Carpathian 23 - Dark Storm

his other hand cupped the side of her face. “I believe
     in fate, päläfertiilam . Mitro was meant to escape. I have no idea why. Maybe the Universe decided I deserved
     one such as you. If so, I am forever grateful to it. I am deeply sorry that you have
     to see the ugliness a vampire leaves in his wake.”
    Riley nodded her head, half mesmerized by him. One would think that with a war party
     headed their way, led by zombies . . .
    “Ghouls,” he corrected, in that same, soft, hypnotizing voice.
    They were talking war, and her mind was hearing something else. That slow drawl, like
     molasses, warm and comforting. He exuded such confidence that she couldn’t help but
     feel safe even when she was scared to death. He looked at her and touched her as if
     she was the most precious, beautiful woman in the world.
    Dax had only known violence for most of his existence. He’d seen things most people
     couldn’t comprehend and yet, with her, he was unfailingly gentle, tender even.
    She nodded her head. “I can do this.”
    “I know you can,” he agreed.
    The cry of a bird and a shout from one of the villagers snapped them both back to
     attention. They turned to peer through the leafy wall and found that the first of
     the oncoming attackers had spilled like insects into the encampment clearing. Some
     of the attackers carried bloody spears and machetes; others held nothing but branches
     and rocks. Quickly they broke into two groups, each heading for one of the tents.
    Riley watched as they tore the first tent to pieces. One of the eight, who had accompanied
     the first group, became enraged upon finding the tent empty. In a fit of fury, he
     shoved his spear through the closest person. Pools of black blood spilled out upon
     the ground as the wounded man screamed and fell to his knees.
    Dax pulled her close. “Riley, go. You don’t have to see this. I asked you to build
     the wall because most of the villagers from our camp came from the village Mitro destroyed.
     They don’t need to see what I’m going to do, and you don’t, either.”
    Her heart felt heavy, almost too heavy for her to bear what was going to happen. She
     studied his face. No expression. His eyes looking into hers, going almost blank. It
     was his heart she felt when he refused to feel it. Riley raised a hand to his face, cupping
     his jaw. “Do what you have to. I’m not going anywhere.”
    Dax’s hand lingered for a moment, and then a chorus of bone-grinding noises rose from
     the gathered attackers. Dax pressed a quick, hard kiss on her lips, then turned and
     disappeared into a cloud of mist that blew through the foliage. Riley stepped close
     to the wall, and with a touch of her hand, the entangled branches parted so she could
     see through the wall to the encampment beyond. Her heart dropped as she realized every
     enraged face was turned her way, looking straight at her as if the dense thicket of
     leaves and branches was invisible. The group charged.
    Riley stumbled back in fear, but then the men leading the charge tripped over something
     and went down hard. The ones who followed either were stumbled over or tried to jump
     their downed companions. Shocked, Riley moved back to the small hole she’d made in
     the wall. As she watched, a man jumped over one of the fallen, and was caught midleap
     by Dax, who was moving so fast, he was little more than a blur. His foot landed on
     the fallen man’s neck, breaking it with a crack at the same time he snatched the other
     man out of the air. Bones crunched again as the leaping man’s head twisted nearly
     180 degrees. The limp body dropped to the ground; all she could see was a blur darting
     from one end of the encampment to another. And everywhere the blur went, bones cracked
     and bodies dropped like heavy sacks and did not move again. The trail of corpses made
     it easier to see where Dax had been rather than what he was doing.
    He moved faster and faster, dispatching one possessed villager after another until
     there was no one left but the eight, scalp-bedecked leaders she had identified earlier.
     The killing field fell silent. Tears spilled from her eyes. The once-peaceful camp
     was now littered with bodies, men and women who would never return to the ones who
     loved them. Horror and sorrow at the loss of life welled up inside her. Then Dax returned
     to the center of the camp, and waited, alone and unafraid, as the eight leaders of
     the mob circled him.
    Seeing