A woman’s voice: “Neither friend nor foe, and yet both.” Aidan and Owen looked at each other. A woman, out here? And a Spaniard, from the sound of her.
Then the strangers were on them. Aidan heard Owen hit the snow-packed ground a second before he did. Then a sharp pain at his throat wiped out everything but the lethargy that held his limbs to the ground, the pull at his neck and another at his arm, the fire of pain through his veins, and the sound of his heart hammering in his ears. Then blackness, then awakening to a thirst like he’d never known.
Aidan stared from the back of the cave where he’d recently awakened for the night, sensing the rising moon. He ached with hunger. He rolled off the flat rock on which he’d rested, crouching near the rear wall and moving a small rock away from its resting place.
He added a mark to the series of scratches in the rocky dust of the cave’s floor. His calendar. He’d been gone from Abby and Cavan for a year now, as near as he could tell.
They lived by night, this small scathe led by Daire and the Spaniards. Vampires. They fed on soldiers and prostitutes and unwitting passersby in the nighttime alleys of nearby Cork. Owen thrived on the hunt, the power, and the blood. Aidan wanted to go home. What would happen if he returned now? Would Abby help him learn to live with this curse, find as normal a life as he could? Or was it too great a risk?
He slipped outside under the moonlight, drinking in its shadows and illumination.
“Time to hunt, Brother.” Owen stood behind him, throwing his cloak over his shoulders—a much finer cloak than any Murphy had ever owned. He’d learned to pick his targets among the wealthier patrons of the Cork brothels, and had amassed a fine wardrobe. Aidan still wore the rough wool cloak that Abby had made for him when he joined the ragtag army, her touch woven through every fiber.
“I think I’ll try a new district tonight,” Aidan said. “I’ll let you know if it’s worthwhile.”
Owen laughed. “Suit yourself, Brother. I like a bit of fun with my food.”
A bit of rape before murder, more like. Aidan left his brother behind and headed for the farm.
Abby cried when he arrived, and even though Aidan had fed from a drunkard at a pub not far to the north, he fought the hunger when he looked at her. Hunger to feed and hunger for sex.
Cavan had grown inches. Aidan could tell by looking at his small form curled in the same bed as before. He still looked like his da, with his dark, tousled hair.
Aidan struggled for the words to tell Abby what had happened, but when he did she laughed at him. “I’ve missed your jokes,” she teased. “But that’s more a tall tale worthy of your brother than you.”
She’d kissed him then; had cut her lip on his fangs, and had been forced to believe. She’d been afraid, had pushed him away.
“You’ll kill us all,” she said. “You should have stayed with your new kind. Cavan and me, we’ve mourned your passing and now we’ll have to mourn you again.”
He began cleaning out the root cellar to give him a safe day space, sure that he could change her mind when she got used to the idea. He could do farm work at night, could feed from her. They could figure it out.
But Owen had followed him, and he made enough noise to wake Cavan when he swept into the room, just as he’d done so often before. Only this time he was hungry for more than Abby’s stew.
“Da!” Cavan rushed toward Aidan, who’d followed Owen inside. He knelt and reached for his son, but Owen waylaid him. “No greeting for your uncle, then, Cavan?”
Abby screamed as Owen moved to bite, and Aidan looked from her to Cavan to Owen, frozen. He lunged for his son.
He’d done exactly as Owen hoped. He’d saved the boy, thinking his danger the greatest. He’d snatched Cavan away from Owen, taken him outside, and told him to hide. By the time he returned, Owen held Abby’s limp form in his arms, his mouth at her throat, and a knife at her breast.
“I’ll drain her and you’ll turn her,” Owen gasped, blood—Abby’s blood—dripping from his chin. “She can love both of us now.”
Owen had loved Abby first, but Abby had chosen Aidan. He’d always known that his brother was jealous, but he hadn’t known how deeply or how far he’d go to have her.
“Let her go, Owen. She wants no part of our kind. We’ll both leave her, go back to Dublin.” Maybe there was still room to reason with him. Abby might survive if she got help.
Owen gave him a macabre and bloody grin. “She might love me more now, Brother. You might have been a better man; I’ll give you that. But I’m a better vampire.”
Aidan finally rushed him, lunging to place himself between Abby and the knife, but Owen had easily sidestepped him and plunged the skean hilt-deep into his wife’s chest. He lowered Abby, near death, to the floor, and dragged the sharp knife over his own wrist to feed her.
But Aidan had seen the revulsion on her face when she learned what he was. She wouldn’t want it for herself, wouldn’t want Cavan to grow up among them. He threw himself at Owen and pulled his own skean, holding it to his brother’s throat. But he couldn’t do it. He remembered the wild, carefree big brother he’d loved, and knew that killing him wouldn’t make Abby love a monster.
Owen had run away, leaving Aidan to gather Abby in his arms, touch the face he’d loved so much, smell the hay and the wildflowers and the earth that made up her world. He could have tried to turn her and hoped she’d accept it. Instead, he let her die.
He found Cavan hiding in the barn, erased his memories of the night, and took the child to a nearby farm, where he left him an hour before sunrise. He buried his wife and set his torch to the little farmhouse. The next morning he made his way to Ulster and stowed belowdecks on a ship heading for the colonies, leaving his brother and Ireland behind.
Aidan sat up, disoriented by the dreams. Then he knew. Krys had been trying to talk to him, to warn him. He rubbed his eyes and tried to shake off the fog of daysleep.
“Owen has her,” Mark said. He and Melissa sat on the sofa in Aidan’s suite. Melissa’s eyes were red-rimmed.
“Shit.” Fighting off panic, Aidan shook off the last of the dream and grabbed the clothes Mark handed him, dressing quickly and heading for the hatch. Mark grabbed his arm.
“Feed first,” Mark said. “While you do, I’ll fill you in.”
Aidan hesitated, and then nodded. He had to be at full strength, especially after all the healing he’d just done. He sat on the edge of the bed again, with Melissa beside him, already rolling up her sleeve. “Talk to me.”
“Our traitor is Jerry Caden,” Mark said. “I was a half step behind him all morning. When Mel told me Krys hadn’t come to the clinic, I went to her house. I figured she was still with you but I wanted to be sure.”
Damn it. Jerry had been volunteering for a lot of stuff lately, which was out of character for him. Aidan had thought he was finally settling in. Instead, he was gathering information to sell them out. He was a walking dead man.
“He broke in here?”
Mark shook his head. “She’d gone home—to take a shower, looked like. Her door was unlocked, your coat was on her sofa, stuff overturned. There was a scuffle, but no blood. Truck tires in the driveway slush. It was almost dusk, so we came straight here.”
Aidan closed his eyes and concentrated. “She’s been trying to communicate with me. I’m pretty sure she’s at the mill, on the second floor.”
He patted Melissa’s leg, and leaned over to grab his boots. “Call Will and have him scatter the scathe around the mill.” He thought for a second. “And talk to Hannah, get her to help Mirren any way she can. Tell Mirren to rebond everyone to him as soon as possible.”
Mark stopped in midpace and stared at Aidan. “You’re turning the scathe over to Mirren?”
Aidan put a hand on his shoulder. “Tell him. If I don’t come back, he’ll keep everyone safe.” Mirren might not want the mantle of leadership, but he’d accept it if there was no other choice.
Owen Murphy was going to meet his final
death tonight. And if Aidan went with him, so be it—as long as Krys survived it.
The door opened, light from a bright fluorescent lantern spilling into the room and causing Krys to squint at the man’s dark outline. She didn’t have to see his face to know it was Owen. Her heart began a steady, hard pounding, as if it remembered him and how close he’d already come to stopping its rhythm forever. She swallowed and took as deep a breath as she could through her nose. She had to stay sharp if she had any hope of living through this.
If Owen was awake, so was Aidan, and he’d said their bonds would always let him know where she was. He’d be here. Her job was to survive till help arrived.
As her eyes adjusted, she noticed the boots first, black leather with a silver buckle, worn but expensive-looking.
“There you are, little lamb.” Owen sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her. The lantern cast odd, elongated shadows across the room as he laid a shotgun on the floor next to him.
Krys looked at him and tried to see Aidan. They had the same eyes, strong cheekbones. Owen had blond hair to Aidan’s dark, and the same cleft chin, which should have softened his features but instead gave his mouth a cruel edge. His complexion was slightly flushed, so he’d fed. The less hungry he was, the better for her; except that he couldn’t feed from her now because of the bond—at least not as long as Aidan lived.
He smiled and reached for her. “This will hurt. Sorry, love.”
She braced for a cut or a blow, but he simply grabbed one edge of the duct tape that crossed her mouth and yanked it off. After all these hours, it felt as though half of her lips went with it, and Krys hated the involuntary gasp it produced. She reached a tongue to touch her bottom lip and tasted blood. Great. Like Owen needed more stimulation.
She worked her jaw back and forth a few times. “Why don’t you just leave us alone?” She hated that her voice sounded whiny and scared. He’d broken Lucy, but Krys was determined that he wouldn’t break her, no matter what. She wouldn’t sell Aidan out. Plus, she had a big advantage over Lucy. If Owen tortured her, it would be easier for her to die.
He pulled a long knife from a sheath on his thigh and leaned over her. She gritted her teeth and waited for the pain, but he wrapped both arms around her, inhaling as he reached around and, she finally realized, used the knife to cut the tape around her wrists.
“There now, love.” He pulled her arms in front of her, and she winced as the tight muscles tried to unwind. Gently he pulled the tape off her wrists, and then shifted over to cut and remove the tape from her ankles. She shifted her gaze to the door but it looked impossibly far away.
“Now we can have a proper conversation. We are practically in-laws, after all.” Owen settled cross-legged in front of her again and propped his elbows on his knees. “What is your name?”
Krys studied him. Would it be better to engage him in conversation or just push him to do whatever it was he planned? She needed to give Aidan and his lieutenants enough time to get there.
“Krys,” she said. “Krystal Harris.”
Owen smiled, and Krys could see the resemblance to Aidan more clearly, in the shape of his eyes and the way they crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He’d probably been as beautiful as Aidan was in his own way, before he’d grown so gaunt and desperate.
“You look alike, you and Aidan.” She rubbed her wrists, massaging the feeling back into her hands.
Owen began rubbing her ankles, mimicking the motion she made on her wrists. “We look like our ma,” he said. “She had the light hair like mine, but we both got her eyes. You surprise me, though. You’re nothing like Abigail.”
Aidan’s wife. She wished she’d asked Aidan more about her now, and wondered what her relationship with Owen had been.
“What was she like?”
Owen leaned back, stretching his long legs out beside Krys and leaning back on his arms. “She was sweet and soft, with golden hair and eyes the color of the sea off Kinsale.” He smiled as he spoke. “She laughed a lot, but when she got mad at you she was a fierce one.”
“You loved her. All this was about jealousy?” Krys spoke without thinking and as soon as the words were out, she wished she could retract them.
Owen stood quickly, grabbed her wrists, and pulled her to her feet. “I did love her, and your precious, sanctimonious Aidan killed her.”
Killed her? Krys shook her head. He must be mistaken. Aidan’s tears were etched into her memory. “Abby didn’t want him after he’d been turned, but he’s mourned her all these years. He wouldn’t kill her.”
She flinched as Owen stroked her hair. “Oh yes he did, love. My baby brother decided he’d rather her be dead than become one of us, where she might love me better than him. He didn’t know I was watching, but I saw him hold her while she died and then set fire to that shitty little farmhouse. Then he left wee Cavan an orphan and sailed off to America.”
As he talked, he trailed a finger down Krys’s neck, down her chest, and between her breasts. “You’re his mate now, Krystal Harris. Would Saint Aidan kill you before he let you become one of us? He thinks we’re such monsters.”
He leaned in to kiss her. The smart thing would be to go along with it, even encourage him, but Krys couldn’t stand the idea of his mouth on her again, not after last time. She quickly slammed a knee into his groin and shot a fist toward his Adam’s apple.
She didn’t see his reaction coming; only saw the floor and the shadows tilting past as he flung her headfirst across the room. On instinct, she held her arms out to brace herself for the impact against the opposite wall. She hit it with such force that she heard bone snap in her left forearm. Even then, she still hit her head hard enough to blacken her vision.
When consciousness returned, she was curled on the concrete floor, cradling her arm against her. The whole thing flopped—both the radius and ulna had snapped. Everything went gray for a few seconds as she stirred, but the pain brought her around.
Strong fingers grasped her hair and jerked her to her feet.
“Where were we?” Owen asked.
He pulled her against him, pressing the broken arm between their bodies, and Krys fought to remain conscious. She tried to pull herself beyond the pain, away from her physical self. But God, this hurt, and the nausea and dizziness meant she probably had a concussion as well.
“...Of course, my brother has bonded you so I can’t feed from you.”
He’d been talking all along, but words finally began to filter through the sharp pulses shooting through her head. Her mind started working again, enough to realize that he could beat her to death, but he couldn’t drain her life away and make her think she wanted it. Good.
“Since I can’t feed from you, Aidan and I will have to play the game a bit differently this time. Perhaps he’ll turn you into one of us to keep me from cutting out your heart in front of him.” He laughed softly and kissed her cheek.
Owen stilled, becoming so quiet and motionless that Krys could hear her heart pounding. The quiet made her more aware of the pain, and dizziness made the room go gray and tilt again. Finally she heard the sounds that had caught Owen’s ear. Noises downstairs, then loud pops that sounded like gunfire, then silence.
The sound of boots on the stairs floated up to them, a steady thump made by someone who wasn’t trying to be silent. Owen shoved Krys to the floor in front of the door and backed into the shadows, leaning over to pick up the shotgun. He aimed it at the door, waiting.
Krys opened her mouth to scream, and then closed it. She thought the words instead, over and over. Shotgun aimed at door. Shotgun.
The message came through: shotgun. And Krys was hurt. Broken arm. Concussion. She was thinking clearly enough to warn him but he had to move fast.
He sent a message back to her, not knowing if she’d understand: I’m here. Then he concentrated on his brother.
Things had gone smoothly so far. Will had taken the two human women to the secure rooms under city hall. Mirren was hunting down J
erry Caden, and God help the man when he caught him.
Aidan stood to the side of the door, grasped it with his right hand, and turned the knob. A shotgun blast flew past him as the door opened. Owen would fire again as soon as he could ready the gun, so Aidan rushed in before the dust settled. Part of his mind registered that Krys was on the floor, but he had to move past her for now.
He charged Owen with a head to his midsection, knocking the gun to the floor. They grappled for a few seconds, grunting and pushing and accomplishing nothing. As far as physical strength, Aidan had a size advantage. But Owen had fed steadily for a couple of weeks now, and was strong enough. Finally, they separated and stared at each other.
Move to the wall, he told Krys, and she heard him. In the periphery, he saw her dragging herself away from them, towing Owen’s shotgun with her. Smart girl. He didn’t know if she could use a shotgun, or even if she was able to hold it with a broken arm, but at least she was getting it out of Owen’s reach.
The sound of the shotgun barrel scraping on the floor distracted Owen briefly, and Aidan pulled the knife he’d been fingering in its sheath and sank it to the hilt in Owen’s midsection. Forcing the blade inward and up toward the heart, he shut down the voice in his head that said “brother” and listened to the one that said “mate.” This was for Krys.
But he’d hesitated an instant too long, and Owen shoved him away, leaving the knife embedded. He looked down at it for a moment, then grasped the hilt and pulled it out with a sticky, wet sound. “You should use the kukri blade, Brother. Works better.” His voice was raspy, his breathing uneven.
Owen staggered toward the corner where Krys had wedged herself, holding the shotgun in her right hand and cradling her left in her lap. “Krystal and I were having a talk, weren’t we, love? I was telling her all about how lovely Abigail was, and how you let her die. Of course, she already knows what a selfish, self-righteous bastard you are.” He kicked her in the shoulder above her broken arm, and she shrieked as she toppled to her side, but still managed to hold onto the shotgun.
Redemption (The Penton Vampire Legacy) Page 28