Xavier had no personal ambitions to rule more than Spain, but he did have plans for greater Europe that mirrored what Raphael had achieved in North America. He’d taken the first step to realize those plans almost a year ago, when he’d convened a meeting of Europe’s most powerful vampires in the dimly lit back room of an ordinary French tavern.
But while the gathering had served its purpose, it hadn’t insulated him from the kind of petty attacks his Fortalesa had endured over the last few days. This was not the work of a powerful vampire, setting up to challenge him for Spain. This was something else, though he hadn’t yet figured out what exactly it was. It was frustrating and didn’t put him in a happy frame of mind as he considered whether he should take the time to feed before pursuing whoever was responsible for the injuries to his daylight guards, and the fucking insult to himself.
All he’d ever wanted, from the first moment he’d woken to the terrible craving that would shape the rest of his very long life, was blood. Well, that and sex, though the two commonly went together. He much preferred his blood directly from the vein of a woman drowning in the sexual ecstasy of climax, her pussy hot and wet as she strained beneath him.
His cock stiffened in anticipation before he admitted to himself that while he would enjoy sinking his fangs into a delicate neck, he didn’t need to. Not tonight. He’d drunk long and lavishly the previous evening from one of the wealthy esposas in attendance at a grand party thrown by the mayor of the town below his Fortalesa. The human mayor, who was wealthy himself, appreciated the role Xavier’s presence played in keeping their town safe and free of criminals.
The party had been held for no reason, other than to celebrate the wealth of those attending. Xavier had gone for political reasons of his own, but also because he’d known he would find an attractive and willing meal. So many of the rich women in this part of the countryside spent long weekdays decorating and redecorating their homes, or getting drunk on wine with friends, while their husbands remained in Barcelona until the weekend, conducting all sorts of business, some of which was undoubtedly in the bedroom. So, why shouldn’t the ladies enjoy the same? Especially since he was always happy to help.
A chuckle escaped his lips, quickly banished by his recollections of the day he’d just spent sleeping. He’d been aware of the battle raging beyond the walls of his Fortalesa, had sensed the fear and pain of those who’d fought or been injured.
These attacks had seemed nothing more than an irritant at first—the kind they’d dealt with in the past, whenever a few local matones, bored and restless, had gotten it into their heads to dare each other to harass the vampires in the big stone castle.
But this latest crisis was no idle dare among foolish humans with more courage than brains. Guards had been wounded today, one seriously. He had to stop this before someone was killed. He would have no choice then, but to hunt every enemy fighter to the ground and kill them. He would not, could not, tolerate even a petty challenge to his authority, and these assaults had now gone well beyond petty. It didn’t matter that this enemy had chosen to strike only in sunlight, when no vampires were at risk—or could be a risk to them. He valued the human fighters who’d manned the walls today, some of whom had bled for him, just as much as he did the vampires who were sworn to his service— many of whom he’d Sired himself.
He took a quick, hot shower, toweled off without ceremony, then brushed his teeth and got dressed. His fingers served to comb back his long, black hair, and a quick look in the mirror told him he could go another night without shaving. He didn’t bother with anything more than a t-shirt and jeans, though he wore combat lace-up boots, despite the warm, humid nights of the Spanish summer.
Xavier returned greetings as he climbed the stairs and walked the halls of the Fortalesa, but his thoughts were somber. He was too aware of the scent of spilled blood, of the miasma of fear floating like an unwelcome stench beneath the polite ritual. He stopped one of the men he knew worked closely with his daytime commander, Ferran Casales.
Ferran was growing inevitably older. One of the great tragedies of being a vampire was losing your human friends. In the earliest years after his turning, he’d tried to avoid those friendships, to avoid the inevitable loss. But for one in his position and with his ambitions, it was impossible. And now, there were Ferran and his wife, Ramlah. His long strides faltered briefly when he thought of Ferran’s wife, who looked so much like her daughter, Layla. Though looks were all they shared. The fierce and beautiful Layla would never have settled into the role of a commander’s wife. No, she’d have insisted on manning the battlements herself, probably ordering about all the other fighters—men and women—just as she no doubt did with that group of mercenaries she’d brought together. Details were sparse when it came to Layla, especially since he was unwilling to probe too obviously. Ferran and Ramlah were clearly proud of their world-traveling daughter, but Layla must have secured their promise to remain silent on any but the most general details of her life. She’d probably told them it had to do with security or some such thing, which would have been a lie.
He wished it was that simple, but he didn’t blame Layla for letting her parents believe the convenient fiction. The truth was probably not something she wanted to share. Nor was he anxious to have it known, either. He just wished it hadn’t driven her so far away, and for so long. He missed her more than he would admit. She’d been barely out of her teens when she’d left to attend university in the U.S., far too young to be involved with a vampire—a much older vampire. But he’d known from the moment he’d first met the wild and fearless child she’d been that Layla Casales would play an important role in his life. He couldn’t have said what that role would be, or why he was so certain of it, though. He’d gained no particular foresight skill when he’d been reborn as a vampire. The gifts bestowed upon newly turned vampires by a seemingly random fate were as varied as the vampires themselves, but his own talents lay in an entirely different direction.
Even so, he’d known that Layla was meant to be his, and had cursed the fact that they’d met with such a vast distance in age and experience between them.
“My lord.” The raspy voice of Layla’s father, Ferran, greeted him as he entered the courtyard. He had to fight the feeling of embarrassment trying to flush his cheeks, knowing he’d been entertaining thoughts of the man’s daughter that were decidedly not innocent.
“Ferran,” he said warmly, greeting him like the old friend he was. “You’re well?”
“Yes, my lord. No casualties from today’s attack. They were as determined as ever, but it had the feel of a last-minute strike.” He shook his head. “I just don’t understand the enemy. They’ve taken far more casualties than we have, and several deaths, which we have not.” The old man crossed himself quickly, a superstitious act aimed at securing the continued blessing of his god.