by Claudy Conn
Lamia’s blood needs drove her, but technically she was not a vampire. Maxie rolled her eyes. She might as well be. However, she knew there was a reason her Druid brain kept reminding her of this. Lamia was not dead—vampires actually were. She was alive, and it was the gland in her neck that used the blood and kept her alive and young. She needed blood to maintain that state of virtual immortality. She didn’t have to kill; she wanted, enjoyed the killing. She had the power to put her victims in a trance, take what she needed, and leave them alive. Instead, she savored the moment, each moment she took a life. Her heart and her soul had turned black in the last twelve hundred years.
Maxie felt Lamia’s thirst and was sickened by it. She wished she could get out of the vision, but it was moving so quickly, and instinct told her she would get information she could later use. Lamia was remembering her father. She had been seventeen when her father had implanted the magical gland in her throat. He had been a skilled and respected surgeon within his Druid community, a high priest. He had turned to black magic in his time of need, to save his wife from dying. He installed the gland in his wife, his daughter, and then in himself. And then the madness took over and the mass killing began. And as black magic often did, it infected them.
Then suddenly she was thinking about her needs. Blood—her gland called for fresh blood!
Maxie braced herself against her bedpost and watched as Lamia slipped into bitterness. Maxie heard Lamia mumble about the magical Druid realm. She hated them, not only for her incarceration and their interference in her life but also for putting her parents to death. She had been so young, and when she ran from them, she thought she had escaped their rules …
Maxie wondered if someone, possibly a Fae, had orchestrated this vision. Maxie remembered she had been thinking about Lamia when she climbed the stairs to her room—had she somehow initiated this vision? She remembered thinking that she didn’t have any useful skills at her disposal. She had been wishing she could see what Lamia was doing, what she was thinking, and then, just like that, her Druid senses had come awake. She had brought this on and at will. Evidently her powers were growing. Perhaps she could control her visions if she taught herself the discipline.
Lamia’s thoughts went to a time when she had nearly escaped the imprisonment one hundred years ago. She had miscalculated. She had underestimated their power. They would never let her escape for her crime. The escape she had planned had all been an illusion. They made her relive her crime. They made her watch herself as she had sinned against them—killed their precious Maxine Reigate in their presence. Her punishment was inevitable. There had been no escape, but the elders hadn’t noticed when she discovered their precious book.
She had sensed it, knew it was near—the Sacred Berwick Testaments with all its Dark Magic secrets. It was this book her father had used when he discovered a way to keep his dying wife alive. The book held the method—the Dark Magic of creating the blood gland. She had managed only a few minutes near the Berwick Book, but it was enough to probe its interior and find what she was looking for. She had fooled them all.
They had not realized what she was up to until it was too late. She had read what she needed to know! She had thought that perhaps, just perhaps, Julian might be alive, and if he were alive she would finally make him hers and keep him forever when her time as a prisoner was at an end. Now, however, now she was suffering the hunger for blood again. Her Julian, she believed, was lost …
In the Mist of the Realm, time stood nearly still. There was no need to eat or sleep—no bodily requirements of any kind. The Mist of the Realm was fashioned after the “Otherworld” of the Tuatha Dé, given to the Keepers of the Realm by the Seelie Fae. It was a timeless prison.
Before the guardian released her, he gave her a brief lesson about modern times and told her that her estate had been maintained for her. She had been delivered to DuLaine Castle and found it staffed with only the minimal employees.
Maxie could feel Lamia’s exhaustion, but her gland called for blood. Now the fever burned her mind. Her body was convulsing. The thirst for the blood was taking over all other considerations. She had to have it soon.
She needed Shamon. She called right out loud to him. “Shamon, Shamon, Shamon!” They had done this to her. They’d lied. Now they were making it hard for her to contact him. She had served her sentence. Now she wanted Shamon and blood.
Lamia got up and looked at herself in the mirror. She sighed gratefully. She was still beautiful—still young. The Druid Realm had been unsuccessful in their attempts to age her. They weren’t able to counteract the effects of the gland that had changed her blood and made her virtually immortal.
She moved to look out over her long drive. Everything was the same—she could almost imagine she was back in 1814. The grounds were still well manicured. The trees that lined the drive were full with spring. There was a noise though that she had never heard before. She knew it was the sound of traffic off in the distance. She had learned this from the glimpse of the twenty-first century they had given her. Ah, there was a village nearby. She could pay a visit to the good citizens of her village and replenish herself with sweet blood.
How? She knew from her brief education that there were cars, buses, and airplanes. No one traveled any longer by horse and carriage. She could walk. She could find a young man. He could give her a ride home.
Maxie recoiled in disgust as Lamia’s thoughts swelled in her mind. There was nothing she could do to escape Lamia’s mind. There was nothing she could do to stop this—it had already taken place. All she could do was watch until the vision released her. She wanted to escape, but she was trapped, trapped in the vision’s invisible force. This was her own power doing this to her.
Lamia’s notion of going to town took form until it built upon itself; she toyed with the details until she was certain it would work. Shamon! She couldn’t feel him out there. Could he feel her? Her mind screamed for him. In that moment, Julian Talbot’s fate was forgotten—he was a distant memory.
Maxie sighed with relief. At least for the moment, Lamia did not know about Julian—or her. And then, Maxie was no longer there—she was somewhere else … she was with Shamon Moore.
The Fae had kept him comfortable on the Isle of Tir at different intervals. Their time was far different than Earth’s time. Theirs was a dimension parallel to earth, veiled by thin walls that nearly all humans could not see. During their time together the Fae had taught him many things, and he had worked diligently to become what he was. They had released him to his world at intervals, and in those years he had enjoyed life as just a man.
He had provided for Lamia so she would have various homes in various parts of the world. Each was specifically chosen for its seclusion, and thus he was able to always explain her absence from one or the other. He had found a way to forge documents, hack into computer records, and create birth certificates, death certificates, parents, grandparents, and a past that evolved into a Lamia DuLaine of the twenty-first century.
Shamon knew that when the Druid Elders released her, she would come into a totally foreign environment and that it would, in spite of the preparation she received, be like throwing her into traffic. He knew she would call for him, as she was now. He could hear her, and it killed him not to respond. He felt his weary heart breaking in two.
Over the years he had hired actresses to pose as the reclusive heiress, telling them they were body doubles for the press. No one knew who the real Lamia DuLaine really was, and he had pulled it off. His mistress, Lamia, would be safe in the modern world—that was all he wanted.
Max could feel his emotions, and she wondered how he could love such a monster. She could hear his thoughts—and they were all for Lamia. He knew she was shouting for him. He heard her. He was thinking of the new world she would have to enter. These days the press hounded, followed, and displayed contorted images of celebrities and brought their lives into the light. Eventually they would seek her out. She would have to be careful.
She needed darkness, so he created a medical record for her that claimed she had a form of xeroderma pigmentosum. Her condition made the sun’s rays intolerable. That would explain some of her lifestyle. He had purchased all the clothes she would need. He had installed a satellite TV system so she could catch up on the current conditions of the world.
He adored his lady and did not want her to suffer through her transition into the present day. He knew what they planned for her. He knew what they expected of him. They could not know the extent of his loyalty to her.
He heard her calling, Shamon, Shamon, Shamon! He was in misery. He wanted to be with her, to look at her, to touch her, and Maxie felt his agony. She wanted out of his pitiful head. He was a virtual slave to her needs. Why? How? Shamon had been ordered to wait until the Guardian released him to her, but he could feel the terror in her voice. She needed him—and she needed blood. She was in his mind, in his heart, and he could no longer resist,
“My Lady,” Shamon answered adoringly, “I am here …” He had broken the first of his promises to the Fae and the Druid Realm.
Maxie was reeling from the experience. She hated this. She had to feel and see simultaneously what these two terrible creatures were feeling and doing. She wanted to put her head in a bag, but she knew it wouldn’t help. She was seeing with her mind. She was feeling with her Druid mind.
“Ah … my Shamon.”
He heard the joy and the relief in her voice, and it soothed him. He knew he was supposed to wait for instructions, but his heart had willed otherwise. No regrets, he told himself. He must do what he must do. “I will come to you as soon as I may.”
“Shamon, at last.” Lamia sighed, content with the sound of his voice in her head. He sounded older. She heard it, but it was still Shamon. “Hurry, my boy. I need you to help me. I need you to be with me …”
“My lady, I am on my way.”
“Now—come now!”
“My lady, I am in Paris, attending to some of your holdings. I must get on a plane, which I will do as soon as I can.”
Lamia thought of Shamon as her dear sweet boy. He had always been deserving of her affection. She sighed, as she supposed there was nothing he could do to come sooner. The Realm had done this to them. He was not to blame for his distance. No doubt he had not even been told of her release. “Drat this new world—Shamon, they have stolen our time together.”
“Yes, my lady. They had that power,” he answered simply.
Her gland was calling for blood, and she was in a state of pain. She needed it immediately, and she told him, “Shamon, I will have to go out this very night.”
“I am on my way … can you wait?”
“No … but hurry anyway, Shamon. I want you near me.” Then unlike herself she inquired, “Shamon … do you still love me after all this time?”
“Love you, worship you, and adore you,” he answered, and she heard the truth of it.
She smiled to herself and began the unfamiliar process of donning clothes she could not believe women actually wore out on the street. She rather liked them, and then the thought came once more of finding, seducing, and ravaging a young male!
Maxie managed to break free of Lamia and of Shamon and sat upright on her bed, holding the covers up to her chin. That had been a singularly awful experience. What was this new ability that came almost at will? Next time—could she escape it? She needed to talk this over with someone she could trust. There was only one person that held that position: Uncle Kennet.
~ Ten ~
“UNCLE KENNET!”
He stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned to look up at Maxie. In a soothing voice, he answered her desperate call, “Yes?”
She hurried down the stairs and took his arm, looked around the central hall, and in a hushed whisper recounted her ‘mind-viewing’ experience with DuLaine and Shamon Moore.
“Ah—I have been waiting for this to occur.” His jaw jutted up, and he took off his glasses to regard her inquiringly. “And …?”
“You have been waiting?” Maxie tugged the sleeve of his navy cardigan. “What do you mean, you have been waiting … and why didn’t you warn me?”
“Warning you would have only served to agitate you in advance. I saw no need. It was going to happen when it was going to happen.” He put up his finger. “Your father was very knowledgeable in these things, and his observations of your abilities brought him to the conclusion that this mind viewing, as you call it, would be a skill that would come to you in time of need.”
“Well, I am not sure I need it, and I am very sure I don’t like it.”
Uncle Kennet sighed. “Yes, I quite agree—to be in the mind of something so essentially wicked would be a harrowing experience. But it could prove useful.”
“How so?”
“Knowing what she thinks and where she is most definitely a plus.”
“Yes, this time! Uncle Kennet, I was there in the past … neither one could know.”
“There you have your explanation. Your Druid senses know what to do, even when you don’t. You need time to develop your shield. You will need it when you start ‘mind viewing’ in the present.”
Maxie gathered her thoughts and walked absently beside him as he led her to the kitchen. Her lips curved appreciatively when she noticed that Tally blushed as she gave her uncle a quick greeting. She waved a jolly hello at Tally before the older woman turned hurriedly back to her carving board.
Uh-huh. Maxie’s eyebrow went up. Something definitely going on here. She moved to the counter, poured two cups of coffee, handed one to Uncle Kennet, and sat. As she added the cream to her coffee, she watched Uncle Kennet watching Tally. Oh yeah!
Breakfast was lively, and Maxie silently patted herself on the shoulder when she resisted all offered, and deliciously tempting, food—one of those deals she had made with herself. Tally sat with them, and conversation was easy, light, and full of fun.
Eventually Max sat back and sighed, wondering mildly where their gloomy host, Lord Talbot, could be. At any rate, it was time for her hike, so she slipped into her jacket hanging by the kitchen door and waved herself off.
More than an hour later, when she returned via the kitchen, she discovered that Uncle Kennet was still there very close to Tally’s shoulder and his conversation seemed low and intent. Cute, Maxie thought, tongue in cheek, as she made her way past them. “Going into town, Uncle Kennet—need hiking boots, as these sneakers are getting ruined in the tall wet grass …” she called over her shoulder as she left.
Uncle Kennet was involved in a lively conversation with Tally and waved her off in his absent fashion. This tickled Maxie as she briskly made her way to her suite for a quick clean up. This done, she picked up her denim handbag and skipped lightly downstairs, shrugged back into her navy jacket, and left the house with the directions to the village in her pocket. She had her cell, and she had the rental car keys. She was set.
Outside, she stood for a brief moment. The crisp air filled her lungs, and she felt like throwing her arms wide and thanking Scotland. She loved this country, and this ride into town was just what she needed, she told herself as she crossed the cobbled courtyard to her dusty white rental vehicle. She wanted something to think about other than Talbot, the prince, or the bloodsucker! She was in glorious old Scotland, and it was about time she got to see some more of it.
She made a mental note to plan a day trip to Loch Ness and look for the monster—a more manageable monster than the one they were eventually going to encounter—the one she had already met in her head.
As she approached the rental car, she noticed Julian’s silver Jaguar and smiled admiringly. She liked its sleek and shapely lines. Nice machine.
“Just where do you think you are going?” It was Julian’s authoritative voice at her back. He had caught her by surprise, and she jumped before she turned and gave him a cold stare. This was not easy as he was looking ‘knee-buckling hot’ in his tan suede pilot-styled jacket with the creamy wool collar agai
nst his bronze skin—no doubt from the sun in Faery, as it sure wasn’t from the recent Scottish weather.
They stood just taking in each other’s measure for a moment. Maxie could feel her breath come in short spurts as her gaze traveled up and down and then up again over his tight-fitting jeans. She wanted to speak and address his sharp, none of his business question. Speak? Vocal cords needed to work first; finally she managed, chin up. “My business.”
“Perhaps, but your good sense should be kicking in just about now and telling you that it would be wise to answer me.”
Maxie’s eyes were opened wide—she actually felt them expand. “Are you actually threatening me?”
“Don’t be an idiot.” he snapped, and before she realized it he had snatched her keys.
“Then just what …” She stepped forward to try and get them back. They were nearly eye to eye, except that he was way up there, and she had to bend her neck back to meet his gaze.
“I mean you very clearly told me that ‘a bloodsucker’ could come after you at any moment. You are therefore not unaware of the dangers. You do need protection, and I mean to give it to you whether you wish it or not. Where are you going?”
“Well, she doesn’t know about us yet, so you don’t have to concern yourself.” Maxie’s tone and lips were unyielding.
“You can’t make that assumption.”
She didn’t want to tell him about her newfound ability. She couldn’t pinpoint a reason for keeping him out of this loop—she just didn’t want to tell him. So she gave him a defiant glare and felt a fool. He, however, had the keys way over her head. What could she do?
“And I repeat. Where are you going?”
“If you must know.” She relented, realizing it would be impossible to try and keep up this stance without ending up with a kink in her neck. “I need hiking boots. I am just going down to the village.” She reached up high for the keys without success. He put them in his pocket.