Carpathian 22 - Dark Predator

lead animals abruptly turned, swinging around in a semicircle, suddenly more afraid of what was in front of them than the animals pounding behind them. More animals rushed toward him, but the scent of danger was overwhelming. It didn’t take long for the cattle to become confused, bawling and slowing, circling, allowing the cowboys to take control.
    Julio rode closer. The horse danced sideways, trying to get away from Zacarias. “The pilot, Lea Eldridge, isn’t one of us. She saw things I can’t explain to her.”
    Zacarias nodded his head. Julio remained stationary, controlling his horse with his knees and hands. Zacarias arched an eyebrow in inquiry.
    “It’s just that she saved Ricco’s life and she’s Marguarita’s friend.”
    Julio’s voice told Zacarias much more than Julio was prepared to give away. He might say the woman didn’t belong in their part of the world, but secretly, he wished she did.
    “I will be careful which memories I remove when the time comes,” Zacarias said.
    “Are you all right?”
    “Why do you ask?”
    Julio hesitated. “Your eyes, señor , they’re glowing. Do you have need of . . .”
    Zacarias shook his head. Destroying the undead took a toll on every hunter. The taking of lives was not done lightly or without consequence. Julio already feared him—all the workers did—even Cesaro. He couldn’t explain the dangers he faced each time he took a life—even that of the vampire. Taking blood was a temptation, a very dangerous one after the taking of lives. He inclined his head in thanks, and then turned away from the man. In truth, he turned away from the sight of the nervous horse.
    Marguarita had pointed out that the Peruvian Paso, at least those bred on his ranch, were bred for temperament as well as abilities. They were renowned for their steady natures in the face of adversity. He’d finally been able to ride, flowing over the ground, his spirit connected to the animals, yet now, the horse didn’t even recognize he was the same person. The killer was far too close to the surface.
    Zacarias turned away from the battlefield, the lingering smoke and drifting scent of death, and walked back to the main house—back to her. Marguarita. Susu —not his birthplace, but home was a woman he called päläfertiil —lifemate. The only place he could find peace was in her. The only time he truly came alive was with her. The only way he could leave the half world of shadows was by filling his empty spaces with her bright light. Marguarita was sívam és sielam —his heart and soul. There was no getting around the fact that without her spirit brushing his, he had no heart or soul, just places that were now sieves, filled with millions of holes no longer connecting to anything worth saving.
    He hadn’t wanted this. He was too far gone and, while he’d been searching for the undead, a solitary hunter, living in strict isolation, the world had long since passed him by. He didn’t understand modern ways. So many centuries of walking the earth hunting prey had kept him remote, removed from other species. He knew nothing of humans and certainly nothing of women, but after feeling her inside of him, after being inside of her, there was no going back.
    He walked the worn path to the front steps, noticing the flowers and shrubbery. All were a dull gray, no bright colors for him until he stepped inside and joined his mind to Marguarita’s. A part of him resisted this new path, but she was already a drug in his system, an addiction he couldn’t defend against. He needed the vivid colors, the rush of emotion, the pure pleasure he’d never experienced. Marguarita was laughter and frustration. She was an intriguing puzzle he couldn’t solve.
    He walked up the stairs, a simple act, yet something inside him, something hard and edgy seemed to settle. He felt her close. She was still closed to him and he didn’t allow his mind to seek hers. He needed to see her face—to know that she could accept this part of him. He was the predator the animals recognized. He knew his face was honed in battle, rough and etched with the stamp of a killer. His eyes would still be glowing, his canines would be sharp and a little extended.
    She had to see him as he was. It was difficult to accept the Carpathian, but the hunter was terrifying. He had no idea what he would do if she rejected him. Take her off to his lair and try to find a way to make her happy, perhaps? Impossible. He shook his head, his