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The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love

Page 6

by Nina Mason


  She came to him then and knelt before him. He waited for her to speak, but she didn’t. She just stared into his eyes. The rain had stopped. In the silence, he could hear her breathing. He could smell her too. Oh, God, could he smell her. Breath, blood, and female arousal—a cruel bouquet. His gaze slid down her body. Even in the low light, he could see she was lovely. So bloody lovely. Trembling with dark need, he closed his eyes, fisting his hands to keep from reaching for her.

  “Let’s not talk, eh? At least not until you’ve restored my free will.”

  Her gaze met his, jolting him again. “If I were to release you...would you promise not to run away?”

  He let out a caustic laugh. “What part of free will did you not understand?”

  Hurt darkened her eyes just before she looked away. “Don’t you like me? Don’t you want me?”

  “Of course I do.” She brought her eyes back to his. “I’ve never stopped.”

  “I won’t hurt you, if that’s your worry.”

  That, he knew very well, was a promise she couldn’t keep. She’d be off to heaven, or wherever it was her soul went when it left him behind, and he’d stay stuck in everlasting purgatory with a sucking chest wound where his heart used to be.

  “I thought I said no talking.”

  She laughed, a sweet echo from the past affording both delight and pain. “And I thought I was calling the shots.”

  When her fingers touched his face, a quiver went through him. Soft as a whisper, they moved down his cheek, along his jawbone, across his mouth. Rose-petal lips touched his with a tenderness he hadn’t known in a hundred years. She kissed his neck, his chin, his cheekbone, his temple, his eyelid. The moisture of her mouth clung like dew. Her nectar filled his senses and seeped into his pores.

  “How’d you become a vampire?”

  He flinched as once again the truth leapt into his throat. Desperate to mute himself and seeing no other way, he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her mouth against his. Her breath caught in surprise, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she entwined her tongue with his. His answer, as he’d hoped, was lost in the tussle.

  He began to melt into the kiss, to forget himself and the threat of Fitzgerald. Remembering with a pang, he jerked away.

  “That was nice,” she said. “Why’d you stop?”

  “You’re putting yourself in mortal danger.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “From who? Branwen O’Lyr?”

  “No,” he said, and then added, unwillingly, “Gerard Fitzgerald, the bastard who stole my life...and everything else I held dear.”

  Hell, why not tell her? Maybe if she knew she’d come to her senses and stop acting rashly. Though, if she was as stubborn as her previous incarnations—and he’d wager she was—telling her wouldn’t do a lick of good.

  “Is he the one who made you?”

  “Cursed me,” he corrected her.

  “Did he kill Caitriona and Catharine?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why?”

  He suspected it had something to do with Fitzgerald wanting him, but couldn’t be sure. Both women were murdered when he wasn’t there, so whatever transpired between them and the dark wizard beforehand went with them to their graves.

  “I don’t know,” he bit out. “Any more than I ken why you keep coming back to fuck with me.”

  “I don’t want to fuck with you.” A smile danced on her lips. “Well…not in the way you mean.”

  The thought of bedding her nearly knocked him off his tightrope. “Let me go. Please. Before it’s too late.”

  Getting to her feet, she walked to where the candle flickered. She stood there for a long while, saying nothing, and then, “Tell me the story of your life.”

  He coughed. “That would take days.”

  She stayed where she was, head bowed toward the candle on the altar. “So what? It’s the weekend.”

  His mind conjured dozens of excuses why he couldn’t possibly stay here the whole weekend, but his mouth refused to give them voice. In the end, he disclosed the only true obstacles he could think of. “I’ll need to feed and walk my dogs. And feed myself.”

  “You have dogs?”

  “Why should that surprise you?”

  She turned to look at him, her face shadowed. “I’ve just never thought about vampires having pets.”

  He was still on the floor, still sitting in the spot where he’d landed. He could see nowhere else to sit but the bed, which was out of the question. It could only lead somewhere he couldn’t afford to go.

  “I’ve got horses too,” he told her without knowing why. “Animals make loyal companions and ease the loneliness of eternity.”

  She got quiet for several moments, and then asked, very softly, “Are you lonely, Graham?”

  It was the first time she’d said his name and the sound of it on her lips stirred a bittersweet flurry. “Aye. Very.” He cringed as the words dropped from his mouth. Damn her spell. It not only prevented him from speaking falsely, it made him sound pitiful.

  “Me too.” She said it softly, like she was telling him a great secret. “Can’t the O’Lyrs look after your dogs for a couple of days?”

  “I suppose they could,” he replied, against his will once more, “if I ask them nicely and tell them what to do.”

  She got quiet again and then asked, “Branwen has a thing for you, doesn’t she?”

  He tried to swallow the answer, but it wouldn’t be stifled. “Aye.”

  “What about you? Do you have a thing for her?”

  He hesitated, afraid of what might pop out. “No.”

  She walked to the window and looked out. Lightning flashed, lighting up her pretty face. “It could be fun. Like re-enacting Interview with the Vampire.”

  He scraped his teeth across his lower lip. “Interview with the Vampire wasn’t all that fun, as I recall, for the interviewer.”

  “But you won’t kill me. Unless you intend to. And I certainly hope you don’t intend to.”

  He wanted to lie, to scare her into letting him go, but couldn’t. “I don’t. But if you keep me spellbound all weekend, I might be compelled to do other things.”

  She said nothing for a couple of beats before asking, “Does it hurt?”

  He thought he knew what she meant, but wasn’t sure. “You mean the bloodletting?”

  “Yes.” She let out a small laugh. “I might be a virgin, but I don’t live on a desert island. I’ve been on the Internet. I talk to people. I know sex hurts the first time.”

  “It does. The bloodletting, that is. The bite part, though the drinking part is rather enjoyable. And sex too. For the woman. Or, so I’ve been told. But—”

  He stopped himself before saying he hoped they wouldn’t have sex, because he wanted to as much as he didn’t for lots of reasons he didn’t care to explain.

  “But what?”

  “Never mind.” He gave his head a quick shake. “What’s your name?”

  “Cat. Short for Cathleen. Cathleen Fingal.”

  He rolled his eyes. Bloody hell. Of course it was. It was always Cat, wasn’t it? She was always the same, give or take a few fingerprints of the times. He just wished to God he knew why. Was her immortal soul punishing him? Was God? Why else give her back just to take her again?

  “Let me go, Cathleen Fingal. I’ll go back to Scotland and never darken your door again.”

  “But I want you to darken my door.”

  “Christ, lass,” he ground out, shaking his head. “Do you have a bloody death wish?”

  She gave him a sharp look. “I’m supposed to be asking the questions, remember?”

  “So, you’re going to keep me here.” His fingers powered his hair. “No matter what?”

  He saw the flash of a grin. “That’s the plan.”

  Shifting his weight, he pulled up his left knee to ease the strain on his back. He licked his lips, tasting her mouth on his. He liked the familiar flavor of her, liked the kiss. Too much for both their goods. If she meant
to keep him spellbound all weekend—and it appeared she did—there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it. And talking seemed a safer way to pass the time than the alternative. As much as he longed to lay with her again, he must keep his feet firmly on the tightrope.

  “I should like to tell you the story of my life then,” he offered, hoping she’d catch the reference. “I would like to do that very much.”

  Though her face was in darkness, he could see her smile. It let him know she’d understood, even before she said, “That’s the spirit, Louis.”

  * * *

  She watched from the bed, leaning on a pair of pillows propped against the brass headboard, as he climbed to his feet and slowly walked across the room toward the window. For a long time he stood there, backlit by intermittent flashes of lightning. It was lighter now—was dawn breaking?—and she could see the humble furnishings in her small bedroom. The desk just across where her neglected dissertation waited, the altar where the spell candle flickered, the chair in the corner piled with re-wearable clothes, the bookcase crammed with vampire novels and Scottish romances.

  Funny how the man at the window was an amalgamated personification of the two genres she loved best. Was it a bleed-through from her past lives? She licked her lips, but kept quiet, waiting for him to begin. The scene reminded her uncannily of the opening of Interview with the Vampire, in which Louis turned on the light to prove to the boy he was as he claimed.

  Graham was fair-skinned too, but not in a ghoulish way. Her eyes brushed his long, copper hair, dyed silver by the night. It looked thick and silky and she yearned to touch it. He still wore the white shirt and dark trousers from the pub, but was now sans jacket, not surprising given how she’d sucked him out of the comfort of his home in the middle of the night. What if he’d already been in bed? Something deliciously wicked twitched in her belly. What did he sleep in? What would she have done if he’d arrived without a stitch? What would he have done?

  “Do you want me to turn on a light?”

  “Nay.”

  “Do you fancy a cigarette? They’re not your brand, but—”

  He turned to face her, his hair sheening like pencil on paper. “Aye.” His eyes shone out of the darkness like a wolf’s. “A cigarette would do.”

  Sitting up, she opened the nightstand drawer, flushing as The Rampant Cock winked up at her. Ignoring the book, she fished around for the hard-pack of Marlboro Lights she kept there for emergencies. She started to hunt for her disposable lighter and then remembered she’d used it for the spell. Climbing off the bed, cigarettes in hand, she crossed to the altar, grabbed the lighter and approached him, again feeling the famished fledgling squirming at her core.

  He took a cigarette, but refused the lighter with a wave of his hand. He pressed the filter between his lips with one hand as he plunged the other into the front right pocket of his trousers. The lighter glinted as he pulled it out.

  “How long have you had that?”

  “What?” he asked, the cigarette dangling from his seductive lips. “Oh, the lighter.” A strange expression came over his face as he studied it—a mixture of nostalgia and regret? “A hundred years. Catharine bought it for me. An engagement present.”

  She felt jealousy’s hot lance, but quickly reminded herself there was no cause. She had been Catharine, after all. She studied the lighter as he lit up. It bore an engraving, but she could not make out the tiny, worn inscription.

  “What does it say?”

  He smiled at her, eyes twinkling with mischief. “It doesn’t speak so far as I ken.”

  “Ha-ha.” She pulled a face, but liked his sense of humor. “I meant the engraving, smartass.”

  Something flashed in her mind. A moment in snapshot. Her giving him the lighter in a red box stamped Cartier. Then, she knew. The inscription was in French and read, “I will always love you.”

  The next second, he said the words, sending a chill up her backbone. As the shiver snaked through her, he turned back to the window and looked out at the rain while he smoked. She wanted so badly to go to him, to touch him, to put her arms around him, to feel his arms around her, but she lacked the courage to initiate contact. What if he pushed her away? What if he didn’t? She was equally terrified of both possibilities.

  Lighting a cigarette of her own, she took it to the bed and reclaimed her perch against the pillows and headboard. Her heart panged as her gaze swept over the tarot cards beside her. Was Death the card of her future? Would she end the way Catharine had? Drained of blood and dumped somewhere like a worthless bag of rubbish?

  Swallowing, she dragged her eyes away from the cards and let them roam. The cottage had come furnished, so everything in it but the altar, her magical supplies, and her personal possessions belonged to the university. She straightened her robe and toked her cigarette, suddenly aware of the smallness of the footprint she’d made in this life so far. She taught, but otherwise her existence was insular, singular. His footprint, in contrast, was enormous, making her feel painfully inconsequential.

  “Where would you like me to start? Ab initio or in medias res?”

  His use of the Latin literary terms for “from the beginning” and “in the midst of things” surprised her, though it probably shouldn’t have. Of course, he’d know Latin. He’d been a Scottish nobleman in the eighteenth century. He’d have recieved a classical education. He also spoke French and probably Gaelic, given his Highland roots.

  “Ab initio.”

  He took a minute to organize his thoughts. “I can’t remember everything. A lot has faded over time. Like a lithograph exposed to too much light. But I will relay what I can.”

  In the silence that followed, she heard him suck on his cigarette and saw the cloud he exhaled wreath his hair. The connection between them felt like a fraying rope bridge spanning a chasm. She longed to cross it but feared it might break, plunging her into the abyss below.

  At last, he went on, his voice low, his words tinted with the sepia of another time. “I was born on Christmas Eve in the year seventeen hundred and eighty four. ’Twas a Friday, at the stroke of midnight, and by all reports, my head crowned just as the clock began to strike the hour. I had a caul, which was sold to one Angus MacGregor, a victim of the clearings who was bound for Nova Scotia on the tide.”

  How odd. She too had been born with a caul, a rare and harmless membrane around the head and face of a newborn. Was it significant they’d both been born with one?

  He pulled on his cigarette and, while exhaling, glanced at her from over his shoulder. “Do you ken about the clearings?”

  She nodded. Her fascination with Scotland extended to its history. The clearings or clearances were a terrible time when the chiefs of the Highland clans evicted their tenant farmers, most their own kinsmen, so they could rent the land for sheep grazing.

  “I still remember the smoke when they burned the cottages so those driven out couldn’t return,” he said, returning his gaze to the window. “And seeing those poor, turned-out families in the glens with everything they owned strapped to their stooped backs.” His voice took on a faraway quality as he added, “It’s strange what I remember. And what I’ve forgotten.”

  She could not imagine living so long a life. Nor could she imagine living hers, brief in comparison, without him in it. Even though they’d only just met, it was as if he’d always been part of her, but dormant or hibernating.

  “My mother ought to have kept it.” His voice was still pensive and distant. “Or, at the very least, let me keep it.”

  She knew he meant the caul, but didn’t understand why anyone should want to keep such a thing. “Why?”

  He turned and met her eyes, his expression drawn and grim. “Because, in another of God’s cruel ironies, she drowned. Along with my father. Orphaning me at the age of sixteen.”

  He turned back to the window, folded his arms, and smoked in pregnant silence for what seemed an eternity. She didn’t press him to continue. Clearly, the memory of his paren
ts gave him pain. Would she grieve for hers two hundred years hence? Would she miss them at all? Somehow, she doubted it.

  “Why should your mother have let you keep it? The caul, I mean.”

  “Because a caul is also said to be a talisman against the dark arts.”

  His words, soft and strained with emotion, made her think. If his “curse,” as he called it, was a product of dark magick, it might be possible to break it.

  “They say those born with a caul possess preternatural abilities, though I was unaware of any special powers. I could not even see the spirit said to reside in my own castle.”

  She could see spirits. Was her caul the reason? Was it also the source of her other abilities? “Who haunts your castle?”

  “My Granda, supposedly. The caretaker claims to have seen him, though I never have.”

  She smiled at his use of Granda, the Scots term for grandfather. “Did you know him in life?”

  “Aye. We were very close for a time.”

  “Will you tell me about him?”

  “If I start, I shall never stop.”

  He went quiet again and she could feel the emotion radiating off of him in waves. Did he know her true purpose in summoning him? Could he read her mind? He started toward her, quickening her pulse, but only put out his cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand. He then stood there a long moment gazing down at her, looking very much as he had in her vision. She bit her lip as the same longing she’d felt then pulsed through her again.

  She swallowed again. “Will you sit by me?”

  “Believe me, lass,” he said with chilling gravity. “When you’ve heard the rest, you’ll wish me as far away as possible.”

  She pulled her gaze away from his and lowered it to her hands, which were twisting in her lap. What might he say to make her wish him far away?

  “Have you...killed people?”

  “Only two.” He took a breath, still hovering over her like a buzzard. “Outside of war.”

  Her heart jolted when his arm shot out, but he only reached for her cigarettes. As he lit one, she wondered about the war he’d mentioned. There had been many during his lifetime. In which had he fought? She wanted to know, but at this moment was far more interested in the murders he’d committed off the battlefield.

 

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