“Speaking of . . . any news on Raphael’s sister?”
“Possibly. I have one report that says she’s dead. I’m trying to confirm it, but my source says she was questioned, determined to be useless, and then executed on the spot.”
“Cold. Was it Enrique?”
“On that my source is unsure. It was done in Mexico City, in Enrique’s headquarters, but indications are that he was not the executioner.”
“Interesting. Of course, her very presence in his HQ is evidence that Enrique plotted against Raphael.”
“Yeah. Tell me something, jefe. Alexandra was double bound to Raphael. They were human siblings by birth, plus he was her master for a couple of centuries, right?”
“Something like that.”
“So, even if he wasn’t her master anymore, wouldn’t he know if she was dead? I mean, Raphael is hella powerful. Wouldn’t he feel her death anyway?”
Vincent considered Michael’s question. There was no bond stronger than that of a vampire and his Sire—or so he’d been told. He’d never felt particularly attached to Enrique, that’s for sure. His loyalty to the old man was based solely on practicality and personal ambition. On the other hand, he was Michael’s Sire and they were tight. He’d die to defend his child, and he was pretty sure Michael felt just as strongly about him.
But Raphael had been Alexandra’s master, not her Sire. The story was that they’d been turned during the same attack, but by different Sires. He’d heard that it had been a couple of centuries before Raphael had rescued Alexandra from unknown but awful circumstances. He’d then killed her Sire and had been her master ever since. And while that bond might not have the same strength as that of a Sire, two hundred years was a hell of a long time. And as Michael said, they had the sibling bond going for them, too.
“You may be right,” he said thoughtfully. “In fact, I bet you are. So, if Alexandra’s dead, then Raphael already knows it. So what’s his next step? He hires Lana Arnold to deliver a message to a vampire no one’s seen in more than a hundred years. At least no one reliable. And not just that, but he writes me a letter, asking for help, and making it clear he’d prefer that I be there when she finds said vampire. Those events have got to be related.”
“My thoughts, exactly. So what’re you going to do?”
Vincent blew out a long breath. “If a powerhouse like Raphael thinks that I need to meet Xuan Ignacio, then I’m going to find the fucker and figure out why. I’ll keep the sat phone live, if you need me.”
“And remember your promise.”
Vincent frowned, but didn’t say anything.
“No Mexico City without me,” Michael reminded him.
“Not a chance, Mikey.”
“Stay safe, jefe.”
“Talk to you tomorrow.”
Vincent disconnected, then stripped off the rest of his clothes and walked naked to the shower. He hadn’t been lying to Lana. The Suburban was a comfortable ride, but spending that many hours sitting on his ass was exhausting. And his trip down memory lane with Lana hadn’t been a thrill either. He’d liked hearing her story, but then for some reason, he’d volunteered his own, even though he hadn’t thought about that final trip with his brother in a long time.
He turned on the water in the shower and waited until it ran hot. Marisol’s cabins were fairly primitive, with one exception. She had excellent water pressure and wasn’t afraid to use it. He stepped under the spray and let the pounding heat wash away the long night.
THE SHOWER WAS still running when Lana ventured back to the cottage. She cursed under her breath. What was he doing in there? She’d intentionally taken her time, strolling around the grounds, lingering outside the cantina, listening to the sounds of revelry inside. There’d been music, but it hadn’t been the classical guitar player that Vincent had talked about. Either he’d played earlier in the night, which seemed likely, or he wasn’t here yet. She’d heard Vincent say something about staying long enough tomorrow night to hear Chencho play. That must be the guitarist.
But now she’d seen everything there was to see without venturing out into the desert. And Vincent was still in the shower, leaving his discarded clothes scattered all over the floor on the other side of the bed.
The bed. One bed.
She looked around, trying to figure out where she could sleep. Obviously, Vincent would take the bed, because typical male, he had no shame. He would have stripped naked right in front of her if she hadn’t left. He clearly expected her to share the bed with him. In fact, he’d no doubt take pleasure in knowing that it made her uncomfortable. Granted, it was a very big bed, with plenty of room for two people to sleep well apart. Marisol didn’t stint on her cottages. Colorful rugs had been scattered over tiled floors, and heavy drapes covered the lone window, so there’d be no problem with sunlight. The king-sized bed took up much of the room, but there was a tiny round table and two chairs by the window, and small, square bedside tables on either side of the bed that were just big enough to hold some personal items along with the compact lamp that stood on each of them.
Lana rounded to the far side of the bed and turned on the second lamp. There was enough room between the bed and the round dining table for her to sleep on the floor. It wasn’t the most comfortable sleeping arrangement, but she’d had worse. She eyed the bed’s fluffy down comforter. That’d help with the hard tile floor. She wondered if vampires needed comforters when they slept.
“We can both sleep on the bed.”
Lana squelched the urge to jump at the unexpected sound of Vincent’s voice. She hadn’t even heard the shower turn off. Some bounty hunter she was.
She turned . . . and immediately lowered her gaze to avoid seeing Vincent in a towel and nothing else. “I don’t think that’s appropriate,” she said, pretending to study the floor. “I can—”
“Lana.”