“Do you mean Marguarita Fernandez?” At Zacarias’s silent nod, Cesaro frowned. “I have known her since the day she was born. Her father was my cousin. Her mother died when she was quite young and she was raised right here on the ranch along with my son, Julio.”
A frisson of something very lethal slid into his veins, a dark shadow protesting the closeness of a man growing up with Marguarita. How close were they? Something very ugly rose up to settle in the pit of his stomach at that thought of Julio alone with the woman. His teeth lengthened and he closed his fingers into two tight fists. Nails like talons punctured his palm.
Cesaro took a firmer grip on the rifle in his lap, his face visibly paling. “Have I said something to upset you?”
Blood trickled across his palm and Zacarias, never taking his gaze from Cesaro’s, licked at the line of drops. “Continue.”
Cesaro shivered. “She is a good girl. Loyal.”
Zacarias waved that away. He didn’t want to hear what Cesaro thought of her. “Tell me about her.” About any men in her life. Anything he needed to know. The important things.
“She takes care of the hacienda and represents the family with all the workers. She does the ordering and she is invaluable with the cattle and horses.” Cesaro clearly didn’t understand what Zacarias was looking for. “Has anything happened to her?” He half rose.
Zacarias pushed his palm toward the man in an abrupt motion, not meaning to shove quite so hard, but air slammed Cesaro back onto the cushions. “She is fine. Tell me what I want to know. Is she with a man? Does she often leave the ranch?”
Cesaro’s frown deepened. “She has many hopeful callers, some from outside the ranch and some right here. She does not step out with them, especially since the attack on her. She stays close to home, although she does represent the family at charity events as well as going to local dances and events.”
Zacarias kept his expression blank. He didn’t like the sound of “many hopeful callers,” or any of it really. Was she casting her spell wide? He would put a stop to that immediately. “You allow her to go off unaccompanied? A young girl?”
“No, of course not. Marguarita is carefully guarded. Someone from the ranch always goes with her.”
Zacarias continued to stare at the man, his locked gaze conveying inquiry and disapproval.
“My son often escorts her,” Cesaro admitted. “It has been my hope that the two of them make a match of it. Both serve your family and know what needs to be done to keep our alliance safe. It is a good match, but neither seems to be interested.”
The floor rolled. The walls breathed in and out. For a moment the pressure in the room was painful as if all the air had been sucked out of it. Cesaro fought for a breath, his throat closing and his lungs burning. Just as rapidly, the sensation vanished as though it had never been. He coughed a couple of times, one hand going to his throat, his eyes widening in fear.
“Tell me about her gift with animals.”
Cesaro shrugged. “No one knows how she does it. I don’t think she knows, but every animal, including those in the sky, responds to her. When she was just a little girl, she would tell her father that a horse’s leg hurt and where. Sure enough, a few hours later, the horse came up lame. She always knows when a mare will give birth or when there’s going to be a problem with a birth. The horses trust her and when she’s present, the mares are calm no matter what has to be done.”
Zacarias absorbed the information. She’d done such things since she was a child. It was possible she was born psychic, but much more likely she was mage-trained in order to cast a spell powerful enough to entrap him. “Go on.”
Cesaro looked more puzzled than ever. “When she was fifteen, a jaguar spooked the herd and the cattle crashed through a fence and ran straight for the children playing soccer. Marguarita stepped in front of them and somehow the cattle veered away from everyone there. They slowed down and stopped without direction.” His eyes met Zacarias’s once again. “She walked right toward the jaguar and waved me off from shooting it. After a couple of minutes with the two staring at one another, the cat slipped back into the rain forest and we never saw it around here again. Not even tracks.”
“What do you know of her mother?” If her father had been a cousin of Cesaro’s, perhaps the mother had been mage. There had to be an explanation.
“Her mother was a Chevez from the hacienda in Brazil. You know their family.”
He did know the Chevez family, better than he knew any of the others. They were definitely not mage-born, nor were any of them trained in casting spells. The Chevez women had protections placed in their minds from birth. They would be impossible for a vampire to possess or manipulate, not without killing them.
Zacarias closed his fist tight once again as his mind reached for Marguarita. He exercised great discipline to stop himself from touching her. His blood called out to hers. Or was it the other way around? The call was so strong. A compulsion. He swore under his breath in his native language. The woman was a menace.
“If she bothers you, we can remove her from the hacienda during your stay,” Cesaro offered, obviously hoping Zacarias would agree to his proposition. “She has many aunts who would love to have her visit.”
Another tremor rolled through the ground. Zacarias didn’t move a muscle. His tongue slid over the sharpened points of his teeth. His body ached. She had so many sins to pay for, yet he didn’t dare go to her—not when he needed to see her—to touch her. He refused to allow his mind to wander, to check, to touch. He was too strong and she could not defeat him.
Cesaro flinched. “Señor,” he began uneasily.
“Leave the woman to me.”
“I don’t understand you. Marguarita is a good girl. She’s loved by everyone here. The vampire destroyed her vocal cords, so she can’t speak. If that distresses you . . .”
“I do not get distressed.”
The very concept of being distressed was foreign to him. But he was disturbed by the need to touch her. To be close to her. To touch all that warm, soft skin and alleviate the terrible craving she had set up for the exquisite taste of her blood.
Cesaro stood up quickly as Zacarias’s body began to shimmer and grow transparent. “Wait. Please, señor, I need to know you will not harm her.”
Zacarias turned glacier-cold eyes on the man. “Do not dare to presume to question me. This is my land. She belongs to me to do with as I will. I will not suffer your interference in this matter. What she has done is between us alone. Have I made myself clear?”
Cesaro gripped the barrel of his rifle until his knuckles turned white. He swallowed hard twice before he very reluctantly nodded his head.
Zacarias had no more time to waste on the man. What was wrong with everyone that they felt it was okay to question his judgment? Clearly a De La Cruz had not been in residence for far too long. His people had forgotten their vows of servitude and obedience. This was the very reason why he knew he was obsolete in the world. His ways were long gone. Kill or be killed wasn’t fully understood. The world labored under a false illusion that humankind was safe—that monsters such as vampires didn’t exist and evil wasn’t real. He knew better, but his day was long over.
He dissolved and slipped out of the house, mixing with tear-shaped drops of rain as he made his way slowly back to the hacienda. Even in this form, where he was nearly undetectable, the animals in the stables stamped nervously. Despite his need to find Marguarita, he made himself take a slow sweeping circle around the property, looking for any signs the undead had tracked him to his lair. He needed to prove, not only to her, but to himself, that he was in control, not her.