It Happened One Bite

by Lydia Dare

  Blaire spotted Benjamin Westfield moving a little to their left and Rhiannon positioning herself to the right, both of them helping to close the circle around Trevelyan. But he was so lost in his own torment that he either didn’t notice or was unconcerned because of his proximity to Blaire.

  James started to approach them, which made Blaire’s heart lurch. Why couldn’t the blasted man stay where he was safe? “I couldn’t save Anwen. I tried, but it was too late as I’ve told you countless times. And none of this has a thing to do with Miss Lindsay. So if it’s me you want…”

  Foolish, foolish, mortal man. Blaire wanted to scream at James. Why did he insist on putting himself in danger?

  Trevelyan’s mouth fell open as he finally let his eyes stray to James. “Is that a bruise over your eye?”

  Blaire could see the man try to make sense of the situation. After all, a vampyre shouldn’t sport a blackened eye. And though she doubted the villain understood the circumstances completely, because she still didn’t understand them herself, James did appear more vulnerable in his current condition.

  Apparently that was enough to make Trevelyan change his target.

  Everything happened so quickly that there was barely time to breathe. A bolt of lightning arced in the sky, landing in front of James as though to protect him. Sorcha’s vine grabbed hold of Trevelyan’s boot, rooting him in place, but it wouldn’t be strong enough to hold a creature of his strength for long. The vampyre’s incisors descended, and he lunged for James.

  Blaire’s heart clenched. She stepped into the vampyre’s path, her dagger outstretched. In Trevelyan’s haste, he impaled himself on her weapon. He staggered backward, surprise on his face, but Blaire knew the wound wouldn’t be enough. He still had his head. He still had his appendages. All he needed to do was remove the dagger and heal himself, and then he’d advance his attack once again.

  She needed a more powerful weapon, one designed to attack vampyres.

  “Sorcha! I need a wooden stake.” The little sprite could always talk nature into doing her bidding, even in the dead of winter.

  Trevelyan’s eyes widened, and he turned an accusatory glare on James. “You told her how to defeat your own kind?”

  “Should he have left me defenseless?” Blaire asked as a gust of wind placed a sharpened stake at her feet. She snatched it up. “Ye doona have ta do this, Mr. Trevelyan. Ye can turn around, go on yer way, and leave us be.”

  Trevelyan yanked the dagger from his chest and tossed it on the ground. “I never could have defeated him on my own before. He was older, stronger.” And he wasn’t about to give up. He didn’t say those words, but Blaire could hear them in his voice.

  So be it. She was battle born.

  Trevelyan backed away, his eyes darting around the woods, the inn, the coaching yard, as though devising a battle plan in his mind. James was well guarded, with Benjamin flanking one side and Rhiannon on the other. Thunder rumbled overhead as a warning.

  Then faster than a blur, Trevelyan moved across the yard. He reached out and caught Rhiannon, drawing her to him. “Quite a temper you have,” he said to her. He grabbed her hair in a vicious grip that had the weather witch gasping in pain. He licked his lips before he said, “I’ve never tasted a witch before.”

  “Let her go!” Blaire demanded.

  Trevelyan’s dark eyes touched every one of them as he swept them all into his next comment. “I will kill every one of you if you stand between me and my goal of finally causing him the pain he has caused for me. I’ll start with this one. I suggest you all head back to the safety of your homes.”

  James stepped closer to the vampyre. “No need to hide behind the girl’s skirts, Trevelyan. I’m right here, and I’m not hiding.”

  A wicked glint lit the vampyre’s eye. He pushed Rhiannon from his path and started toward James. “Why is your eye black?”

  James shrugged. “Because I’m human once more. My heart beats for Blaire Lindsay.”

  The answer shocked Trevelyan to his core, if his expression was any indication. He’d realized James was weaker, but he couldn’t fathom that James was human. It gave Blaire enough time to rush forward with her stake, but James captured her arm and pulled her to him.

  “Human?” The vampyre shook his head. “It’s not possible.”

  “But it is. Let go of your bitterness, Padrig. Let go of your hate. Salvation is still possible if you embrace it. Perhaps some chit can make you whole again.”

  “There is no salvation without Anwen,” Trevelyan whispered. “No one but her, and she’s long since gone.”

  “I’m sure,” Blaire tried to rationalize, “she wouldna want ta see ye like this, hell-bent on revenge in her name.”

  Something flashed in Trevelyan’s eyes, something Blaire couldn’t interpret. Before she could try to figure it out, he snatched the wooden stake from her grasp and thrust it into his own chest.

  Sorcha gasped loudly, and the sentiment was echoed by all those present. A look of peace settled on Trevelyan’s face as he fell to the ground. The others all rushed forward, creating a circle around the vampyre who lay dead at their feet.

  “Good God!” Benjamin Westfield muttered.

  Elspeth smoothed a hand over Rhiannon’s mussed hair. “Are ye all right? Did he hurt ye?”

  Rhiannon shook her head and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Frightened me was all.”

  “That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” Sorcha sniffed. “He knew it wasna possible. He knew his heart would only ever beat for one woman and there was no chance without her.”

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Benjamin said, “but the body.” He gestured to the ground.

  A ball of fire sparked to life in Blaire’s hand. There was no other way. “Anwen, I hope ye’re still waitin’ for him.” She tossed the ball to the ground.

  Flames licked at the vampyre’s clothes.

  “The ring,” James said and reached toward the flames.

  “Doona,” Blaire said, stopping him. “Let it burn with him.”

  But little Sorcha sent a vine up through the flames, wrapped it around his finger, and tugged the ring gently from his pinkie. As she drew it back to her, the flames once again wrapped around Trevelyan, and Sorcha and Rhiannon had to turn away to keep from seeing the sight. Yet Blaire watched. She couldn’t look away. She couldn’t help but pray that he found his salvation in death. She couldn’t help but hope that Anwen’s love was waiting to envelop him on the other side of life.

  James’ arms wrapped around her from behind. “Don’t look,” he said quietly before he pressed his lips against her temple. If she could draw him into her, she would.

  “He deserves ta have someone witness his fate. Ta mourn him. That person will be me,” Blaire said.

  “And me,” James declared.

  “And us,” Elspeth said from within Benjamin’s arms.

  “Well, I willna watch,” Sorcha whimpered from her place beside Rhiannon, where the witch had moved away from the smoldering fire. If Rhiannon wasn’t careful, she’d put the flames out with the rain cloud that brewed overhead because of her sadness. “I canna watch, but I canna help but mourn for the poor soul.”

  Within moments, nothing was left of Trevelyan, no evidence that he’d ever existed.

  Sorcha held out Trevelyan’s ring for James. “Ye wanted this?”

  He nodded and pocketed the ring that was identical to his own; and Blaire had a sinking feeling that he had left something unsaid.

  “Sorcha!” came a slurred bellow from the taproom door. “Is that ye, lass? What are ye doin’ out here?”

  Wallace Ferguson.

  Blaire nearly groaned aloud. It was fortunate Sorcha’s ogre-sized brother hadn’t departed the Thistle and Thorn a few moments earlier, or he would most assuredly have asked about the fire that was now gone, even in his inebriated state.

  Sorcha bolted across the yard into her brother’s arms. He held her while she sobbed uncontrollably.

 
; “What is it, lass?” Wallace’s eyes darted around the clearing at the others present, and a sober look settled on his face. “Is she all right?”

  Sorcha pulled back from her brother and nodded her head. “I’m sorry for cryin’ all over ye. I ken how ye hate it.”

  Wallace shook his head. “Nay, Sorch, I’m just worried about ye.” He suddenly seemed much less foxed than he had moments ago. Then again, Wallace was usually only gentle with Sorcha. If anything had the power to sober the man up, it was his little sister’s distress.

  A fresh deluge of tears spilled down Sorcha’s cheeks. “It was just so sad. The poor vampyre never stopped lovin’ his wife, and ye could see the torture in his eyes.”

  “Sorcha!” Blaire barked. What in the world was wrong with her, saying something like that to Wallace?

  The large Scot again glanced around at the others present. “What’s this about a vampyre?”

  Blaire glared at Sorcha. Now what would they say? Why couldn’t she have kept her bloody mouth shut? She was the one who’d begged to come along on this excursion.

  “Actually, Wallace,” Elspeth began as she closed the space between her and the mammoth in Scotsman’s clothing. “I was goin’ ta ask ye myself but in a less public place.” She heaved a sigh. “I seem ta remember somethin’ about our mothers and a vampyre when I was very young, but I canna remember exactly what it was. I was hopin’ ye’d remember more than I do.”

  Wallace frowned, his bushy brows met in the middle of his head. “Aye, I remember it, El. We should probably all head over ta Ferguson House.” He glanced around the innyard. “We doona want ta send the rest of Edinburgh inta a panic, do we?”

  Twenty-Eight

  There had been very little discussion as everyone made their way back to the Ferguson’s elegant home, which was a far cry from the shabby Lindsay abode. James noted the somber butler, stylish wall coverings, and one immaculate room after another as he and the others trailed Wallace to a good-sized parlor.

  “Sit, sit,” the oversized Scot directed the room at large. “I need ta find what I’m lookin’ for. It might take a while.” Then he hastily quit the room.

  Most of the others heeded Wallace’s advice, but James couldn’t sit. What exactly did Ferguson know? What could he possibly be retrieving?

  Blaire touched James’ sleeve and brought him back to the present. “What is it ye’re no’ tellin’ me?”

  “Good God, woman!” He gaped at her. “What can you possibly think I’m hiding from you?” Hadn’t he bared his soul, told her everything from the very beginning?

  She was completely undeterred by his tone. Confident warrior witch. “Why did ye want Sarah Reese’s ring? For sentimental reasons?”

  He would have liked to have laughed at the ludicrous question, but damn her for finding the one thing he hadn’t told her. Well, he had told her, but not in so many words; and he was loathe to do so now at any rate. “I have a feeling someone will have need of it, that’s all.”

  Blaire frowned at the floor, and he could tell she was trying to figure out what he’d left unsaid. Then her eyes slowly rose to meet his, and he knew she could see through him. “Alec.”

  She was perceptive.

  James nodded once. “Blodswell will teach him, the same way he did me.”

  Blaire’s hand flew to her heart. “Dear God.”

  “I’m sorry,” James pressed, “I had hoped he could be saved, but there was no other way.”

  “He hasna been saved, James. He’s been doomed.”

  It wasn’t that bad. James had lived the life himself for two-and-a-quarter centuries. “Blodswell will see that he’s taken care of.”

  “Ye doona understand.” Blaire swiped at a tear. “Alec lost the one woman he’s ever loved. He’ll be no better than Trevelyan.”

  James shook his head. “Don’t even think that way. He asked Blodswell to save him. He wanted to live.”

  But Blaire didn’t look convinced.

  Then James noticed Benjamin Westfield staring in his direction, a frown marring the Lycan’s face. “What’s that about?” He motioned with his head toward the settee were Westfield sat with his wife.

  Blaire glanced at the man and exchanged a look of remorse with him. “Alec was his dearest friend. They attended Harrow together as boys. He’s as worried as I am.”

  Well, damn the man and his Lycan hearing. Some conversations should be private. James raked a hand through his hair, just as Wallace Ferguson rejoined them.

  The large Scot held a golden filigreed box in his hand, and he offered it to Sorcha before sitting in an overstuffed leather chair. “That was yer mother’s.”

  “Where did it come from?” Sorcha exclaimed.

  “Can we talk about that later, Sorch?” He furrowed his brow, and the man was clearly hiding something. “I thought ye wanted ta ken about the vampyre.”

  “I, for one, want to hear all about it.” James took a step forward. He had a fairly good idea the vampyre in question had been himself, and while he would never have found Blaire without the previous coven locking him away forever, he would still like to know their reasons for doing so.

  Wallace looked from Elspeth to Rhiannon to Sorcha. “Ye ken how Fiona Macleod was.”

  “Unfortunately,” Elspeth muttered.

  “Well, she and Bonnie rarely saw eye ta eye. They fought more than any of the others.”

  Blaire nodded in agreement. “Fought like cats and dogs.”

  “Is that important?” James couldn’t help but ask. What did the dynamics of the coven have to do with this situation? Five witches had captured him, and they were all in agreement.

  “Aye.” Wallace Ferguson looked at him as though he was an imbecile. “Because it wasna always that way, no’ in the beginnin’. I remember when my father married Bonnie. In those days, she and Fiona were the closest of friends.”

  “I doona even remember that,” Elspeth Westfield whispered.

  “So what happened?” Sorcha sat forward in her seat, clutching the filigreed box tighter.

  “That’s a long story.” Wallace scratched his head. “And I’m no’ sure how much of it is important.”

  “The vampyre,” James reminded the Scot, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Of course the vampyre.” Wallace sighed. “Well, Fiona had Alpina Lindsay up in arms about a vampyre who was goin’ ta kill her unborn bairn.”

  All eyes turned to James. He tossed up his hands. “I never harmed anyone.”

  Wallace shook his head. “Ye’re him, huh? I suppose I should’ve figured that.”

  “For the love of God, Wallace,” Blaire complained. “Will ye tell the bloody story?”

  The overgrown Scot frowned, and he sat back in his chair with a huff. “I dinna mean the vampyre would hurt the bairn. Fiona said he would come inta the midst of the Còig when the battle-born witch was in possession of all her powers and that he’d kill her then.”

  For the love of God! Again all eyes focused on James, and he shook his head. “That’s not true.”

  “No, it’s no’,” Wallace agreed good-naturedly. “But the others dinna ken that. They blindly followed Fiona’s lead. They were determined ta keep the monster from ever harmin’ the bairn that would be Blaire. They were impassioned about it, like nothin’ I’d ever seen from them up ta that point or since.”

  Which was what the woman had meant when she’d mentioned James’ future victims. “But I thought this seer of yours was always correct.”

  Elspeth snorted. “Fiona Macleod was more concerned with preserving the purity of the coven than with honesty.”

  “I beg your pardon?” James frowned at the redhead. “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s a long story as well, and ye’ll have ta hear it another day. Just suffice it ta say, this wouldna be the first time Fiona was less than honest about a vision.” Then she turned her attention back to Wallace. “Bonnie found out Fiona lied?”

  Wallace nodded. “Aye. Bonnie was mortif
ied. They had a huge argument, and their friendship never recovered.” Wallace’s eyes sparkled. “Did ye find the cask?”

  “What cask?” James asked, his gaze roving around the group.

  “The trunk full of money.” The overgrown Scot refocused on Blaire, “It was supposed to be left at Briarcraig for ye. Bonnie was convinced ye would need it one day, and that she’d no’ let yer father squander it before then. When ye were ready ta find the vampyre locked in the cellar, ye would also find the cask. ”

  “How do ye ken all of this?” Rhiannon finally spoke up. James had nearly forgotten the weather-controlling witch was still there.

  A blush stained Wallace Ferguson’s face, and he shrugged.

  “Wallace!” Sorcha pressed.

  Finally, the Scot lifted his gaze to stare at his sister. “Bonnie was so sweet, so pretty. I used ta think she was an angel that Father somehow convinced ta live with us.”

  “Ye eavesdropped?” Sorcha gasped.

  “No’ all the time!” her brother insisted. Then he gestured to the golden box in Sorcha’s hands. “She used ta tell me that when somethin’ was botherin’ me, I should write it down, get it off my chest. She told me that’s what she did when she was troubled.”

  Blaire stepped forward. “Are ye sayin’ Bonnie wrote all this down?”

  “She kept her journal in that box.”

  “Where did ye get the box?” Sorcha demanded.

  “In her hidden room.”

  From the breath of air Sorcha sucked in, James would wager this was the first time the lass knew her mother even had a secret room.

  ***

  James stepped across the threshold of Lindsay House and was quite surprised to find Captain Lindsay doing a wonderful impression of a large boulder whose only task was to hold the chair in place in which he reclined. It was a damned good thing that was his only job, because even that appeared to be a bit of a challenge for him, as much as he was struggling for focus in his severely inebriated state.

  “Oh, good Lord,” Westfield muttered as he took in the scene.

  Captain Lindsay swayed as he stood up slowly and reached for his decanter of whisky. “I dinna expect ta see ye back here tonight, gentlemen,” he said slowly, as though wrapping his mind around the words was difficult. Aiden glanced behind them. “Where is Blaire? Doona tell me ye lost her.” He pointed one wobbly finger at James. “Because if ye tell me that, I’ll have no choice but ta kick yer arse.” He glanced down at his boot, as though it should be moving at that point, and flexed his foot. Then he shook his head, collapsed back in his seat, and sighed.