Dark Predator d-22 Read online

  If he hadn’t known better, he would think it was possible she was his lifemate. He’d considered the idea, of course, but then discarded it almost immediately. If she’d been the one woman to complete his soul, he would see in colors and feel emotion. If it was emotion he was experiencing, he didn’t know enough about feelings to even identify them. Whatever was going on was a puzzle that had to be solved before he returned to his original plan of seeking the dawn. Marguarita Fernandez held great power. She was a potential threat to Carpathians and therefore had to be eliminated. It was that simple.

  A piercing pain in the vicinity of his heart brought him up short. He actually looked down at the bird’s breast to see if it had been punctured by an arrow. His stomach lurched at the idea of killing her. O jelä peje emnimet—sun scorch the woman, she had cast some spell. There was no other explanation for his physical response to the idea of her death. She had tied them together. Or her blood had. Blood was the very essence of life and hers was . . . extraordinary.

  He wanted—no, needed—to touch her mind with his. Everything in him urged him to reach out to her, to know where she was, what she was doing. He refused to act on the need. He didn’t trust it any more than he trusted the way he had to see her, to touch her, to know she existed. Whatever spell had been cast was a powerful one and it had to be a trap.

  He had control and discipline, several lifetimes to develop both and no woman, a human woman at that, could possibly destroy those traits in him. He would take his time, prove to both himself and to her that he was far too strong to be brought down by any spell. Before he killed her he would learn her secrets. Every last one of them. She would know what it meant to betray a De La Cruz and try to entrap one of them.

  He had fought vampires and destroyed them, the foulest, most vile creatures imaginable; a small slip of a woman had no chance against him. He ignored the way his mind continually reached for hers. The way his blood heated at the thought of her. It wasn’t the spell so much as the fact that she actually intrigued him—something that hadn’t happened in a thousand years or more. That was all. Interest. Intrigue. Who could blame him when nothing had been a surprise to him—until her. The woman. Marguarita.

  He flinched. The moment he thought her name—gave her life—he could taste her on his tongue all over again. His heart gave a strange stutter, and for a moment, deep inside the bird, he thought his body stirred with life. He went very still, a dark predator hunted. His breath felt trapped in his lungs. That was impossible. A trick. An illusion. She was far more powerful than he’d first imagined.

  That particular trick would buy her time. He had not been a man for far longer than he could remember. He was a killing machine, nothing more. Nothing less. He didn’t have desires of the flesh. He couldn’t feel. The strange things taking place in his body and mind weren’t real, no matter how good the illusion was, but he closed his eyes and savored the hot lick of need rushing through his veins. Just as fast he snapped open his eyelids, looking suspiciously around. Was this illusion the way to tip him over the edge, allow him to feel, just for a moment, and then take it from him so that he would forever crave the rush?

  The harpy eagle slipped out of the canopy and flew high over the hacienda. He refused to give into the ever-present urge to touch Marguarita’s mind. Now, more than ever, he had to show strength—and he had to find out everything he could about Marguarita Fernandez.

  He spotted the house he was looking for tucked into the mountainside. There were several houses scattered on the property, but Cesaro Santos was the foreman and his status showed in his house. The eagle floated to the ground, shifting at the last moment into human form. Zacarias strode straight to the porch, his body shimmering into a trail of vapor that poured beneath the crack in the door.

  The house was immaculate, like most of the dwellings of the humans coexisting with his family. He knew Cesaro to be loyal to a fault. He had offered his blood, even his life, to save Zacarias. The man was above reproach and there was no taint of evil anywhere on the ranch that Zacarias could detect. Cesaro would never steal from the De La Cruz family, or betray them in any way, and if he found one of those working for him to be doing so, Zacarias had no doubt that man—or woman—would be buried deep in the rain forest at Cesaro’s hand.

  Come to me. Blood called to blood and every trusted employee had been given Carpathian blood—enough that each De La Cruz could read thoughts, protect minds and extract information when needed.

  Zacarias knew the instant Cesaro wakened, reaching for his gun. There was satisfaction in knowing he had chosen the family well. Loyalty was the strongest trait within the Chevez and Santos families, both connected through blood. He took his solid form as the capitan of the hacienda came out fully dressed and armed heavily in a matter of minutes.

  Cesaro bowed slightly and stood, almost stiffly. Zacarias knew no human or animal was ever relaxed in his company. He couldn’t hide the killer in him; that was the biggest part of him so he didn’t bother. He gestured to the sofa positioned in a strategic location where the occupant could easily see anything approaching his home.

  “How can I be of service, señor?”

  “I wish to know everything you can tell me of the woman.” Zacarias kept his gaze on the other man’s face, watching his expression carefully, holding a part of himself in Cesaro’s mind to ensure he was getting the truth. He read puzzlement and confusion. His question was the last thing the capitan expected.

  “Do you mean Marguarita Fernandez?” At Zacarias’s silent nod, Cesaro frowned. “I have known her since the day she was born. Her father was my cousin. Her mother died when she was quite young and she was raised right here on the ranch along with my son, Julio.”

  A frisson of something very lethal slid into his veins, a dark shadow protesting the closeness of a man growing up with Marguarita. How close were they? Something very ugly rose up to settle in the pit of his stomach at that thought of Julio alone with the woman. His teeth lengthened and he closed his fingers into two tight fists. Nails like talons punctured his palm.

  Cesaro took a firmer grip on the rifle in his lap, his face visibly paling. “Have I said something to upset you?”

  Blood trickled across his palm and Zacarias, never taking his gaze from Cesaro’s, licked at the line of drops. “Continue.”

  Cesaro shivered. “She is a good girl. Loyal.”

  Zacarias waved that away. He didn’t want to hear what Cesaro thought of her. “Tell me about her.” About any men in her life. Anything he needed to know. The important things.

  “She takes care of the hacienda and represents the family with all the workers. She does the ordering and she is invaluable with the cattle and horses.” Cesaro clearly didn’t understand what Zacarias was looking for. “Has anything happened to her?” He half rose.

  Zacarias pushed his palm toward the man in an abrupt motion, not meaning to shove quite so hard, but air slammed Cesaro back onto the cushions. “She is fine. Tell me what I want to know. Is she with a man? Does she often leave the ranch?”

  Cesaro’s frown deepened. “She has many hopeful callers, some from outside the ranch and some right here. She does not step out with them, especially since the attack on her. She stays close to home, although she does represent the family at charity events as well as going to local dances and events.”

  Zacarias kept his expression blank. He didn’t like the sound of “many hopeful callers,” or any of it really. Was she casting her spell wide? He would put a stop to that immediately. “You allow her to go off unaccompanied? A young girl?”

  “No, of course not. Marguarita is carefully guarded. Someone from the ranch always goes with her.”

  Zacarias continued to stare at the man, his locked gaze conveying inquiry and disapproval.

  “My son often escorts her,” Cesaro admitted. “It has been my hope that the two of them make a match of it. Both serve your family and know what needs to be done to keep our alliance safe. It is a good match, but neither
seems to be interested.”

  The floor rolled. The walls breathed in and out. For a moment the pressure in the room was painful as if all the air had been sucked out of it. Cesaro fought for a breath, his throat closing and his lungs burning. Just as rapidly, the sensation vanished as though it had never been. He coughed a couple of times, one hand going to his throat, his eyes widening in fear.

  “Tell me about her gift with animals.”

  Cesaro shrugged. “No one knows how she does it. I don’t think she knows, but every animal, including those in the sky, responds to her. When she was just a little girl, she would tell her father that a horse’s leg hurt and where. Sure enough, a few hours later, the horse came up lame. She always knows when a mare will give birth or when there’s going to be a problem with a birth. The horses trust her and when she’s present, the mares are calm no matter what has to be done.”

  Zacarias absorbed the information. She’d done such things since she was a child. It was possible she was born psychic, but much more likely she was mage-trained in order to cast a spell powerful enough to entrap him. “Go on.”

  Cesaro looked more puzzled than ever. “When she was fifteen, a jaguar spooked the herd and the cattle crashed through a fence and ran straight for the children playing soccer. Marguarita stepped in front of them and somehow the cattle veered away from everyone there. They slowed down and stopped without direction.” His eyes met Zacarias’s once again. “She walked right toward the jaguar and waved me off from shooting it. After a couple of minutes with the two staring at one another, the cat slipped back into the rain forest and we never saw it around here again. Not even tracks.”

  “What do you know of her mother?” If her father had been a cousin of Cesaro’s, perhaps the mother had been mage. There had to be an explanation.

  “Her mother was a Chevez from the hacienda in Brazil. You know their family.”

  He did know the Chevez family, better than he knew any of the others. They were definitely not mage-born, nor were any of them trained in casting spells. The Chevez women had protections placed in their minds from birth. They would be impossible for a vampire to possess or manipulate, not without killing them.

  Zacarias closed his fist tight once again as his mind reached for Marguarita. He exercised great discipline to stop himself from touching her. His blood called out to hers. Or was it the other way around? The call was so strong. A compulsion. He swore under his breath in his native language. The woman was a menace.

  “If she bothers you, we can remove her from the hacienda during your stay,” Cesaro offered, obviously hoping Zacarias would agree to his proposition. “She has many aunts who would love to have her visit.”

  Another tremor rolled through the ground. Zacarias didn’t move a muscle. His tongue slid over the sharpened points of his teeth. His body ached. She had so many sins to pay for, yet he didn’t dare go to her—not when he needed to see her—to touch her. He refused to allow his mind to wander, to check, to touch. He was too strong and she could not defeat him.

  Cesaro flinched. “Señor,” he began uneasily.

  “Leave the woman to me.”

  “I don’t understand you. Marguarita is a good girl. She’s loved by everyone here. The vampire destroyed her vocal cords, so she can’t speak. If that distresses you . . .”

  “I do not get distressed.”

  The very concept of being distressed was foreign to him. But he was disturbed by the need to touch her. To be close to her. To touch all that warm, soft skin and alleviate the terrible craving she had set up for the exquisite taste of her blood.

  Cesaro stood up quickly as Zacarias’s body began to shimmer and grow transparent. “Wait. Please, señor, I need to know you will not harm her.”

  Zacarias turned glacier-cold eyes on the man. “Do not dare to presume to question me. This is my land. She belongs to me to do with as I will. I will not suffer your interference in this matter. What she has done is between us alone. Have I made myself clear?”

  Cesaro gripped the barrel of his rifle until his knuckles turned white. He swallowed hard twice before he very reluctantly nodded his head.

  Zacarias had no more time to waste on the man. What was wrong with everyone that they felt it was okay to question his judgment? Clearly a De La Cruz had not been in residence for far too long. His people had forgotten their vows of servitude and obedience. This was the very reason why he knew he was obsolete in the world. His ways were long gone. Kill or be killed wasn’t fully understood. The world labored under a false illusion that humankind was safe—that monsters such as vampires didn’t exist and evil wasn’t real. He knew better, but his day was long over.

  He dissolved and slipped out of the house, mixing with tear-shaped drops of rain as he made his way slowly back to the hacienda. Even in this form, where he was nearly undetectable, the animals in the stables stamped nervously. Despite his need to find Marguarita, he made himself take a slow sweeping circle around the property, looking for any signs the undead had tracked him to his lair. He needed to prove, not only to her, but to himself, that he was in control, not her.

  He had no doubt that one of the Malinov brothers would seek to retaliate after losing so many of their expendable soldiers in their attack on his ranch in Brazil. If they despised anyone more than the prince of the Carpathian people, it was Zacarias. The Malinovs would always believe that the De La Cruz brothers had betrayed them. Instead of turning on the prince and helping to assassinate him, the De La Cruz family had sworn allegiance to him.

  Zacarias knew that to kill Mikhail Dubrinsky was to send their people plummeting into extinction. They were as close as a species could get, brushing that fine line, so close to tipping over where recovery would be impossible. With Mikhail alive, Solange’s blood and the news of finding out why their women were miscarrying, Zacarias was certain they had every chance now. It was the perfect time to let go of his responsibilities. And he had—until Marguarita Fernandez interfered.

  Satisfied that Ruslan Malinov, master of the undead, hadn’t had time to find out the reason his soldiers hadn’t returned, Zacarias made his way to the main house. His heart accelerated strangely, which only put him on edge. He circled the structure, not once allowing his mind to touch hers. Very slowly he approached the front door, shimmering back into human form and walking inside.

  He was not going to give in to the rush of heat, the need riding him harder than he had ever imagined possible. He didn’t need. He didn’t crave. He had been to the top of the highest mountain, traveled to the farthest corners of the earth—looking for—something. He had walked the earth for centuries, far longer than most of his kind, killed more undead than imaginable. He had seen treachery at its worst and bravery at its greatest. There were no surprises left to him. Nothing that could change the beat of his heart like this. Nothing that could drive him with such burning need because he simply didn’t need.

  O jelä peje emnimet—sun scorch the woman. There was an answer and he would find it. No one controlled him. He would not touch her mind or go looking for her. But he found himself striding through the dark house straight to her bedroom. The door was splintered, hanging on the hinges, the door cracked entirely in half. He frowned, studying the damage he’d done. Wood hung in a series of pieces, the fragments sharp to the point of dangerous.

  He waved his hand, mending the mess, not to protect her, or for any other reason such as others looking into her sleeping chamber, but because the sight was not aesthetic. He realized the moment he stepped into the room that her scent lingered behind, but she was in another part of the house, hopefully remembering her duties as a servant in his home.

  He looked around her room. It seemed very feminine. It smelled female, but the wash of fear was still present. Although neat and tidy, the wastebasket was overflowing with crumpled paper. He had a sudden memory of her huddled in the corner of her room, her hand out, a piece of paper fluttering in her hand. He looked around. He was almost certain he’d knocked it aside w
hen he’d yanked her to her feet.

  A single slip of stationery lay just under the bed. He picked it up and scanned the missive. She had been trying to tell him what happened, why she had been unable to leave him to die in the sun. His gut settled. He couldn’t hear the tone of her voice and judge whether she was telling the truth or not by that, but her letter certainly pleaded her case well for her. Like Zacarias, she had felt a compulsion she couldn’t possibly resist.

  What did that mean? Was someone—something—manipulating both of them? Perhaps he needed to reevaluate Marguarita’s motivation. If she was being manipulated, just as someone was trying to do with him, she was far weaker and would succumb much quicker than a seasoned Carpathian warrior.

  He poured the contents of the wastebasket out onto the bed and one by one smoothed each sheet, scanning the contents. Her earlier tries to explain were shaky and lacked confidence, but she kept trying, which told him she was stubborn and determined—and brave. She hadn’t gone running to Cesaro who clearly would have been foolish enough to try to protect her. She’d faced up to her crime and waited for him—hoping to explain.

  He sighed. It wasn’t altogether her fault that she had disobeyed. Compulsions were dangerous and nearly impossible to ignore—as he well knew. He had come to the ranch without reason—the need driving him—and he was experienced in mage treachery. She had no such skills to draw on to save herself.

  He shoved the slip of paper into his pocket and waved the others back to the wastebasket before picking up her pillow and inhaling her scent. He breathed her deep into his lungs, giving in to the craving. Her feminine fragrance enveloped him. In truth, it shook him. He smoothed her covers, his hand tracing the image of her on the bed. The source of power had to be close. He could almost feel the warmth of her skin and once again he could taste her exquisite blood on his tongue—better than the finest of wines.

  He should have visited every single dwelling on the extensive property and tested each individual. They would all know he was in residence, just by the heavy drapes being pulled. No one would come near the house without an invitation—or they shouldn’t. So how was the spell staying so powerful when he was aware of it?