Drake Sisters 05 - Safe Harbor

the faces slowly dissolved as the forms blurred even more, until they were only wailing shadows, and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach eased even as his hunger grew beyond craving.

    He had a lifemate . He clung to that truth. Beautiful. Perfect. A woman born to be his mate. Born for him. His . Predatory instincts rose sharp and fast. A growl rumbled in his chest and the ever-present hunger raked deeper into his gut, clawing and biting with relentless demand. He had been without color for hundreds of years, a long, emotionless time that stretched on and on until the demon had risen and he no longer had the strength or desire to fight against it. He had been so close. Kills had run together and feeding had become difficult. Each time he had sunk his teeth into living flesh, felt and heard the ebb and flow of life in veins, he had wondered if that would be the moment his soul would be lost.
    Manolito shuddered as voices in his head once again grew louder, drowning out the sounds of the jungle. Little flashes of pain grew behind his eyes, burning and burning until he felt his eyes boiling. Was it the color? She , his lifemate, had restored color to him. Where was she? Had she deserted him? The questions crowded in fast and loud, mixing with the voices until he wanted to hit his head against the nearest tree trunk.
    The inside of his brain seemed on fire, as did every organ in his body.
    Vampire blood? It burned like acid. He knew because he'd hunted and killed hundreds.
    Some had been friends in his younger years, and he could hear them now, screaming in his head. Chained. Burned. Eaten by endless despair. His heart nearly burst in his chest and he sank down into the fertile soil where he'd lain, trying to sort out what was real and what was hallucination. When he closed his eyes, he was in a pit, shadows surrounded him and red eyes stared hungrily.
    Perhaps it was all an illusion. Everything. Where he was. The vivid colors. The shadows. Perhaps his wish for a lifemate was so strong he had created one in his mind.
    Or worse—a vampire had created one for him.
    Manolito. You have risen early. You were to remain in the ground a few more weeks.
    Gregori said to make certain you did not rise too soon.
    Manolito's eyes flew open and he looked warily around him. The voice held the same timbre as that of his youngest brother, Riordan, but it was distorted and slow, each word drawn out so that the voice, instead of resonating with familiarity, seemed demonic. Manolito shook his head and tried to rise. His body, usually graceful and powerful, felt awkward and foreign as he fell back to his knees, too weak to stand. His gut knotted and rolled. The burning spread through his system.
    Riordan. I do not know what is happening to me . He used the path common to only him and his youngest brother. He was careful to keep his energy from spilling from that path. If this was an elaborate trap, he would not draw Riordan into it. He loved his brother too much for that.
    The thought made his heart go still.
    Love.
    He felt love for his brothers. Overwhelming. Real. So intense it took his breath away, as if the emotion had been gathering throughout the long centuries, building in strength behind a solid barrier where he couldn't access it. There was only one person in the world who could restore emotions to him. The one he'd waited centuries for.
    His lifemate.
    He pressed his hand tightly to his chest. There could be no doubt she was real. The ability to see color, to feel emotion: all the senses he'd lost in the first two hundred years of his life had been restored. Because of her.
    So why couldn't he remember the most important woman of his life? Why couldn't he picture her? And why were they apart? WHERE WAS SHE?
    You must go back to ground, Manolito. You cannot rise. You have journeyed long from the tree of souls. Your journey is not yet complete. You must give yourself more time.
    Manolito withdrew immediately from his brother's touch. It was the right path. The voice would be the same if it wasn't playing in slow motion. But the words—the explanation was all wrong. It had to be. You couldn't go to the tree of souls unless you were dead. He wasn't dead. His heart was hammering loud—too loud. The pain in his body was real. He had been poisoned. He knew it was still burning through his system.
    And how could that be if he'd been healed properly? Gregori was the greatest healer the Carpathian people had ever known. He would