Carpathian 23 - Dark Storm

an eye on things.”

3
    F ar beneath the surface, buried deep in the hot, rich, volcanic soil of the Andes,
     Danutdaxton woke to a steady pounding in his head and heat rising all around him.
     His eyes opened to the familiar darkness, the sting of sulfur in his nose and the
     stabbing hunger for blood beating at him with stony fists.
    Dax’s hands flexed as he checked his safeguards throughout the chamber. He was not
     alone. Another pounding wave of pressure slammed into him. Despite the pain, the attack
     made him smile with grim admiration.
    “Manners, my old friend,” he murmured.
    To his credit, Mitro Daratrazanoff was as relentless a foe as Dax was a hunter. They
     had pursued one another for countless centuries before being trapped in this volcano,
     and in the countless centuries since their entombment, they had continued their battle,
     never giving up, each constantly searching for a moment of weakness to exploit. The
     fight had become their entire existence. Hunter and hunted, predator and prey: their
     roles switched continually, but they were so well matched neither ever had the upper
     hand for long.
    Dax drew a breath and let the heat and pain and darkness wash over him. His body calmed.
     The ravenous hunger subsided as the heat and power of the volcano sank into his flesh,
     feeding him its energy, its strength. He drew sustenance from the earth, much the
     way a Carpathian drew sustenance from the veins of his human prey.
    Once, only blood could have assuaged his hunger. Once, only blood could have given
     him strength. But the last five hundred years of being locked in the heat and pressure
     at the heart of a volcano had changed him. He was no longer “just” Carpathian. He
     had become something different, something . . . more.
    Flesh and bone had grown denser, harder, less susceptible to injury. He had a much
     higher tolerance for heat and fire. He could probably stand in the heart of a bonfire
     without raising the slightest blister. His hair, once long and thick as most Carpathians
     wore it, had been singed close to his scalp, leaving a short, thick pelt, and his
     eyes could amplify the slightest light, enabling him to see clearly in nearly pitch-black
     conditions. And in caverns where not the smallest hint of light shone, he had developed
     the ability to see through other means. Heat signatures were clearly visible to him,
     and even in the coldest, darkest caves and tunnels, he could differentiate between
     the vibrations of energy in the rock and air and thus “see” his surroundings.
    Those vibrations whispered across his skin, as he woke fully from his healing slumber,
     his body shifting and stretching in the heated soil. Parting the soil with a wave
     of his hand, he rose from his resting place into the empty magma chamber above. Cracks
     in the hardened black rock revealed glowing orange lava bubbling restlessly in pools
     below that lit the chamber with a dim orange light.
    The earth rumbled beneath his feet, and the ground gave a sudden lurch that nearly
     knocked him off balance. Steam vented from the glowing orange cracks in the chamber
     floor, and with it came the familiar, decaying stench of evil.
    Dax’s muscles clenched. He’d grown used to the rumblings and movement of the volcano
     over the years, but this was different. The volcano was awakening. And Mitro was the
     one waking it.
    Another wave of pressure slammed into him, throwing him to his knees. The ground shifted
     and rolled. Dax steadied himself and sent feelers stabbing into the soil, trying to
     locate his ancient enemy. But the clinging, oily miasma of the vampire’s decay had
     saturated everything inside the volcano, making it impossible for Dax to track the
     evil back to its source. Mitro was here, working to break free of his bonds and use
     the explosive force of the volcano to free himself.
    For too many years, Mitro Daratrazanoff had fought to escape his prison. Dax had pursued
     him through the caverns and tunnels of the volcano, hunting, tracking, fighting to
     destroy him. And for the same amount of years, first Mitro spurned his lifemate Arabejila
     and then her descendents, who had come to the volcano once every five years to strengthen
     the bonds of Mitro’s prison and keep him contained until Dax could finally kill him.
     Without Dax constantly hunting him, fighting him, and without Arabejila and her descendents
     continually renewing the strength of Mitro’s prison bonds,