They Come by Night Read online

  It was all politics. If Dasani hadn’t been the rege’s catamite, the sabor would have been given to de Vivar without a moment’s hesitation.

  Oh yes, they all claimed Dasani was the rege’s nephew, but de Vivar knew the truth of the matter. They were probably drinking from each other.

  That was the only reason why a younger vampyr had been given the sabor.

  De Vivar licked his lips, recalling the last Lupsecu/Small he’d feasted upon. That one had thought to conceal from him the fact he was no longer virgin. His defiance had quickly changed to fear, and then despair. De Vivar had buggered him, which made it all the better, since he was virgin there, and then he drank from him. And when he did, he didn’t bother licking the one-time sabor’s throat to blunt the pain of entry.

  Pain was all that Lupescu/Small deserved, and that was what de Vivar gave him. In addition, de Vivar had plunged into his mind, tearing asunder the paltry shield he’d tried to erect to protect the whore vampyr who’d ruined him. She was another one related to the rege, and even he hadn’t dared to touch her.

  But he’d let the sabor think she had been turned out without her talisman and so was destroyed. And of course he was believed.

  Of course he’d had to vanish afterward, which infuriated him. Not only was he a centuries-old vampyr, he’d been born Grande de España; he was el Duque de Málaga. As such, he should be able to do as he chose.

  It wasn’t as if he’d been the one to ruin the sabor. That had happened before he arrived, desperate for a taste of sabor blood after so many years.

  He ground his teeth. It would have been different if he were rege.

  He’d thought that title and position would be within his grasp when he’d met Terese Mondragon at the court of Carlos I de España. She was like no woman he’d ever known, and enthralled by her pale eyes, red lips, and soft, fair skin, he’d wooed her with gentle words and caresses more tender than he’d given to any woman before her. When he realized what she was and what she could offer him, he persuaded her to turn him.

  De Vivar had roused the next evening to find a slim cylinder hanging from his neck. He’d seen Terese wearing something similar and knew it contained the soil of his home. She must care a great deal for me to make the journey there.

  But hunger gnawed at his gut, and he had no time to delight in that realization. He went out to feed for the first time. Terese had requested he wait for her, but she was simply a woman, and now that he was a vampyr, he was her superior in every way. He came across a maidservant, and his nostrils flared. The odor of sex clung to her, but most intriguingly, he could scent the blood that flowed through her veins.

  She went willingly when he caught her arm and drew her into an empty chamber. That changed when his fangs extended, and her fear was more pleasurable than the blood he sipped from her.

  Feeling all-powerful, he’d gone to Terese to learn when he would become rege.

  “You’ve fed,” she said before he could speak. “You should have waited for me.” She frowned. “Where did you leave her?”

  “How do you know it was a woman?”

  “I can smell her on you.”

  “She was just a serving wench. You have no need to be jealous, cara.”

  “Take me to her.”

  He shrugged. Perhaps Terese wanted to enjoy the girl as well. There were a number of women at court who had no objection to toying with those beneath them, and if they should chance to be female… well, that was immaterial. He led Terese to the chamber.

  “You’re fortunate, de Vivar,” Terese murmured. “No one has found her. And by God’s good grace, she’s still alive.” She knelt, raised the wench in her arms, and ran her tongue over the jagged wounds he’d left behind.

  His eyes widened as the wounds closed.

  The wench’s eyelids fluttered open, and when she saw de Vivar, she uttered a small cry. He licked his lips, almost tasting her fear, and he took a step toward her.

  “¡Basta!” Terese hissed, her eyes flashing red.

  How dare she be impatient with him? But she brought her attention back to the wench. Terese turned her face so that their eyes met, and then whispered something to her.

  Like his king, de Vivar spoke Spanish to God, Italian to women, French to men, and German to his horse, but this was a language he didn’t understand.

  “All right. She’ll have no memory of what you did to her.”

  “She’s unimportant.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you faced the stake because of your actions.”

  “No one would dare!”

  She said something in that language, and he was tempted to strike her across that mouth of hers. But he still needed to learn what was necessary in order for him to become rege.

  “Cara, I have no wish to quarrel with you.”

  “Then heed my words! It’s fortunate you neither turned her nor drained her to the point you killed her.”

  He frowned, but decided it would be politic to humor her. “Of course, principessa. However, she’s nothing more than a housemaid.”

  “Weren’t you paying attention last evening at dinner? She’s a favorite of the count, our host.”

  She was? He couldn’t say much for the count’s taste in women. He could understand the countess having a face like the back end of a mule—arranged marriages were the order of things, and wasn’t his own duchess much the same?—but his slut?

  He realized Terese was waiting a response from him. “Forgive me, carina.” The words were like sour wine on his tongue. He waited until she sent the wench from the chamber before getting down to what was most important. “Tell me, bella, how soon before I become rege?”

  “Surely you were aware only vampyrs who are born are permitted to rule.”

  Well, no, he wasn’t. No one had seen fit to inform him of this. “But of course an exception will be made for me!”

  “My lord duke, no exceptions are made.” Her soft palm cradled his cheek. There was real regret in her words; he could hear it. “Now, I must feed. Accompany me, and I will show you how it’s done.”

  There was nothing he could do at that point, and so he went with her.

  HE WASN’T the only one dissatisfied with how the vampyr community was ruled, and he snapped his fingers—ha!—at such archaic notions that only a vampyr who had been born could reign. He had every intention of seizing the monarchy from Alexandru Mondragon, but not just yet. He had his own coterie of vampyrs he’d turned, but they weren’t enough at this point for him to overturn the order of things.

  And having this sabor, who was a combination of the two strongest sabor lines, as his own to feed from at his leisure—at his desire—would be all he needed to secure his plans.

  Normals had no idea they weren’t alone, and once he became rege, he would see they were shown there was another race on this planet stronger than they.

  And as for sabors, originally they had been for the sole use of the ruling vampyrs. That had changed after the Great Plague, or so he’d been told, when for the survival of them all it had become necessary for sabors to be shared.

  All that would change, as well as the nonsense of waiting until a sabor reached his or her majority. The youngest ones had the sweetest blood, and if they survived their first feeding, should prove to be the easiest trained.

  De Vivar would still have the sabor, and he would be his alone. A vampyr’s life was long, and he intended to spend a good deal of time training the sabor in the correct manner.

  However, he needed to plan.

  And part of his plan would include Matthew Crist.

  De Vivar allowed his lips to part in a sly grin. The poor young man had had too much to drink. He’d offer to drive him home.

  The door to the bar opened and a man sauntered in. “Cab for Crist?”

  “Right here.” The bartender helped Crist out and returned in a matter of moments, muttering under his breath.

  “Hijo de puta,” de Vivar snarled. Would nothing ever go the way he plann
ed?

  He slid out of the booth, leaving behind the untouched glass of wine, and bared his fangs at the people at the bar, fully expecting them to shrink back in fear.

  “Whoa! Awesome costume, man!”

  With a swirl of his cape, he stalked out of the bar, seething in fury at the applause that followed him.

  CHAPTER FOUR:

  COME HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

  IT WAS a little less than a month since my eighteenth birthday, when Adam Dasani, vampyr, had fed from me, Tyrell Small, sabor, for the very first time.

  It had been an amazing experience, although for a few days after I’d felt a little drained—no pun intended. But three solid meals a day for about a week took care of it, and now I was feeling pretty darned good. Feisty, in fact.

  This was my destiny, as too many people had been all too willing to tell me, what I’d been born for. Only the most diehard of the traditionalists fed from the so-called normal people, the rest making do with withdrawals from their local blood banks—they’d nuke the bags to 98.6, and voilà, instant dinner—or cattle.

  Which wasn’t as unusual as it might sound. In olden days, during times of want, even normals had done so, making narrow cuts into the ears of their mules or donkeys and subsisting on the animal’s blood.

  But that meant occasionally they’d need to feed from me.

  After that first time, I couldn’t say I truly resented the prospect of being a vampyr’s chew toy. For one thing, it got me the most fantastic orgasms.

  And for another… well, see the first thing.

  Would it be the same way with a lady vampyr?

  I didn’t know, and I was a little leery about it, but I was willing to give it a try.

  And that was how I wound up with a house of my own at the age of eighteen.

  I was proud of my little bungalow and couldn’t wait to show Dad, so I was going to have him over for Thanksgiving weekend, and I’d cook dinner. I mean, how tough could that be? I’d watched him over the years: he put the turkey in the oven, turned on the timer, and we watched football until the timer went ding.

  And just to make sure, there was that little pop-up thingy that… um… popped up once it was done.

  As far as I could see, it was a no-brainer.

  I didn’t have a spare bedroom, so I was giving him mine; the love seat in the living room opened into a full-size bed, and I would take that.

  I’d changed the sheets, put fresh towels in the bathroom, and done everything I could think of to make sure he’d be comfortable.

  So here it was, a little less than four weeks since my birthday. It was a beautiful day, a little nippy, but perfect for Thanksgiving, with the sun shining and the promise of more in the forecast for the weekend.

  Everything was going fine. The table was set with china and silverware. I’d found a nice tablecloth in the buffet in the dining room, and a vase in the cabinet under the sink. The vase was on the table now, filled with the yellow, red, and bronze chrysanthemums someone had planted around the bungalow’s foundation.

  The turkey was doing its thing in the oven—and I’d even basted it a couple of times—the potatoes were cut up and boiling away in a two-quart pot, and the can of cranberry sauce was open and laid out on a plate in the fridge, keeping cold. The green beans could wait until the last minute to be steamed, and as for the salad, all it needed was to have the dressing poured on.

  Dessert was the easiest part. Dad was bringing a couple of pies—pumpkin and coconut custard. A can of Reddi-wip, and we were good to go.

  And then the phone rang and things began to go a little hinky.

  “Ty, I’m sorry, I seem to be lost. I followed your directions, but wound up in Knoxville.”

  “That’s north of here.” It was a medium-sized town named for one of Washington’s generals, as I’d learned when I’d gone for a drive to familiarize myself with the area around my new home and wound up touring the neighboring town’s one claim to fame. “How did you get there?”

  “Beats me. I took the thruway to where it forked, about a mile past Pritchert.”

  I nodded, although he couldn’t see me.

  “I took the left fork and drove the eight miles you told me it would take to get to your exit.” There was wry amusement in his voice. “When I reached Knoxville, I realized I must have missed it. I turned around and drove back the way I’d come. I clocked it, to make sure I didn’t miss the turn, but I missed it anyway and wound up back here in Pritchert. I wouldn’t have called you, but I tried a second time, with the same results.”

  That was just weird. Dad was a good driver. He never got lost.

  “Okay, where are you now?”

  “I’m parked in front of a hardware store on Main Street.”

  “I know that store. Listen, hang tight and I’ll come get you.” I was dying to show him my hybrid anyway.

  It only took about ten minutes to get to Pritchert. It would take longer going home—with Dad in the car, I had no intention of speeding. I pulled into the spot beside Dad’s Cougar. He was standing in front of the store window, studying the holiday display. I tapped the horn to get his attention, and he turned, looking happy to see me. I grinned at him as I unbuckled my seat belt and got out of the car.

  “Son!” He crossed to me quickly, but he didn’t hug me, which I appreciated.

  “Hi, Dad!” I took his hand and gripped it tightly. That I could do, at least for a brief time.

  “I’ve missed you! How have you been?”

  “Fine.” I didn’t tell him I was pretty much the same as the night before, when I’d last talked to him. “I’ve missed you too. What do you think of Lucretia?”

  “Borgia?” He looked confused. “I heard they’re trying to clear her name—”

  “No.” I couldn’t help laughing. “MacEvil! My car!” She was a coupe, sangria red, and the only thing that would have been better was if she’d been a ragtop, but I wasn’t about to look a gift car in the grill.

  “Oh! She’s a beauty.”

  “You bet! She goes from zero to sixty in—”

  He gave me a look.

  I coughed. “That’s what the manual says. I haven’t tried it myself,” I assured him.

  “Of course you haven’t.” He grinned at me, but there was something in his eyes….

  “Dad? What’s wrong?”

  He shook his head. “I could never afford to get you something like this.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “It’s not. I should have—”

  “No.” He shouldn’t feel bad because he wasn’t the one who bought me a set of wheels. We’d always been comfortable; he made a good living when construction was booming—the union had gotten its workers a fantastic contract—and when it wasn’t, he did any number of side jobs. I had a Nintendo DS, an MP3 player, and my own stereo system in my room.

  What I couldn’t understand was why he drove a car almost as old as I was, and why the television in the living room was only nineteen inches, instead of a fifty-inch flat screen.

  “Listen, Dad. Let’s get going.” I pressed the button on my key fob, and the trunk opened slowly.

  “What about my car?”

  “We’ll come pick it up tomorrow. It’ll be fine here in the meantime.” Fortunately there were no parking meters on this stretch of Main Street. “Now, get your suitcase and the pies, lock up your car, and get in. I’m freezing my butt off here!”

  He grinned at me. “Sure, Ty.” He put his pilot case in the trunk and closed it, then settled himself into the passenger seat with the pies on his lap, buckled up, and inhaled. “Nothing like that new-car smell.”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty awesome, isn’t it?” My grin felt like it was going to crack my face. I was an adult—okay, I couldn’t drink, but I had my own car and my own place, and I was going to drive my dad there. I put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking spot. “It should only take about twenty minutes to get home.” No way was I speeding.

  “Tyrell—”
<
br />   Uh-oh. He only used my full name when he had something serious to say.

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  “You didn’t answer my question. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  “He didn’t hurt you?”

  Was that what he was worried about? “No. See?” I hooked my forefinger in the collar of the sweater I wore under my jacket and tugged it down. “Not even a scar.”

  “But if there was, your birthmark would conceal it.”

  “What? No, it….” Well, maybe it would, but—“There really isn’t a scar.”

  He didn’t say anything, and I risked taking my eyes from the road for a second to see if I could guess what he was feeling. His face was blank.

  “It was….” I had to reassure him. “Dad, it was the best experience!”

  “I don’t think I want to know about it.”

  “Sure.” I didn’t really want to tell him about it. Not about the sexual aspect of it, anyway. “But I don’t want you worrying. I’m not Uncle Phil.”

  He raised an eyebrow. I didn’t know how much he knew about what had happened to his brother, and I was sorry I’d brought up Uncle Phil’s name.

  Dad didn’t challenge me on it, though. Instead, he asked, “Ty… are you lonely?”

  “No.” I was, but I wasn’t going to burden him with that. I might not like people touching me, but I was used to having him in the house when I came home, used to having neighbors and friends close by, and I missed that. “I’m still getting myself settled in.”

  “I imagine it will take some time for you to learn your way around.”

  “You bet.” I glanced at him, but he was examining the dash.

  “And then?”

  “Well, once that’s done, I’ll get myself enrolled in college.” Knowing I’d be leaving home but not knowing where I’d be going, I hadn’t bothered applying to any of the local colleges. Oh, I’d sent out letters of intent to Harvard, Cornell, and Yale, but that had just been as a goof, and it hadn’t surprised me when all three had declined the pleasure of my presence in their hallowed halls.