"Mama, please," Armande pushed to his feet and held out his hand to his mother. "You don't know what you're doin' . You don't know what you're sayin'."
"You shouldn't be here," Iris screamed at her son, her face darkening to rage. She shook Charisse, her grip powerful, the thin veneer of civilization completely gone. "Why did you come with him, Armande? You ruined everythin' . I could have fixed this mess, just like I've been takin' care of the messes the two of you have gotten into. Those disgustin' girls, none of them suitable. What were you thinkin', Armande. You would have disgraced the Lafont name, matin' with one. Your child needed to be a shifter."
Saria let out a tinkling laugh're still quotin' Buford Tregre. He raped dozens of women. He laughed at you. Threw you away. And yet you choose to revere him. You're twisted, Iris. You're the disgrace to the Lafont name, not your children." She poured amusement into her voice, a taunting, deliberate goad designed to needle Iris. "Trottin' after him was so pathetic, wasn't it? Killin' all the women he made love to? You couldn't stand the thought of him wantin' those others. You just weren't good enough, were you?"
Easy baby, Drake tried to caution her. Iris was working herself up to a killing spree.
"He wanted me. He couldn't leave me alone. They were nothin' to him, just like the women Armande used."
"He wanted you so much he wouldn't be seen in public with you," Saria persisted. "You snuck around and he used you in the swamp, in the dirt and muck, hidin' you from the world because he was so ashamed."
Oh, God, she was pushing the woman too hard. He could see the smoldering fury burning behind those yellow eyes. All traces of green were gone and the gaze was fixed on Saria. Iris had forgotten Charisse, and her daughter was watching Saria for a sign. Charisse understood the gravity of her position, unlike Armande, who Remy continued to restrain, even as he kept pressure on Mahieu's wound.
Drake's stomach dropped. Mahieu. Saria could smell his blood. From where she was standing she could see his wound--knew just how desperate the situation for him was--and she was doing more than setting Iris up for his shot. She was maneuvering her into the corner. She intended to end this as quickly as possible--and in any way she could--even if it meant attacking the woman herself.
"When the world finds out about Iris Lafont crawlin' after Buford Tregre, killin' his women, killin' her son's women and so desperate she had to stoop to seducin' boys her daughter dated and then killin' them, everyone will laugh every time the name Lafont is mentioned."
Iris shrieked, spittle flying from her mouth. Her face contorted, elongated, teeth filling her mouth and fur mottling her skin.
"Drop!" Saria called, throwing herself to the side with amazing speed.
Boneless, like a supple cat, Charisse slid to the floor as Iris hurtled the knife at Saria. Simultaneously, Drake squeezed the trigger. A single hole blossomed in the middle of Iris Lafont-Mercier's forehead. She lay on the dirt floor in a crumpled heap, looking small and somewhat macabre with her face half leopard and half woman.
Armande screamed, but he rushed to his sister, leaving his mother crumpled on the floor. He gathered Charisse into his arms, their sobs filling the small space. Saria sat on the floor looking up at Drake, sorrow in her eyes, blood dripping from her upper arm.
"She was fast," she admitted.
Drake was on her in seconds, clamping his hand over the wound. It couldn't have been more than a flesh wound, but it was terrifying to him.
"Call an ambulance," Remy commanded. "We need it now."
Epilogue
"ARE you going to say somethin'?" Pauline asked.
Saria looked at Drake, tears swimming in her eyes. He looked so handsome in his tuxedo, the cut of the jacket emphasizing his wide shoulders and deep chest. Saria Donovan. There was no hyphenating her last name, although she had teased him that she wasn't certain she would change her name to his. He had given her that golden, glittering glare that always sent a multitude of butterflies winging away in her stomach and she'd laughed at him.
Saria swallowed hard and looked down at the deed she held in her hand. Her wedding present. Pauline had given her the inn and the surrounding acres of land as a gift. An incredible, impossible-to-accept gift. She held the deed out to Drake. He took it slowly, as if the paper might explode in his hands.
"Pauline," he began and then cleared his throat and looked at Saria as if for help.
Saria shook her head, tears spilling over. "I don't know what to say."
"You're my girl," Pauline said. "My only child. I have no other heirs. I want you to have this place. Amos and I will be livin' close, at his home. You don't need to keep it as an inn. Originally it was a home and it wants children fillin' it. I want to come here and sit on the porch and rock my grandbaby. That's my dream now, Saria. I want you to stay close. It's an old woman's hope, and selfish of me, but I love you and the thought of you goin' off too far . . ."
"That's not going to happen," Drake assured, wrapping his arm around Pauline's shoulders. "I promised you I wouldn't take her away from you and I meant it. I'm taking her to the rain forest on our honeymoon, but I promise we'll be back soon. I've got a lot of lair business to take care of."
Amos grinned at him, the faded old eyes sparkling with mischief. "Better you than me."
Drake sent him a scowl, but refrained from speaking when Saria stepped hard on his toes. If Pauline was Saria's surrogate mother, then Amos was signing on to be her father and she wanted to make it plain to him that nothing was going to mar Pauline's happiness again. She'd gone through enough with losing her sister and finding out the woman was a serial killer. Saria didn't want anything else bad to ever happen in Pauline's life if she could have any say in it.
"Who will look after things while you're gone?" Amos pursued.
"Joshua. He's planning on taking his uncles to task and cleaning up his family's home and legacy. The other members of my team will stay and of course Saria's brothers will be on hand should anything go wrong while we're gone," Drake assured.
"How's Mahieu?" Pauline asked, glancing over at the man seated on her couch.
Wedding guests milled around, allowing Saria to catch only glimpses of her brother. "He's much better. It was touch and go for a while, but his leopard is strong and he's healing faster than anyone thought he would."
"And Armande?"
"He was so distraught over his mother. He had become suspicious that she was ill, I think both Charisse and Armande were suspicious," Saria admitted gently. "When Charisse broke up with Mahieu, Iris called him and wanted him to meet her alone to talk. He called Armande and asked him to be there when he met Iris. Armande saved Mahieu's life. If he hadn't been there, Pauline . . ." She trailed off. "Armande and Charisse are good people."
Pauline patted her hand. "I know they are. I love them both very much. They need time to get over all this. I should have stepped in a long time ago when I saw how my sister treated Charisse. The poor girl lived with persecution and abuse for years."
"It's over now," Drake said.
His voice was so gentle it turned Saria's heart over. She leaned into him, uncaring of her beaded gown. Drake immediately swept his arm around her waist and leaned down to brush kisses down the side of her face.
Charisse had been her maid of honor, but Armande hadn't come to the wedding. He'd chosen to go to the rain forest where he could breathe a little and think things through. Now that Charisse was safe, he didn't have to watch over her so carefully. He blamed himself for the deaths of the men and women his mother had murdered. He'd known she was ill, but had no idea of the extent of her madness.
"Come dance with me," Drake murmured in her ear.
She kissed Pauline. "Thank you," she whispered. "I've always loved the inn. You know I do. It's always been a sanctuary for me. I'll be raisin' my children here."
"Go dance with your handsome husband so I can dance with my man," Pauline said, patting her hand.
Saria put her hand in Drake's, happiness bursting through her as s
he fit her body close to his. There was something so sensual, so right and perfect about dancing with one's husband, and she intended to savor every moment.
"I love you," Drake whispered in her ear as he whirled her around the dance floor.
She waited a heartbeat. Looked into his eyes. Let herself drown there. "I love you too."
Keep reading for a special preview of
the next exciting Carpathian novel
by #1 New York Times
bestselling author
Christine Feehan
DARK PREDATOR
A vailable September 2011 from Berkley Books.
SMOKE burned his lungs. It rose around him in bellowing waves, fed by the numerous fires in the surrounding rain forest. It had been a long, hard-fought battle, but it was over and he was done. Most of the main house was gone, but they'd managed to save the homes of the people who served them. Few lives were lost, but each one was mourned--though not by him. He stared at the flames with hollow eyes. He felt nothing. He looked on the faces of the dead, honorable men who had served his family well, saw their weeping widows and their crying children and he felt--nothing.
Zacarias De La Cruz paused for just a moment while surveying the battlefield. Where before the rain forest had been lush, trees rising to the clouds, home to wildlife, there were now flames reaching to the heavens and black smoke staining the sky. The scent of blood was overwhelming, the dead, mangled bodies staring with sightless eyes at the dark sky. The sight didn't move him. He surveyed it all, as if from a distance, with a pitiless gaze.
It didn't matter where, or which century, the scene was alway the same, and over the long, dark years, he'd seen so many battlefields he'd lost count. So much death. So much brutality. So much killing. So much destruction. And he was always right in the midst of it, a whirling, dark predator, merciless, ruthless and implacable.
Blood and death were stamped into his very bones. He'd executed so many enemies of his people over hundreds of centuries, he didn't know how to exist without the hunt--or the kill. There was no other way of life for him. He was pure predator and he'd recognized that fact a long time ago--as did anyone who dared to come close to him.
He was a legendary Carpathian hunter, from a species of people nearly extinct, living in a modern world, holding on to the old ways of honor and duty. His kind ruled the night, slept during the day and needed blood to survive. Nearly immortal, they lived long, lonely existences, color and emotion fading until only honor held them to their chosen path of looking for the one woman who could complete them and restore both color and emotion. Many gave up, killed while feeding to feel the rush--just to feel something--becoming the vilest, most dangerous creature known: the vampire. Every bit as brutal and violent as the undead, Zacarias De La Cruz was a master at hunting them.
Blood ran steadily from numerous wounds and the acid from poisonous blood burned all the way to his bones, but he felt calm steal into him as he turned and quietly walked away. Fires raged, but his brothers could put them out. The acid blood from the vampire attack soaked into the groaning, protesting earth, but again, his brothers would seek out that vile poison and eradicate it.
His stark, brutal journey was over. Finally. More than a thousand years of living in an empty, gray world. He had accomplished everything he had set out to do. His brothers were safeguarded. They each had a woman who completed them. They were happy and healthy and he had eliminated the worst threat to them. By the time their enemies grew in numbers again, his brothers would be even stronger. They no longer needed his direction or protection. He was free.
"Zacarias! You're in need of healing. Of blood."
It was a feminine voice. Solange, lifemate to Dominic, his oldest friend. With her pure royal blood, she would change their lives for all time. Zacarias was too damned old, too set in his ways and oh, so tired, to ever make the kind of changes to continue living in this century. He had become as obsolete as the medieval warriors of long ago. The taste of freedom was metallic, coppery, his blood flowing, the very essence of life.
"Zacarias, please." There was a catch in her voice that should have affected him, but it didn't. He didn't feel as the others could. There was no swaying him with pity or love. He had no kinder, gentler side. He was a killer. And his time was over.
Solange's blood was an incredible gift to their people, he recognized that even as he rejected it. Carpathians were vulnerable during the hours of daylight--especially him. The more the predator, the more the killer, the more the sunlight was an enemy. He was considered by most of his people to be the Carpathian warrior who walked the edge of darkness, and he knew it was true. Solange's blood had given him that last and final reason to free himself from his dark existence.
Zacarias drew in another lungful of smoky air and continued walking away from them all without looking back or acknowledging Solange's offer. He heard his brothers calling to him in alarm, but he keptalking, picking up his pace. Freedom was far away and he had to get there. He had known, as he'd ripped out the heart of the last of the attacking vampires trying to destroy his family, that there was only one place he wanted to go. It made no sense, but that didn't matter. He was going.
"Zacarias, stop."
He looked up as his brothers dropped from the sky, forming a solid wall in front of him. All four of them. Riordan, the youngest. Manolito, Nicolas and Rafael. They were good men and he could almost feel his love for them--so elusive, just out of reach. They blocked his way, stopping him from his goal, and no one--nothing--was allowed to get between him and what he wanted. A snarl rumbled in his chest. The ground shook beneath their feet. They exchanged an uneasy glance, fear shimmering in their eyes.
That look of such intense fear for their own brother should have given him pause, but he felt--nothing. He had taught these four men their fighting skills, survival skills. He had fought beside them for centuries. Looked after them. Led them. Once even had memories of love for them. Now that he had shrugged off the mantle of responsibility, there was nothing. Not even those faint memories to sustain him. He couldn't remember love or laughter. Only death and killing.
"Move." One word. An order. He expected them to obey, as everyone obeyed him. He had acquired wealth beyond imagining in his long years of living, and in the last few centuries he had not once had to buy his way into or out of something. One word from him was all it took and the world trembled and stepped aside for his wishes.
Reluctantly, far too slow for his liking, they parted to allow him to stride through.
"Do not do this, Zacarias," Nicolas said. "Don't go."
"At least heal your wounds," Rafael added.
"And feed," Manolito pressured. "You need to feed."
He whirled around and they fell back, fear sliding to terror in their eyes--and he knew they had reason to be afraid. The centuries had shaped him, honed him into a violent, brutal predator--a killing machine. There were few to equal him in the world. And he walked the edge of madness. His brothers were great hunters, but killing him would require their considerable skills and no hesitation. They all had lifemates. They all had emotions. They all loved him. He felt nothing and he had the advantage.
He had already dismissed them, left their world, the moment he'd turned his back and allowed himself the freedom to let go of his responsibilities. Yet their faces, carved with deep lines of sorrow, stayed him for a moment.
What would it be like to feel sorrow so deeply? To feel love? To feel. In the old days he would have touched their minds and shared with them, but they all had lifemates, and he didn't dare take the chance of tainting one of them with the darkness in him. His soul was not just in pieces. He had killed too often, distanced himself from all he had held dear in order to better protect those he had loved. When had he reached the point where he could no longer safely touch their minds and share their memories? It had been so long ago he could no longer remember.
"Zacarias, do not do this," Riordan pleaded, his face twisted with that same deep sorrow that
was on each of his brothers' faces.
They n his responsibility for far too long and he couldn't just walk away without giving them something. He stood there a moment, utterly alone, his head up, eyes blazing, long hair flowing around him while blood dripped steadily down his chest and thighs. "I give you my word that you will not have to hunt me."
It was all he had for them, his word that he would not turn vampire. He could rest and he was seeking that final rest in his own way. He turned away from them, from the comprehension and relief on their faces, and once again started his journey. He had far to go if he was to get to his destination before dawn.
"Zacarias," Nicolas called. "Where will you go?"
The question gave him pause. Where was he going? The compulsion was strong, one impossible to ignore. He actually slowed his pace, unsettled by the question. Where would he go? Why was the need so strong in him, when he felt nothing? But there was something, a dark force driving him.
"Susu-- home." He whispered the word. His voice carried on the wind, that low tone resonating in the very earth beneath his feet. "I am going home."
"This is your home," Nicolas stated firmly. "If you seek rest, we will respect your decision, but stay here with us. With your family. This is your home," he reiterated.
Zacarias shook his head. He was driven to leave Brazil. He needed to be somewhere else and he had to go now, while there was still time. Eyes as red as the flames, soul as black as the smoke, he shifted, reaching for the form of the great harpy eagle.
Are you going to the Carpathian Mountains? Nicolas demanded through their telepathic link. I will travel with you.
No. I go home where I belong--alone. I must do this thing alone.
Nicolas sent him warmth, wrapped him up in it. Kolasz arwa-arvoval--may you die with honor. There was sorrow in his voice, in his heart, but while Zacarias recognized it, he couldn't echo the feeling, not even a small tinge.
Rafael spoke softly in his mind. Arwa-arvo olen isanta, ekam--honor keep you, my brother.
Kulkesz arwa-arvoval, ekam--walk with honor, my brother, Manolito added.