"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!
She was 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."
Chapter Seven
Jacques sat on the floor, aware of the wall at his back, the woman lying so still in his arms. Dark, violent emotions swirled; his body shook with the need to kill his enemies. A ribbon of sanity moved through his mind, caught his attention. Both intruders had been familiar to him.
Someone he knew and trusted.
A silent snarl revealed his sharp fangs.
Betrayers sometimes ran in packs.
They thought him weak, but he was faster than all but the ancient ones. He had honed his fighting skills, his mental powers. They would not torture and kill his woman.