The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love

by Nina Mason

  “How you ruined Caitriona.”

  He flamed the lighter. “Why?”

  “Because I want to know.”

  He lit his cigarette and exhaled with a laugh. “So I should bare my soul, lay myself open, simply because you wish it?”

  “I thought you had no soul.”

  Her words sliced his heart, drawing blood. He smoked the cigarette like it was his enemy, crushed it in the ashtray, and lit another. “Would you have any whisky? Or is a drink too much for a lowly prisoner to ask for?”

  “Fuck you, Papillion.”

  He assumed it a reference to convicted felon and fugitive Henri Charriere, the subject of the book and movie, not the dog breed or an actual butterfly.

  “You can’t keep me spellbound forever, you know. And when you release me, I have no choice but to leave Wickenham. For both our sakes.”

  “Because of Fitzgerald. Not because you don’t care for me.”

  She stated rather than asked it, but he still felt compelled to confirm. “Yes.”

  “What if we could stop Fitzgerald?”

  He snorted his incredulity. “How do you suggest we do that?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Hope glimmered. “But you believe there’s a way?”

  “You don’t?”

  He shrugged. To be frank, he’d never given it much thought. He’d been walking the tightrope for so long now, it seemed as much a part of him as the bloodlust.

  Rolling onto her back, she slipped him a sideways glance. “If I get some whisky, will you tell me what happened after you killed the maid?”

  He winced at the mention of the murder. The guilt and shame of it still haunted him. That was perhaps the worst part of his curse—having the raw instincts of a beast coupled with the conscience of a man. It wasn’t always possible to control his vile urges, but he would always regret the evils they drove him to commit.

  “Aye.”

  “Good.”

  Climbing off the bed, she straightened her robe as she walked toward the door. She returned a few minutes later with a bottle of Glenfiddich and two low-ball glasses. She set the glasses on the nightstand beside him, filled one and took it with her back to her side of the bed. She then proceeded to prop herself against the headboard beside him, but with a foot or so of space between them.

  Doing his best to ignore her inhospitality, he poured his own whisky and took a generous gulp. Alcohol and nicotine took the edge off his cravings and he could use all the help he could get right now. As much as it galled him, her cold-shoulder also would aid his resistance.

  “Okay.” She tugged at her robe. To ensure she was well covered, presumably. “Ready when you are.”

  He offered her nothing as he topped off his glass and lit another cigarette. If she insisted on treating him shabbily, he would repay her in kind.

  * * *

  “To ensure what I did to the maid never happened again,” he began with a breath, “I locked myself in the tower, refusing to let anyone in, even poor Caitriona, however much she pleaded, wept, and beat upon the door.

  “When I could bear it no longer, I faked my own death.” He sipped his whisky. “It wasn’t difficult, given my physiology and the fallibility of medical instruments of the time. Truth be told, a shocking number of poor souls were buried alive back then.”

  He took another drink, licked his lips, and finger-combed his hair. “The hardest part was keeping my thirst in check as they carried me to the undertaker’s, and the time I spent shut up in that bloody coffin. I endured that living hell for three days, praying all the while for God to please, please have mercy on my soul. But either He has no mercy where I’m concerned or I have no soul, because my prayers went unanswered.”

  Although she felt for him, she wasn’t surprised his prayers had been fruitless. More often than not, prayers of supplication went unanswered because the universe didn’t give people what they desired; it gave them what they needed to grow. That usually took the form of more hardship and suffering.

  Shadows of her recurring dream flickered. Her belly heavy with child, the crucifix hanging above the bed, the yellow-eyed man draining her blood. Was it more than a dream? Blinking it away, she turned her thoughts back to him and his story.

  “What do you believe you did to Caitriona to deserve God’s wrath?”

  He just sat there for what seemed an eternity, staring at his half-empty glass. Then, just when she was sure she’d go mad, he began to speak in a voice tight with emotion. “I loved her so much. Wanted her so much. But, even so, I conducted myself with all due propriety throughout our engagement. Then, a week before the wedding, she summoned me to her father’s estate. When I responded, I found her in the parlor unchaperoned.”

  As he went on to describe the scene, it took shape behind her eyes as if drawn from her memory. They sat together on a Chippendale bench in a familiar parlor with high ceilings and moss-green walls. A black marble fireplace graced the wall opposite. There was a spinet on one side of the mantle and shelves bursting with books and brick-a-brac on the other. The furniture, covered in velvets and tartans, was pretty but stiff.

  They were alone in the room, looking as if on the set of a Jane Austen film. He was clad in tall riding boots, knee breeches, and an embroidered waistcoat under an emerald frockcoat with large buttons. The comingled smells of dust, horses, and manliness wafted from him. She donned a white muslin gown with a pink ribbon at the empire waistline. His hair was clubbed and plaited, hers, swept up in a Grecian coif with face-framing curls. He held her hand as his eyes, the same color as his coat, searched hers.

  “What is it, m’aingael? Why have you summoned me? Is anything amiss?”

  “No.” She swept a hand across his jaw. “It’s just that, well, I want to taste the sweetness of forbidden fruit while it yet remains forbidden.”

  When the scene evaporated, she looked around, finding him still at the window—a silhouette framed by amber light. Sensing his anguish, she wanted to go to him, to throw her arms around him, to kiss away his pain. As she rose to do just that, he turned, meeting her gaze. Her heart wrenched at the tear running down his cheek.

  “I did what she asked,” he continued, his voice strained, “against my better judgment. And in doing so, I got her with child, though I didn’t know it until some months later.”

  She bit her lip, heart-torn. He turned back to the window and took a moment, as if trying to get himself under control. Then, after an insufferable delay, he said, “When her father learned she was carrying my bairn, he disowned her, despite our marriage being technically legal…”

  When his voice trailed off, she jumped in. “What? How?”

  “We’d done a handfasting to become engaged,” he explained. “And back then, consummation of such a vow made it a binding marriage in the eyes of the law.”

  “But not in the eyes of her father?”

  “Nay.” He shook his head. “Because we weren’t married by a priest. So, he packed her off to a convent whilst proclaiming to the whole bloody parish he would not have a Logan bastard under his roof.”

  The pain in his voice wrenched her heart. “What did you do?”

  “What could I do? As far as the living knew, I was deceased. I could hardly come back from the dead, now could I?” He paused and finger-raked his hair. “I searched for her for weeks, finally finding her with the Carmelites in Falkirk. I found lodging nearby and visited her every night—in her dreams.” His back began to tremor with stifled emotion. “Then, one terrible night I found her on the bed. Pale and lifeless.” He drew a quavering breath. “The wee bairn died with her. A laddie it was. A beautiful perfect wee laddie. And so close to term he might have...”

  His choked voice drifted off and he stood there like a lonely island in the window. Heart aching, eyes brimming with tears, she went to him, slipped her arms around his waist, and set her cheek against his back.

  “I’m sorry. So sorry. But what happened wasn’t your fault.”


  “No? Then whose fault was it?”

  “Gerard Fitzgerald’s.”

  “Aye, well.” Bitterness etched his words. “Ultimately, I suppose. But it was I who put her in his path, by going to see her when I knew better. Just as I did with Catharine. And now, again, with you.”

  Chapter 8: The Oldest Living Virgin

  The sleep that followed was restless and filled with strange dreams. In one, she saw the yellow eyes again. In another, she watched, trying to scream but unable to, as Abraham Van Helsing, the vampire hunter from Dracula, staked Graham through the heart as he lay in a coffin in full Highland dress.

  She awoke with a jolt, relaxing as soon as she saw him sleeping beside her, still alive—or undead, at least—a stray hair near his mouth billowing with each exhalation. Pale light filled the room. The coming dawn mingled with the soft glow of street lamps and the flickering candle. The storm must have passed because all she could hear outside was the chirping of birds greeting the new day.

  It was Saturday now, giving her just forty-eight more hours to figure out how to keep him from going back to Scotland. Her best bet, it seemed, was to use magic to keep Fitzgerald at bay. But what kind of spell? Summoning? Binding? Protection? All three?

  The events of the day before ran through her mind. The strange encounter at the library; the unsettling stare out at the pub; the puzzling visions; the tarot cards; bringing him here; learning the truth. He was a stranger, yet not a stranger; a monster, yet not a monster. Like the fairytale Beast whose curse was broken by Beauty’s love. Could her love do the same for Graham?

  And she did love him, didn’t she? As crazy and impossible as it seemed, she suspected the love had always been there, waiting to reawaken like Sleeping Beauty inside her thorn-covered castle. The feeling was exhilarating, but it also frightened her. As did the truth of what he was.

  He was immortal and she wasn’t. So, even if she succeeded in thwarting Fitzgerald this time around, Graham would still live on as he was while she aged and died. How could their relationship work? Only one of two ways as far as she could see: either he needed to become like her or she needed to become like him.

  The second option seemed more doable than the first. Plus, if she became like him, Fitzgerald couldn’t kill her, so it could solve all their problems. She took a few minutes to check her emotional temperature with regard to becoming a vampiric faery. To her surprise, she felt okay about it. Adapting to the diet shouldn’t be too difficult. She already liked rare beef, so drinking blood shouldn’t prove too big a stretch. And she was practically an expert on the technical aspects of fellating a man. The closest she’d come to actually doing it, sadly, involved a wine bottle. But, still. How hard could it be? Transitioning, therefore, should be a cinch on her end. But what about his end? Would he turn her without an argument?

  Something told her to prepare to do battle. He didn’t think he had a soul, didn’t buy they were soul mates, didn’t believe in reincarnation. For her to get her way, his beliefs would have to change. And she had very little time to bring about what amounted to a monumental conversion.

  Determined to at least try, she rolled onto her side, her back to him, and spooned into him, hoping he’d rouse. When her bum met his hardness, a bolt of desire cut through her. As she pushed against it, wriggling a little, he made a pleased sound and put an arm around her—a good start.

  “Do you want to drink from me?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You’re my captive. I feel duty bound to feed you.”

  “That’s very generous of you. Why am I suspicious of your motives?” He laughed. “Oh, aye. Because you summoned me here using witchcraft and are holding me against my will.”

  Her gut tightened. “The offer was sincere.”

  “If I feed from you, I’ll want to penetrate you with more than my fangs.”

  “I can live with that.”

  She ground against his erection, provoking a tortured sound. “But I can’t. And neither can you. You just think you can.”

  “How will Fitzgerald know?”

  “I told you what he said when he turned me. Bone of my bone and all that. The blood exchange connects us. He can feel what I feel. He’ll know if I become emotionally involved.”

  “You seriously believe you won’t get emotionally involved if we abstain from the exchange of bodily fluids?”

  “Let’s just say the chances are better than if we do.”

  “You’re awfully naive for someone of your advanced years.”

  “And you’re awfully daring for a virgin in bed with a vampire.”

  “That’s because I’m trying very hard to retire my title as the oldest living virgin in the British Isles.”

  He chuckled into her hair. “I’m sure there are a couple of nuns hereabouts more senior than yourself.”

  “I stand corrected. I’m only the oldest living virgin who hasn’t taken a vow of celibacy. But still looking to retire the title. Besides, I’m hatching a plan to beat Fitzgerald at his game.”

  “Oh, aye? What kind of plan?”

  “I’m still working it out, but something involving magic.”

  She swept her hair aside, baring her neck. When he ran his tongue along her nape, she felt a dizzying rush of blood, as if every corpuscle had raced toward him. “Bite me, Graham. Drink my blood. I want you to.” The words bubbled forth, their certainty a shock to her ears.

  Letting her go, he rolled over, shaking the bed. “Lead me not into temptation, lassie. I can find the way all on my own.”

  * * *

  As he lay there with her sleeping beside him, he allowed hope to glimmer in his heart for the first time in a century. The cards were never wrong, and she had drawn the card of happily ever after. Might things work out for them this time?

  Outside, the storm raged anew. He shot a glance at the bedside clock. The glowing red digital display announced it was 2:15. He wasn’t tired, but even if he were, he needed to call Benedict about the dogs and let him know where he was. His mobile was back on Wicken Hall, on the dresser with the rest of the stuff from his pockets: his wallet, loose change, cigarettes, and car keys. He’d come close to putting the lighter there too, but kept it at the last minute, as a touchstone of sorts. Apart from the portrait, which he still hadn’t located, the lighter was the only physical reminder of her he had left.

  An idea dawned, a rather wicked idea. He ought to claim a souvenir while he was here—a wee bauble of some sort she’d never miss. He cast around for something fitting the bill, as well as a telephone. He didn’t see a phone, but he did see a rosewood jewelry box on the chest of drawers beside the window. With all due stealth, he slipped off the bed, tiptoed over, and lifted the lid, praying it didn’t play music. It didn’t, thank God. Digging out his lighter, he flamed it for light and began to pick through the jumbled contents of the box.

  His breath caught when he saw the bracelet, a heavy gold chain with a heart-shaped lock and key. It couldn’t be, could it? And, if so, how had she come to have it? He picked up the bracelet, ran his fingers over the cool metal, and turned over the wee silver heart.

  Mon coeur est à toi. My heart is yours.

  He swallowed his shock. It landed in his belly like a lump of lead. He had given this very same bracelet to Catharine the night before she disappeared, but the clasp was tricky, so she hadn’t worn it out. He’d left it behind in their flat when he fled the police inquiry, thinking of it too late. Though burning to know how she’d acquired it, he could hardly ask without admitting his crime. Biting his lip, he set it back in the box and looked for something else. As much as he yearned to take it, the bracelet was too special. She would miss it and think him a thief.

  After closing the jewelry box, he crept toward the door. Leaving it ajar, he made his way down the hall, located the telephone, and rang Benedict’s mobile. His friend answered on the third ring.

  “It’s me.” He kept his voice low. “I’ve been detained. For the weekend. Would you mind awfully lookin
g after the lads in my absence?”

  “I’d be happy to,” Benedict returned. “But do tell about this mysterious detention of yours. So far as I was aware, you were tucked up in your bedchamber, snug as a bug in a rug. How’d you sneak out? The etheric express? And, more to the point, where’d you sneak out to?”

  “It’s a long story. Just know when I return, I’m going back to Scotland.”

  “To Scotland?” Benedict’s tone sobered and sharpened. “Why? And for how bloody long?”

  “For good.”

  “Does this have to do with the lass from the pub?”

  “Aye.”

  “I thought you weren’t interested.”

  Graham started to say he wasn’t, but the words stuck in his craw. Damn her. He couldn’t even lie to someone else. “I’m doing it to protect her. I’ll explain everything when I see you. And thanks for looking after the dogs. There’s kibble in the larder...and it would be good if you could walk them at least once a day. Otherwise, they’ll chew up my shoes.”

  “No worries.”

  “Thanks, Benedict.”

  He put the phone down with care. Benedict was a good friend, the main reason he tolerated Branwen’s shenanigans. The thought of Shelob gave him pause. What would she do if she learned where he was? They weren’t a couple, but neither had she had a rival in more than a hundred years.

  He shook his head. Branwen was the least of his worries right now. Besides, how could she find out where he was? And what if she did? He’d be off to Scotland as soon as he was free, leaving the pair of them behind. As much as he hated to abandon Cat, he rather looked forward to being free of Shelob’s sticky web.

  Sensing someone behind him, he spun round. There, to his surprise, stood the bonny blonde he’d met earlier at the pub—Benedict’s new mouse—wearing a negligee leaving little to the imagination. His eyes roamed over the display, noting large breasts, small nipples, and a shorn pubis beneath the sheer nylon veil.