Smith felt something take a firmer hold on his mind. This was not the same as the demand for information. This was an attack by an alien being, a grip of steel that felt as if it would crush his very skull. Smith cried out, whirled to face the broken man lying so seemingly helpless before him. The eyes were open, staring at him, pain-filled, malevolent even, but his victim appeared near death. The vampire had assured Jeff that this one was quite paralyzed in body and mind, that he could feel the pain inflicted upon him but could not cry out for help to others of his kind or harm the humans in any way.

Smith picked up a knife, still crimson with the victim’s blood, and took a step toward the bloody coffin. Instantly he was slammed against the wall by an unseen force, and the knife twisted toward him. Screaming, Jeff dropped the weapon. His head buzzed with pain. Whatever it was, was outside, demanding that he open the door. He clapped both hands to his head, trying to resist the compulsion, but his feet were already moving, obeying the unseen dictator.

The being snarled in impatience and applied more pressure. Jeff knew he was letting in his own death as he made his way up the rotting stairs to the heavy door. His every step brought those razor-sharp teeth closer and closer to his throat. But he couldn’t stop himself. The being sent the clear picture to his brain, yet he couldn’t stop himself. His hand was on the door. He shoved.

The wooden door exploded upward, and two clawed hands seized him, dragged him into the pouring rain. Thunder cracked, and a bolt of lightning hit a tree, split it in two with a deafening sound. A shower of sparks erupted. The earth fell away as Jeff was jerked skyward. He recognized the face now, the man he had once tortured for days. The man they had purposely buried alive seven years earlier.

Those black eyes had promised death, had haunted him for years, and now they were ice and fire, rimmed with red. Teeth gleamed white, sharp and dripping. Jeff screamed as the hot breath burned his neck. He felt the teeth tearing into his flesh, exposing his jugular. Hot liquid spilled down his chest, and he looked down to see his own blood spraying out. And then the creature was consuming him while his heart stuttered to stay alive and his mind cried out for another chance.

All around him the ghosts of the women he had raped and killed, the men Donnie had encouraged him to torture, floated into his mind. The rain beat down on his upturned face. The creature dropped him into the mud with a sickening thud. Jeff squirmed, tried to crawl, turned his head to see a wolf approaching from the timberline. He tried to make a sound, but there was only a gasping wheeze.

Jacques crouched down and looked him in the eye, completely dispassionate, watching the glaze creeping into the depths of Jeff Smith’s staring eyes. “You go to a hell you deserve, human,” he whispered contemptuously into the dying man’s mind.

Jacques stayed crouched beside the man, red flames burning in his eyes, the demon in him roaring and hungry for retribution. He knew Byron was trapped in the cellar, that this human and his friends had tortured the Carpathian male just as they had tortured him years earlier. Adrenaline and power pumped through his body.

Mikhail paced back and forth nervously. Jacques was more animal than man, acting on the age-old instinct of the predator. Low growls continually rumbled in his throat, something Mikhail was certain his brother was not even aware of.

Jacques bent low, caught the bloodstained shirt, and dragged the human closer, his need for death erupting. The call was wild and strong. Every word Shea had spoken concerning this man and his partner and what they had promised to do to her echoed in his mind. The need of the Carpathian male to protect his mate and the hunger for retribution urged him to feel every moment of the taking of life.

Mikhail could see the war raging in Jacques. It would be a difficult thing for him to live with, the taking of blood during a kill. Gregori and he had both done it, but the rush was addicting and dangerous. In Jacques’ state, it could be forever damaging. He approached cautiously. “Jacques, do not do this thing. You have too much to lose.”

Jacques whirled on him, baring teeth, a warning rumble bringing Gregori to once again insert his body between them. “Leave him, Mikhail. If he makes the kill and consumes the rest of the idiot’s blood, it is only what they owe him. He is no longer a child you must protect.”

Mikhail swore, angry with Gregori for dismissing the urgency of the act. Too many had been lost at just such a moment. Mikhail had thought Jacques lost to him once; he did not want it again. He also knew Gregori well enough to know he would have to try to go through the ancient’s body to get to his brother. Gregori believed Jacques a danger to all of them. With a sigh he resigned himself to the inevitable.

Gregori watched the fight go out of Mikhail and turned his attention to Jacques, simply waiting for the decision to be made.

Jacques smelled the beckoning blood. His hunger was sated, but the taste of fear and adrenaline, the need for revenge, were burning in him. The rushing high consumed him, yet the cool wind that was Shea anchored him to reality. His body shook with the need to consume while he killed, to feel the life seep out of the man. Reluctantly, he allowed the man’s shirt to slip from his fingers. Jeff Smith could die at his own pace, and Jacques would forego the ultimate power of the kill. He took a slow, deep breath and moved away from the broken body, watching his brothers, the wolves, move toward his victim. He shook off the demon, fighting every inch of the way to get himself back under control. It took long moments before he was able to see the two Carpathians as friends instead of enemies.

Gregori nodded at him, then turned and entered the cellar cautiously, inhaling the stale air, careful of any hidden traps. The place smelled of blood and fear, sweat, and the stench of burned flesh. Byron lay in a blood-splattered coffin, his body a thousand cuts and raw, charred flesh. His eyes found Gregori immediately, became anxious and desperate. Gregori tried to reach him on the common path of Carpathians, but Byron’s mind was frozen; it was impossible for him to move or communicate. But for the desperation in his eyes, Gregori would have dismissed the cellar as harmless to any of their kind.

Jacques entered the place of death uneasily, the stench sickening him. He caught the warning Gregori silently sent him and did not approach the form in the coffin. It was too easy. The vampire had known they would come, and Jeff Smith had been an unsuspecting sacrifice. The other two humans had probably known it also.

What do you think?Gregori wanted to know.

Jacques had to fight to keep himself under control. His body shook continually, and the need to kill was still burning brightly in him. It was hard to think, to concentrate. He was aware of the wolves outside and the joy in them as they tore into the carcass. He felt connected to their simple way of life. They called to him to join them, to hunt and feed.

What do you think, Jacques?Deliberately Gregori used his name to call him back from the need to run wild, to hunt and kill and be truly free.

Something is not right.Jacques had no idea what it was, but he was certain there was hidden danger.

Byron’s eyes were eloquent, obviously trying desperately to communicate something. As Gregori stepped closer, he seemed more agitated, the blood spewing from his wounds.

“Be calm, Byron, go to sleep. No vampire is going to catch us in his trap. Mikhail waits outside. There are three of us.” Gregori’s voice was beautifully pitched, pure and soothing. “Drift off, slow your heart, and allow your body to hibernate. I will take you somewhere safe to heal. My blood is powerful. You will heal quickly.”