Dawn was streaking the sky by the time Shea managed to make the trip over the rough terrain to the nearest village. She needed fuel, herbs, sutures, various supplies, and, most of all, blood. Whole blood. She had always had to fight off fatigue during the daytime, but now it was more than simple fatigue; she was exhausted. She was terrified of being caught alone in her camper in such a weak state. She knew it would be virtually impossible to protect herself. More than anything else, she feared that something might attack Jacques while she was away.

Shea parked her truck at the village petrol station and slipped from the cab. Almost immediately she was uneasy, not certain why. Few villagers were out and about at such an early hour. She leaned casually against the truck, taking a long look around. She could detect no one, but she felt eyes on her, someone or something watching her. The feeling was strong. Lifting her chin, she forced herself to ignore her overactive imagination while she filled the truck, its reserve tank, and the two tanks for her generator.

The feeling of being watched became so strong, it made her skin crawl. Without warning something pushed at her mind. Not Jacques. It wasn't his familiar touch. Fear slammed into her, but she kept her cool, professional mask, her single-minded purpose to finish her tasks as quickly as possible. Whatever it was retreated, unable to penetrate.

Shea drove down the nearly deserted street and parked close to the small medical clinic. This time, as she slid from the seat, she searched the shadows around her carefully, using every sense she could. Sight. Smell. Hearing. Instinct. There was someone, something. It had followed her, was near. She could feel it, but she couldn't find it.

Jacques?

Shetouched his mind gently, suddenly afraid she was feeling something that was happening to him.

I am awaiting your return.

She sensed his tiredness. The morning light was even harder on him than on her. She hated being away from him.

I will come soon.

Shea took another deep breath and looked around, determined to find what was making her so uneasy. A man lounged lazily in the shade of a tree. He was tall, dark, and motionless, like a hunter. She felt the impact of his eyes as his gaze casually found her.

Her heart jumped. Who was he? Had Wallace found her so soon? Shea turned away. First, before anything, she had to complete her business. She dragged out her laptop computer and typed in the commands to access the clinic's blood bank. If she had to move Jacques, they would need supplies desperately.

In another moment, Shea felt silly. The door to the small general store across the street swung open. The short, stooped owner emerged, apron tied around his ample middle, a broom in his hand. He waved openly at the motionless figure beneath the tree. "Byron. Good morning to you. Bit early, isn't it?" She recognized the local dialect.

The tall, dark-haired man replied in the same language, but his voice was low, a beautiful tone. He stepped out of the shadows, young, good-looking. He flashed a quick, friendly smile at the grocer approaching him. Clearly they knew one another, were friendly. The dark-haired man was obviously no stranger to the area. Neither exhibited the least interest in Shea. She watched as Byron bent his head solicitously down to the older man, listening intently, his arm circling the shopkeeper's shoulders.

Shea breathed a soft sigh of relief. The feeling of being stalked was gone, and she couldn't be certain if it had been real or imagined. She watched for a moment as the two men moved deeper into the shade, until they were merely a dark shadow blending with the trees. Laughter floated back toward her. The taller, younger man bent his head even closer to the shopkeeper to hear every word. Hurrying into the store, she purchased from the shopkeeper's assistant an extra blanket and pillow, several blocks of ice, and some clothing for Jacques.

The small hospital was ready with her medical supplies, a friendly clerk asking about her mobile clinic, treating her like a valued client. Feeling slightly guilty, she completed her transactions quickly. She needed to get to her truck and find a dark area to sleep in until it was safe to return to Jacques. She rushed outside.

Light pierced her eyes like a thousand needles. Shea stumbled, then felt a strong hand close like a vise around her upper arm, preventing her from falling. Murmuring a thank you, she fumbled in her pocket for her dark glasses to cover her streaming eyes.

"What are you doing here alone, unprotected?" The voice was pitched low, the dialect and accent eerily similar to Jacques'.

Shea's breath caught in her throat, and she straggled for release. The tall, dark-haired man merely pushed her into the shadows, her back to the wall of the building, his large frame easily blocking hers. "Who are you?" he asked. "You are small and fair for one of us." His hand caught her chin so that she met the penetration of his sunglass-shaded eyes. "Your scent is familiar to me but elusive. How is it I did not know of your existence?" For just a moment satisfaction curved his mouth. "You are free. That is good."

"I don't know you, sir, and you're scaring me. I'm in a great hurry, so please let me go." Shea used her coolest, most disdainful voice, and she deliberately spoke English. The man was enormously strong, and it terrified her.

"I am Byron." He gave only his first name, as if that should be enough. "I am a male of our race, you a single female. The sun is climbing, and you did not give yourself enough time to seek refuge from the dawn. I can do no other than help you, offer my protection." He switched easily to heavily accented English.

His voice seemed to slide right inside her. He gave the illusion of being a gentleman, so friendly, yet he had not released her or moved even an inch to allow her to get by him. He inhaled, dragged her scent into his lungs. Suddenly his entire demeanor changed. His body stiffened. His fingers dug into her arm. White teeth gleamed a predator's flash of warning. "Why did you not answer me when I spoke to you?"

His words were low and menacing. The suave stranger was frightening.

"Let go of me." She kept her voice even, her mind working at top speed, looking for a way out. He seemed to hold all the cards, but...

"Tell me who you are," he demanded.

"Let go of me now." She lowered her voice, pitched it to a soft, hypnotic melody. "You want to let me go."

The stranger shook his head, his eyes narrowing, recognizing the hint of compulsion in her voice. He inhaled a second time, drinking in her fragrance. At once his face seemed to go still. "I recognize that scent. Jacques. He is dead these seven years, yet his blood runs in your veins." His voice crawled with deadly threat.

For a moment she was frozen with fear. Was this the betrayer Jacques had spoken of? Shea swung her head sideways to remove his fingers from her chin. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Let go of me now!"

Byron let out his breath in a low, venomous hiss. "If you wish to see another night, you will tell me what you have done with him."

"You're hurting me." He was drawing closer, leaning toward her neck, bending her backward like a bow as she tried to elude him. His breath was hot on her throat, and Shea gasped as she felt needle-sharp teeth pierce her skin. With a low cry she jerked sideways, her heart pounding.

Without warning he caught at the neckline of her shirt to examine the bruises at her throat. She could feel his puzzlement, his confusion. Shea took advantage of his momentary distraction. As hard as she was able, she brought up her knee and screamed for all she was worth. Byron looked so shocked, she nearly laughed. He had been absolutely certain she wouldn't want attention drawn to her. His hiss, a deadly promise of retaliation, was the last thing she heard before he melted away.

And he literally melted away. Shea never saw him move. One moment he was there, his body trapping hers against the wall, and then he was gone. A fine mist was mixing with the layers of fog covering the ground to about knee level.

Two orderlies came running, hearing her screams. Shea, holding her palm to the trickling wound on her neck to cover it, allowed them to soothe her, to assure her the animal she thought she saw lurking in the shadows was most likely a stray dog, not a wolf. They went off shaking their heads and laughing at how silly women could be.

Shea loaded the supplies into her truck, taking as much time as she dared. If the sun affected her, it had to be just as lethal to her assailant if he was like Jacques. It had never occurred to her that she might have to contend with a vampire. Don Wallace had been her nightmare; she suspected this was much worse. She packed the blood carefully in the center of her large cooler, surrounded by the blocks of ice. She had to find a way to get the blood to Jacques without leaving a trail for the vampire.

She waited, stalling now before she left. The sun climbed higher, touched her skin right through the thin cotton of her clothing. A wide-brimmed hat and her dark glasses provided relief. Still, Shea sensed it was safer to stay among people as long as she could; until her weakness left her she had no alternative but to seek rest in her darkened camper in the shade of the woods.

There was a push at her mind, a familiar path she recognized instantly with relief. Shea merged with Jacques. He was weak, what little strength he had leeched away with the rising of the sun. Shea was angry with herself for not making the effort earlier to reassure him. She should have known that he would feel her fear even from a distance.

You are well? Yes, Jacques. I'm sorry I didn't check in.

She made an effort to stay calm and hide her alarm from him. The last thing she wanted was for the wild man to attempt to rescue her. And she knew he would. He -would kill himself trying to get to her side.

You are in the sun. I feel your discomfort. It

was a reprimand of the sort she was becoming used to. The arrogance of command was creeping more and more into his voice as his health improved.

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and took the plunge. There was one of your kind here. At least I think he was your kind.

His reaction was explosive. Hot fury, fear for her, an almost uncontrollable jealous rage. Jacques forced himself to remain silent and hear her out. He knew his volcanic, intense emotions frightened her. They frightened him. Emotions were unfamiliar to him and could be overwhelming at times.

He recognized your scent, even called you by name. He demanded to know where you are. Please be careful, Jacques. I'm afraid I left you completely helpless. I think he'll search for you. Did he touch you? Take your blood? The

demand was imperious; she felt his black rage beating in her head.

She touched her hand to the oozing wound on her neck.

You would have known, she replied soothingly. Some of his helpless fury dissipated.

Where are you? I am safe for now, but he'll hunt me this evening, I'm certain of it. I don't want to lead him back to you. You will return this night to me. Straight to me. He cannot be allowed to touch you, cannot exchange blood. I'll be fine. It is you who must be careful, Jacques.

She tried to reassure him.

I'mafraid for you, afraid I will lead him to you, or while I'm gone he will find you. You do not understand the danger you are in. You must get to me.

Shea might not fully comprehend, but she could feel his conviction, his fear for her, and she shivered, remembering the strength in the stranger's grasp, his hiss of deadly promise. Don't worry, I'll come right away. Go to sleep now, Jacques. This is draining for you. Shea.

There was a moment of silence, of longing.

Come back to me. If you believe nothing else I have told you, believe I need you. I promise.

Shea put her forehead down on the steering wheel. She was so tired, and her eyes were swelling. The tinted windows in the cab helped to prevent blisters on her skin but wouldn't for much longer. Her body was slow and clumsy, only hope the vampire was already in his lair and unable to see where she went.

She drove into the mountains. At first, to save time, she took the road, driving as fast as she dared on the winding dirt track. When the sunlight became unbearable, she made her own road, following a deer trail, always climbing, seeking deep forest. The heavy canopy of trees gave some relief from the unrelenting sunlight piercing her skull. When her body was simply too heavy, she pulled into a particularly heavily wooded area and dragged herself into the camper. She had just enough energy to lock the door and place the pistol beside her hand before her body became lead. She lay as if paralyzed, her heart beating fast, terrified by her own weakness.

She needed Jacques, needed to touch that core of unbelievable power in him. She needed to touch his iron will. Shea pictured him in her mind, found it slowed her heartbeat. If she could just hold him, feel his arms around her. And then somehow, incredibly, she could feel his arms, all corded strength, closing protectively around her, hear his heartbeat, strong and steady, matching the rhythm of hers. Shea brushed his face with her fingertips, her eyes closed, her mind on every detail of his sensual features. They slept apart yet together, the uncomfortable sleep of mortals, always aware of the danger surrounding them, always aware of the leaden paralysis of their bodies. Shea, for the first time, experienced the power of holding a mind merge, of never being alone, the strength that came from two beings connected.

The long day passed slowly, the sun moving across the sky, shining brightly, hotly, then retreating just as slowly toward the mountains, sinking gracefully and colorfully into the sea.

The cave, only a few miles from Shea's cabin, was far beneath the earth. The narrow passage leading to the maze of underground chambers and steamy pools was twisted and nearly impassable in spots. In the smallest cave, beneath the rich soil, a single heart began to beat. Dirt spewed like a geyser, and Byron burst from deep within the ground. There was that brief moment of disorientation, and then his body shimmered, dissolved, became a mist streaming through the passageway and out into the darkening sky. Immediately the mist formed a large bird, and strong wings lifted the streamlined creature into the sky. It circled the vast forest area, high above the canopy of foliage, then took off as if shot from a bow.

Jacques, alone in the cabin, felt the disturbance even within the confines of the four walls. He felt the power vibrating in the air and knew something dangerous was searching for him. He kept his mind perfectly patterned as a human, aware if the other probed, he would believe the being in the cabin was human. He felt the dark, winged shadow pass over him, the swift intrusion of another in his mind, and then the being was moving away.

Jacques?

Shea's query was soft, worried.

He is close by.

She read his mind easily. Jacques wanted her with him, close, so he could protect her, so that no other male would presume to claim her as he had. He feared if she returned to him, she would come straight into the vampire's trap, yet Jacques could not bear the separation, could not leave her unprotected. His mind was beginning to crumble, fracture, and his need of her was great.

Shea leapt from the camper and flung herself into the driver's seat.

I will be with you soon.

She felt his smile all the way to her heart. Jacques was beginning to remember humor.

You really like that I go my own way and make my own decisions, don't you?

she teased him, wanting to keep his mind as stable as possible until she was with him to give him an anchor.

Do not bet on that, little red hair. Instant obedience is the ideal. You wish.

Shea found herself laughing in spite of being afraid. It was silly to feel so lighthearted when they were facing danger and a difficult move ahead. Where could they go on such short notice? By the time she reached the cabin, three or four of their precious hours would be lost.

Jacques stretched slowly, cautiously. His body protested sharply. Pain had been his world for so long that he allowed it to wash over him, through him. He could live forever with pain. He could not live without Shea. He dragged himself to a sitting position. The room lurched, spun crazily before righting itself. Almost immediately he could feel warm, sticky blood running the language of his people. He knew pain intimately, had forgotten gut-wrenching agony. It did not matter. Nothing mattered but that he protect his lifemate.

Shea drove like a woman possessed, finding trails where there were none, over rotting logs and into rocky ravines. Sometimes she made good time, other times she crawled. It was interesting driving at night. She no longer needed headlights. She could see as clearly as if it was day. The moonlight spilled down to bathe the trees and bushes in silver. It was beautiful, all colors of the spectrum vivid and detailed.

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.

He will come this night, and I must protect you.

"Not like this you won't. In case you haven't noticed, there's a huge hole in your body. You're putting far too much stress on those sutures. We have to lay you down."

He is coming.

"I don't care, Jacques. We can leave this place, travel all night if we have to. We have guns. Maybe we can't kill him, but we can slow him down." The truth was, Shea wasn't altogether certain she could shoot anyone. She was a doctor, a surgeon, a healer. The thought of taking a life was abhorrent to her. She wanted to patch Jacques up fast and get out of there. Avoiding trouble seemed easier than facing it.

He read her mind, her reluctance, easily.

Do not worry, Shea, I am quite capable of killing him.

He swayed against her, nearly toppling both of them to the floor.

"I'm not sure I consider that great news," she said between clenched teeth. Somehow they made it the few steps to the bed. "And if you could see yourself right now, you might not be so certain you could swat a fly."

Jacques stretched his long frame out across the sheets, never once making a sound. He kept his mind firmly closed, not wanting to share his agony with her. It didn't matter; Shea could see it clearly etched in his face, in the white lines around his mouth and the bleak emptiness in his black eyes. "I'm sorry I left you alone." She pushed back his thick mane, her fingers lingering in the blue-black strands. With a sinking heart she began gathering her equipment. Moving was going to hurt him all over again, and once more she would be the one causing him pain.

It is not you torturing me, little red hair.

"I know you think that, Jacques," she answered tiredly, haphazardly securing the red hair falling around her face in a clip at the nape of her neck. "I hurt you when I brought you here, hurt you when I operated on you without painkillers, and I'm going to be hurting you now." Shea shoved her tray of instruments close to the bed. "You're losing too much blood again. Let me stop this, and then I'll give you blood." She bit her lip hard as she blotted the welling red fluid and examined the open wound.

Outside the wind rattled at the windows, howled low, rubbed branches against the walls. The sound was disturbing, raising the hairs on the back of Shea's neck. A soft whisper, like the touch of death against her skin. Jacques caught her arm, staying her hand as she began repairing the damage.

He is here.

"It's the wind." She didn't believe it, but there was nothing they could do until she had closed his wound.

The wind rose to an eerie scream. Thunder cracked as a whip of lightning danced and sizzled across the sky. The heavy front door splintered, split. Shea whirled around, needle and suture clutched in her bloody hands. Jacques, bleeding and in agony, lying so pale and gray with scarlet beads of perspiration coating his body, attempted to sit up.

Two men filled the doorway. She recognized Byron, but it was the man in front of him who drew her terrified gaze. He was the most powerful individual she had ever encountered. His eyes glowed a feral red. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but Shea was far too panic-stricken to attempt to identify what. A cry of alarm escaped her. She whirled around and snatched up the shotgun.

Mikhail's burst of speed made him a mere blur. He easily wrenched the weapon from her hands and tossed it carelessly aside, his glowing eyes fixed on Jacques. A slow, venomous hiss escaped Mikhail's throat.

Jacques met that burning gaze squarely, his own eyes filled with black fury mixed with defiant hatred and murderous resolve. He tried to lunge at the heavier man, but Mikhail leapt back, seized Shea by her throat, and slammed her so hard against the wall that it knocked the breath from her body. Never had she felt such strength in a single hand. He held her above his head, pinned to the wall, his fingers literally squeezing the life from her.

The very air in the cabin thickened, heavy and vibrating with violence, with malevolence. Even as Byron roared a warning, a chair, seemingly of its own accord, jerked into the air, hovered, then shot across the room as if to crash against the back of Mikhail's head. At the last possible second the powerful man slipped his head to one side, avoiding the chair, which then slammed into the wall and splintered into pieces very close to Shea's face.

Mikhail turned to face Jacques, dragging Shea in front of him, his fingers digging deep into her neck. "What have you done to him?" he demanded, his voice low and crawling with menace. He shook her like a rag doll. His voice drooped an octave. Low. Insidious. It wrapped Shea in velvet.

Tell me what you did to him.

The voice was in her head, yet not on the same path Jacques used.

With her last ounce of strength she fought him, struggling for breath, struggling to keep him from pushing into her mind. Another chair flew at Mikhail from his left. A slight wave of his hand stopped it in midair. It hovered there for seconds, then dropped harmlessly to the floor. All the while those terrible fingers never left her throat, never let up that vise-like grip. He was crushing her easily, strangling her with one hand.

Shea was gasping, laboring to breathe. The room whirled, turned black, little white spots shooting at her from all directions. Jacques felt her losing consciousness, and the beast broke free, his mind a killing frenzy. He launched himself from the bed, a blurred streak of lethal fury, the need to defend Shea, to kill her attacker, paramount. Mikhail was forced to leap aside, releasing Shea, who collapsed on the floor, unable to do anything but lie there, desperately trying to breathe.

"Jacques." Mikhail's voice was low and compelling. "I am your brother. Do you not know me?" He made several attempts to touch the shattered mind, found only a ferocious need to kill. He glanced helplessly at Byron, a question in his eyes.

Byron shook his head.

Can you control him? There is no path, no fragment I can seize.

Mikhail had to streak across the room to avoid Jacques' next attack, two lamps hurtling toward his head at bullet speed. He reappeared in a far corner, raking a hand through his heavy fall of hair.

Jacques dragged himself across the floor to Shea, propped himself up in a sitting position against the wall, attempting to shield her body with his. Shea smelled fresh blood, then realized a shower of it splattered her arm and side. She looked around, dazed and confused, before she realized what was happening.

Jacques!

Shewas on him in seconds, clamping hard on the wound, forgetting everything but her need to save him. "You have three choices," she snapped over her shoulder at the intruders. "Kill us both now and get it over, leave us, or help me save him." She heard only silence. "Damn it! Choose!" Her voice was husky and raw from her near-strangulation, but it was clearly that of a professional.

Mikhail leapt to help her. Jacques, perceiving an attack, knocked Shea backward and, growling like a wild animal, placed his body before hers.

"Get back!" Shea spat at Mikhail. She merged herself completely with Jacques. Her heart slammed so hard, she was afraid it might burst. There was nothing there but a red haze of violence, a killing fury she couldn't get through to reach him.

Mikhail instantly dissolved, reappearing some distance away.

Jacques, let me help you.

Shea pleaded softly, trying to reach into his mind, trying to soothe him, calm him.

He snarled at her, fangs gleaming, a clear warning to stay behind him.

"He has turned, Mikhail," Byron murmured. "He is dangerous even to the woman. We cannot afford to lose her."

Shea ignored them, whispered soothing nonsense in her mind, trying desperately to anchor Jacques back in reality. Her hands once more found his wound.

They won't touch me, wild man. They'll stay away from us. Please let me help you or I'll have no protection from them. I will be alone.

She refused to lose him to injury or insanity. Outsiders might kill them, but she would never allow his wounds or his madness to defeat her. She was afraid for him, and she was afraid of him, but she would not desert him.

"What do you need?" Mikhail demanded softly.

"My instrument tray," she answered, not looking at him, not even turning her head. Her entire focus was on calming Jacques.

"Your surgery is barbaric. I'll call our healer." He sent the imperious mental summons immediately.

"He'll be dead by then. Damn you, get out of here if you won't help me," Shea snapped furiously. "I can't fight both of you, and I'm not going to let him die because you don't like my methods."

Cautiously, so as not to arouse Jacques' wrath, Mikhail shoved the tray across the floor. It slid within a few inches of Shea's hand.

Jacques never once took his eyes from the two men, staring at them with hatred and the dark promise of retaliation. When Shea moved, he mirrored her movements as if he knew before she did what she was going to do, so that his larger frame continuously shielded her from the others even as it crushed her against the wall.

"Get me fresh soil." Shea's voice was hoarse, but authoritative. She kept her every movement slow and cautious, to avoid alarming Jacques.

Byron shrugged and reluctantly did her bidding, his eyes meeting Mikhail's across the room. It was clear Byron believed that Jacques presented a real danger to all of them.

Shea coughed several times, her throat swollen under the clear imprint of Mikhail's fingers. Slowly rising to kneel beside Jacques, keeping her hands steady, her concentration total, she used tiny clamps and stitches to meticulously repair his reopened wound. It was slow, tedious work, and she fought to maintain her mental link with him as she sutured, dividing her mind between maintaining a constant tranquil, soothing touch to hold him to her and ensuring he did not bleed out. Jacques was a seething cauldron of violent emotions. His eyes, hard and watchful, never left the other two males. Once he lifted his hand, brushed aside her silky hair, his fingertips feathering over the bruise on her temple where he had knocked her against the wall. When his hand fell away, Shea was afraid he took with it her last link to him.

She packed the wound with soil and saliva and straightened slowly. "You need blood, Jacques." She said it softly, gently, an invitation. He had to survive, had to live. Every cell in her body demanded it.

He did not take his soulless eyes from Mikhail and Byron. She had never seen such relentless hatred in anyone's gaze before. He neither looked at her nor acknowledged her efforts. Not once did a hint of pain show on his face.

"My blood is ancient, powerful," Mikhail said softly. "I will give him mine." He glided closer with fluid grace, no sudden moves to alarm Jacques.

Shea felt Jacques' savage triumph, felt him gathering his strength. Before Mikhail was within striking distance she flung herself between them. "No! He'll kill you, he intends to - "

Jacques' grip was terrifying, slamming her back down to his side, his fist in her hair. His fury was a tangible thing. His eyes holding Mikhail's, he bent his dark head and sank his teeth into the side of Shea's neck.

"Don't!" Byron rushed forward, but Mikhail stopped him with a raised hand, his black gaze locked with Jacques'.

White-hot heat, a burning brand. Shea understood Jacques was furious at her interference, and this display was to tempt the others to intercede, to draw them within his cruel reach. She lay perfectly still, accepting of his violent nature. He was so close to complete madness that one false move would send him careening over the edge. She was tired anyway, and sore, every part of her aching. Her lashes drifted down, a heavy lethargy stealing over her. She would easily trade her life for Jacques'. He wasn't taking anything from her she wasn't willing to give.

"You're killing her, Jacques," Mikhail said quietly. "Is that what you want?" He stood there motionless, his black eyes watchful, thoughtful.

"Stop him," Byron grated between his teeth. "He's taking too much blood. He's deliberately hurting her."

Mikhail's cool black eyes swept over Byron just once, but it was enough of a command, enough of a warning. Byron shook his head but remained silent.

"He will not kill her," Mikhail said in his same quiet voice. "He is waiting for one of us to try to stop him. It is the two of us he intends to kill. He thinks to draw us to him. He will not take the chance of leaving her side, so we will not be idiotic enough to go near him. He will not harm her. Go outside. While you are out there, find something to repair the door. I will follow you."

Byron went reluctantly, waited on the porch for Mikhail to join him. "You are taking a chance with her life, Mikhail. She is no vampiress, and he is clearly abusing her. She cannot afford such blood loss. Jacques was my friend, but what is in that cottage is no longer one of us. He recognizes neither of us. You cannot control him. No one can."

"She can. He has not turned. He is injured, sick." Mikhail said it softly, his black-velvet voice certain. Furious, Byron turned away. "I should have taken the woman."

"Make no mistake, Byron, as weak as he is, Jacques is still extremely formidable. Before his disappearance he spent many years studying. The last years he hunted. With his mind so damaged, he is more beast than man, a predator, but with the intelligence and cunning of a learned one. And you were not paying attention in there. Whoever the female is, she is fighting to save him at great cost to herself. I believe she has chosen."

"The ritual has not been completed. She has not lain with him. We would know," Byron said stubbornly and began to pace restlessly. "There are many of us without a woman, and yet you allow this risk."

"There is only one lifemate. She obviously belongs with Jacques."

"We do not know that. If he were not your brother..." Byron began.

A low snarl stopped him. "I see no reason for you to question my judgment in this matter, Byron. I have had more than one brother, and I have never let fraternity stand in the way of what is just or right."

"It was Gregori who hunted your other brother," Byron pointed out.

Mikhail turned his head slowly, black eyes catching the whip of lightning cracking across the sky. "At my order."