Dark Fire by Christine Feehan. Dark Series – book 6

“That mark on you is all the proof I need,” Brodrick explained. “You’re their human servant.”

“Then half the teenagers in America are slaves to vampires. Don’t be stupid, Brodrick. I’m a mechanic, nothing else.” The rocks were slicing her feet, and Tem­pest was beginning to feel desperate. There had to be a way out of this mess.

Behind her, she felt empty space under the heel of one foot. The rocky expanse ended abruptly on the edge of a cliff. She stood on that edge, over open air. She could feel the unstable dirt beneath her feet crumbling. The bird screamed again, this time much closer, but she didn’t dare take her eyes from Brodrick to look up at the sky or behind her.

“Jump,” he ordered, grinning at her, waving the gun. “If you don’t jump, I’m going to take great pleasure in shooting you.”

“It might be preferable,” Tempest said grimly. Falling to her death didn’t seem highly desirable.

Tempest, I can feel your fear. The voice was calm and steady, with no hint of haste or emotion. Your heart beats far too fast. Look at what it is you fear, that I may also see what you have gotten yourself into. Darius sounded far away, miles away, a disembodied voice.

She kept her eyes trained on Brodrick. I’m certain he was partially responsible for the attempt on Desari’s life a few months ago. He said as much. She stared intently at the gun.

Brodrick pulled the trigger, the bullet striking inches from her foot, the ricochet zinging off a rock and flying into space. Tempest cried out, losing her precarious balance, her arms flailing to aid in regaining her footing.

She never saw the gun turning slowly but surely to­ward Matt Brodrick’s temple, never saw his finger tight­ening on the trigger. She wasn’t a witness to the beads of perspiration dotting his forehead or the horror in his eyes. Tempest never saw the weird battle with Brodrick’s unseen opponent, the struggle for control of the weapon. In Darius’s present state, with his great strength low in the daylight hours, he had to use tremendous mental powers to overcome the human’s own strength. She heard the loud report of the gun as she fell over the cliff’s edge.

Darius swore, deep within the ground. Tempest would get into trouble now, of all times. It was still too early to rise; he was weak and vulnerable, unable to go per­sonally to her side. Few but the strongest, the most an­cient of his kind, could give aid at such a time. Only his iron will, honed by centuries of enduring, and his terrible need of her allowed him to do battle with the human who threatened her. With the sun high, with the earth covering him, still his will prevailed.

Tempest’s fingernails scraped frantically at the cliff’s side, trying to secure a purchase that she might prevent herself from falling to her death. She slid, the crumbling dirt and rocks scoring her hands and breaking her fin­gernails as she fought the soil for anything she might hold onto. It was a tree root jutting out of the craggy rocks that broke her fall. It hit her squarely in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. Still, she grabbed it with both hands, hanging on with all her strength while she wheezed and fought for air.

Even her slight weight made the root teeter precari­ously so that she cried out and wrapped her arms around it, her legs dangling helplessly in the air. Above her, she heard the rush of wind, wings beating strongly as the huge bird plummeted toward her, diving straight for her face. Tempest buried her eyes in the crook of her arm and remained as still as she was able, terrified she was near the large bird’s nest.

She had never seen an eagle, but the bird was too large to be anything else. The eyes were beady and clear, the beak hooked and wicked looking. The wing span had to be close to six feet. Tempest was certain she must have fallen near its nest. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she re­peated like a litany.

The bird had pulled up sharply and was once again circling, dropping lower as it did so. Tempest took a cautious look around. The fall was steep and long, sev­eral hundred feet. She would never survive. She glanced up, trying to determine whether she had a chance of climbing. At any moment she expected Brodrick to lean over the edge and take another shot at her.