Carpathian 18 - Dark Possesion

yourself more time.
    Manolito withdrew immediately from his brother's touch. It was the right path. The voice would be the same if it wasn't playing in slow motion. But the words—the explanation was all wrong. It had to be. You couldn't go to the tree of souls unless you were dead. He wasn't dead. His heart was hammering loud—too loud. The pain in his body was real. He had been poisoned. He knew it was still burning through his system. And how could that be if he'd been healed properly? Gregori was the greatest healer the Carpathian people had ever known. He would not have allowed poison to remain in Manolito's body, no matter what the risk to himself.
    Manolito pulled his shirt from his body and stared down at the scars on his chest. Carpathians rarely scarred.
    The wound was over his heart, a jagged, ugly scar that spoke volumes. A killing blow.
    Could it be true? Had he died and been drawn back into the world of the living? He'd never heard of such a feat. Rumors abounded of course, but he hadn't known it was truly possible. And what of his lifemate? She would have journeyed with him. Panic edged his confusion. Grief pressed him hard.
    Manolito.
    Riordan's voice was demanding in his head, but was still distorted and slow. Manolito jerked his head up, his body shaking. The shadows moved again, sliding through the trees and shrubs. Every muscle in his body tensed and knotted. What now? This time he felt the danger as forms began to take shape in a ring around him. Dozens of them, hundreds, thousands even, so there was no possibility of escape. Red eyes blazed at him with hatred and malicious intent. They swayed as if their bodies were far too transparent and thin to resist the slight breeze rustling the leaves in the canopy above them. Vampires every one.
    He recognized them. Some were relatively young by Carpathian standards, and some very old. Some were childhood friends and others teachers or mentors. He had killed every one of them without pity or remorse.
    He had done it fast, brutally and any way he could.
    One pointed an accusing finger. Another hissed and spit with rage. Their eyes, sunken deep in the sockets, weren't eyes at all, but more like glowing pools of hatred wrapped in red blood.
    "You are like us. You belong with us. Join our ranks," one called.
    "Think you're better. Look at us. You killed again and again. Like a machine, with no thought for what you left behind."
    "So sure of yourself. All the while you were killing your own brethren."
    For a moment Manolito's heart pounded so hard in his chest he was afraid it might burst through his skin.
    Sorrow weighed him down. Guilt ate at him. He had killed. He hadn't felt when he did so, hunting each vampire one by one and fighting with superior intellect and ability. Hunting and killing were necessary. What his thoughts on the subject were didn't matter in the least. It had to be done.
    He pulled himself up to his full height, forced his body to stand straight when his gut clenched and knotted.
    His body felt different, more leaden, clumsy even. As he shifted onto the balls of his feet, he felt the tremors start.
    "You chose your fate, dead one. I was merely the instrument of justice."
    The heads were thrown back on the long, thin stick necks, and howls rent the air. Above them, birds lifted from the canopy, taking flight at the horrible cacophony of shrieks rising in volume. The sound jarred his body, making his insides turn to gel. A vampire trick, he was certain. He knew in his heart his life was over
    —there were too many to kill—but he would take as many with him as possible to rid the world of such dangerous and immoral creatures.
    The mage must have found a way to resurrect the dead . He whispered the information in his head, needing Riordan to tell their oldest brother. Zacarias would send a warning to the prince that armies of the dead would be once again rising against them.
    You are certain of this?
    I have killed these in centuries long past, yet they surround me with their accusing eyes, beckoning to me as if I am one of them.
    From a great distance away, Riordan gasped, and for the first time sounded like Manolito's beloved sibling.
    You cannot choose to give your soul to them. We are so close, Manolito, so close. I have found my lifemate and Rafael has found his. It is only a matter of time for you. You must hold out. I am coming to you .
    Manolito snarled, throwing his head back to roar with rage. Imposter. You are not my brother