He could almost taste her. Finally. He had her. Elation swept through him. His body hardened with anticipation. He'd have a long night alone with her and decide in the morning whether he'd share her with his friends and then kill her or just keep her for himself. There were a lot of places he could stash her and make her dependent on him. That might be fun. Hold her prisoner, give her food and water when he felt like it, force her to need him. His fantasy took off in his mind, and he really liked that idea.
Something moved in the fog, and his gaze immediately riveted there. The fog swirled, seemed to come alive. He saw a woman's face pressing toward him through the gray vapor. No, the mist actually formed the face. He recognized his first kill. She swayed and moaned, staring at him with accusing eyes.
He gasped and stumbled back, nearly falling into the fire. All around him, in the tight ring of fog, faces began to appear. Women. Moaning. Calling to him softly, arms outstretched first in pleading and then to take him into the bank of fog with them.
Everywhere Armend looked, the women were there, surrounding him. Eyes on him. Arms out. Faces accusing. The sound of their moans continued to rise until he couldn't hear anything else. Until the sound penetrated his bones, pierced his organs and frayed every nerve he had. He'd forgotten a couple of them, but each had been his victim over the years, his and his friends'.
"You're not real," he muttered. Then he raised his voice and shouted at them. "You're not real." He found his rock beside the fire and sat down because his legs trembled so much he couldn't stand any longer. It wasn't real. His mind was playing tricks on him.
Jerking the radio from his belt, he pressed one hand to his ears in an effort to drown out the terrible moan. He would never be able to hear that particular note again as long as he lived. "Giles, come in, over."
Static answered him, and then faintly, very faintly, he heard a woman's voice calling to him--over the radio.
Join us, Armend. Come to us. Forever is a such a short time to spend with us.
He dropped the radio into the dirt and kicked it away from him. "Shut up!" he yelled. "All of you, shut up! You're dead."
The moment he uttered the words you're dead, those faces in the fog turned to skeletons, horrible bones with teeth and sunken holes for eyes. All of them. Surrounding him, bony fingers reaching for him.
The wind picked up and the women moaned louder, the sound making him feel sick. He couldn't escape the terrible penetrating moaning note of pain, and now it was consuming his body, bit by bit, as if it were eating him alive. He could feel the reverberation biting into his flesh, taking him, wanting him to join the women in the fog.
He pressed both hands to his ears, trying to drown out the sound. The moan was physical, ripping and tearing at his body like teeth. The sound of their bones only added to his mounting terror. He circled the fire, trying to find a way to escape, but the ghosts had him completely surrounded.
Ghosts. He took a deep breath. The women were dead. He was alive. They weren't real. They couldn't come out of the fog and drag him into it. Very carefully he backed away from the few wisps that strayed from the main wall of dense gray matter. He found his rock again and slowly sank back down. He didn't take his eyes from the thick fog bank as his hand reached toward the ground to feel along it for his radio.
The ground felt damp. Wet even. He dared to take his gaze from the macabre sight of the skulls with their empty eye sockets, opening their empty mouths and calling to him. He glanced down and froze. There on the ground, he could see tendrils of fog, much like the root system of trees, creeping along the dirt. Alive. Searching. He had a terrible feeling the creepers were searching for him.
What did roots do? They fed the tree. They were searching for him. For his body. His blood. He was nearly hysterical, and he tried to force himself to think beyond the fear. This couldn't really be happening, no matter how real it seemed.
The moans continued, but one woman--his first kill--changed her note, her voice rising on the wind to a howl. A call to the hunt. He knew that sound. He'd heard it earlier. An alpha calling his pack to the hunt. Another chill went down his spine and his heart thundered.
He fed the fire quickly, building it up. All around him, along the ground, the veins of fog, tubes of gray stretched like the bony arms of the women in the fog bank. His body stilled. He felt them. The wolves. When he dared to peer into the dense wall of mist, he saw the red eyes staring back at him.
There was nothing worse in his imagination than to be killed and eaten by wolves. He counted at least seven in the pack. They surrounded him just as the women in the fog did. Strangely, the bony hands looked as if they were petting the wolves, although he couldn't see the creatures through the dense fog.
He heard them. The growls and snarls. He felt them. The hair on his body stood up. His heart pounded so hard he feared he would have a heart attack. Occasionally he glimpsed a large beast pacing back and forth, waiting for some kind of signal.
The fog swirled, forming another shape. At first it looked like a wolf. A huge wolf. The animal turned its glowing eyes on him and then, to Armend's horror, stepped right out of the fog as if it was really alive and not a part of the mass of dead creatures. The wolf took several steps toward him, and then he wasn't a wolf, but a man.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, solid. Real. He wore a long, hooded cape that fell to his ankles. It was difficult to see his face as it was in the shadow of the hood. There was no denying he was real. Not a wolf. A man. The sight of him had Armend's shoulders sagging. He nearly sobbed with relief. His imagination had gone wild. He'd been experiencing a hallucination, but now, with this man, things could get back to normal. He forced a smile.
The man didn't smile back. He looked at Armend with ice-blue eyes that seemed to look straight through to his soul. Eyes that could see his dark perversions and his need to see women in pain. Women suffering for his amusement. Suffering because he enjoyed the pain of others--particularly women. This man knew he had killed and that he craved killing and would continue to kill because he needed it just as much as he needed air to breathe.
Armend's mouth went dry. He dared to take his eyes from the man sitting in judgment of him to glance at the moaning skeletons with the beckoning arms. The women were still there, watching. The wolves were still there, waiting. Armend backed up again, reaching for the knife he'd positioned right on his pile of wood.
His hand closed around the hilt. Fire burned through his body. The hilt glowed red just like the eyes of the wolves. His palm and fingers melted into the knife, the burning so bad he went to one knee. He tried to fling the blade away from him, but it stuck to his hand, burning and burning. He screamed and plunged his hand into the ribbons of fog that crawled along the ground.
He heard the sizzle as the fire spluttered against the cool, wet mist. The knife fell free, and he turned his hand over. His palm was covered in blisters, but he could see beneath the raw wounds that something else burned into his skin. His hand looked as if the flesh was falling from it to leave bones behind. White bones. Scored deep in blackened charcoal was a single word. Murderer.
He screamed again. He didn't know how long he screamed, but his throat was sore by the time he got control of himself. He shook his head. "This isn't real. None of this is real. I'm having a nightmare. That's all. Just a nightmare."
He steadfastly refused to look at the moaning women or the glowing red eyes of the wolves pacing just a few feet from him. He wouldn't look at the man who had to be the grim reaper, coming for him. "I'm going to go into my tent and get into my sleeping bag. When I wake up, all this will be gone."
"Unfortunately, Armend," the grim reaper said--and his tone was chilling--"your tent cannot aid you this night."
Armend moistened his dry lips and forced himself to meet the reaper's gaze. The impact of those eyes was terrifying. "What do you want?"
"You attacked my woman. What do you think I want?"
The voice was low. Soft even. Gentle. There was n
o threat in the tone, but the way the reaper stared at him, unblinking, the eyes of the predatory wolf, the face always in the shadow, kept Armend terrified.
"I don't know your woman."
"Of course you do. She thought you were a friend. She trusted you, and you beat her savagely. You tore her mouth with your teeth. You attempted to rape her. You would have allowed your friends to use her body and then you would have tortured and killed her just as you did the others."
The voice never changed pitch. That was more chilling than if the reaper had shown some kind of anger.
Armend held up his hand. "No. No. That isn't true. I wasn't going to let the others have her. You're talking about Teagan."
"Do not say her name. Do not ever call her by name. You are not worthy of speaking her name. I know where every single body is. The women you tortured, raped and killed. They will all be found and returned to their parents."
He shook his head. "No. You can't do that. My mother. My father. It would kill them. My family's name would be dragged through the mud, and for what? Who were they? Stupid women. They wanted me. They liked what they got. They begged for it." He pointed his finger, the one that burned and hurt but he refused to acknowledge because none of this was real.
"I woke hungry. Starved. I need to feed. We'll talk after," the reaper said.
Armend blinked. He looked down at his cooking pot. He'd forgotten he was making food when the fog bank had rolled in. Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, the reaper was directly in front of him. One moment he'd been several feet away and the next he was close, in Armend's personal space.
He was big up close. Solid. All muscle. Intimidating. He threw off the hood and looked down into Armend's face. And then he smiled. Armend shrieked like a woman, a high-pitched, terrified cry that echoed around the boulders. Armend was looking directly into the mouth of a vampire.
The moan of the women rose to a fever pitch. The wolves snarled and growled, their impatience rising with their dinner but a few feet away. Armend tried to move, but his feet were frozen into the ground. Stuck. Leaden. He could only stare at the man who appeared almost beautiful, his face wholly masculine, his eyes cold as he lowered his head toward Armend.
"Get away," Armend yelled, trying to punch at the vampire's face as it came closer to him.
The unholy smile widened. "Are you feeling what those women felt, Armend? The fear? The terror of being helpless? Are you afraid of what I will do to you? Tear through your skin with my teeth? Bite you savagely the way you bit my woman? I'll drink your blood. I can make you my puppet. I can take your mind. What will I do? Isn't that the game you played with those helpless women?"
"Please. My family has money. I'll do anything." The teeth kept coming closer and closer. The pulse throbbed in Armend's neck. He couldn't stop it. Even holding his breath didn't stop it. His heart hammered away, calling to the vampire.
"Did begging and pleading and bargaining work for any of those women you murdered? Even one of them?"
"Oh, God. This can't be happening," Armend wailed.
The hand on his shoulder, turning him, was gentle, but there was no way to break the implacable grip. The other hand went to his head, pushing it to one side to expose the throbbing vein. He felt hot breath. Teeth tore into him savagely. Mercilessly. The pain was excruciating.
He screamed again until his throat felt shredded. Still the mouth drew the blood from his body. He began to moan. In pain. A single note. The sound he'd always craved to hear from the women he tortured and killed. The women in the fog picked up the note and harmonized with him. He was surrounded by their moans. He felt the moans in his body. In the fiery never-ending pain in his throat.
He was cold. Shivering with cold. With fear. Where were his friends? He couldn't die this way. He couldn't die by the hand of a vampire, surrounded by the stupid bitches who had drooled over him and then screamed and cried when he gave them what they wanted--what they deserved.
Why are you doing this to me? He wanted to scream the words aloud, but he couldn't talk, not with the vampire ripping out his throat. Those women were nothing. Nothing at all. They were put here to be used.
That's how you viewed my woman? As nothing?
Armend knew he'd made a terrible mistake. It was there in the soft voice moving through his mind. He couldn't take back anything. There was no way to undo it all. The vampire could read his thoughts, and that meant he could see into Armend's mind. He could see the truth there. He could see the ever-present need to feed off the pain he inflicted on the women. He liked the power. He craved it. He would always need it. This vampire knew it.
Make me like you, Armend whispered in his mind. I'll serve you. We can have such fun together. Make me like you.
The vampire jerked his teeth from Armend's throat and stepped back, eyes blazing fire. "You could never be like me. You have no honor."
Armend stumbled back and found himself on the ground. He was weak. Very weak. The vampire stared at him as if he were no more than an insect crawling on the ground. And he had to crawl. He could barely find the strength to drag himself toward his tent.
The vampire simply watched him. The women fell silent. The wolves followed suit. The sudden hush chilled him even more than the growls from the wolves or the moans from the women. He turned to look. The skeleton faces were still there, staring from the sunken sockets where their eyes had been.
Armend's breath caught in his throat and he paused, his fingers digging into the wet ground. Blood dripped steadily from the wound in his throat. He looked back and saw red staining the dirt and turning the tubes of fog that stretched along the ground pink.
The wolves emerged from the fog bank, glowing eyes fixed hungrily on him. They didn't rush, they moved with precise steps, infinitely slow, almost inching their way. First their heads came through, then the necks and bodies. He looked around him. The wolves had formed a ring around him, just as the fog bank had.
He saw his mistake. He'd left the safety of the fire. He switched directions, clawing at the ground with fingernails. The sight of those nail marks in the dirt gave him pause. So many times, he'd seen those marks in the dirt where he'd dragged the woman along, her bloody body naked to feel every rock and twig, every sticker as he pulled her toward a cliff.
He clamped his hand over the wound in his throat, knowing the scent of blood called to the wolves. He could feel their eyes on him. The alpha stepped closer, head down, nose scenting the blood. The wolf drew back his lips in a snarl.
Armend looked around him, trying to get his bearings. He had knives stashed around the campsite, but he couldn't remember where. When he looked back, the alpha was standing over him. They stared at each another for what seemed a lifetime. He felt hot breath on the back of his neck and then excruciating pain as another wolf clamped down on his shoulder and began to drag him farther away from the fire.
Armend screamed, looked toward the vampire, begging for mercy, but the vampire was gone, nothing but vapor, a fog streaking away from his campsite. He screamed for a very long time. His last thought was that he'd lasted as long as the strongest of the women he'd tortured. He wished he hadn't.
4
Andre scouted around the mountain for signs of Costin Popescu and his followers. They had to have stayed in the ground to recover from their wounds, and that gave him a little time with his lifemate to cement their relationship. He unraveled his safeguards, entered the cave and replaced the guards. He added a warning for humans as well, just in case any of Armend's friends happened upon Teagan's trail.
He moved through the network of caves quickly, finding himself eager to get back to his woman. She wasn't where he left her, nor was the fire burning. He followed her scent through a series of narrowing corridors leading deeper underground. He could see the trail of shoe prints; it looked as if she was searching for something.
Teagan sat on the floor of a small chamber, right over the spot where he'd buried his family's treasure. She had her eyes closed. Each foot wa
s drawn up and rested on the opposite thigh and she formed an O with her thumb and index finger. She hummed softly under her breath in a chanting rhythm.
Andre watched her for a few minutes. She didn't seem to be aware of his presence at all, and that disturbed him. In her deep state of meditation, an enemy could easily sneak up on her. That was unacceptable to him.
"Teagan," he said softly. "Teagan, open your eyes."
She didn't comply. She continued her ridiculous humming.
"Teagan, obey me." This time he "pushed" at her, insistent on obedience.
Her long lashes lifted and she scowled at him. "You didn't just use the word obey, did you? As if you were giving me some kind of an order?"
Andre studied her face. She was so beautiful it hurt to look at her. Right now, her eyes sparkled with what could only be a hint of temper. He'd forgotten the modern world had moved on without him. Women didn't obey their men, even when it was for safety reasons. That didn't bode well for either of them. He wasn't about to allow her to put herself in jeopardy for some modern nonsense of equality.
Of course she was his equal. Well, perhaps above him. Which was the very reason he needed to guard and protect her. She was a treasure beyond any price. Clearly she didn't get that.
He thought it best--and much safer--to ignore her question. "What are you doing in here? I was worried about you."
She studied his face for a few moments before she slowly took her feet from her thighs and stretched a little. "You were gone for a while. I'm looking for something very important to me and I think it's somewhere in this chamber. I can't quite get a lock on it though."
He reached out a hand to her. Teagan hesitated, only a half second, before placing her hand in his, but he caught it. She'd had a nasty experience with a man she considered her friend. She wasn't going to be so trusting of a man she didn't know, no matter how drawn to him she was. And he'd ensured she would be drawn to him. The lifemate ritual had sealed them together as had their first exchange of blood. She might not remember it, but she wouldn't be able to be far from him for very long.
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