Vanquished (9 page)

Estefan’s three coven brothers arrived in a thunderstorm. Platinum-colored lightning struck the ground as they stepped from the ferry. Other travelers dodged the rain. But Estefan welcomed the icy downpour. It cooled his superheated anger and the burns Skye had left like the mark of a slap on his face. He wore a glamour to hide the injuries. As his coven brothers embraced him and kissed his cheek, none of them saw the damage a mere girl—and a White Witch at that—had inflicted on him.

“Hermanos,”
he said. Brothers. “Thank you for coming.” Then he snapped his fingers, and the rains parted in their path.

They walked through the storm, dry as bones. Dark magick—Black magick—sizzled around them, colliding with the lightning and shaking the gray sky like a box of broken mirrors. Estefan’s mind kept turning to Skye. It was not long ago that he had imprisoned her in a fun house of her memories. Such joy he’d felt watching her flail in mindless terror like a little sparrow struggling to escape a cage.

And now, days ago, she had
escaped
.

I didn’t realize how much she’d grown since she left me,
he thought.
How strong she’s become.

His brothers trailing slightly behind him, Estefan allowed
the glamour to drop away completely. He knew what he looked like. His face was purple and white with scars, and his eyes were completely black except for two small circles of crimson at their centers. His eyeteeth lengthened and sharpened like vampire fangs. But when he bit someone, it wasn’t the blood he was after. He wasn’t even sure what it was he took. A piece of their soul? Their life essence?

He didn’t know, but he was fascinated by it. He’d participated in the Hell Fire Caves gatherings, where eager young Cursed Ones, dazzled by magicks, had mingled with witches both White and Dark. The witches had enchanted the blood from the Cursed Ones’ veins, and the vampires had drunk it from goblets, savoring the unusual, otherworldly taste of the magick. Then they’d offered it to the witches, too. Estefan had eagerly swallowed the strange sweetness.

After he’d met Skye, he’d taken her with him to the revels. It had required a trance to get her to participate. But one night she’d snapped awake, and she’d set him on fire in an attempt to flee.

She went to Spain, and so did he—leaving with one of his vampire companions to join Aurora’s court—not in hopes of becoming a Cursed One but to discover what made them so strong and immortal. He studied mixtures of magick and vampiric blood, but drew no conclusions. He tried to discuss it with Aurora, but she was a bit of a disappointment in that regard. She had no curiosity about what made vampires tick.

However, her lover, Sergio Almodóvar, was another matter. Sergio owned an amazing Book of Spells, compiled by a vampire interested in magick. It included spells of power and transformation—magicks too strong for Estefan to master.

At first.

Aurora had stolen the book from Sergio, not because she wanted it but because she knew it would enrage him. It was a trophy the two of them fought over during their spats, which had apparently been going on for decades if not centuries. So Estefan stayed in Aurora’s court, perusing the black-and-maroon leather book whenever possible. He dedicated himself to working these strange new magicks, confused about why, if he had drunk vampire blood, he hadn’t been transformed into one. It was his magicks, he decided, that somehow protected him. And made him different enough, he figured, to withstand any magicks that little White bitch leveled at him.

He had never forgotten the agony of the fire she had flung at him that first time in the caves, nor the ridicule of his coven brothers for being dumped by a little fourteen-year-old. And so he worked his magicks.

Then Antonio de la Cruz killed Sergio at the battle of Salamanca, and Skye was there too. The timing was perfect; Estefan had enough power for payback—or so he had thought. Little Skye had surprised him.

He had lost access to Sergio’s Book of Spells, but with
his coven brothers back in England, and all the changes he’d gone through to make himself more powerful, more like a Cursed One, he was certain he could track her down.

And make her scream until she died.

Aurora wrapped her furs around herself, not because she was cold, but because ermine contrasted so beautifully with her black hair, and because she had no one to hold on to as she made her grand entrance into the great hall of her sire’s villa on Lake Como.

The walls were covered with weapons from eons of warfare, and black velvet drapes were looped back from the magnificent windows overlooking the water. They would be closed soon, to block out the rising sun.

Lucifer rose from a carved chair at the far end of the room and came to her. He was wearing a perfectly tailored white suit in honor of Sergio, and with his mane of white hair and piercing red eyes, he was startlingly attractive. Yes, Sergio had been Aurora’s lover, but Lucifer was her morning star. There was no vampire more magnificent. Nor more terrifying.

He took her in his arms and held her. Trembling, she melted against him. He held her more tightly. Panic flared within her. She cleared her throat.

“Please, master,” she said in Spanish as she pulled back. “I’ll cry bloody tears all over your suit.”

He smiled softly at her, then reached his long nails and sliced his suit jacket from the lapel down to the waist. She realized he was rending his garments, as she had done at Sergio’s funeral. She felt a fresh ripple of uneasiness. Had Lucifer been present at the ceremony without telling her? Had he had a camera or a scrying stone to spy on her?

Did he know that she had taken Antonio de la Cruz captive in Las Vegas, then lost him? And if he did know, what would he do to her?

“
Ay,
Lucifer,” she blurted, dropping into a curtsey out of habit. Back in the fifteenth century, when he had saved her from the Inquisition, women bowed to great lords.

“Pobrecita,”
he said. Poor little one. “Sergio was a prince among us, and you know how much he loved you.”

“Sí.”

With shaking hands she reached into the cuff of her coat and produced a white silk handkerchief. She daubed her eyes, seeing the flecks of blood, and was about to put it away when Lucifer took it from her and dropped it lazily to the floor.

There was a snorting and a panting, and then a beautiful wolfhound appeared. It caught up the handkerchief and galloped across the floor, bringing it to a figure standing in the shadows. Aurora’s blood froze. The hound had belonged to the Russian vampire, Dantalion, who had spent his days
trying to genetically engineer the perfect soldier and whose monstrous hybrids she had killed back in Russia for sport. She hadn’t realized he was here at the villa . . . and clearly a guest of her sire.

“Aurora,” Dantalion said, moving from the darkness.

“Dantalion,” she replied, standing tall and proud.

“My condolences on your loss,” Dantalion said with a heavy Russian accent. “Sergio was a jewel in the crown of the Vampire Kingdom.”

Her throat constricted by fear, Aurora mutely nodded. Dantalion had still been burrowed inside his Russian laboratory when she had captured Antonio on its poisoned grounds. Did Dantalion know that she’d been there for nights before seizing Antonio, picking off Dantalion’s beloved experiments for sport? Reducing the ranks of his monstrous hybrids so that when the hunters and the men with black crosses attacked him, his defenses had been severely weakened?

Did he know that she had found his creations so repulsive she hadn’t even told Lucifer about them? And now it appeared that Lucifer had not only known about them, but was helping Dantalion fund the supersoldier project.

“We’ll cheer you up,” Lucifer told her, also speaking in English. He kissed Aurora’s cheek, then clapped Dantalion on the shoulder. “Dantalion has been very busy, and he’s got wonderful news for us.”

“Yes,” Dantalion said. “My spy among the hunters has
given me excellent information. We know all the plans of the Salamanca hunters. Where each is going. What their missions are.” His pride showed on his face.

She covered her alarm with a cough. “Spy?”

Lucifer beamed at the Russian. “Dantalion used to be partners with Rasputin himself. Do you remember Rasputin? He was a Russian mystic in the nineteenth century.”

Aurora nodded stiffly. “He studied mesmerism.”

Lucifer nodded. “Which is, of course, one of a vampire’s greatest strengths. Hypnotizing our victims helped us keep in the shadows for so long. But it is always a personal thing. We look into the eyes of one person, command them to do our will. Dantalion can do it to many and from a distance.” Lucifer waggled his brows. “In fact, he was the one who saved you from Antonio de la Cruz at the battle of Salamanca. He made Antonio imagine that he was burning at the stake.
Magnífico, ¿no?
”

“Oh? Yes. Yes, it is. Thank you, Dantalion,” she said, reeling at the implications. Dantalion had seen the battle at Salamanca. Had he told Lucifer that the little Hunter, Eriko, had nearly killed her? And that she, Aurora, had gone to Salamanca to recapture Antonio before Lucifer found out that she’d lost him?

“It was my pleasure,” Dantalion said. He sighed dramatically. “I only wish that I could have helped Sergio.”

“Sí,”
Aurora said. “Now, about the spy. Who is it?” She heard how desperate she sounded. “I would love to know,”
she added in a warm, seductive voice. She needed to know if they had been watching her, reporting on her.

“Someone they’d never suspect,” Lucifer replied, chuckling. “But come, Aurora, come and admire what
else
he’s accomplished.”

Lucifer cupped her cheek. She knew it would be such a simple matter, a trifle, to grab her head and yank it off her neck. She’d killed vampires that way a dozen times, and Lucifer was much stronger than she. If he wanted to kill her, there would be nothing she could do to stop him.

I must charm him, and keep myself dear to him, as I did in the old days.
Lucifer had graciously stepped aside when the sparks had flown between Sergio and her. Perhaps it was time to fan those flames once more—between Lucifer and her.

She reached up on tiptoe and kissed Lucifer’s mouth, lingering at his fangs. “I can barely wait,” she murmured. “Where are these wonderful accomplishments?”

“Why, in the dungeon, of course,” Lucifer replied. He cocked his head and stroked Aurora’s left fang with his forefinger.
By the gods below, would he break it off?

She laughed. “Only you would have a dungeon in an Italian villa, my master,” she cooed.

“Only I, and all those filthy Popes who reigned during our lifetimes,” Lucifer said. His face darkened, and she felt his rage surge through his body. He turned the force of his crimson eyes on her. “They will pay, all those churchmen. And anyone who stands in our way.”

“Like Solomon,” Dantalion put in.

“I haven’t forgotten your vendetta against that one,” Lucifer said to Dantalion. “Solomon will beg for mercy.” He smiled at Aurora. “And I will show him none.”

Aurora made a show of sighing. “I love it when you talk like that.”

His smile grew—predatory, calculating, lustful. He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of her hand, allowing his fangs to slice it open, just the top layer.

“I know,” he replied. “And I have done—and will do—so many more things that you’ll love. Now, come.”

Aurora kept her head held high and her fears to herself as the three headed down to the dungeons.

Salamanca Hunter’s Manual: Emotion

Yours must be the avenging fury of the Lord God. You can not indulge in the petty hatreds of those who have not been called to serve as the Hunter. Anger is a waste of your strength. Stay calm in the face of insult and adversity. Know that on the battlefield against the Cursed Ones, your composure may save your life.

(translated from the Spanish)

Jamie, with his many tattoos and the angry vibe he gave out all the time, stuck out most places, especially in Spain. Crossing borders these days meant looking inconspicuous,
which meant wearing a sweater and a knit cap, keeping his eyes on the ground, saying “yes, sir,” “no, sir,” the whole bloody thing. And carrying nothing that looked even remotely like a weapon that could kill vampires. So he’d had to leave the stakes and crosses and holy water behind. But he’d been able to hide his guns. Only one bloke had found them, and a crisp bill had ensured the guard looked the other way.

Once he had finally made it to London, Jamie found that it was easier to fit in. At least with the fringe crowd. Which was just fine with him. The people he threaded his way through in one of the darker back alleys of London were just his type of pissed-off antigovernment anarchists. He wasn’t even the only Irishman.

Tired, wary, he slogged into a small, dark pub and took a seat at the bar. It was midday. He was a good week out from Toledo, and he hadn’t slept a wink in going on forty hours. A couple of nifty new spells relayed by Father Juan revealed that Skye had left Spain, and three days ago the Father had called to tell him he’d “seen” her in England. Then nothing, and the stone Father Juan had given him had yet to light up or do whatever it was supposed to do when he was within twenty miles of her.

Which meant she probably wasn’t in the city. Which meant she could be anywhere. That was just too much territory to cover without more information. He hoped that a drink would clear his head. Maybe some of the locals could
help him figure out where a coven of Dark Witches was likely to be hiding out.

If they even believe in witches. Two thirds of the planet still doesn’t believe there are werewolves, and the bloody witches have gone out of their way to hide.