He stepped out into the rain, waving his hand to calm the storm he’d wrought with his attempt to punish the mortal woman. His breath hissed out of his lungs. He didn’t want to take that next step, to spread his arms and summon the harpy eagle for flight. He wavered, nearly transparent, mist and rain becoming one with him, one thing that normally soothed his dark soul, but the reluctance was still there. O ainaak jelä peje emnimet ηamaη—sun scorch that woman forever. She had done something to him.
Could she have been mage-born? Had she cast a spell to entrap him? Him? Zacarias De La Cruz? Impossible. He was too old. Too cunning. She didn’t stand a chance against him, pitting herself against his centuries-old power and experience. He had half a mind to go back into the house and indulge his craving again.
The thought brought the taste of her bursting through his mouth and a rush of heat through his body. Unfamiliar things bothered him. His reaction to Marguarita Fernandez was unheard of. No one, nothing roused his interest in centuries, and now, when he chose to end his life, she dared to disturb him. He would not go back to her trap, no longer be ensnared by whatever spell she cast. He would follow his own way, his own logic and she could wait on his convenience.
Zacarias took to the air. The wind rushed through him, through the mist that made up his body, so that he and air were the same—he belonged here—part of the earth itself. He’d developed the trick long years ago when he was so alone and in need of some small solace. Animals and man no longer welcomed him—not even his own kin. They feared him—as she feared him. But when he was mist, with the wind moving through his body, sending him drifting through the trees, he actually could feel accepted. Animals and man rejected him but the earth was a constant, steady companion.
Marguarita Fernandez was a puzzle he couldn’t get out of his head. The attack of the vampire on her must have unhinged her in some way. There was no other explanation for such blatant disobedience, such deliberate disregard of his direct order. No one would dare such a thing, let alone a little slip of a girl. She had to be a little ill, and if so, he had been a bit hard on her. Satisfied that he’d found the only logical conclusion to her strange and indefensible behavior, Zacarias took to the air to set things straight with her before he sought rest.
Marguarita stayed as still as she possibly could, freezing every muscle in place, terrified he would return. He walked so silently it was impossible to tell where in the house he was, but his presence was so powerful, so strong, she knew the moment he left. Only then did she cover her face with her hands and give into hysterical weeping.
She had never been so afraid in her life, not even when the vampire had demanded to know Zacarias’s resting place. She had accepted death and knew she would die with honor. This—this was a terrible, tangled mess she’d created. Everyone was at risk, everyone she loved. Everyone she knew. Because she hadn’t allowed a De La Cruz to die.
She knew the truth now. Zacarias had come to the hacienda to die with honor because he was close to turning vampire. She didn’t know the process, but she knew loss of honor was the one thing every Carpathian feared. He had risen vampire and she had done it.
She spread her fingers and peeked through them to the wastebasket where a hundred crumpled pages from her notebook gave evidence to the fact that there was no explanation. None. She didn’t know why she’d committed such a grave sin but she’d been unable to stop herself and now she’d created the very monster Zacarias had tried to avoid.
With a shaking hand she touched her throbbing neck, that spot that burned through skin to mark her bones. She swallowed hard and slowly pushed herself to her feet. Her legs felt like rubber and she couldn’t stop the tremors taking over her body. What was she going to do? What could she do? She could never—ever—face that monster again. But more than that, she couldn’t allow him to kill or use anyone at the hacienda. She’d done this. She was responsible and she had to ensure everyone’s safety.
She knew vampires made puppets—humans who did their bidding during the daylight hours when they slept. Puppets craved the blood of the vampire and feasted on flesh. It was a horrible half-life and eventually they rotted from the inside out. She would not be Zacarias’s puppet, no matter that she had been the one to cause him to lose honor. Certainly that hadn’t been her intention.
Marguarita moistened her dry lips and forced her body under control. She couldn’t go to Cesaro and Julio because they would try to defend her and they would definitely be killed. No one could stand up to Zacarias De La Cruz. If she went to one of her aunts, he would know. Her entire extended family worked for the De La Cruz family in some capacity or other. As she tried to make sense out of the situation, she yanked open drawers and stuffed the bare minimum of required clothing into a backpack.
She had to formulate a plan. Vampires were cunning, but they did have weaknesses. She couldn’t call in the hunters until she led Zacarias from everyone she loved. That much was certain. Vampires killed for the pleasure of it and she couldn’t risk anyone on the ranch. If she activated the call sign for a hunter, Cesaro would try to fight Zacarias. All of the workers would. She knew without a doubt she could lead him away from her family because Zacarias would follow her.
Fortunately, she knew the rain forest and she didn’t fear it as most did. She would disappear—and he would follow. She didn’t know how she knew that he would, but she did. He would find her eventually—and probably kill her—but she had no other real choice, not if she wanted to save her family. She would make her way down river to the next De La Cruz property—a collection of cabins used when moving cattle to various pastures—and she would call in the hunters from there. If they made it before the vampire found her she would be safe, if not, at least she’d saved her family.
She dragged on her boots and ran through the house to find her survival pack. She had a water-filtration system and tablets just in case it was needed, although she knew where waterfalls ran in abundance. She was an excellent hunter, so food wouldn’t be too much of a problem, but how was she going to keep Julio or Cesaro from trying to find her?
Marguarita bit down on her lip and tried to still her frantic thoughts. She had to think her escape through. Zacarias showed no interest in reading her note so perhaps it would be safe to leave one for Cesaro. She would have to word it in such a way as to reassure everyone without actually lying. She didn’t want them to be so foolish as to question Zacarias. They all needed to stay as far from him as possible. If she was very lucky she would get a good head start on him before he followed.
She forced air through her lungs and wrote a short note. I took your advice, Cesaro, and left for a few days. Will return shortly. Love to both you and Julio.
That wasn’t a lie. And it gave nothing away. Cesaro would be frustrated with her, but he would think she’d gone to one of her aunts. Julio . . . Now, he was a different matter. He knew her much better than Cesaro and he might consider something was wrong, but once his father reassured him that he’d suggested she go to her aunt in Brazil, he’d settle down and wait a few days to hear from her.
Satisfied that she’d done all she could to keep everyone safe, Marguarita went out her bedroom window. She didn’t trust the doors or the fact that Zacarias had gone out the front. She was not going to run into him by mistake. She remained crouched under the window, studying the dark sky with suspicion. Zacarias could be anywhere, in any form. The thought was both disturbing and terrifying. For a moment her heart raced, her blood roaring in her ears. She made herself breathe normally, afraid he might hear her thundering heartbeat.