Dark Prince (6 page)

Mikhail shot the most muscular of the men a quick glance. "Jacques, you have no lifemate to encumber you." There was the faintest trace of affection in his voice, affection he could never feel or show before and maybe wasn't aware anyone else knew of. Jacques was his brother. "Neither does Byron. You two will get word to all the others. Lie low, feed only in the deepest cover, sleep deep within the ground, and always use the most powerful safeguards. We must watch our women and get them to safety, especially those who are with child. Do not draw attention to yourselves in any way."

"For how long, Mikhail?" Celeste's eyes were shadowed, her face tearstained. "How long must we live like this?"

"Until I find and dispense justice to the assassins." There was a fierce, savage note in his voice. "All of you have become soft, mixing so much with mortals. You are forgetting the gifts that could save your lives," he reprimanded them harshly. "My woman is mortal, yet she knew of your presence before you knew of hers. She felt your unguarded emotions, knows of the assassins through your thoughts. There is no excuse for that."

"How can this be?" Eric dared to ask. "No mortal has such power."

"She is telepathic and very strong in her gift. She will be here often; she will be protected, as will all of our women."

The others exchanged bewildered, confused looks. According to the legend, only their strongest members might be able to convert a mortal. It simply wasn't done, was far too risky. It had been tried centuries earlier, when the ranks of their women had been depleted and the men were without hope. But no one dared try it anymore. Most of them believed it was a myth made up to keep their males from losing their souls. Mikhail was unreadable, implacable, his judgment never questioned throughout the centuries. He settled arguments and protected them. He hunted the males who had chosen to turn vampire, dangerous to mortals and immortals alike.

Now this. A mortal woman. They were shocked and it showed. They were obligated to put the life of Mikhail's woman before their own. If Mikhail said she was under his protection, he meant it. He never said anything he didn't mean. And if she was harmed, the penalty would be death. Mikhail was a savage, merciless, and unrelenting enemy.

Mikhail felt the weight of his responsibility for Noelle's death. He had known of Rand's weakness for women. Mikhail had objected to the union, but he hadn't forbidden it, as he should have. Rand was not Noelle's true lifemate. Chemistry would never allow a true mate to cheat on his woman. Noelle, his beautiful sister, so young and vibrant, lost to them forever. She had been headstrong, wanting Rand because he was handsome, not because her soul called to his. They had lied, but he had known they were lying. Ultimately it had been his responsibility that Rand continued to try to find emotion by being with other women, and Noelle had grown into a bitter, dangerous woman. She must have died instantly or Mikhail would have felt it, even deep in his sleep. Rand should never have had the care of one of their women.

Mikhail had thought that, in time, each would find their true lifemate, but Nicole only grew more dangerous and Rand worse in his promiscuous behavior. It was impossible for Rand to feel anything with the women he bedded, yet he continued, almost as if it was a punishment for Noelle's tight hold on him.

Mikhail closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the reality of Noelle's senseless murder to sweep over him. The loss was intolerable, his grief wild and intense, mixed with an ice-cold rage and deadly resolve. He bowed his head. Three blood-red tears made their way unchecked down his face. His sister, the youngest of their women. It was his fault.

Mikhail felt the stirring in his head, warmth, comfort, as if arms had stolen around him.
Mikhail? Do you need me?
Raven's voice was drowsy, husky, worried.

He was shocked. His command had been strong, far stronger than anything he had ever used on a human, yet his sorrow had penetrated her sleep. He glanced around him, took in the faces of his companions. None of them had picked up the mental contact. It meant that, as groggy as she was, Raven was able to focus, channel, and send directly to him without any spillage. It was a skill few of his people had bothered to accomplish, so complacent were they that humans could not tune into them.

Mikhail?
This time Raven's voice was stronger, alarmed.
I’ll come to you.

Sleep, little one. I am well,
he reassured, reinforcing his command with the tone of his voice.

Be well, Mikhail
, she whispered softly, succumbing to his power.

Mikhail gave his attention to those awaiting his orders. "Send Rand to me tomorrow. The child cannot stay with him. Dierdre lost another child a couple of decades ago. She still mourns her many losses. The child will be taken to her. Tienn will guard them carefully. No one is to use a mental link until we know whether one of our adversaries possesses the same power my woman does."

The shock on their faces was complete. None of them considered a human capable of that kind of power and discipline. "Mikhail, you are certain this woman is not the one? She could be a threat to us." Eric ventured the suggestion cautiously, even as Celeste's fingers dug warningly into his arm.

Mikhail's dark eyes narrowed slightly. "Do you believe I have grown lazy, bloated with my own power? Do you think so little of me that I could be in her mind and not recognize a threat to us? I warn you, I am willing to step down as your leader, but I am not willing to withdraw my protection of her. If any of you wish to harm her, know that you will deal with me. Do you wish me to pass on the mantle of leadership? I weary of my duties and responsibilities."

"Mikhail!" Byron's voice was a sharp protest.

The others voiced quick, alarmed denials, like frightened children. Jacques was the only one who stood silently, one hip lazily resting against the wall, regarding Mikhail with a secret mocking half-smile. Mikhail ignored him.

"It is nearly sunrise. All of you go to ground. Use every guard possible. When you awaken, check around your dwelling; feel for intruders. Do not overlook the slightest incident. We must stay in close communication and watch each other."

"Mikhail, the first year is so critical, so many of our children do not survive." Celeste's fingers were twisting nervously within her husband's hand. "I am not sure Dierdre could bear another loss."

Mikhail's smile was gentle. "She will guard the child as no other, and Tienn will be twice as watchful as any other. He has been trying to get Dierdre to conceive and she has refused. At least this way, her arms will not be empty."

"And she will long for another child," Celeste said angrily.

"If our race is to continue, we must have children. As much as I would like to provide them, it is only our women who can produce such a miracle."

"It is heartbreaking to lose so many, Mikhail," Celeste pointed out.

"For all of us, Celeste." His tone was final, and no one dared to argue or question. His authority was absolute, his rage and grief beyond boundaries. Not only Rand had failed to protect Noelle, a young, beautiful, vibrant woman, but her life had been lost because of some sadistic game Rand and Noelle had played together. He knew that he was every bit as responsible as Rand for Noelle's fate. His loathing of Rand was directed at himself as well.

Chapter Three

Raven woke slowly, in a dense fog, layers and layers of it. Somehow she knew she wasn't supposed to wake, but never the less it was imperative she do so. She pried her eyes open and turned her head toward the window. Sunlight was streaming in. She pushed herself into a sitting position, the covers sliding away to expose bare skin.

"Mikhail," she whispered aloud, "you take altogether too many liberties." She reached out to him automatically, as if she could not deny herself that need. Sensing he was asleep, she withdrew. The slight touch was enough. He was safe.

Raven felt different, happy even. She could talk to someone, touch someone, never mind that it was a bit like sitting on the back of a hungry tiger. The freedom to relax in another's presence was a joy. Mikhail had heavy responsibilities. She didn't know who he was, only that he was someone important. Obviously he was comfortable with his talents, unlike Raven, who still felt she was some kind of freak of nature. She wanted to be more like he was: confident, not caring what others thought.

She knew very little of Romanian life. The rural populations were poor and superstitious. Yet they were a friendly people and truly artistic. Mikhail was different. She had heard of Carpathians; not Gypsies, but a people who were well educated, had money, and lived deep in the mountains and forests by choice. Was Mikhail their leader? Was that why he was so arrogant and aloof?

The shower felt good on her body, rinsing away the heavy, groggy feeling. She dressed carefully, in jeans, a turtleneck, and a sweater. Even with the sunlight, it was cold in the mountains, and she intended to go exploring. Her neck throbbed for a moment, burned. She peeled back her top to examine the wound. It was a strange mark, like a teenager's love bite, but more intense.

She blushed at the memory of how he'd put it there. Did the man have to be sexy on top of everything else? And she could learn so much from him. She noticed that he was able to shield himself from the ever-present bombardment of emotions all the time. That would be such a miracle—to be able to simply sit in the middle of a crowded room and not feel anything but her own emotions.

Raven pulled on her hiking shoes. A murder in this place! It was a sacrilege. The villagers must be frightened. As she passed through the doorway she felt a curious shifting in the air. It felt as if she had to push through some unseen force. Mikhail again? Trying to lock her in? No. If he was capable of such a thing, the locks would stop her. More likely he was protecting her, locking others out. Torn by grief and rage at the senseless, hideous murder, Mikhail had still helped her go to sleep. The thought of him taking the time to protect and aid her made her feel cherished.

It was three in the afternoon—well past lunch but too soon for dinner—and Raven was hungry. In the kitchen the landlady obligingly fixed her a picnic dinner. Not once did the woman mention a murder. Indeed, she seemed totally oblivious of any such news. Raven found herself reluctant to broach the subject. It was strange; the innkeeper was so friendly and engaging—she even talked of Mikhail, a long-time friend of whom she spoke very highly—yet Raven could not bring herself to say a single word about the murder and what it meant to Mikhail.

Outside, she shrugged into her backpack. She couldn't sense the horror of murder anywhere. No one at the inn, no one in the street seemed unduly upset. She couldn't have been wrong; the images had been strong, the grief wild and very real. The images of the murder itself were very detailed, unlike anything her imagination could conjure up.

"Miss Whitney! It is Whitney, isn't it?" A feminine voice called to her from several feet away.

Margaret Summers hastened toward her, anxiety on her face. She was in her late sixties, frail, with gray hair and a down-to-earth, sensible way of dressing. "My dear, you're so pale this morning. We all were so afraid for your safety. That young man carrying you off the way he did was very intimidating."

Raven laughed softly. "He is rather intimidating, isn't he? He's an old friend and overanxious about my health. Believe me, Mrs. Summers, he watches over me very carefully. He really is a respectable businessman; ask anyone in the village."

"Are you ill, dear?" Margaret asked solicitously, moving closer so that Raven felt threatened.

"Recovering," Raven said firmly, hoping it was true.

"I have seen you before!" Margaret sounded excited. "You're that extraordinary young lady who helped the police catch that murdering fiend in San Diego a month or so ago. What in the world would you be doing here of all places?"

Raven rubbed her forehead with the heel of her palm. "That type of work is very draining, Mrs. Summers. It sometimes makes me ill. It was a long chase, and I needed to get far away. I wanted to go somewhere remote and beautiful, somewhere steeped in history. Somewhere people didn't recognize me and point me out like I was a freak of nature. The Carpathian Mountains are beautiful. I can hike, sit quietly, and let the wind blow all the memories of a sick mind out of my head."

"Oh, my dear." Margaret put out her hand in concern.

Raven sidestepped quickly. "I'm sorry; it bothers me to touch people after I follow a demented mind. Please understand."

Margaret nodded. "Of course, although I noticed your young man thought nothing of touching you."

Raven smiled. "He's bossy, and he has such a flair for the dramatic, but he's really good to me. We've known each other a while. You see, Mikhail travels quite a bit." The lie seemed to roll easily off her tongue. She hated herself for that. "I don't want anyone to know about me, Mrs. Summers. I dislike publicity and need solitude right now. Please don't tell anyone who I am."

"Of course not, dear, but do you think it's safe to go wandering off by yourself? There are wild animals roaming these parts."

"Mikhail accompanies me on my little jaunts, and I certainly don't go poking around in the wilds at night."

"Oh," Margaret looked mollified. "Mikhail Dubrinsky? Everyone talks of him."

"I told you, he's overprotective. Actually, he likes the landlady's cooking," she confided with a laugh, holding up the picnic basket. "I'd better get going or I'll be late."

Margaret stepped aside. "Do be careful, dear."

Raven gave a friendly wave and sauntered unhurriedly along the path that led through the woods, up the footpath into the mountains. Why had she felt compelled to lie? She liked her solitude, never felt the need to justify herself. For some reason she didn't want to discuss Mikhail's life with anyone, least of all Margaret Summers. The woman seemed too interested in him. It wasn't anything she said; it was in her eyes and voice. She could feel Margaret Summers watching her curiously until the path made an abrupt turn and the trees swallowed her up.