The picture was clear. She was in a shelter of some kind, clothing and furniture overturned all around her as if there had been a fight or someone had searched her belongings. She was running through the rooms, grabbing a few things along the way. He caught glimpses of wild red hair, silky soft, vibrant. He wanted to touch that hair. To sink his fingers into its thickness. To wrap it around her neck and strangle her with it. To bury his face in it. Then the image was gone, his strength drained, and he slumped impotently in his prison, unable to reach her, to help her, to see that she was safe. That added to his torment of agony and hunger. That added to the debt she already owed him.
He remained quiet and slowed his heart until it barely beat, only enough to allow him to think, to gather himself for one last try. If she survived, he was going to bring her to him. He would not allow any more attempts on her life. If she lived or died, it was to be his decision alone. Come to me, come here to me. The Carpathian Mountains. The remote, wild regions where you should be, where your home is, your people are. Come to me. He sent the call, filled her mind with the compulsion. It was strong. The strongest he had been able to accomplish. It was done. It was all he could do without further endangering his own life. So close to his goal, he would not take any foolish risks.
They had found her again. And again Shea O’Halloran ran for her life. She had been more careful this time, now that she was aware she was being hunted. She had plenty of cash hidden in various locations; her truck, a four-wheel drive, had a camper shell, so she could live in it if necessary. She kept essentials | packed so all she had to do was grab a bag and run. Where this I time? Where could she go to lose them? She was driving fast, | racing from those who would dissect her like an insect, those who looked upon her as something less than human.
She knew she had little time to live. Her strength was already wearing down. The terrible disease was taking its toll, and she was no closer to finding a cure than when she’d started. She had most likely inherited the illness from her father. The father she had never met, never knew, the father who had abandoned her mother before Shea was even born. She had read her mother’s diary so many times. The father who had stolen her mother’s love, her very life, so that she was a mere shadow, not a real person anymore. The father who didn’t care in the least for her mother or herself.
She was already driving in the general direction of the Carpathian Mountains, her father’s birthplace. The land of superstition and myth. The rare blood disorder she suffered from could very well have originated there. Suddenly she was excited, focusing her mind completely on the data so that she pushed aside fear. This had to be the origin. So many vampire myths had begun there. She easily recalled every detail of every story she had ever read or heard. She could be on the right trail at last. The evidence had been in her mother’s diary all along. Shea was disgusted with herself for not recognizing it sooner. She had developed such an aversion to the idea of her father or any of his family, she hadn’t stopped to consider tracking her own roots to find the answers she was seeking. Her mother’s diary. She knew every tragic entry by heart.
I met him tonight. The moment I saw him I knew he was the one. Tall, handsome, with mesmerizing eyes. His voice is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. He feels the same way about me. I know he does. It is wrong, of course—he is a married man—but there is no way out for us. We cannot be apart. Rand. That is his name—foreign, like him, like his accent. The Carpathian Mountains are his home. How could I have ever existed without him?