Christine Feehan: Dark Predator

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 of 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 space, creeping 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. An almost electronic trilling joined the symphony as thousands of different voices rose to a crescendo abruptly going silent in 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 as the bird flew over the ravines and valley, 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 tended well as Zacarias had come to expect from 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 before him 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 an ever present jackhammer, drilling through his very bones.

Weeks earlier, he had been so close to turning vampire, the desire for relief from emptiness so strong in him, the blackness of his soul without the least relief, 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?

The harpy eagle slowly folded his seven-foot wingspan, talons as large as grizzly bear’s claws digging deep into the roof of the stable while the feathers at the top of his head formed a large crest. The great predator went completely still, sharp eyes moving over the terrain below. He had amazing vision within the harpy’s body and his hearing was aided even further by the focusing of sound waves by the smaller feathers forming his facial disk.

The horses in the corral a short distance away reacted to his presence, tossing heads, moving restlessly and bunching together tightly. Several whinnied in distress. A woman emerged from the stable beneath him, a large horse following her. Immediately his gaze fixated on her. Her hair was long, to her waist, pulled back in a braid that was as thick as his wrist. The long rope of hair attracted his gaze. When she moved, the woven strands gleamed like spun silk.

Zacarias saw in the shadowy colors of gray and dull white for centuries. Her braid was fascinating because it was a true black. He was nearly mesmerized by the long, dark hair, the strands shimmering even without the sun. Somewhere in the vicinity of what would have been his belly, his stomach gave a slow somersaulting roll. In a world where everything was the same and nothing moved him, that small sensation amounted to a bomb going off. For a moment he lost his breath, shaken by the strange phenomenon.

The horse following the woman wore no saddle or bridle and once he emerged from the building, he began to dance with restless unease, head tossing, eyes rolling as he circled the woman. The horses were purebred Peruvian Paso, a breed renowned not only for their natural gaits, but for temperament as well. The woman glanced toward the horses running in circles in the corral—it was unusual for them to be nervous—and then lifted a calming hand to the horse half rearing so close to her. She laid her hand on his neck and looked up at harpy eagle sitting so still on the roof.

Those dark chocolate eyes penetrated right through the feathers and bones of the eagle, straight to Zacarias. He felt the impact like an arrow through his heart. Marguarita . Even from the distance he could see the scars at her throat where the vampire had torn out her vocal cords because she refused to give up Zacarias’s resting place to the undead. She’d once been a carefree young woman, or he’d imagined her to be, but now, someone was using her to trap him.

It all made sense now. The compulsion to come to this place, to think of it as home. Was she possessed by a vampire? Only a master could weave and hold such a spell together—only a master like his old enemies, the Malinov brothers. The five brothers had grown up with him. They’d fought alongside one another for nearly five hundred years. His friends had chosen to be vampire, to give up their souls in their thirst for power. They had chosen to bring together the undead in a conspiracy against the prince and the Carpathian people.

Dominic had uncovered the latest plot and stayed to help defend the De La Cruz properties in Brazil. Knowing that the vampires would test their plan of attack on the ranch before striking at the prince, Zacarias had been waiting for them. No vampire had escaped alive. There were none to return to tell the Malinovs their plan had failed.

Zacarias knew the Malinovs’ rage and their bitter, unrelenting hatred of him and his brothers. Yes, this very well could be the payback for the defeat of the Malinov army, but how would they have gotten here ahead of him? That didn’t make sense, either.

The harpy eagle shook his head as if ridding himself of unsettling thoughts. No, it was impossible for them to get together another attack this soon. In any case, horses barely tolerated his presence, they would never allow evil to touch them and Marguarita was stroking the powerful neck. There was no possession.

Zacarias wondered at the strange sensation in his chest. Almost relief. He didn’t want to have to kill her, not when she’d nearly sacrificed her life for him once. Yet he was incapable of feeling, of any emotion whatsoever. Why did he have these extraordinary stirrings in his body and mind since returning to this place? None of it made sense. He doubled his vigilance, not trusting the unfamiliar.