Pretty When She Kills (Pretty When She Dies #2)(7)

“I can wait. I can be a patient man. I deal with you,” he said shortly.

His plan to bring Amaliya under his control was simple. He would drain her of blood, imprison her in a stone casket, and feed her one drop of his blood each night until she was restored and bound to him and his bloodline. He was uncertain of how long it would take to transfer her bond to him, but he was determined to enslave her.

Etzli laughed as she slid one finger slowly down the side of his neck. He batted her hand away like it was an irritating bug. “Cian is not so easy to kill, you know, my dear brother.”

“I know.” Santos’ voice was testy because he knew exactly how hard it would be to kill Cian. He had tried many times before. “But this is about her. I want to know what she can do away from the graveyards. I need to know if she is capable of doing what he did.”

Looping her arms over the back of the chair and around his neck, Etzli leaned over him, her hair a fragrant curtain of black silky hair. “You’re so afraid of her.”

Santos pushed her arms away. “I do not fear her.”

“Yes, you do.” Etzli laughed with delight. “You fear her so much you are willing to kill your own people so you can figure out exactly how much you should be afraid of her.”

“Be silent!”

“You let her go and now you regret it. Now you have a much bigger battle to wage.”

“Stop mocking me.”

Etzli ran her hand over his dark hair then slipped away before he could deflect her touch. “You know I will stand by you no matter what foolish thing you may want to do.”

“You expect me to ignore the fact that The Summoner’s only fledgling to wield his power is eighty miles away? That I could use her to bring all of Texas under my control?”

“No. Of course not.” Etzli rested her manicured hands on the desktop and stared at him. “But I don’t want to see you be a foolish man in your pursuit of her.”

Slapping his hand down on the desk, Santos rose and glared at his half-sibling. “Do not underestimate my power!”

With a simple shrug, she started toward the door.

Rage engulfed him. He clenched his hands at his side, resisting the urge to follow her and strike her for her impudence. Etzli’s ability to enrage him made him feel weak.

With a knowing smile, she slipped out the door and shut it behind her. With a frustrated growl, he dropped back into his chair and stared at the cellphone.



*



Innocente awoke with a start. Her heart thudding in her chest, she stared into the shadows filling her bedroom. Instinctively, she knew she was being watched.

“Who’s there?” she asked, her slight Mexican accent edged with a West Texan twang.

When she was younger, she would have assumed it was a ghostly visitor. Her ability to see and speak to the dead drew specters to her, but now she knew that there were much more dangerous creatures that haunted the night. Just a few months before she had helped kill one of the deadliest vampires to walk the earth. Of course, he had killed her granddaughter Amaliya, so he had it coming.

There was no answer, but a presence filled her room.

Drawing her legs up, she curled up against her headboard. Her fingers slid under the covers, closing over the rosary she kept under her pillow. Her other hand found her pistol filled with silver bullets, a gift from Jeff, a vampire hunter in Austin.

“Who’s there? Answer me!”

Again, no answer, but she knew she was not alone. She sensed someone lurking in the darkness. The darkness in her room was absolute. She couldn’t even make out the outlines of her bedroom furniture. The air was heavy and oppressive.

“I’m armed. I will hurt you,” she said in a firm voice. Maybe whatever lurked in the darkness thought she was weak because of her advanced years and the gray in her hair, but she would show them otherwise.

“Can you help me?” a voice asked softly.

It sounded child-like, feminine, and frightened.

“Show yourself!” Innocente ordered. Under her covers she slipped the safety off the gun as she wrapped the rosary around the barrel. All her life she had endured the visitations of the dead, but for a few years she had managed to keep them at bay. It was difficult to hide from the ghosts that were seeking help.

“Help me,” the voice whispered. “He hurt me.”

Innocente tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Her voice slightly rasped as she said, “Show yourself.”

The darkness in her room split like a curtain and withdrew to reveal a young woman dressed in a white lace dress with ribbons woven into her white-blond hair. Her enormous blue eyes gazed at Innocente solemnly. Both of her hands were pressed against her throat. Blood gushed over her fingers and ran like red ribbons over the silky lace of her dress.

Innocente gasped, startled by the vision. “Who hurt you, sweetie?”

“The Summoner,” the girl whispered, her perfectly shaped pink lips barely moving.

“Dios mio!” Innocente crossed herself, but kept her hand with the gun and rosary tucked under the covers. “He’s dead!”

Red tears stained the girl’s cheeks as she held out one bloodstained hand toward Innocente. “He hurt me. Please, help me!”

“How?” Innocente whispered, giving in to the plea. The young woman looked so fragile, so desolate, it tugged at her heartstrings. “How can I help you?”