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.