Hearing the maid’s retreating footsteps, Moirae crossed the room and pulled out a key from around her neck to unlock the large chest at the end of the bed. Following the click, she opened the lid and pulled out the items it contained. Stripping off her gown, Moirae quickly donned the male garments of a simple linen shirt, bruchen, hose, and a dark quilted jacket. The black gambeson was designed to protect a knight’s skin from his armor, but the thick garment itself provided more than enough protection. It enabled her to preserve her two strongest advantages—speed and dexterity.
After slipping on worn boots and pulling her hair back into a single, loose braid, she grabbed a dark cape and secured the black hood in lieu of any headgear. Kicking aside the rushes, she lifted two loose floor planks to reveal the machicolation. The gap between the supporting corbels had originally been intended for defense by allowing stones to be dropped on enemies, but Moirae had found other uses for the opening. Grabbing a knotted rope from the chest, she secured it to the leg of the bed and then dropped it through the hole before scurrying down.
From there it was easy to sneak out of the keep and make her way to Enion’s stable. Someday she would have to find another option for her horse, but Enion had lived somewhat apart from the clan, and his cottage needed numerous repairs. For now, no one was eager to assume residence there.
Moirae saddled the gentle mare, which though dark brown, would never be mistaken for black or be considered large enough to be called a “nightmare.” But she was quick and seemed to understand that Moirae’s right leg could not grip like a normal rider’s, and so never turned sharp in that direction. The animal also knew Badenoch as well as herself.
Feeling the cool air whip against her face, Moirae felt a sense of peace envelop her. Some longed for the warmer months, and while she didn’t relish winter weather, the chill of night was far more preferable than the summer sun.
Tugging the reins gently to the left, Moirae rode north until the sights and sounds of the castle faded. Then she stopped, closed her eyes, and let her senses talk to her. The rain had finally completely stopped and the clouds were beginning to break apart, allowing the light from the moon to shine down—both a blessing and a curse. Sometimes Moirae had to wait, but tonight she did not have to linger for very long before she became instantly alert.
A raid was happening and it was close by.
Dorian shifted his gaze to assess each of the attackers as he rode straight into the heart of the ambush. Two humans and one spawn—Metrick, who most likely had gotten a whiff of Dorian’s arrival and was already disappearing into the Alder forest. One could change his appearance throughout the years but not his scent, and both knew of the other from years past.
Metrick had been one of Ionas’s men during their last encounter. Being only two removed from an immortal, Metrick’s expected lifespan was somewhere around two hundred and fifty years, and he now reeked of the one thing a spawn most feared—imminent death. A feeling Dorian could not fathom but often envied. Death itself had no allure, but it represented mortality, which gave man the inner drive to accomplish something . . . the desire to create in order to leave behind a legacy.
With Metrick’s sudden disappearance, only two human attackers remained—both imposing physically and possessing mercenary hearts. It was very unlikely either of them knew the truth behind their being hired to terrorize and raid. So far, not a human Dorian had encountered had heard of his nephew, let alone knew what Ionas sought.
Urging his horse over the stone wall, Dorian grabbed the largest man by the head and tossed him aside. He then dismounted and headed for the one dragging a woman who appeared to be in her mid to late fifties out of her home. Reaching forward, Dorian gripped the assailant’s beefy shoulder, and with one hand, flung him close to where his associate lay. The crack heard from his head hitting the trunk of the tree made it known he was dead.
Damn. If he intended to eat tonight, it would have to be soon while the blood was warm. Not that he couldn’t ingest it cold, but drinking stale blood was the equivalent of eating rotten food. One avoided the idea.
“You!” Dorian barked at the haggard-looking farmer standing immobile in the doorway. He then pointed at the hunched female form on the ground and the two small blond heads cautiously poking out from behind their father. “Get your mother and children inside, and stay there.” The emphasis was enough to produce action from the stunned, aged Highlander, who scrambled to do as he was told.
The moment the door closed, Dorian went to his horse and removed his sword. He then moved to stand beside the two limp bodies. He inhaled the scent of blood and then kicked the backside of the man pretending to be dead, flipping him over. Like the others, Ionas had hired them to search for something.
The attacker’s blue eyes flew open wide as Dorian kneeled down. “What were you told to look for?”
Visible fear rippled through the man’s frame. “I don’t know.”
Dorian spun the long sword in his palm and sliced the air, stopping just before the blade penetrated the man’s throat. “I won’t ask again.”
“An . . . an . . . old wo-wo-woman,” the man finally managed to get out. “One w-w-with scars on her neck. Sh-sh-e has something the white-h-h-haired one wants. He—he’s sending men everywhere to hunt for h-h-her.”
Dorian grimaced. The white-haired one meant Patras—his nephew’s lead henchman for the past few centuries. The albino spawn was intelligent and ruthless, and Dorian would have thought him to be dead by now. Why was Patras spending his final years helping Ionas look for an old woman with scars on her neck? Once bitten, humans either died or changed. Only in rare circumstances would they live, and then only if a blood eater punctured the skin but did not feed. Disease was one of the few things that would stop a feeding once begun.
So, Ionas was interested in a human female who survived not only an offensive-tasting ailment, but being bitten. Why?
Sensing there was no more information to be retrieved, Dorian pressed the blade into the man’s neck without further thought. Whoever the mercenary was, he would not be missed and his disappearance would cause no stir. Standing, Dorian lifted the nape of the now lifeless form and bent his head to feed, but the scent of someone nearby halted him before he punctured the warm flesh.
The onlooker was a female, and she was young. She smelled human sweet . . . and yet different. She was watching him from behind the untended hedge opposite to where he rode in. He inhaled her fragrance again, and smiled. She was wearing a man’s chausses and a wool gambeson . . . and the girl bathed too often to be a pauper. Whoever the lass was, she wasn’t there by accident.
Curiosity momentarily fluttered through him, but the interest the girl generated was not enough to seek her out. He was not hungry enough to deal with the retribution of killing her, a necessary consequence if he decided to let her see him feed. Disappointed, Dorian released his hold and let the body fall to the ground with a thump. He had fed last night, and if need be, he could go several more days without nourishment, but he had been looking forward to a quick drink.
After taking one last whiff of the woman’s tempting scent, Dorian went to his horse and, in a single, graceful leap, jumped on the animal’s back. Urging it into a gallop, he headed straight for the hedge. With a single kick to the flanks, the destrier went soaring over the woman’s head. As Dorian flew by, he caught another whiff and looked down.
Brilliant jade eyes flashed at him in the partial moonlight as wisps of light brown hair flew around her incredibly striking face. For a brief second, the temptation to seek her out seized his instincts. The young woman’s gaze had not been filled with horror, but with seething anger. He knew as he headed over the fields that the look would haunt him.
What was she doing out alone? Why did she despise him for saving an old man and his family? Was it that he had killed the two men attacking them? But mostly he asked himself, why did he care?
It had been many centuries since a human woman had caught his attention
beyond that of fulfilling simple physical need. And though he would admit to being mildly intrigued, it was not nearly enough to compel him to be foolish. So, whoever the sweetsmelling maiden was, she would have to remain a mystery.
Moirae almost had not stopped in time as she rode in with bow and arrow prepped to stop the attack. At the last moment, she realized her competition had already arrived and was more than able to handle the once three, now two men. Hanging her bow on the saddle, she quietly dismounted and crept into the prickly hedge. There she spied the dark, lean figure fulfilling her role as Guardian in a way she had only dreamed of doing.
Regrettably, her rival was good. Worse, he possessed a grace using a weapon she had never before witnessed from any man. He was also much more agile than she would have guessed, given his size and muscular frame. His features remained obscure in the shadows, but his hair was indeed dark and styled shorter than the average Highlander’s. Only when his horse had flown over her head had she been able to glimpse the color of his eyes. They were not dark as she had been told, but gray, like a perpetual fog that lured innocents in, causing them to be forever lost.
Every instinct screamed, Avoid the fog! Instead, Moirae got on her horse to follow him, obeying the other inner voice reminding her of who he was and just what he had stolen from her.
Unfortunately, the thief’s mount was larger and faster, making catching up to him an impossibility, despite her superior knowledge of the mountains and lochs. But it did not matter. Moirae slowed her mount down and stared into the distant shadows. She knew where the imposter was going. Kilnhurst. A place everyone knew to avoid. It may be unoccupied, but it was not undefended.
The man was heading to his death.
Chapter Two
Dorian raced through the open gatehouse, slowing as he approached the stables. His horse, now knowing the nightly ritual, entered his stall after his master slipped off its back.
Frustration filled Dorian. Three fruitless nights had gone by. With no attacks to stop, he had no sources of information. Who Ionas was looking for and why the woman was important remained a mystery. Dorian could feel the tiny interest he once held about his nephew’s plans begin to ebb.
He rounded the stable door and was about to yank it close when he spied a brown mare eating hay in one of the stalls. Cursing, he took a deep breath and confirmed the young female who witnessed the attack that happened earlier that week was nearby. He shut the door softly and let his gaze sweep the courtyard until he saw a dark figure leaning against the inner wall of the gatehouse. Discarding men’s clothes for those fitting a noble, the woman was wearing a dark bliaut and a black hooded mantle to shield her from the icy air. No longer was she hiding in the shadows, but standing outside in plain sight, waiting for him, unafraid of being inside Kilnhurst Castle—infamous for the disappearance of all who dared to venture near its walls.
Ionas had built the stronghold decades prior when he pushed Edward I to erect stone forts to better withstand attacks. Kilnhurst was large, nothing like the estates Dorian had inhabited when he lived in Crete a millennium prior, but he had taken great satisfaction at capturing the castle from his nephew. And though Kilnhurst was far from lavish, it was ideally located in the heart of the Highlands and built to survive Scotland’s brutal northern weather over many years. It also conveyed an uncomfortable sensation that made humans want to avoid it. Something the young woman clearly was oblivious to or too dim-witted to realize.
Not in the mood to tangle with an obstinate and senseless human female, Dorian was about to turn and enter the castle through a back door. But before he looked away, she reached up and pulled down her hood, revealing rich brown hair, neither dark nor light, intricately braided and piled into an elaborate knot. Rebellious strands that had won the fight to come loose curled into ringlets, highlighting the pale skin of her unusually long nape.
The woman shifted and looked in his direction, causing the moonlight to catch her face. Only slightly narrow, the oval shape accentuated her cheekbones and emphasized the fullness of her lips. But it was not her angelic features that had caused him to hesitate. It was her eyes. The dark green orbs did not shine with innocence and youth as her scent indicated but belonged to an adult woman—who was still every bit as angry as she had been three nights ago.
Moirae fought restlessness, wondering when her nemesis would return. She had mentally rehearsed a hundred times how she was going to handle his arrival. She would patiently wait as he bellowed about her presence, and then she would make it clear that he was unneeded and, more importantly, unwanted, as the Guardian. But the longer she was forced to wait, the more unlikely she was going to remain the calm herald she had planned.
Moirae closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
The scents around Kilnhurst were unlike anywhere else. There was an absence of fear, sorrow, anger, and despair—all the negative emotions that accompanied the hard lives of those who lived in a castle. In its place was something dark and vacant and strangely welcoming. She suspected the castle’s designer had hoped to evoke another feeling, but to her, the effect was enticing, not repellent.
Until three nights ago, she had never ventured close to Kilnhurst. Rumors had circulated for years about those who dared to breach its walls supposedly disappearing, never to be heard from again. And yet, she had watched this squatter come and go without concern.
Built to be a fortress, six equal, three-story towers formed the shape of a hexagon and were connected by a double curtain wall. Within, there were none of the usual internal structures. No great hall, kitchens, buttery, silversmith, or other buildings one expected to see. Only a well, the stables, and the gatehouse were recognizable. Besides the formidable walls, the castle’s main defense was a mote. A sizeable one that fully surrounded Kilnhurst, preventing any entry unless the gatehouse bridge was let down—as it was tonight.
For two nights, Moirae had sat in the forest, waiting for an event and the chance to confront the dark avenger who thought to steal her role as Guardian. But no attacks came. Frustrated, she had decided to ride to Kilnhurst and hope for a chance to intercept the want-to-be hero and persuade him to leave the area. Seeing the drawbridge down, she had darted inside, uncaring of the rumors, and waited for the opposition.
Patience, however, had left her hours ago. Dawn would soon arrive and Moirae was debating if she should leave when a small branch snapped to her right. She immediately froze. No one ever snuck up on her. It was impossible. She inhaled. Nothing. And yet every one of her other senses screamed that someone was beside her.
She spun around to see a large figure not quite ten feet away. Though silhouetted by the moonlight, she could still discern enough features to confirm he was the same man she had witnessed fighting the other night. He was tall enough to be a Highlander and radiated a primitive masculine vitality like those men born in the north, but he did not belong to these majestic mountains any more than she did.
He lacked the overall brawn Highlanders possessed, and yet, Moirae suspected he could take care of himself and any enemy that happened along. His face was formed by severe angles and planes, creating high cheekbones and a rock-hard jaw. His nose was unusually straight, and his mouth was broad and firm. With the exception of his dark hair, which looked seductively ruffled, there was no softness about him anywhere. No wonder she hadn’t sensed him. She doubted this man surrendered to any kind of strong emotion.
He walked toward her with a poised, almost erotic grace that assaulted her senses. If he were anyone else . . . and if she were free of her past, she might have been interested enough in him to make a play for his attentions. But her life had another purpose, and a man—especially this one—was not to play a part in it.
“I wasn’t aware you had returned,” she stated simply.
Dorian was impressed. She exuded calm composure in both stance and voice. He would almost think she was bored if not for the jutting out of her chin. “That’s because I didn’t want you to know.”
Her eyes instantly flashed with anger and he inhaled. Only true, full-blood nosferatu could sense animals, even inflict their emotional will on them. And yet what stood in front of him was an enigma. It wasn’t that he couldn’t smell her. He could. She was definitely a human, and despite her underdeveloped bosom, he knew without a doubt that she was a mature woman in her mid-twenties. And yet, only his eyes could discern the obvious frustration that exuded from her every pore. Perhaps he was hungrier than he had thought.
“Find no one to save tonight?”
Her caustic question surprised Dorian. Usually women, especially young human ones, were uneasy in his presence. A few pretended to be enamored, but he could not recall in his entire life one that was sincerely defiant. And though he could not be certain without being able to smell her scent, one thing was unmistakable . . . no fear reflected in her green depths. His curiosity took hold. “And just who might you be?”
“Someone you should listen to.”
The man grinned, and the unexpected response shook Moirae’s core. He had not looked like the kind of man who would even know how to smile. It relaxed his eyes, and their smoky color went from cool and distancing to hypnotic, causing her to shiver with apprehension. Then it suddenly occurred to her that was exactly what he wanted.
Swallowing, Moirae regained her composure and reminded herself that she was there for a reason and just because the thief turned out to be attractive changed nothing. Moirae forced her eyes to look into his. He was still just smiling, but she could see that he was more than slightly amused. He was laughing at her. He thought her a silly, little girl and was toying with her for amusement. That was a mistake.
Highland Hunger Page 23