“I’ll be here.”
Dorian let go a rare brilliant grin and spun her around so he could jump up and get dressed. As he finished belting his plaid, he glanced at her. “Spar with me one last time before you go?” he half asked, half pleaded.
“Now?” Moirae asked incredulously.
“Aye, now.”
Wide-eyed, she nodded her head and followed him down the hall back to his study where the smaller katana waited for someone to wield it. Removing it from the frame, Dorian turned and gently placed the precious item in her trembling palms. Then, he gave her back a gentle nudge toward the training room.
Offering her the katana would alone ensure of her return that evening. Whenever they did finally part, he would give it to her as a gift. In a few decades, he would seek out where she passed away and reclaim the unusual sword, but until then, it would remind her of him and that gave him some peace.
Inside the training room, he picked up his own sword from where he previously dropped it on the floor and examined the blade. Such a treasure should not have been treated so shamefully, but he knew he would repeat his recklessness if similar circumstances presented themselves again.
Moirae unsheathed the smaller sword and slowly maneuvered it in the air. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured aloud.
“Once you are skilled in its use, it will be yours.”
Moirae stood frozen in shock. Almost a full minute went by before she recovered enough to thank him. “I’m not sure why I’m being offered such a gift, but I am not foolish enough to refuse.”
“The katana is lighter, stronger, and much sharper than the broadsword,” Dorian began. “As such, it enables one to react with deadly force to sudden attacks, using cutting motions—not blocking ones. For upright targets, swing downward and diagonally while rotating your body.”
Moirae then imitated the simple move against an imaginary foe several times. After some minor adjustments, Dorian nodded in satisfaction and then showed her how to defend herself against a frontal attack.
“Now, using the same angle, slice upward. The injury is the same but much different to defend.” Dorian normally wouldn’t have even considered showing her such attacks and defense moves, but Moirae was unusual. She had the necessary strength and the speed. “But if you truly want to inflict maximum injury to an opponent, ensuring immediate death, move the blade in a straight downward cut.”
Moirae nodded, seeing how it would cause the most musculature damage.
“Knowing how to attack an opponent is necessary to ending an assault, but the ability to adequately defend oneself is primary to surviving one.” Dorian nodded for her to sheathe her sword and kneel as if she was sitting by a fire. “It is important that you learn how to draw a sword from any position, including when you are sitting.”
Slowly, Dorian demonstrated the technique of shifting from a sitting position to avoid an attack while at the same time drawing the katana and positioning it to defend himself. Moirae repeated the series of actions against a phantom opponent several times, gaining confidence and speed. Deciding to test her, Dorian raised his katana and brought it down diagonally. Immediately, Moirae leaned right and eluded the blade while drawing her own. Swinging it around her body, she was just a fraction of a second too slow to halt his second attack, and the skin on her arm was sliced open.
Moirae’s eyes sprang open wide as she dropped her sword and grabbed her arm. She could feel the blood ooze between her fingers. Her brain was registering the pain, but it was her survival instinct that dominated her thoughts. She had to get out of there now. The wound was deep and it would take time to heal, maybe a few hours, but the scab that was even now forming underneath her fingertips would prove she was not like everyone else. Dorian would demand answers she had no way of providing.
Seeing him step forward, she threw her arms around him and kissed him deeply, succeeding in distracting him. Then teasing his nose with her own, she said, “I must go. It must be morning by now. I will see you this evening.” Then after a final quick kiss, she fled down the hall and into the bailey.
Dorian stood dumbfounded. He truly believed he had severely injured her, but he must have just missed, startling them both. For there was no way she could have disguised the pain he believed he had inflicted.
Sighing, he leaned down to pick up her katana, pausing midway as he saw the drops of red blood clinging to his sword. He had cut her. Obviously not bad, but enough to cause her to bleed. The sweet scent of her blood overtook his senses and he did not resist the desire to wipe his finger down the smooth metal surface and then lick the blood.
The flavor was not sweet as its scent promised, but rancid and he immediately wished he could spit the little he had consumed out. Never had blood tasted so vile. Not even a decayed corpse produced such nastiness. The blood was definitely human, but it was different and most probably the source of what made her so strong, fast, and different.
Reacting on instinct, Dorian raced out of the tower and into the bailey in order to catch her, but he was too late. Walking to the middle of the courtyard, he stood in front of the gatehouse opening and watched as she rode into the distance. Her long hair caught the sunlight one last time before she disappeared into the forest. Dorian sighed with relief. At least it was daytime and she would be safe from Ionas. He turned to go inside as understanding suddenly slammed into him. He lifted his hand and stared at it.
Moirae was not just different with her sense of smell, enhanced reflexes, and unusual strength. She was an anomaly. By just tasting her blood he, for the first time in nearly two millennia, could feel the warm rays of the sun on his skin without the painful sensation of being burned.
He knew what Moirae was protecting. The same person his cousin was looking for—her supposedly dead mother, perhaps even grandmother. Ionas must have figured out sometime after his attack who had given him his new abilities . . . and that the effects were temporary. Moirae’s nape was flawless. Because he never fed on her, Ionas wasn’t aware that she too possessed what he was looking for. For why else would his cousin be searching so relentlessly for an old woman? That question started a flood of others to race through Dorian’s mind.
Was Moirae’s blood an evolution of the disease that afflicted him? How many generations had it been passed down? If it gave him the ability to enjoy the daylight, what other coveted gifts could the blood give a nosferatu? And most importantly, just how much did she know about her unusual abilities? Dorian doubted she was aware of the effects her blood had on his kind, but she obviously knew she was different, for it explained Moirae’s driving need to be the Guardian. She wasn’t just protecting Badenoch, but her family. And she should, for if Ionas ever discovered such secrets flowed in her veins, Moirae would be in danger.
An overwhelming need to find and protect her washed over Dorian. He fought the urge to get his horse and chase after her. Things were already complicated—and the emotional ties he could feel begin to wind around his heart would only further confuse matters.
Before Moirae returned that evening, he needed a plan that prevented Ionas from finding his prey or discovering that she had offspring. Such power in the hands of only one of their kind would incite a war that would change the balance of power.
Moirae and her family would either need to disappear or they would have to die.
How many times did he need to learn the most basic of truths? Love between mortals and immortals could not be.
Chapter Seven
Dorian stepped out onto the battlements and stared out into the thick fog, wishing his eyesight could penetrate the murky depths. Moirae was late. Too late for him to believe that something had just delayed her arrival. Either she had chosen to stay away or something had prevented her from coming.
While it was indeed possible that Moirae had decided it would be best to end their relationship as per their original agreement, Dorian found it difficult to believe she would do so without facing him. Her personality required her to confront chall
enges, not avoid them. But it also compelled her to seek out that which she felt entitled to—and he knew Moirae wanted the katana he had promised her. So either something at the castle had thwarted her from coming that evening . . . or she was in trouble.
Movement on the outskirts of the forest caught his attention. He took a deep breath and furrowed his brow. The haze was too thick for him to see who it was, but he recognized the faint, almost indiscernible scent. What was Metrick doing there? There was only one way to find out.
Dorian urged his black horse into a full gallop before he exited the gatehouse. If he could detect Metrick, then it was certain that Ionas’s spawn was aware of him. And based on the dissipating odor, the henchman was not there to confront Dorian but to watch and let his superiors know if he left.
After weeks of playing the Guardian and racing through the woods at night, Dorian was intimately familiar with the terrain—more so than Metrick. Within minutes, he was upon the hasty henchman, and with a single slice of the katana, the spawn’s side was ripped open, causing him to fall to the ground. Not waiting to slow down his mount, Dorian expertly spun off his still racing horse and landed on the ground.
Feeling the katana’s tip on his throat, the spawn knew he was facing imminent death.
“Why did Ionas send you to watch me?” Dorian asked impatiently.
Metrick smiled and the blood filling his mouth outlined his teeth. Death, the one thing he had feared most, was upon him, and he was grateful. But he would not die without issuing one final blow. “You’re too late, Dorian. Patras has her.”
“Patras?” Dorian echoed. “Just what does he want with Moirae?”
“I told him,” Metrick sputtered. “You . . . standing unharmed, unburned in the sunlight. . . .”
Dorian flicked the katana’s tip, and it divided the spawn’s head from its body, ending the halted speech. Dorian needed to hear no more. Metrick had been hidden in the forest and he had seen them that morning and informed Patras, who no doubt had notified Ionas before leaving to abduct Moirae. She was still alive, of that Dorian was positive. But she would be tortured before too long. As soon as Ionas and Patras realized that she had inherited the unique blood they coveted, they would want to find all in her family and would use any means to get her to talk.
Dorian broke the water’s surface and inhaled. Relief flooded through him when he detected Moirae’s sweet, alluring scent. There was only a handful of places Patras would have taken Moirae, and none of them were close to the other. But the Wolf’s Lair, located on the northern edge of the hills of Am Monadh Ruadh, was the closest and most fortified. Situated in the middle of a remote loch, the fortress Loch nan Doirb had been gifted to Robert II by his second wife. His merciless son, Alexander, tended to rampage the area and had no problem offering use of his father’s stronghold to someone like Patras, who fueled both his ambition and his cruel streak.
Bringing Moirae to Loch nan Doirb gave Dorian a distinct advantage, but it also presented a major problem. The loch allowed him to temporarily mask his scent and approach undetected by means of water, but once there, the place was nearly impossible to breach. Four towers were connected by a curtain wall approximately six feet thick and nearly twenty feet high. With the exception of an impressive iron gate, the east wall had no discernable defense and was the primary entrance from the shore. Consequently, it would be well manned with spawns. On the south wall, there was a second gateway, but because it provided no access to the inner court, the chances of him being discovered before getting to Moirae were high, leaving only one option. The western wall behind the chapel. All attempts to climb it had been futile . . . but never had it been tried by a nosferatu.
Carefully, Dorian rose out of the water, and though not without effort, he managed to scale the curtain wall. He moved quickly, for once dry, his scent would be strong enough to alert Patras and his men that he was near. Reaching the top of the chapel, he inhaled once again to assess the situation. Two things stood out. His nephew had not yet arrived, and the numbers of spawn were far less than Dorian would have guessed, but those he recognized were old and heavily experienced in combat.
Creeping near the rooftop’s edge, Dorian glanced around the inner bailey. Every scone was lit, and anything that could be used to hide a person, such as carts and barrels, had been removed. There was nothing left to conceal a sneak approach. Patras, who had always been strategically gifted, had grown even wiser since their last encounter.
Dorian was debating when and where he should drop down when Patras exited in the keep. It had been several decades since Dorian had seen the lead henchman. His brilliant white hair had grown long, but otherwise he looked the same. His body still possessed the hard-edge strength that enabled him to command a sizeable force of volatile spawns.
Patras extended one long arm and pointed to the largest of the men heading toward him. “Bring me the girl!”
Dorian did not recognize the bulky spawn, but it was obvious that the once Highlander was not the type who was easily intimidated. Nevertheless, he immediately turned and strode toward the kitchens. But before he could take more than a handful of steps, Patras stopped him. “Why is she in there?!”
The angry bellow could be heard throughout the stronghold, catching everyone’s attention. Undeterred, the spawn straightened his shoulders and pivoted to once again face Patras. “She refused to tell us the location of the others. So I ordered her to be bled.”
Patras marched right up to the man and demanded, “And just who gave you permission to issue such commands?”
“You did. You said to make her talk and you also promised that she was to be shared.”
“Dead, she is only good to us once. . . .”
Dorian could not hear the rest of Patras’s response, but it was clear he was furious. It was just as apparent that the Highlander Patras was dealing with had enormous sway among the other spawns and was not someone who could easily be eliminated without repercussions. Otherwise, the man would have been afraid not defiant, and most likely already dead.
Still composed, the spawn said calmly but loud enough for all to hear, “Just so you understand that when this is done, we”—he paused to point at all who were watching the interaction—“will no longer live according to your or anyone else’s will. She is for all of us. You are not the only one who is opposed to dying.” With those final words, the spawn turned and disappeared into the kitchens.
So that was why Patras was so interested in Moirae, Dorian thought to himself. It also explained why he had not spied or sensed his nephew once since his arrival. Ionas had no idea Patras had finally found who he had been looking for or that his henchman had discovered just why she was so important. Obviously Patras believed Moirae’s blood could do much more than just protect him from sunlight. Was it possible that it could also extend a spawn’s life?
If that was true and word spread about her or her family’s existence, it would not be simply a fierce battle among nosferatu—it would be the beginning of a major war that would affect all life. No longer would spawns be aligned with their masters. They would be masters themselves. Painful, destructive, and costly lessons that had taken a handful of nosferatu a millennia to learn after repeated attempts would have to be discovered by thousands of spawns. The human race would not survive such a future.
A cry from below caught Dorian’s attention. Moirae was being hauled outside. She was still wearing the same gown from when he last saw her, causing him to grimace. That meant she had been abducted on the way home. He had been a fool to think his teachings could keep her safe.
Her arm was bandaged and he could see blood stains through the strips of cloth, but by the force the spawns needed to control her struggles, the bleeding must have only just commenced, making her blood loss minimal.
Patras walked up to her and lovingly stroked her cheek. “Where’s Metrick?” he asked to no spawn in particular.
“He has not yet returned.”
Hearing the answer, Patras
looked up and surveyed the curtain walls. Dorian knew he could not be seen where he was, but if he moved, his position would be revealed. But time was not on his side. He was drying, and soon the moss covering him from the lake water would no longer mask his presence. Whatever he was going to do, he would have to do it soon.
“Double the men guarding both gates.”
Moirae grinned with false confidence. “You are monsters, but there is one who can defeat you.”
Patras returned the smirk. “And you think Dorian is coming to save you?”
The color drained from Moirae’s face as she realized that her captor not only knew of Dorian, but was unafraid of him.
“Of course, Dorian is coming,” Patras mocked, “but not for the reasons you would like to believe.”
“I think he will come to kill you and your fellow monsters, or do you believe you can convince him to become friends?” Moirae spat out.
Dorian smiled, hearing her response. The woman was terrified, but she refused to give in to her fears.
Patras, however, laughed aloud. “Kill us monsters?”
“Yes.” The answer lacked complete belief, but it was not vacant of hope.
“Silly human girl.” Patras sniggered. “Don’t you know by now that he is one of us monsters? And with the exception of perhaps one other of his kind, your would-be savior is the most unmoved by mortals and their plights.”
Dorian listened to what Patras was telling Moirae, knowing that upon hearing the truth, she would believe it, but he forced his mind to focus on what was happening. Patras’s orders to increase gate security had caused the inner bailey to be evacuated, leaving only Patras and the two guards holding Moirae.
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