Three nights. It had to be enough time for Marguarita to fully heal. For three long nights he had lain beside her, holding her in his arms, and yet even then, the world was grim without her filling the empty spaces in him. He was numb. Starkly alone. When one was used to such a thing, when emotions and color faded slowly, it was easier to bear, but losing it all so fast, one moment her warmth filling him, driving out shadow, and the next, being completely alone, was far more difficult than he had ever expected.

Still, Zacarias found himself pacing outside in the night where he could breathe in the night’s information instead of waking Marguarita once again. The night was waning, but still he refused to bring her to the surface. Something was just that little bit off kilter. He couldn’t find it, not with the wind and not with the insects. Everything appeared normal, but it wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. He stepped off the porch and moved out into the yard, his keen sight hunting now—looking for one tiny discrepancy that would alert him to danger.

He needed her. Zacarias De La Cruz who never needed anyone in his life, needed Marguarita. And he needed her happy, giving herself to him, her laughter, her warmth, her soft, sweet body. Was he imagining things because he was he afraid to face her? Fear was an emotion and without Marguarita he didn’t have such complications. No, there was something out here, something not right. It was only a matter of time.

His body went on alert, ready for anything. Her horses stamped restlessly in the stables. Missing her. As he was missing her. He moved away from the yard toward the rain forest bordering his land, drawn by an unknown frisson of warning, listening to the night. Insects chorused, the frogs chimed in, the cattle murmured and the horses stamped. Still—there was that note—or lack of one. Maybe it was just him. He felt off. Something not right in the pit of his stomach.

Concern for Marguarita’s safety was uppermost in his mind. Things had been relatively quiet on the ranch since Esteban and DS had died. Even Cesaro had stayed away from the main house. He had given blood each time Zacarias had come to him and even seemed a little more at ease with him, but Zacarias had not sought him out for company, only for sustenance. He walked around the fence line to the back of the property, every sense alert.

Zacarias scanned the area for blank spots that might indicate a vampire was near. Absolutely everything seemed in place, perfect, too perfect. He didn’t believe it. An attack was imminent, but from which direction? Was this another probe, or the real thing? Wings fluttered up in the trees. Without moving his head, he let his gaze drift to the thick line of trees guarding the rain forest. Eyes shone back at him.

Calm settled over him like a mantle. He stretched his senses. The real thing then. Constant movement in the canopy heralded more and more birds gathering. He wanted to take the fight as far from the hacienda as possible, not willing to risk Marguarita, the workers or her beloved horses. He was grateful she was beneath the ground, that he hadn’t yet brought her to the surface where a vampire might detect her presence.

As far as any of his enemies knew, he had no lifemate. He didn’t feel the emotions most Carpathian hunters experienced once they found the other half of their soul, so in that regard, he was both lucky and unlucky. The lack of emotion would aid him in his battle. He kept moving, using the same unhurried, very fluid stride, feeling his muscles loosen in preparation. His breath came evenly, his heart steady and strong.

The wind picked up, the subtlest of movements. The tops of the trees swayed just a little more, leaves fluttering. Along the ground the grass undulated in a slow wave. This was the opening gambit. The battle always felt a little like a chess match to him. Combat was his world and he understood it, every nuance.

Zacarias continued his casual stride, drawing closer to the fence and the trees. The rain forest appeared quiet and dark. The rain fell steadily, soft drops that shifted a bit as the wind blew away from the trees and toward the hacienda. The land sloped down just slightly, the grass a little higher near the fence line. Zacarias walked along the fence, all the while keeping an eye on the birds gathering in the dark of the rain forest. Even as he walked, his arms swinging naturally at his sides, his hands wove a seamless pattern.

He barely noticed the rain. Cool water dripping steadily from the sky, from the rolling clouds above his head. A drop hit his neck and burned through his skin. He shut off the pain instinctively, throwing his woven shield over his head as he ran toward the fence and the forest to take the fight to them and away from Marguarita.

A deluge opened of small acid drops raining from the sky, even as the wind picked up. His shield protected his head, but the wind blew the burning drops into his back and thighs as he sprinted for the cover of the canopy. Fireballs slammed into the earth all around him, several striking his shield with alarming force. Overhead, a towering dark cloud churned with a fiery mass of red and orange threads.

Zacarias took another step and the ground opened up, a long jagged fissure, deep and gaping. He tumbled in, his shield falling a distance away from him. The acid rain and the fiery darts sliced through him. The earth shuddered and moved, closing that foot-wide gap. Zacarias dissolved into tiny molecules, speeding up toward ground level, trying to beat the closing of the fissure. The clap of the two sides of rock and dirt coming together was horrendous, echoing for miles. Birds shrieked and took to the air. Great predators darted down in a frenzy, looking for prey.

The ground shook, a tremor rocking the foundations of the stables and hacienda. Zacarias rose into the air. At once the birds screamed in exaltation, programmed eyes finding those tiny molecules through the rain and wind, diving for them as if streaking for the surface of water to plunge below for fish.

Zacarias had no choice, unless he wanted to be torn apart and consumed by birds. He streaked toward them, meeting the attack, shifting from molecules to a fire-breathing dragon, something he rarely did, but right now, he needed to rid the sky of the predatory birds. He shot through their ranks as they tore at his flanks, pecking like mad so that ruby red droplets dripped from him.

The scent of blood added to the frenzy of the birds. He wheeled and banked, coming above them, sending a stream of fire sweeping through the mass. The stench of burning meat permeated the night as blackened bodies fell from the sky. The remaining birds kept coming, pouncing on the dragon, hundreds multiplying into thousands, pecking and tearing with razor-sharp talons, digging through the tough hide to try to get to the Carpathian inside.

The sheer weight of the birds sent the dragon tumbling toward earth. Torn and bloody, Zacarias burst from the dragon before it hit the ground, the majority of the birds riding the great carcass to the ground, tearing at it in a kind of fury. Calling to the sky, he used the churning cloud of masses of red-orange flames, drawing them down to slam into the birds in great fireballs. Screaming, the vicious creatures tried to rise into the air, but long spears and tiny darts of flames leaped from one to the other until they were all engulfed in fire.

“Do you wish to keep up this silly charade, Ruslan,” Zacarias called as he settled in the slight clearing just on the other side of the fence, in the rain forest itself. He continued to edge deeper beneath the canopy of trees, taking the fight farther from Marguarita.

Thunder rolled in answer. The clouds churned and boiled. The black cloud burst upward, a tower of fire and brimstone roiling angrily in the sky. The wind rushed through the trees, yet didn’t move the clouds from overhead. Branches swayed, great stick arms reaching almost to the forest floor, as though bowing—or looking to grasp someone with bony fingers.

A dark, hooded figure emerged slowly from the trunk of a large kapok tree. He moved slowly, without any sign of hurry. It was a testament to the power of a master that the tree and surrounding ground didn’t recoil from his presence. Nature could not stand the abomination of the undead, yet a true master was so adept at illusion, for brief periods, even Mother Earth could be deceived.

Not a single leaf or blade of grass withered. The figure was tall, imposing, shoulders wide and he walked with complete confidence. Stepping into the grove of trees where the canopy protected the forest floor, he flung off his hood. Long flowing hair was as black as night, his face young and brutally handsome. He smiled and held out his hand to Zacarias.

“Son. We meet again under more pleasant circumstances, I hope.”

Zacarias frowned. What was Ruslan playing at? Testing him to see if he had emotions? If he had a lifemate? Every other De La Cruz brother had found his lifemate. Ruslan would hate them all the more for that. He believed himself superior to all of them—so why shouldn’t he have the women? Zacarias and his family were unworthy of such things.

“I thought more of you, Ruslan. This is a tired trick. Show yourself and be done with it.” For the first time he realized that not feeling emotion without Marguarita locked to him could be more than a curse. Ruslan could not endanger what he did not know of.

Zacarias waved his hand with a true casualness, as if that perfect image of his father didn’t bother him at all—and in truth—he felt nothing at all at the sight of the man who had been his childhood hero. His wave removed the illusion and revealed Ruslan’s true form. For one second he stood stripped of civility, his body rotted through with a thousand maggots crawling through him. His face was pitted with holes, his eyes sunken and his teeth blackened and serrated, pointed like ice picks sticking up through his gums.

In the time it took Zacarias to blink, that image changed as if it had never been. Ruslan stood before him as he had all those centuries ago. Young. Virile. His face without lines, almost beautiful rather than handsome. Zacarias looked rugged and older in comparison, lines etched into his face and a few scars intersecting here and there.

“I see your vanity has not changed at all,” Zacarias greeted. “You did so love your pretty face. I suppose that is half the reason you chose to become vampire.”

Ruslan brushed back his long length of hair. “At least you still know pretty from ugly. I have long kept tabs on you, old friend. You refuse to join us and you refuse to die. In all the centuries you have never stayed in one place more than a single night or at best two. Yet here you remain.” He swept his arm toward the hacienda and the wind changed course, following his direction, taking with it dozens of small fireballs to rain down across the pastures and structures.

Zacarias sent the rain in a fast deluge, putting out the small fires immediately. He flexed his shoulders, now burned through to bone with a thousand brands from the acid rain and the small, pebble-sized fireballs Ruslan was now using against the ranch.

“We can do this all night, but surely you did not think I would be impressed by such childish games? I play them with your puppets, but they are not really worthy of my attention. I thought at last I might have an opponent of merit.”

“You do not heal your wounds.”

Had there been a hint of eagerness in Ruslan’s tone? Zacarias shrugged again. “I do not feel such things, so how necessary is it really?” He observed Ruslan closely, watching the vampire’s nostrils flaring and his tongue continually licking at his lips. “Does the scent of my blood bother you?”

Ruslan shook his head. Shook it again. Much like a twitch he couldn’t stop. The licking of his lips continued compulsively. “No more than the scent of any blood I consume. You have not fed this night. I offer my blood.”

“How very gentlemanly of you.” Zacarias gave a short, mock bow. “What do you want, Ruslan? I grow weary of your games. Have you come for deliverance? Justice? I’ll be more than happy to send you from this earth if that is what you wish.”

“Justice is a good word to use for a betrayer of friendship. Of brotherhood. You turned on us and made an alliance with that brat of a prince. He is worse than his father before him.” Ruslan spat a mouthful of wriggling white worms.

Zacarias shrugged. “What is it then?”

“I had long thought to have you join our ranks, but you never came. Then you sent me such an insult, destroying my army to the last puppet.”

“They were merely pawns you sent to test me. You expected me to kill them. Cannon fodder, Ruslan, nothing more. Your silly plot to kill the prince didn’t work. You had to know testing it on me would prove that to be so.”

“You were never supposed to be there.” Ruslan’s voice rose to a higher note. His beautiful mask slipped a little. The trees shivered as he shrieked out his rising anger. He could barely contain his rage, his fingers curling into tight fists. “You never spend time with your brothers. You never stay in one place. Why? Why would you change your pattern after so many centuries? Did you do so just to irk me?”

“You flatter yourself, Ruslan. I do not give as much thought to you as you give me credit for. I am a hunter—nothing more and nothing less.”

All the while he spoke, Zacarias didn’t allow himself to focus wholly on Ruslan. The vampire had traps just waiting to be sprung. He noticed every detail, including the rising wind. It was subtle, but the grass bent just that little bit more toward him. The leaves fluttered and spun, a strange grayish when they had been a dull, muddy greenish-brown.

The wind teased the ground around his feet, stirring the leaves and vegetation on the forest floor. Strangler vines shivered. Flowers winding up tree trunks lost petals. To Zacarias they looked like white-gray ash falling to the forest floor.

“You have not told me why you stayed here, old friend,” Ruslan coaxed. “It is odd behavior for you.”

Zacarias shrugged his shoulders, loosening his muscles. “A bit of an injury, but nothing for you to worry about. Plenty of ready sustenance while I recouped. Have no worries, I am in top condition now.”

Ruslan clucked his tongue. “That was not what was reported to me. My men have much to answer for. I was told your injuries are still quite severe.”

“Do not believe such tales. I would not want you to worry, Ruslan, about your old friend. I am quite capable of bringing justice to every undead who walks this earth.”

Flames leaped to life in Ruslan’s eyes. He grimaced and once again that handsome mask slipped revealing blackened, serrated teeth and muddy receding gums. His fingers twitched, and then closed once more into a tight fist.

The wind tugged harder at the debris on the forest floor. Zacarias felt a jab of pain, which he instantly stemmed as something large went through his leg. Glancing down he saw creeper vines rising and writhing together, coiling around and through his leg, starting at his foot and ankle. They grew together, and through his flesh, driving like spears to weave in and out of his leg, making him a part of the new plant.

The vines were covered in moss resembling scales with little hooks. Every scale had snapped up as the thing snaked up and through his leg, hooking into his flesh. He attempted to shift and found his leg was held fast, as the vines growing through his leg locked him in place.

Immediately he knew something alive was being injected into him, tiny bodies running beneath his skin, boring into muscle and tissue, digging deeper still. He ignored the sensation. More than likely the object was to weaken him, bleed him, until he was unable to effectively fight Ruslan while the vine literally held him in place, making him part of its structure.

The master vampire was too experienced to directly challenge him in hand-to-hand combat. He would trade blows from a distance and continue his battle plan of nipping at Zacarias, taking bites out of him until he was certain the hunter was unable to defend himself. Only then would he move in for the kill.

The strategy had one flaw. Zacarias was a single-minded hunter. His body meant nothing to him. Only the kill mattered and he would kill Ruslan Malinov. Nothing else in that moment could concern him. Ignoring the vine winding up his leg, now almost to his thigh, he raised his own hands toward the rain forest and called his own weapon.

The wind shifted back toward Ruslan, a swift change, giving him no time to gloat. The sky around the vampire darkened as thousands of tiny biting flies swarmed over and into Ruslan. Every rotting hole provided an entrance, his mouth, eyes and nostrils. Illusions didn’t matter, they saw only rotting flesh.

Like tiny missiles they torpedoed deep into Ruslan’s body, breeding as they went, depositing larvae and reproducing at a rapid rate. The flies multiplied even as they attacked. Ruslan tore at his chest, sharp nails slashing his face open, giving Zacarias the necessary time to study the vine growing through his leg.

It was a simple enough trap, utilizing what was already in place. The plants were dead, as were the leaves and vegetation lying on the forest floor. In order to breathe life into them, Ruslan had to put some small part of himself into those dead plants. The leaves on the forest floor continued to feed the vines, so that they bored through skin and muscle driving deeper still until they emerged on the other side.

Zacarias let go of his physical self in order for his spirit to enter his body. The vines winding their way through his body, stabbing and spearing through flesh and bone moved toward one thing—the small light of his spirit in him. Granted, without Marguarita, that light was small, but it was there, keeping his honor. The tiny bugs consuming his insides were also sustained by that light. Zacarias took a deep breath and let go of life. All life. He stopped his heart for a moment, refused to allow air through his lungs. The plant loosened immediately, but when he forced his body to work again, the bugs continued to feast.

Zacarias was mostly darkness. Shadows and stains, tainted in a way few if any other hunters were. That darkness was the very thing that allowed him to ignore such wounds, such excruciating pain. He was already part of that world. His father had been legendary with amazing skills in battle, but he was the only Carpathian Zacarias knew of who carried shadows within his soul—until his son had been born.

Now, deliberately, Zacarias reached for those shadows—embraced them—let himself lose all light, drawing on the darkness that seemed to make up so much of him for aid. The moment all light within him was extinguished, the bugs began to die. The shadows were too dark to keep them alive. The plant lost its ability to continue growing, and with an already loosened hold on him, Zacarias was able to sheer off the outer woven branches, leaving the vines still inside his body.

There had to be a source for bringing the dead leaves and vines to life. Zacarias was a hunter and he scented the undead immediately, a small slice of Ruslan giving life to his creation. Ruslan couldn’t sustain being in two places at one time, not while fighting off the attack of tiny flies. It took only moments to slay that dark force and take control of the vine within his body. Ignoring Ruslan’s scream of fury and promises of retaliation, Zacarias changed the molecules of the remaining plant, reshaping, absorbing, utilizing the thick vines inside him to replace the muscle and tissue lost. He could do nothing about the blood loss, but anything natural and of the earth was within his ability to manipulate.

The moment his body was healed, he attacked without hesitation, a blur of motion, speeding across the distance between the vampire and himself, closing fast. Ruslan shrieked and rushed toward him. Thunder cracked. Shook the earth. Lightning sizzled across the sky in great whips as the two crashed together.

Zacarias drove deep with his fist, piercing the rotted chest. Acid blood poured over him, burning through skin to bone. He hit something solid, abruptly stopping his attack, preventing him from reaching the blackened heart. The jar rode up his arm, and a burning vise fused around his arm sending waves of pain he cut off. The tiny stinging flies took to the air in a black swarm, closing around both vampire and hunter. It was difficult not to breathe them into his lungs. Talons tore at his chest, carving out great chunks of skin and muscle.

Zacarias dissolved, allowing the wind to take him away from Ruslan, giving himself time to temporarily heal injuries and to keep as much blood as possible from leaking onto the ground. Ruslan licked at his fingers, his tongue long and obscenely thick, forked like a serpent’s. His face no longer wore his mask of beauty. The real vampire was revealed.

Zacarias had seen his share of rotting corpses, but nothing equaled Ruslan Malinov. Flesh peeled off of him. Worms crawled through gaping holes in his flesh. His mouth was more of a gaping hole, without lips, his eyes sunken. Every living thing shrunk from him, grass withering, ferns and moss going muddy brown. Even the insects scurried away. Only the black flies persisted, feasting on the rotting flesh and depositing as many eggs as possible in the blackened organs.

“You really have let yourself go, old friend,” Zacarias observed. “I think your arm is about to fall off.”

Ruslan roared, the threat rumbling through the forest, shaking the trees. He raised his arms, up and down, palms pointed to the sky. All around Zacarias the leaves rustled, came to life, whirling and flying with the chaos Ruslan created. It was impossible to see through the whipping leaves as they stacked and formed one creature after another.

He extended his arms and closed his eyes, removing the distraction of thousands of leaves coming alive around him. He reached with his other senses to find the threat within the moving debris. The figures surrounded the entire area, forming a loose ring and adding numbers inside the circle until the forest was populated with great monsters all moving toward him. The shadows in him called to the darkness in them. Ruslan had learned quickly.

“I fear it matters little how I look to you, Zacarias. My little army does not care, either. I have no need to expend energy for your last moments. You should have joined me. In truth, you have always had the darkness in you—far more than I ever had. This was your legacy, the greatest gift of your father yet you refused to embrace it.” There was real contempt in Ruslan’s voice. “You had greatness handed to you, but you chose to be a martyr, suffering alone while I have whatever I want.”

Zacarias slowly opened his eyes, smiling, knowing his white teeth were a stark contrast to Ruslan’s blackened, gaping maw and that small detail would prick Ruslan’s vanity as nothing else could.

“I cannot fear you, Ruslan. I cannot feel what you do to me. I do not care about anything other than destroying you. You think you have the advantage, but in fact, I do. You want to continue your pitiful existence. You seek power. You wish to rule the world. To destroy the prince. To kill me.”

Zacarias’s smile turned as cold as ice. “So many wishes, when I have only one. Your death. You are kuly—nothing more, an intestinal worm, a demon who devours souls. You are truly hän ku vie elidet—a thief of life and for that, I pronounce sentence on you.”

The dead and rotting vegetation, collected over hundreds, perhaps thousands of years went into a frenzy, flapping arms and growing teeth as they shuffled toward him. Zacarias sent the wind, but the leaf creatures weren’t in the least affected, holding their own against the blast.

Ruslan’s laughter grated on the ears of any within hearing range. Joyfully he danced around. “I do not think it will be me who dies this night, hunter.”

The creatures closed in, making the air stagnant, oppressive, smelling of dead, rotting things. He needed something completely the opposite to oppose Ruslan’s force, giving him the necessary time to kill the vampire. Deliberately Ruslan had preyed on his worst secrets, those shadows cutting through his body, taking his soul.

Now was not the time for pride. Or for fear. He was a hunter and he had no choice but to use every resource possible. Ruslan Malinov was the biggest threat to the Carpathian people. Without him, the army of vampires would diminish, giving Mikhail, the prince, time to bring together his people and shore up all defenses.

He did the unthinkable. Marguarita. You must wake.

He could not allow himself to think of her and what she might go through upon waking beneath the ground. She was human and he had already asked so much of her. This vampire was responsible for bringing the Carpathian people to near extinction. He could not escape no matter the cost to the hunter—or his beloved lifemate.

Strangely, she could hear her heartbeat, but there didn’t seem to be air moving through her lungs. The sound echoed eerily through her head. She concentrated on Zacarias, ignoring her need to mindlessly scream, to feel the weight of the earth pushing down on her. Gently, with great stealth, she found the path to his mind. Pain engulfed her—savage—vicious pain, an agony that pushed through her entire body easily rivaling what she had gone through in the conversion. She slipped out of him before she could give herself away, or faint from the horror and pain of what he suffered.

What had he said to her? He had told her how to move the soil from her resting place. Visualize, Marguarita, she reminded herself. Will it to happen.

Her first attempt got her nowhere, just panic seeping in. Determinedly, she pushed it away. Use your will. Your father always said you were stubborn enough to move mountains if you really wanted to do it, so move this little bit of earth, she commanded herself.

Her mind screamed the moment her fingers moved and she was more aware than ever that she was beneath the ground, but she kept her eyes closed tight and forced her mind to picture the dirt above her parting like the Red Sea, pushing up and to either side. When she could draw breath and look up at the ceiling of the chamber, she wiped beads of sweat from her face and sat up.

She didn’t hesitate. No matter how angry or hurt she’d been, a man like Zacarias De La Cruz would never ask such a thing in a time of battle unless it was necessary. She found that now-familiar primitive animal in him and gained entrance, sliding ever so gently into him. The darkness took her breath away. Sheer savagery, kill or be killed. Every part of him seemed dark and shadowed, walls of sheer ice, blocks of it, filling his mind, ice in his veins.

His insides were ravaged. The pain, excruciating, yet somehow he was able to block it, something she didn’t understand but was grateful for. She didn’t want to know how all that damage had occurred, or how he could remain on his feet, his entire focus on destroying evil. She poured warmth into him. Love. Everything she was. She gave herself up to him, filling him, forcing the dark to recede, spilling her brightness across every shadow.

He made no move to connect with her, but she felt him tap into that flow of warmth—of empathy and understanding. He sent out a call into the rain forest. She felt the summoning. No, not exactly a summoning, more of a request such as she would make. No command. No arrogance. No hint of self. Only that request for aid.

The dead in the forest had to be destroyed by the living. It amazed her how he knew such things—how his mind worked so quickly surrounded by creatures bent on tearing him apart. He needed a clear path to Ruslan and that was all that mattered to him in that moment.

Marguarita took a deep breath as the leaf figures attacked, swinging at Zacarias, slicing through skin and bone as he whirled in the center among them, using every available means to keep them at bay. Fire. Wind. Nothing worked against them and all the while, Ruslan laughed, a shrill, grating sound that set her teeth on edge.

She forced herself to try to stay disconnected from what was happening to Zacarias. He was very calm, his mind working. All this was a distraction. She didn’t see how it would help at all, but she couldn’t help but be in awe, even as she was terrified for him. He didn’t attempt to hide the truth from her—that she was in his mind—but not on his mind. She was in him only because he needed another weapon, and he didn’t acknowledge she was a flesh and blood woman—his woman. He was not afraid for himself or for her. He felt only the need to destroy evil.

The forest canopy rippled with life and monkeys dropped from the tree branches onto the backs of the creatures, toppling them, tearing them apart and leaping onto the next. It took a moment or two for Marguarita to realize the creatures being destroyed were the ones blocking the path to the exulting Ruslan.

Zacarias sped through the opening the monkeys had carved for him, his entire being focused on one thing only. He knew exactly where Ruslan stood and where his heart was located. He had the time to assess the obstacle he’d met in his earlier attack and he knew how to penetrate that protective coat of armor to reach the withered heart.

He was on Ruslan before the vampire had time to realize he was vulnerable. Zacarias once again changed the molecules in his body, shifting at the last moment to drive through that plating, using split-second timing to open his fist and grasp the heart. His fingers dug through the tendons and muscle, ripping at them in an effort to reach the organ.

Ruslan shrieked, blasting Zacarias in the face with the foul stench of putrid rot. He sank both hands into Zacarias’s belly, tearing it open, spilling blood on the ground, insane with rage, dipping his head to the contents, trying to eat the hunter alive with his savage, serrated teeth.

Zacarias ripped the heart from the chest, spinning to try to get the vampire off of him. Powerful Carpathian blood poured over Ruslan’s face and down his chin while his own black venom burned through Zacarias’s hand and arm to the bone. Zacarias flung the heart from him and clamped both hands over Ruslan’s head and jerked, snapping the neck and flinging the vampire away from him.

He clamped both hands over his open belly, his legs going out from under him. He landed hard on his knees, breathing deep, riding out the pain before he could shove it away from him. Ruslan had landed a few feet from him and rolled, his head obscenely lolling to one side.

Zacarias groaned when he saw that Ruslan had fallen over his extracted heart. The vampire caught up his heart and took to the air, black blood dropping and sizzling along the ground. He licked at his fingers in the air, trying to extract every bit of Carpathian blood from his arm and hand before streaking away.

The moment Ruslan had been attacked, he’d pulled his energy from the army of the dead, so that the leaves and branches tumbled back to the forest floor. Monkeys scrambled back into the trees. Zacarias let himself fall, looking up at the rain. Once more it was a gentle drizzle, hitting him in the face. It took great effort to call down the white-hot energy to rid himself of the vampire venom. As soon as it was off of him, he dropped his arms wearily to his sides.

I’m coming to you. Marguarita made it a statement, not a question.

He found himself smiling. His beautiful lunatic. She had every right to despise him, every reason to fear him, yet if he had ordered her to stay away, she would have defied him and come to him anyway. There was no stopping such a quiet force and he was too far gone to try. She never seemed to bother to argue. She just did what she believed was right. His blood was leaking out all over the ground and healing himself was going to be a difficult task.

She tried to laugh, he’d have to give her that. Her amusement came through her tears. She was crying for him and he knew she would be doing that a lot in the years to come. I should have converted you with love, Marguarita. With care. I should have held you when you were so afraid. I am so far in the dark, perhaps there is no way to bring me back.

I don’t want to bring you back. I just want to save you. There’s a difference. You’ll have to do the clothes yourself. I can’t manage. There was impatience in her voice. And she was much closer than she had been.

Zacarias lifted his head. Her beloved mare raced toward him with Marguarita astride her back, and thanks to the good Dios the horse had a smooth gait. She was entirely naked. He shook his head. She was slowly filling him back up with her light, pushing the darkness away. He could see his blood was red, pooling on the ground around him.

She was off the horse and running toward him as he waved his hand to clothe her. She nearly tripped over her skirt as she raced to him. Using both hands, she shoved a soft cloth she carried against his belly. Lie back. Just relax for a moment. And don’t let me too far into your mind. I don’t want you to feel this.

He allowed himself to sink back down and just watched her face—that beloved face with so much concern stamped into it. So much love—love he didn’t deserve. “What did you mean when you said you didn’t want to bring me back from the darkness, that you just wanted to save me? It is the same thing.”

She shook her head, digging into the soil to find the richest, untainted earth she could find. She used her own saliva to make a paste. Actually, it isn’t the same thing. The darkness in you that you despise so much is a precious gift and one you have come to rely on. It allows you to hunt the way you do. It keeps you alive when others would die.

She winced visibly as she packed his wounds tight with the muddy paste she’d made. He touched her lips with gentle fingers. “You think it is a gift not to feel? To be so close to darkness that every moment I exist is a fight?”

“But you fear I will not come back to you.”

She extended her wrist to him. Hunger beat at her, but it was far more important to give him whatever she could to sustain him and help him heal as fast as possible. You are so good at pushing aside your memories that a small part of me thinks you will one day forget to remember me after the battle.

He took her wrist and very gently made the cut, allowing her life-giving blood to flow into him. It was the blood of an ancient Carpathian now. Powerful and strong because his blood flowed in her veins. He felt his body reach for it, every organ, all muscle and tissue, each cell.

Her eyebrow shot up. With her free hand she smoothed back his hair. Do you think I am unaware of this about you? I want who you are, Zacarias, but I expect you to follow the vows you swore to me. I want to be cherished. I want you to have in mind my happiness when you make your decisions. And you have to know I will always be me. I will make up my own mind when I feel you are wrong.

He glanced up at her face, a smile in his eyes. I cannot conceive of being wrong. Well—there was that one time . . .

Her laughter spilled into his mind. One? I’m going to let that go because after this battle you might just be a little out of your mind.

He swiped his tongue across the cut on her wrist. “Cesaro comes. He will give you blood and you will have to take it, Marguarita. I need to go.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Go? I don’t understand. Go where? You have to go to ground and heal is what you have to do and I can be with you.

“I must hunt Ruslan.”

She shook her head adamantly. No. You can’t do that, not tonight. It’s almost dawn and you could be caught out in the sun.

“You saw my memories of Dominic and his woman sharing their blood with me.”

He reached out and very gently caressed her long sweep of hair. “This particular vampire is a master unlike any other. I would not get this chance again in another ten thousand years. I am asking you to not ask this of me. Right at this moment, I would give you anything you want—even this, Marguarita. But I need you not to make this request.”

She closed her eyes tightly. For a moment she felt she couldn’t breathe. She had to let him go. He couldn’t be anything but what he was—a hunter. She would be asking him to be something he was not. See that you come back to me in one piece.

Zacarias stood, his clothing in bloody tatters. Lacerations and wounds crisscrossed his body. The bloody cloth fell from his belly, but the wound was closed. He flexed his muscles. “You will take Cesaro’s blood from his wrist. He will guard you while I am gone.”

Framing her face with his hands, Zacarias leaned down to kiss her upturned mouth. She clung for a moment, uncaring that Cesaro was watching them. Reluctantly, Zacarias put her aside and took to the air. The moment he was away from her, he dismissed her from his mind, pushing her out, trusting her to stay out. There could only be one chance at this. Ruslan Malinov was too dangerous of an adversary to allow him to escape.

Zacarias caught the scent of the vampire’s foul stench and he followed, using the droplets as a guide. He had spent centuries patrolling up and down the Amazon crossing borders and going from country to country. He knew every cave, every place a vampire might choose as a resting place. He knew where his enemy would most likely go. More than that, Marguarita was correct in saying the darkness in him allowed him to think like the undead.

Ruslan would want to get as far from Zacarias as possible, but he would want to be able to feed as easily as possible. There were very few towns and ranches in the area near caves. Zacarias knew every one of them. He was convinced Ruslan would choose the most inaccessible, a mere crack in the rock allowing a shapeshifter to flatten his body enough to slide inside that narrow, steep tunnel leading down to the very bowels of the earth. Ruslan would guard it well as only a master vampire could do, so either Zacarias arrived ahead of him—before dawn and secreted himself inside to wait—or it could take hours to unravel the safeguards and he could get caught in the sun.

Ruslan had a head start on Zacarias, but he was cunning and he would know his blood was in the wind and a hunter like Zacarias would scent it as well as any wolf. He would use false trails, backtrack, every trick he had ever learned to hide his true destination from the Carpathian and that would take time. Ruslan would try to use the sun against a hunter, only going to ground at the last moment so there was no risk a hunter could catch him in his lair. Zacarias had to make a decision—go with his gut feeling—depend on the very thing he detested in himself—or follow the trail. Either one could cost him his prey.

Marguarita had said the darkness in him was a gift. She trusted it because it was a part of him. He thought of it as evil. He only remembered his father as evil, never earlier. It was as though that one moment had negated his father’s entire life, centuries of honor and duty. His father had taught him every skill he possessed. He had swung his lifemate into the air and laughed readily with her. He had rejoiced as each son was born and mourned, crying bloodred tears unashamedly when his one daughter had lost her battle for survival. His father had not been evil all of his life.

So then, let the darkness guide him. He abandoned the trail and chose the cave deepest in the earth, hurrying now to get there before his prey. If he was wrong, he had lost his chance, but he would be safe from the sun.

Zacarias passed over the rocky ledge where the cracked boulder was the only sign of an entrance to the narrow tunnel. He used stealth, allowing a slight breeze to let him drift, examining the area from every angle. Ruslan didn’t appear to have reached the resting place before him. He moved closer, careful not to disturb so much as a pebble, testing the entrance. There was nothing to hinder him going inside.

As smoky vapor, Zacarias slipped inside the mountain, weaving his way through the long crack into the narrow, small tunnel. He followed it deeper and deeper beneath the earth. The sound of dripping water grew in volume as he neared the small chamber. The tunnel had narrowed so that only a small animal might get through to the larger hollowed-out cavern.

Ruslan had not been there before him. There was a certain odor to a vampire, one that even a master could mask only for so long. Did that mean he had never found this particular cave? There was no more time to go looking. He had to trust in his experience. He took his time, examining the small chamber, finding several cracks running through the ceiling and walls. Water dripped steadily from the north wall, but the southern wall was mainly rock. He chose one of the smaller cracks to secrete himself in.

His body desperately needed to go to ground. Shifting took energy, and even with Marguarita’s blood, he knew he didn’t have much time before it would become critical to heal in the soil or it would be too late. Few Carpathians would be able to survive the mortal wounds he had and continue the hunt. He knew the darkness within him enabled him to never acknowledge what was happening to his body. He fought, he healed himself and he went on without pain or exhaustion. But eventually his body would collapse. If Ruslan did choose this cave, Zacarias could not think about when that collapse would come.

Minutes ticked by. He knew the exact position of the sun and it was very close to rising. He could feel its presence like a burning lamp pressed close against him. He knew the light would always get to him, even if Solange’s royal blood really allowed him a few more hours of the day to move in. He would never be comfortable, but if it made Marguarita happier with him, he would endure it, just as he would endure her human companions.

A rock rolled in the dirt. Something scratched along the narrow tunnel wall just outside the chamber. Zacarias stayed relaxed, not expending any of his precious energy. He was in bad shape and if he gave himself away too soon and Ruslan was able to fight, they both would die this night. The foul stench of rotting flesh drifted into the chamber.

Immediately, familiar calm swept through Zacarias. Nothing else mattered now, not him, not anything, but the destruction of this one vampire who had caused the Carpathian people so much pain and damage. This was the reason Zacarias had been born and bred to fight. This was why the darkness in him ran so deep—defending his people against the most vile, evil creature imaginable.

He stayed still, patient, watching as Ruslan prepared his safeguards and staggered to his resting place. His head still listed to one side, which told Zacarias the vampire was as injured as he had been. Ruslan was too vain to allow something like that to go unless he needed to conserve his energy. Zacarias didn’t move as Ruslan lay down and folded his arms across his chest, giving himself up to the sleep of the dead. Even then, Zacarias waited until the sun had begun its climb. He wanted to insure Ruslan was in a leaden state.

With infinite stealth he dislodged from the ceiling and made his way to the master vampire’s resting place. Instantly Ruslan’s eyes snapped open. He hissed, a low sound of hatred. There was no movement, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable. Zacarias stayed out of the strike zone just to be certain.

“What honor is this? Coming to me in my weakest hour?” Ruslan demanded.

Zacarias’s eyebrow shot up. “Exterminating vermin is not about honor. Living with a code of conduct is honorable, Ruslan. That is what you always failed to understand. Killing is not honorable. This is my job. Honor demands I use whatever tool possible, whatever weapon, to destroy evil—and you are evil. There is no honor in the method of kill, only the fulfillment of a job that is necessary.”

Ruslan’s cackle filled his mind. “You can rip out my heart here in this cavern, but you cannot bring the lightning so deep beneath the earth. We will see who survives come nightfall.”

“I have no intention of ripping out your heart.” Zacarias approached the leaden figure with extreme caution. Ruslan was a powerful vampire and, as a hunter, he respected that power, knowing the master would not go easily to his end.

Ruslan looked puzzled, his hollowed eyes filled with hatred and cunning. Bats dropped without warning, covering Zacarias’s body, biting with sharp teeth, trying to drain him for their master. Worms burst through the dirt walls and spiders crept from every crevice, all at the summons of the master. A few rats poked their heads out of the tunnel, beady eyes fixed on Zacarias.

Zacarias dissolved under the weight of the bats, shifting quickly to put himself across the room. He blazed light through the room, a flash bright and terrible, very hot, a concentrated sun that singed the bats and drove the insects and rats away. He needed only a small amount of time.

“You cannot keep that up forever,” Ruslan crowed, “and they are mine to command.”

“It does not matter.” Zacarias was on him instantly, scooping the dead weight into his arms. The foul breath blasting his face disoriented him for just a moment. There was poison in that concentrated breath, but he shifted, taking the vampire’s rotting form with him.

What are you doing? Ruslan demanded, switching to the Carpathian common path of communication, for the first time truly alarmed. Where are you taking me?

Zacarias knew the exact moment Ruslan understood what he was doing. Once through the tunnel and crack, he shifted again, bringing them both into the dawning sun. Ruslan’s mouth opened wide in a soundless scream of agony. With sudden effort, driven by sheer will and desperation, he buried talons deep into Zacarias’s skin.

Zacarias sank with his burden to the ground, his strength nearly gone. He would not be able to enter the cave and he knew by the feel of the sun on his skin that he would not have enough time to unravel the safeguards.

Zacarias could not allow himself to think what would happen to her or of all the things he’d done wrong with her. He wanted his last memories of her to be held close, that feeling of complete, unselfish love she’d given him.

She was calm. Utterly, completely calm. That was Marguarita, and for the first time he believed. She had been sent to him to save him from himself—his own personal miracle. If anyone could save him—she could—but he didn’t see how. Even by car, there was no way to reach him in time. He didn’t tell her that, what was the point?

He was weary, so exhausted he could barely move.

He loved that little bite in her voice.

What are you smiling about? Ruslan demanded. You will die with me. Hurry. I will show you how to unravel the safeguards if you have the strength left to get me out of the sun.

Zacarias shook his head. “You die this fine morning, Ruslan. No matter the cost to me, your evil will never walk the earth again.”

Ruslan’s body writhed. Turned lobster red. Heated until he scorched Zacarias’s skin. Still those talons remained hooked in his sides, locking them together while the vampire began to sizzle, his rotting skin bubbling. Smoke rose. The stench of burning meat filled the air. Ruslan screamed, the sound tearing through his chest and throat to startle the birds in the nearby trees into flight.

Zacarias looked up. Vultures began to circle. His own skin burned only because Ruslan’s body touched his. He didn’t try to fight it. His body hadn’t turned to lead as of yet, but his arms and face prickled, wanting to shrink from that mass of red-hot churning threads.

Holes burst through Ruslan’s body. The stench increased until Zacarias wanted to gag. The talons loosened, and without the thick plug of those razor-sharp hooked nails, blood began to leak onto the ground, forming a small pool around him.

Stay with me, Zacarias, Marguarita urged.

Her calmness astounded him. She should be in a panic, yet her mind was much clearer than his. He was too tired to think.

Give yourself to me, she whispered. Trust me to keep you safe.

He had never trusted anyone. If he did as she asked and passed his spirit into her keeping, there would be nothing she did not know about him. His inability to feel without her shamed him. He would never know the true love of his brothers unless she was anchored in his mind. He would always be uncomfortable in the presence of humans. He could barely tolerate that world and she would know. She would see that he felt nothing even for those serving him. She would see too much. How much could a woman take?

Losing her to death was perhaps an act of cowardice rather than allowing her to face the true monster that she had given herself to. He had claimed her. Bound them together. Through it all, she had been the one to give herself to him over and over, meeting his every demand.

Ruslan burst into flames, shrieking his hatred of the world. The talons fell from Zacarias’s skin, freeing him, and Zacarias dragged himself away from the burning vampire. Black smoke shot into the sky like a beacon.

Zacarias watched until that white-hot heat consumed every inch of the master vampire, until he was certain the heart was gone and not so much as a sliver of him remained anywhere. Only then did he lay his head back and let his body turn into a limp rag doll.

He took a breath and then a leap of faith that she would want him anyway, as dark and shadowed as he was. He sent his spirit outside his physical body, into her keeping. Just before he closed his eyes, he heard the sound of a helicopter and he smiled. That piece of equipment was of the modern world—her world. Maybe there was something to it after all. His resourceful lifemate had obviously used his blood bond with either Julio or Cesaro, and Lea Eldridge was flying them to his rescue.