Pretty When She Kills (Pretty When She Dies #2)(6)

The car was a few blocks from I-35 and downtown Austin when a SUV ran a red light. Amaliya only caught a glimpse of its black shape and tinted windows before it crashed into the car, striking Amaliya’s door. The impact slammed her sideways as the air bags exploded, punching into her body like a fist. Glass filled the air as the car spun across the intersection, wheels shredding on the asphalt, the smell of rubber and gasoline filling the world. The car smashed to a halt against the metal bench of a bus stop.





Chapter 2


Rubbing the stubble on his chin, Santos glanced at his cellphone expectantly. The master vampire of San Antonio was in a sour mood. He was always short-tempered when anxious. He did not like waiting. Since he was unable to determine what the end result of his carefully laid out plans would be, he was very much on edge. There were too many unknown variables to be certain of anything when it concerned Amaliya, the vampire-necromancer offspring of The Summoner.

His fingers tapped on the heavy wood of his throne-like chair. Seated in the office of his mansion tucked into the hills on the northwest side of San Antonio, he glared at the cellphone one more time. Outside, Tejano music was pumping into the night air as his cabal partied on the enormous patio he had recently installed after making sure to remove all the corpses he had buried under his property. He did not want Amaliya resurrecting his former victims to attack him as she had in the past.

The door to his office opened and Etzli slipped inside. Wearing a pale blue strapless mini-dress and silver high heels, she looked ready for the club scene. Her lush black hair was shiny and artfully curled around her face. Makeup and bronzer gave her the appearance of a living, breathing young woman in her early twenties. In actuality she was hundreds of years old.

“No word yet?”

“Manny hasn’t called,” Santos said, shrugging.

“Manny is probably dead,” Etzli reminded him with a smirk.

Again Santos shrugged. “He was disloyal to me. If he dies tonight, he will be absolved in my eyes.”

Etzli walked languidly toward the desk, her hips swaying side to side. She was very aware of her beauty, sensuality, and ability to mesmerize both men and women. Even though they had spent hundreds of years fighting and loving each other, Santos never grew weary of gazing at her. She was the embodiment of the Aztec people. Her blood was pure. His had been tainted by the blood of the Spaniard invaders.

“Manny was just a stupid thug,” Etzli decided as she slinked around his desk, her long red nails lightly skimming over the burnished wood.

“I don’t like it when other men touch my women. You should know that.” Santos gave her a dark look.

The delight in her smile said it all. She loved to make him jealous. The more he rebuffed her, the more seductive she became until he was mad with his passion for her. She was his weakness and he hated that fact. For all he knew she had encouraged Manny to romance the wicked little witch Santos had been sleeping with. It was exactly the sort of thing she would do. In his rage, he had sent Manny and Irma on a suicide run. He was beginning to regret sending Irma, but Manny was expendable. Hopefully, Cian would send Irma back. Cian usually left one person standing to deliver a message to his enemies.

“Do you really think it was wise to send one of your witches?” Etzli asked. She always had the uncanny ability to know what he was thinking. “She was such a dear little thing.”

Santos cast a spiteful look in his half-sister’s direction. “Let me guess. You were also sleeping with her?”

“She was delicious,” Etzli admitted. Her long lashes threw spidery shadows over her face.

Clenching one hand, Santos growled. “Is no one loyal anymore?”

“I am loyal to you always.” Sliding behind his chair, Etzli leaned over his shoulder, her hair brushing his cheek and neck. “I just like to play with your toys sometimes.”

Santos shifted his weight so he was leaning away from her. “Why are you here?”

“I’m just curious. When you capture Amaliya, will she be your woman?”

“She’ll be my minion, my pawn,” Santos said tersely. “I never should have let Cian take her from me when I had her.”

“She’s pretty. Her light eyes are very alluring,” Etzli teased.

“I have no interest in her sexually. She has the power to raise the dead. To control them just like he did. That’s why I want her.”

Though The Summoner was dead, Santos did not dare say his name aloud. His own dealings with the necromancer-turned-vampire had been the stuff of nightmares. In the early 1900’s The Summoner had captured and held Etzli prisoner for nearly a year. Santos had traveled across Mexico and Central America searching for his hideout. Once they had found him, Santos and his band of vampires had lain siege to The Summoner’s haven inside a ruined temple for many nights, fighting off hordes of zombie humans and animals. At last he had managed to fight his way into the temple to find his sister naked, drenched in blood, and surrounded by dead creatures. The Summoner had fled, leaving her behind. He would never forget the vision of her staring up at him, wounds slowly healing on her flesh. In the aftermath of the battle, he had wanted the power The Summoner had wielded so that none would ever dare touch what was his again. That power now dwelled inside of Amaliya, Cian’s second, and he would have it.

“It may be many years before you can use her power,” Etzli reminded him.