by Nina Mason
Before the ban, every Highlander worth his salt carried a dirk—everywhere, even to the kirk on Sundays. A dirk was much more than a weapon in those days; it was a sacred object upon which a man swore his oaths. Taking a Highlander’s dirk was akin to taking his heart and soul. And the English knew this and used the knowledge to break them.
Rather than surrender their weapons, many brought them here to be stowed in a secret armory in the attics until they could reclaim them. Most never did, and their arms remained in the attics of Tur-nan-Deur to this day.
Sipping his drink, he savored the pleasant burn of the whisky on the back of his throat as he stared into the flames. He needed something iron to immobilize Fitzgerald. Might there be something he could use in the attic armory?
An odd sound interrupted his contemplations. He cocked his head, straining to identify what he’d heard. Was somebody moaning? Narrowing his eyes, he listened harder. Aye, a man, judging by the timbre. Thrumming with comingled curiosity and concern, he set his glass on the mantle and took down the two-handed claymore. He knew how to wield it, having studied illegally under the former weapons master from the local taigh suntais, the Gaelic name for the old-time schools of martial. Though the weapons ban rendered such schools obsolete, his Granda had arranged his instruction in secret “to preserve the old ways.”
Sword in hand, he moved toward the landing where Bonny Dundee stood guard. The moaning grew louder—and more decipherable. Whoever was making the noise was not in pain. Quite the contrary, in fact. Squinting in concentration, he strained to home in on the sound. It seemed to be emanating from the caretaker’s office. The door stood ajar. His eyes became slits. Did MacCabe have a woman in there?
Hazy impressions floated up from his subconscious like a laudanum dream. Three pairs of yellow eyes. Dark urges. Nectar-sweet breath. The taste of blood in his mouth. The bliss of three sucking mouths. He shook his head to dispel the unsettling memory.
Of course. Why had he not thought? If Fitzgerald was here, so would be his lads. Tightening his grip on the unwieldy sword, he crept toward the office and peered around the half-open door. Though the room was dark, he could still make out moving shapes on the sofa. Feeling along the wall, he flipped the switch, flooding the space with light.
Three heads popped up; two brown, one blond. All three sets of blood-smeared lips were drawn back to expose saber-like fangs. He saw his caretaker then. He was sprawled on the sofa. His eyes were hooded and his kilt aloft. Blood streamed from a bite on his thigh. The smell of it roused his dark hunger. His canines sprouted amidst a deluge of saliva. Swallowing, he dropped into a defensive crouch, brandishing the sword.
One of the dark-haired lads rose and moved toward him, hissing like a cat. Growling, Graham held his ground. As the lad stepped into range, he swung the blade with all his might. The blade struck the bicep, lopping off the arm. Blood flowed like a faucet. The lad screamed, clutched the stump, and drew back. In one fluid motion, Graham sliced and stepped forward. This time, he hit his mark. The head sailed toward the sofa and bounced across the floorboards.
The other two were on their feet now, moving in on either side. Graham jabbed and slashed to keep them at bay. His heart was pounding and his arms burned with fatigue. The sword was too heavy. His strength was flagging. The blade’s tip sank ever lower. He couldn’t hold them off much longer.
The dark-haired one charged. Calling upon every ounce of strength he had left, Graham raised the sword. The blade drove down and down, cloving the head in an explosion of gore. Wrenching the blade free, he turned to face his third opponent. He wasn’t there.
Glancing around, he caught a glint of blond hair disappearing through the doorway. He started to give chase, but changed his mind. The lad was probably rejoining Fitzgerald. As taxed as he was, it would be suicide to try and take on both of them at once. His back ached something fierce, his legs felt like jelly, and his arms were numb from wielding the cumbersome Claymore. He needed a few moments to recuperate and regroup. He also needed a lighter weapon. And more than one, if possible.
He plunged the tip of the blade into the floorboard deep enough to stand on its own and went to the sofa to check on MacCabe. He was weak and groggy owing to the loss of blood, but otherwise seemed well enough. His kilt was still hiked up to his waist and his sex still fully engorged. Graham regarded the jutting member warily. A man’s seed is the nectar of the gods. He was in dire need of an energy boost, but could he set aside his pride to take what he needed?
He threw a backwards glance toward the doorway. There was no one there and no noise from anywhere else in the castle save. The only sounds were MacCabe’s shallow breaths and faint heartbeat. Not that Fitzgerald or the lad couldn’t appear out of nowhere in an instant. Prepared to transport at a moment’s notice, he knelt down and wrapped his hand around the caretaker’s organ. Twinging with revulsion, he bent over it and opened his mouth. His throat closed, his gut convulsed, and his heart flared in protest. He withdrew and let go, shaking his head. He couldn’t, dammit. Just couldn’t. However much it might aid his cause.
* * *
Cat blinked down at the Two of Cups. The card displayed a young couple exchanging golden chalices in what looked to be a wedding ceremony. Between them floated a staff entwined with two copulating snakes, a symbol of healing, divine communication, and the union of opposites. A winged lion’s head—red to represent fiery sexual passion—crowned the caduceus. The card signified the rejoining of soul mates. It was one of those she’d received the day the gypsy read her fortune on Carnaby Street. She now grasped its full meaning. And what she must do about Graham.
* * *
Now armed to the teeth, Graham crept down the steep stairs leading into the dungeon-turned-wine cellar. Stopping at the bottom, he scanned the corridor. The bunker-like space was much the same as he remembered. Beams and lintels of dark timber cut the porous sandstone walls. Crude iron torches jutted along the passageways. At present, the torches were unlit, making the space dark and spooky. He shivered, and not just from the sudden drop in temperature. Despair, as always, hung in the air like trapped smoke.
At the end of the passage, he could see the barred iron door leading to the cells. Dark shadows littered the way between here and there, but his night vision was keen enough to see no one lurked therein. He smelled nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual fusty bouquet of wine, oak, dust, and rodents.
And speaking of vermin, where might that evil rat be hiding?
Gripping the caged hilt of his father’s broadsword, which he’d taken down from over the mantle, he slunk toward the door and gave it a push. It swung open with the groan of hinges stiffened by age and disuse. The air rushing out at him was frigid, earthy, and foul. He stepped inside, searching the darkness for danger. Casks and wooden racks filled with dusty bottles lined the chiseled walls. He cocked his head, hearing only the scurry of pests. Sniffing the air, he picked through the layers of scents.
Dust. Wine. Rats. Blood.
Blood? He inhaled more deeply. Alarm sped his pulse when he realized the blood he smelled was human. Turning toward the scent, he began to follow it through the shadowy labyrinth of cell-lined corridors. Glimpsing the light-haired lad, he dove back around a corner. Holding his breath, he pressed himself to the wall, sword clutched firmly. Dematerializing wasn’t an option. He’d drop his weapons, giving himself away. The lad would follow and he’d be unarmed. He waited for the lad to come his way. Minutes passed. Nothing happened. Ever-so-gingerly, he stole a peek around the corner. There was no one there.
He pressed on, senses on high alert. Turning the last corner, the scent of flesh and blood pricked his nose. Hunger rumbled in his belly. He said a silent curse. Because of Cat’s enraging suggestion, he’d failed to take his fill from the lad in the vaults.
Somewhere underneath all the other sensations, his Fitzgerald sensors thrummed. The dark wizard was near. Eyes darting around, he saw only shadows and the doors running the length of the corridor. Heavy plank with b
lack iron strap hinges.
Creeping toward the first door, he sniffed around the jamb. He could detect no unusual aromas seeping through the cracks. He gripped the latch, but snatched back his hand with a hiss. The iron burned like fire. Using the apron of his kilt as a buffer, he tried again. As the door creaked open, he peered inside. The cell was empty except for a few large casks in one corner.
He repeated this ritual at the next cell and the next. Both were dark and empty. Heart pounding in his ears, he moved on. As he approached the final cell, the bouquet of blood and smoke grew stronger. The door was closed, but a bar of light shone underneath. Fitzgerald’s vibration intensified. So did his hunger. Tightening his grip on the broadsword, he crept nearer. Just as he reached the door, it swung open unaided, hinges screeching like a banshee’s cry. Shock sped his already racing pulse.
Senses keen, he cast around the chamber. It was dark apart from the amber glow of dying embers in the grate of a small fireplace. He saw the lad first, the fair-haired one, standing in the corner of the cell looking back at him. His pale visage floated among the shadows like a ghost. They stood there for a long moment just looking at each other, saying nothing. Then, another figure stepped out. Another dose of adrenaline surged through his system. It wasn’t Fitzgerald, thank God. Instead, it was a human lad of about sixteen. The source of the blood scent. He was naught but the glazed expression of mesmerized prey.
“Where is your master?”
The blond duz, grinning guilelessly, made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Not here. As you see.”
Graham consulted his veins as he glanced behind him. He neither saw nor sensed the dark wizard’s energy. The other duz whispered something in Irish he didn’t quite catch. The human, responding to whatever it was, came toward him with his arms outstretched.
“Take him, my blood brother. He wants you to. We both do.”
The tantalizing scent of mortal blood provoked a flood of saliva. He swallowed, suddenly ravenous. He reached out, unable to help himself, but drew back. He felt flushed and shaky all of a sudden. An adrenaline hangover, probably. The human drew closer, his eyes hooded. Graham’s gaze roamed over his naked body, taking in the bruise on his chest. It was just above the nipple. Who’d fed from him, Fitzgerald or the blond? Did it matter? Another flood of saliva made him lick his lips. The lad had an erection. There was more bruising on the flesh of his inner thighs. His skin was otherwise smooth and flawless.
Somewhere above them a clock chimed. Its ringing reverberated through the cell’s timbers. The boy drew nearer and put his arms around his neck. Graham didn’t move. The sumptuous aroma of blood punched his nose. The boy moved to kiss his mouth, pressing the length of his nubile body against his own. The feel of the boy’s cockstand against his thigh incited his own arousal.
“Go on,” the other duz whispered in Irish. “Live a little.”
Graham’s head swam. Apart from Jack the Ripper, he’d never allowed himself to take pleasure in feeding from prey of his own gender. The bloodlust growled in his belly, eclipsing his conscience the way the moon eclipsed the sun. He forgot everything. Fitzgerald, Cat, the curse, himself. He pulled the lad to him and kissed him with fervor, crushing his tender lips. His fangs raked the tongue between his lips, drawing blood. The savory flavor burst in his mouth. His cock instantly stiffened. The boy moaned with a mixture of pleasure and pain before pulling free.
“Feed from me,” he whispered. “I want you to.”
Lost to himself, Graham gripped the lads firm, youthful buttocks and lifted him off the floor. His fangs pierced and sank in. The irresistible flavors of iron and saline flooded his mouth. The lad’s heart, young and strong, joined with his own in a macabre pas de deux as he devoured the youth’s essence.
Following a few heady moments of bliss, he began to feel odd. As if he was fraying around the edges. Syrupy warmth flooded his system. Spun sugar filled his head. His teeth began to tingle. All feeling drained away. His physical being ceased to matter or even exist. The clock upstairs chimed again. Its music pulsed through his blood like desire. He felt euphorically disengaged as if he no longer stood under his own power but instead was at the center of a tug-of-war between floor and ceiling. An oddly agreeable suspension. Suddenly, his head felt too heavy for his neck. As it fell back, his arms released his prey.
“What’s happening to me?” he heard someone say in a voice like his own. Somewhere inside his sugar-coated brain, he recognized the feeling. He’d been set up. The lad had taken opium. And now, God help him, so had he.
Chapter 24: Surrender
He awakened sometime later with a pounding headache. Looking around, he took stock as he struggled to regain his bearings. He was still in the cell, now dark except for the glowing red coals in the fireplace. Stripped of everything but his kilt, he was on the cot—but not alone. Floating between his parted legs was Gerard Fitzgerald’s ashen face and glowing eyes.
“Where is the witch?”
Still dazed, Graham blinked at him. The effects of the opium were beginning to fade, but cotton candy still encased his mind. “I don’t know who you mean.”
“The witch. The one who deceived me.”
The image of a dark-haired woman flickered. Caitriona. His mind offered the name abstractly as he struggled to bring his thoughts into focus. Little by little, memories broke through the sugary layer. Caitriona on the bed, drained of blood and cut open, the bairn she carried beside her, milky blue and still attached by the umbilical cord. Catharine, pale and lifeless, on the slab in the morgue. Cat trapped in the priest hole.
Promise you’ll come back for me.
I shall. I swear it.
Fitzgerald leered at him. “Aiden will find her. However well you may think she’s hidden, he’ll sniff her out. Mark my words.”
“Why can you not just leave us be?”
“I suspect she told you why.”
“She told me nothing.”
“It’s your soul I’m after. And your heart. And until you give them to me, you’ll know no peace.”
Graham bit his lip. He’d be damned if he’d let her pay for his sins a third time.
“Let her go.”
The wizard arched a dark eyebrow. “Why should I?”
“Because, if you do, I’ll give you what you’re really after.”
Interest flashed in his maker’s yellow eyes. “You would do that for her?”
“I’d do anything for her,” Graham bit out. “But first, you must let me see her safely from the castle. And promise never to bother her again.”
Fitzgerald gave him an apprising look. “And if I agree to this, you will surrender your immortal soul to me? And agree to be mine?”
Graham swallowed, resigned to his fate. “I swear it on the holy iron of my dirk.”
* * *
Cat shuddered as a strange feeling washed over her—a strange bone-chilling feeling having to do with Graham. Shit. Something had changed. Something palpable. Taking a minute, she sank into her solar plexus, immersing herself in the energy now pulsing from it like radioactive waves. He wasn’t dead, thank Hecate. Nor did he seem to be in life-threatening danger. But something was wrong. No, not wrong exactly, but different. Definitely different. And not in a good way. Something had altered his energy. Something that felt frighteningly akin to surrender.
The possibility wrenched her heart. Had he given Fitzgerald what he wanted? Had he sacrificed himself to save her? Her lips compressed against the idea. She couldn’t allow that, dammit. She’d died twice already to save his soul and she wasn’t about to fail him now.
Flicking his lighter, she lit the candles while concentrating all her energy on his.
“Power of the Goddess rise
Course unseen across the skies
Come to she who calls you home
Come to me from where you roam
Soul to soul, I summon thee.
Soul to soul, return to me.”
* * *
“This is my f
avorite part of the body,” Fitzgerald whispered behind him. “That tight ring of muscle known in Latin as the sphincter ani externus.”
To seal their deal, the black magician had demanded proof his submission was sincere. And so, here he was, about to be buggered by the creature he despised most in the world, trying desperately to think about something, anything, else.
But not Cat. He’d tried that at first, tried to imagine it was her back there instead of the sadistic Irishman, but that fantasy proved as cruel as the reality. He was painfully aware he’d not see her again once she was free. And once he’d surrendered his soul, she’d never come back for him. And yet, it would be worth it, or so he kept telling himself, to know she was out there somewhere living the life she deserved.
He gritted his teeth as Fitzgerald’s spit-moistened finger circled. “If you’d rather, I could flip a coin. Heads I get tail; tails I get head. What do you say to that?”
He made no reply, figuring he was buggered either way. Or was he? He could swear he felt a summons tickling his flesh. Just as his hopes began to rally, Fitzgerald inserted the teasing finger. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.
The spell tugged on every molecule of his being, breaking the bonds that tied him to the physical plain. Rather than fight it, he gave himself to it. He came back to himself in the priest hole, still down on all fours with his backside exposed. She was beside him in an instant, kneeling and pulling down the pleats of his kilt.
She stroked his back. “What happened? Are you all right?”
He pushed off his arms and dropped back on his haunches, shaking his head both to answer the question and to clear his memory of what Fitzgerald was about to do to him.
“What happened?” she asked again, her forehead creased with concern.
The haze clogging his brain lingered. “Let’s just say I’m grateful you summoned me when you did, and leave it at that, eh?”