Highland Blood Moon: A Cassidy Edwards Novella - Book 3.6

by Carmen Caine

  Published by

  Bento Box Books

  Edited by

  Louisa Stephens

  Cover Art by

  Lind

  Copyright © 2016 Carmen Caine

  Ebook Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and didn’t purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, return it to MyBentoBoxBooks.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Dedication

  To my kids: you brighten my life.

  Table of Contents

  Highlander Blood Moon: Wolf Moon

  Highlander Blood Moon: A Lady to Die for

  Highlander Blood Moon: The Night Viper’s Scourge

  Highlander Blood Moon: The Sicilian

  Highlander Blood Moon: Tracks in the Snow

  Highlander Blood Moon: The Horror of Night

  Highlander Blood Moon: The Choosing

  Bonepicker: My Name is Raven

  Bonepicker: Bonepicker

  Bonepicker: One Lord Lucian Rowle

  Bonepicker: Eyes in the Millions

  Bonepicker: Ma Belle Louve

  Bonepicker: Enemy of My Enemy

  Bonepicker: Mission Complete

  About the Author

  Carmen’s Other Books

  Wolf Moon

  Present day, New York City

  Dorian Ramsey stood high above New York City, feet placed wide apart on the massive, steel beam of a construction crane. Tossing his head back, he took a deep breath of the crisp night air. The stars in the inky sky twinkled above, mirroring the vast stretch of city lights glimmering beneath his feet.

  But he scarcely noticed either. He saw only the moon.

  Wolf Blood Moon.

  He shuddered, closing his eyes as the pain washed over him.

  “Dorian,” a soft voice echoed in his mind.

  He took a moment to regain control before lifting his lashes and turning to meet his sister Gloria’s concerned gaze.

  She stood there, slim, lanky, and freckled, still looking very much like the young lass of seven hundred years ago—except the hair and clothing. Back then, she’d worn her auburn braids long over the one Ramsey plaid and rough, homespun gown in her keeping. Now, she favored a practical, shoulder-length ponytail and organic t-shirts, jeans, and sneakers.

  “I didn’t want you to be alone,” she said aloud, stepping up and threading her fingers through his. “Not on Wolf Moon.”

  Dorian gave her a crooked smile. “’Tis nothing now save a wondrous night,” he said, wishing that simply saying it would make it so. “The night of our turning.”

  For a moment, they stood in silence, brother and sister. Then she spoke again. “There hasn’t been a Wolf Moon these seven hundred years that I have not blamed myself—”

  “Nay, dinna speak foolish words,” he cut her short. “’Twas destiny, lass. Nothing more.”

  But Gloria didn’t listen. “It’s my fault you haven’t seen the sun—”

  Reaching over, he placed a finger upon her lips. “Nor have you, lass. Enough.”

  Aye, he did miss the sun. Sunlight hadn’t kissed his skin for centuries, nor had he witnessed the beauty of white clouds towering in an azure sky. Of all things, he missed sunlight the most. While night held its own dark allure, nothing replaced the warmth of daylight.

  But on Wolf Blood Moon, the pain welling deep in his soul had little to do with the light of day.

  Gloria’s next words reopened his wound and seared through his heart. “I can’t forgive myself, Dorian. I’m the one who ripped you away from her … your Elizabeth.”

  At the sound of her name, his lips parted in a silent gasp. Elizabeth. Lady Elizabeth Rowle. The love of his life.

  “I did it,” Gloria whispered, bowing her head.

  “Ach, you were a lass and still a bairn at heart,” Dorian murmured, throwing his arm about her slender shoulders and drawing her close in a warm hug. “’Twas over seven hundred years ago. ‘Tis time we thought of other things, aye? There’s no use dwelling on the past. We’ve serious matters to attend to now.”

  She responded to that by lifting her chin and allowing her blue eyes to flash a little. “At last.”

  Dorian expelled a breath from his nose. He recognized the look. “Do you think of ought else other than revenge, wee fool?” he asked mildly. “Revenge breeds mistakes.”

  “I’m not going to make any mistakes this time. This time, I’m righting the wrongs,” she swore, jamming her hands into her jean pockets. But then her brow clouded. Suddenly, his fierce wee sister appeared vulnerable. Unsure. She continued, “Emilio’s trying to retrieve the rest of the … the Mindbreaker’s powers for him … it’s all happening again, isn’t it?”

  Few still knew how uncomfortably close the Mindbreaker had come to reasserting his unholy control over the Charmed those seven hundred years ago. And back then, the Italian vampire, Emilio Marchesi, had been in the thick of things, twisting Gloria to his bidding before ripping everything from Dorian’s soul. Revenge. Aye, he could understand it. But he couldn’t live with himself should he let revenge eat at his soul.

  “Happening again?” he repeated with a wry twist of his lip. “I dinna think it ever ended, lass. But we’ll stop Emilio and we’ll find the Mindbreaker this time. He’s blundered by fathering Cassidy. He’ll be close to her. We’ll find him.”

  No sooner had he said Cassidy Edward’s name than he knew he’d made a mistake. Ach, Gloria couldn’t control her hatred of the Mindbreaker’s wee, monster-cursed daughter, a being even less ‘alive’ than himself.

  “She’s dangerous, Dorian,” Gloria spat. “She’ll finish what her father started. We won’t be able to stop them. No one can stop her. I tried.”

  “Aye, and that I know,” he stated mildly, knowing full well that Gloria had ‘killed’ Cassidy over a dozen times, just as he once had himself. But her banshee, specter soul combined with Lucian Rowle’s puppet curse rendered her as immortal as any vampire—maybe even more so.

  “She can’t be anything but evil,” his sister continued stubbornly. “We must find a way to destroy her, but we’ll have to take out the warlock first. Lord Lucian Rowle must—”

  Lord Lucian Rowle. Of late and for some inexplicable reason, every fiber of Dorian’s being jolted at the mention of the lad’s name. Instinct opened his lips, and he heard himself disagree, “No. No. You’re wrong.”

  Gloria’s lips thinned.

  Dorian took a deep breath and for the first time, spoke words he hadn’t known he’d carried deep in his heart. Perhaps it was the fault of the moon. Perhaps it wasn’t. It didn’t matter. For the first time, it was almost a relief to acknowledge what he’d long sought to bury. “I canna harm him, Gloria. The lad … he has her eyes.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes. Those unique, icy silver-and-blue eyes.

  Gloria’s brows drew into a line. “You know well that she never had a babe before she … before she …” Her voice trailed away.

  Aye. Before she … before she sacrificed herself to stop the Mindbreaker those centuries ago, but neither of them could give the thought voice.

  Silence fell.

  Finally, a soft chuckle floated through the night air, followed by the words, “Morse code.”

  As one, Dorian and Gloria turned to see their creator, Jacques Lebeau, the Devil of France. Most called him beautiful. Indeed, he was. Tall,
dark-haired, and arresting, the vampire possessed looks of stunning perfection, even with the scar running down the side of his face—a scar he refused to discuss with anyone.

  “Jacques.” Dorian bowed his head in respect.

  Moving to kiss the vampire’s hand, Gloria whispered, “The night of our turning, for which we must thank you, Jacques.”

  The vampire’s eyes darkened with amusement. “Even these many years later, I stand in awe of that night. Never before or since have any vampires turned on a Wolf Blood Moon—you and Dorian have only your own strength of will to thank.”

  Gloria bowed her head a moment before leaving in a rush of wind.

  Dorian expelled a long, deep breath as Jacques’ initial words hovered on the edge of his memory. It took him a moment to fish them back. Turning to his creator and friend, he repeated, “Morse code? Pray tell, what is that?” Having spent the past four hundred or so years in a Venice plague grave, with a brick stuck in his mouth, he’d missed out on many human inventions.

  The French vampire grinned and pointed to the darkness below their feet.

  Curious, Dorian glanced down at a car winding its way through the park, its headlights two twin beams of light, flashing in and out from under the trees lining the paved road.

  “Boredom,” Jacques explained, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. “It’s a game I play. Humans came up with Morse code to transmit messages sometime back. Different combinations of dots and dashes represent different letters, my friend. Look at that car’s lights. See? Often I stand here and ask, ‘has the universe a message for me?’ It did, once before, and on this very night.”

  Dorian exchanged a silent look before glancing below at the headlights flickering through the trees. They beamed a series of short bursts as the vehicle wound its way to the park exit.

  “Dot. Dot. Dash. Dash,” Jacques began translating, his lips twisting in dry amusement. “E-T-W-F-E. What could ETWFE refer to? Hmm? What message is this?”

  Dorian cocked a brow at him, the weight of his sadness already lifting, and he knew that to be the true intent of his creator’s playfulness. “Have you quit the reading of the tea leaves, my friend?” he asked, his carved lips curving into a smile. “’Twould be wise, for not once did I find your predictions come true.”

  Except on the night of his turning, but neither one felt inclined to mention it.

  Chuckling, Jacques approached to clap his hand hard on Dorian’s back. “Never stop searching for meaning in the mysteries of the universe, mon ami. We are vampires.”

  “Aye,” Dorian murmured his agreement. They stood in companionable silence before he finally bowed his head and began, “I thank—”

  “No,” Jacques cut him short. “I meant it, my friend. I may have turned both you and Gloria those many years ago, but ‘twas through your own strength and passion that you succeeded. Nay, let’s call it as it is. There are no wolves here that I can see.” After a theatrical glance around, he leaned over and hissed, “’Tis a Highlander Blood Moon, is it not?”

  Dorian rolled his eyes.

  “Ah, but you and Gloria are legendary,” Jacques continued in a serious tone. “Such strength. ‘Tis why the Mindbreaker fears you so. Nay, never will I forget that night.”

  Dorian bowed his head.

  So much had happened. The night’s fate had wrenched him away from his lady love, Elizabeth, a lady to die for—and one he actually had died for. There could never be any other. Not really. It had been that way from the moment they’d met, to the day they’d parted …

  A Lady to Die for

  Fourteenth Century, Scotland

  Dorian stretched, rolling his broad shoulders back with a yawn as he stood near the window in the winter morning’s sun. The weak rays played over his chestnut hair, lending it a reddish tint but doing little to provide actual heat. Blowing a warm breath over his fingers, he arched a brow and squinted jade-green eyes at the water-stained missive that had just been handed to him, its wax seal cracked and broken.

  “The seal ‘twas broken when the tinker gave it to me, my lord,” the nervous messenger swore, hovering near the antechamber door as if prepared to flee.

  Dorian sent him an easy grin to steady his nerves. “Ach, ‘tis nothing to fret over, lad,” he assured in his mellow Scottish burr. “You may leave.”

  Relief washed over the lad’s face, and he opened the door.

  Yawning again, Dorian unfolded the parchment.

  Three words met his gaze. Three words written boldly across the page:

  “Come home. Gloria.”

  A shiver of foreboding rippled down his spine and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

  With a clench of his lean jaw, he sprinted out the chamber door and searched the castle’s dark passageways. Spying the messenger’s disappearing back, he called out, “Ho there, lad. Wait!”

  The lad froze.

  “There’s no more?” Dorian asked, waving the cryptic missive. “Naught you can tell me? At least, tell me when ‘twas sent, aye?”

  “All I know ‘twas in the keeping of the tinker for over two months, my lord, afore it came into my keeping three days ago,” the lad swore.

  Two months, at least. Dorian drew a long, uneasy breath. Whatever emergency had prompted Gloria to pen the message had long passed now. He grimaced.

  “My lord?” the lad queried in edgy tones.

  He waved the youth away and returned to the antechamber.

  Two months. Ach, he wanted nothing more than to stay and extend the magic of the past few weeks, to gather Elizabeth safely in his arms and hold her close to his heart forever. One day, he would. But not this day. Not now. He had to ride.

  It was time to go home.

  Softly, he turned the latch and entered the bedchamber.

  Elizabeth sat on the bed, awake. Of course, she would be. The woman was an uncanny one, to be sure—and beyond stunning. He stood there a moment, drinking in the sight of her beauty. At first glance, she appeared willowy, slender, perhaps even bordering on frail with crystal ice-blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, and long brown hair cascading over the creamy white skin of her naked shoulders. But the lass was anything but delicate. Far from it. Never had he met a more powerful woman. Strong. Determined. Wily. Aye, even downright pigheaded.

  He grinned and crossing the fur rug soft under his bare feet, sat on the edge of the down-filled mattress.

  At first, she refused to meet his gaze. “You’re leaving,” she stated, drawing the words out in one long sigh, her tone soft, cultured.

  “Aye,” he answered readily, reaching a hand to smooth a brown lock of hair back from her cheek. “I want nothing more than to kiss every inch of you, lass, and in every way, but I canna leave my wee sister in danger unknown.”

  Her silver-blue eyes softened. “’Tis what I love about you most, Dorian,” she whispered, pulling her shift over her naked shoulders. “Honor. Loyalty. Justice. A true champion, ‘tis what you are. I wouldn’t dream of hindering you, my love.” Rising on her knees, she slipped her arms around his neck and confessed with a faint, rueful smile, “But I will sorely miss you. ‘Tis for myself I am sad.”

  Dorian let his gaze drift over her shapely figure before pulling her softness even closer. “Come with me,” he suggested playfully. “Hie yourself away to the highlands, aye?”

  Pain leapt into her eyes. And sadness. “Your boyish smile never fails to charm,” she admitted with a reluctant smile of her own. He knew what she would say next. She’d said it many times over the past few weeks. And true to form, she met his gaze with a steady determination and parted her perfect lips to repeat the dreaded words, “You know I cannot leave. Even though I detest every fiber of the boorish beast, I have a duty and my duty is not yet done.”

  Aye, the wee matter of her husband stood between them. Lord Brian Rowle. Obligation, perhaps … but duty?

  After bending down to kiss her brow, he rose from the bed with a frown. “I want you happy, Elizabeth,” he said.
“And that means out of that cruel man’s clutches. Haven’t you suffered long enough? Ach, they gave you to him as only a wee lassie of five summers. Surely, no priest would sanction such a union—”

  “Nay, my love,” she interrupted. “It cannot be undone—for now.”

  Slipping out of the bed, she reached past him for a shawl resting on a nearby chair and wrapped it around her full hips and slender waist. Her mouthwatering curves made him want to skim his hands over the softness of her flesh once again, but alas, he had no time for such diversions.

  “My freedom must wait,” she continued resolutely. “I shall not leave him until I do what I’ve come to do.”

  ‘Twas nothing new. She’d said this all many times before. Aye, ‘twas where the pigheadedness came in. And invariably, she’d stubbornly refuse to tell him just what ‘she’d come to do’. Still. He had to try one last time.

  “Whatever this secretive mission be … leave it be, lass,” he entreated, gathering her close to rub his cheek against the top of her head. “Or else I fear you’ll be in danger should I leave.”

  He felt her slender shoulders sag a little as she ran her palms up his broad, muscular chest. “Lord Rowle cannot harm me, Dorian,” she promised. “Do not fear.”

  But fear he did. Stepping away, he moved to the chair and retrieving his Ramsey plaid, draped the material over his powerful frame. After belting his sword around his lean hips and tugging on his leather boots, he expelled a long breath through his nose. Aye, he had no choice. He had to trust her judgement. But still, it was a bitter pill to swallow.

  He heard the rustle of soft cloth behind him and turned to watch her pad across the chamber to open the shuttered window. The winter light flooded in, illuminating her beauty once again. His heart tugged. Coming up from behind, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. Even though she stood tall for a woman, he towered over her still. The top of her head barely cleared his shoulder. Burying his nose in her hair, he murmured, “I canna stop fearing for you, lass, even though I know right well you’ve a strong, steady hand.”