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“Is this our home?” she asked innocently, leaning heavily into him.
Mikhail and Gregori were monitoring her every step of the way. The vampire had to know most of the humans he had enlisted to serve him were dead. If she knew, he did as well. But still, he felt safe; she could feel the satisfaction coming off of him in waves.
“We will remain here long enough to dine, my dear.” There was that curious gloating she was coming to dislike intensely. “It is not safe to remain longer than that. The other might pursue us. You must feed in order to be strong enough to escape.”
Deliberately, trustingly, she curled her fingers around the vampire’s arm. “I will try, Andre, but truly I am feeling sick.”
Watch as he unravels his safeguards, Mikhail’s voice whispered softly in her mind.
Do not take your gaze from his movements, Gregori added.
She did as the two instructed while the vampire removed the safeguards to his lair, feeling both men in her mind, committing each sign to detail. That gave her more hope than ever. They were coming after her. Mikhail would not leave her in Andre’s hands. It was an absolute impossibility for him to do so.
“Come, my dear, enter your home.” Deliberately Andre stepped back to allow her to enter of her own free will. It would serve to give him greater power over her if he could induce or trick her into doing so.
Raven took a step toward the threshold, and felt Mikhail’s instinctive protest. She stumbled unsteadily, fell just outside the door, and lay in a small forlorn heap. With an oath, Andre tried to yank her up, to push her inside, but Raven was limp, unable to move on her own. The vampire lifted her into his arms and carried her inside.
The rock house consisted of a large front room and a hole in the far corner where a ladder led to a lower chamber. The room was cold and dank. Mold grew in the cracks. There was a table and a long church bench. Andre waved his hand to light several candles. Raven’s heart stopped, and then began to pound in alarm. Chained to the wall nearest the table, eyes dilated with terror, were a man and a woman. The two were dirty and in ragged clothing. Rips in the woman’s dress and the man’s shirt held the stains of blood. There were bruises on both of them, and the man had several burn marks down his right cheek.
The vampire’s smile was cruel and taunting as he surveyed his helpless victims. “Dinner, my dear, just for you.”
He set Raven carefully on the bench as if she were fragile porcelain. Andre slowly glided gracefully across the stone floor, his red, soulless eyes on the woman. He took his time enjoying her terror, laughing at her husband’s impotent raging. As he yanked the woman free of the chain, the man struggled and threatened, cursing both Raven and the vampire. Andre dragged the woman to Raven’s side, forced her to her knees, and held her still, one hand gripping her hair so that her throat was exposed.
His thumb slid over the pounding pulse. “Feed, my dear. Feel the hot blood pour into your veins, making you strong again. When you take her life, you will have such power as you have never known. This is my gift to you. Infinite power.”
The woman sobbed and moaned with terror. Her husband pleaded, swore, fought the chains that bound him. Raven sat up slowly and pushed back her heavy fall of hair with a trembling hand. Andre could have seduced his victims, entranced them so that they welcomed death, but he sought thrills at the expense of human terror. The adrenaline-laced blood was addicting, intoxicating.
Temptation beat at her. The sound of the woman’s heart throbbed in her own veins, a deep calling invitation. Everyone seemed to be waiting for her reaction. She could feel Mikhail in her, still and motionless, raging that he was not there to protect her from such a terrible decision. Hunger was sharp and potent. She could feel her teeth shifting in her mouth, and she instantly reached for her faith, holding it to her like a protective shield until the terrible sensation vanished, leaving only the aching hunger.
Her large blue-violet eyes lifted to Andre’s face, expressive, overbright, as if she were on the verge of tears—which in reality she was. She didn’t need to draw on her acting skills too much. Her hand slid soothingly up the woman’s arm. She was extraordinarily gentle, trying to comfort without words.
“You doubt me. Why? What have I done? I honestly can’t remember. I would never do such a thing, take a life like this, and neither would you. Why do you test me this way? Have I committed a crime I can’t remember? Why would you be so cruel to me?”
Andre’s face went dark, the red eyes changing to his normal dark brown. “Do not be so distressed.”
“Tell me, Andre. I can’t bear not to know. Did the other one force me to do something you can’t forgive?” She bowed her head as if ashamed. Her voice dropped even lower. “Take my life, Andre. Take your wrath out on me, not this poor, undeserving woman. I will leave if you do not wish my life bound to yours, although I have nowhere else to go.” She met his eyes so that he knew she meant it. “Take my life now, Andre.”
“No, Raven.”
“Then answer me, why this test? Is it because I’m not wholly like you, because I can’t go to ground or shape-shift? You are ashamed of me and wish to punish me.”
“Of course not.”
Raven put her arm around the woman. “I seem to recall, although I’m not certain, that you said you would hire reliable servants. Is this woman the one you spoke of?” Suddenly her face clouded. “Is she your mistress?” She sounded near hysterics, but her hand was still very gentle on the woman’s arm.
“No! No!” the woman protested, but there was confusion and dawning hope in her eyes. “I am not his mistress. That is my husband. We have done nothing wrong.”
Andre was clearly at a loss. He had taken Raven in a desperate attempt to save himself. If he forced her to kill, then she would become as dark and as lost as he. Something inside him shifted and turned as he stared down into the innocence in her eyes. “The woman speaks the truth, Raven. She is nothing to me. A servant, if you wish her.” His voice was lost and lonely, almost uncertain.
Raven reached out for his hand. His mind was a masterpiece of evil, rotted and twisted. Yet Raven felt sorrow for him. He had once been good, no different from Mikhail or Jacques, but in the dark isolation of his existence, he had turned down a wrong path.
Andre desperately wanted to feel, to be able to face the morning sun, witness a sunset again. He wanted to look in the mirror and not see his receding gum line and the ravages left by his depraved existence. It was an impossibility; no true vampire could ever face himself in the mirror without experiencing tremendous pain. Raven was his only hope, and he clung to it. He wanted a miracle. Because she had been human, he had no idea of what she was capable or incapable of doing.
“Forgive me, Andre, if I have done something to cause you to doubt me,” she said gently, compassion welling up so that she wanted to cry.
She could not save him, even if she did not belong with Mikhail. No one could. He was far too depraved and bloated with his false sense of power, far too addicted to the adrenaline in a terror-stricken kill. She hated herself for deceiving him, but her life and the lives of the human couple clearly hung in the balance.
His hand stroked her silky hair. “I am not angry with you, my dear, but you are weak and need nourishment.”
The woman stiffened, her face a mask of fear. She stayed very still, waiting for Raven’s reply. Raven looked confused. “But I can’t feed.” Deliberately she allowed Mikhail’s name to shimmer in her mind, and then she was clutching her head in agony. “I don’t know why, I can’t think. I think the other did something to make me this way.”
Andre dragged the woman up by her hair. “I will return in a few minutes. You see to it Raven comes to no harm.” His eyes were flat and cold. “Do not try to leave this place. I will know.”
“Andre, stay,” Raven whispered, fighting for him in spite of herself.
He swung away from her and sped out, away from the light, back toward the world of death and madness he was familiar with.
> The woman clutched at Raven. “Please, let us go. He is evil. He will kill us, make us his slaves until our fear no longer amuses him.”
Raven pushed herself upright, desperately fighting dizziness. “He will know. He can see in the dark, smell you, hear your very heartbeat.”
The room was so cold and musty smelling, so depressing. The air itself was stale and told of death. With Raven’s sensitivity she could almost hear the screams of the countless victims who had been brought to this place, chained to the stained walls. She was every bit as frightened as the human woman was. “Who are you?”
“Monique Chancellor. That is my husband, Alexander. Why did you help me?”
“Guard your thoughts, Monique. He can read them.”
“He is nosferatu, unclean. The vampire.” It was more of a statement than a question. “We must leave this place of death.”
Twenty
Raven rose unsteadily to her feet, hanging on to the back of the chair, the table, to make her way to the door. She stared up at the stars, gazed slowly over the landscape in each direction, taking note of every rock wall, the cliffs rising behind the house. She studied the dwelling itself, the windows, the doors, the structures of the walls, paid particular attention to the wide open spaces leading to the house.
“Please, please.” The woman clawed at her. “Help us.”
Raven blinked to bring her into focus. “I’m trying to help you. Stay calm and keep out of his way. Draw as little attention to yourselves as possible.”
Mikhail, I think there is something else I am missing. He is too confident, too smug. There is something . . .
Stay alive, Raven. It was Gregori who answered her, and that frightened her.
Mikhail? Are his wounds . . .
He is fine, Gregori assured.
Relief flooded her as she closed the door. She had given Mikhail and Gregori as much detailed information as she could possibly provide, and she had warned them of her concern. There was nothing else she could do but survive until they arrived. She had accomplished what she had hoped to do; Mikhail and Gregori would know as much detailed information as she could transmit.
“Who are you?” Alexander demanded suspiciously. He had pulled at his chains so much, she could see his wrists were raw.
Raven rubbed her pounding temple, a growing nausea gripping her stomach. “We need to find something to put on your wrists. It isn’t a good idea to have open wounds around him.” She could smell blood, and her body, desperately weak, still feeling the effects of the narcotic the vampire had given her, desperately needed nourishment.
Raven ignored the woman sobbing quietly in a corner and went to the man to see if she could find a way to ease his discomfort. As she bent to examine his wrist, his other hand whipped up to clutch a handful of her hair, yanking hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. He dragged her back against his chest so that both hands could grip her throat, fingers digging into soft flesh.
“Alexander, stop, what are you doing?” Monique cried.
“Monique, get the key to these cuffs,” Alexander ordered, his powerful fingers crushing Raven’s windpipe so that the room began to spin.
Raven could feel his fear, his frantic attempt to save his wife and himself. He was afraid she was a vampire, cruelly playing with them for some perverse enjoyment. Raven couldn’t blame him, but his hands were squeezing the life out of her, and she knew there was no reasoning with him.
Raven. The cry was a ripple of fury moving through her mind.
Alexander’s hands were torn from her throat, and there was a loud popping noise signaling broken bones. He was slammed into the wall behind them, held so that his feet dangled helplessly four feet from the floor. Monique screamed as the air rushed from her husband’s lungs. He began to strangle, his eyes bulging horribly.
Release him, Mikhail! Oh, God, please. I can’t bear to be responsible for another death. I just can’t. Raven sank to the floor, drew up her knees, and huddled there, rocking. “Please,” she whispered aloud, “release him.”
Mikhail fought his killing rage, managed to suppress it enough to release the human from his mind assault. He hurtled through the air, tracking Raven easily. He was barely aware of Gregori keeping pace with him to his left, of Aidan and Byron slightly behind him, of Eric and Tienn and a few others struggling to keep up some distance behind. None of them mattered. He had hunted many of his kind, evil vampires over many centuries, and he had always felt a twinge of reluctance, of pity perhaps. There was none now.
Mikhail kept his fury tamped down so that it seethed and boiled like magma in a volcano, so that it sought to escape in any direction it could, needing a violent, explosive release. If he allowed it to seep out, the very earth, the winds, the creatures in the mountains, would react. It would be a clear warning to the vampire. He felt no pain, and he was well fed; Gregori had seen to that personally. The combination of their ancient blood was powerful beyond measure. Even so, a spot of blood soaked through the white feathers on the owl. Instinctively, Mikhail shifted and circled to stay downwind so that any passing breeze could not carry that scent to the vampire.
Mikhail knew where the house was, although the vampire had done a good job of building an illusion, a mirage, to hide its existence. At the same time, an unwary human might fall prey within his trap.
The Carpathian hunters flew in loose formation, spread out to give each other room. Gregori flanked the prince, watching the ground below them with sharp eyes, the ripple in his gut indicating all was not as it seemed. A dense gray fog began to appear on the ground, winding its way through the trees, appearing as thin strips of ribbon rising almost lazily. The wind blew more mist into the leaves, but the ribbons rose without breaking apart, a gentle, nonthreatening shift that alarmed him.
Pull back, Mikhail.
With a powerful sweep of his wings, the owl put on speed, overtaking the prince to place his body between the ribbons of fog and the leader of their people. Gregori peered down at the fog rushing in now to fill every empty space, moving through the trees and canopy, so that it was more difficult to see the ribbons as they wound their way up the tree trunks.
Something is happening down there, Aidan said. The trunks grow white, as if with a fungus.
The crack of branches grew loud, splintering crashes as small, and then larger branches snapped off and fell to the forest floor.
Not fungus, Mikhail warned. Ice.
The first touch of the mist on his wings was ice-cold. Gregori tried not to take a breath, but it was too late, and at once he felt the ice in his veins, flowing through his body, like ice floes in a river. Do not breathe it, he warned the others.
Below them, the green of the forest began to glitter with ice. The icy particles began to cling to feathers, dragging them down.
A trap, then, Mikhail said, dropping lower into the trees as the fog rose to fill the air where the owls flew.
Gregori shifted in midair and dropped with his prince. The ice in the fog is directing us to earth. Whatever awaits us there . . .
Are his servants and will die this night, Mikhail finished. Something—someone—is driving this fog. This is no natural wind or mist, so spread out and find the source.
He had no need to remind the hunters to be careful; they were all experienced. He sent a call radiating through the forest, a summoning, the prince of all Carpathians using a voice none could refuse. The revealing chant was mesmerizing, and as they circled, spiraling lower and lower amongst the ice-covered trees, the sound of ice cracking and branches breaking became continuous.
Do not breathe it in, Gregori reiterated to the others.
The icy air forced them to go up above to grab air and dip down to examine the ground below. They could hold their breath for long periods of time, long enough to see the various creatures Mikhail called forth. The ground erupted with insects. A bear roared, and another crashed against a solid tree trunk and smashed a bush. Each furious breath produced a stream of icy vapor.
&nbs
p; Andre has grown much over the years, Aidan said. His power was growing in the old days, and he refused to give his blood during battles. We knew then that he would succumb.
Look to the south, Gregori said. His servants are blowing the ice across the forest.
Now that they had spotted their true foes, Gregori and Aidan split up and both shifted in midair, taking the shape of a fearsome dragon—the thing of legends. The rumbling in the chest warned those below just before fire erupted, blowing over the two lesser vampires, disrupting their icy blast. The vampires turned their faces to the sky, grotesque faces pulled back into grimaces, eyes feral and red, teeth dark with blood and pointed. Both wavered and dissolved.
The ice melted quickly, leaving only the gray mist moving through the trees. Byron flew toward the small stream where the vampires had vanished. Grass and leaves were blackened and withered, retreating from the unnatural abomination. Byron shifted into the form of a man as his booted feet touched the groaning earth. The ground sank instantly, dropping him into a spongy prison. The blackened soil poured around his legs, holding him while insects swarmed up his body, biting and stinging.
In the air, the sky blackened with the invasion of large vampire bats, unholy mutations doing the bidding of their masters. They dove for the owls, covering the bodies until the weight of the creatures bore the birds toward earth. The owls plummeted, each covered in hundreds of bats, all biting frantically to get at the powerful blood of the Carpathian males.
The ground is a trap, Byron warned.
The roar of a bear had him swiveling around as best he could with his legs caught in the thick, muddy soil holding him prisoner. Around him the ground heaved and buckled, rippling like a wave as the walls around him rose and he sank deeper into the mire. Hot breath fanned his face, and he ducked as a vicious paw with venom-tipped claws swiped at his face. Ruby red eyes glared at him as the bear thrust a foaming, dripping muzzle filled with teeth at him.