“Like?” Shea prompted.
“Mikhail is the oldest living Carpathian. Gregori is only a quarter of a century younger. Aidan and his twin brother, Julian, are perhaps half a century younger. Byron and I are the next oldest. A couple of others are close in age, but they have lifemates and are not suspect. There is Dimitri, but he is far from this land. Only an ancient is powerful enough to cloak his presence.” Jacques didn’t realize how much he was remembering, but Shea did, and it made the sorrow of Rand’s betrayals easier to bear.
“But Rand could have found a way to do it,” Shea insisted. “It makes sense, Jacques. I don’t have to like it—in fact, I hate it—but I share his blood, and there isn’t another explanation. I sensed his presence in the forest because we share the same strain of blood. It has to be that.”
“You were so opposed to the idea before, Shea.” Jacques’ hand spanned her flat stomach. He couldn’t help himself, he had to touch her, reveled in his right to do so.
“I didn’t want to face it, Jacques. But I’ve had some time to think about this. It’s the only rational explanation. He wants me to be, and he’s hoping to keep me for himself, but he knows I’m not really Maggie. And he has to kill you. He wanted you dead and he wanted Raven dead and most likely Mikhail also.” Shea took a deep breath. “And Rand said something that bothered me, but I couldn’t remember what. I just put it together. He mentioned Byron. He shouldn’t have known that Byron was the one the humans had tortured. No one had told him, and Byron couldn’t communicate with him. So how did he know?”
Jacques’ black eyes glinted like obsidian. “I did not catch that. You are right. He did know of Byron. He named him.”
Shea shoved a suddenly shaking hand through her hair. Her eyes held endless sorrow as she looked up at him. “God, Jacques, do you know what that means? He must have been responsible for bringing my brother to Don Wallace and Jeff Smith. He was responsible for their torturing and killing his own son. Is that possible? Could someone really be that insane, that cold-blooded?”
“I am sorry, Shea. A vampire is not capable of any real feeling. The undead has chosen to give up his soul. He is wholly evil.” Jacques could feel an unfamiliar lump blocking his throat. He could feel the heaviness in her heart. He admired the courage it took for her to voice her conclusions to him. “The reason the humans have such legends from the old times is because a few have experienced what a real vampire is capable of. I wish it was different. I would give anything to spare you this heartache.”
“I wish things were different, too, but I don’t think they are. And I think you’re in real danger. Even if Rand isn’t the vampire, he’s definitely a sick, bitter man, and he hates you. Please be careful. I don’t want him to hurt you.” Her large green eyes were alive with anxiety. She sat up, her arms circling his neck. “I want to put you on a shelf somewhere where no one can ever hurt you again.”
Jacques hastily broke the connection of their minds. Shea persisted in thinking him at risk. It simply did not occur to her, even after what she had experienced with him, what she had witnessed, that he could be the aggressor in the upcoming battle. That he might welcome the battle with his betrayer. That he would enjoy it. For all her knowledge of him, she still could not take in that he was a predator by nature. If that was what it took for her to accept their relationship, he was willing for the knowledge to come to her in slow stages.
To Jacques, that was the beauty of a lifemate’s bond. Everything was there for the taking, but it was up to the partner to do what they wanted with it all. Jacques knew he would fly to the moon and haul it down for her, walk on water or swim through hot lava if that was what it took to make her happy. Shea was his life, and they had centuries to get to know one another properly. She did not need to confront his killer instincts with- her every waking breath.
His palm cupped her face, moved lovingly to her slender neck, his thumb feathering over her soft skin. He ached with love for her. “I promise to be careful.”
“Really careful,” she insisted.
He found the hard edges of his mouth turning up. “Really reallycareful,” he clarified.
Her fingertip traced his smile. “I’m sorry I was so crazy about the healer giving me blood, but I really can’t stand it yet, even thinking about it. When we’re together, it seems different, something beautiful and natural, but the thought of anyone else—” Her stomach lurched, and she broke off.
Jacques’ mouth skimmed her face, settled on her lips for a brief, disturbing moment. “I understand. I am stronger now, little red hair. I can care for you properly.”
Her eyebrows shot up, and she frowned. “That isn’t exactly what I meant. Don’t go all macho on me. That would make me sicker than finding some cute human male to feed off.”
She was teasing him. Intellectually he knew it, but for a moment a red haze of jealousy clouded his mind. Rage welled up, and he forced it under control. He knew immediately that he was lucky she didn’t want to take sustenance from another man. Something in his fragmented mind, or perhaps it was his possessive nature, would not stand for it. No man, human or Carpathian, was going to be completely safe until he learned to control his fear of losing her. Jacques raked a hand through his hair. “I have a long way to go before I will be normal again.”
She burst out laughing. “No one has said you ever were normal, Jacques.”
He felt the flood of warmth at her teasing and basked in it. “Stay here, little red hair. Stay safe for me.”
She lay back, lazily reclining on the flat rock. Her bright red hair spread out around her like strands of silk. The clean lines of her nude body, her full breasts and tight, fiery curls beckoned to him. Jacques backed away from her. He was going to have to learn a lot about self-control over the next few hundred years. He turned abruptly and walked away.
Once through the small passageway leading back to the tunnel, he shape-shifted as he hurried through the maze of pathways. His body compressed, smaller, even smaller, until he was the very creature Shea was terrified of. Small wings took him gliding quickly through the network of tunnels, upward to the shortcut. It was a tiny chimney cut by centuries of water constantly trickling through solid rock. He charged up it and out into the night sky. Almost instantly his body reshaped itself in flight, taking on the larger, more powerful, and much more formidable shape of an owl. Razor-sharp talons and hooked beak, thick feathers and eyes that easily pierced the night, served him well. He winged his way over the forest canopy toward the cabin housing the three hunters.
Jacques had deliberately ordered their compliance. They would stay the night, unable to figure out why it was so important but unable to defy his hypnotic suggestion. He had taken their blood, directed their minds, and could call them to him at will. The hunters had not intended to stay, as the land was inhospitable to them and they were beginning to believe the superstitions of the locals. He knew the memories he had implanted would remain for as long as he wanted and that they would always answer his bidding if he so desired.
The beauty of the night, seen through the owl’s eyes, was incredible. Far below, on the forest floor, small animals scurried for cover. The green canopy blanketing the trees swayed and danced in the wind, a beautiful ballet. The breeze caught at feathers, lifted them and rushed at him with a feeling of sheer joy and power. He spotted the cabin below and swooped down toward it.
Almost immediately he realized something had to be wrong. No smoke came from the chimney, and on a night like this the three hunters would need warmth. The owl banked sharply and glided in, talons extended. He landed as a man, on his feet, his senses alert to any impending dangers, flaring out to scan the area. He caught no signs of life, but he smelled death. The stench was in his nostrils, along with the pungent scent of terror. Someone had died violently, and had known it was coming. Jacques moved carefully, cloaking himself against the sight of humans. He detected none in the immediate area—but then, he hadn’t found Smith or Wallace either. He could find no threat, yet he continued to move warily toward the darkened cabin.