4
The harpy eagle swooped through the canopy,
ignoring the sloth, its favorite food, and circled back toward the
hacienda, driven by some inner compulsion it couldn’t ignore. Deep
inside the giant bird’s body, Zacarias sighed. He was no closer to
the truth than he’d been when he set out. The threads binding him
to the woman had grown stronger, not weaker, and he couldn’t get
her out of his mind.
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 when 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?
He inhaled the woman’s fragrance again, drawing her
deep into his lungs. His body responded with a strange tingling, an
electrical current that ran through his veins and awakened
responses in his body best left alone. He sighed and went to find
Marguarita. He’d fought off the compulsion and proved to himself he
was in absolute, total control.
Marguarita pushed the hand-hewed canoe out into
the stream and climbed carefully inside. Always before, Julio
manned the oars, but she had learned under his watchful eye and
knew how to paddle. She thought she’d be terrified in the dark, but
strangely, she could see on the water, just as she had in the rain
forest. She knew the stream was deep enough to take her all the way
to the Amazon. The ribbon of water grew wider, the current stronger
as it approached the main river, and she would feel the difference.
It was thrilling when Julio was with her, the canoe sliding over
the ripples of white water as it approached the roaring Amazon, but
alone, with a vampire possibly tracking her, she felt only a
terrible urgency to go faster.
Caimans crouched like old dinosaurs on the banks,
their eyes glassy and heavy lidded as she swept past. She swallowed
hard and pushed the oar through the water. The canoe glided
silently along. Under the dark, rolling clouds, the water glistened
like an ebony strip cutting through long, hanging trees and roots
forming giant cages. She dipped her oar and pushed harder, all the
while reaching for the birds in hopes they’d sound the alarm should
they feel a predator before her.
As she traveled downstream a strange uneasiness
settled over her. Not fear or terror, two things she associated
with Zacarias De La Cruz, but a reluctance to continue. She was
putting distance between them and with each passing yard a dread
filled her. Her heart ached, an actual pain. Intellectually she
knew it was not only the right thing to do, but the only
thing to do, yet her mind refused to believe it. Twice she found
herself paddling toward the bank as if her intention was to turn
back.
She was fortunate that the rain had swelled the
stream so that the current was flowing strong, transporting her
even when her arms refused to work to push her faster away from
Zacarias. The dread grew in her and the pain spread from her heart
to her entire body. Her legs shook. Her arms felt like lead and her
mouth went dry.
He was dead. Zacarias De La Cruz was dead, and
somehow, by leaving she was responsible. The thought crept unbidden
into her mind and once there, she couldn’t dislodge it. Grief found
its way into her, manifesting itself physically. Her chest became
so tight she could barely breathe. Tears swam in her eyes
obstructing her vision. There was a terrible screaming in her ears,
her own silent protest against his death.
Yet—he was vampire—wasn’t he? She was making a
desperate run to reach the De La Cruz property ahead of him, to
alert the hunters, in effect, call them in to kill him. If he was
dead, shouldn’t she be rejoicing? Not weeping? Confused, she
dragged the paddle into the boat and concentrated on breathing.
Zacarias had given her his blood several times. Cesaro had told her
that Zacarias had acted fast and saved her life when the vampire
had torn out her throat. Was there something in his blood that tied
them together in death? He had even forced her to take his blood
this last time.
Marguarita pressed her lips together tightly. She
was strong, and she would not give in to wild imaginings. She had a
mission. Whatever her odd feelings were, they had to be false. The
only thing that could matter to her was saving the people she loved
at the hacienda. The rain began to pick up again, the steady
drizzle turning into a relentless downpour. She had to get to the
river and across to the De La Cruz property to call in the hunters.
The stream was moving very fast, taking her quickly through the
rain forest to dump her into the broad, swollen Amazon.
Her heart began to pound. She had to pay attention
if she was going to survive. The sound of the river was thunderous,
drowning out nearly everything else. The canoe swept around a bend
and the water turned even rougher and faster. She couldn’t think
about Zacarias or vampires, all that mattered was pushing her
paddle into the water to keep from being slung into the series of
rocks looming up ahead.
She’d watched Julio maneuver through that
treacherous set of drops and rocks leading to the river a hundred
times, and she’d laughed with the thrill and danger of the moment.
But she relied on his skills and had absolute confidence that he
knew every rock position ahead. She wasn’t so certain about
herself. Julio had allowed her to try it several times, but the
water hadn’t been flowing quite so fast and it hadn’t been
dark.
She took a firm grip on the oar and summoned her
new reflexes. Her eyes burned with strain as she approached the
series of boulders rising through the rushing stream. Forcing her
breath out in an effort to relax into the wild ride, she felt the
first drop of the canoe as it entered the boulder garden. She
called up every intricate maneuver Julio had showed to her. She
performed the pattern carefully, as if he was in the boat with her,
calling out the moves as she dropped low, shifted her weight back
and rounded the first rock to hit the gate perfectly aligned for
the next drop.
The water boiled around her, a frothy white in the
bleak darkness. Rain pounded the stream and without her heightened
vision, she would not have been able to negotiate the tight chute
that switched nearly completely back to avoid a particularly brutal
stone. The thrill of riding the white water slipped into her frozen
veins, easing the terror of vampires. She had always loved the
trips into the rain forest with Julio. They’d gone on many
adventures and she wished he was with her right then.
The next set of obstacles was the trickiest, the
canoe had to go into the gate at the perfect angle to shoot around
the surge that could flip the boat. She could hear Julio’s voice in
her ear, shouting instructions on how to keep the oar in the water
to still the canoe for the split seconds it took to turn sharp and
then a hard push to send the boat flying forward. She hit the
narrow chasm between the two boulders exactly the way Julio had
done it, skirting the treacherous roiling water by inches.
The canoe shot into open water and she was on the
Amazon. The current caught the canoe and she had to use all of her
strength to angle toward the bank. The river was swollen and
running fast. It took everything she had to paddle to the edge. As
it was, she was slightly downstream from where she wanted to be
when she managed to snag a hanging limb and drag the canoe onto the
bank.
The slope was extremely muddy and slippery. She was
exhausted, cold and wet and miserable. She tried climbing her way
up the incline, but kept slipping back. The wind picked up, a
ferocious force, slamming into her again and again with such power
it tore at the thick braid of hair, tugging out strands so that
even her head ached. She gave up trying to climb and crawled
instead, clawing her way to the top, sliding back time and time
again, until her back and arms ached and she was afraid she’d never
be able to lift them again. The rain, driven by the wind, stung her
body as she reached the top and lay for a moment trying to catch
her breath.
Marguarita didn’t bother to get to her feet but
crawled across the uneven ground to the shelter of a large kapok
tree, trying to get out of the rain. She sank back against the
thick fins that made up the root cage and tried to catch her
breath. The memory of the vampire washed over her again. Something
about the difference between her attacker and Zacarias eluded her,
but she knew it was important.
She had been representing the De La Cruz family for
years. Most of the families the ranch supported had never set eyes
on one of the brothers. She had been the one to bring food and
medicine when needed, to arrange to pay debt or allow families to
borrow in times of trouble, earning the family loyalty and good
will. She had made the De La Cruz family one of the most beloved in
the region. Her generosity—okay, it was their money, but she was
the one making the effort.
She stood cautiously, forcing her weak legs to
work. Without warning the ground rolled, throwing Marguarita to her
knees. Instantly ants swarmed over her boots and hands. She
suppressed a small cry, knowing Zacarias wasn’t dead after all. Why
had she been so ridiculous? He had returned to the hacienda and
discovered her gone. She leaped to her feet and began to run
aimlessly, a stupid, careless mistake.
Giant moths fluttered around her, drawn by her
light as she ran. Bats wheeled and dipped catching the insects her
lamp revealed. Large eyes stared at her for a moment just feet from
her, then the animal leaped onto the trunk of a tree and raced to
higher branches. A snake coiled above her and lifted its
head.
The ground rolled again and thunder crashed. For a
moment she could barely breathe, once again the frozen prey a
monster had cornered. The wind rushed through the trees, bending
the smaller ones over until they formed arches. Marguarita took
shelter in the root cage of the large kapok tree trying to force
herself to think—not panic. Clutching the roots, she glared into
the forest.
She had been right to believe him vampire. The
insects boiled out of the ground and rushed down the trunks of
trees at his bidding. Poisonous snakes slithered through wet
vegetation and leeches crawled over leaves in an effort to reach
her. Everything she’d ever known about vampires came back to
her—along with the memory of the one attacking her.
She shuddered, the need to curl up in a ball and
hide nearly overwhelming her. She could still smell his fetid
breath, see his rotting flesh, and the ugly, twisted claws he had
for fingernails. His eyes had gone completely red as they stared at
her, trying to rip the information of Zacarias’s whereabouts from
her mind. She’d concentrated on keeping her mind blank, the shields
strong, refusing to give up the eldest of the De La Cruz
family.
The vampire had murdered her father and he would
kill her—she knew that with a certainty—but she also knew Zacarias
or one of his brothers would hunt the vampire down and destroy him.
He would never kill again. She had held out even when the horrible
creature had shown her his razor-sharp teeth and threatened to tear
her flesh out and eat it in front of her. She shuddered remembering
his red eyes and his breath. That horrible smell of decaying
flesh.
Marguarita sat up straighter. As scared as she’d
been by Zacarias, he hadn’t been the same. There was no terrible
rotting smell. Didn’t vampires rot from the inside? He had
frightened her—no—terrified her. She touched the mark he’d
made, rubbing it with the pad of her finger. The attack hadn’t been
the same. He hadn’t felt evil. Or vampire. He’d felt like a
dangerous, scary predator, but not evil.
The revelation shocked her. Zacarias was a wild
animal, a feral creature that hunted and killed for survival. He
was no vampire, not that it mattered. She wasn’t going back to the
hacienda. Not as long as he was around. She feared few creatures,
but Zacarias was an altogether different proposition. The mark he’d
left on her throbbed, burning a little, reminding her that no
animal in the rain forest was as unpredictable or as violent.
The way he’d come at her, so purposeful, his face
an expressionless mask, his mouth set in a cruel, unrelenting line,
his eyes flat and cold and without mercy. Her mouth went dry and
her heart began to pound again. She couldn’t have moved if she’d
wanted to, frozen in place like cornered prey. That was exactly how
she felt—his prey. She knew he had deliberately frightened her.
She’d tried to connect with him in the way she did wild things, and
for a moment she thought he’d responded, but then he was worse than
ever. He was dangerous, but no vampire.
She had to make it to shelter and determine her
next move, and that meant finding the marks on the trees Julio had
carved to show the way. She had to backtrack and make her way to
the point where they usually pulled the canoe from the water.
She waited for the ferocious wind to die down a
little and she pushed herself to her feet to step cautiously away
from the shelter of the tree. The branches overhead groaned and
creaked and she looked up. Bats hung from every limb, and darted
around the tree, vying for space. At first she thought they had
come there to eat the fruit, but they weren’t eating. More and more
settled in the branches, hanging upside down, wings folded, tiny
eyes bright—watching her.
A chill went through her. Had she fled from
Zacarias only to stumble into a vampire’s lair? She knew they used
bats and insects as puppets at times. She backed away from the tree
and nearly fell over a rotting log. Termites poured out of the
wood. She pressed her lips together, refusing to panic. She had to
think—make a decision—and she couldn’t do that if she allowed
herself to go to pieces.
She looked up at the bats. Very gently she reached
for them, sending a warm wave of greeting, careful not to push too
hard. Her touch was very delicate, but she connected. She should
have been able to feel evil if they were commanded by the undead,
but they seemed ordinary bats, anxious to go out about their
business. They were hungry, needing to feed but something had
stopped them—used them—commanded them.
He was using insects and bats to keep an eye on
her. He wanted to know what she was up to and had sent spies. An
idea took root and she assessed the situation, trying to think
logically. Perhaps the bats were the wrong kind of spies to use
against her. She had her own gift with animals and insects and it
was very possible she could turn them all to her side.
She looked up at the bats again and sent another
warm, welcoming wave, urging them to go ahead and eat. She’d slow
down so they could do both, follow her and yet eat along the way.
Some of the bats gave the impression of fruit while others insects.
He’d even mixed species. She smiled up at the little creatures,
feeling the kinship that came whenever she touched an animal with
her mind. They were connected to Zacarias through fear, through his
commands, but she actually formed a bond with them, a kind of
empathy that was mutual. Most animals and even some insects
strengthened the relationship, feeling the deep tie between them.
She wanted to form that affinity with the bats Zacarias had chosen
to spy on her.
Marguarita kept the flow of warmth and the
invitation to eat. One bat took the initiative, perhaps he was
hungrier than the others, but he flew to the nearest fruit and
settled to eat. Immediately bats filled the air, many settling on
fruit to feast while others went after insects. She didn’t make the
mistake of hurrying away—that would trigger the need to follow
whatever orders Zacarias had given them. She was elated when she
found the point where Julio and she usually beached their
canoe.
Water was everywhere, dripping from leaves, running
down the slopes and mountainsides creating hundreds of small,
cascading waterfalls. Water collected in puddles and stood on the
forest floor, eventually finding its way to drain in the Amazon
River. The sound of it running was ever present—just like the
continual hum of insects. She angled away from the loud flow of
water heading toward the interior.
Julio had marked branches—as children they’d tried
that—but eventually plants anchored themselves to everything—stems,
branches, trunks, even leaves of other plants wrapping themselves
around the trees. The vegetation was so thick the bark was mostly
hidden so there was no point in cutting into the trees. It didn’t
take long for any marks to be covered. Climbing up the trees were
woody lianas, using the trees as gateways to the light above the
canopy. Ferns only added to the mix, embedding themselves in the
bark as well, climbing toward the sunlight.
Thick roots snaked across the forest floor,
anchoring the large trees to earth while the tops reached high into
the clouds. The giant buttress roots stabilized and fed the
enormous trees, some twisting into elaborate shapes while others
formed great wooden fins. Regardless of how they looked, the roots
dominated the floor, claiming large spaces and housing bats,
animals and hundreds of species of insects.
Julio and Marguarita had slashed marks deep into
the roots and both knew where to look, even in the event creeper
vines and ferns managed to weave themselves among the branching
fins. She swept the brilliant green ferns aside and sure enough,
the root had been chipped, leaving a weathered scar.
She moved slowly, continuing to send her
communications to the bats. Warmth. Regard. Kinship. No commands.
No demands. Zacarias would need to seek the darkness of the soil
before the sun came up. It was only a few more hours. She could
trick him that long. The bats were very receptive and wouldn’t
raise an alarm, not when she wasn’t running or trying to hide from
them.
She tapped into the bats for her own warning
system, hoping she would recognize their alert when a predator was
close. A fallen emergent with a giant trunk lay in her path, years
old, saplings already filling in the void it left. The rotting
trunk was covered in insects, fungus and creepers. She studied it
carefully, aware of the dangerous snakes and poisonous frogs she
could easily touch when climbing over it.
There was nothing else she could do, not without
veering from her path, something she didn’t want to do at night in
a rain forest. She stepped forward and reached up, determined to
climb, pushing at the poisonous insects and frogs with her mind in
hopes they would move away from her.
Hands caught her waist and jerked her back against
a hard body. “Are you dim-witted, woman, or do you simply enjoy
placing yourself in danger?” Zacarias’s voice purred in her ear, a
soft menace that chilled her to her very core.