Carpathian 22 - Dark Predator

Zacarias said softly. He kept his voice pitched low, melodious even, a stark contrast to the vampire who had to work to modulate his voice. All the while he listened to sounds of the frantic men trying to calm the restless herd.
    The buildup of electricity in the air told him the vampire would attempt to use a lightning whip to prod the cattle into stampeding. Zacarias waved a casual hand toward the sky countering the electrical charge. The air stilled, all clouds disappeared.
    “An old trick,” the vampire said. “But you cannot protect them all from me.”
    Insects burst from the ground, thousands of them, a plague of starving bugs, desperate for food. They took to the air, flying straight at Zacarias, the migration heading for the cattle, horses and men behind him. He seemed a small obstacle in their path.
    Zacarias shrugged. He stood calmly, not moving as the insects approached him. “What does that matter to me? I have one purpose. One.”
    He smiled as his wind shifted, picking up, driving away from him straight at the vampire. Blades of serrated saw grass speared through the air like a thousand knives. The insects tried to devour it in midair, the force of the wind blowing them backward along with the grass. The blades struck the vampire with such force they went through his body before he even realized they were concealed in the mass of insects. Hundreds of grass spears impaled him from his head to his feet. At once the insects covered him, desperate to feed at the wounds.
    Zacarias materialized inches in front of the vampire, slamming his fist through bone and muscle, through the acid blood. Insects rained to the ground, dying as they touched the hideous unnatural blood of the undead.
    “I destroy vampires,” Zacarias whispered, looking him straight in the eyes, his dispassionate gaze saying it all. “That is my one purpose.” He extracted the blackened, wizened heart and tossed it into the mass of wiggling, dying insects.
    Lightning forked across the sky and slammed into the mountain of bodies, incinerating the heart as well as the insects. Zacarias stepped back calmly and allowed the body to fall so the white-hot energy bolt could incinerate the remains.
    He stood for a moment, allowing the cool night air to take the stench of the undead from his nostrils before he turned to make certain the helicopter had landed safely. Julio ran across the open ground just in front of the hangar, Lea’s hand in his, both headed toward the stables, presumably to help with the herd.
    In spite of the way the ground shook under the pounding hooves as the cattle began to run mindlessly, Zacarias’s gaze was pulled unerringly, even compulsively, to the hacienda. She was there. Marguarita. Huddled inside. Alone. He had ruthlessly abandoned her, and he would do it again and again, over and over. He ran his fingers through the mass of thick hair.
    There were no lights on in the main house—the only structure still dark on the property. As soon as the alarm had gone out that those guarding the cattle would need help, every home on the property had come to life—with the exception of Marguarita’s home. He could have touched her with his mind—certainly every cell in his body needed her, needed that deep connection—but he refused.
    The moment he touched her, he would feel. Fear mounting to terror would crawl through his body—fear that she would regret her choice, fear that she would want to sever the ties between them. Standing alone in the middle of the empty, burned field, he didn’t have to feel anything.
    Behind him he heard Cesaro shout. The massive herd sounded like thunder approaching. Cesaro, Julio and two others were trying to turn the running animals. The steers were large, big muscular animals, heads down, eyes rolling as they pounded toward the fence separating Zacarias from danger.
    Cesaro fired his rifle into the air in a last-ditch effort to turn the cattle. They crashed into the fence with their broad chests, snapping wood like twigs. The cattle bellowed and bawled, dust rising into clouds as they tore through the fence.
    Zacarias could hear the shouts of Cesaro and his son, warning him to run. He turned to face the huge steers, one hand in the air. Allowing the predator to rise to the surface, he hissed a warning into the air between them, pushing the scent of dangerous predator with it. He sent that intimidating threat in a straight line out just feet from him, a long wall of deterrent.
    The