Pretty When She Kills

Page 9

When Etzli had told her that Santos planned to test Amaliya’s power, Rachon thought it was a foolhardy move, but not unexpected. Santos wanted Amaliya for himself, but he’d have to find a way to capture her. Testing her powers was the best way to determine the woman’s weaknesses and determine the best plan to acquire her from Cian. Of course, this meant killing Cian, but Rachon knew from experience the Irishman would not die easily. He was stronger, older, and more resourceful than most of the vampires in North America.
As Rachon walked through the kitchen, the floorboards creaked under her feet. She would have to replace the floors soon and have the foundation checked. The old house was a money pit, but her mother loved it. Prosper hated that she and her mother lived among the poor. Prosper lived in the elegance and wealth of the French Quarter along with his brothers. Rachon couldn’t bear to leave the old neighborhood behind until she had to. She loved the sense of community, the beauty of the people, and the strength of will of those who had to work even harder for the simple pleasures of life. She kept her corner of the neighborhood free of crime as payment for the joy she received from watching the people who inhabited the homes around her around her living their daily existence. Besides, her mother hated being uprooted, so it was easier to alter to memories of her neighbors than actually upset the older woman.
The small house was tucked along the northern edge of the Ninth Ward in New Orleans. It was a simple white clapboard bungalow with a nice big porch surrounded by her mother’s lush landscaping. Her mother loved to putter around outside at all hours of the day. The house had survived the terrible wrath of Hurricane Katarina only because of the massive magical wards Rachon had placed on the property over the course of the previous century. The neighborhood had suffered massive losses though. She’d secretly funded the reconstruction of many of the homes through a dummy foundation. Sadly, there were still destroyed homes slowly rotting away on abandoned lots.
The neighbors thought Rachon was an artist, living odd hours, struggling to make it big. She sometimes chatted with them, but not very often. They could sense there was something off about her, something not quite right. Rachon had vivid memories of the many times she had been hunted by her owner’s henchmen and by vampire hunters, therefore she tried to keep a low profile.
“Mama, I’m going to check on the girl,” she said as she walked into the living room.
Her mother leaned over the arm of her leather recliner, the only new piece of furniture in the house for the last twenty years. The older woman was very tiny, with a delicate face and slim frame. She had been a house slave before Rachon had rescued her. She had pale green eyes, light brown skin, and her white hair was twisted into a bun on top of her head. Rachon’s father had been black as night with maroon eyes just like his daughter. He had died before she had rescued her family and burned the plantation.
“She’s such a quiet thing. I keep forgetting she is back there,” her mother admitted.
Prosper grunted at something funny on the TV, not really paying attention to their chat.
“I just want to make sure she’s okay.” Rachon pressed her hand against her mother’s cheek, feeling the soft warmth of her skin. Her mother had refused to become a vampire, but had agreed to take sips of Rachon’s blood to extend her life. Delia was very devout in her faith and afraid of losing her soul if she became a vampire. She prayed faithfully at church every day for her vampiric family. Rachon often wondered if God was listening.
“Oh, that girl isn’t okay, but she’s quiet. So it’s all good.” Her mother snuggled her face into Rachon’s hand as she raised her own arthritic hand to touch her daughter’s fingers.
“You tired yet?” Rachon asked, smiling as her mother kissed her palm.
“No, no. Don’t need sleep yet. Besides, that wild party next door won’t let me sleep. But they did have some good crawfish earlier. Mmmm...” her mother grinned.
Rachon lovingly kissed Delia’s cheek.
“Rachon, let’s make Rhianna into a vampire,” Prosper said from the sofa, grinning.
“Let’s not,” Rachon answered.
“Always ruining my fun...”
Delia laughed and playfully slapped his knee. “Always on the prowl for a pretty girl.”
“I got a pretty girl right here,” Prosper answered, resting his big hand over hers.
“Oh, you’re such a liar!
Rachon left them to their TV watching and banter. She slipped down the hallway to the room in the back of the house. The walls of the hall were covered with framed charcoal sketches of the family throughout the years. The faces of her cousins, aunts, and uncles were carefully captured with the sure strokes of a charcoal pencil. Over a century and a half of the same faces caught in various eras were lovingly recreated by her mother’s hand. Digital photos were framed and carefully arranged in one area of the wall, but they weren’t as remarkable or touching as the sketches.
Pushing the door open to the small bedroom, she peeked in at the young woman seated on the floor, her hands in her lap, staring at the TV.
“How are we doing, Bianca?”
As always, the pale vampire just stared at the screen blindly. She rarely showed an inclination to do anything other than to gaze into nothingness except for when Rachon opened a vein. Then she would mew like a baby and latch onto Rachon’s wrist until she was sated. Though Bianca’s eyes never revealed any sign of comprehension when Rachon spoke to her, the girl had to understand her commands to bring forth the dead. Without fail, every time Rachon took Bianca into one of the many graveyards around New Orleans, the girl would summon the dead per Rachon’s request. Yet, she never responded to any other order, never revealed a smidge of awareness, and never said a single word.
Rachon knelt beside the girl, her fingers tracing over the silky, baby-fine white blond waves. Prosper bought her lacy, frothy dresses and Delia put ribbons in her hair. Maybe they did it because they thought of Bianca as doll-like. Bianca was beautiful and delicate, like a perfect human-sized doll.
Staring into the blue eyes of the girl, Rachon lightly stroked her cheek. “Pretty girl, how would you like to go to meet our brother and your new sister?”
Bianca didn’t blink, didn’t move, and didn’t do anything other than stare.
Kneeling, Rachon gently took the girl’s white hand between her much darker ones. “I have to obey the last order of our creator. His last edict. But I need you to do exactly what I say, can you do that?”
Not a twitch, not a flutter of the eyelashes, nothing.
“Why do you try? She doesn’t understand you,” Prosper asked from the doorway. His huge body filled the door frame.
Rachon shrugged. “I don’t want her to lose her shit when we travel to Austin.”
“I think you’re developing a soft spot for her.”
“Shut your face,” Rachon scowled, standing.
Prosper’s grin only widened. “You’re one of the most ruthless, bad ass, evil muthafuckin’ vampires in the South, and yet you can be sweet as pie when you want to be.”
Rachon placed her hands on her hips and lifted her chin. “I do what I have to do to keep us all safe. To keep us in power.”
“I hate that you still serve that pasty nasty Master even after he’s dead.” Prosper shook his head.
Eyes narrowing dangerously, she pointed a finger at her cousin. “If not for him, we would not be here. You wouldn’t be what you are, living your grand life. So shut your fucking face.”
“You still love him, huh?”
Rachon sighed, slightly shaking her head. “He was my Master. My lover. My salvation. I loved him and hated him.”
“You two were always fucked up.”
“Yeah, but now he’s gone. I at least owe it to him to do as he wished.”
Prosper shrugged dismissively. “What are we doing when we go to Austin? Going to kill Cian and that new bitch?”
Rachon glanced down at Bianca. The young woman was watching the flickering images on the old TV again.
“I have to take care of one last task for The Summoner.”
“If you kill them, I ain’t taking Austin. I hate Texas. You know, in a way they did you a favor,” Prosper said, his voice almost timid.
Narrowing her eyes, Rachon fought down the swift anger that filled her and fought the urge to punish Prosper for his impudence. Her long fingers flexed, the need for violence making them tingle.
Ducking his head in subservience, Prosper stood cowed before her.
“Don’t speak ill of the dead,” she said at last, blinking her eyes so the heat in them would fade.
“Forgive me,” Prosper murmured.
“You may hate him, but I loved him.” And she’d feared him. Maybe that had been part of the allure of The Summoner. She had courted death and found love in his arms. The swath of destruction they had left in their wake when she had liberated her family had been glorious. She still remembered how the flames engulfing the plantation mansion had reflected in the fresh blood covering their bodies.
Crouching next to Bianca again, she stared at the pale creature thoughtfully.