Dark Predator d-22 Page 2

  Weeks earlier, he had been so close to turning vampire, the desire for relief from emptiness so strong in him, the blackness of his soul without the least relief, that his reaction now made no sense. He was in worse shape. Starving for blood. More kills staining his soul. Yet there was that strange reaction in the vicinity of his heart, that heat pulsing through his veins in anticipation. A trick then? A lure set by a vampire? What was he missing?

  The harpy eagle slowly folded his seven-foot wingspan, talons as large as grizzly bear’s claws digging deep into the roof of the stable while the feathers at the top of his head formed a large crest. The great predator went completely still, sharp eyes moving over the terrain below. He had amazing vision within the harpy’s body and his hearing was aided even further by the focusing of sound waves by the smaller feathers forming his facial disk.

  The horses in the corral a short distance away reacted to his presence, tossing heads, moving restlessly and bunching together tightly. Several whinnied in distress. A woman emerged from the stable beneath him, a large horse following her. Immediately his gaze fixated on her. Her hair was long, to her waist, pulled back in a braid that was as thick as his wrist. The long rope of hair attracted his gaze. When she moved, the woven strands gleamed like spun silk.

  Zacarias saw in the shadowy colors of gray and dull white for centuries. Her braid was fascinating because it was a true black. He was nearly mesmerized by the long, dark hair, the strands shimmering even without the sun. Somewhere in the vicinity of what would have been his belly, his stomach gave a slow somersaulting roll. In a world where everything was the same and nothing moved him, that small sensation amounted to a bomb going off. For a moment he lost his breath, shaken by the strange phenomenon.

  The horse following the woman wore no saddle or bridle and once he emerged from the building, he began to dance with restless unease, head tossing, eyes rolling as he circled the woman. The horses were purebred Peruvian Paso, a breed renowned not only for their natural gaits, but for temperament as well. The woman glanced toward the horses running in circles in the corral—it was unusual for them to be nervous—and then lifted a calming hand to the horse half rearing so close to her. She laid her hand on his neck and looked up at harpy eagle sitting so still on the roof.

  Those dark chocolate eyes penetrated right through the feathers and bones of the eagle, straight to Zacarias. He felt the impact like an arrow through his heart. Marguarita. Even from the distance he could see the scars at her throat where the vampire had torn out her vocal cords because she refused to give up Zacarias’s resting place to the undead. She’d once been a carefree young woman, or he’d imagined her to be, but now, someone was using her to trap him.

  It all made sense now. The compulsion to come to this place, to think of it as home. Was she possessed by a vampire? Only a master could weave and hold such a spell together—only a master like his old enemies, the Malinov brothers. The five brothers had grown up with him. They’d fought alongside one another for nearly five hundred years. His friends had chosen to be vampire, to give up their souls in their thirst for power. They had chosen to bring together the undead in a conspiracy against the prince and the Carpathian people.

  Dominic had uncovered the latest plot and stayed to help defend the De La Cruz properties in Brazil. Knowing that the vampires would test their plan of attack on the ranch before striking at the prince, Zacarias had been waiting for them. No vampire had escaped alive. There were none to return to tell the Malinovs their plan had failed.

  Zacarias knew the Malinovs’ rage and their bitter, unrelenting hatred of him and his brothers. Yes, this very well could be the payback for the defeat of the Malinov army, but how would they have gotten here ahead of him? That didn’t make sense, either.

  The harpy eagle shook his head as if ridding himself of unsettling thoughts. No, it was impossible for them to get together another attack this soon. In any case, horses barely tolerated his presence, they would never allow evil to touch them and Marguarita was stroking the powerful neck. There was no possession.

  Zacarias wondered at the strange sensation in his chest. Almost relief. He didn’t want to have to kill her, not when she’d nearly sacrificed her life for him once. Yet he was incapable of feeling, of any emotion whatsoever. Why did he have these extraordinary stirrings in his body and mind since returning to this place? None of it made sense. He doubled his vigilance, not trusting the unfamiliar.

  Warmth seeped into the bird’s brain, a soothing impression of a friendly greeting. The harpy eagle reacted, his head cocking to one side, his eyes locked with the woman’s. Zacarias felt the bird reaching for her. She was subtle in her touch, so light it was barely there, but she wielded a powerful gift. Even the great predator of the rain forest slipped under her spell. He felt his own mind and body reacting, relaxing, tension slipping away. She had reached past the bird and found his most animalistic, wild nature.

  Startled, he pulled back, withdrawing deeper into the body of the eagle, all the while watching her closely as she turned her attention on calming the horses. It didn’t take her long to soothe them to the point that they stood quietly, but they didn’t stop watching the eagle, aware there was a worse predator buried deep inside the bird.

  Marguarita circled the horse’s neck and leaped. It was an easy, practiced motion, she seemed to flow through the air, all grace as she slipped onto the animal’s back. Immediately the horse reared, more, he was certain, due to his presence than because the girl had gone astride him. Zacarias’s breath caught in his throat. His heart accelerated into a thunderous drum—another peculiar phenomenon. The great eagle spread his wings almost before Zacarias gave the order. The movement was more instinctive than thought out, an immediate need to wrench the woman to safety. Marguarita leaned over the horse’s neck in a silent command and horse and rider flowed over the ground in perfect unison.

  Once satisfied that she was not in danger, Zacarias folded his wings and watched, his talons digging deeper into the roof as the horse sailed over a fence and lengthened his stride. She sat up straight, the elegant gait of the animal a harmonic and rhythmic tapping, so gentle that his center of gravity, where Marguarita sat, was almost stationary.

  Intrigued, Zacarias touched the horse’s mind. She controlled the animal—yet she didn’t. The horse accepted her, wanted to please her—enjoyed the melding of their two spirits. Marguarita wove her spell over the animal effortlessly, holding him to her through her gift—a deep connection with creatures. She didn’t appear to realize she did anything special; she simply was enjoying the early-dawn ride—just as the horse was.

  This, then, was the reason for the strange stirrings in his mind and body. Her gift. She touched all things wild, and he was as untamed as it got. There was no threat of the undead, only this young woman with her innocence and light. She must have sent the Paso another command, because the animal switched gaits to a graceful, flowing movement, rolling his forelegs from the shoulder toward the outside as he strode forward. The horse’s head was up proudly, his mane flying, his eyes bright and exuberance in his every move.

  It was a perfect moment—the perfect moment to end his life. She was—beautiful. Free. Flowing over the ground like cool water. Everything that he’d fought for—everything he’d never been. The harpy eagle spread his wings and spiraled overhead, watching horse and rider as they covered ground fast yet unbelievably smooth.

  All his life, even when soldiers fought on horseback, even in his youth, there had been far too much predator in him to allow a horse to carry him on his back. In those days he’d tried everything—excluding mind control—to enable him to ride, but no horse could take it. They shuddered and trembled beneath him, even when he sought to calm them.

  Marguarita sailed effortlessly over fences, with no bridle or saddle, horse and rider exuding joy. He followed them as the pair rushed over the uneven ground, the horse’s smooth gait making it look as if they were floating. Marguarita threw both hands into the air as
they cleared a fence, holding on to the horse with her knees and guiding it with her mind.

  The Paso switched his gait smoothly as they raced across the field and he turned in a wide circle again. Marguarita gave the eagle a friendly wave and once again, warmth and joy washed over and through Zacarias. He’d given her his blood—but he’d never taken hers. His mouth watered. His teeth filled his mouth and hunger burst through him, radiating need through every cell. He banked the bird abruptly and headed back for the stable. He refused to take any chances with his self-control.

  Once before he’d been far too close to giving up what little remained of his soul. He would honor his word to his brothers. No Carpathian would ever have to risk his life to hunt down Zacarias De La Cruz. He chose his fate, and he chose to save his honor. He would go to the dawn, head unbent, welcoming his death. His last vision would be of the returning woman—of young Marguarita with light spilling from inside of her as she flowed across the ground on the back of a beautiful horse. He would take the sight of her doing the very thing of his boyhood dreams—riding as one with the animal—with him to his death.

  The harpy eagle landed gracefully on the ground beside the stable. Ignoring the terrified horses in the corral attached to the structure, he shifted back to his human form. He was a big man, all muscle, with long flowing hair. Deep lines carved his face. Some called him brutishly handsome. Some said his mouth was both sensual and cruel. Most said he was terrifying. Right at that moment, he felt utterly tired—so weary he could barely manage to look around for a place to sit. He wanted to drop right there in the cool grass.

  He forced his body to move as he looked for a convenient place to sit and watch the sun come up over the forest. Very slowly he sank down into the soft soil, uncaring that water seeped into his clothes from the morning dew. He didn’t bother to regulate his temperature any more than he had healed his wounds. There was contentment in making his decision. For the first time in his existence he was without the weight of responsibility. He drew up his knees, folded his hands and rested his chin on the small platform he’d made so he could see horse and rider as the Paso went smoothly through the natural gaits that made him so famous.

  He felt the sun prickling his skin, but it wasn’t the terrible sensation he’d felt his entire life. Solange had given him her blood on two occasions to save him from turning vampire. He had taken great care to avoid her blood once he realized he could spend the dawn hours out in the open without repercussions. Others of his kind could see the dawn and there were some who could actually walk on the morning streets without aid from Solange, but with his soul so dark, he had long ago joined the vampires in their need to hide from even early morning sunlight.

  He drank in the sight of Marguarita, as close to happy as a man without emotions might get. She’d traded her voice for his life. He had rewarded her loyalty by saving her life and giving instructions that she be given everything she wanted on the ranch. There were no jewels bedecking her fingers or throat. She wore simple clothes. But she lived for the horses, even he could see that. He’d given her—life. And in some strange way, she’d given him—freedom.

  He was unaware of the passing of time. Insects remained silent. The horses stopped circling and crowded as far from him as possible, in a corner of the corral, bunched tightly together, shifting and stamping restlessly, barely able to tolerate his presence. Slowly his body reacted to the rising sun with the strange leaden affliction of his species.

  Zacarias stretched out on the ground, face up, head turned toward the sight of Marguarita as she came toward him. Now the sunlight penetrated his clothing and touched his skin like a million tiny needles piercing his flesh. Tiny towers of smoke began to rise from his body as the burning began. He couldn’t move, but he wouldn’t have. She was beautiful. Fresh. Innocent. Contentment settled deep in spite of the increasing pain. He kept his eyes open, wanting—no, needing the sight of Marguarita riding to be in his heart when he entered his next life.

  Perhaps he was watching too closely, his gaze drawing hers, or maybe the strange behavior of the animals and insects alerted her, but she turned her head and her gaze met his. He saw her gasp and the sudden tightening of her knees on the horse, urging him forward.

  No! Stay back. Do not come near me. Put your horse away and go.

  If there was a small hesitation indicating the words had been forced into her mind, he didn’t catch it. The horse sailed over the fence and when he began dancing in fear, she halted the animal and leaped off. The Paso pawed the ground and she sent the horse a dark scowl, then waved her hand toward the corral. At once the Peruvian Paso ran toward the fence, cleared it and joined the other horses in the far corner.

  Marguarita approached him cautiously, the way she might a cornered, feral animal, one hand outstretched, palm toward him, her lips moving soundlessly as if she hadn’t quite gotten used to the fact that she couldn’t speak. Warmth flooded his mind, a soothing balm that told him she meant no harm.

  He struggled to move, but the curse of the sun was upon him. She moved closer, her shadow looming over him, her body blocking the rising sun. Her eyes were dark and rich, looking down at him with a mixture of outright fear and alarm for him.

  Leave me. Go now. He pushed the order into her head, sending the impression of a snarl, of an absolute command.

  Marguarita crouched beside him, touching his smoking arm, frowning in concern and then whipping her hand away, blowing on the tips of her fingers.

  This is my choice. Leave me to die. He had no idea whether his commands were penetrating. She didn’t blink or look at him as if she heard him.

  She’d been trained from birth to obey the members of his family. Surely she wouldn’t defy him. She knew how easily a Carpathian hunter close to the edge of madness could become vampire. The undead had torn out her throat. He felt her hand tremble against the heat of his arm. She had to have burned her fingers against his skin. He focused on her and pushed at her mind with a compulsion to leave him. She had too much compassion in her, too much daring to disobey one as powerful as him.

  His compulsion fell against a mind he could barely understand. It wasn’t as if he found barriers—it was as though his techniques simply dissipated like smoke.

  She stripped her short, soft jacket from her body and threw it over his head, covering his face and eyes. He felt her take his wrist and begin to pull him across the wet pasture. In his wake the blades of grass turned brown. He heard the breath hiss from her lungs and knew her hand was burned, but she didn’t stop.

  For the first time in the long centuries a deep-seated rage coiled in his belly and smoldered there, that someone dared defy his direct order. She had no right. She knew better. No one ever defied him—certainly not a human, and definitely not a woman. And not one of his own servants from a family that had been given every protection and wealth beyond imagining.

  He had chosen death. He had prepared himself. Was content with his decision—embraced his choice. This was the worst kind of betrayal.

  You will regret your disobedience, he vowed.

  Marguarita ignored him—or didn’t hear him. He honestly didn’t know which, nor did he care. She would pay. Rocks dug into his back, and then the bump of wood as she managed to get him inside the stable. The sun stopped burning him alive, although the prickle of needles was still penetrating his skin.

  Deftly she rolled him into a tarp, not removing the jacket from his face. She even tucked his arms over his chest before rolling him. He felt like a helpless baby. The indignity of it, the wrongness of her actions awakened something monstrous in him. He pulled back like the wild animal he was, waiting for his moment—and there would be a moment. She had known the fear of a vampire ripping out her throat but it would be nothing compared to the terror of Zacarias De La Cruz extracting vengeance for her sins.

  She tried to hook the tarp to one of the horses, he knew by scent and by the drumming of hooves as the animal protested being in close proximity to him. He could have
told her that no horse would allow his presence, but he held still, now just waiting the outcome of her mistake. The lack of horsepower didn’t deter her. He heard the sound of her footsteps and then she began to pull the tarp herself. He knew she was alone by the sound of her breath bursting from her lungs in several repeated small gasps.

  He found it significant that she didn’t call for help. One yell—okay, she couldn’t yell—but she must have a way to attract attention. The males working the ranch would come to her aid if she signaled them, but she must have known he would command them to allow his death—and they would obey. The fierce burning in his gut grew hotter, hot enough that for a few moments he thought he might have burned through his skin to his internal organs.

  He could see nothing at all, but he felt each bump of the rocks and the fierce blaze of the sun as she dragged him from the stable to the ranch house. The searing heat was astonishingly effective, driving out all sane thoughts until he wanted to scream with agony. It came on gradually, a slow charring that seeped through skin and tissue to bone.

  Zacarias tried to turn off the pain as he’d done for centuries, but the relentless burn of the sun was something he couldn’t compartmentalize as he had so many other wounds. Even with the tarp wrapped around him, he felt the piercing blaze like burning arrows dotting his body. The heat boiled his blood and flames licked at his insides. He couldn’t scream, or protest, or do anything but be dragged through the yard to what he presumed was the ranch house.

  Marguarita huffed hard as she took his full weight up the two stairs leading inside. The moment he was within the thick, cool walls, she dropped the harness and rushed across the room. He could hear her pull the thick drapes into place, covering the windows.