Dark Predator

That look of such intense fear of their own brother should have given him pause, but he felt—nothing. He had taught these four men their fighting skills, survival skills. He had fought beside them for centuries. Looked after them. Led them. Once even had memories of love for them. Now that he had shrugged off the mantle of responsibility—there was nothing. Not even those faint memories to sustain him. He couldn’t remember love or laughter. Only death and killing.

“Move.” One word. An order. He expected them to obey as everyone obeyed him. He had acquired wealth beyond imagining in his long years of living and in the last few centuries he had not once had to buy his way into or out of something. One word from him was all it took and the world trembled and stepped aside for his wishes.

Reluctantly, far too slow for his liking, they parted to allow him to stride through.

“Do not do this, Zacarias,” Nicolas said. “Don’t go.”

“At least heal your wounds,” Rafael added.

“And feed,” Manolito pressured. “You need to feed.”

He whirled around and they fell back, fear sliding to terror in their eyes—and he knew they had reason to be afraid. The centuries had shaped him—honed him into a violent, brutal predator—a killing machine. There were few to equal him in the world. And he walked the edge of madness. His brothers were great hunters, but killing him would require their considerable skills and no hesitation. They all had lifemates. They all had emotions. They all loved him. He felt nothing and he had the advantage.

He had already dismissed them, left their world, the moment he’d turned his back and allowed himself the freedom to let go of his responsibilities. Yet their faces, carved with deep lines of sorrow stayed him for a moment.

What would it be like to feel sorrow so deeply? To feel love? To feel. In the old days, he would have touched their minds and shared with them, but since they had lifemates, he didn’t dare take the chance of tainting one of them with the darkness in him. His soul was not just in pieces. He had killed too often, distanced himself from all he had held dear in order to better protect those he had loved. When had he reached the point that he could no longer safely touch their minds and share their memories? It had been so long ago he could no longer remember.

“Zacarias, do not do this,” Riordan pleaded, his face twisted with that same deep sorrow that was on each of his brothers’ faces.

They had been his responsibility for far too long, and he couldn’t just walk away without giving them something. He stood there a moment, utterly alone, his head up, eyes blazing, long hair flowing around him while blood dripped steadily down his chest and thighs. “I give you my word that you will not have to hunt me.”

It was all he had for them. His word that he would not turn vampire. He could rest and he was seeking that final rest in his own way. He turned away from them—from the comprehension and relief on their faces—and once again started his journey. He had far to go if he was to get to his destination before dawn.

“Zacarias,” Nicolas called. “Where do you go?”

The question gave him pause. Where was he going? The compulsion was strong—one impossible to ignore. He actually slowed his pace. Where did he go? Why was the need so strong in him, when he felt nothing? But there was something, a dark force driving him.

“Susu—home.” He whispered the word. His voice carried on the wind, that low tone resonating in the very earth beneath his feet. “I am going home.”

“This is your home,” Nicolas stated firmly. “If you seek rest, we will respect your decision, but stay here with us. With your family. This is your home,” he reiterated.

Zacarias shook his head. He was driven to leave Brazil. He needed to be somewhere else and he had to go now, while there was still time. Eyes as red as the flames, soul as black as the smoke, he shifted, reaching for the form of the great harpy eagle.

Are you going to the Carpathian Mountains? Nicolas demanded through their telepathic link. I will travel with you.

No. I go home where I belong—alone. I must do this thing alone.

Nicolas sent him warmth, wrapped him up in it. Kolasz arwa-arvoval—may you die with honor. There was sorrow in his voice, in his heart, but Zacarias, while he recognized it, couldn’t echo the feeling, not even a small tinge.

Rafael spoke softly in his mind. Arwa-arvo olen isanta, ekam—honor keep you, my brother.

Kulkesz arwa-arvoval, ekam—walk with honor, my brother, Manolito added.

Arwa-arvo olen g?idnod susu, ekam—honor guide you home, my brother, Riordan said.

It had been a long time since he’d heard the native tongue of his people. They spoke the languages and dialects of wherever they were. They’d taken names as they’d moved from country to country, even a surname, when Carpathians never had such names. His world had altered so much over time. Centuries of transformation, always adapting to fit in, and yet never really changing when his world was all about death. At long last he was going home.

That simple statement meant nothing—and everything. He hadn’t had a home in well over a thousand years. He was one of the oldest, certainly one of the deadliest. Men like him had no home. Few welcomed him to their fire, let alone their hearth. So what was home? Why had he used that word?

His family had established ranches in the countries they patrolled throughout the Amazon and the other rivers that fed it. Their range was spread out and covered thousands of miles, making it difficult to patrol, but having established a relationship with several human families, the various homes were always prepared for their coming. He was going to one such home and he had to cover the long miles before dawn.

Their Peruvian ranch was situated on the edge of the rain forest, a few miles away from where the rivers formed a Y and dumped into the Amazon. Even that area was slowly changing over the years. His family had appeared to come into the area with the Spaniards, made up names, uncaring how they sounded as it mattered little to Carpathians what they were called by others, not knowing they would spend centuries in the area—that it would become more familiar to them than their homeland.

Zacarias looked down at the canopy of the rain forest as he flew. It, too, was disappearing, a slow, steady encroachment he didn’t understand. There were so many things about modern times he didn’t understand—and really—what did it matter? It was no longer his world or his problem. The compulsion driving him puzzled him more than the answers for the vanishing environments. Little aroused his curiosity, yet this overwhelming drive to return to a place he’d been a few times was disturbing on some level. Because the drive was a need and he didn’t have needs. It was overwhelming and nothing overwhelmed him.

Small droplets of blood fell into the misty clouds surrounding the emergents, the scattered trees rising above the canopy itself. Beneath him, he could feel the fear of the animals as he passed. Below him a band of Douroucoulis, very small night monkeys, leaped and performed amazing acrobatics in the middle layers of branches as he passed overhead. Some fed on fruit and insects while others watched for predators. Normally they would screech an alarm as soon as the harpy eagle was spotted, yet as he passed over the family of monkeys they went completely and eerily silent.

He knew it wasn’t the threat of the large bird flying overhead that caused the forest to go so still. The harpy eagle sat still in the branches, often for long hours at a time and waited for the right meal. He would rocket down with shocking speed and snatch a sloth or monkey right off the trees, but he didn’t, as a rule, hunt in flight. The mammals hid, but snakes lifted their heads at his passing. Hundreds of dinner-plate-sized spiders crawled along branches, migrating in the direction he flew. Insects rose by the thousands at his passing.

Zacarias was used to the signs marking the darkness in him. Even as a young Carpathian, he had been different. His fighting ability was natural, bred into him, almost imprinted before birth, his reflexes fast, his brain working quickly. He had the ability to assess a situation with lightning speed and come up with a battle plan instantly. He killed without hesitation, even in his early days, and his illusions were nearly impossible to detect.

Darkness went deep, a shadow on his soul long before he’d lost his emotions and color—and he’d lost both far earlier than others his age. He questioned everything. Everyone. But his loyalty to his prince and his people was unswerving and that had earned him the undying hatred of his best friend.

He flew with strong wings, fast through the night, ignoring the wounds and his need of blood. As he crossed