“Da, nay,” Bea pleaded as her father’s image began to ripple apart in the water. She didn’t want him to go, to have his comfort replaced by the tired old image of the white beast roaming through field and forest. She’d seen it countless times and still it meant naught to her.
But even as she lamented it, a blur of white began to coalesce on the rippling black, and Beatrix knew it would be the four-legged creature for which the Levenach inn had been named—the white wolf. Perhaps drinking at a stream, perhaps lounging in some woodland glade or loping down a narrow path, but the same cryptic symbol that had long ago lost any significance or interest for Beatrix the Downtrodden, Beatrix the Alone, Beatrix the Eunuch Witch.
She stared down into the fluttering image as it cleared and stilled. Beatrix’s frown deepened.
It was indeed the white wolf.
But this time, the animal was sitting on a chair at a table, in a common room not unlike the one above her head, and he was holding a mug of ale in one paw.
Chapter Two
October 1, 1104
Edinburgh
“So you’ve come to learn of the bloodsuckers, have you?”
Alder picked up his mug of ale carefully, deliberately, as he regarded the fat, dirtied man sitting across from him. He nodded slightly in answer and then took a sip, his eyes never leaving the sleazy excuse for a mortal.
The man chuckled, his rounded belly shuddering under his frayed and filthy tunic. The shirt had likely been quite fine at one time, and Alder wondered briefly what had happened to the nobleman from whom it had been stolen. The whoremonger leaned over his ponderous abdomen toward Alder, as if readying to impart a great secret, and the rush of movement caused a stirring of the man’s foul odor—strong spirits and cologne and weeks-old perspiration mixed with other bodily secretions.
“Well, you’ve come to the right man.” The whoremonger winked and then settled back in his groaning chair to finger one of the long gold chains around his neck. “What are you called, my fellow Englishman?”
Alder hesitated only briefly. It mattered not that the louse knew his given name—no one alive today would recognize it.
“Alder the White,” he said, realizing a faint stab of melancholy. That moniker had once held such power. Did that man still exist?
“Alder de White, eh? A fittin’ name, I’d reckon!” The man roared laughter at his own attempt at wit and his eyes flicked over Alder’s features, obviously scrutinizing his white-blond hair and pale skin.
Alder let his lips curl slightly, to keep the man at ease and talking.
“Well, Alder de White, I will be most glad to share the secrets of the bloodthirsty killers, right after I quench me own thirst.” His head swiveled and he bellowed at a passing woman. “Whore! Drink!”
A young woman, clothed only in an underdress that was much too small for her, bore a tray to the table Alder shared with her disgusting master. Alder could clearly see that she was naked under the worn linen. Her nipples, flattened against the straining material, and the dark V of pubic hair advertised her occupation more than the shortened hem that revealed most of her calves above short leather boots. Her black hair piled in knots atop her crown nearly matched the color of the shadows under her hard eyes and the fading bruises on her arms and one cheek.
She leaned low over the table as she filled the whoremonger’s mug, giving Alder a deliberate view of her breasts. Alder’s keen sight easily caught the ghostly impressions of fingertip-sized bruises on the white globes of skin.
“You fancy her?” the whoremonger simpered. “She’s me own bit at the moment, but for the right count of coin I’d share her with a good friend for the eve.” The man winked again. “She’ll suck, too.”
As if on cue, the woman turned fully toward Alder and, with no change in her expression, pulled down the bodice of her underdress, popping her breasts free as if for Alder’s approval.
“Perhaps,” Alder said, looking only into the woman’s eyes. She met his gaze for a moment before frowning slightly, as if being stirred from a deep sleep.
Put away your tray. Clothe yourself. Gather your belongings and leave this place, woman, else you die here tonight.
She hurriedly hid her breasts in her gown, her eyes widening and turning fearful with confusion. Alder faced the whoremonger. “After our talk.”
“Of course,” the man chuckled and waved the woman away with a bored hand, not knowing he would never see his pet again. “I think she fancies you.”
“They all fancy me,” Alder said without a trace of pride—that quality had been killed in him long ago, strangled by the deep scar around his neck, hidden by his tunic. It was simply true that most found Alder irresistibly attractive. Whether whore or noblewoman, peasant or soldier, both men and women, meek and depraved, were drawn to Alder the White. They all shared in common a hunger, a deep, aching want—be it for wealth or beauty or love, or even the solace of eternal darkness. Perhaps they did not sense any one particular prize in Alder, but only his great power, sinister and primitive. And they yearned for that unknown power. Yearned to be closer to him, to touch him, and have that touch returned.
They did not know until it was too late that Alder’s touch meant their destruction.
“And why not fancy you, I ask!” the whoremonger chuckled. “A comely bloke such as yourself, obviously in no want for coin.” His smile turned even slimier. “I’d wager you’ve got a big cock, too, ain’t ye?”
Alder shrugged. “The vampires?”
The whoremonger’s eyes turned smug and knowing. “I’ve heard tales of men like yerself—wantin’ a spot of adventure, rushin’ into the forest to see ’em with yer very own eyes. ’Tis dangerous business, me friend. Most never return.”
“I’ve no fear,” Alder said, and that was also true. “Tell your tale.” He was growing impatient, and the ripe, dripping moon beyond the inn’s roof was moaning to him in throbbing whispers. His blood ached.
“The highlands once crawled with the beasts,” the man said. “They roamed the thick forests, attacking the towns and travelers in packs. Held in check only by an ancient family of witches, who some say were as evil, if not more so, than the bloodsuckers themselves.”
A shiver overtook Alder, and a roaring of memories like the sea in a tempest begged to be set free. “Witches, you say?” Alder was pleased that the tone of his voice conveyed only mild interest.
“Aye. Witches. The Levenachs. As red haired as the Devil hisself. They were the only ones who could slay the beasts, and they feasted on the rotting corpses to feed their power.”
Alder knew that last bit to be untrue, but he did not bother to correct the man, as his hope was growing. “You said the land once crawled with the vampires—are they no more? Destroyed by the Levenachs?”
“Nearly so, nearly so…but not quite.” The man gave another of his disgusting winks. “A hundred years ago, ’tis said the vampires and the Levenachs came to a great battle, led by a mortal man. Both sides were nearly wiped out when the Wild Hunt came down upon them and swept many of their numbers away to hell.”
This too was a falsehood. The Hunt had indeed come to the battle, but Alder had been the band’s archangel leader’s only prisoner. ’Twould have been more merciful had he been swept away to hell, for even though he had escaped his captivity, still Alder smelled the sulphured smoke from the winged horse’s hooves, felt the snap of the golden lead around his own neck. Even while he spent his nights running from the vengeful pack who would not rest until they had reclaimed their slave once more, Alder was chased also by the screams of the damned echoing in his ears, and craved still their evil, tainted blood….
The whoremonger continued. “But the king of the bloodsuckers as well as a handful of witches managed to escape, leaving the corpses of their brethren about as a warning to all who would disobey the laws of Christendom.” The whoremonger had the audacity to cross himself reverently. “The land lay in relative peace for a time. But now…”
�
��Now?” Alder urged.
“The vampires roam again, a new generation spawned by the solitary demon that thwarted hell’s band one hundred years ago.”
Laszlo, Alder thought, the name echoing in his mind as if in a cave, and Alder’s blood bubbled, itched, threatened to burst from his cool veins and through his skin. Laszlo has crowned himself king.
“What of the Levenachs?” Alder insisted, for it was on this family his very soul depended.
The man blew obscenely through his lips and fluttered his fingers. “All but gone. ’Tis why I try to kindly warn you—one true Englishman to another—to stay away. There is no more safeguard to the bloodthirsty killers for mortal men who venture through the enchanted wood seeking adventure. The Levenach would just as soon kill you for sport. No one goes near the cursed wood lest they have a wish to die a horrible death.”
Alder had to force the words from his throat. “You said the Levenachs were all but gone—there are still some?”
“Levenach. One,” the whoremonger said, lifting his mug as if in a toast. He drained the vessel and then set it back on the table with a loud thump and even louder belch. “A witch-woman. The most beautiful and deadly sorceress in all of the highlands.”
“And she is the last?” Alder pressed.
“Aye. The last. And good riddance to her when she is gone, I say.”
“Indeed,” Alder agreed, pleased that his voice still emerged smooth and even from his constricted throat. “Where would a man wishing to die a horrible death find this last Levenach?”
The whoremonger raised his eyebrows, seemed to consider Alder for a long moment, and then leaned forward once more. The table shrugged and creaked.
“There is a road,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. “West from Edinburgh toward the coast and Loch Lomond. Just past the loch, a forest seems to grow up from nowhere. A dark, narrow path joins the road in a clearing of black trees, their branches stripped from the trunks.”
They were burned, Alder remembered to himself. The archangel Michael’s fiery warning still remained.
“That path leads into the Leamhan forest, and to the White Wolf Inn, where the Levenach lies in wait for her victims.”
Alder started and his ears rang with the ominous words. “The White Wolf Inn?”
“Aye. ’Tis a ruse concocted by the Levenach to lure in the innocent and lost traveler, though I hear trade is quite slow of late.” The whoremonger roared with laughter.
Alder did not bother to feign amusement. “You’re certain of where this inn lies? Quite certain?”
“My friend, I have me very hand on the pulse of Edinburgh—indeed, of all of Scotland! Many a tale is told in my rooms and on me own pillow, no less. If you’re wishin’ for a bloody adventure, take the dark path into the Leamhan. But I warn you, you’ll not likely come out the other side the same condition as you went in.”
“That is very much my plan,” Alder murmured.
The whoremonger frowned. “What say ye?”
“Naught.” Alder leaned back in his chair and smiled at the whoremonger, a bit more relaxed now even though his hunger gnawed at him more impatiently than when the obscene man had begun his tale. Alder sipped from his all but forgotten mug. It was so very pleasant to be able to drink mortal refreshments once more, even if they did not satisfy him completely. His senses were so keen he could taste the faint tang of the brewer’s sweat in his fine, sweet drink.
Alder noticed that the inn where he and the detestable human had passed the evening was now all but deserted at the late hour, and the patrons had left for their own pallets or to the upper floors with their evening’s entertainment of the flesh. Alder could smell the depraved beings in the rooms above his head like so many roasted chickens tied up in sacks—only waiting to be brought out and consumed by the famished.
And Alder was starving.
But before the feast proper, a well-deserved prelude…
The whoremonger seemed to notice he and Alder were alone at that moment, although foolishly, it seemed to please the man rather than frighten him. He looked casually over each shoulder, then pinned Alder with a greasy smile.
“It seems we are without company, my strange and inquisitive friend. Shall I call a whore for you to take or have your desires been satisfied by me own grand presence?”
“I do find myself rather loath to be alone this eve,” Alder said, returning the man’s smile.
“Ah, so I reckoned,” the whoremonger chuckled and made to move his watery mass from his chair. “For you, and only you, I shall summon that fine knot of arse and send her to—”
Alder cut off the man’s words by reaching out and grasping his forearm. The moon’s own howl rang in his ears until he was nearly deaf with it.
“What would you answer should I request your company…friend?” Alder all but whispered.
The whoremonger paused and then a sick smile slid across his face as Alder stood and moved to stand just over him.
“Well, now, I would say that I don’t usually turn that way, but for a wealthy and comely friend like yourself…” He let the sentence trail away and licked at his thick lips as his eyes crawled up Alder’s body. “I am more than a mite curious at what lies beneath those fine, tight breeches.”
Alder easily pulled the man’s bulk from the chair and locked his arms tightly around the mortal’s shoulders. The whoremonger gave an almost feminine sigh of desire, and Alder knew his base presence was affecting the lowlife. The more evil and depraved the mortal, the easier prey they made. Like all the others, the whoremonger had a hunger.
So did Alder. And he could not resist speaking once more to the man.
“Do you wish to know,” he whispered into the greasy hair behind the man’s ear, “why it is I seek the Levenach, whoremonger?”
“Aye,” the man moaned, his need making him limp and dazed in Alder’s embrace. “Tell me.”
“The mortal man who sparked the battle between the vampires and the witches—’twas I.”
The whoremonger stiffened slightly and struggled to shake his head, his warning instinct of impending doom coming much too late to save him. “Nay—that battle was one hundred years ago,” he whispered.
“Indeed,” Alder agreed, and let his lips peel back from his fangs, at last stretching his mouth luxuriously. “And I am no longer mortal.”
Chapter Three
Beatrix felt resigned two nights later as she prepared to open the White Wolf for trade. She had spent the Sabbath in rest and reflection—between batches of ale in varying stages of brewing—and had decided to trust her father’s word.
She was Levenach. And she would wait.
The Leamhan around the inn had been peaceful and still since her last vampire kill, so although she would be forced to hunt tonight to preempt any attacks on the forest folk, she was heartened by the serenity she now felt. Especially since last eve, when the ancient Levenach well had once more reverted to showing her only images of the inn’s namesake running on swift feet over some unknown land, and no longer behaving like a human.
Bea skipped down the stairs and into the common room with purpose, replacing dried warding herbs over the door and window frames with fresh, potent bunches, and shooing the cats into the kitchen.
“Go on—you know how they like to make targets of the pair of you when they get into their cups.” But it was said with a wry smile.
The Leamhnaigh could not be blamed for their behavior. They were innocent, and must remain so for very good reasons. Should they learn the truth about the creatures stalking them, should they even think to take the old legends as truth, their realities would shift, change, and then Beatrix Levenach as well as witches throughout the highlands would have more to fear than the bloodsuckers.
It was up to Beatrix alone to end the vampires’ reign, once and for all. She didn’t know how that was to be accomplished, but she would do as her father—and the very blood in her veins—requested, and wait for the white wolf to arrive.
&nbs
p; She let the smile linger over her face as she gave the stew a final stir and then reentered the common room to unbar the door. Dusk was falling through the fog, and the folk would be thirsty. Beatrix was thankful her inn and her presence would provide them a safe haven in which to pass the most dangerous hours of the night. It made her solitude feel a twitch more bearable.
She was only halfway across the floor when she heard the shouts from beyond the door.
Alder paced behind the fringe of trees along the woodland path, his long-sought destination directly before him, but the sunlight of late evening still too strong for him to take his human shape.
Yea, surely this was the place of the Levenach, for trouble was already afoot, and it was brought not only by his own—currently four—feet.
The faded timber and mud exterior of the humble-looking cottage was awash with the yellow glow of a score of torches, borne by a few more than that number of humans. Those which did not carry the sources of light wielded axes or thick staffs, and a pair of folk bore a long, cloth-wrapped bundle.
“Beatrix Levenach!” a man closest to the cottage shouted. “We summon thee, witch! Come and look upon what your wickedness has wrought and take your punishment, lest we set fire to your lair while you cower inside!”
The crowd roared in agreement and then seemed to wait for the door to open. When it did not, the appointed spokesman for the group continued his haranguing.
“Levenach! We have had enough! Your sorcery on our people has come to its end and we are here to finish your evil bloodline!”
Behind his thin fringe of trees, Alder paced, and flicked his black eyes to the pinnacle of the tree line and the orange glow of sunset that lingered there.
Don’t come out, Alder said in his mind. If she came out, the people were certain to kill her. A dead Levenach was of no use to Alder. Indeed, the last Levenach, dead by mortals, would mean Alder’s destruction.
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