Dark Gold. Christine Feehan. Dark Series – book 3

Alexandria struggled to her feet, clutching Joshua to her, her hands over his eyes as the grotesque ball stopped mere inches away. The fog swirled and thickened, and, to her horror, the hunter turned his head, and the molten gold of his eyes rested on her face.

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Chapter Three

Aidan Savage heaved an inward sigh as his gaze settled on the crazed vampiress clutching the small boy to her breast. The demon in him was strong today, struggling for freedom, the red haze in his mind clamoring for control. And the vampire was correct. Suppressing the killer within was becoming more and more difficult. He did feel the power and joy in battle, and the fighting was addicting because it was the only time he felt anything. He had endured centuries of a cold, barren, black-and-gray existence, enjoying no real color or emotion except the lust for battle.

He allowed his gaze to sweep the beach, then turned his attention back to the hag threatening the child. Suddenly he stilled. After more than six hundred years of seeing no color, he now saw the trail of tainted blood from Paul’s head not as a black streak but a bright scarlet ribbon, leading his gaze straight to the vampiress.

Impossible. Color and emotion would return to him now only if he found a lifemate. And there was no one here but the pitiful human Paul had attempted to turn. He looked at her, his heart heavy. He almost felt sorry for the poor woman. Again he was puzzled by this unexpected burst of sympathy, of emotion, after so many centuries, but he continued his inspection of the female. It was impossible to tell her age. She was small, almost childlike, but the suit she wore, as torn, wet, and dirty as it was, clung to full curves. Her legs were a mass of bloody welts, her mouth swollen and black with oozing blisters. Her hair, tangled with kelp, hung in a rank clump down her back to her waist. Her blue eyes held terror but also defiance.

She was going to kill the child. The rare woman could become Carpathian. Contrary to the popular myth, most human women could not be turned by a vampire without dire consequences. They immediately went insane and preyed on innocent children. This woman had suffered horribly. The ragged wounds on her neck gave evidence of the vampire’s hard usage of her, and the cuts on her wrists were cruelly deep.

Aidan reached mentally for her mind, wanting to make her death as painless for her as possible. Shocked by her resistance, he took a warning step toward her. She was incredibly strong. Her mind had some kind of natural barrier, resisting his will. Instead of placing the child on the sand in front of her as he had directed, she pushed the boy to one side, picked up a large piece of driftwood, and launched herself at Aidan.

He sprang forward, swiping the staff from her hand. The impact cracked a bone—he could hear it, see the pain in her eyes—but she didn’t scream. Evidently she was beyond screaming. He reached for her, intending to end her life before she suffered further. She struggled, still resisting his mental compulsion. He bent his head to her throat.

She was so small and cold, shivering uncontrollably, and his every protective instinct leapt into being, feelings he had never before experienced. He wanted to cradle her close, shelter her in the warmth of his arms. His teeth pierced her soft throat, and instantly everything changed for him for all eternity. His entire world. Colors whirled and danced, nearly overwhelming him with their beauty and vividness. His body reacted with a wild urgency he had not known he was capable of feeling, not even in the old days, when he still had emotions.

Her blood was hot and spicy, a sweet, addicting feast giving nourishment to his depleted body. The hunt and fight had cost him strength, and he had not fed this night. Her body shared its life-giving fluid with his. He was aware on some level when her struggles ceased and she rested passively against him. He lifted her easily into his arms, cradling her against his chest as he fed. Then something hit him hard across his legs. Startled, he closed the wound with a caress of his tongue and turned to stare down at the child. It was a measure of his current bemusement that he had all but forgotten the boy, had not even heard his approach.

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