Dark Predator d-22

by Christine Feehan

  To the surface. Your safeguards keep others out, but they do not keep us in.

  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.

  If I burn, then so will you.

  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.

  I love you, Marguarita. I am truly sorry for the mistakes I have made with you. Reach for my brothers, they will aid you when I am gone.

  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.

  Tell me where you are. I will not come to you, have no worries, but show me.

  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.

  Don’t you dare give up.

  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?

  Give yourself to me. Freely—as I gave myself to you.

  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.

  20

  What did it take for a Carpathian to heal such horrific wounds? A week? Two? A month? Marguarita slowly walked through the dark house, toward her own bedroom and bath. She had learned to take blood from Julio and Cesaro, a difficult task. She had learned to part the horrible dirt, wiping frantically at her hair and body, terrified of spiders crawling over her. There was so much she didn’t know, so much she needed to learn.

  Every evening she went out to the stables to her beloved horses, but even riding her Peruvian Paso, one of her greatest joys, could no longer stop the crush of sorrow welling up in her. It didn’t matter how often she told herself Zacarias was safe, was in fact, lying in their sleeping chamber. It didn’t matter how many days she lay beside him, holding him, brushing his long hair aside to study every line carved into his face, she still feared for him—mourned for him. At times she feared she might lose her mind.

  More than once, waking with Zacarias beside her and spiders crawling over her, she’d smacked him in a fit of temper, remembering the mass of spiders she’d fallen into with no comfort from him. But mostly, she tried not to weep for him, tried not to beg him to wake and be with her. She needed him desperately, but she refused to be weak when he needed to heal.

  There were so many things to work on, to occupy her time. She still couldn’t quite get the clothing right. She usually took a bath and dressed as she always had. She preferred to take a bath because she couldn’t rid herself of the terror of spiders. She slept in the ground for heaven’s sake, she knew they crawled across her all night and thought they probably made nests in her hair.

  She jumped when arms slid around her and she heard Zacarias laugh softly in her ear.

  “I doubt very much that spiders make nests in your hair, my beautiful little lunatic.”

  Her heart thudded, and for a moment she froze, afraid to believe it was him. Afraid she’d made him up out of sheer desperation. Very slowly she turned and looked up at him. His eyes, always midnight black, had that fantastic sapphire blue sheen to them, the one he got when he looked at her and was particularly aroused. Just the sight of him made her weak.

  “I dreamed that you gave me a lecture on spiders and perhaps actually struck me once or twice in retaliation. Could there be truth to that?”

  She smiled. Perhaps. If so, you certainly deserved it. Her hand went to his flat, hard stomach. Scars crisscrossed where before his skin had been smooth. I thought this would be gone.

  It was the only thing she could think to say when all she wanted to do was kiss him forever, hold him so tight neither of them could breathe and take him as deep as possible into her body so he would never find his way out.

  He touched her throat. “I had hoped you would be able to speak as you wished to so much. I suppose we were both too injured for even powerful Carpathian blood to heal us completely.”

  He filled the room. Filled her every sense, so that her entire body reached for his, so aware of him. He came into her mind, a soft, gentle flow that surprised her. She almost didn’t recognize that light touch. The icy feeling was there, but instead of the familiar glacier, the ice seemed to float through her mind, warming slowly.

  She watched his eyes change, desire and hunger slipping through the joy of seeing her. He bent his head to hers and she turned up h
er mouth. His was hot and dominating, everything and more than she remembered. Her body belonged to him instantly, melting against him, pliant and soft, making its own demands. He took his time kissing her, over and over.

  Zacarias lifted his head slowly, reluctantly, his hands framing her face, looking into her eyes as though searching for something. Satisfaction crept into his gaze; evidently he found whatever he had been looking for.

  He waved his hand toward the bathroom. At once the scent of her favorite oils drifted into the room along with a floating steam cloud. “Let’s get you in the bath.”

  You know you don’t have to do that. It’s a silly ritual when we can just clean ourselves with a thought. That didn’t make her feel clean, nor did it overcome her irrational fear of spiders crawling through her hair.

  “Your bath is a beautiful ritual and one I hope you keep for many centuries.” He corrected gently, “One important to you, and at the same time, it brings me much pleasure.” He took her hand and kissed her palm. “I did not see your fear of spiders. It was buried too deep in your childhood memories. I should have taken more care, as I will now. I have every intention of inspecting every inch of you each evening to make certain these pesky creatures do not bother you ever again.”

  She shuddered, feeling the brush of thousands of hairy legs, rubbing her arms to rid herself of the sensation. Zacarias tipped her chin up so that she had no choice but to drown in his eyes, in those dark, black pools of deep liquid ice—so cold sometimes they burned with a deep midnight blue. He could take her breath away with just one smoldering look. The idea of him inspecting her body so closely every evening sent a million butterflies winging through her stomach.

  He took her hand and tugged until she followed him into her now steamy bathroom. Very gently he lifted her, settling her in the deep water of the clawfoot tub. He tipped her head back against the raised, sloped side.

  “Close your eyes and let me do this. I want you to know that not a single spider is anywhere near you when I am finished. Do not think about anything, sívamet.”

  She sank into the depths, noting the water was a lagoon green, and felt like heaven. She closed her eyes and went all the way under at the urging of his hands, soaking her long mass of hair. She let the hot perfumed water and the mesmerizing sound of his voice allow her to drift on a tide of happiness. Zacarias was alive and he was with her. Whatever else happened, she knew now she wanted the man he was—primitive and always alert for trouble. Capable of exploding into violence when needed. A demanding lover. A demanding partner.

  Would he be easy? She didn’t try to fool herself that he would be. He had entrusted her with his spirit, his very essence, and in doing so, she saw all of him, shared all of him. She knew he wouldn’t ever feel as a normal mated Carpathian would unless he was anchored firmly in her—but what he might never understand was that it terrified her to think of him hunting without that darkness in him to give him that extra edge. She wanted that for him. He would never stop his hunt to eradicate evil. Never. Nor would she ever want him to be anything else than who he was.

  With her head resting in the curve of the tub, his hands massaging shampoo into her scalp, Marguarita floated in a dream world. He murmured softly in his own language, a dark singsong chant in his rasping velvet voice, and she went out with that tide, giving herself into his care. There was only this moment, Zacarias and the pleasure of the hot water on her body.

  She had no idea of the passage of time. The water stayed hot while he rinsed her hair and then began a slow washing of her body, first her face, and then a meticulous and incredibly gentle care of her body. Tears burned in her eyes. She had never imagined him so tender. She doubted that he had known himself capable of such tenderness. Her body began a slow burn, heat building from smoldering embers, his hands going from lingering, memorizing, to claiming. He dried her with the same care, taking his time with her hair, drying it himself while he brushed it out. Only then did he lift her into his arms and carry her to her bed.

  Zacarias laid Marguarita down with an exquisite gentleness. There in the darkness, with his extraordinary vision, he inspected her body, once again needing to memorize every inch of her, to see for himself that no hint of the conversion, of DS’s assault on her remained. His tongue slid over her mouth, fingertips caressed her breasts, slid down to her ribs, and then over the curve of her hip. He wanted to taste every inch of her, suddenly greedy for her. She was his, the only one who would ever fill his life, fill his heart and repair his soul enough to give him back life.

  His mouth returned to suckle at her breast as his hands kneaded and teeth tugged, tongue laving and rolling. Her body heated and he nudged her legs apart with his knee. He wanted to take his time, to drive her so high she would never come down, but he desperately needed to be inside her, to join them, body and soul, skin to skin. He had to feel whole again. The darkness had to recede so far it would take weeks to come back.

  Come into me, he invited softly. Give me your love, Marguarita, all of it. Pour yourself into me and fill me up with you. I need you.

  He had never admitted his need of anyone before. He felt her move in him, that impossible light, so warm, so filled with an emotion he could never hope to understand. The feeling overwhelmed him, and as always he was tempted to push it aside, but not now. Not this night. He slipped his hand between their bodies to feel her welcoming liquid. He was large and entering her was always a stretching burn for her. He didn’t want to take a chance of hurting her no matter how eager he was to be inside of her.

  He stared down at her face, wanting to watch her every expression as he slowly pushed into her body. He felt her tight sheath, velvet soft, giving way for him as he invaded. All the while she poured warmth into him. Love. He felt surrounded by her. Home. He had truly come home. When he had buried himself to the hilt, touching her cervix, rocking both of them, he stilled, his hands reaching for hers, fingers threading through hers.

  “I will make you crazy sometimes, Marguarita, but I swear I will try to please you. I promise you with all my heart, give you my word of honor, that I will always do my best to make you happy. There are some things I am not certain I can change.”

  She smiled up at him. I have not asked you to change. Only to merge your life with mine. There are good things about my world if you’re open to them.

  He withdrew and plunged deep, watching her eyes glaze. He loved that look on her face, that wild shock of pleasure. He loved knowing he put that there. Once again he went still. “I have brothers, you know that. When we are with them, I will not be able to be far from you. I need you to connect with that emotion I have so long been without.”

  A slow smile teased her mouth. Teased his mind. I don’t think that will be a problem.

  He was well and truly lost and he was grateful for that feeling. He began a slow, sensual assault on all her senses, sharing his mind, sharing the building pressure, the exquisite pleasure. She would always be his world. He would have to share her with this world she lived in—and loved—but for her, he could manage.

  He bent his head and took her breast into his mouth, his weight on his elbows now. This will be our base, but we must travel, Marguarita. Together.

  I am depending on that. I rather like the things your hands and mouth and body do to me. I’m addicted to you. But more than that, Zacarias, I’m very much in love with you. I want you to take me with you.

  He felt her love inside of him, bridging all the broken connections for him. Surrounding him. Making it all right to be who he was, damaged and maybe a little broken.

  He kissed her as his hands took possession of her hips, lifting her to him in preparation for a wild ride. You are the only person I will ever love.

  And that was his truth. He finally belonged somewhere—to someone. Marguarita was his home.

  APPENDIX 1. Carpathian Healing Chants

  To rightly understand Carpathian healing chants, background is required in several areas:

  1. The Carpathia
n view on healing

  2. The Lesser Healing Chant of the Carpathians

  3. The Great Healing Chant of the Carpathians

  4. Carpathian musical aesthetics

  5. Lullaby

  6. Song to Heal the Earth

  7. Carpathian chanting technique

  1. THE CARPATHIAN VIEW ON HEALING

  The Carpathians are a nomadic people whose geographic origins can be traced back to at least as far as the Southern Ural Mountains (near the steppes of modern-day Kazakhstan), on the border between Europe and Asia. (For this reason, modern-day linguists call their language “proto-Uralic,” without knowing that this is the language of the Carpathians.) Unlike most nomadic peoples, the wandering of the Carpathians was not due to the need to find new grazing lands as the seasons and climate shifted, or the search for better trade. Instead, the Carpathians’ movements were driven by a great purpose: to find a land that would have the right earth, a soil with the kind of richness that would greatly enhance their rejuvenative powers.

  Over the centuries, they migrated westward (some six thousand years ago), until they at last found their perfect homeland—their susu—in the Carpathian Mountains, whose long arc cradled the lush plains of the kingdom of Hungary. (The kingdom of Hungary flourished for over a millennium—making Hungarian the dominant language of the Carpathian Basin—until the kingdom’s lands were split among several countries after World War I: Austria, Czechoslovakia, Romania, Yugoslavia and modern Hungary.)

  Other peoples from the Southern Urals (who shared the Carpathian language, but were not Carpathians) migrated in different directions. Some ended up in Finland, which accounts for why the modern Hungarian and Finnish languages are among the contemporary descendents of the ancient Carpathian language. Even though they are tied forever to their chosen Carpathian homeland, the wandering of the Carpathians continues as they search the world for the answers that will enable them to bear and raise their offspring without difficulty.