted her head. “You mean...a dream.”