Dark Desire (Dark Series - book 2)

by Christine Feehan

  She tried to reassure him.

  I’mafraid for you, afraid I will lead him to you, or while I’m gone he will find you. You do not understand the danger you are in. You must get to me.

  Shea might not fully comprehend, but she could feel his conviction, his fear for her, and she shivered, remembering the strength in the stranger’s grasp, his hiss of deadly

  promise. Don’t worry, I’ll come right away. Go to sleep now, Jacques. This is draining for you. Shea.

  There was a moment of silence, of longing.

  Come back to me. If you believe nothing else I have told you, believe I need you. I promise.

  Shea put her forehead down on the steering wheel. She was so tired, and her eyes were swelling. The tinted windows in the cab helped to prevent blisters on her skin but wouldn’t for much longer. Her body was slow and clumsy, only hope the vampire was already in his lair and unable to see where she went.

  She drove into the mountains. At first, to save time, she took the road, driving as fast as she dared on the winding dirt track. When the sunlight became unbearable, she made her own road, following a deer trail, always climbing, seeking deep forest. The heavy canopy of trees gave some relief from the unrelenting sunlight piercing her skull. When her body was simply too heavy, she pulled into a particularly heavily wooded area and dragged herself into the camper. She had just enough energy to lock the door and place the pistol beside her hand before her body became lead. She lay as if paralyzed, her heart beating fast, terrified by her own weakness.

  She needed Jacques, needed to touch that core of unbelievable power in him. She needed to touch his iron will. Shea pictured him in her mind, found it slowed her heartbeat. If she could just hold him, feel his arms around her. And then somehow, incredibly, she could feel his arms, all corded strength, closing protectively around her, hear his heartbeat, strong and steady, matching the rhythm of hers. Shea brushed his face with her fingertips, her eyes closed, her mind on every detail of his sensual features. They slept apart yet together, the uncomfortable sleep of mortals, always aware of the danger surrounding them, always aware of the leaden paralysis of their bodies. Shea, for the first time, experienced the power of holding a mind merge, of never being alone, the strength that came from two beings connected.

  The long day passed slowly, the sun moving across the sky, shining brightly, hotly, then retreating just as slowly toward the mountains, sinking gracefully and colorfully into the sea.

  The cave, only a few miles from Shea’s cabin, was far beneath the earth. The narrow passage leading to the maze of underground chambers and steamy pools was twisted and nearly impassable in spots. In the smallest cave, beneath the rich soil, a single heart began to beat. Dirt spewed like a geyser, and Byron burst from deep within the ground. There was that brief moment of disorientation, and then his body shimmered, dissolved, became a mist streaming through the passageway and out into the darkening sky. Immediately the mist formed a large bird, and strong wings lifted the streamlined creature into the sky. It circled the vast forest area, high above the canopy of foliage, then took off as if shot from a bow.

  Jacques, alone in the cabin, felt the disturbance even within the confines of the four walls. He felt the power vibrating in the air and knew something dangerous was searching for him. He kept his mind perfectly patterned as a human, aware if the other probed, he would believe the being in the cabin was human. He felt the dark, winged shadow pass over him, the swift intrusion of another in his mind, and then the being was moving away.

  Jacques?

  Shea’s query was soft, worried.

  He is close by.

  She read his mind easily. Jacques wanted her with him, close, so he could protect her, so that no other male would presume to claim her as he had. He feared if she returned to him, she would come straight into the vampire’s trap, yet Jacques could not bear the separation, could not leave her unprotected. His mind was beginning to crumble, fracture, and his need of her was great.

  Shea leapt from the camper and flung herself into the driver’s seat.

  Iwill be with you soon.

  She felt his smile all the way to her heart. Jacques was beginning to remember humor.

  You really like that I go my own way and make my own decisions, don’t you?

  she teased him, wanting to keep his mind as stable as possible until she was with him to give him an anchor.

  Do not bet on that, little red hair. Instant obedience is the ideal. You wish.

  Shea found herself laughing in spite of being afraid. It was silly to feel so lighthearted when they were facing danger and a difficult move ahead. Where could they go on such short notice? By the time she reached the cabin, three or four of their precious hours would be lost.

  Jacques stretched slowly, cautiously. His body protested sharply. Pain had been his world for so long that he allowed it to wash over him, through him. He could live forever with pain. He could not live without Shea. He dragged himself to a sitting position. The room lurched, spun crazily before righting itself. Almost immediately he could feel warm, sticky blood running the language of his people. He knew pain intimately, had forgotten gut-wrenching agony. It did not matter. Nothing mattered but that he protect his lifemate.

  Shea drove like a woman possessed, finding trails where there were none, over rotting logs and into rocky ravines. Sometimes she made good time, other times she crawled. It was interesting driving at night. She no longer needed headlights. She could see as clearly as if it was day. The moonlight spilled down to bathe the trees and bushes in silver. It was beautiful, all colors of the spectrum vivid and detailed.

  Far away, a huge owl banked, circled a large, rambling house built into the cliffs, and approached it warily. As the bird landed on a stone gate column, folded its wings, and shimmered into human shape, the wolf pack in the surrounding woods began to sing in warning. Almost at once a man emerged from the house. Lazily he glided from the fog-shrouded verandah across the grounds to the gates. He was tall, dark-haired. Power emanated from his every pore. He moved with the grace of a great jungle cat, the elegance of a prince. His eyes were as black as the night and held a thousand secrets. Although there was no expression on his handsome, sensual features, there was danger, a quiet menace in the way he held himself.

  “Byron. It is long since you have visited us. You did not send a call ahead.” No censure roughened the soft, musical, black-velvet voice, yet it was there in volumes.

  Byron cleared his throat, agitated, his dark eyes not quite meeting the other’s penetrating gaze. “I am sorry, Mikhail, for my bad manners, but the news I bring is unsettling. I came as fast as I could and still cannot find the right words to tell you this.”

  Mikhail Dubrinsky waved a graceful hand. One of the ancients, one of the most powerful, he had long ago learned patience.

  “I was late going to ground this dawn. I had not fed, so I went to the village and summoned one of the locals to me. When I entered the area, I sensed the presence of one of our kind, a woman. She did not look as we do; she is small, very slender, with dark red hair and green eyes. I could tell she was weak, had not recently fed. Using our common mental path, I tried to communicate with her, but she did not respond.”

  “You are certain she is one of us? It does not seem possible, Byron. Our women are so few, one would not be wandering unprotected, uncared for, at dawn, unknown to us.”

  “She is Carpathian, Mikhail, and she is unclaimed.”

  “And you did not stay with her, guard her, bring her to me?” The voice had dropped another octave, so soft it whispered with menace.

  “There is more. There were bruises on her throat, ragged wounds, several of them. Her arms, too, were bruised. This woman has been ill-used, Mikhail.”

  A red flame glowed in the depths of the black eyes. “Tell me what you are so reluctant to reveal.” The black velvet voice never hardened or increased in volume.

  Byron stood silent for a long moment, then steadily met the direct, penetr
ating stare. “Jacques’ blood runs in her veins. I would know his scent anywhere.”

  Mikhail did not blink, his body utterly still. “Jacques is dead.” Byron shook his head. “I am not mistaken. It is Jacques.”

  The black eyes swept over Byron once, then Mikhail lifted his face, drinking in the night. He sent a powerful call along a familiar path and met emptiness, blankness, a void. “He is dead, Byron,” he repeated softly, a clear warning to end the subject.

  Byron stood his ground, militarily erect. “I am not mistaken.”

  Mikhail studied him for a time. “Are you saying Jacques misused this woman? Perhaps turned a human?” There was a low hiss accompanying the question. At once the power in Mikhail flowed from him to fill the air and surround them both.

  “She is Carpathian, no vampiress. And she visited the local clinic’s blood bank. I do not know her connection to Jacques, but there is one.” Byron was adamant.

  “In any case, Byron, we can do no other than find this mystery woman and protect her until such time as she is given a true lifemate. I will tell Raven I am going with you. I do not wish her to hear of Jacques.” That was spoken in the softest of tones, all the more menacing, an absolute edict.

  Beneath the words was a darker promise. If Mikhail ever found Jacques alive, unable or unwilling to answer the call, swift and deadly retribution would follow. And if the woman was a part of it... Byron sighed and looked up at the sky as Mikhail dissolved into the fog. Wisps of clouds were beginning to move across the stars, and the land stirred restlessly, disturbed by an unseen danger.

  Mikhail emerged from the mist already shape-shifting, his powerful body taking flight as he did so. Byron had never mastered the speed Mikhail had and was forced to change on the stone column before launching himself skyward. The larger bird glided silently toward earth, razor-sharp talons extended as if coming in for a kill. At the last moment it pulled up, wings beating strongly.

  The woman, how old? Young. Twenty, maybe a little older. It was impossible to tell. She knew our language, I could tell, but she spoke in English. The accent was off. American contractions and way of speaking, yet I heard a hint of Irish brogue. She deliberately drew attention to us.

  None of their kind would do such a thing.

  I was forced to leave her, as she knew would happen. She was able to stay in the morning light longer than I was. I know she is not a vampiress or that would not be so.

  The two owls raced across the darkened sky, carried the breeze with them. A low hiss heralded the building force of the wind. Below them, the trees swayed and dipped toward the forest floor. Small animals scurried nervously to their homes. Clouds drifted in, ominously blotting out the stars.

  Shea’s arms were beginning to ache as she bumped her way over uneven vegetation. Her fingers had gripped the steering wheel so hard they were nearly numb. She was beginning to suspect she had somehow gotten lost when the truck bounced hard, splashed through a shallow creek, and she suddenly recognized the faint trail that led up to the old cabin. Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned onto it. The grassy track was pitted with holes and rough with rocks, but she was familiar with its twists and turns, and she made good time.

  Twice she attempted to merge with Jacques, but he resisted her efforts. It worried her. She told herself he wasn’t in danger. She was certain she would know if the one called Byron had found him, yet she couldn’t help being afraid something was very wrong. She breathed an audible sigh of relief when she finally spotted the cabin. It took a few moments to pry her fingers loose from the steering wheel and stretch the tightness from the muscles in her legs. When she managed to slide from the cab, she stumbled, her legs unsteady.

  The wind was beginning to pick up, tossing leaves and twigs around in tiny whirling eddies. Overhead the branches swayed and danced. Streaks of black and gray crossed the glittering stars, extinguishing them one by one. Clouds began to roll in, heavy looking and dark. Shivering, Shea glanced up, certain the storm was a portent of danger.

  Hunger was gnawing, ever present, relentless. It seemed to worsen every day, her weakness growing if she didn’t have blood. Right now, though, nothing mattered except getting Jacques to safety. Squaring her shoulders, she moved to the porch. The cabin was dark; Jacques couldn’t open shutters or turn on lights. Shea unlocked and pushed open the door, anxious to see him.

  Jacques was up, leaning against the wall. He wore a pair of soft cotton jeans and nothing else. He looked gray, gaunt, lines of strain carved deeply into his handsome face. The wound below his heart was trickling a steady stream of blood. His feet were bare, his thick mane of hair wild and tangled. A fine sheen of perspiration coated his body. There was a crimson smear on his forehead, and beads of scarlet dotted his skin.

  “Oh, God!” Shea’s heart nearly stopped. She could taste fear in her suddenly dry mouth. “Jacques, what have you done? What were you thinking?”

  She nearly leapt the distance separating them, not noticing how fast she was able to move. She could feel tears burning in her throat, behind her eyes. What Jacques was doing to himself was making her physically ill. “Why would you do this?” Her hands were gentle, tender, as she examined his gaping wound. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” Even as she caught him to her, the silliest thought ran through her head. Where had he gotten a pair of jeans that fit him? But it hardly mattered at that moment.

  He will come this night, and I must protect you.

  “Not like this you won’t. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a huge hole in your body. You’re putting far too much stress on those sutures. We have to lay you down.”

  He is coming.

  “I don’t care, Jacques. We can leave this place, travel all night if we have to. We have guns. Maybe we can’t kill him, but we can slow him down.” The truth was, Shea wasn’t altogether certain she could shoot anyone. She was a doctor, a surgeon, a healer. The thought of taking a life was abhorrent to her. She wanted to patch Jacques up fast and get out of there. Avoiding trouble seemed easier than facing it.

  He read her mind, her reluctance, easily.

  Do not worry, Shea, I am quite capable of killing him.

  He swayed against her, nearly toppling both of them to the floor.

  “I’m not sure I consider that great news,” she said between clenched teeth. Somehow they made it the few steps to the bed. “And if you could see yourself right now, you might not be so certain you could swat a fly.”

  Jacques stretched his long frame out across the sheets, never once making a sound. He kept his mind firmly closed, not wanting to share his agony with her. It didn’t matter; Shea could see it clearly etched in his face, in the white lines around his mouth and the bleak emptiness in his black eyes. “I’m sorry I left you alone.” She pushed back his thick mane, her fingers lingering in the blue-black strands. With a sinking heart she began gathering her equipment. Moving was going to hurt him all over again, and once more she would be the one causing him pain.

  It is not you torturing me, little red hair.

  “I know you think that, Jacques,” she answered tiredly, haphazardly securing the red hair falling around her face in a clip at the nape of her neck. “I hurt you when I brought you here, hurt you when I operated on you without painkillers, and I’m going to be hurting you now.” Shea shoved her tray of instruments close to the bed. “You’re losing too much blood again. Let me stop this, and then I’ll give you blood.” She bit her lip hard as she blotted the welling red fluid and examined the open wound.

  Outside the wind rattled at the windows, howled low, rubbed branches against the walls. The sound was disturbing, raising the hairs on the back of Shea’s neck. A soft whisper, like the touch of death against her skin. Jacques caught her arm, staying her hand as she began repairing the damage.

  He is here.

  “It’s the wind.” She didn’t believe it, but there was nothing they could do until she had closed his wound.

  The wind rose to an eerie scream. Thunder cracked as
a whip of lightning danced and sizzled across the sky. The heavy front door splintered, split. Shea whirled around, needle and suture clutched in her bloody hands. Jacques, bleeding and in agony, lying so pale and gray with scarlet beads of perspiration coating his body, attempted to sit up.

  Two men filled the doorway. She recognized Byron, but it was the man in front of him who drew her terrified gaze. He was the most powerful individual she had ever encountered. His eyes glowed a feral red. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but Shea was far too panic-stricken to attempt to identify what. A cry of alarm escaped her. She whirled around and snatched up the shotgun.

  Mikhail’s burst of speed made him a mere blur. He easily wrenched the weapon from her hands and tossed it carelessly aside, his glowing eyes fixed on Jacques. A slow, venomous hiss escaped Mikhail’s throat.

  Jacques met that burning gaze squarely, his own eyes filled with black fury mixed with defiant hatred and murderous resolve. He tried to lunge at the heavier man, but Mikhail leapt back, seized Shea by her throat, and slammed her so hard against the wall that it knocked the breath from her body. Never had she felt such strength in a single hand. He held her above his head, pinned to the wall, his fingers literally squeezing the life from her.

  The very air in the cabin thickened, heavy and vibrating with violence, with malevolence. Even as Byron roared a warning, a chair, seemingly of its own accord, jerked into the air, hovered, then shot across the room as if to crash against the back of Mikhail’s head. At the last possible second the powerful man slipped his head to one side, avoiding the chair, which then slammed into the wall and splintered into pieces very close to Shea’s face.

  Mikhail turned to face Jacques, dragging Shea in front of him, his fingers digging deep into her neck. “What have you done to him?” he demanded, his voice low and crawling with menace. He shook her like a rag doll. His voice drooped an octave. Low. Insidious. It wrapped Shea in velvet.