“You’re saying Anthony did all of this?”
Scoville spit a gob of blood onto the muddy ground. “Not in person. He leads from the rear, especially if the front involves dying. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were supposed to die, not everyone else.”
Marc stood with a hiss of anger, distancing himself from Scoville, putting himself between the injured vampire and Christian.
Christian touched Marc’s shoulder, and moved around him. He needed to talk to Scoville, needed to see the vampire, to judge what he was saying. “So this was all a trap. You wanted me down here.” He shrugged. “Here I am. So what happens next? And why shouldn’t I kill you right now?”
He laughed bitterly. “Go ahead. I’m a dead man either way. Anthony told me to call you, said he’d send a chopper to get me before you ever got here. Everyone else was supposed to die. He wanted you to see this, to see what Hubert could do and be afraid. He wanted you to die afraid. But he lied . . . again.” Another laugh, this was weak and breathy, as if the recitation was taking his last strength.
“I don’t know why I’m surprised. All he does is lie. There was never a chopper to whisk me away to safety. You were right all along. I was never more than a stalking horse, a sacrifice to make things look good. But Anthony’s had another candidate in mind all along.”
“Who?” Christian demanded. None of this was making sense.
“Hubert,” Scoville said, his face bleak as he raised his head to stare at Christian. “Anthony made a deal with Hubert in exchange for New Orleans. Raphael wanted out of the South, and Anthony knew he couldn’t hold the territory on his own. So he called Hubert. Anthony gets the greater New Orleans region as a new territory of his very own, not beholden to Hubert or anyone else. And Hubert gets all the rest of the South.”
“Fuck,” Christian said softly. That made a terrible sense, especially coming from Hubert. That’s the way it was in Europe, a hundred little territories in the same amount of space where in North America, there would be only one. It was why the European continent was so damn crowded, and why they wanted North America so badly. But Anthony? Jesus, he’d sacrificed his own people, murdered his own people, to further his greed and ambition. Had he really believed the North American Council would accept him after this? That they’d add a seat for the Lord of New Orleans, as if nothing had happened? He was fool. Raphael was already gunning for him over what he’d done to Cibor. Add this to his crimes, and the entire Council would hunt him down and execute him. Vampire law stated that might was right, but not when you butchered your own people to gain territory.
“What about Vincent?” he asked Scoville. “Is he a part of it?”
Scoville shook his head slowly. He was slumped over, barely able to sit, as if the effort of talking to Christian had drained what little strength he had left. “Sorry,” he gasped. “I used everything I had left to hide from your scan.” He swallowed dryly, then said, “Anthony didn’t confide in me . . . obviously. But I knew Vincent pretty well when he was still Enrique’s lieutenant, and I don’t think he’d go along with this.”
Christian glanced up and met Marc’s worried gaze. “I wonder if he even spoke to Vincent?”
“So, let’s get the fuck out of here,” Marc suggested.
But Christian shook his head. We’re not done yet,” he said, remembering that brief whiff of power he’d detected. “Anthony didn’t trick us down here for nothing. Hubert’s on his way, and it’s up to us to stop him somehow. Our friend here lied about everything else, but not that. If we don’t manage to stop Hubert, he’ll march up the 35, killing as he goes. It’s what he does.”
Scoville gave another weak cough, and Christian eyed the injured vampire. He required blood, but the only humans available were the chopper pilots—assuming they’d even volunteer, which he doubted. Besides, they’d be needed at full strength later to do their job. He grimaced. He hated giving his own blood to save the bastard, but he needed vampires, and Scoville was the only one available. Assuming he’d step up and fight.
“What’s your plan, Scoville?” he asked. “What’s next?”
“There is no next. I’m dying. It’s a question of minutes, not hours.”
“What if I agreed to help you?”
“Why would you do that?”
Christian shrugged. “I need firepower, and you’re it. I assume you can fight, and I’ve felt your power. You have enough to make a difference if we all stand together. If not . . . your dust will be a fine addition to the landscape.”
Scoville didn’t say anything, just hung his head and breathed for long enough that Christian thought he might be dying right now. But then he lifted his head, and said, “I’ll stand with you. I’ll fight. Not because I give a fuck about you or your ambitions. Because of the vampires who fought and died here tonight believing help was coming, believing their rightful lord was on his way. I give a fuck about them. And I want to see Anthony pay.” He was gasping for breath after that speech.
Christian eyed him for a moment, then sighed, knowing what he had to do. He pulled off his leather jacket, and shoved up the long sleeve of his T-shirt.
Marc put a hand on his arm, and said, “Let me.”
But Christian shook his head. “This is my duty, not yours, mon ami.” He lifted his forearm to his mouth and dug in his fangs, opening a vertical slash down the center to his wrist. Scoville’s head came up at the rich smell of blood, his eyes taking on a yellowed gleam. This was the blood of a powerful vampire, a vampire strong enough to rule a territory. It was ambrosia, catnip to a vampire’s senses. And it was life itself to a vampire as wounded as Scoville.
“You have a name besides Scoville?” Christian asked tightly.
Scoville shook his head. “Not anymore, my lord.”
Christian nodded. “All right. Scoville, do you come to me of your own free will and desire?”
He nodded, his yellowed gaze never leaving the rich bounty of blood now dripping down to pool in Christian’s cupped palm. “I do, my lord,” he whispered.
“And is this what you truly desire?”
“It is my truest desire.”