Carpathian 22 - Dark Predator

was a child. It was possible she was born psychic, but much more likely she was mage-trained in order to cast a spell powerful enough to entrap him. “Go on.”
    Cesaro looked more puzzled than ever. “When she was fifteen, a jaguar spooked the herd and the cattle crashed through a fence and ran straight for the children playing soccer. Marguarita stepped in front of them and somehow the cattle veered away from everyone there. They slowed down and stopped without direction.” His eyes met Zacarias’s once again. “She walked right toward the jaguar and waved me off from shooting it. After a couple of minutes with the two staring at one another, the cat slipped back into the rain forest and we never saw it around here again. Not even tracks.”
    “What do you know of her mother?” If her father had been a cousin of Cesaro’s, perhaps the mother had been mage. There had to be an explanation.
    “Her mother was a Chevez from the hacienda in Brazil. You know their family.”
    He did know the Chevez family, better than he knew any of the others. They were definitely not mage-born, nor were any of them trained in casting spells. The Chevez women had protections placed in their minds from birth. They would be impossible for a vampire to possess or manipulate, not without killing them.
    Zacarias closed his fist tight once again as his mind reached for Marguarita. He exercised great discipline to stop himself from touching her. His blood called out to hers. Or was it the other way around? The call was so strong. A compulsion. He swore under his breath in his native language. The woman was a menace.
    “If she bothers you, we can remove her from the hacienda during your stay,” Cesaro offered, obviously hoping Zacarias would agree to his proposition. “She has many aunts who would love to have her visit.”
    Another tremor rolled through the ground. Zacarias didn’t move a muscle. His tongue slid over the sharpened points of his teeth. His body ached. She had so many sins to pay for, yet he didn’t dare go to her—not when he needed to see her—to touch her. He refused to allow his mind to wander, to check, to touch. He was too strong and she could not defeat him.
    Cesaro flinched. “Señor,” he began uneasily.
    “Leave the woman to me.”
    “I don’t understand you. Marguarita is a good girl. She’s loved by everyone here. The vampire destroyed her vocal cords, so she can’t speak. If that distresses you . . .”
    “I do not get distressed.”
    The very concept of being distressed was foreign to him. But he was disturbed by the need to touch her. To be close to her. To touch all that warm, soft skin and alleviate the terrible craving she had set up for the exquisite taste of her blood.
    Cesaro stood up quickly as Zacarias’s body began to shimmer and grow transparent. “Wait. Please, señor, I need to know you will not harm her.”
    Zacarias turned glacier-cold eyes on the man. “Do not dare to presume to question me. This is my land. She belongs to me to do with as I will. I will not suffer your interference in this matter. What she has done is between us alone. Have I made myself clear?”
    Cesaro gripped the barrel of his rifle until his knuckles turned white. He swallowed hard twice before he very reluctantly nodded his head.
    Zacarias had no more time to waste on the man. What was wrong with everyone that they felt it was okay to question his judgment? Clearly a De La Cruz had not been in residence for far too long. His people had forgotten their vows of servitude and obedience. This was the very reason why he knew he was obsolete in the world. His ways were long gone. Kill or be killed wasn’t fully understood. The world labored under a false illusion that humankind was safe—that monsters such as vampires didn’t exist and evil wasn’t real. He knew better, but his day was long over.
    He dissolved and slipped out of the house, mixing with tear-shaped drops of rain as he made his way slowly back to the hacienda. Even in this form, where he was nearly undetectable, the animals in the stables stamped nervously. Despite his need to find Marguarita, he made himself take a slow sweeping circle around the property, looking for any signs the undead had tracked him to his lair. He needed to prove, not only to her, but to himself, that he was in control, not her.
    He had no doubt that one of the Malinov brothers would seek to retaliate after losing so many of their expendable soldiers in their