One pointed an accusing finger. Another hissed and spit with rage. Their eyes, sunken deep in the sockets, weren’t eyes at all, but more like glowing pools of hatred wrapped in red blood.
“You are like us. You belong with us. Join our ranks,” one called.
“Think you’re better. Look at us. You killed again and again. Like a machine, with no thought for what you left behind.”
“So sure of yourself. All the while you were killing your own brethren.”
For a moment Manolito’s heart pounded so hard in his chest he was afraid it might burst through his skin. Sorrow weighed him down. Guilt ate at him. He had killed. He hadn’t felt when he did so, hunting each vampire one by one and fighting with superior intellect and ability. Hunting and killing were necessary. What his thoughts on the subject were didn’t matter in the least. It had to be done.
He pulled himself up to his full height, forced his body to stand straight when his gut clenched and knotted. His body felt different, more leaden, clumsy even. As he shifted onto the balls of his feet, he felt the tremors start.
“You chose your fate, dead one. I was merely the instrument of justice.”
The heads were thrown back on the long, thin stick necks, and howls rent the air. Above them, birds lifted from the canopy, taking flight at the horrible cacophony of shrieks rising in volume. The sound jarred his body, making his insides turn to gel. A vampire trick, he was certain. He knew in his heart his life was over—there were too many to kill—but he would take as many with him as possible to rid the world of such dangerous and immoral creatures.
The mage must have found a way to resurrect the dead.
He whispered the information in his head, needing Riordan to tell their oldest brother. Zacarias would send a warning to the prince that armies of the dead would be once again rising against them.
You are certain of this?
I have killed these in centuries long past, yet they surround me with their accusing eyes, beckoning to me as if I am one of them.
From a great distance away, Riordan gasped, and for the first time sounded like Manolito’s beloved sibling.
You cannot choose to give your soul to them. We are so close, Manolito, so close. I have found my lifemate and Rafael has found his. It is only a matter of time for you. You must hold out. I am coming to you.
Manolito snarled, throwing his head back to roar with rage.
Imposter. You are not my brother.
Manolito! What are you saying? Of course I am your brother. You are ill. I am coming to you with all haste. If the vampires are playing tricks on you
…
As you are? You have made a terrible mistake, evil one. I have a life-mate. I see your filthy abominations in color. They surround me with their vile bloodstained teeth and their blackened hearts, wizened and shriveled.
You have no lifemate,
Riordan said in denial.
You have only dreamed of her.
You cannot trap me with such deceit. Go to your puppet master and tell him I am not so easily caught.
He broke off the connection immediately and slammed closed all pathways, private and common, to his mind.
Spinning around, he took in his enemy, grown into so many faces from his past he knew he was facing death. “Come then, dance with me as you have so many times,” he ordered and beckoned with his fingers.
The first line of vampires closest to him howled, spittle running down their faces and holes for eyes glowing with hatred. “Join us, brother. You are one of us.”
They swayed, feet carrying out the strange hypnotic pattern of the undead. He heard them calling to him, but the sound was more in his head than out of it. Whispers. Buzzing. Drawing a veil over his mind. He shook his head to clear it, but the sounds persisted.
The vampires drew closer, and now he could feel the flutter of tattered clothing, torn and gray with age, brushing against his skin. Once again, the sensation of bugs crawling over his skin alarmed him. He spun around, trying to keep the enemy in his sight, and all the while the voices grew louder, more distinctive.
“Join us. Feel. You are so hungry. Starving. We can feel your heart stuttering. You need fresh blood. Adrenaline-laced blood is the best. You can
feel
.”
“Join us,” they cried, the entreaty loud and swelling in volume until it was a tidal wave rolling over him.
“Fresh blood. You need to survive. Just a taste. One taste. And the fear. Let them see you. Let them feel fear and the high is like nothing you’ve ever felt.”
The temptation made hunger grow until he couldn’t think beyond the red haze in his mind.
“Look at yourself, brother, look at your face.”
He found himself on the ground, on his hands and knees, as if they’d shoved him, but he never felt the push. He stared into the shimmering pond of water stretching before him. The skin on his face was pulled tightly over his bones. His mouth was wide in protest and not only his incisors but also his canines were long and sharp in anticipation.
He heard a heartbeat. Strong. Steady. Beckoning. Calling. His mouth watered. He was desperate—so hungry there was nothing to do but hunt. He had to find prey. Had to bite into a soft, warm neck so that the hot blood would burst into his mouth, fill every cell, wash through his organs and tissues and feed the tremendous strength and power of his kind. He could think of nothing else but the terrible swell of hunger, rising like a tide to consume him.
The heartbeat grew louder, and he slowly turned his head as a woman was pushed toward him. She looked frightened—and innocent. Her eyes were dark chocolate pools of terror. He could smell the adrenaline rushing through her bloodstream.
“Join us. Join us,” they whispered, the sound swelling to a hypnotic chant.
He needed dark, rich blood to survive. He deserved to live. What was she after all? Weak. Frightened. Could she save the human race from the monsters preying on them? Humans didn’t believe they existed. And if they knew of Manolito, they would…
“Kill you,” hissed one.
“Torture you,” hissed another. “Look what they’ve done to you. You’re starving. Who has helped you? Your brothers? Humans? We have brought you hot blood to feed you—to keep you alive.”
“Take her, brother, join us.”
They shoved the woman forward. She cried out, stumbled and fell against Manolito. She felt warm and alive against his cold body. Her heart beat frantically, calling to him as nothing else could. The pulse in her neck jumped rapidly and he smelled her fear. He could hear her blood rushing through her veins, hot and sweet and alive, giving him life.
He couldn’t speak to reassure her; his mouth was too filled with his lengthened teeth and the need to crush his lips against the warmth of her neck. He dragged her closer still, until her much smaller body was nearly swallowed by his. Her heart took up the rhythm of his. The air burst from her lungs in terrified gasps.
Around him, he was aware of the vampires drawing closer, the shuffling of their feet, their cavernous mouths gaping wide in anticipation, strings of saliva dripping down while their pitiless eyes stared with wild glee. The night fell silent, only the sound of the girl struggling for air and the thundering of her heart filling the air. His head bent closer, lured by the scent of blood.
He was starving. Without blood he would be unable to defend himself. He needed this. He deserved it. He had spent centuries defending humans—humans who despised what he was, humans who feared his kind…
Manolito closed his eyes and blocked out the sound of that sweet, tempting heartbeat. The whispers were in his head.
In his head.
He swung around, shoving the girl behind him. “I will not! She is an innocent and will not be used in this manner.” Because he was too far gone and might not stop. He would have to fight them all, but he might be able to save her yet.
From behind him, the woman wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her lush, woman’s body tightly against his, her hands sliding down his chest, his belly, lower still until she was stroking him, adding lust to hunger. “Not so innocent, Manolito. I’m yours, body and soul. I’m yours. You have only to taste me. I can make it all go away.”
Manolito snarled, whirling around, shoving the woman from his body. “Go! Go with your friends and stay away from me.”
She laughed and writhed, touching herself. “You need me.”
“I need my lifemate. She will come to me and she will take care of my needs.”
Her face changed, the laughter fading, and she yanked at her hair in frustration. “You cannot escape this place. You are one of us. You betrayed her and you deserve to stay here.”
He didn’t know—didn’t remember. But all the temptation in the world would not make him change his mind. If he was to stay alive without food for centuries, enduring the torment of it, so be it, but he would not betray his lifemate. “You would have done better to tempt me to betray another,” he said. “Only she can judge me unworthy. So it is written in our laws. Only my lifemate can condemn me.”
He must have done something terrible. It was the second accusation of its kind, and the fact that she wasn’t fighting at his side spoke volumes. He couldn’t call her to him, because he remembered very little—certainly not a sin he had committed against her. He remembered her voice, soft and melodious, like an angel singing from the heavens—only she was saying she would have no part of a Carpathian male.
His heart jumped. Had she refused his claim? Had he bound her to him without her consent? It was accepted in his society, a protection for the male when a female was reluctant. That was not a betrayal. What could he have done? He would never have touched another woman. He would have protected her as he had Jacques’s lifemate, with his life and beyond if possible.
He was in a place of judgment, and so far he didn’t seem to be faring very well, and maybe that was because he wasn’t remembering. He lifted his head and showed his teeth to hundreds, maybe thousands, of Carpathian males who had chosen to give up their souls, decimated their own species, ruining a society and a way of life for the rush of feeling rather than holding on to honor—rather than holding on to the memory of hope for a lifemate.
“I refuse your judgment. I will never belong with you. I may have stained my soul, perhaps beyond redemption, but I would never willingly give it up or trade my honor as you did. I may be all the things you have said, but I will face my lifemate, not you, and let her decide whether my sins can be forgiven.”
The vampires hissed, bony fingers pointing accusingly, but they didn’t attack him. It made no sense—with their superior numbers they could easily destroy him—yet their forms grew less solid and seemed to waver, so it was difficult to distinguish between the undead and the shadows within the darkness of the rain forest.
The back of his neck tingled and he spun around. The vampires receded deeper into the bushes, the big leafy plants seemingly swallowing them. His stomach burned and his body cried out for food, but he was more confused than ever. The vampires had him trapped. Danger surrounded him. He could feel it in the very stillness. All rustle of life ceased around him. There was no flutter of wings, no scurry of movement. He lifted his head and scented the air. It was still, absolutely still, and yet there was…
Instinct, more than actual sound, alerted him and Manolito spun around, still on his knees, hands going up just as the large jaguar sprang at him.
2
C
linical depression was an insidious monster that crept up and slid over and into a person before they had the chance to be aware and on guard. MaryAnn Delaney wiped at the seemingly endless tears running down her face as she went through the list of symptoms. Feelings of sadness.
Check
. Maybe even double check.
Sadness wasn’t the word she would use to describe the terrible yawning emptiness she couldn’t overcome, but it was in the book and she’d add it to the growing list of indicators. She was so freakin’ sad she couldn’t stop crying. And she could put a check on the no appetite because the mere thought of food made her sick. She hadn’t been able to sleep since…
She closed her eyes and groaned. Manolito De La Cruz was a stranger. She’d barely spoken to the man, yet when she’d witnessed his death—his murder—she had gone quietly to pieces. She seemed to be grieving more than his family. She knew they were distraught, but they rarely showed emotion at all, and they certainly didn’t speak of him. They’d brought his body back in the same private jet they used to return to their ranch in Brazil, but they hadn’t taken him to their ranch.
Instead the plane had landed—with her on it—on a private tropical island somewhere in the middle of the Amazon River. And rather than give Manolito a proper burial, his brothers had taken his body to some undisclosed location in the rain forest. She couldn’t even sneak out and visit his grave. How absurd and desperate was that? Visiting the grave of a stranger in the dead of night because she couldn’t get over his death.
Was paranoia also creeping in, or was she right to worry that she had been brought to an island no one had mentioned when she was with her best friend, Destiny, in the Carpathian Mountains? Juliette and Riordan had asked her to come to counsel Juliette’s younger sister, a victim of sexual violence, and they often mentioned the ranch, but never a vacation home on a private island. The house was surrounded by thick forest. She doubted she could find her way back to the airstrip without a map and a machete-wielding guide.
She was a counselor, for heaven’s sake, yet she couldn’t find the discipline needed to overcome the growing desperation and suspicion, or the terrible, inexplicable anguish over Manolito’s death. She needed help. As a counselor she knew that, but the sorrow was growing and putting dangerous and frightening thoughts in her mind. She didn’t want to get out of bed. She didn’t want to explore the opulent house or the lush rain forest. She didn’t even want to get back on a plane and go home to her beloved city of Seattle. She wanted to find Manolito De La Cruz’s grave and crawl into it with him.