Dark Fire (3 page)

Desari sighed softly at the two territorial males measuring each other. "You two promised."

Instantly Julian leaned into her, his voice extraordinarily tender. "Is there a problem here?"

Darius made a sound of disgust, a rumbling growl deep in his throat. "Desari is my sister. I have always seen to her welfare."

For just a moment the golden eyes flickered over him, cold with menace. Then Julian's white teeth gleamed in a semblance of a smile. "It is true, and I can do no other than be grateful to you."

Darius shook his head slightly. He was still unused to tolerating the presence of any male not of his own small group. Accepting his sister's new lifemate traveling with them was one thing; liking it was quite another. Julian had been raised in the Carpathian Mountains, their native land, and though he had been forced into a solitary existence, he had had the benefit of years of training in their ways, of adult Carpathian guidance during his fledgling years. Darius knew Julian was strong and one of their people's most skilled hunters of vampires. He knew Desari was safe with him, but he couldn't quite relinquish his own role as her protector. He had had far too many centuries of leadership, of learning the hard way, through experience.

Some centuries ago in their almost-forgotten homeland, Darius and five other Carpathian children had seen their parents murdered by invaders who thought them vampires and carried out their ritual slayings: a stake through the heart, beheading, with garlic stuffed in the mouth. It had been a frightening, traumatic time as Ottoman Turks overran their village while the sun was high in the sky, just as their parents were at their most vulnerable. The Carpathians had tried to save the mortal villagers, standing with them to fight the invasion despite the fact that the attack had come when the Carpathian people were at their weakest. But there were far too many assailants, and the sun was too high. Nearly everyone had been massacred.

The marauding armies had then herded the children, mortal and immortal alike, into a straw shack and set it on fire, burning the youngsters alive. Darius had managed to fabricate an illusion to cloak the presence of a few of the children from the soldiers, a feat unheard of at his age. And when he noticed a peasant woman who had escaped the bloodthirsty assailants, he had cloaked her presence as well and forced a compulsion upon her. He embedded within the woman a deep need to flee and take with her the Carpathian children he had saved.

The woman took them down the mountain to her lover, a man who owned a boat. Though sailing the open seas was rarely attempted in that century, since tales of sea serpents and falling off the earth abounded, the marauders' cruelty was a worse fate, so the small crew took their vessel far from their shores in an attempt to flee the steadily advancing army.

The children had huddled together in the precarious craft, all terrified, all shocked at the hideous deaths of their parents. Even Desari, a mere infant, was aware of what had happened. Darius had kept them going, insisting they could make it if they stuck together. A terrible storm had come up, washing the crew overboard, the sea rising up to claim the sailors and the woman as efficiently as the Turks had massacred the villagers. Darius had refused to yield his charges up to such a fate. Although still very young, he already had an iron will. Holding the image of a bird in their minds, he forced the children, as young as they were, to shape-shift with him before the ship went down. Then he had flown, clutching tiny Desari in his talons, leading them to the nearest body of land, the shores of Africa.

Darius had been six years old, his sister barely six months. The other female child, Syndil, was one. With them were three boys, the oldest four years of age. Compared to the familiar comforts of their homeland, Africa seemed wild, untamed, a primitive, frightening place. Yet Darius felt responsible for the safety of the other children. He learned to fight, to hunt, to kill. He learned how to exert authority, to take care of his group. Carpathian children did not yet have the extraordinary talents of their elders-to know the unknowable, to see the unseeable, to command the creatures and natural forces of the Earth, to heal. They had to learn these techniques from their parents, study under those who would teach them. But Darius didn't allow those limitations to stop him. Though he was just a little boy himself, he would not lose the children. It was that simple to him.

It had not been easy to keep the two girls alive. Female Carpathian children seldom survived the first year of life. At first Darius had hoped other Carpathians would come and rescue them, but in the meantime he had to provide for them as best he could. And as time passed, the memory of their native race and ways faded. He took the few rules imprinted on him from birth, what he could remember of his talks with his parents, and he devised his own ways and his own code of honor by which to live.

He harvested herbs, hunted animals, tried every nutritional source on himself first, often sickening himself in the process. But eventually he learned the ways of the wilds, became a stronger protector, and ultimately the group of children became much closer than most families, the only ones like themselves in their remote world. The few of their kind they had encountered had already turned, become the undead, vampires feeding on the lives of those around them. Always it was Darius who took the responsibility of hunting down and destroying the dreaded demons. His group was fiercely loyal to, fiercely protective of, one another. And all of them followed Darius without question.

His strength and will had carried them through centuries of learning, of adapting, of creating a new kind of life. It had been a shock to discover, a few short months ago, that others of their kind, Carpathian and not vampire, still existed. Darius had been secretly afraid that all males of his kind eventually turned, and he feared what would become of his wards if he did. He had lost all emotion centuries earlier, a sure sign a male was in danger of turning. He never spoke of it, always afraid the day would come when he would turn on his own loved ones, relying on his iron will and private code of honor to prevent such an outcome. Already, one of the males among them had turned, become the unthinkable. Darius glided away from his sister and her lifemate, thinking of Savon. Savon had been the second oldest boy, the closest of friends, and Darius had relied on him often to hunt or to watch over the others. Savon had always been his second in command, the one he trusted to watch his back.

He stopped for a moment beside a huge oak tree and leaned against the trunk, remembering that horrible day a few months earlier when he had found Savon crouched over Syndil, her body a mass of bite marks and bruises. She was naked, blood and seed seeping from between her legs, her beautiful eyes glazed with shock. Savon had then attacked Darius, going for his throat, ripping and tearing nearly fatal wounds before Darius had time to realize that his best friend had become what all the males feared becoming most. The vampire. The undead. Savon had brutally raped and beaten Syndil and was now trying to destroy Darius.

Darius had had no choice but to kill his friend and incinerate his body and heart, having had to learn the hard way how to destroy a vampire properly. For the undead could rise again and again from the most mortal of wounds unless certain techniques were used. Darius had had no one to instruct him in those techniques, only an eternity of instincts and mistakes to correct. After that terrible battle with Savon, Darius had lain for some time deep within the soil, healing himself.

Syndil had been largely silent in the months since, often taking the shape of a panther and staying with the other cats, Sasha and Forest. Darius sighed. It was only now that he could feel the deep sorrow sweeping over him for Savon, the guilt and despair that he had been unable to see it coming and find a way to help his friend. After all, he was their leader; he was responsible. And Syndil was like a lost child, with such sadness, such wariness in her beautiful dark eyes. He had failed her most of all, failed to protect her from one of their own, thinking in his arrogance that his leadership, the unity among them, would prevent the ultimate depravity one of their species could experience. He still could not look Syndil fully in the eyes.

And now he was breaking his own laws. But, he wondered, had he made up those laws so the "family" would have a code to live by? Or had his father told him of these matters? Or had they been imprinted on him before birth, as certain other knowledge had been? Had he been better friends with Julian, they might have shared more information, but for centuries Darius had always learned for himself, remaining self-contained, private, answering to no one, accepting the consequences of his own actions and mistakes.

Hunger bit at him, and he knew he had no choice but to hunt. The campground they had chosen to stay in for a few days was deep within a California state park, little used and, at the moment, empty. A highway ran close by, but he had spread an invisible warning net between it and the camp, creating a sense of oppression and dread in humans who might think of stopping there. It wouldn't harm the humans, just make them wary. Yet it hadn't deterred Tempest.

Darius thought about that as he shape-shifted on the run, his body contorting, stretching. Muscles and sinew soon encompassed a loose, supple leopard's powerful frame, and Darius loped silently through the forest toward a more popular campsite situated near a deep, clear lake.

The leopard covered the distance quickly, scenting prey, circling to stay downwind and low in the bushes. It observed two men fishing from the reed-covered shore, talking to each other in short bursts of speech.

Darius paid no attention to their words. In the body of the cat he slunk close to the ground. Carefully positioning each large paw, he crept stealthily forward. One of the men turned his head toward the sound of laughter coming from the campsite. Darius stopped, then resumed his slow-motion progress. His prey turned his attention back toward the lake, and in absolute silence the leopard edged ever closer, then crouched low, powerful muscles bunched and waiting.

Darius sent forth a silent call, enveloping the shorter of the two men, drawing his prey to him. The man's head went up, and he turned toward the leopard waiting in the brush. He dropped his fishing pole into the lake and began to lurch forward, one foot in front of the other, eyes glazed.

"Jack!" The other man grabbed the sinking pole, twisting around to stare at his friend.

Darius froze both men with a mind block and shape-shifted back to his own form as "Jack" approached the big cat. It was the only safe thing to do. He had found that the cat's hunting instincts made it dangerous to use its body to feed. The leopard's sharp canines pierced and killed its prey. It had taken several trial-and-error episodes on his part as a child, not powerful or skilled enough for hunting, to learn what was acceptable and what was not. Until he was grown he had had no choice but to use the leopards and their abilities, and he accepted the responsibility for the Africans who had died, for it was the only way he could keep the other children alive.

Now he kept the other man calm and accepting with the ease of long practice, a method perfected long ago. He bent his head and drank his fill, careful not to take too much. He didn't want his prey sick and dizzy. Helping the first man to a sitting position in the brush, he summoned the other one to him.

Finally sated, he slowly allowed his body to reshape. The cat snarled silently, its instinct to pull what appeared to be carcasses deeper into the trees and finish consuming them, blood and meat. Darius fought the urge and padded on cushioned paws back toward the touring bus.

His group now traveled together as musicians, modern-day troubadours, going from city to city singing, as often as possible, in the small local venues Desari preferred. The constant travel also preserved their personal anonymity even as their outward fame grew. Desari had a beautiful voice, haunting and mesmerizing. Dayan was a superb songwriter, and his voice, too, captured audiences and held them spellbound. In the old days the troubadour life had allowed them to travel from place to place without close scrutiny, and no one could notice or compare their differences from others. Now, with the world growing smaller, maintaining privacy from fans was a much more difficult feat. Thus, they made every effort to act and appear "normal," including using inefficient, imperfect, automotive travel. And thus their need for a mechanic to maintain their caravan of vehicles.

Darius made his way back to the campsite and shapeshifted as he entered the motor home equipped with every luxury. Tempest was in a deep sleep, due, he was certain, to the fact that he had been greedy in the taking of her blood. He should have tried to control himself, to deprive himself of the unexpected ecstasy of it.

Just looking at her made his body ache with a relentless, urgent demand he knew was not going to go away. He and this fiery little woman, would have to learn to strike some sort of balance. Darius was unaccustomed to opposition. Everyone always did as he bade without question. He could not expect a tempestuous human woman to do the same. He tucked the blanket more closely around her and bent to brush his mouth against her forehead. His thumb skimmed the softness of her skin, and he felt a jolt throughout his body.

Darius collected himself and directed a firm command to the leopards before stalking out of the bus. He wanted Tempest safe at all times. Though the cats slept the day away, as did Darius and his family, the leopards gave the troupe semblance of security, guarding the bus while the troupe members were resting and restoring themselves deep within the ground. He directed the cats' protective instincts to include Tempest above all.

Chapter Two

Vampire.
Tempest sat up slowly, wiping at her mouth with the back of one trembling hand. She was in the Dark Troubadours' touring bus, on the sofa bed, lost in a sea of pillows, a blanket covering her. The two leopards pressed close to her were sleeping. The sunlight was trying in vain to filter through the dark curtains covering the windows. It must be late afternoon, with the sun so low. She was weak, shaking. Her mouth was dry, her lips parched. She needed liquid of some kind, any kind.