Dark Carousel (Dark #30)(54)

“The wood splinters the moment you touch it,” Charlotte dared to warn him.
He didn’t look at her. Not even a glance. Before, Charlotte thought the horses and chariots beautiful, artistic and historical. She had felt a compulsion to touch them, to run her hand over the flowing lines of the wild manes and stroke the smooth backs right to the long artistry of the tails. Something inside her had urged her forward, to take that step and touch. To feel. To sit on them. To be part of history.
Now, with the Carpathians standing with her, their dangerous power harnessed for her, she could look at the carousel and see its historical value, feel the pull of the beauty of such intricate carvings from hundreds of years earlier, but the need to touch them wasn’t so strong.
“I think that whatever was done to this carousel called to the splinter inside of me,” she admitted aloud. Instantly she wished she’d kept her mouth shut and her thoughts to herself. Every single male in the room focused on her again. She’d just been able to breathe, and now that single-minded concentration was back, their attention once more on her. “I felt it, a need to touch the wood when I was close,” she continued, because really, now that she’d started, it needed to be said. To protect Dragomir and the others.
“I feel no such drawing,” Dragomir assured. He ran his hand just above the horse and then the chariot next to it, shaking his head. “There is power here. Blood.”
He remained totally expressionless. His tone gave nothing away. His eyes were blank and cold as if he was no longer a man. He scared the hell out of Charlotte, sadly, more than Fridrick did. She detested that she felt that way about the hunter, but unlike with Lojos, Tomas and Mataias, who were as expressionless as Dragomir, she felt there was no redemption for Dragomir. He was too far gone. Too wild. Not vampire exactly, but something else, something not human, not Carpathian, but far too powerful for his own good.
“Can you touch it without danger?” Tariq asked.
Dragomir dropped his hand to the horse, smoothed his palm over the back to the tail. “This blood shrinks from me. It gathers together deep inside the wood, where it tries to hide from me, but I feel it.”
“Can you remove it?” Charlotte couldn’t prevent the hope in her voice. If he could, they could save the carousel.
He shook his head, crushing her hopes. “I believe if you wish to try to track Vadim it will be safe if all of us weave safeguards and hold the blood in the center of each of these objects.”
There was no doubt in her mind that Dragomir and the others could do it if he said so. He wouldn’t risk her. He wouldn’t risk Tariq. Whatever code of honor he lived by, and it was different from that of the others—that was certain—he believed in protecting lifemates.“It’s up to you, Charlotte,” Tariq said, giving her the choice.
She loved that he left it up to her—and she detested it as well. She wanted to step right up to the carousel, to show courage, but to relive the terrible moment when Tariq realized the Malinov brothers had deliberately chosen to give up their souls and they had attacked the village where he stayed, killing the people he knew, would be terrible. Still. For Emeline. For Liv. For all of them. This had to be done.
Charlotte squared her shoulders, deliberately took a deep breath and drew Tariq deep into her lungs for courage. “We need to track him.”
“I’ll be with you,” Tariq said in a soft, quiet voice that always stunned her. Took her somewhere else. Wrapped her up and kept her safe.
She didn’t want him with her. She didn’t want him to have to relive his terrible past, some of the worst moments of his life; this time, he’d be able to feel. Through him, so would the others. She would cause that. Without thinking she shook her head. “No, just let me do this alone.” She stepped toward the carousel.
Tariq stepped with her, keeping her locked to his side, his grip unbreakable, his face set in stone. His eyes held hers and he slowly shook his head. Simultaneously, Dragomir, Siv, Lojos, Tomas and Mataias growled. The two others as well. Growled. Like wild animals. Her gaze jumped from Tariq to their faces. Maksim and the others crowded closer to the carousel, clearly not approving of her plea.
“Fine.” She wanted to pretend she capitulated to appease them, but she knew she really had no choice. They weren’t going to allow her to do this alone.
“Are you ready, sielamet?” Tariq asked, his lips against her ear, brushing so that he was kissing her even as he asked her.
She loved that about him, the little intimate gestures he made. She looked around at the men, all of them, even Dragomir, and she went from being afraid of them to feeling protected. They were predatory, but that danger was for someone else, never her.
“I’m ready. I have to focus. I need to . . .” She tried to step away from him, but his arm locked her in place, a steel band around her waist.
“Not without me.”
She had to rethink how she was going to do this. If she was going to track Vadim, she had to do so delicately, without thinking about Tariq or the cost to him. Or to the others. Her touch would have to be ultralight. She closed her eyes and blocked out everything but the thought of the carousel. How old it was. The historic value. How much she loved the past and the wonderful opportunity her gift gave her to visit that past and learn about the people who had carved such beautiful horses and chariots for others. 
She wanted to know about those wood-carvers. What they thought and felt. What their lives were like. The people they knew and why they did what they did in a time that was all about survival. She pushed away thoughts of all knowledge of Tariq. She wanted the surprise of what and who he was then, not imposing who he was now on that man carving the objects to be used for the carousel.
She kept her eyes closed to block out the sights of the men crowding close—and they were up against her now, touching her. One hand on her. One hand on the carousel. Each of them. That made it much more difficult to block them all out. She knew which hand belonged to which man. Dragomir smelled feral. Danger radiated off of him in waves. The others were just as bad. Even Tariq. They were a pack of wolves waiting to tear into something. Fierce, experienced fighters. She was surrounded by them, needed space, and knew they wouldn’t back off.
Charlotte blew out her breath, exasperated. She had to think of a way around their protective instincts so she could do her job. She thought about the why of it. The who. Little Liv. Vadim had made her nights hell and the child was only ten. She had already suffered in a hell deep below the city, where insanity reigned. Emeline. No one but Emeline knew the horrors she’d suffered—and was still suffering.
There was Tariq. She focused on him. How did he get to be so strong? So compassionate? What would give a man such courage to face enemy after enemy for centuries? Without a family, a woman to call his own. She could understand why he wanted a woman for himself, but the children? What man would take on such a terrible burden as five traumatized children? Genevieve. Emeline. The Waltons. His family was growing, and all of them, in their own way, were broken.
She reached for a carousel horse, her palm hovering for a moment, feeling the pull of the ancient wood. Hearing the cries of children and their parents. Laughter. Sobs. Whispers. So much history. She needed to go deeper, to find the wood-carver. She caught his scent. She’d know it anywhere. Masculine. The forest. Primal. She followed that faint scent until she heard the sound of his voice.
Do you blindly follow Ruslan? What is wrong with you all? Do you know how insane this plan is? The Dubrinsky line is the vessel for our past and present. The power is what keeps our people alive. You can’t replace that because you don’t like the prince.
Do you blindly follow the prince? That was Fridrick’s voice. A sneer. Wiping out his family will do nothing but get rid of bad leadership. We should be the rulers of this world. Instead, we’re kept like prisoners in these mountains or forced to hunt our brethren. Our women grow scarce, and yet he does nothing. He protects that son of his, Draven . . .
The name was uttered and even Tariq winced, although she had no idea who Draven was, only that the loathing for that person was collective. She saw Tariq now. He was standing tall in the middle of several men—men he’d grown up with. Men he’d called his friends. They surrounded him, some with fists doubled. Their face flushed. Teeth clenched. A strange red glow to their eyes.
Draven should have been put down long ago. Any other with that streak of insanity, harming our women, betraying them to vampires, murdering them, would have been hunted down and sentenced to death, but he refused to do anything about him and now Ivory is gone to us. Dead. That was Vadim. She recognized his voice.
Tariq shook his head and ran one hand through his hair in agitation. Mistakes have been made, but to plot to assassinate our prince—not only our prince but his lifemate and the other children—is lunacy. Surely you see that.At any other time she would have stayed and listened to history playing itself out. It was fascinating to catch a glimpse of Tariq’s world. Of the man he’d been then, standing up to his friends when he was the lone dissenter. Clearly he stood up for what he believed. Still, she had to find out what Vadim had done to the carousel horses and the chariots. That required adjusting the timeline. Already the cold was seeping into her bones, a warning she’d learned to heed after traveling into the tunnel. Shivering, she moved forward to the next night. It wasn’t safe staying too long.