He studied each face carefully, both man and wolf, knowing these were the important beings in her life. He wondered, if things had been different, whether his face would have been on the wall, immortalized with her family.
Along the bottom of the wall she had carved sentences in the Carpathian language, the letters intricate with vines and leaves weaving in and out of them along with finely etched flowers woven into the sentences.
Siv pide kod. Pitaam mustaakad sielpesaambam. Love transcends evil. I hold your memories safe in my soul.
Once again, as he passed his hand over the words, he felt the emotion pouring from the wall, so much so that he felt burning behind his eyes. Her love for her brothers, for her family and her pack, was tremendous and unwavering. Even with the knowledge that her brothers were dead to her, that they had betrayed her memory in the worst possible way, she not only was determined, but she succeeded in remembering them only as the family she had loved and adored.
There was courage in those words, he decided. Courage and strength and determination. If there was a way to recover the lost souls of her brothers through sheer love and forgiveness, she would find a way. He traced the small crosses cut deep beneath each of her brothers' faces and those of the De La Cruz brothers. Protection sparked back at him, as if that wall held the safeguards to protect her loving memories should she encounter the evil that her family had chosen to become.
A short tunnel veered off to the right and an open arch led through to a third room. He glanced inside the third room, which was nearly an extension of her family room to find a soothing pool, with a small real waterfall spilling out of the rock. This room had carvings, but just the faint beginnings of them. He could make out a huge tree trunk, with many long, sweeping branches reaching across the rock as if to shade the pool. It was a work in progress and he wished he'd be there to watch her work.
He ducked his head and entered the tunnel. His shoulders scraped against either side. Above the archway leading down into another room there was a cross cut deep. Already, before he even entered, he sensed a difference. Where the other rooms were feminine and homey, filled with soothing peace, love and comfort, this room was all about business and purpose. This was a workroom-a war room-and just as she had been meticulous in detailing her art, she was the same way with her weapons.
She forged her own swords and knives. Even the bullets in her gun were made by her. She appeared to be a master craftsman, her weapons as carefully and patiently forged as her carvings on the rock walls. He was amazed at the variety of weapons; some he'd seen before, others he was uncertain how to use. Books were scattered among the shelves of tools, again, well-worn and often read.
One wall held shelves of books carefully penned in a feminine hand, and, opening them, Razvan recognized mage spells Xavier often used. Beside each one was penned a second spell, countering or corrupting the first. Book after book appeared to be dedicated to finding a way to defeat Xavier's spells. Razvan found it very interesting and became lost for a while, reading her notes, and her conclusions and the twists she put on the words to counter everything Xavier had ever taught. She'd obviously spent hundreds of years detailing Xavier's deeds, poring over the spell books she had used when she'd attended his school so many centuries earlier and working to find ways to defeat the mage at every turn. And it all made sense.
Excitement coursed through him. He had come to believe, after centuries of captivity, that Xavier was invincible. The Carpathians had failed to defeat him. The Lycans had failed. The jaguars. Humans had been trapped and tortured and made into ruthless puppets. And the worst scourge of all-the undead-had made an unholy alliance with him. Razvan had seen it all. Yet, right here in this room, one person, one woman, had dedicated her life to stopping Xavier.
Razvan looked at the walls, knowing he would find an inscription. Each wall contained a single word and one held three lines. Feldolgaztak. Kumalatak. Kutnitak. Prepare. Sacrifice. Endure. There were no fancy letters this time, no vines and flowers interwoven in those stark words. Her mantra.
He walked across the room and crouched down beside the wall where she had carved her code, using the Carpathian language, deep into the rock wall. Four lines this time.
Kod elava es kod nime kutni nimet. Sieljela isanta. Evil lives and has a name. Purity of soul triumphs.
Turelam agba kontsalamaval-Tuhanos loylyak turelamak sa?e diutalet. Patience is the warrior's true weapon-a thousand patient breaths bring victory.
Todhan lo kuraset agbapaamoroam. Knowledge flies the sword true to its aim.
Pitasz baszu, piwtasz igazaget. No vengeance, only justice.
All of this-everything she did-was in preparation for her ultimate battle with Xavier. This place was a safe haven, protected by extraordinary safeguards with no way to penetrate the miles of rock. The mage books, the weapons. She was assembling every possible weapon against the high mage and waiting patiently to strike while she gathered information against him. The war room was a tribute to her vast knowledge of the enemy, her patience, determination and discipline. A picture of his lifemate was emerging, and he felt a sense of pride and respect for her.
Razvan lifted his head and looked around the room. A long, narrow table and workbench covered in tubes and handblown glass of all shapes and sizes caught his attention. He recognized herbs and plants, roots, dried and hung around the room. Sage was prevalent, and various plants to ward off evil. What was she making?
He peered at the book lying beside a twisted tube containing a dark, thick liquid. He sniffed cautiously toward the glass tube as he glanced over the neat, feminine scrawl. The formula had been crossed out and rewritten over and over until she seemed satisfied and had underlined the resulting mixture in thick, dark lines. He couldn't detect any odor at all. When he lifted a carved, smooth ladle, the mixture was clear, not dark. He frowned and looked at the glass tube, certain it was dark.
Along with everything else, she appeared to be a chemist. He examined several of the trays and baskets holding a variety of dried herbs. The workmanship on each of them was incredible, the patterns unique. When he touched them, he knew she had crafted each of them.
He left the room and went back to her family room, trying to think, to form an idea of what he should do. This woman-his lifemate-was patiently assembling the tools to defeat the world's greatest enemy. His memories of her rescuing him were very hazy, but he remembered her eyes, and the feel of her hands, the silk of her hair, the softness of her skin. Most of all he remembered her kindness.
He wanted more than anything to stay to help her achieve her goal, but he knew he was more dangerous to her than any other being on the face of the earth. Through him, Xavier could find and destroy her. Death was far from the worst that the high mage could do to a person; Razvan had learned that through bitter experience. He had been helpless to protect his sister and daughter-even his aunts-but he could protect his lifemate by staying away from her.
He looked around the comfortable lair-a masterpiece of beauty and courage, grateful that, before his death, he'd had a chance to meet her, to see what true light in one's soul was. He'd known only darkness and cruelty, but here he was surrounded by something altogether different-the complete opposite-and he wanted to just stay and bathe in her soul for as long as he dared before he had to leave.
He had never understood what being a lifemate truly was. Two halves of the same soul uniting. Light to darkness-darkness to light. They each needed the other. Just standing in her living quarters with the memory walls rising above him, he felt comfort and warmth, not of the body-he had that now; for the first time in centuries he wasn't shivering-but he felt warmth inside, deep where it counted. She'd given him something he hadn't known and he hadn't yet claimed her, hadn't actually bound their souls together. How much more powerful would these feelings be then?
The temptation shook him and he quickly pushed it away. He'd had no control of his life for centuries. This one moment, when he had choices, he would make the one
necessary to protect this woman. Xavier would never get to her through him. She complicated things though. His first thought had been to try to kill Xavier, but he dared not risk falling into the mage's hands again, not when he would know the location of Ivory's lair.
Something stirred in him. A questing. A seeking. Something alien brushing at his mind with sharp talons, scraping at the walls. He stiffened and, without thinking, slammed a barrier so hard, so fast, it shocked him. He hadn't realized he could do such a thing. He recognized that perverted, vile touch. Xavier. The high mage was seeking him, reaching out to find him and possess him.
His heart beat so hard in his chest he thought it might explode. Fear for his lifemate lived and breathed in him, strengthening his resolve to fight Xavier's possession. He raced through the rooms, looking for a way out, fearing that Xavier might be able to see through his eyes. He kept his mind as blank as possible, knowing the mage, when merged, could read his thoughts. He couldn't remember how she'd gotten in. Everything about the journey was so hazy.
He couldn't get through miles of rock, not without knowing where he could safely emerge. He felt trapped and panicked, cursing his fate, that he would once again be the downfall of someone who needed and deserved his protection.
Finding himself in the bedchamber, he rested his hand on the wall, head down, eyes closed, trying to orient himself. To have another possess his body was a wrenching, sickening experience; the details of Xavier and his vile greed and extreme depravity were uppermost in his mind. He would keep him out.
Without warning, pain hit him-excruciating pain. Razvan's eyes snapped open and he looked around, trying to determine what was happening to him. The soil was there, in the deep depression, a rich, beckoning treasure he couldn't resist. He went to his knees in it, but the pain didn't subside.
His body was often taken on journeys through soil, but he had never rested in the rich, rejuvenating loam. Xavier had never dared to allow him that luxury. The soil might have healed his body and restored his strength, which Xavier could ill afford. He was left to languish in a kind of half-life in the ice caves. Razvan wasn't even certain he could survive beneath the earth, or even above it after so many centuries of cold, yet the soil filled him with strength-it just didn't stop the pain.
Xavier, unable to enter his mind, had to be attacking him from a distance. Teeth tore into his shoulder, the serrated edges slicing through bone, sinew and flesh, sawing deeper and deeper, injecting the burning parasites into the wound. He was being eaten alive-fitting justice for one such as him. His own teeth had sunk into his daughter's tiny wrist, and he had watched in horror, unable to protect her, while Xavier had done this very thing, gnawed on her as if she were a bone, a piece of meat to be consumed, his teeth tearing her delicate skin open to get at blood and bone.
He felt the spray of acid burning through his skin, deep-deeper still, vampire blood running in rivers over his flesh, long streams of it branching out over his hands and forearms and down his shoulder, and running down his arm and chest. He recognized the feeling-his wrists and ankles and even his back had often burned from the vampire blood-coated manacles. He had earned that for his failure to keep his family members safe from Xavier. Time after time, he had fought the demon mage, but he'd never been strong enough or wise enough to defeat him.
A burst of pain through his ribs shook him, radiating through his entire body. Pain was a way of life to him. He could push it away now, absorb it into his body and let it consume him. He had long ago learned how to live with agony.
The pain was not his pain. It was too far away. Too distant, the reaction stoic but definitely feminine. Ivory was in trouble. Everything else ceased to matter. He had one reason for his existence-to protect her from any enemy at all costs.
He cleared his mind and fought back the all-consuming emotions he still found difficult to deal with. He built the image of her in his mind, the image of her as he saw her. Soft and feminine, the loving woman who belonged here, in this home of raw beauty.
Ivory. You have need. Tell me how to come to you.
There was the smallest of hesitations. They are hunting you.
He didn't argue with her. She was hurt and she was surrounded by enemies. He could feel the burn of the vampire blood, the pain gnawing at her shoulder and ribs, and the trepidation that she was weak and might not be able to fight her way clear, although she was absolutely determined to try.
Razvan filled her mind with his strength and power, feeding her while he searched her memories and found the information he needed.
Stall them. I will be there soon. Do not fight. They will not attack you as long as you talk with them.
I do not have much time. The admission was humbling to her. My strength is waning.
I will come. I will be there, Ivory. Do not lose hope. He poured his determination and resolve into her mind, knowing she distrusted everyone, and with good cause. And she had every reason to fear and hate him. Xavier's genetic code was in his body.
There was another small hesitation, and then he clearly saw the crack cleverly hidden in her bedchamber where she could slip in and out of the narrow, inches-wide chimney. There was caution in her mind.
Razvan hastened to reassure her. I will scan carefully before I emerge so there will be no trail leading back to your lair.
Now he had the information in his head and he had to be doubly careful that Xavier could not enter his mind. Before he moved, he took that moment to build every possible defense, thickening barriers, making himself stronger than he'd ever been. Stronger than before he entered the thin crack that most would never notice. He streamed to the surface, a threadlike trail of vapor moving upward, weaving back and forth through the layers of rock bed for what seemed an interminable amount of time before he saw a sliver of sky overhead.
I will come. I will be there, Ivory. Do not lose hope.
In hundreds of years she had never relied on anyone but herself and her pack. She was Ivory Malinov, slayer of the dark ones, and she trusted no one, believed in no one. That way, no one could tear her heart out, physically or figuratively. She took a breath and pain nearly blinded her, made her stagger so that the dark one leapt toward her.
Ivory pulled a knife from her belt and stood facing him. She knew his reputation, but thankfully, he didn't know hers. It was an advantage, no matter how small. He wasn't aware the wolves were Carpathian and all the more lethal. He would try to control them-it was standard defense-but it wouldn't work, and that would also give her a small advantage. Ordinarily she would have rushed to attack already, not wait for him to make the first move, but a part of her didn't want to start a war with the Carpathians.
Mikhail held up his hand. «Gregori. There is no need for this.» It was a warning, delivered in a soft, almost gentle voice.
She remembered that same tone-his father's, so gentle and benevolent, the kind eyes, the compassionate, caring wisdom. The voice of reason. He wanted only to help her. An unselfish, gentle man who lived to serve his people. Whatever was best for them. She remembered that voice all too well. The eyes looking at her, looking through her, piercing her soul, seeing her need of knowledge, her need to learn when her brothers couldn't-or wouldn't. That voice soothing her, telling her he would make it right, that he would talk to her brothers when they returned and explain why it was necessary for her to go to the school and learn.
The prince understood. How could he not, when he knew so much more than everyone else? How could he not, when his reasons for doing everything were to serve his people. He had known that she hungered to do more than sit in her home and wait for her lifemate. She wanted to be something, to do something. The prince understood and helped her as she had known he would.
Something twisted inside her stomach. For a brief moment she couldn't feel the throbbing pain in her ribs or the terrible agony of her shoulder, not even the burn from the acid blood or sharp stabbing of the parasites as they bored into her cells. It had never occurred to her in her naivete that th
e prince had another agenda altogether-that he wanted to get rid of her, send her away because he knew his sick and twisted son would never leave her alone, and that her brothers or the De La Cruz brothers would kill Draven. Instead, she had happily gone off, believing the prince, in all his wisdom, knew so much more than her own family. She'd felt so grown up, so validated. She'd been hopelessly young and trusting in those days.
You have to hurry. I cannot hold out much longer.
She didn't know if her weakness was as much physical as mental. Seeing her brother had shaken her more than she'd realized. She'd vowed to avoid them and hadn't prepared herself mentally for seeing Sergey in his state of evil. He had changed his appearance when he recognized her, giving her a glimpse of her past, of a beloved man who'd held her and rocked her and spent hours teaching her to fight.
It had made her physically ill to shoot him with an arrow. She thought she had successfully separated the past from the present in her mind, but seeing him in person wasn't the same as thinking about him abstractly.
Dark Slayer 20 Page 8
