Knight After Night

by Jackie Ivie

  “You needn’t be so specific.”

  She had an affronted tone along with the unease at his description. Or perhaps it was the knowledge of his accuracy. She was totally adorable. Cute. Perky. Innocent. Untried. Raw. Pure. The words pummeled him, each one worrisome and yet succinct. Each one describing this woman fate had decreed his. Forever. His mate.

  “I can order a different destination,” Thoran offered.

  “No.” The voice was hesitant and then got stronger. “No. Truly. It’s for the best. I wish to thank you for the supper. And that awkward dance. I hope you tipped the orchestra well.”

  “Enough,” he agreed.

  “Will…I ever see you again?”

  The full flush of too much fluid into his head created a reaction akin to a blush. He had a choked note in his voice with the answer. “Do you wish to?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I doona’ get out of my castle oft. I’m na’ fond of the modern world.”

  “Castle? You have a castle?” Awe stained her voice. The same tone she’d used when she first saw his car.

  “Aye.” Several. And each one unique . He didn’t voice the mundane information. He’d give it to her later…when she had the ability to absorb it.

  “I’d love to see it.”

  “Truly?” Thoran leaned forward to rap on the glass partition.

  “Not now.”

  She put her hand on his arm to stop him, sending tremor through his existence, and then she lifted her fingers away as if it meant nothing. Thoran watched the blush touch the tops of her cheeks, cursing him worse.

  “What…is it?” he asked, with the slightest edge to his voice.

  “I shouldn’t have touched you. It wasn’t—. I didn’t mean—. Uh…you’re pretty strong. Do you work out a lot?”

  “Work out?”

  “How much weight can you press? I mean repetitively?”

  “I’m na’ sure.” He wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, either.

  “My step-brothers would kill for those muscles.”

  “They would?” There were a couple of odd bits of information in that brief sentence. She had brothers. And they were killers. Thoran stiffened slightly. Hunters, perhaps? It wasn’t too outrageous. Fate could be that fickle.

  “Not literally. Oh, please. I meant they’ve spent years pumping iron and don’t remotely look like you. Or feel like you. In a hug, I mean. Oh brother. I should just shut up while I’m ahead.”

  “Ahead of what?”

  “My brain needs to catch up with my tongue. Ok?”

  “O…kay?” he echoed.

  “I mean, it’s not every day I’m forced into a late night date with a rich, gorgeous, educated, and enthralling man.”

  Thoran absorbed each compliment. Adjusted to the rush of emotion the words gave him. He could grow used to them. He smiled slightly. “Why did you fight it, then?”

  “You shouldn’t ask questions like that.”

  “Why na’?”

  “It makes your date uneasy. Did you put something in the champagne?”

  Thoran shook his head. She was blushing again, looking innocent and young and excruciatingly vulnerable. That sent something akin to fright through him. It made his voice harsher than he intended.

  “You have to promise me something, Jolie-lass,” he said.

  “I don’t have to give you the time of day.”

  Thoran spent several moments watching her, breathing with her, stifling the absolute ache to grip her to him and take her to the castle where he could keep her safe. Where no hunter could reach her. Or use her. She’d be with Thoran; at his side, on his bed, and in his life. Thoran grew light-headed at the idea, an emotion he’d thought lost to him. His mind fogged with hints of running his hands over her…then his mouth. Initiating her into his life so he could spoil her with whatever she wanted. Desired. Lusted for. He cleared his throat and tried again.

  “Doona’ go out with strangers. Ever. Na’ alone. At night. Or any time. No matter how they ask. Promise it.”

  “Look who’s talking. You didn’t ask.”

  He clenched his teeth to stay the words ordering her imprisonment. Gained pricks to the inside of his lip as the canines scraped flesh. Tasted salt. Blood. And that’s when he knew what to do.

  Jolie was in his arms, the champagne dripping onto his back with the arm she flung over his shoulder, involuntarily showing agreement to this embrace. Her breasts were against his chest, her heart beating in ragged rhythm into him, echoing through his veins, through his ears, pounding more and more rapid in concert with her breathing. Her eyes were wide, frightened, and yet enticed, glimpsed in perpetual motions of light followed by dark from between street lamps. Her lips parted, blessing him with sweet breath. Calling him.

  The arm at her back clenched, lifting her, bringing her close enough to his face to touch. Thoran stopped, sent his gaze over her features. She was perfect. And all his. His lips opened, displaying his fangs. He didn’t hide it. She didn’t cringe away. If anything her lips parted more. Her breath grew more rapid and harsh. Thoran groaned, tipped his head slightly to fit his mouth to hers, and then he was devouring her; sliding along perfect lush lip flesh, opening a slice of cut to mingle her fluid with his. He shuddered with the exchange, sensation rioting through his entire frame, moving her with it in a vibration of bliss. It shot arcs of light through the back seat of his Rolls, and obliterating every one of his prior experiences.

  It was a rebirth. In absolute ecstasy.

  She had a stunned look to her when he pulled back, lapping the last hint of blood from her lower lip. It probably matched his expression. Her breathing was harsh, in a cacophony of sound as it dragged his with it.

  The car stopped. Barnes put it in park and got out. Thoran gave the order wordlessly so the man stood outside the door waiting.

  “Wow.”

  She’d regained her senses and pushed slightly against him, desiring her freedom. Thoran forced his arms to relax and give it to her.

  “You have need of me. You call.” His voice was rasped, displaying emotion he’d thought dead and buried, along with his mortality.

  “I don’t have your number.”

  She was fumbling with her pack. The one at her backside. Thoran watched as she pulled out her cell phone. And then he smiled.

  “You will na’ need that,” he told her.

  “Then how can I call you?”

  “You’ll ken. Trust me.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “Later, lass. Later.”

  “How much later?”

  Thoran gave a silent order and the next moment he was standing beside the car with a hand about her elbow, holding her until her legs gained strength enough. If the touch and taste of her had moved him, it seemed to have done something similar to her. And that righted his world. That’s when he knew the scope of this gift he’d just received. She was definitely his mate.

  “You need to allow my escort. Right now. To yon door. Otherwise, I’m a-feared.”

  “You? Afraid?”

  “Aye.”

  She was looking up at him, studying with the new, heightened senses he’d bestowed upon with her. He watched her assimilate it.

  “Of what?”

  “Myself. And you.”

  “Why?”

  Thoran looked over her head at Barnes. Nodded.

  “Another moment, Jolie love, and I’ll have you in my arms in that car, and there will be no staying in a little tiny twin bed in that little tiny room. You ken?”

  Her eyes went wide and very pleased. Her smile was full of the same emotion. She nodded and turned from him. Thoran watched her race to the door, unaware of how easily and quickly she got to the door, skimming the ground with little more than two steps. He had the same smile as he moved back to the car.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Being wealthy had lost all privilege. It wasn’t a gift. It was a responsibility. One London financier Langston Meredith IV had
long ago lost, if he’d ever owned such a thing. Like most wealthy men, he was weak. Frail. Easy. Surrounded and protected by bodyguards who could be bought or defeated with ease, and relying on alarm systems that could be turned off. All of which proved the one truth still in existence in the world: One should only possess what one could control.

  Thoran strode quickly through the massive rooms filled with space, occasionally with furniture and glass-encased antiques, and lit by crystal chandeliers so high in lofty ceilings the light diffused a thousand times before coming to rest on a rich man’s possessions. The same lighting reflecting off perfectly hewn noise-reduction mahogany paneling, delineated with wainscoting from molded plaster walls. If he made any noise while moving, it not only would be sucked up by wool carpeting of the highest quality loomed, but the depth of the pile ensured there wouldn’t be a mark to show his passage, either.

  The smell of old man hovered in the air, filtering through the smell of perfume and young, fresh blood. The smells appreciated in scope and pungency as Thoran neared the sleeping chambers. And his prey.

  “It’s about time!”

  The hissed whisper stopped him from pulling his sword. Thoran moved his attention to the lusciously curved, youthful vision standing in a sheer negligee beside the door to her own rooms. Waiting. Watching. Anticipating. Trembling with her greed. Her heart rate rose with the thought of it. Or perhaps it was the reality that was Thoran’s arrival, silent, massive and deadly, and all-over real. A moment later he was right in front of her, a finger beneath her chin as he lifted her face up. His mouth curved open, giving her a full view of his teeth. That got him a gasp sucked through her open lips. He directed his full gaze at her, flashing his eyes into mirrors, gaining complete control as she looked and then got mesmerized in place.

  She was a beautiful specimen, this woman; the one paying his fee with her new husband’s wealth. All one-twenty pounds of her. Thoran’s smile widened, glinting off sharp canines. The poundage on her was mostly breasts. Making it obvious why Langston Meredith IV had married her. The man reeked of weakness, lust and stupidity. Primarily the latter. He hadn’t wed loyalty and he certainly hadn’t wed strength of character.

  Thoran dropped his hand without any hint of movement and turned aside. The women wouldn’t move from the position he’d placed her in. He didn’t check. No stir of noise betrayed his approach to the bed, to stand looking for long moments down at his victim. Watching the old man breathe with a thick rasp that hinted at a death his new wife wasn’t willing to wait for. Given nature, he probably wouldn’t last the night. Thoran pulled his claymore with one motion, sliced with another, and with a flick of wrist Meredith’s head was on the floor, staining thick wool carpeting that absorbed the blood splatter as well as the noise. Thoran watched the waste of an entire body worth of fluid drain into the mattress, pumped there for a second or two by a heart that no longer lived. Uselessly. The organ finally stilled, accepting death and then blood just flowed. Black. Sweet-smelling. It opened Thoran’s senses and elevating his hunger to a near unbearable level. Thoran didn’t usually leave blood spill. He fed on it. That was his signature.

  But tonight was different. Tonight he was taking young blood…pumped by an evil heart. His fangs lengthened to piercing razor sharpness. A blink of time later he was at her side watching her tip her own head for him, giving him full access to her neck, just as she’d given him access to everything in the house.

  Thoran had her in his arms, lifted for his delectation and enjoyment, in complete supplication before stabbing directly into her vein. Feasting. Assuaging the craving until the weak beats of her heart stopped him. That’s when he eased her to the floor, pondering blood that seeped onto carpet from his punctures. There was a much different result as the drops got swallowed up by exclusive expensive weave. It was a reminder that wealth made one weak. Easy prey.

  “You ever use us again, I’ll finish this. You ken?”

  Thoran whispered it as he stood, ignoring her wide terrified eyes just as he ignored the perfectly proportioned body he stepped over, gaining speed and distance until none could say with certainty what had happened. Who had been there. When. Or even if. She’d have the explaining to do.

  He ducked into a Bentley with one easy motion and waved to his driver, collecting his thoughts as they drove. Centering. Enjoying. He’d executed Langston Meredith IV for profit. Millions of pounds of it, delivered straight to one of his accounts.

  But the wife? Her…he’d drained for free.

  o0o

  Jolie folded her arms and leaned back in disgust, making the hard-edged chair creak. It was just another ancient sound in the ancient room they’d brought her to in order to be questioned by the ancient man sitting across from her, plying a hawk-tipped cane with arthritic-looking fingers. The man had introduced himself as Lord General Beethan. Esquire. He’d handed her a business card as if that quantified proof of anything.

  “Look again.”

  Jolie moved her eyes to the large painted portrait on the wall behind him. It was impossible to miss, mainly due to the size of it, if not the subject. It was near life-sized. Probably…six foot by three. Painted by a master hand and framed with gilt-edged wood, it made a massive display. It was a portrait of Thoran Alexander MacKettryck’s ancestor. In full Highland regalia with a little pointed beard and more tartan material wrapping his frame than her Thoran wore.

  Her Thoran?

  Jolie shook her head. She didn’t know where she got these ideas.

  “Look…closer,” her interrogator requested in his querulous old man voice holding a hint of British accent.

  The painter had skill. Brushstrokes had been used with loving intent to capture a rakish air centered in haunting silver eyes. All of it set against a dreamy landscape of lakes and hills lit by a large round moon. The artist used that same moon as illumination to highlight the perfection of one handsome male. Exactly as she’d already noted the last time Lord General Beethan asked.

  “That is the First Duke of MacKettryck. Bestowed the title in 1623. During the reign of the first Stewart king of England, James II.”

  “You already told me. I got it the first time. And definitely the second.”

  “And your answer’s the same?”

  “Yes.”

  “Roderick. Bring in the next painting.”

  “Look…I’m not majoring in Fine Arts. I’m a Medieval Lit fanatic. I really don’t know much about paintings and I—” Jolie’s voice stopped as another painting was walked in as if it had legs, since its size predicated the obliteration of the man’s legs as he carried it.

  It was another MacKettryck forebear, painted in a different setting, this time astride a horse. He wore even more Highland regalia and held a claymore that looked vaguely familiar. Jolie’s eyes narrowed and she easily read the artist signature from across the room. Dyce. 1827. She didn’t question why her eyesight was at such a miraculous and finite degree. She’d already decided to worry over it later, when she had some solitude. Besides, it matched her new hearing and recollection abilities. Ever since the quiz this morning when she’d only had to think of a page to recollect it perfectly.

  That had been before this little surprise excursion into madness. This ancient gentleman requested her presence through the dean. The dean! She’d just barely arrived and attended three days of classes and already she was being escorted to the dean’s office? Under threat from the two large, body-builder types this old man claimed as colleagues? The ignominy of it was worse than the shock. And for what? To take her to a cellar room, probably as old as the university founded in 1427, and show her old paintings so they could interrogate her about the MacKettryck bloodline.

  Speaking of…Thoran did have a spectacular bloodline. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear the men were one and the same. That particular observation caused goose flesh to race her arms and then her shoulders.

  “This is the third Duke of MacKettryck.”

  “I sort of suspected he w
as related,” she dead-panned. Her joke fell flat. She watched the old man trade looks with his two henchmen.

  “They are one and the same.”

  “Not a chance, Old Man. They were painted what? Two hundred years apart? Or more?”

  “Bring in the next painting Roderick.”

  “No. Don’t bother, Roderick.” Jolie mimicked the feeble tone and stood, adjusted her fanny pack, and ran her fingers along the music-player with ear buds, the cell phone, and pack of gum. All solid. Real. Actual.

  “You’re ready to admit the truth?”

  “What truth? You’ve got paintings of MacKettryck forebears?”

  “No. I have proof of MacKettryck. Since he can’t be photographed, it’s the next best thing.”

  “Oh. Please.” Jolie shifted from one foot to the other. “Can I leave now? My roommate will probably be wondering where I am.” It wasn’t likely that Janet even cared. But they wouldn’t know that.

  “Your roommate cares for naught save herself.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The same way I ken you’re an only child. A late child. You are an army brat. Born in Germany, because that’s where your father was stationed. After that you were shuffled all over the world until your father got to Alaska. Fell in love with the place and settled the entire family there, working in a fairly lucrative business in antique cars. Restoration, procurement, and sales. Everything was wonderful until your mother passed on of breast cancer when you were nine. Followed by your father’s death two years later, after he gifted you with a step-parent and two step-siblings, all of whom you fail to communicate with since his demise.”

  Jolie swallowed. “Ok. Why do you want to know all that?”

  “Because it’s my business to ken such things. From the cradle. I’m a hunter, gifted with it from my first bite. And so I hunt. And I’ll continue to hunt. To do that requires research and knowledge.”