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the next exciting Carpathian novel
by #1 New York Times
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Christine Feehan
the next exciting Carpathian novel
by #1 New York Times
bestselling author
Christine Feehan
DARK
PREDATOR
SMOKE burned his lungs. It rose around him in
bellowing waves, fed by the numerous fires in the surrounding rain
forest. It had been a long, hard-fought battle, but it was over and
he was done. Most of the main house was gone, but they’d managed to
save the homes of the people who served them. Few lives were lost,
but each one was mourned—though not by him. He stared at the flames
with hollow eyes. He felt nothing. He looked on the faces of the
dead, honorable men who had served his family well, saw their
weeping widows and their crying children and he
felt—nothing.
Zacarias De La Cruz
paused for just a moment while surveying the battlefield. Where
before the rain forest had been lush, trees rising to the clouds,
home to wildlife, there were now flames reaching to the heavens and
black smoke staining the sky. The scent of blood was overwhelming,
the dead, mangled bodies staring with sightless eyes at the dark
sky. The sight didn’t move him. He surveyed it all, as if from a
distance, with a pitiless gaze.
It didn’t matter
where, or which century, the scene was alway the same, and over the
long, dark years, he’d seen so many battlefields he’d lost count.
So much death. So much brutality. So much killing. So much
destruction. And he was always right in the midst of it, a
whirling, dark predator, merciless, ruthless and
implacable.
Blood and death were
stamped into his very bones. He’d executed so many enemies of his
people over hundreds of centuries, he didn’t know how to exist
without the hunt—or the kill. There was no other way of life for
him. He was pure predator and he’d recognized that fact a long time
ago—as did anyone who dared to come close to him.
He was a legendary
Carpathian hunter, from a species of people nearly extinct, living
in a modern world, holding on to the old ways of honor and duty.
His kind ruled the night, slept during the day and needed blood to
survive. Nearly immortal, they lived long, lonely existences, color
and emotion fading until only honor held them to their chosen path
of looking for the one woman who could complete them and restore
both color and emotion. Many gave up, killed while feeding to feel
the rush—just to feel something—becoming the vilest, most dangerous
creature known: the vampire. Every bit as brutal and violent as the
undead, Zacarias De La Cruz was a master at hunting
them.
Blood ran steadily
from numerous wounds and the acid from poisonous blood burned all
the way to his bones, but he felt calm steal into him as he turned
and quietly walked away. Fires raged, but his brothers could put
them out. The acid blood from the vampire attack soaked into the
groaning, protesting earth, but again, his brothers would seek out
that vile poison and eradicate it.
His stark, brutal
journey was over. Finally. More than a thousand years of living in
an empty, gray world. He had accomplished everything he had set out
to do. His brothers were safeguarded. They each had a woman who
completed them. They were happy and healthy and he had eliminated
the worst threat to them. By the time their enemies grew in numbers
again, his brothers would be even stronger. They no longer needed
his direction or protection. He was free.
“Zacarias! You’re in
need of healing. Of blood.”
It was a feminine
voice. Solange, lifemate to Dominic, his oldest friend. With her
pure royal blood, she would change their lives for all time.
Zacarias was too damned old, too set in his ways and oh, so tired,
to ever make the kind of changes to continue living in this
century. He had become as obsolete as the medieval warriors of long
ago. The taste of freedom was metallic, coppery, his blood flowing,
the very essence of life.
“Zacarias, please.”
There was a catch in her voice that should have affected him, but
it didn’t. He didn’t feel as the others could. There was no swaying
him with pity or love. He had no kinder, gentler side. He was a
killer. And his time was over.
Solange’s blood was
an incredible gift to their people, he recognized that even as he
rejected it. Carpathians were vulnerable during the hours of
daylight—especially him. The more the predator, the more the
killer, the more the sunlight was an enemy. He was considered by
most of his people to be the Carpathian warrior who walked the edge
of darkness, and he knew it was true. Solange’s blood had given him
that last and final reason to free himself from his dark
existence.
Zacarias drew in
another lungful of smoky air and continued walking away from them
all without looking back or acknowledging Solange’s offer. He heard
his brothers calling to him in alarm, but he keptalking, picking up
his pace. Freedom was far away and he had to get there. He had
known, as he’d ripped out the heart of the last of the attacking
vampires trying to destroy his family, that there was only one
place he wanted to go. It made no sense, but that didn’t matter. He
was going.
“Zacarias,
stop.”
He looked up as his
brothers dropped from the sky, forming a solid wall in front of
him. All four of them. Riordan, the youngest. Manolito, Nicolas and
Rafael. They were good men and he could almost feel his love for
them—so elusive, just out of reach. They blocked his way, stopping
him from his goal, and no one—nothing—was allowed to get between
him and what he wanted. A snarl rumbled in his chest. The ground
shook beneath their feet. They exchanged an uneasy glance, fear
shimmering in their eyes.
That look of such
intense fear for their own brother should have given him pause, but
he felt—nothing. He had taught these four men their fighting
skills, survival skills. He had fought beside them for centuries.
Looked after them. Led them. Once even had memories of love for
them. Now that he had shrugged off the mantle of responsibility,
there was nothing. Not even those faint memories to sustain him. He
couldn’t remember love or laughter. Only death and
killing.
“Move.” One word. An
order. He expected them to obey, as everyone obeyed him. He had
acquired wealth beyond imagining in his long years of living, and
in the last few centuries he had not once had to buy his way into
or out of something. One word from him was all it took and the
world trembled and stepped aside for his wishes.
Reluctantly, far too
slow for his liking, they parted to allow him to stride
through.
“Do not do this,
Zacarias,” Nicolas said. “Don’t go.”
“At least heal your
wounds,” Rafael added.
“And feed,” Manolito
pressured. “You need to feed.”
He whirled around and
they fell back, fear sliding to terror in their eyes—and he knew
they had reason to be afraid. The centuries had shaped him, honed
him into a violent, brutal predator—a killing machine. There were
few to equal him in the world. And he walked the edge of madness.
His brothers were great hunters, but killing him would require
their considerable skills and no hesitation. They all had
lifemates. They all had emotions. They all loved him. He felt
nothing and he had the advantage.
He had already
dismissed them, left their world, the moment he’d turned his back
and allowed himself the freedom to let go of his responsibilities.
Yet their faces, carved with deep lines of sorrow, stayed him for a
moment.
What would it be like
to feel sorrow so deeply? To feel love? To feel. In the old days he would have touched their
minds and shared with them, but they all had lifemates, and he
didn’t dare take the chance of tainting one of them with the
darkness in him. His soul was not just in pieces. He had killed too
often, distanced himself from all he had held dear in order to
better protect those he had loved. When had he reached the point
where he could no longer safely touch their minds and share their
memories? It had been so long ago he could no longer
remember.
“Zacarias, do not do
this,” Riordan pleaded, his face twisted with that same deep sorrow
that was on each of his brothers’ faces.
They n his
responsibility for far too long and he couldn’t just walk away
without giving them something. He stood there a moment, utterly
alone, his head up, eyes blazing, long hair flowing around him
while blood dripped steadily down his chest and thighs. “I give you
my word that you will not have to hunt me.”
It was all he had for
them, his word that he would not turn vampire. He could rest and he
was seeking that final rest in his own way. He turned away from
them, from the comprehension and relief on their faces, and once
again started his journey. He had far to go if he was to get to his
destination before dawn.
“Zacarias,” Nicolas
called. “Where will you go?”
The question gave him
pause. Where was he going? The compulsion was strong, one
impossible to ignore. He actually slowed his pace, unsettled by the
question. Where would he go? Why was the need so strong in him,
when he felt nothing? But there was something, a dark force driving him.
“Susu— home.” He whispered the word. His voice
carried on the wind, that low tone resonating in the very earth
beneath his feet. “I am going home.”
“This is your home,”
Nicolas stated firmly. “If you seek rest, we will respect your
decision, but stay here with us. With your family. This is your
home,” he reiterated.
Zacarias shook his
head. He was driven to leave Brazil. He needed to be somewhere else
and he had to go now, while there was still time. Eyes as red as
the flames, soul as black as the smoke, he shifted, reaching for
the form of the great harpy eagle.
Are you going to the Carpathian Mountains? Nicolas
demanded through their telepathic link. I will
travel with you.
No. I go home where I belong—alone. I must do this thing
alone.
Nicolas sent him
warmth, wrapped him up in it. Kolasz
arwa-arvoval—may you die with honor. There was sorrow in his
voice, in his heart, but while Zacarias recognized it, he couldn’t
echo the feeling, not even a small tinge.
Rafael spoke softly
in his mind. Arwa-arvo olen isäntä,
ekäm—honor keep you, my brother.
Kulkesz arwa-arvoval, ekäm—walk with honor, my
brother, Manolito added.
Arwa-arvo olen gæidnod susu, ekäm—honor guide you
home, my brother, Riordan said.
It had been a long
time since he’d heard the native tongue of his people. They spoke
the languages and dialects of wherever they were. They’d taken
names as they’d moved from country to country, even a surname, when
Carpathians never had such names. His world had altered so much
over time. Centuries of transformation, always adapting to fit in,
and yet never really changing when his world was all about death.
At long last he was going home.
That simple statement
meant nothing—and everything. He hadn’t had a home in a thousand
years. He was one of the oldest, certainly one of the deadliest.
Men like him had no home. Few welcomed him to their fire, let alone
their hearth. So what was home? Why had he used that
word?
His family had
established ranches in the countries they patrolled throughout the
Amazon and the other rivers that fed it. Their range was spread out
and covered thousands of miles, making it difficult
tont>
Their Peruvian ranch
was situated on the edge of the rain forest, a few miles away from
where the rivers formed a Y and dumped
into the Amazon. Even that region was slowly changing over the
years. His family had appeared to come into the area with the
Spaniards. They had made up names, uncaring how they sounded, as it
mattered little to Carpathians what they were called by others,
unknowing they would spend centuries in the area—that it would
become more familiar to them than their homeland.
Zacarias looked down
at the canopy of the rain forest as he flew. It, too, was
disappearing, a slow, steady encroachment he didn’t understand.
There were so many things about modern times he didn’t
understand—and really, what did it matter? It was no longer his
world or his problem. The compulsion driving him puzzled him more
than the answers for the vanishing environments. Little aroused his
curiosity, yet this overwhelming need to return to a place he’d
been few times was disturbing on some level. Because the drive was
a need, and he didn’t have needs. It was overwhelming, and nothing
overwhelmed him.
Small droplets of
blood fell into the misty clouds surrounding the emergents, the
scattered trees rising above the canopy itself. Beneath him, he
could feel the fear of the animals as he passed. He saw a band of
douroucoulis, very small night monkeys, as they leapt and performed
amazing acrobatics in the middle layers of branches. Some fed on
fruit and insects, while others watched for predators. Normally
they would screech an alarm as soon as the harpy eagle was spotted,
yet as he passed over the family of monkeys they went completely
and eerily silent.
He knew it wasn’t the
threat of the large bird flying overhead that caused the forest to
go so still. The harpy eagle sat still in the branches, often for
long hours at a time, and waited for the right meal. He would
rocket down with shocking speed and snatch a sloth or monkey right
out of the trees, but he didn’t, as a rule, hunt in flight. The
mammals hid, but snakes lifted their heads at his passing. Hundreds
of dinner-plate-sized spiders crawled along branches, migrating in
the direction he flew. Insects rose by the thousands at his
passing.
Zacarias was used to
the signs marking the darkness in him. Even as a young Carpathian,
he had been different. His fighting ability was natural, bred into
him, almost imprinted before birth, his reflexes fast, his brain
working quickly. He had the ability to assess a situation with
lightning speed and come up with a battle plan instantly. He killed
without hesitation, even in his early days, and his illusions were
nearly impossible to detect.
His darkness went
deep, a shadow on his soul long before he’d lost his emotions and
color—and he’d lost both far earlier than others his age. He
questioned everything. Everyone. But his loyalty to his prince and
his people was unswerving, and that had earned him the undying
hatred of his best friend.
He flew with strong
wings, fast through the night, ignoring the wounds and his need for
blood. As he crossed the border and dropped lower into the canopy,
he felt the pull of the compulsion grow. He needed to be on his
Peruvian ranch. He simply—needed. The forest stretched out under
him, a dark tangle of trees and flowers, the air heavy with
moisture. Mosses and vines hung like long, flowing beards, reaching
nearly to the watery pools, streams and creeks. Tangled ferns vied
for spacotions reeping over long-exposed roots on the dark floor
beneath him.
The harpy eagle
dropped through branches covered with flowers, liana and all kinds
of insects hidden in the jumble of greenery. Far below him he heard
the soft call of a tree frog calling a mate and then a coarser,
much more grating sound adding to the chorus of frogs. An almost
electronic trilling joined the symphony as thousands of different
voices rose to a crescendo, abruptly going silent in an unnatural,
spine-chilling alarm as the predator approached, then passed
overhead.
The dark night sky
turned to a soft dove gray as dawn crept in, stealing away the
night’s powerful reign. The harpy eagle dropped from the canopy,
spiraling down into the clearing where the ranch house was
situated. With his sharp vision he could see the river running like
a thick ribbon dividing the land. Gentle slopes gave way to steep
ridges, deep ravines cutting through the forest. Trees and
vegetation snaked across the rocky ground, a dark tangle of growth
determined to reclaim what had been taken.
Neat fences bisected
the slopes, and hundreds of cattle dotted the grasslands. As the
shadow of the bird passed over them, they lifted their heads in
agitation, trembling, knocking into one another as they turned back
and forth trying to find the danger they scented.
The eagle flew over
several fields and at least an acre of gardens, all well tended, as
Zacarias had come to associate with the extended family who served
him. Everything was neat, kept in meticulous repair, every chore
done to their best ability. Pastures and fields gave way to the
large corrals where the horses whirled and tossed their heads
uneasily as he flew over them. Below him, the ranch was laid out
like a perfect picture he could not appreciate.
As he approached the
stable, a rush of heat slid through his veins. Deep inside the body
of the bird, where he should have felt nothing at all, his heart
gave an unfamiliar stutter. The strange fluttering nearly knocked
him from the sky. Naturally wary, Zacarias didn’t trust what he
didn’t understand. What could possibly send heat rushing through
his very veins? He was exhausted from the long battle, the long
flight, and the loss of blood. Hunger throbbed with each beat of
his heart, clawing and raking for supremacy. Pain from the wounds
he hadn’t bothered to heal ripped through him like a jackhammer,
drilling through his very bones.
Weeks earlier, he had
been so close to turning vampire, the need for relief from
emptiness so strong in him that his reaction now made no sense. He
was in worse shape, starving for blood, more kills staining his
soul. Yet there was that strange reaction in the vicinity of his
heart, that heat pulsing through his veins in anticipation. A
trick, then? A lure set by a vampire? What was he
missing?