Far away, a huge owl banked, circled a large, rambling house built into the cliffs, and approached it warily. As the bird landed on a stone gate column, folded its wings, and shimmered into human shape, the wolf pack in the surrounding woods began to sing in warning. Almost at once a man emerged from the house. Lazily he glided from the fog-shrouded verandah across the grounds to the gates. He was tall, dark-haired. Power emanated from his every pore. He moved with the grace of a great jungle cat, the elegance of a prince. His eyes were as black as the night and held a thousand secrets. Although there was no expression on his handsome, sensual features, there was danger, a quiet menace in the way he held himself.

“Byron. It is long since you have visited us. You did not send a call ahead.” No censure roughened the soft, musical, black-velvet voice, yet it was there in volumes.

Byron cleared his throat, agitated, his dark eyes not quite meeting the other’s penetrating gaze. “I am sorry, Mikhail, for my bad manners, but the news I bring is unsettling. I came as fast as I could and still cannot find the right words to tell you this.”

Mikhail Dubrinsky waved a graceful hand. One of the ancients, one of the most powerful, he had long ago learned patience.

“I was late going to ground this dawn. I had not fed, so I went to the village and summoned one of the locals to me. When I entered the area, I sensed the presence of one of our kind, a woman. She did not look as we do; she is small, very slender, with dark red hair and green eyes. I could tell she was weak, had not recently fed. Using our common mental path, I tried to communicate with her, but she did not respond.”

“You are certain she is one of us? It does not seem possible, Byron. Our women are so few, one would not be wandering unprotected, uncared for, at dawn, unknown to us.”

“She is Carpathian, Mikhail, and she is unclaimed.”

“And you did not stay with her, guard her, bring her to me?” The voice had dropped another octave, so soft it whispered with menace.

“There is more. There were bruises on her throat, ragged wounds, several of them. Her arms, too, were bruised. This woman has been ill-used, Mikhail.”

A red flame glowed in the depths of the black eyes. “Tell me what you are so reluctant to reveal.” The black velvet voice never hardened or increased in volume.

Byron stood silent for a long moment, then steadily met the direct, penetrating stare. “Jacques’ blood runs in her veins. I would know his scent anywhere.”

Mikhail did not blink, his body utterly still. “Jacques is dead.” Byron shook his head. “I am not mistaken. It is Jacques.”

The black eyes swept over Byron once, then Mikhail lifted his face, drinking in the night. He sent a powerful call along a familiar path and met emptiness, blankness, a void. “He is dead, Byron,” he repeated softly, a clear warning to end the subject.

Byron stood his ground, militarily erect. “I am not mistaken.”

Mikhail studied him for a time. “Are you saying Jacques misused this woman? Perhaps turned a human?” There was a low hiss accompanying the question. At once the power in Mikhail flowed from him to fill the air and surround them both.

“She is Carpathian, no vampiress. And she visited the local clinic’s blood bank. I do not know her connection to Jacques, but there is one.” Byron was adamant.

“In any case, Byron, we can do no other than find this mystery woman and protect her until such time as she is given a true lifemate. I will tell Raven I am going with you. I do not wish her to hear of Jacques.” That was spoken in the softest of tones, all the more menacing, an absolute edict.

Beneath the words was a darker promise. If Mikhail ever found Jacques alive, unable or unwilling to answer the call, swift and deadly retribution would follow. And if the woman was a part of it... Byron sighed and looked up at the sky as Mikhail dissolved into the fog. Wisps of clouds were beginning to move across the stars, and the land stirred restlessly, disturbed by an unseen danger.

Mikhail emerged from the mist already shape-shifting, his powerful body taking flight as he did so. Byron had never mastered the speed Mikhail had and was forced to change on the stone column before launching himself skyward. The larger bird glided silently toward earth, razor-sharp talons extended as if coming in for a kill. At the last moment it pulled up, wings beating strongly. The woman, how old?

Young. Twenty, maybe a little older. It was impossible to tell. She knew our language, I could tell, but she spoke in English. The accent was off. American contractions and way of speaking, yet I heard a hint of Irish brogue. She deliberately drew attention to us.None of their kind would do such a thing. I was forced to leave her, as she knew would happen. She was able to stay in the morning light longer than I was. I know she is not a vampiress or that would not be so.

The two owls raced across the darkened sky, carried the breeze with them. A low hiss heralded the building force of the wind. Below them, the trees swayed and dipped toward the forest floor. Small animals scurried nervously to their homes. Clouds drifted in, ominously blotting out the stars.

Shea’s arms were beginning to ache as she bumped her way over uneven vegetation. Her fingers had gripped the steering wheel so hard they were nearly numb. She was beginning to suspect she had somehow gotten lost when the truck bounced hard, splashed through a shallow creek, and she suddenly recognized the faint trail that led up to the old cabin. Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned onto it. The grassy track was pitted with holes and rough with rocks, but she was familiar with its twists and turns, and she made good time.

Twice she attempted to merge with Jacques, but he resisted her efforts. It worried her. She told herself he wasn’t in danger. She was certain she would know if the one called Byron had found him, yet she couldn’t help being afraid something was very wrong. She breathed an audible sigh of relief when she finally spotted the cabin. It took a few moments to pry her fingers loose from the steering wheel and stretch the tightness from the muscles in her legs. When she managed to slide from the cab, she stumbled, her legs unsteady.

The wind was beginning to pick up, tossing leaves and twigs around in tiny whirling eddies. Overhead the branches swayed and danced. Streaks of black and gray crossed the glittering stars, extinguishing them one by one. Clouds began to roll in, heavy looking and dark. Shivering, Shea glanced up, certain the storm was a portent of danger.

Hunger was gnawing, ever present, relentless. It seemed to worsen every day, her weakness growing if she didn’t have blood. Right now, though, nothing mattered except getting Jacques to safety. Squaring her shoulders, she moved to the porch. The cabin was dark; Jacques couldn’t open shutters or turn on lights. Shea unlocked and pushed open the door, anxious to see him.

Jacques was up, leaning against the wall. He wore a pair of soft cotton jeans and nothing else. He looked gray, gaunt, lines of strain carved deeply into his handsome face. The wound below his heart was trickling a steady stream of blood. His feet were bare, his thick mane of hair wild and tangled. A fine sheen of perspiration coated his body. There was a crimson smear on his forehead, and beads of scarlet dotted his skin.

“Oh, God!” Shea’s heart nearly stopped. She could taste fear in her suddenly dry mouth. “Jacques, what have you done? What were you thinking?”

She nearly leapt the distance separating them, not noticing how fast she was able to move. She could feel tears burning in her throat, behind her eyes. What Jacques was doing to himself was making her physically ill. “Why would you do this?” Her hands were gentle, tender, as she examined his gaping wound. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” Even as she caught him to her, the silliest thought ran through her head. Where had he gotten a pair of jeans that fit him? But it hardly mattered at that moment.