by Nina Mason
St. Germain regarded him circumspectly. “You could start by telling me your name and how you came to be living on this side of the veil.”
“My name’s Callum Lyon and my story’s too long to go into right now.” They’d already been away far too long and he didn’t trust Armstrong to behave himself should he awaken before they returned.
“Another time then, my lord,” the count said with a bow. “And I will make your interest known to the rebel leaders tout de suite. Someone will get in touch before too long.”
And at that, like a breeze extinguishing a candle, Jack St. Germain was gone.
* * * *
Callum continued to ponder all St. German had disclosed. If he’d learned anything from the events of the past few days, it was that meddling in the affairs of humanity wasn’t worth the trouble. As much as he yearned for Scotland’s freedom and hated leaving Duncan high and dry, he’d withdraw from the election and go back to pulling strings behind the scenes—though, with any luck, not alone.
Having reached the house, he turned into the drive and shut off the engine. As he faced Vanessa, ready to declare his feelings, the overwhelming odor of blood—dead human blood—hit his nose like a wrecking ball. After a frantic glance at Vanessa, he raced toward the house and burst through the front door.
The scene that greeted him looked like a Manson Family massacre. There was blood everywhere. The walls, floors, ceiling, and furniture were streaked, spattered, and smeared with it. In the middle of the mess a body lay sprawled in a crimson pool. A reedy middle-aged woman, clothes shredded, legs spread, throat torn open.
“What in the name of—?”
The question caught in his throat as his mind transported him back to Flodden Field. He shook his head forcefully to dispel the image as he cast around the crime scene for the culprit. He found Armstrong by the back sliding-glass door, every inch of him stained red.
Callum opened his mouth to say something but, before he could get the words out, Vanessa came through the door and started screaming. He went to her, threw his arm around her and pulled her against his chest.
“Don’t look, eh? It’s too gruesome.” He turned to Armstrong, furious and appalled. “What the fuck happened here?”
“I’m not sure,” Armstrong said, looking sheepish. “It came on me like a fit.”
“Who is she?” Callum demanded. “How did she get in?”
“Well, it’s like this,” Armstrong began. “I was sitting here, minding my own business, watching re-runs of True Blood on the PPV, when somebody rang the doorbell. I opened the door and there she was, grinning at me like we were old friends. Before I could think what to say, she asked me if I knew Jehovah and shoved a copy of The Watchtower into my hand.”
“Oh, my God,” Vanessa wailed into Callum’s chest. “She’s my neighbor. She came by the first day I moved in with some brownies to welcome me to the neighborhood.”
Callum, still livid, bellowed at Armstrong, “Why in the name of God did you answer the door?”
“To see who it was.”
Callum, losing patience, rolled his eyes. “What happened then?”
“I invited her in.”
“Can we please talk about this in the kitchen?” Vanessa said, sobbing into his shirt. “The smell in here is making me sick and I could really use a drink.”
Callum ushered her through the swinging door before letting her go and sliding into the built-in banquette. Armstrong followed suit and they both watched her pull down a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and three glasses. She set them on the table before sliding in beside Callum, who promptly filled the glasses and passed them around.
After a couple of swigs, Armstrong said, “I swear, I didn’t mean to hurt her when I invited her in. I was just trying to be neighborly. I thought we could enjoy a nice glass of sweet tea together and talk about our beliefs. I wanted to tell her how my mama, who was a free spirit like you, Vanessa, used to read tarot cards, tea leaves, and such to keep us fed. And how I carve Santos figures out of chunks of wood in my garage. But I couldn’t get a goddamned word in edgewise.” He heaved a sigh and threw back another slug of Jack. “Anyway, about ten minutes into her monologue, I started getting impatient. Then, I got annoyed. And finally, I got downright pissed. She was ugly and skinny with a voice like nails on a blackboard—but, my, oh my—she smelled better than chocolate pecan pie. At some point, I lost control of my senses and, well, you can guess the rest.”
“I still don’t understand how blood got all over the room?” Callum bit out through his bewilderment.
“A combination of factors, really,” Armstrong said with a sigh. “I had trouble finding the vein at first and then she put up one helluva fight. For such a skinny thing, she sure was scrappy.”
Callum put his head in his hands, not sure what to say. He had enough trouble pressing down on him without being an accessory after the fact to murder. At the same time, he felt partly responsible for what happened. He had turned the git, after all, and then left him unsupervised.
“Aye, well. We’d best clean up this mess and come up with a way to get rid of the body.”
“We should dump her in the swamp,” Armstrong suggested, eyes as crazed as a pair of joke-shop glasses. “That way, even if somebody found her before the crocodiles finished her off, they’d just assume the rougarou did her in.”
Vanessa pursed her lips and appeared to be thinking it over. After a minute, she said, “That’s not a bad plan, actually.” As her gaze met Callum’s, she asked, “What do you think?”
Callum raked his fingers through hair, sorely missing its length. “I don’t have a better plan, but I think maybe we ought to ring St. Germain and ask him what to do.”
Armstrong’s eyes widened. “Do you mean Jack St. Germain?”
“Aye. We’ve just met with him about another matter.”
“So, my theory was right!” Armstrong beamed like a spotlight for a moment and then dimmed as he added, “Dang. I sure wish I could’ve been there to see him in the flesh.”
The three of them spent what was left of the afternoon cleaning up and teaching the newborn how to change his shape and hunt animals. Just after nightfall, they piled into Armstrong’s Volvo with a high-beam flashlight, and the remains of the Jehovah’s Witness in a hefty bag.
When they reached Bayou Manac, the men carried the body while Vanessa led the way with the battery-powered torch. The stifling air reeked of stagnant water, decaying plants, and swamp gas. The muck grabbed at Callum’s shoes as they made their way through the silver-bearded branches.
When he spied a ball of misty blue light in the distance, his breath caught. Similar creatures—faery tricksters called Will o’ the Wisps, roved the forests of Scotland, leading travelers astray.
“Look there,” Armstrong cried behind him. “I’ll be danged if it isn’t a fifolet.”
Fifolet meant “false fire” in French.
“Och, nay. That’s a Will o’ the Wisp. I’d stake my life on it.”
“You’re wrong,” Armstrong insisted. “It’s a fifolet, which will lead us to buried treasure.”
“Oh, aye?” Callum cast about the moss-draped black trees with a scowl. “And are there many treasures buried hereabouts?”
“If you’d read the local history,” Armstrong scolded, “you’d know there were quite a few pirates in these parts back in the day.”
“Should we follow it?” Vanessa asked, looking between the two men.
“I’m game,” Armstrong said, eyes brightening. “I, for one, could use a chest of doubloons to finance my immortality.”
“Not to be a spoil-sport,” Callum put in, trying to be the voice of reason, “but if that thing turns out to be what I think it is, following it into a swamp in the dark of night is the last thing we want to do. Between quicksand, alligators, and rougarous, I’d say we’ve got enough to watch out for without getting ourselves lost on some wild goose chase.”
Le
aving the blue light to itself, they trudged on through the sludge until they found a remote pool. Even if the alligators or crocodiles or whatever other flesh-eating monsters inhabited this particular swamp didn’t make short work of the body, he couldn’t imagine anyone would find her out here for a very long while.
Twenty minutes later, the deed was done and they were on their way back to the car. When they were almost there, Callum spotted a grazing doe and stopped, thinking he might seize the opportunity to feed. As he started to strip, he noticed something peculiar. The doe wasn’t grazing on swamp grass, as he’d assumed; she was picking at the carcass of another animal.
“What the hell?” he muttered under his breath before turning to Armstrong. “Would you happen to know any legends about carnivorous deer?”
“Sorry,” Armstrong said with a sheepish grin, “but I do know a good story about a cat who ate strawberries.”
Callum took Vanessa’s arm and pointed out the queer spectacle. “What do you make of that? The bloody doe is eating meat.”
“But—aren’t deer herbivores?”
“Aye. They are. That’s why I’m so, well, flummoxed by it.”
Vanessa took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Callum. Honey. Baby. Sugar. Remind me to tell you something later. When we’re alone.”
Suspicion roiled in his belly. “Has it to do with the deer?”
She nodded, looking nervous and like she was hiding something.
“Tell me now,” he demanded.
“Well…,” she began, swallowing hard, “I’ve kind of been feeding without killing. You know, catch and release, so to speak.”
His blood pressure shot to the moon. “You what?”
“I thought it more humane and—”
“How many times?”
“Just the once,” she said meekly. “Have I done something terrible?”
“Aye, well,” he muttered, rocking his head in dismay. “Let’s just say your environmental footprint just got a whole lot bigger.”
Callum finished undressing, shifted into his alter ego, and took down the deer. When he’d drunk his fill of blood, he offered the remainder to Armstrong and Vanessa. While they took turns feeding, he shifted back, got dressed, and sat down on a rotting log.
His mind hopped like a toad between problems. He’d vowed never to turn anyone and now, within a matter of weeks, he’d turned two people. He didn’t regret turning Vanessa—how else could they be together?—but he could have done without making a drone of Armstrong. Now, he had the welfare of two fledglings upon his shoulders, along with his worries about withdrawing from the campaign, joining the rebel cause, and figuring out how to go forward with Vanessa.
As distress bubbled up, threatening to pull him under, he shook his head and wrung his hands. He couldn’t bear to leave Vanessa behind, but would she come with him back to Scotland? Knowing her, she’d probably want to stay here to look after Armstrong or, worse, to carry on with her “career.” He scoffed at the notion. Why did she feel the need to work when she had him to look after her? He didn’t understand and was tired of walking on eggshells to avoid offending her Aquarian sensibilities. Perhaps he ought to just follow his heart, put his cards on the table, and let the chips fall where they would.
Vibration in the pocket of his jeans brought Callum back to the swamp with a jolt. He fished out his mobile and, seeing it was Duncan, let it go to voicemail. He’d share his decision later. Right now, he was more concerned with squaring things with Vanessa.
They walked the rest of the way to the car in silence. After asking Armstrong to wait inside, Callum took Vanessa by the arm and led her to a small clearing.
“What is it?” she asked, her face etched with worry. “Are you mad at me about the deer?”
Shushing her softly, he gathered the nerve to say what needed to be said. “I am, but that’s not what this is about.”
“What, then?”
He faced her squarely, set his hands on her shoulders, and looked her in the eye. “The thing is, I love you, mo dearbadan-de, and will for the rest of eternity. And I need to know if you think you could maybe grow to love me someday.”
“Of course.” When she smiled up at him, the world stopped turning. “I already do.”
A seed of hope took root in his heart. “Enough to come back to Scotland with me?”
Her eyebrows drew together. “As your mistress?”
“No.” Holding her gaze, he swept his knuckles along her jaw. “I was thinking we might do a handfasting.”
“A handfasting? What’s that?”
“An old Scottish custom wherein we exchange vows,” he explained, “but can go our separate ways in a year if it doesn’t work out.”
She laughed, cutting him. “Leave it to the Scots to invent a form of marriage with an exit clause.”
“The clause is for you, not for me,” he said, unamused. “So you don’t feel too pinned down.”
A smile stole across her full mouth. “What if I don’t want an exit clause?”
His seedling hope put out branches. Brushing back her hair, he kissed her cheekbone. “What about your freedom?”
Her mouth found his and said against it, “I never thought I’d feel this way, but I’ve found something better.”
“Is that a yes, then?”
“Ask me properly.”
He was reasonably sure she was asking for a proper proposal, but he felt compelled to give her a hard time—for Armstrong, the deer, and stringing him along. “You mean go to your father for permission to ask for your hand?”
Her eyes narrowed and her mouth quirked. “I said proper, you big dope, not medieval.”
Sobering, he got down on one knee, took her left hand in his right, and gazed into her eyes. “Will you be my wife, Lady Vanessa? To have, to hold, and to cherish, from this day forward?”
Her lips pursed. “On a board with a label?”
“In a castle, as my partner.”
“What about my career?”
He fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I’ll tell you what. When I’m not off fighting for the freedom of my fellows, you can help with my research and books. How does that sound?”
“That depends,” she said, lips pursing. “Will we be equals?”
“In all things, mo bhilis. On that, you have my solemn vow.”
She smiled, her eyes brimming with tears. “In that case, my answer is yes. But what about Beau?” She shot a worried glance toward the car. “We can’t just leave him here to fend for himself. What if he kills again?”
This time, Callum did roll his eyes—and shook his head. He was still down on one knee in the mud and beginning to feel ridiculous. He also felt robbed of his moment. She’d said yes to his marriage proposal and rather than discussing their future together, they were discussing Armstrong’s.
Fed up with kneeling—and waiting to seal their promise—Callum got to his feet, swept her into his arms, and pressed his lips against hers, pouring into the kiss all the feelings he’d held in check since she’d left him. He couldn’t remember feeling this satisfied. Not in five hundred long years. Aye, there was strife ahead—overthrowing Queen Morgan and freeing the drones wouldn’t come about without bloodshed—but there also was the hope of real happiness. For the first time in his long and disappointing life, it felt as if the stars were finally shining down on him.
Callum broke free of her mouth, but kept hold of her shoulders. “How soon do you want to get married? I was thinking we could fly into the airport in Glasgow, then drive to Gretna Green, and maybe honeymoon in Edinburgh before returning to Barrogill. How does that sound?”
“Perfect,” she said with a heart-warming smile.
“You won’t regret not having a big, fancy wedding with all the movers and shakers of London society in attendance?”
“Not even a little,” she said. “It will be in the papers, and that’s more than enough for me.”
Callum’s mo
bile buzzed in his pocket. Assuming it was Duncan again with news too urgent to wait, he let go of Vanessa and answered without checking the caller ID.
“Callum, it’s Tom. Tom Earlston.”
The call was unexpected. Tom was his book editor in Edinburgh and his next manuscript wasn’t due for weeks. Luckily, the book was complete barring any last-minute flashes of inspiration.
“It’s good to hear from you, Tom. What can I do you for?”
“Jack St. Germain said you’re interested in joining the cause.”
Surprise jolted Callum’s heart. “You’re…with the rebels?”
“Aye,” said Tom in his usual cheery manner. “But let’s say no more on the phone, eh? Meet me tomorrow at the U.B. On the stroke of midnight.”
Callum knew the place. It was an old pub he’d visited many times on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh. “But I’m not in—”
Before he could say “Scotland,” the line went dead. He considered calling Tom back, but opted not to. Why not go back to Scotland as soon as it could be arranged? He put his phone away, rubbed his chin, and filled Vanessa in on the exchange.
“They don’t waste any time, do they?” she said.
“Perhaps they can’t afford to.”
“Are you going to meet him?” she asked, looking worried.
“Aye, but I want you with me. Can you be ready to leave on the first flight out?”
Worry creased her forehead. “What about Beau?”
Callum shot an anxious glance toward the car. He didn’t relish the idea of dragging Armstrong along—nor paying the outrageous last-minute airfare three times over—but neither was he about to leave Vanessa behind to babysit. Both were too immature to control their bloodlust. They would fuck or worse and it would eat him alive. What Armstrong had done to the Jehovah’s Witness would weigh on his conscience too much as it was.
The solution was staring him in the face, provided they could locate the vampire. Why hadn’t he thought to ask for a bloody address or phone number? Maybe he should call Tom or maybe, just maybe…
“I don’t suppose you know where to find St. Germain,” he said to Vanessa.