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, penetrating 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.