Carpathian 01 - Dark Prince

Chapter One
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    He could no longer fool himself. Slowly, with infinite weariness, Mikhail Dubrinsky closed the leather-bound first edition. This was the end. He could no longer bear it. The books he loved so much could not push away the stark, raw loneliness of his existence. The study was lined with books, floor to ceiling on three of the four walls of the room. He had read every one, committed a great many to memory over the centuries. They no longer provided solace for his mind. The books fed his intellect but broke his heart.
    He would not seek sleep at dawn, at least not the healing sleep of renewal; he would seek eternal rest, and God have mercy on his soul. His kind was few, scattered, persecuted—gone. He had tried it all, skills, physical and mental, every new technology. Mikhail had filled his life with art and philosophy, with work and science. He knew every healing herb and every poison root. He knew the weapons of man and had learned to become a weapon himself. He remained alone.
    His people were a dying race and he had failed them. As their leader, he had been committed to finding a way to save those he looked after. Too many of the males were turning, giving up their souls to become the undead in desperation. There were no women to continue their species, to bring them back from the darkness in which they dwelled. They had no hope to continue. The males were essentially predators, the darkness growing and spreading in them until they had no emotion, nothing but the dark in a gray, cold world. For each it was necessary to find his missing half, the lifemate that would bring him forever into the light.
    Grief overwhelmed him, consumed him. He lifted his head and roared out his pain like the wounded animal he was. He could no longer bear to be alone.
    The trouble is not really in being alone, it's being lonely. One can be lonely in the midst of a crowd, don't you think?
    Mikhail became still, only his soulless eyes moving warily, a dangerous predator scenting danger. He inhaled deeply, closing his mind instantly, while all senses flared out to locate the intruder. He was alone.

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    He couldn't be wrong. He was the oldest, the most powerful, the most cunning. No one could penetrate his safeguards. No one could approach him without his knowledge. Curious, he replayed the words, listened to the voice. Female, young, intelligent. He allowed his mind to open slightly, testing paths, looking for mental footprints. I have found it to be so, he agreed. He realized he was holding his breath, needing the contact. A human. Who gave a damn? He was interested.
    Sometimes I go into the mountains and stay by myself for days, weeks, and I'm not lonely, yet at a party, surrounded by a hundred people, I am more lonely than ever.
    His gut clenched hotly. Her voice, filling his mind, was soft, musical, sexy in its innocence. Mikhail had not felt anything in centuries; his body had not wanted a woman in hundreds of years. Now, hearing this voice, the voice of a human woman, he was astonished at the gathering fire in his veins. How is it you can talk to me?
    I'm sorry if I offended you. He could clearly hear that she meant it, felt her apology. Your pain was so sharp, so terrible, I couldn't ignore it. I thought you might like to talk. Death is not an answer to unhappiness. I think you know that. In any case, I'll stop if you wish it.
    No! His protest was a command, an imperious order given by a being used to instant obedience.
    He felt her laughter before the sound registered in his mind. Soft, carefree, inviting. Are you used to obedience from everyone around you?
    Absolutely. He didn't know how to take her laughter. He was intrigued. Feelings. Emotions. They crowded in until he was nearly overwhelmed.
    You're European, aren't you? Wealthy, and very, very arrogant.
    He found himself smiling at her teasing. He never smiled. Not for six hundred years or more. All of those things. He waited for her laughter again, needing it with the same craving an addict felt for a drug.
    When it came, it was low and amused, as caressing as the touch of fingers on his skin. I'm an American.
    Oil and water, don't you think?
    He had a fix on her now, a direction. She would not get away from him. American women can be trained with the right methods. He drawled it deliberately, anticipating her reaction.
    You really are arrogant. He loved the sound of her