Water Bound (55 page)
Authors: Christine Feehan
He needed a woman who, when it was just the two of them, would follow his lead, who would be feminine and fragile and all the things she couldn’t be during the times they would have to fight. And he wanted that side of her completely to himself. It was selfish, maybe, but he had never had anything for himself, and his woman was for him alone. He didn’t want other men to see her the way he did. He didn’t want her to look at other men. She was for him alone, and maybe that was what a dream really was-building the perfect woman in your mind when you knew you’d never have one.
He saw her fighting skills easily. He saw the battle scars. He could respect and admire her when he walked with her, yet he couldn’t really see her image for so long. In dreams she came to him, shielded by a heavy veil, their exchanges in images more than words. It had taken a long time for either to reveal other than the warrior. They’d built trust between them slowly-and he liked that in her. She didn’t give her allegiance easily, but when she did, she gave it wholly. And it was to him.
Again he found himself smiling inside at such a ridiculous fantasy at his age. It must be a sign of his mind deteriorating. Senility had set in. But how he missed her, when he couldn’t bring her to him. She seemed closer there in the heat of the forest, with the rain coming down in silvery sheets. The veil of moisture reminded him of the first time he’d managed to peer through that haze in his dream and see her face so clearly. She’d stolen his breath. She’d looked so frightened, as if she’d deliberately revealed herself—finally taken a chance, but stood trembling, waiting for him to pass judgment on her.
At that moment he’d felt the closest to actual love that he ever had. He tried to compare the feeling with what he’d felt for his sister Rhiannon, in the early days when they’d all been happy and he had still had his emotions. He’d held on to the memory of love all those centuries, yet now, when he needed the feeling to complete his dream, before he went out fighting, the feeling was entirely different.
Feeling. He turned the word over and over in his mind. What did it mean? Memories? Or reality? And why would his memories be so sharp all of a sudden, here in the forest? He smelled the rain, inhaled the scent of it, and there was an edge of pleasure to the sensation. It was frustrating, to almost catch the feeling and yet have it elude him. It wasn’t simply a by-product of ingesting the vampire blood—he’d begun “dreaming” much earlier. And the dreams took place while he was awake.
He was suspicious of all things that didn’t make sense. He wasn’t a man prone to dreams or fantasies, and this mythical woman was becoming too much a part of his life—of him. She was tricking him into thinking she was a true lifemate, a reality instead of a myth. Yet here in the land where myths and legends came to life, he could almost convince himself she was real. But even if she was, it was far too late. The continual pain clawing at his belly told him his time had run its course and he had to carry out his plan to infiltrate the enemy camp, gain their plans, send them to Zacarias De La Cruz and then kill as many as he could before he went down. He chose to go out fighting for his people.
He shifted, taking the form of the lord of the skies—the harpy eagle. The bird was larger than normal, and the harpies were large birds. His wingspan was a good seven feet, his talons enormous. The form would help to protect him as he went into the sunlight before reaching the relative shelter of the canopy. He hopped on the ground into the sunlight. In spite of the heavy rain, the light burst over him. Smoke rose from the dark feathers, pouring off even the bird’s form. He’d suffered burns and his body remained ravaged with the scars, although they’d eased over time, but he would never forget that pain. It was branded into his very bones.
Sucking in his breath sharply, he forced himself to spread his wings and rise toward that hideous burning mass of heat. The rain sizzled over him, spitting and hissing like an angry cat, as the large bird took flight, wings flapping hard to get height and take him into the trees. The light nearly blinded him, and inside the eagle, he shrank away from the rays, no matter how diffused by the rain. It seemed to take forever to cross the thirty feet, although the bird was in the trees almost immediately. It just took a few moments to realize the sun was no longer directly on the feathers. The hissing and spitting gave way once again to the calling of the birds and monkeys, this time in sharp alarm.
Below him, a porcupine dropped the figs he’d been dining on as the shadow of the eagle passed overhead. Two female spider monkeys, drunk on fermented fruit, stared up at him. The Amazon forest passed through eight borders, extending through the countries with its own diverse life forms. A silky anteater, climbing in the branches of a tree, paused to gaze at him with a wary eye. Bright red and blue macaws called warnings as he passed overhead, but he ignored them, expanding his circle ever wider to take in more and more territory.
The eagle moved noiselessly through the forest, as high as the canopy would allow, without emerging above it, covering miles. He needed the shelter of the twisted limbs and heavy foliage to block the light. With the eyes of the harpy eagle he could see something as small as an inch from more than two hundred yards. He could fly up to speeds of fifty miles per hour if he was in open territory, and drop with dizzying speed if needed.
Now, eyesight was the primary reason for having chosen the eagle’s form. He spotted hundreds of frogs and lizards dotting the branches and trunks as he swept by. Snakes coiled along twisted limbs, hiding among blossoms drenched in rain. A margay shrank deeper into the foliage of a tall kapok tree, its large eyes fixed on prey. The eagle dipped lower, inspecting the overgrown vegetation. Limestone blocks lay half buried in debris, strewn about as if by a willful hand. A sinkhole shimmered with blue water, testifying to an underground river.
The eagle continued to expand his circle, taking in more and more miles, until he found what he was looking for. The bird settled high in the branches of tall tree on the edge of a man-made clearing. A large building made of steel and bolts had been brought in piece by piece and constructed sometime in the last year. Growth around it had been encouraged, presumably with an eye to hiding it, but there hadn’t been enough time for the forest to reclaim lost terrain.
Something had blown a hole through the metal from the outside, and a fire had started. The smell of smoke couldn’t mask the stench of rotting flesh rising to make his skin crawl even deep within the form of the bird. Vampire. The scent was there, although faded, as if many risings had gone by since the undead had visited this place. Still, the wail of the dead rose from the surrounding ground.
The right side of the building was blackened and the hole gave glimpses of the interior. A very recent battle, perhaps in the last couple of hours, had taken place here. The sharp eyes of the eagle could see the furniture overturned inside, a desk and two cages. A body lay on the floor, un-moving.
Outside, two men—human, he was certain—stood outside the building in combat gear, large guns strapped to their shoulders. One tipped a bottle of water to his mouth and then stepped back into the relative shelter of the doorway, trying to avoid the steady rain. The second stood stoically, the water drenching him, as he said a few words to the first guard, before moving on to circle the building. Both watched vigilantly, and the guard in the doorway favored his left leg, as though he’d been injured.
The eagle watched, motionless, hidden in the thick, twisted branches and umbrella leaves up above the clearing. It wasn’t long before a third man appeared, coming out of the forest. Naked, he was thick-chested with stocky legs and heavily-muscled arms. He carried another man over his shoulder. Blood streamed down his shoulder and back, although it was impossible to tell if it was from the unconscious man or him. He staggered just before he reached the door, but the guard didn’t move to help him. Instead, he stood to one side, the muzzle of his gun barely raised, but enough to cover the newcomers.
Jaguar-men. Shapeshifters. There was no doubt in Dominic’s mind. Someone had attacked this facility and done a considerable amount of damage. Obviously the human guard was leery of the jaguar-men, but he allowed them into the building. The second guard had hung back and covered the two shapeshifters, his finger on the trigger. Clearly it was an uneasy truce between the two species.
Dominic knew the jaguar-men were on the verge of extinction. He had seen the decline a few hundred years earlier and knew it was inevitable. At that time, the Carpathians had tried to warn them of what was coming. Times changed and a species had to evolve in order to survive, but the jaguar-men had refused the advice. They wanted to stay to the old ways, living deep in the forests, finding a mate, impregnating her and moving on. They were wild and bad-tempered, never able to settle.
The few jaguar-men Dominic had spent any time with had tremendous feelings of entitlement and superiority. They viewed all other species as inferior, and their women were little more than a vessel to carry offspring. The royal family had a long history of cruelty and abuse of their women and female children, a practice the other males viewed as example and followed. There were a few rare jaguar-men who had tried to convince the others that they needed to value their women and children, rather than treating them as property, but they were considered traitors and shunned and ridiculed—or worse, killed.
In the end the Carpathians had left the jaguar-men to their own devices, knowing the species was ultimately doomed. Brodrick the Tenth, a rare black jaguar, led the males just as his father and his ancestors before him had done. He was considered a difficult, brutal man responsible for the slaughter of entire villages, half-breeds he deemed unfit to live. It was rumored he had made an alliance with the Malinov brothers as well as the society of humans dedicated to wiping out vampires.
Dominic shook his head at the irony. Humans couldn’t distinguish the difference between a Carpathian and a vampire, and their secret society had been infiltrated by the very ones they were trying to destroy. The Malinovs were using both species in their war against the Carpathians. So far, the werewolves hadn’t come down on either side, staying strictly neutral, but they existed, as Manolito De La Cruz had found with his lifemate.
Dominic spread his wings and moved closer, tuning his hearing to catch the conversation inside the building.
“The woman is dead, Brodrick. She went over the cliff. We couldn’t stop her.” There was weariness and distaste in the voice.
A second voice, one filled with pain, added, “We can’t afford the loss of any more of our women.”
The third voice was lower, a growl of sheer power, stunning in the absolute authority it carried. “What did you say, Brad?” The voice conveyed a distinct threat, as if the very idea of any of his subjects having a thought of their own in some way made them a traitor.
“He needs a doctor, Brodrick,” the first voice hastily intervened.
Dominic watched as a large man dressed in loose jeans and an open shirt emerged from the house. His hair was long and shaggy, very thick. Dominic knew instantly he was looking at Brodrick, the ruler of the jaguar-men. His prince had decreed the Carpathians should leave the species to their own fate or else Dominic would have been tempted to kill the man where he stood. Brodrick was directly responsible for the deaths of countless men, women and children. He was consumed with evil, drunk on his own power and the belief that he was superior to all others.
Brodrick looked at the two guards contemptuously. “What the hell are you doing hanging out in the doorway? You’re supposed to be doing a job.”
The second guard kept his gun pointed in Brodrick’s direction even as the two human men moved in opposite circles, the one who’d been sheltering in the doorway, limping badly, confirming Dominic’s belief that he’d been wounded. Brodrick scowled up at the rain, allowing it to pour onto his face. He spit in disgust and stalked around to the side of the building where the fire had been. Crouching, he searched the ground. He was thorough about it, leaning down to sniff, using all senses to pick up the trail of his enemy.
Suddenly he sat back on his heels, stiffening. “Kevin, get out here,” he called.
The jaguar-man who had carried the wounded one hurried out, barefoot, but in jeans and pulling on a T-shirt that strained across his chest. “What is it?”
“Did you get a good look at whoever broke in and freed Annabelle?”
Kevin shook his head. “He’s a hell of a shot. He took out two guards, the bullets so close together, everyone thought only one shot had been fired.”
“There aren’t any tracks. None. Where the hell was he? And how did he know the precise place to blow the building to free Annabelle? There were no windows.”
Kevin glanced in the direction of the guards. “You think someone helped him?”
“What happened out there?” Brodrick gestured toward the forest.
Kevin shrugged. “We went after Annabelle. She ran through the forest toward the river. We thought maybe it was her man, the human she spoke of, coming to try to save her. We didn’t need weapons to fight him, so we both shifted. We’d be faster traveling through the forest than Annabelle, even if she shifted.”
It had been logical thinking, Dominic conceded from his lofty perch above them, but they’d lost the woman.
Brodrick shook his head. “How did Brad get shot? And where’s Tonio?”
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