Mikhail could see the war raging in Jacques. It would be a difficult thing for him to live with, the taking of blood during a kill. Gregori and he had both done it, but the rush was addicting and dangerous. In Jacques’ state, it could be forever damaging. He approached cautiously. “Jacques, do not do this thing. You have too much to lose.”
Jacques whirled on him, baring teeth, a warning rumble bringing Gregori to once again insert his body between them. “Leave him, Mikhail. If he makes the kill and consumes the rest of the idiot’s blood, it is only what they owe him. He is no longer a child you must protect.”
Mikhail swore, angry with Gregori for dismissing the urgency of the act. Too many had been lost at just such a moment. Mikhail had thought Jacques lost to him once; he did not want it again. He also knew Gregori well enough to know he would have to try to go through the ancient’s body to get to his brother. Gregori believed Jacques a danger to all of them. With a sigh he resigned himself to the inevitable.
Gregori watched the fight go out of Mikhail and turned his attention to Jacques, simply waiting for the decision to be made.
Jacques smelled the beckoning blood. His hunger was sated, but the taste of fear and adrenaline, the need for revenge, were burning in him. The rushing high consumed him, yet the cool wind that was Shea anchored him to reality. His body shook with the need to consume while he killed, to feel the life seep out of the man. Reluctantly, he allowed the man’s shirt to slip from his fingers. Jeff Smith could die at his own pace, and Jacques would forego the ultimate power of the kill. He took a slow, deep breath and moved away from the broken body, watching his brothers, the wolves, move toward his victim. He shook off the demon, fighting every inch of the way to get himself back under control. It took long moments before he was able to see the two Carpathians as friends instead of enemies.
Gregori nodded at him, then turned and entered the cellar cautiously, inhaling the stale air, careful of any hidden traps. The place smelled of blood and fear, sweat, and the stench of burned flesh. Byron lay in a blood-splattered coffin, his body a thousand cuts and raw, charred flesh. His eyes found Gregori immediately, became anxious and desperate. Gregori tried to reach him on the common path of Carpathians, but Byron’s mind was frozen; it was impossible for him to move or communicate. But for the desperation in his eyes, Gregori would have dismissed the cellar as harmless to any of their kind.
Jacques entered the place of death uneasily, the stench sickening him. He caught the warning Gregori silently sent him and did not approach the form in the coffin. It was too easy. The vampire had known they would come, and Jeff Smith had been an unsuspecting sacrifice. The other two humans had probably known it also.
What do you think? Gregori wanted to know.
Jacques had to fight to keep himself under control. His body shook continually, and the need to kill was still burning brightly in him. It was hard to think, to concentrate. He was aware of the wolves outside and the joy in them as they tore into the carcass. He felt connected to their simple way of life. They called to him to join them, to hunt and feed.
What do you think, Jacques? Deliberately Gregori used his name to call him back from the need to run wild, to hunt and kill and be truly free.
Something is not right. Jacques had no idea what it was, but he was certain there was hidden danger.
Byron’s eyes were eloquent, obviously trying desperately to communicate something. As Gregori stepped closer, he seemed more agitated, the blood spewing from his wounds.
“Be calm, Byron, go to sleep. No vampire is going to catch us in his trap. Mikhail waits outside. There are three of us.” Gregori’s voice was beautifully pitched, pure and soothing. “Drift off, slow your heart, and allow your body to hibernate. I will take you somewhere safe to heal. My blood is powerful. You will heal quickly.”