MIDNIGHT CAPTIVE: Book 2 of the Bonded By Blood Vampire Chronicles (19 page)

Exhaustion finally claimed Cailin and she descended into blessed darkness.

* * * * *

Broderick dropped the stinking thief next to his partner, his head thumping the forest floor. These two had followed him through the streets of Amesbury, the small town just east of the circle of stones. Broderick led them to the small patch of forest bordering the modest establishment where he performed the mock task of making a camp. That’s when they jumped him, thievery on their minds. One of them had murder in his heart.

He shook his head and wiped his mouth as he tried to force the images of their lurid lives out of his mind. Everyone had a past. Everyone traveled a certain path which lead them to the point in time when he encountered their nefarious intentions to rob or murder him. Every one of them had a sorrowful story.

Evil doers are not born, they are grown.
All children begin their lives with open hearts and a desire to love and be loved. The world teaches them to distrust, to withdraw, or to lash out. Life strips them of their innocence and leaves a legacy of hatred and selfishness in order to survive. Some become prey. Others become hunters. Worse, some become parasites, like these two.

The surprising lesson Broderick had learned from the memories he harvested through the blood of his victims was this: Not one person who attacked him ever thought they were acting improperly. Wrongdoers did not see themselves as evil. With all their hearts, they believed their actions were justified. Life owed them. Or they felt what they did was necessary for survival. Or any number of other reasons, each as unique as the individual. Guilt may pepper their intentions, but that is usually explained away or conveniently forgotten.

He stared down at their pathetic forms with a measure of his own guilt. “Do I not also justify my actions as you do?” he whispered. “Surely Angus does as well.”

He breathed deep and eyed the coming dawn on the horizon. Kneeling down, he placed his palm on each of their foreheads in turn, wiping the encounter with him from their minds. They would wake in a few hours, bewildered, weak, and after seeing the efforts at making a camp, they would think they had slept a drunken night in the woods.

He turned to leave the two on the ground, unconscious heaps of flesh, but stepped back and placed his hands on his hips, chuckling. For his own amusement, Broderick arranged the two men, one behind the other in a cuddling, sleeping repose. Wrapping the arm of the man behind over his partner in front of him, he said through his chortles, “Sleep well, gents.” He continued to laugh at his imagining of their reactions to waking in each other’s arms.

Broderick dashed across the field and arrived back at the circle of stones, then counted his paces to where he found the hatch to the underground dwelling of the prophetess. He locked the hatch behind him and descended the iron rungs. It was a short stroll back to his temporary chamber.

He started with surprise. Malloren sat on his bed and he frowned, not yet stepping into the room. “Shall I find another place to rest for the day?”

“That is not necessary, Vamsyrian.” She rose from the bed and loitered around the room before meandering to the door. He stepped back to allow her space to exit. Instead, she stood before him…a little too close for his comfort. She gazed up at him, pouty lips curling into a seductive grin, hooded eyes staring at his mouth. When she tried to touch his face, he seized her wrist.

“Do I frighten you, Broderick?”

“Not at all,” he drawled and raised a warning brow. “Your attentions, however, are unwanted. Surely, with that all-knowing power you possess, you must know how devoted I am to Davina.”

Amusement softened the seduction in her expression, but she still near-purred as she leaned back against the door frame, her eyes now smoldering. “I can see why she was so attracted to you.”

“Last recollection,” he said, crossing his arms, “she is
still
attracted to me.”

Malloren nodded with a smile as if she pondered some private joke. She sauntered down the corridor before stopping to face him again, her serious prophetess mask upon her face once more. “Tomorrow night I will teach you the history of your race, reveal your purpose in this prophecy and why you are here.” Her eyes raked over his form and the seductive smile returned. “Rest well, Vamsyrian.” Though husky and alluring, her voice sent a chill of apprehension skipping up his spine.

He narrowed his eyes at her retreating figure and a wave of lethargy rippled through his body. Dawn. He closed the door and secured the bolt. Though she may very well have a key to the room, the action lent him a subtle security. He could at least make some small attempt at keeping her out while he slept.

Another wave dragged through his form, buckling his knees. He doused the oil lamp, plunging the room into blackness. The box-frame bed creaked in protest when he lay upon the mattress. His last thoughts were of Davina’s sweet lips, her sapphire eyes, and the dread of spending another day without her loving presence in his dreams.

* * * * *

Jasper gave her good shove and Cailin stumbled into the dust-coated and dingy chamber. She struggled to keep herself from falling on her face and whirled to glare at him.

“Ye better get some rest before Angus rises,” he growled.

She held her wrists up to him.

“Nay, lassie.” He grinned. “Ye shall keep yer bonds until Angus decides to cut them.” He closed and latched the door, his grating laughter fading as he continued down the corridor.

She gritted her frustration and shoved an arm chair against the wall, sending clouds of dust into the air. Wrinkling her nose, she ambled to the partially parted curtains and pulled them back, sending more showers of dust about her. Cailin coughed and waved her bound hands in an attempt to clear the air. A useless gesture. However, with the curtains now parted, the thin window high in the wall allowed the fading sun of the day to stream fingers of clouded light across the chamber. The room was sparsely furnished with an empty canopy bed void of any bedcovers, mattress or curtains, the chair she’d pushed, a broken settee at the foot of the bed and a small trestle table under the narrow window. On the table sat a bowl and urn. Hope bloomed in her chest when she saw no dust on the chipped pottery. She sighed with relief when she peered into the urn. Water. Using the bottom of her skirt, she attempted to clear the dust from the chair, then fetched the bowl and urn and sat. Though difficult to maneuver with bound hands, she managed to wash her cut and bruised feet, wincing as her wounds stung from her ministrations.

She returned the bowl and urn filled with muddy water to the table. Only then did she notice the looking glass, propped against the stone wall, and dusted its surface to reveal her haggard appearance. Even though Maggie had done a right tight job at plaiting her hair, wisps about her head created a disheveled halo. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. Spots of Alistair’s blood still dotted her face. After dipping a fairly clean part of the hem of her skirt into the edge of the muddy water, she did her best to wipe the remains of crusted blood from her skin. She loosed her hair from the braids, scrubbed her scalp, then tied her mass of hair at the nape of her neck with the one remaining ribbon worth salvaging.

Exhaustion weighted her body and she abandoned her attempts at grooming. Though the wooden chair with its worn padding wasn’t as comfortable as she’d hoped, it was surely more comfortable than the hard-hewn, wooden planks of the floor.

Jasper had awakened her no more than a couple of hours after sunrise, based on the sun’s height at the time they vacated the camp. Sleep had been fitful and their journey languorously long, so it was no wonder she was spent. Judging by the colors of the sky through the narrow window, it was very late in the day and at least a few hours before sunset…before Angus would rise for the evening. Jasper was right. She needed what rest she could get.

With her stomach rumbling from hunger, Cailin settled in as much as the oaken chair and her bonds would allow, and closed her eyes.

* * * * *

James had followed the instructions from the merchants of the various stops he’d made along the way, the murmurs and whispers over why anyone would want to go chasing ghosts rippling behind him as he sped on toward his destination.

He’d kept his purpose to himself and asked only of Glen Morin. He’d stated, “I have my reasons,” too many times to remember, and the monotony of the inquiries stretched on as endlessly as the road before him. Had he made a wrong turn and put more distance between him and Cailin? Were the tracks he followed only leading him to some merchant’s home in the Highlands? Fear and uncertainty pressed upon his chest with every passing moment.

Rounding a bend in the path and over a rise in the road, the tracks of the horses imprinted just a bit deeper and farther apart. The sun had set and having purchased more fuel, he had enough oil to still light his torch. However, it was getting harder to see the hoof prints in the drying soil. But there was no mistaking this increase in speed. Why had they picked up their pace?

Settled into the glen just yards before him, a castle in partial ruins sat glowing against the silvery landscape. Sconces burned along the broken, outer wall. He gasped. He may have actually arrived at his destination, and only too late did he toss his torch to the road to douse it from view of anyone who might be near.

At that belated thought, a sharp pain slammed into his shoulder and knocked him from his mount. His gelding trotted to the nearby trees.

Disoriented from the fall and the agony that shot through his body, he shook his head and clutched his shoulder. The point of an arrow protruded through his upper arm. Cursing for letting his guard down and from the injury, he finished putting the flames out and crawled through the brush toward the safety his mount had sought.

Another arrow whizzed by his head. “Damn!”

After reaching the refuge of the trees and a large, fallen log, he examined the damage. As previously observed, the bolt went cleanly through from the back of his arm. Though still in pain, he sighed from relief at sheer luck or the bad aim of his attacker. The bolt had pierced the fleshy, outside part of his shoulder, missing the bone.
Small favors!

 
Peeking over the rotting trunk, his eyes trained over the dim landscape and he ducked when two hovering shadows bobbed across the moonlit field. James drew his sword and remained crouching as he waited for them to come closer. With concerted effort, he kept his breathing as quiet as possible. God the burning in his arm was blinding! After several tense moments, footsteps thrashed through the soggy leaves and twigs. He held his breath.
Snap!

James stood. One man raised a bow. James leapt over the log and swung his sword, severing the man’s head from his shoulders. His body collapsed to the ground. The other man stepped from behind a tree and fired an arrow, missing James by mere inches.

He charged. The man turned and ran. James pounced, sinking his sword between the man’s shoulder blades. He yanked his sword from the body and wiped the blood on the body’s tunic.

His eyes scanned the landscape again. All was quiet, save for his panting. Falling to his knees, he groaned. The ache in his shoulder spread across his chest and back and he hugged his arm to his side.

He rose on unsteady legs. Sheathed his sword. Shuffled back toward the log. The open and glassy eyes of the severed head regarded him. Though not a stranger to taking a life—journeying back from
Fechtschulen
had its trials and, unfortunately, had forced him into opportunities which put his newfound skills to the test—doing so never sat well with him. In each situation, it was him or them. Self-defense didn’t make the toll of death easier on his conscience, though.

He kicked some leaves over the gawking face and perused the terrain once more. Still no sign of others. If he was lucky, no one saw the skirmish and no alarm would be raised. He had the advantage of dusk’s dim light.

He staggered to his horse, speaking soothing words to the agitated animal. Reached into his saddlebags. He pulled out a drying cloth and the laudanum. With a groan, he sat behind the fallen log. No sense in keeping himself exposed just in case others did come around.

He took a few sips from the spiced-brandy mixture. Though unsure of exactly how much to take, he had an idea, and based his estimation on the small amount his fencing mates drank whenever they used it. He knew there was a point of “too much” and saw the listlessness the elixir could induce.
Let us see how effective this draught can be.

And he waited, allowing his body to recuperate and for the laudanum to take effect. A certain peace settled into his limbs after several minutes.

Not wishing to waste too much time, he turned his attentions to his wound. He stuffed a cloth into his mouth and bit down. Grabbing the fletching, he inhaled a few deep breaths to prepare for the pain and snapped off the end, his grunts of discomfort muffled by the gag.
That was not as painful as I anticipated. Perhaps the laudanum has indeed helped.
With a hiss, he pulled the rest of the projectile from his flesh and threw the offending bolt aside. After ripping the drying cloth into strips, he wrapped his arm to stay the small flow of blood.

Several more minutes passed and the burn of the wound lessened. However, a disconcerting haziness swept over him…similar to the effects brought on by drinking wine or ale but with its own characteristics of rhapsody and reaction to the world around him, to the injury. Though his shoulder still throbbed, it was bearable. In fact, he didn’t particularly care about the wound.