Dark Peril (12 page)

Smoke and flames burst out from under his fist, and Drago screamed and pulled his hand away. Blistered and raw, the flesh fell away from the bones. A shadow took substance. Drago scrambled back, moaning, holding his hand to his chest. The other three vampires put distance between them and the developing apparition, gliding, trying to be subtle about it. Dominic and Zacarias remained unmoving.

The man emerging from the shadows was tall with broad shoulders and long flowing hair, his skin flawless, his clothes immaculate. His dark eyes rested on Dominic for a brief moment, slid over Zacarias and then went back to Dominic. The imposing figure of power, clearly a
master
, was not one of the Malinov brothers. Somehow, against every odd, the twisted brothers had managed to recruit other
masters
to serve them.

Demyan of the Tiranul lineage. Dimitri’s brother. We thought him dead these years.
Dominic identified the
master
to Zacarias.
We grew up with him. He is a master at battle.

New emotions were difficult to control; he had been friends with Demyan. They had traveled for a time together, battling the enemy, slaying any vampires they came across. Sorrow welled up, intense, shaking him for a moment. The Tiranul family had been famous as master swordsmen, and he was certain Demyan would never give up his love of the blade. The undead inclined his head.

“I see you are in disguise and these imbeciles did not recognize you.” The voice was mesmerizing. Pitched low.

Dominic had forgotten the power in that ensnaring voice. He shifted his features, hiding every scar so that he looked as Demyan remembered him. Dominic knew he had been a handsome man by any standards, long before he had been burned in the fight to save the prince. He allowed his long black hair to flow neatly down his back in a ponytail, tied with the thin leather cord, always a weapon should one need it.

“Much better. Dominic Dragonseeker.”

Dominic inclined his head regally. “These . . .” He swept his hand in a contemptuous circle to indicate the vampires surrounding him. He didn’t bother to look at the offenders, his gesture and tone said it all. “Interrupted my evening.”

“Silly of them. But then, you didn’t allow them to know who you truly are.”

Dominic shrugged. “I do not find my identity necessary to intimidate ones such as these.”

Drago snarled, but subsided when Demyan shot him a cold glare. “I have not heard the news that a Dragonseeker has joined our ranks—and it would be huge news—yet your blood calls to mine.”

Dominic sent him an enigmatic smile. “I can walk among the Carpathians without fear of their suspicion. It is useful, although tedious at times. This one”—he indicated Zacarias, with an indolent gesture—“recognized my intentions before I could slay him.” He inhaled deeply, drawing the tantalizing scent of powerful blood into his lungs, and sent Zacarias a smirk, allowing, just for a few seconds, his eyes to glow ruby red as he turned back to Demyan. “His blood is . . . powerful.”

For a moment Demyan lost his composure, the lure of the ancient blood a temptation beyond his control. The skin stretched and frayed, and then split in places, revealing masses of writhing worms. His lips thinned, drew back to reveal his pointed teeth, hideous blackened needles set in a sunken gaping mouth. The skull caved in, the bones sticking through flesh, as warped and twisted as the blackened heart. The master vampire sniffed the air, a dog on the hunt, desperate for the rich, powerful blood of the ancient.

The lesser vampires reacted, salivating, hissing, moving closer to Zacarias. Dominic lifted his hands toward the sky and they immediately subsided.

“You do not understand,” Demyan said, his voice raspy now, but he managed to regain his composure, his illusion of beauty settling over him. “This one must be taken to the laboratory. You can use him as often as you want for sustenance, but you cannot kill him.”

Dominic slowly allowed his hands to drop once more to his sides, as if the master vampire was lulling him with his voice. “I can use him here without sharing him,” Dominic pointed out. He glided one small step closer to Demyan, Zacarias moving with him so that the action was so subtle those around them missed it.

“He is the most hated enemy of our leaders. They will reward all of us greatly for his capture.”

“You mean I am the most feared.” For the first time Zacarias spoke, a whip of contempt. “He fears me, they all do.” He paused. “As they should.”

Demyan hissed. “You are fodder for the five. You will be made to crawl before them.”

Zacarias’s eyes were very black. “I believe they are no longer five. A couple of them sought and found justice.”

“You think to mock them? To taunt them? You will suffer greatly before they allow you death.”

Zacarias spread his arms out. “They have sent many after me, century after century I have been hunted, yet I still live.”

“I am the one who fooled Zacarias.” Dominic declared ownership. “No one else.”

“A Dragonseeker.” Zacarias spat his disgust. “You have no right to use that title. You dishonor it.
Te kalma, te jama ńiŋkval, te apitäsz arwa-arvo
—You are nothing but a walking maggot-infected corpse, without honor.” He inclined his head regally toward Dominic. “I know you seek the justice you deserve, and once these worms you travel with have gone, we will finish our little dance.”

Drago couldn’t contain himself. He flew at Zacarias, his teeth exposed, growling and spitting. Demyan and Dominic both whirled toward him, holding up a hand. The lesser vampire slammed into an invisible barrier and bounced back.

Dominic gave a short, humorless laugh. “I see your beast needs a little more training, Demyan. He is not quite up to your standards.”

Demyan shrugged. “It is difficult to get decent help these days. They believe they know more than they do. No patience to learn how to kill a hunter.”

“Why do you bother? You do not need one such as this.” Dominic gestured toward Drago, his contempt obvious.

Demyan, like most vampires, preened under praise. “They are useful, as you will find. You are used to working alone, but you will find having worms to serve you will be advantageous, especially in a position such as this one. Join with us.”

“Yes,
hän ku lejkka wäke-sarnat—
traitor, liar. Crawl to your new master,” Zacarias urged.

Demyan whirled to face him. “You can crow all you like, but your blood will soon feed our ranks.”

Dominic cleared his throat. “One small detail, Demyan.” He waited until the master vampire turned to face him. “His blood belongs to me, and I have never believed in sharing.” He smiled and there was a clear challenge in his smile.

Solange pushed herself to her hands and knees and took a careful look around. She inhaled the scent of the two jaguar-men. She wanted to remember them, to be able to know them anywhere, know the men responsible for taking the light from her beloved cousin’s eyes.

Mustering as much strength as she could, she crawled along the trunk to the bank and let herself fall onto the ground, into the mud and grass. Giant root cages made a bizarre-looking jungle, dark and mysterious, where creatures could watch her with fear-filled—or hungry—eyes. She got to her feet and fell twice, so she dragged herself into deeper forest. She could shift, but she had so many injuries, she doubted if the jaguar would be better off than the human was.

She used a hanging liana to pull herself up again and, stumbling, took off in the direction of five small limestone caves. They each appeared to be small single chambers, but she had discovered years earlier, in one of them, an entrance that led to the honeycomb of caverns much deeper beneath the earth. More than once, she’d retreated to them when she needed to heal wounds and be safe. It never occurred to her to go to her cousins, or to anyone else. She was wounded and vulnerable. She would never take the chance of leading an enemy to her family’s door. It simply wasn’t in her code.

She wrapped her arms around her middle and continued her journey. It was dangerous moving through the rain forest at night, bleeding from a half dozen wounds, but she didn’t dare try to examine her body. She burned with every jarring step, and she knew from past experience the damage claws and teeth could do, but as a rule she healed fast. Brodrick could have killed her, but he hadn’t. He’d been angry, but he wanted her royal blood and ability to shift. He was depraved enough to think she might give him a royal son.

She pushed her hand through her matted, stringy hair. She often chopped it off when it got out of control. Her hair was thick, as it was with most jaguar-people, and it grew fast. The more she cut it off, the faster it seemed to grow. The color was dark sable, much like her jaguar fur, with a few golden streaks. If there was any one feature that might be considered beautiful on her, it would have been her hair. Not so much now.

Her cat’s eyes allowed her to see in the dark as she made her way through the trees and brush, the forest of giant ferns and the tangle of roots snaking across the ground. She simply put one foot in front of the other. She had been here before, wounded, weary, heartsick, and she would be again. Sometimes, like tonight, there was no win for anyone. Annabelle had died; she wouldn’t be going home to her husband. Annabelle probably hadn’t even known why the men had kidnapped her from her home in France.

Solange closed her eyes briefly and then snapped them open, taking a deep breath, aware of the silence of the insects. The hum was continual as a rule, a background noise that never ceased, yet this part of the forest was abnormally still. Something dangerous lurked here. Something unnatural. This was no jaguar. No predator that walked the night familiar to the rain forest inhabitants. The danger had to be the undead.

She melted into the trees, her body close to the trunk. Drawing on her jaguar, she tested the night. Her heart began to pound. Not one but several, just ahead. She felt the familiar and very strange reaction in her veins. Adrenaline coursed through her body. She turned to slip away and caught a familiar scent.

De La Cruz.

She would recognize that scent anywhere. Juliette wore it all over her, as did MaryAnn. She swore under her breath. She was exhausted, but he was family and family was sacred. She tried to clear her brain and think straight. Right now she was fuzzy, off balance, and she couldn’t go into battle with vampires without a plan or a clear head. Somewhere close she had a cache, but . . . She turned in each direction, trying to throw off the exhaustion in preparation for battle.

Vampires were difficult to kill. She could rip out their hearts as a jaguar, but she couldn’t incinerate them. The undead called for special weapons. Riordan and Manolito had worked with her, perfecting her skills, and, she had to admit, coming up with specialized weapons for her to give her a little edge, which was needed. They were monstrous creatures.

She made her way a few yards to the north, jogging, ignoring the pain in her body now. Nothing mattered but to give aid to whichever brother was in trouble. She found her cache just off the trail leading to the first limestone cave. She never cached inside a cave, aware that vampires and Carpathians went underground to rest. She pulled out the weapons she needed, chewed several leaves that would help numb the burning pain in her body but not fog her mind, and jogged back toward the battleground.

She came in downwind, drawing on her jaguar’s strength when she feared she couldn’t keep going. When her legs felt too rubbery to support her, she went to her belly and slithered through the vegetation, ignoring the swarm of insects drawn by her wounds. Using toes and elbows, she inched closer to the group of men gathered under the trees.

She could hear the moan of the trees and the wail of the grass as the undead trampled ferns and brush, withered flowers and leaves, poisoning everything they touched. The De La Cruz brother was easily recognizable. They all had that impressive stamp of absolute authority, the broad shoulders and handsome face. This had to be the elusive Zacarias, the eldest of the five brothers. She’d once caught a glimpse of Nicolas, and she knew Riordan, Rafael and Manolito. Zacarias looked calm and confident and not in the least bit concerned that he was surrounded by vampires.

She gasped when the man standing in front of him turned slightly and she glimpsed him.
Her
Carpathian—the man in her dreams. He had no scars, but it was definitely the one who came to her in her worst moments. The one she’d so happily—and stupidly—spilled her guts to and cried like a whiny baby in front of. He was even more handsome in real life than he was in her imagination, which made it all the worse that she’d told him her darkest secrets.

She let her breath out slowly, cursing herself for reacting like a woman instead of a warrior. He didn’t need a woman now; he needed her fighting skills—and
that
she could give him. That might be the only gift she ever had for him, but she would fight with every breath in her body to save him from the circle of rotting flesh surrounding him.

She inched closer, and stopped abruptly when she caught the flash of the tall Carpathian’s eyes. His gaze moved over her—he knew she was there. She was certain that he did. He gave a small shake of his head, which she had every intention of ignoring. Zacarias glanced her way, and she felt the weight of his disapproval. That lightened her mood considerably. He’d always disapproved of her, and that constant in her life gave her another boost of energy. She really did find secret delight in annoying authoritative men.