Dark Prince (Dark Series - book 1)

by Christine Feehan

  The pounding on her door penetrated the deep layers of sleep. Raven Whitney fought the thick fog forcing her eyes closed, making her body heavy. Alarm spread. It was as if she had been drugged. Her gaze found the small alarm clock on the bedside table. Seven o’clock in the evening. She had slept the day away. She sat up slowly, feeling as if she was wading through quicksand. The pounding on her door began again.

  The sound echoed in her head, thundered at her temples. “What’?” She forced her voice to be calm, although her heart was slamming against her chest. She was in trouble. She needed to pack quickly, run. She knew how futile it could be. Wasn’t she the one who had tracked four serial killers following the mental path of their thoughts’? And this man was a thousand times more powerful than she. The truth was, she was intrigued that another person had psychic abilities. She had never met anyone like herself before. She wanted to stay and learn from him, but he was far too dangerous in his casual use of power. She would have to put distance, perhaps an ocean, between them to be truly safe.

  “Raven, are you all right’?” The male voice was filled with concern.

  Jacob. She had met Jacob and Shelly Evans, a brother and sister, last night in the dining room when they had first come in off the train. They were traveling with a tour group of about eight people. She had been tired and the conversation was a blur.

  Raven had come to the Carpathian Mountains to be alone, to recover from her last ordeal of following the twisted mind of a depraved serial killer. She had not wanted the company of the tour group, yet Jacob and Shelly had sought her out. They had been wiped from her thoughts very efficiently. “I’m fine, Jacob, just a touch of the flu, I think,” she assured him, feeling far from fine. She shoved a shaky hand through her hair. “I’m just so tired. I came here to rest.”

  “Aren’t we having dinner’?” He sounded plaintive, and that annoyed her. She didn’t want any demands on her, and the last thing she needed was to be in a crowded dining room surrounded by a lot of people.

  “I’m sorry. Another time, maybe.” She didn’t have time to be polite. How could she have made such a mistake as she had last night’? She was always so cautious, avoiding all contact, never touching another human being, never getting close. It was just that the stranger had been broadcasting so much pain, so much loneliness. She had known instinctively that he had telepathic powers, that his isolation far exceeded hers, that his pain was so great, he was considering ending his life. She knew what isolation was. How it felt to be different. She had been unable to keep her mouth shut; she had to help him if she could. Raven rubbed her temples in an attempt to relieve the pain pounding in her head. It always hurt after using her telepathic powers.

  Pushing herself up, she moved slowly to the bathroom. He was controlling her without contact. The thought terrified her. No one should be that powerful. She turned the shower on full force, wanting the steady stream of water to clear the cobwebs.

  She had come here for rest, to clear the stench of evil from her mind, to feel clean and whole again. Her psychic gift was draining to use, and physically she was worn. Raven lifted her chin. This new adversary would not frighten her. She had control and discipline. And this time she could walk away. No innocent lives were at stake.

  She pulled on faded jeans and a crocheted sweater in defiance. She had sensed he was Old World and would frown on her American clothes. She packed quickly, haphazardly, tossing clothes and makeup as fast as she could into the battered suitcase.

  She read the train schedule in dismay. There was no service for two more days. She could use charm to beg a ride from someone, but that meant being in the small confines of a car for an extended period of time. It probably was the lesser of two evils.

  She heard male laughter, low, amused, mocking.

  You would try to run from me, little one.

  Raven sank down onto the bed, her heart beginning to pound. His voice was black velvet, a weapon in itself.

  Don ‘t flatter yourself, hotshot. I’m a tourist; I tour.

  She forced her mind to be calm even as she felt the brush of his fingers on her face. How did he do that? It was the lightest caress, but she felt it down to her toes.

  And where were you thinking of touring?

  He was stretching lazily, his body refreshed from his sleep, his mind once more alive with feeling. He was enjoying sparring with her.

  Away from you and your bizarre games. Maybe Hungary. I’ve always wanted to go to Budapest. Little liar. You think to run back to your United States. Do you play chess?

  She blinked at the strange question.

  Chess

  ? she echoed.

  Male amusement could be very annoying.

  Chess

  .

  Yes. Do you?

  Of course.

  Play with me.

  Now?

  She began to braid her heavy mass of hair. There was something captivating in his voice, mesmerizing. It tugged at her heartstrings, put terror in her mind.

  I must feed first. And you are hungry. I can feel your headache. Go down to dinner and we will meet at eleven tonight.

  No way. I won’t meet with you.

  You are afraid.

  It was a clear taunt.

  She laughed at him, the sound wrapping his body in flames.

  I may do foolish things occasionally, but I am never a fool.

  Tell me your name.

  It was a command, and Raven felt compelled to obey it.

  She forced her mind to go blank, to be a slate wiped clean. It hurt, sent darts of pain through her head, made her stomach clench. He was not going to take what she would have given freely.

  Why do you fight me when you know I am the stronger? You hurt yourself, wear yourself out, and in the end 1 will win anyway. I feel the toll that this way of communicating takes on you. And I am capable of commanding your obedience on a much different level.

  Why do you force what I would have given, had you simply asked?

  She could feel his puzzlement.

  I am sorry, little one. I am used to getting my way with the least amount of effort.

  Even at the expense of simple courtesy?

  Sometimes it is more expedient.

  She punched the pillow.

  You need to work on your arrogance. Simply because you possess power does not mean you have to flaunt it.

  You forget, most humans cannot detect a mental push.

  That isn’t an excuse to take away free will. And you don’t use a

  push

  anyway; you issue a command and demand compliance. That’s worse, because it makes people sheep. Isn’t that closer to the truth?

  You reprimand me.

  There was an edge to his thoughts this time, as if all that male mockery was wearing thin.

  Don’t try to force me.

  This time there was menace, a quiet danger lurking in his voice.

  I would not

  try,

  little one. Be assured I can force your compliance.

  His tone was silky and ruthless.

  You’re like a spoiled child wanting your own way.

  She stood up, hugging the pillow to her protesting stomach.

  I’m going downstairs to dinner. My head is beginning, to pound. You can go soak your head in a bucket and cool off.

  She wasn’t lying; the effort to fight him on his level was making her sick. She edged cautiously toward the door, afraid he would stop her. She would feel safer if she was among people.

  Your name, please, little one.

  It was asked with grave courtesy.

  Raven found herself smiling in spite of everything.

  Raven. Raven Whitney. So, Raven Whitney, eat, rest. I will return at eleven for our chess match.

  The contact was broken abruptly. Raven let out her breath slowly, all too aware that she should be feeling relief, not feeling bereft. There was seduction in his hypnotic voice, his masculine laughter, in their very conversation. She ached
with the same loneliness as he did. She didn’t allow herself to think of the way her body had come alive at the touch of his fingers. Burned. Wanted. Needed. And he had only touched her with his mind. The seduction was far more than physical; it was some deep, elemental thing she could not precisely put her finger on. He touched her inside her soul. His need. His darkness. His terrible, haunting loneliness. She needed, too. Someone to understand what it was like being so alone, so afraid to touch another being, afraid to be too close. She liked his voice, the Old World elegance, the silly male arrogance. She wanted his knowledge, his abilities.

  Her hand trembled as she opened the door, breathed the air in the hallway. Her body was her own again, moving lightly and fluidly, obeying her instructions. She ran down the stairs, entered the dining room.

  Several tables were occupied, certainly more than the night before. Ordinarily, Raven avoided public places as much as possible, preferring not to have to worry about shielding herself from unwanted emotions. She took a deep breath and walked in.

  Jacob looked up with a welcoming smile, stood, as if waiting for her to join the group at his table. Raven made herself smile back at him, unaware of the way she looked, innocent, sexy, completely unattainable. She crossed the room, greeted Shelly, and was introduced to Margaret and Harry Summers. Fellow Americans. She tried not to let her alarm show on her face. She knew her picture had been plastered all over the newspapers and even on television during the investigation of the last killer. She didn’t want to be recognized, didn’t want to relive the horrible nightmare of the man’s twisted and depraved mind. There would be no discussion of such a hideous thing at dinner.

  “Sit here, Raven.” Jacob graciously pulled out a high-backed chair for her.

  Carefully avoiding skin contact, Raven allowed herself to be seated. It was hell to be so close to so many people. As a child she had been overwhelmed by the bombardment of emotions around her. She had nearly gone insane until she learned to protect herself, to build a shield. It worked unless the pain or distress was too concentrated, or if she physically touched another human being. Or if she was in the presence of a very sick and evil mind.

  Right now, with conversation flowing all around her and everyone seemingly having a good time, Raven was experiencing classic signs of overload. Shards of glass pierced her skull, her stomach roiled in protest. She couldn’t possibly eat a thing.

  Mikhail inhaled the night air, moved slowly through the small town, seeking what he needed. Not a woman. He couldn’t bear to touch another woman’s flesh. He was aroused, dangerous in his highly sexual state, and far too close to turning. He might lose control. So it had to be a man. He moved among the people easily, returned greetings from those who knew him. He was well respected, looked up to.

  He slipped up behind a young man who was physically fit, strong. His scent spoke of health, veins bursting with life. After a brief, easy conversation, Mikhail spoke his command softly, laid a friendly arm across the other’s shoulder. Deep within the shadows he bent his dark head and fed well. He was careful to keep his emotions firmly in control. He liked this young man, knew his family. There could be no mistakes.

  As he lifted his head, the first wave of her distress hit him.

  Raven.

  He had unconsciously been seeking contact with her, touching her mind gently to assure himself that she was still with him. Alert now, he finished his task quickly, releasing the young man from his trance, implanting the continuing conversation, laughing amicably, accepting the handshake with ease, steadying the man when he was a bit dizzy.

  Mikhail opened his mind, focused on the thread and followed it. It had been years—his skills were rusty—but he could still “see” when he wanted. Raven was seated at a table with two couples. Outwardly she looked beautiful, serene. But he knew better. He could feel her confusion, the unrelenting pain in her head, her desire to leap up and run from everyone. Her eyes, brilliant sapphires, were haunted, shadows in the paleness of her face. Strain. It amazed him how strong she was. There was no telepathic spillage, no way for anyone with telepathic ability other than he to tell she was in distress.

  And then the man beside her leaned forward, looked into her eyes, raw longing on his face, desire in his eyes. “Come for a walk with me, Raven,” he suggested, and his hand moved from the table to rest just above her knee.

  At once the pain in Raven’s head increased, crushing at her skull, stabbing at her behind her eyes. She jerked her leg out from under Jacob’s hand. Demons leaped, raged, burst free. Never had Mikhail felt such terrible fury. It rushed over him, claimed him, became him. That someone could hurt her like that, so casually, without even knowing or caring. That someone might touch her while she was so vulnerable and unprotected. That a man would presume to put his hands on her. He hurtled through the sky, the cool air fanning his rage.

  Raven felt the force of his anger. The air in the room thickened; outside, the wind rose, whirled fiendishly. Branches pelted the outside walls; the wind rattled ominously at the windows. Several waiters crossed themselves, looking with fright out into the black, suddenly starless night. The room was unexpectedly, strangely silent, as if everyone was collectively holding his and her breath.

  Jacob gasped, both hands going to his throat, tearing at it as if at strong, strangling fingers. His face was first red, then mottled, his eyes bulging. Shelly screamed. A young waiter ran to assist the choking man. People were standing, craning their necks to see.

  Raven forced calmness into her slender body. Emotions were running far too high for her to remain unscathed.

  Release him.

  Silence answered her. Even with the waiter behind him, desperately working at the Heimlich maneuver, Jacob fell to his knees, his lips blue, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  Please, I’m asking you, please. Release him. For me.

  Jacob suddenly inhaled, a terrible gagging sound, labored and harsh. His sister and Margaret Summers were crouched at his side, tears in their eyes. Instinctively, Raven moved toward him.

  Do not touch him!

  The command was stark, without any mental enhancement, more frightening than if he had forced her compliance.

  Raven was besieged with emotion, from everyone in the room. Jacob’s pain and terror. Shelly’s fear, the innkeeper’s horror, the other Americans’ shocked reaction. They were swamping her, beating at her already fragile state. But it was

  his

  all-consuming rage that sent needles shooting through her head. Her stomach heaved, cramped, and Raven nearly doubled over and looked desperately for the ladies room. If anyone touched her, tried to come to her aid, she might go mad.

  “Raven.” The voice was warm, sensual, caressing. Calm in the eye of the storm. Black velvet. Beautiful. Soothing.

  A curious hush fell in the dining room as Mikhail strode in. He had a hard arrogance, an air of complete command. He was tall, dark, well muscled, but it was his eyes, burning with energy, with darkness, with a thousand secrets, that drew immediate attention. Those eyes could mesmerize, hypnotize, just like the power in his voice. He moved with purpose, sending waiters scurrying out of the way.

  “Mikhail, it is such a pleasure to have you join us,” the innkeeper gasped in surprise.

  He spared the woman a glance, his eyes sweeping over her buxom figure. “I have come for Raven. We have a date this evening.” He said it softly, imperiously, and no one dared argue with him. “She has challenged me to a game of chess.”

  The innkeeper nodded her head as she broke into a smile. “Enjoy yourselves.”

  Raven swayed, pressing her hands into her stomach. Her sapphire eyes were enormous, taking up her face at his approach. He was on her before she could move, his hands reaching out for her.

  Don’t.

  She closed her eyes, terrified of his touch. She was already on overload; she would not be able to take the overpowering emotions radiating from him.

  Mikhail didn’t hesitate, gathering her into his arms, i
mprisoning her against his hard chest. His face was a granite mask as he whirled around and took her from the room. Behind them the buzzing started, the whispers.

  Raven tensed, waiting for the battery on her senses, but he had closed his mind and all she knew was the enormous strength of his arms. He took her into the night, moving fluidly, easily, as if her weight was of no consequence.

  “Breathe, little one; it will help.” There was a trace of amusement in the warmth of his voice.

  Raven did as he suggested, too worn out to struggle. She had come here to this wild, lonely place to heal, but instead, she was all the more fragmented. She opened her eyes cautiously, looking up at him through long lashes.

  His hair was the color of dark coffee beans, a dark espresso, drawn back and tied at the nape of his neck. His face was that of an angel or a devil, strength and power, with a sensual mouth that hinted at cruelty; his hooded eyes were black obsidian, black ice, pure black magic.

  She couldn’t read him, couldn’t feel his emotions or hear his thoughts. That had never happened to her before. “Put me down. I feel silly with you carrying me off like some pirate.” His long strides were taking them into deep forest. Branches swayed, bushes rustled. Her heart was beating out of control. She tensed, pushed against his shoulders, struggled uselessly.