Dark Predator

4

The harpy eagle swooped through the canopy, ignoring the sloth, its favorite food, and circled back toward the hacienda, driven by some inner compulsion it couldn’t ignore. Deep inside the giant bird’s body, Zacarias sighed. He was no closer to the truth than he’d been when he set out. The threads binding him to the woman had grown stronger, not weaker, and he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

If he hadn’t known better, he would think it was possible she was his lifemate. He’d considered the idea, of course, but then discarded it almost immediately. If she’d been the one woman to complete his soul, he would see in colors and feel emotion. If it was emotion he was experiencing, he didn’t know enough about feelings to even identify them. Whatever was going on was a puzzle that had to be solved before he returned to his original plan of seeking the dawn. Marguarita Fernandez held great power. She was a potential threat to Carpathians and therefore had to be eliminated. It was that simple.

A piercing pain in the vicinity of his heart brought him up short. He actually looked down at the bird’s breast to see if it had been punctured by an arrow. His stomach lurched at the idea of killing her. O jelä peje emnimet—sun scorch the woman, she had cast some spell. There was no other explanation for his physical response to the idea of her death. She had tied them together. Or her blood had. Blood was the very essence of life and hers was . . . extraordinary.

He wanted—no, needed—to touch her mind with his. Everything in him urged him to reach out to her, to know where she was, what she was doing. He refused to act on the need. He didn’t trust it any more than he trusted the way he had to see her, to touch her, to know she existed. Whatever spell had been cast was a powerful one and it had to be a trap.

He had control and discipline, several lifetimes to develop both and no woman, a human woman at that, could possibly destroy those traits in him. He would take his time, prove to both himself and to her that he was far too strong to be brought down by any spell. Before he killed her he would learn her secrets. Every last one of them. She would know what it meant to betray a De La Cruz and try to entrap one of them.

He had fought vampires and destroyed them, the foulest, most vile creatures imaginable; a small slip of a woman had no chance against him. He ignored the way his mind continually reached for hers. The way his blood heated at the thought of her. It wasn’t the spell so much as the fact that she actually intrigued him—something that hadn’t happened in a thousand years or more. That was all. Interest. Intrigue. Who could blame him when nothing had been a surprise to him—until her. The woman. Marguarita.

He flinched. The moment he thought her name—gave her life—he could taste her on his tongue all over again. His heart gave a strange stutter, and for a moment, deep inside the bird, he thought his body stirred with life. He went very still, a dark predator hunted. His breath felt trapped in his lungs. That was impossible. A trick. An illusion. She was far more powerful than he’d first imagined.

That particular trick would buy her time. He had not been a man for far longer than he could remember. He was a killing machine, nothing more. Nothing less. He didn’t have desires of the flesh. He couldn’t feel. The strange things taking place in his body and mind weren’t real, no matter how good the illusion was, but he closed his eyes and savored the hot lick of need rushing through his veins. Just as fast he snapped open his eyelids, looking suspiciously around. Was this illusion the way to tip him over the edge, allow him to feel, just for a moment, and then take it from him so that he would forever crave the rush?

The harpy eagle slipped out of the canopy and flew high over the hacienda. He refused to give into the ever-present urge to touch Marguarita’s mind. Now, more than ever, he had to show strength—and he had to find out everything he could about Marguarita Fernandez.

He spotted the house he was looking for tucked into the mountainside. There were several houses scattered on the property, but Cesaro Santos was the foreman and his status showed in his house. The eagle floated to the ground, shifting at the last moment into human form. Zacarias strode straight to the porch, his body shimmering into a trail of vapor that poured beneath the crack in the door.

The house was immaculate, like most of the dwellings of the humans coexisting with his family. He knew Cesaro to be loyal to a fault. He had offered his blood, even his life, to save Zacarias. The man was above reproach and there was no taint of evil anywhere on the ranch that Zacarias could detect. Cesaro would never steal from the De La Cruz family, or betray them in any way, and if he found one of those working for him to be doing so, Zacarias had no doubt that man—or woman—would be buried deep in the rain forest at Cesaro’s hand.

Come to me. Blood called to blood and every trusted employee had been given Carpathian blood—enough that each De La Cruz could read thoughts, protect minds and extract information when needed.

Zacarias knew the instant Cesaro wakened, reaching for his gun. There was satisfaction in knowing he had chosen the family well. Loyalty was the strongest trait within the Chevez and Santos families, both connected through blood. He took his solid form as the capitan of the hacienda came out fully dressed and armed heavily in a matter of minutes.

Cesaro bowed slightly and stood, almost stiffly. Zacarias knew no human or animal was ever relaxed in his company. He couldn’t hide the killer in him; that was the biggest part of him so he didn’t bother. He gestured to the sofa positioned in a strategic location where the occupant could easily see anything approaching his home.

“How can I be of service, señor?”

“I wish to know everything you can tell me of the woman.” Zacarias kept his gaze on the other man’s face, watching his expression carefully, holding a part of himself in Cesaro’s mind to ensure he was getting the truth. He read puzzlement and confusion. His question was the last thing the capitan expected.

“Do you mean Marguarita Fernandez?” At Zacarias’s silent nod, Cesaro frowned. “I have known her since the day she was born. Her father was my cousin. Her mother died when she was quite young and she was raised right here on the ranch along with my son, Julio.”

A frisson of something very lethal slid into his veins, a dark shadow protesting the closeness of a man growing up with Marguarita. How close were they? Something very ugly rose up to settle in the pit of his stomach at that thought of Julio alone with the woman. His teeth lengthened and he closed his fingers into two tight fists. Nails like talons punctured his palm.

Cesaro took a firmer grip on the rifle in his lap, his face visibly paling. “Have I said something to upset you?”

Blood trickled across his palm and Zacarias, never taking his gaze from Cesaro’s, licked at the line of drops. “Continue.”

Cesaro shivered. “She is a good girl. Loyal.”

Zacarias waved that away. He didn’t want to hear what Cesaro thought of her. “Tell me about her.” About any men in her life. Anything he needed to know. The important things.

“She takes care of the hacienda and represents the family with all the workers. She does the ordering and she is invaluable with the cattle and horses.” Cesaro clearly didn’t understand what Zacarias was looking for. “Has anything happened to her?” He half rose.

Zacarias pushed his palm toward the man in an abrupt motion, not meaning to shove quite so hard, but air slammed Cesaro back onto the cushions. “She is fine. Tell me what I want to know. Is she with a man? Does she often leave the ranch?”

Cesaro’s frown deepened. “She has many hopeful callers, some from outside the ranch and some right here. She does not step out with them, especially since the attack on her. She stays close to home, although she does represent the family at charity events as well as going to local dances and events.”

Zacarias kept his expression blank. He didn’t like the sound of “many hopeful callers,” or any of it really. Was she casting her spell wide? He would put a stop to that immediately. “You allow her to go off unaccompanied? A young girl?”

“No, of course not. Marguarita is carefully guarded. Someone from the ranch always goes with her.”

Zacarias continued to stare at the man, his locked gaze conveying inquiry and disapproval.

“My son often escorts her,” Cesaro admitted. “It has been my hope that the two of them make a match of it. Both serve your family and know what needs to be done to keep our alliance safe. It is a good match, but neither seems to be interested.”

The floor rolled. The walls breathed in and out. For a moment the pressure in the room was painful as if all the air had been sucked out of it. Cesaro fought for a breath, his throat closing and his lungs burning. Just as rapidly, the sensation vanished as though it had never been. He coughed a couple of times, one hand going to his throat, his eyes widening in fear.

“Tell me about her gift with animals.”

Cesaro shrugged. “No one knows how she does it. I don’t think she knows, but every animal, including those in the sky, responds to her. When she was just a little girl, she would tell her father that a horse’s leg hurt and where. Sure enough, a few hours later, the horse came up lame. She always knows when a mare will give birth or when there’s going to be a problem with a birth. The horses trust her and when she’s present, the mares are calm no matter what has to be done.”

Zacarias absorbed the information. She’d done such things since she was a child. It was possible she was born psychic, but much more likely she was mage-trained in order to cast a spell powerful enough to entrap him. “Go on.”

Cesaro looked more puzzled than ever. “When she was fifteen, a jaguar spooked the herd and the cattle crashed through a fence and ran straight for the children playing soccer. Marguarita stepped in front of them and somehow the cattle veered away from everyone there. They slowed down and stopped without direction.” His eyes met Zacarias’s once again. “She walked right toward the jaguar and waved me off from shooting it. After a couple of minutes with the two staring at one another, the cat slipped back into the rain forest and we never saw it around here again. Not even tracks.”

“What do you know of her mother?” If her father had been a cousin of Cesaro’s, perhaps the mother had been mage. There had to be an explanation.

“Her mother was a Chevez from the hacienda in Brazil. You know their family.”

He did know the Chevez family, better than he knew any of the others. They were definitely not mage-born, nor were any of them trained in casting spells. The Chevez women had protections placed in their minds from birth. They would be impossible for a vampire to possess or manipulate, not without killing them.

Zacarias closed his fist tight once again as his mind reached for Marguarita. He exercised great discipline to stop himself from touching her. His blood called out to hers. Or was it the other way around? The call was so strong. A compulsion. He swore under his breath in his native language. The woman was a menace.

“If she bothers you, we can remove her from the hacienda during your stay,” Cesaro offered, obviously hoping Zacarias would agree to his proposition. “She has many aunts who would love to have her visit.”

Another tremor rolled through the ground. Zacarias didn’t move a muscle. His tongue slid over the sharpened points of his teeth. His body ached. She had so many sins to pay for, yet he didn’t dare go to her—not when he needed to see her—to touch her. He refused to allow his mind to wander, to check, to touch. He was too strong and she could not defeat him.

Cesaro flinched. “Señor,” he began uneasily.

“Leave the woman to me.”

“I don’t understand you. Marguarita is a good girl. She’s loved by everyone here. The vampire destroyed her vocal cords, so she can’t speak. If that distresses you . . .”

“I do not get distressed.”

The very concept of being distressed was foreign to him. But he was disturbed by the need to touch her. To be close to her. To touch all that warm, soft skin and alleviate the terrible craving she had set up for the exquisite taste of her blood.

Cesaro stood up quickly as Zacarias’s body began to shimmer and grow transparent. “Wait. Please, señor, I need to know you will not harm her.”

Zacarias turned glacier-cold eyes on the man. “Do not dare to presume to question me. This is my land. She belongs to me to do with as I will. I will not suffer your interference in this matter. What she has done is between us alone. Have I made myself clear?”

Cesaro gripped the barrel of his rifle until his knuckles turned white. He swallowed hard twice before he very reluctantly nodded his head.

Zacarias had no more time to waste on the man. What was wrong with everyone that they felt it was okay to question his judgment? Clearly a De La Cruz had not been in residence for far too long. His people had forgotten their vows of servitude and obedience. This was the very reason why he knew he was obsolete in the world. His ways were long gone. Kill or be killed wasn’t fully understood. The world labored under a false illusion that humankind was safe—that monsters such as vampires didn’t exist and evil wasn’t real. He knew better, but his day was long over.

He dissolved and slipped out of the house, mixing with tear-shaped drops of rain as he made his way slowly back to the hacienda. Even in this form, where he was nearly undetectable, the animals in the stables stamped nervously. Despite his need to find Marguarita, he made himself take a slow sweeping circle around the property, looking for any signs the undead had tracked him to his lair. He needed to prove, not only to her, but to himself, that he was in control, not her.

He had no doubt that one of the Malinov brothers would seek to retaliate after losing so many of their expendable soldiers in their attack on his ranch in Brazil. If they despised anyone more than the prince of the Carpathian people, it was Zacarias. The Malinovs would always believe that the De La Cruz brothers had betrayed them. Instead of turning on the prince and helping to assassinate him, the De La Cruz family had sworn allegiance to him.

Zacarias knew that to kill Mikhail Dubrinsky was to send their people plummeting into extinction. They were as close as a species could get, brushing that fine line, so close to tipping over where recovery would be impossible. With Mikhail alive, Solange’s blood and the news of finding out why their women were miscarrying, Zacarias was certain they had every chance now. It was the perfect time to let go of his responsibilities. And he had—until Marguarita Fernandez interfered.

Satisfied that Ruslan Malinov, master of the undead, hadn’t had time to find out the reason his soldiers hadn’t returned, Zacarias made his way to the main house. His heart accelerated strangely, which only put him on edge. He circled the structure, not once allowing his mind to touch hers. Very slowly he approached the front door, shimmering back into human form and walking inside.

He was not going to give in to the rush of heat, the need riding him harder than he had ever imagined possible. He didn’t need. He didn’t crave. He had been to the top of the highest mountain, traveled to the farthest corners of the earth—looking for—something. He had walked the earth for centuries, far longer than most of his kind, killed more undead than imaginable. He had seen treachery at its worst and bravery at its greatest. There were no surprises left to him. Nothing that could change the beat of his heart like this. Nothing that could drive him with such burning need because he simply didn’t need.

O jelä peje emnimet—sun scorch the woman. There was an answer and he would find it. No one controlled him. He would not touch her mind or go looking for her. But he found himself striding through the dark house straight to her bedroom. The door was splintered, hanging on the hinges, the door cracked entirely in half. He frowned, studying the damage he’d done. Wood hung in a series of pieces, the fragments sharp to the point of dangerous.

He waved his hand, mending the mess, not to protect her, or for any other reason such as others looking into her sleeping chamber, but because the sight was not aesthetic. He realized the moment he stepped into the room that her scent lingered behind, but she was in another part of the house, hopefully remembering her duties as a servant in his home.

He looked around her room. It seemed very feminine. It smelled female, but the wash of fear was still present. Although neat and tidy, the wastebasket was overflowing with crumpled paper. He had a sudden memory of her huddled in the corner of her room, her hand out, a piece of paper fluttering in her hand. He looked around. He was almost certain he’d knocked it aside when he’d yanked her to her feet.

A single slip of stationery lay just under the bed. He picked it up and scanned the missive. She had been trying to tell him what happened, why she had been unable to leave him to die in the sun. His gut settled. He couldn’t hear the tone of her voice and judge whether she was telling the truth or not by that, but her letter certainly pleaded her case well for her. Like Zacarias, she had felt a compulsion she couldn’t possibly resist.

What did that mean? Was someone—something—manipulating both of them? Perhaps he needed to reevaluate Marguarita’s motivation. If she was being manipulated, just as someone was trying to do with him, she was far weaker and would succumb much quicker than a seasoned Carpathian warrior.

He poured the contents of the wastebasket out onto the bed and one by one smoothed each sheet, scanning the contents. Her earlier tries to explain were shaky and lacked confidence, but she kept trying, which told him she was stubborn and determined—and brave. She hadn’t gone running to Cesaro who clearly would have been foolish enough to try to protect her. She’d faced up to her crime and waited for him—hoping to explain.

He sighed. It wasn’t altogether her fault that she had disobeyed. Compulsions were dangerous and nearly impossible to ignore—as he well knew. He had come to the ranch without reason—the need driving him—and he was experienced in mage treachery. She had no such skills to draw on to save herself.

He shoved the slip of paper into his pocket and waved the others back to the wastebasket before picking up her pillow and inhaling her scent. He breathed her deep into his lungs, giving in to the craving. Her feminine fragrance enveloped him. In truth, it shook him. He smoothed her covers, his hand tracing the image of her on the bed. The source of power had to be close. He could almost feel the warmth of her skin and once again he could taste her exquisite blood on his tongue—better than the finest of wines.

He should have visited every single dwelling on the extensive property and tested each individual. They would all know he was in residence, just by the heavy drapes being pulled. No one would come near the house without an invitation—or they shouldn’t. So how was the spell staying so powerful when he was aware of it?

He inhaled the woman’s fragrance again, drawing her deep into his lungs. His body responded with a strange tingling, an electrical current that ran through his veins and awakened responses in his body best left alone. He sighed and went to find Marguarita. He’d fought off the compulsion and proved to himself he was in absolute, total control.

Marguarita pushed the hand-hewed canoe out into the stream and climbed carefully inside. Always before, Julio manned the oars, but she had learned under his watchful eye and knew how to paddle. She thought she’d be terrified in the dark, but strangely, she could see on the water, just as she had in the rain forest. She knew the stream was deep enough to take her all the way to the Amazon. The ribbon of water grew wider, the current stronger as it approached the main river, and she would feel the difference. It was thrilling when Julio was with her, the canoe sliding over the ripples of white water as it approached the roaring Amazon, but alone, with a vampire possibly tracking her, she felt only a terrible urgency to go faster.

Caimans crouched like old dinosaurs on the banks, their eyes glassy and heavy lidded as she swept past. She swallowed hard and pushed the oar through the water. The canoe glided silently along. Under the dark, rolling clouds, the water glistened like an ebony strip cutting through long, hanging trees and roots forming giant cages. She dipped her oar and pushed harder, all the while reaching for the birds in hopes they’d sound the alarm should they feel a predator before her.

As she traveled downstream a strange uneasiness settled over her. Not fear or terror, two things she associated with Zacarias De La Cruz, but a reluctance to continue. She was putting distance between them and with each passing yard a dread filled her. Her heart ached, an actual pain. Intellectually she knew it was not only the right thing to do, but the only thing to do, yet her mind refused to believe it. Twice she found herself paddling toward the bank as if her intention was to turn back.

She was fortunate that the rain had swelled the stream so that the current was flowing strong, transporting her even when her arms refused to work to push her faster away from Zacarias. The dread grew in her and the pain spread from her heart to her entire body. Her legs shook. Her arms felt like lead and her mouth went dry.

He was dead. Zacarias De La Cruz was dead, and somehow, by leaving she was responsible. The thought crept unbidden into her mind and once there, she couldn’t dislodge it. Grief found its way into her, manifesting itself physically. Her chest became so tight she could barely breathe. Tears swam in her eyes obstructing her vision. There was a terrible screaming in her ears, her own silent protest against his death.

Yet—he was vampire—wasn’t he? She was making a desperate run to reach the De La Cruz property ahead of him, to alert the hunters, in effect, call them in to kill him. If he was dead, shouldn’t she be rejoicing? Not weeping? Confused, she dragged the paddle into the boat and concentrated on breathing. Zacarias had given her his blood several times. Cesaro had told her that Zacarias had acted fast and saved her life when the vampire had torn out her throat. Was there something in his blood that tied them together in death? He had even forced her to take his blood this last time.

Marguarita pressed her lips together tightly. She was strong, and she would not give in to wild imaginings. She had a mission. Whatever her odd feelings were, they had to be false. The only thing that could matter to her was saving the people she loved at the hacienda. The rain began to pick up again, the steady drizzle turning into a relentless downpour. She had to get to the river and across to the De La Cruz property to call in the hunters. The stream was moving very fast, taking her quickly through the rain forest to dump her into the broad, swollen Amazon.

Her heart began to pound. She had to pay attention if she was going to survive. The sound of the river was thunderous, drowning out nearly everything else. The canoe swept around a bend and the water turned even rougher and faster. She couldn’t think about Zacarias or vampires, all that mattered was pushing her paddle into the water to keep from being slung into the series of rocks looming up ahead.

She’d watched Julio maneuver through that treacherous set of drops and rocks leading to the river a hundred times, and she’d laughed with the thrill and danger of the moment. But she relied on his skills and had absolute confidence that he knew every rock position ahead. She wasn’t so certain about herself. Julio had allowed her to try it several times, but the water hadn’t been flowing quite so fast and it hadn’t been dark.

She took a firm grip on the oar and summoned her new reflexes. Her eyes burned with strain as she approached the series of boulders rising through the rushing stream. Forcing her breath out in an effort to relax into the wild ride, she felt the first drop of the canoe as it entered the boulder garden. She called up every intricate maneuver Julio had showed to her. She performed the pattern carefully, as if he was in the boat with her, calling out the moves as she dropped low, shifted her weight back and rounded the first rock to hit the gate perfectly aligned for the next drop.

The water boiled around her, a frothy white in the bleak darkness. Rain pounded the stream and without her heightened vision, she would not have been able to negotiate the tight chute that switched nearly completely back to avoid a particularly brutal stone. The thrill of riding the white water slipped into her frozen veins, easing the terror of vampires. She had always loved the trips into the rain forest with Julio. They’d gone on many adventures and she wished he was with her right then.

The next set of obstacles was the trickiest, the canoe had to go into the gate at the perfect angle to shoot around the surge that could flip the boat. She could hear Julio’s voice in her ear, shouting instructions on how to keep the oar in the water to still the canoe for the split seconds it took to turn sharp and then a hard push to send the boat flying forward. She hit the narrow chasm between the two boulders exactly the way Julio had done it, skirting the treacherous roiling water by inches.

The canoe shot into open water and she was on the Amazon. The current caught the canoe and she had to use all of her strength to angle toward the bank. The river was swollen and running fast. It took everything she had to paddle to the edge. As it was, she was slightly downstream from where she wanted to be when she managed to snag a hanging limb and drag the canoe onto the bank.

The slope was extremely muddy and slippery. She was exhausted, cold and wet and miserable. She tried climbing her way up the incline, but kept slipping back. The wind picked up, a ferocious force, slamming into her again and again with such power it tore at the thick braid of hair, tugging out strands so that even her head ached. She gave up trying to climb and crawled instead, clawing her way to the top, sliding back time and time again, until her back and arms ached and she was afraid she’d never be able to lift them again. The rain, driven by the wind, stung her body as she reached the top and lay for a moment trying to catch her breath.

Marguarita didn’t bother to get to her feet but crawled across the uneven ground to the shelter of a large kapok tree, trying to get out of the rain. She sank back against the thick fins that made up the root cage and tried to catch her breath. The memory of the vampire washed over her again. Something about the difference between her attacker and Zacarias eluded her, but she knew it was important.

She had been representing the De La Cruz family for years. Most of the families the ranch supported had never set eyes on one of the brothers. She had been the one to bring food and medicine when needed, to arrange to pay debt or allow families to borrow in times of trouble, earning the family loyalty and good will. She had made the De La Cruz family one of the most beloved in the region. Her generosity—okay, it was their money, but she was the one making the effort.

She stood cautiously, forcing her weak legs to work. Without warning the ground rolled, throwing Marguarita to her knees. Instantly ants swarmed over her boots and hands. She suppressed a small cry, knowing Zacarias wasn’t dead after all. Why had she been so ridiculous? He had returned to the hacienda and discovered her gone. She leaped to her feet and began to run aimlessly, a stupid, careless mistake.

Giant moths fluttered around her, drawn by her light as she ran. Bats wheeled and dipped catching the insects her lamp revealed. Large eyes stared at her for a moment just feet from her, then the animal leaped onto the trunk of a tree and raced to higher branches. A snake coiled above her and lifted its head.

The ground rolled again and thunder crashed. For a moment she could barely breathe, once again the frozen prey a monster had cornered. The wind rushed through the trees, bending the smaller ones over until they formed arches. Marguarita took shelter in the root cage of the large kapok tree trying to force herself to think—not panic. Clutching the roots, she glared into the forest.

She had been right to believe him vampire. The insects boiled out of the ground and rushed down the trunks of trees at his bidding. Poisonous snakes slithered through wet vegetation and leeches crawled over leaves in an effort to reach her. Everything she’d ever known about vampires came back to her—along with the memory of the one attacking her.

She shuddered, the need to curl up in a ball and hide nearly overwhelming her. She could still smell his fetid breath, see his rotting flesh, and the ugly, twisted claws he had for fingernails. His eyes had gone completely red as they stared at her, trying to rip the information of Zacarias’s whereabouts from her mind. She’d concentrated on keeping her mind blank, the shields strong, refusing to give up the eldest of the De La Cruz family.

The vampire had murdered her father and he would kill her—she knew that with a certainty—but she also knew Zacarias or one of his brothers would hunt the vampire down and destroy him. He would never kill again. She had held out even when the horrible creature had shown her his razor-sharp teeth and threatened to tear her flesh out and eat it in front of her. She shuddered remembering his red eyes and his breath. That horrible smell of decaying flesh.

Marguarita sat up straighter. As scared as she’d been by Zacarias, he hadn’t been the same. There was no terrible rotting smell. Didn’t vampires rot from the inside? He had frightened her—no—terrified her. She touched the mark he’d made, rubbing it with the pad of her finger. The attack hadn’t been the same. He hadn’t felt evil. Or vampire. He’d felt like a dangerous, scary predator, but not evil.

The revelation shocked her. Zacarias was a wild animal, a feral creature that hunted and killed for survival. He was no vampire, not that it mattered. She wasn’t going back to the hacienda. Not as long as he was around. She feared few creatures, but Zacarias was an altogether different proposition. The mark he’d left on her throbbed, burning a little, reminding her that no animal in the rain forest was as unpredictable or as violent.

The way he’d come at her, so purposeful, his face an expressionless mask, his mouth set in a cruel, unrelenting line, his eyes flat and cold and without mercy. Her mouth went dry and her heart began to pound again. She couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to, frozen in place like cornered prey. That was exactly how she felt—his prey. She knew he had deliberately frightened her. She’d tried to connect with him in the way she did wild things, and for a moment she thought he’d responded, but then he was worse than ever. He was dangerous, but no vampire.

She had to make it to shelter and determine her next move, and that meant finding the marks on the trees Julio had carved to show the way. She had to backtrack and make her way to the point where they usually pulled the canoe from the water.

She waited for the ferocious wind to die down a little and she pushed herself to her feet to step cautiously away from the shelter of the tree. The branches overhead groaned and creaked and she looked up. Bats hung from every limb, and darted around the tree, vying for space. At first she thought they had come there to eat the fruit, but they weren’t eating. More and more settled in the branches, hanging upside down, wings folded, tiny eyes bright—watching her.

A chill went through her. Had she fled from Zacarias only to stumble into a vampire’s lair? She knew they used bats and insects as puppets at times. She backed away from the tree and nearly fell over a rotting log. Termites poured out of the wood. She pressed her lips together, refusing to panic. She had to think—make a decision—and she couldn’t do that if she allowed herself to go to pieces.

She looked up at the bats. Very gently she reached for them, sending a warm wave of greeting, careful not to push too hard. Her touch was very delicate, but she connected. She should have been able to feel evil if they were commanded by the undead, but they seemed ordinary bats, anxious to go out about their business. They were hungry, needing to feed but something had stopped them—used them—commanded them.

He was using insects and bats to keep an eye on her. He wanted to know what she was up to and had sent spies. An idea took root and she assessed the situation, trying to think logically. Perhaps the bats were the wrong kind of spies to use against her. She had her own gift with animals and insects and it was very possible she could turn them all to her side.

She looked up at the bats again and sent another warm, welcoming wave, urging them to go ahead and eat. She’d slow down so they could do both, follow her and yet eat along the way. Some of the bats gave the impression of fruit while others insects. He’d even mixed species. She smiled up at the little creatures, feeling the kinship that came whenever she touched an animal with her mind. They were connected to Zacarias through fear, through his commands, but she actually formed a bond with them, a kind of empathy that was mutual. Most animals and even some insects strengthened the relationship, feeling the deep tie between them. She wanted to form that affinity with the bats Zacarias had chosen to spy on her.

Marguarita kept the flow of warmth and the invitation to eat. One bat took the initiative, perhaps he was hungrier than the others, but he flew to the nearest fruit and settled to eat. Immediately bats filled the air, many settling on fruit to feast while others went after insects. She didn’t make the mistake of hurrying away—that would trigger the need to follow whatever orders Zacarias had given them. She was elated when she found the point where Julio and she usually beached their canoe.

Water was everywhere, dripping from leaves, running down the slopes and mountainsides creating hundreds of small, cascading waterfalls. Water collected in puddles and stood on the forest floor, eventually finding its way to drain in the Amazon River. The sound of it running was ever present—just like the continual hum of insects. She angled away from the loud flow of water heading toward the interior.

Julio had marked branches—as children they’d tried that—but eventually plants anchored themselves to everything—stems, branches, trunks, even leaves of other plants wrapping themselves around the trees. The vegetation was so thick the bark was mostly hidden so there was no point in cutting into the trees. It didn’t take long for any marks to be covered. Climbing up the trees were woody lianas, using the trees as gateways to the light above the canopy. Ferns only added to the mix, embedding themselves in the bark as well, climbing toward the sunlight.

Thick roots snaked across the forest floor, anchoring the large trees to earth while the tops reached high into the clouds. The giant buttress roots stabilized and fed the enormous trees, some twisting into elaborate shapes while others formed great wooden fins. Regardless of how they looked, the roots dominated the floor, claiming large spaces and housing bats, animals and hundreds of species of insects.

Julio and Marguarita had slashed marks deep into the roots and both knew where to look, even in the event creeper vines and ferns managed to weave themselves among the branching fins. She swept the brilliant green ferns aside and sure enough, the root had been chipped, leaving a weathered scar.

She moved slowly, continuing to send her communications to the bats. Warmth. Regard. Kinship. No commands. No demands. Zacarias would need to seek the darkness of the soil before the sun came up. It was only a few more hours. She could trick him that long. The bats were very receptive and wouldn’t raise an alarm, not when she wasn’t running or trying to hide from them.

She tapped into the bats for her own warning system, hoping she would recognize their alert when a predator was close. A fallen emergent with a giant trunk lay in her path, years old, saplings already filling in the void it left. The rotting trunk was covered in insects, fungus and creepers. She studied it carefully, aware of the dangerous snakes and poisonous frogs she could easily touch when climbing over it.

There was nothing else she could do, not without veering from her path, something she didn’t want to do at night in a rain forest. She stepped forward and reached up, determined to climb, pushing at the poisonous insects and frogs with her mind in hopes they would move away from her.

Hands caught her waist and jerked her back against a hard body. “Are you dim-witted, woman, or do you simply enjoy placing yourself in danger?” Zacarias’s voice purred in her ear, a soft menace that chilled her to her very core.