Outside the wind rushed through the mountains, and thunder cracked. The dark clouds burst, and rain pelted down in sheets. Out of the trees loped a huge black wolf with pale, burning eyes. As he approached the small porch, the powerful body contorted, stretched, shape-shifted into a heavily muscled man with wide shoulders, long dark hair, and slashing silver eyes. He stepped onto the porch out of the pouring rain and regarded the two men facing him. The tension was tangible between Mikhail and Byron. Mikhail, as always, was inscrutable. Byron looked like a thundercloud. The newcomer’s eyebrows went up, and he leaned close to Byron. “The last time someone got Mikhail seriously angry, it was not a pretty sight. I do not wish to attempt to replace major organs in your body, so go take a walk and cool off.” The voice was beautiful, with a singsong cadence—compelling, soothing even, yet it clearly commanded. It was a voice so hypnotic, so mesmerizing, even those of their kind were drawn into its power.
Gregori. The dark one. Ancient, powerful, instrument of justice. He dismissed Byron by simply turning his back and addressing Mikhail. “When you sent the call, you said it was Jacques, yet I cannot detect him. I have tried to touch him, but there is only emptiness.”
“It is Jacques, yet he is not the same. Not turned, but he has been severely injured. He does not recognize us, and he is extremely dangerous. I cannot restrain him without further injuring him.”
“He fought you?” The voice, as always, was mild, even gentle.
“Absolutely, and he would again. He is more wild animal than man, and there is no reaching him. He will kill us if he can find the strength.”
Gregori inhaled the wild night air. “Who is this woman?”
“She is Carpathian, but she does not know our ways or respond in any way to our normal means of communication. She seems trained in the human practice of healing.”
“A doctor?”
“Perhaps. He protects her, yet he is abusive, as if he cannot separate right from wrong. I think he is trapped in a world of madness.”
The silver eyes flickered. There was a latent cruelty in Gregori’s dark, sensual features, the clear stamp of a dangerous predator. “You have no knowledge of what happened to him?”
Mikhail shook his head slowly. “I have no idea, no explanation. I did not ask the woman. I attacked her, would have killed her, thinking her my brother’s assailant.” Mikhail confessed it without changing tone, a simple, quiet admission. “He was in bad shape, in obvious agony, sweating blood, and she stood over him, digging in his wound. There was so much blood, I thought her a vampiress, deranged, tormenting him, trying to eviscerate him.”
There was a small silence, only the wind and rain daring to comment. Gregori simply waited, his body as still as the mountains.
Mikhail shrugged. “Perhaps there was no thought, just reaction. I could not touch his mind with mine. The suffering on his face was more than I could bear.”
“The storm is not yours,” Gregori stated. “Jacques has grown far more powerful than I realized. There is a darkness in him unlike any I have ever observed. He is not vampire, but he is truly dangerous. Let us go in and see if I can repair the damage.”
“Go carefully, Gregori,” Mikhail cautioned.
The silver eyes glittered, reflected the driving sheets of rain. “I am known for my careful ways, am I not?” Gregori glided through the broken door; Mikhail, shaking his head over the outrageous lie, followed one step behind.
Jacques’ head snapped up, a black fury smoldering in his eyes as he tracked them. A long, slow hiss of warning escaped from deep in his throat. Gregori stopped, held his hands away from his sides in the age-old gesture of a peacemaker. Mikhail leaned against the doorjamb, so completely still, he seemed to become part of the wall itself. He was well aware that he had made a major mistake in his attack upon the woman.
“I am Gregori, Jacques.” Gregori’s voice was power itself, yet soft and soothing. “A healer for our people.”