Renner Morgan

by Anitra Lynn McLeod

  Seven Brothers for McBride 6

  Renner Morgan

  In a world of chaos, he never thought he’d find love…

  Gentryman Quintus Hill is injured while running from a band of marauding slammers. He finds protection on Sheriff McBride’s land and an unexpected offer to become the companion of the powerful lawman. But Quintus finds himself attracted the compassionate slammer who tends to his injury.

  As the only man on the farm with medical experience, Renner Morgan’s task was to heal Quintus. He never expected to be so attracted to him or to engage in passionate encounters that he knows can’t go anywhere. The issue of class might be changing in the virus-ravaged world, but stealing another man’s mate could get him killed.

  When the two men’s struggle to resist one another proves futile, they forge a powerful bond that can only be broken by death. The question is, how far will McBride go to get his mate?

  Genre: Alternative (M/M or F/F), Futuristic, Paranormal

  Length: 35,761 words

  RENNER MORGAN

  Seven Brothers for McBride 6

  Anitra Lynn McLeod

  EVERLASTING CLASSIC

  MANLOVE

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Everlasting Classic ManLove

  RENNER MORGAN

  Copyright © 2013 by Anitra Lynn McLeod

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62242-281-4

  First E-book Publication: February 2013

  Cover design by Les Byerley

  All art and logo copyright © 2013 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

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  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

  If you have purchased this copy of Renner Morgan by Anitra Lynn McLeod from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.

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  The author and the publisher work very hard to bring our paying readers high-quality reading entertainment.

  This is Anitra Lynn McLeod’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. McLeod’s right to earn a living from her work.

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  DEDICATION

  For Jon Stewart, who always makes me laugh.

  RENNER MORGAN

  Seven Brothers for McBride 6

  ANITRA LYNN MCLEOD

  Copyright © 2013

  Chapter 1

  “I think that’s everything.” The butler had changed all the bedding, the towels, and ensured there were adequate toiletries in the small mechanical house. “I will restock the cookbot and make certain that he works.”

  “Since Ollie rarely used him, he should be in perfect working order. If not, have Caleb—” McBride cut himself off. Caleb wouldn’t be around to fix things anymore. McBride had just watched him walk away, his face determined and his chin high. Letting him go was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he had because he loved Caleb enough to free him. “Call me if it doesn’t work and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Very good, sir.” The mechanical butler bowed and left the tiny house, presumably on his way to the big house for more supplies.

  McBride inspected what once was Ollie’s house, double-checking that everything was ready for their guest. He didn’t like the idea of quarantining a man against his will, but he was sure Quintus would understand. Given what he did for a living, he would probably insist on it.

  “That’s if he ever gets here.” McBride lifted his hand and touched his communication unit. Nothing happened. He tapped it lightly a few times, but it didn’t offer up the soft ping that indicated it was ready for outbound calls. McBride wasn’t all that surprised. The damn thing had been on the fritz since civilization started to fall apart.

  It was amazing how quickly things could change in less than a month. The first indication of a problem was when McBride was called to the Larsden house. What greeted him there had been so horrific he continued to have nightmares long after. Blood was splattered across the front window of the house, and when he’d stepped within, it had been like an abattoir. Body parts from several slammers were tossed around like some kind of violent storm had struck only within the walls of the house. But it hadn’t been an act of nature. Just the virus-fueled strength of a landed gentryman.

  Larsden had been infected with a disease that caused him to crave blood but also made him unable to receive any satisfaction from it while he was being overnourished by it. The more he drank, the more he wanted, and the stronger he got, until he went mad. The populace had called the disease the blood madness or simply going bloodmad. So far as McBride knew, only gentrymen were afflicted. Slammers drank blood, too, but they seemed to be immune. Because thralls didn’t drink, they couldn’t become ill, but they might be carriers. Since the world fell apart before McBride or his fellow lawmen could find the answer, they were flying pretty much blind.

  As a crimetech, Quintus might be able to shed more light on the situation, but McBride hadn’t heard from him in days. During the last communication they had, McBride offered out his farm for Quintus to take refuge at since the town of Woven Spire had tumbled into utter chaos.

  Once McBride knew there was no saving the town and most of his men had abandoned their posts in the dead of night, he didn’t bother to go into the center of the city to see the destruction firsthand. He knew it would be a mess and had no desire to see things for himself. When Karsten had come, he’d told them what he had seen, confirming McBride’s worst fears.

  In the sharply delineated class system, gentrymen were at the top. Their numbers were about one-eighth that of the slammers. Generally, it took between four and ten slammers to adequately supply a gentryman with blood. Next came the thralls. Like the slammers, they were considered property, but unlike slammers, they didn’t drink blood. Thralls ga
ve up their necks and bodies to the slammers, who in turn gave up their necks for the gentrymen. The Genetics Board endeavored to keep the number of slammers and the number of thralls fairly even. Far below thralls there were grinds, men whose sole purpose was to assuage the sexual needs of the gentrymen until they found a mate of their own class. Grinders had no rights and were less than one-eighth the numbers of the gentrymen. When they became too old or unattractive to be of use, they were reclassified as slammers. Most of them ended up dying in prison, waiting to be sold.

  But that was the old way.

  When the illness became too widespread for anyone to keep it suppressed, the slammers rebelled against their masters. Gentrymen were tossed into the stocks meant for slammers and then violated by the men they once owned. Slammers and gentrymen alike were raiding thrall houses, fighting over the pink-collared thralls and draining just about anyone they could of blood. McBride feared when it all settled out, only the slammers would be left standing.

  The only reason his farm had been spared was the fact that it was far from the four surrounding towns, and most men, if they even knew about the farm at all, wouldn’t come here looking for anything since all they grew was tallos. It wasn’t edible, and given the state of the world, it no longer had any value except as a clothing fiber.

  But McBride’s gut told him not to become complacent. Just because no one had bothered with them yet didn’t mean they wouldn’t do so eventually. Who knew what would happen in the future? To that end, McBride had told the mechanical valet to take up guard in the cupola at the top of the big house. McBride’s land stretched perfectly flat for miles, giving him a spectacular view. If anyone came near the farm, they would know long before they got close enough to do any damage.

  The only drawback was the line of communication had gotten fuzzy when McBride’s strange illness had blasted him with headaches so violent he hadn’t been able to move. Caleb had stepped up and taken charge, but once McBride was better and refused to give in to Caleb’s demands, he’d left with only what he could carry. Since McBride didn’t trust his communication unit, he’d insisted the valet communicate directly with the butler, who would communicate directly with McBride. That way, he wouldn’t miss any vital information.

  McBride was on his way to the big house, fiddling with his right earlobe, when a piercing scream split the air. He looked toward the garden and saw all the men running around the front of the big house. The butler was among them.

  “What’s going on?” McBride yelled.

  “There’s a man being chased down the long drive by a pack of slammers!” Jonas was running while carrying some garden tool. Rather than using it on the dirt, it was now clear he was intent on using it as a weapon.

  Assessing the other men, McBride realized they were all doing the same thing. Rakes, hoes, and planting wedges weren’t going to do much against angry slammers. And then McBride’s belly felt suddenly full of rocks. Caleb had just gone down the long drive. If there were slammers intent on destruction, Caleb would either have to join them, or they would kill him. Caleb was the biggest and strongest of all the Morgan brothers, but he wouldn’t be able to fight off a mob of slammers.

  “Those won’t work.” McBride ran to the shed as the butler spewed information at him via the valet. It seemed there were twenty-three men chasing a lone man. Caleb had confronted the pack. Words were exchanged. One of the men injured the man they were chasing.

  “Injured him how?” McBride was grabbing guns out of the shed and passing them out as quickly as he could. Since he was the sheriff, he had a large cache of weapons in case the main office was out of commission due to a natural disaster or social uprising. At the time he’d thought having a storehouse of artillery on his land was ridiculous, but not now.

  “They shot something into his leg.”

  “What does he look like?” McBride was fairly certain it was Quintus. The butler’s description via the valet confirmed his supposition.

  “I don’t know how to fire this thing.” Jonas was looking at the rifle with more fear than relief.

  “You won’t have to.” McBride took the weapon from him and gave it to Ollie.

  “No!” Jonas wanted it back.

  McBride didn’t have time to dance around the issue. “You are going to stay here.”

  “I most certainly—”

  “I am going out there to confront them with my slammers and their thralls. I don’t want them knowing there’s another gentryman here.”

  “It’s cowardly.”

  “No, it’s smart.” Ollie took the rifle in hand, looking far more confident in its use than Jonas had. “He’s trying to show them that we aren’t like them.”

  “That’s right.” McBride quickly showed his men how to use the rifles. “Besides, I need you to stay here with Alden.”

  Alden shook his head and clung to Gannon’s arm.

  “You can’t hear, and my back is going to be to you. It’s just too dangerous.”

  Alden looked to argue, but Gannon soothed him. “You stay and help Jonas.”

  Neither man looked happy about that, but McBride wasn’t working toward that goal. He wanted to defend his land and make it clear to the interlopers that they weren’t going to take over his farm no matter how many men they brought with them. The slammers’ numbers might be bigger than McBride’s, but McBride’s men had the distinct advantage of knowing the landscape intimately, and they had firearms.

  “Where’s Caleb?” Renner asked.

  “He’s already out there.” McBride left it at that as he didn’t want to delve into the explanation now. “Are you ready?”

  Everyone nodded, but Bailey asked, “What do we do?”

  “Just follow my lead. If we’re lucky, I’m the only one who will have to take a shot.” McBride strode down to the bend then onto the long drive. The group of men was a good distance away, but they could probably see McBride and his men coming.

  From what he could tell, only a few of them had weapons, but they didn’t look like guns. That was good. The only people on the planet who had guns were lawmen. When everyone had cut and run, the gun safe at the sheriff’s office had locked down and it would stay that way until McBride opened it personally. He had no intention of doing so when he had enough firepower on his farm to outfit his men and at least a dozen more.

  The closer he got, the more of the situation McBride could see and therefore puzzle out. It seemed that Quintus had been running from the pack of slammers when he’d encountered Caleb. Quintus must have stopped, or perhaps Caleb stopped him, because he was near to Caleb, but Quintus was down on the ground, clutching his calf. It looked like Caleb had gotten the group to stop and they were talking, but given the tense postures and the way some of the slammers were bouncing from foot to foot, they were done with discussions.

  “Who’s that?” The leader of the slammers pointed at McBride but asked the question of Caleb.

  Caleb didn’t even look back. “He’s my master.”

  The title sent a strange bolt of fear down McBride’s spine. For all he knew, Caleb could be intent on turning on him and joining up with the marauding slammers. However, when he tried to picture that scenario, he just couldn’t see it happening. Caleb wasn’t angry with McBride. He simply wanted his freedom more than he wanted to be his mate. It was a crushing realization, but there it was.

  “Join us and he won’t be your master anymore.”

  “I don’t like to share.”

  McBride didn’t have to see Caleb’s face to know he’d just flashed the whole group of men that wicked little grin of his. He probably waggled his brows for good measure.

  “You can keep him as a pet.”

  “Who’s to say I’m not already?” Caleb shrugged. “You’ll notice he came out with guns to defend me.”

  McBride had been planning on a very different scenario to make the slammers go, but since Caleb seemed to be handling them so well, McBride was willing to let him keep right on talking. Interruptin
g or trying to take over could get everyone killed.

  “We’re not leaving without him.” The leader pointed at Quintus.

  Quintus looked up at McBride. His agony was clear by the deep lines in his brow. His normally smoothly shaved face was scruffy with a two-day beard and his clothing was battered. Now that he was closer, McBride realized what they were using as weapons were slingshots. But these weren’t the cheap kind boys sometimes created out of rubber bands and sticks. These were full-blown weapons that could clearly inflict significant damage given the blood that saturated Quintus’s pant leg.

  “You are leaving without him.” Caleb spared Quintus a look. “I got him so my gentryman has one of his own to play with.”

  McBride let that comment slide, but the look Quintus gave him was one of horror that McBride was apparently being bossed by one of his own men. Eventually, McBride would explain everything to Quintus, but not here and definitely not now. Not when he’d prefer to win the battle without bloodshed. Besides, he wouldn’t be Caleb if he didn’t manage to piss someone off in the process of being a hero.

  “We want him to feed from.”

  “Too bad.” Caleb snapped his fingers. “If any of them move any direction but away from here, shoot them.”

  McBride leveled his rifle, and from the sounds behind him, so did the rest of the men. There was a long moment of tense silence while the leader considered his weapons against what McBride and the others held. While the slingshots were good, rifles were better, and they both knew it.