Highland Hunger

by Hannah Howell

  Smile while you can, for you won’t be very soon, she silently promised. She flicked an imaginary speck of dirt from her gown and then stared at him directly in the eye. “You are an interloper, stranger. You are unwanted, and most of all you are a fool.”

  Moirae added the insult at the last moment. The man may think he was fighting regular thugs like those of the other night, but there were far scarier things in the area. Things only a fool would intentionally seek out.

  The realization that she was just such a person hit her at the same time she perceived the change in his expression. The menacing scowl he suddenly wore should have caused her to quiver with fear, but all Moirae could feel was elation. She suspected it was a rare occasion that someone could cause emotion to rise from this man of stone. Good, maybe if she made him mad enough, he would want to leave and never return.

  Dorian stilled as he assimilated the intentional slight. Then a cold anger flared to life. The time for playing with humans was over. He pivoted and stepped into the stables, returning less than a minute later, handing the woman the reins to her horse. Ignoring him, she refused to take them, and instead, she arched a single brow most aggravatingly as she reached up to unhook her cloak and remove it. The cheeky woman was actually refusing to leave!

  With her mantle off, he could see that while her slender frame made her appear petite, she was far from small. Rather than frail as he first perceived, her unusual height reminded him of what it felt like to be a man and not a giant among men. A flicker of sexual desire coursed through him, immediately followed by a flash of self-directed anger.

  He had learned long ago how to control his physical urges and let them surface only when he was guaranteed of no entanglements. It wasn’t that he refused to mate with humans. Just the opposite. He preferred to be with them, as their passions were uncontrolled and less manufactured. But he had learned the hard way that humans and his kind were incompatible, for immortals and mortals could not coexist for any length of time. Human lives were too short and it affected everything about them—their thoughts, ambitions, desires, accomplishments—but most especially their interactions with others.

  Dorian was just about to pick the audacious woman up, physically place her on her horse, and force her to leave, when she threw her coat over the saddle’s pommel and took the reins from his still extended hand. Then, in one smooth movement, she leapt onto her horse and looked down. For the first time, she smiled, and he knew it was because of his openly shocked expression. Very few men had ever possessed the strength and agility she had just demonstrated. In his experience, only nosferatu or their spawns had such abilities, both of which she was decidedly not.

  “Heed my counsel,” she warned. “Leave Badenoch and this castle. Both harbor great danger.”

  “For you maybe, but I know Kilnhurst’s owner. And I am fairly certain that you do not.”

  Moirae swallowed as frustration began to take over. “Badenoch holds danger for those who ride at night. Halt your acts of heroism. Your help is neither welcomed nor wanted by those who live here. Another protects these lands. Stop or be at risk of being in the path of their arrows.”

  Dorian glanced at the bow and arrow hanging on the hindquarters of her horse. Was she actually inferring to herself?

  Moirae swung her horse around, but before she could leave, Dorian stepped in front of the gate’s opening, preventing her exit. Her beautiful eyes widened in surprise. “Just who are you to think you can order me about?” he demanded.

  A wintry smile overtook her expression. “My name is Moirae. Moirae Deincourt. I, and I alone, am the Guardian of Badenoch.” Then, with a swift kick, she skillfully guided her horse around his frame and disappeared into the night.

  Dorian stood transfixed in a state of shock. Moirae. The name was not Scottish, Gaelic, or even English. It was old. Very old. And he had not heard it in a long time. Turning, he went to the gatehouse and raised the drawbridge, ensuring the woman could not again appear when least expected.

  Moirae. “Why did she have to be a Moirae?” he asked himself aloud before turning to the obscure door that led inside. Moirae was the name of the fabled Goddess of Destiny, and while, he knew there was no entity that controlled the thread of every person’s life from birth to death, the few times he had ever encountered a Moirae, his life had changed in ways he never could predict.

  Maybe she was right. Maybe he should leave. Now. Tonight . . . and yet, even as Dorian thought the words, he knew he was going nowhere.

  At least, not yet.

  Chapter Three

  Moirae realized too late that tonight’s attack was not like the others. The family was not the intended victim—she was the target. And whoever was after her was not taking any chances. The most men she had ever encountered during a raid was four, but tonight, at least a dozen, maybe more, surrounded her. And they were closing in fast.

  As quickly as she could, Moirae restrung her bow and shot arrows into the flesh of as many assailants as she could see, but severely outnumbered, she knew it was only time before one reached her. She had taken down at least six or seven when a large hand clutched her shoulder from behind and knocked her off her horse and onto the ground. A second man lunged at her with a sword. Reacting on instinct, she sat up and reached for the never-before-used blade dangling off her saddle and pulled it forward with lightning speed just in time to deflect a mortal blow. Unfortunately, she had not been fast enough to avoid the strike altogether, and pain shot through her side as jagged metal slashed through her clothing and into her skin.

  Moirae dropped the heavy sword Enion had insisted she take with her despite her lack of skill. Until now, she had always fought at a distance with a bow and arrow. It enabled her to keep her mysterious identity and prevented her from advertising her weakness with the blade. The man pulled back and started to swing his sword in the air, flamboyantly preparing for another attempt.

  Moirae wondered if death might finally be upon her. Relief mixed with a strong desire to live flooded her senses as she stared into the eyes of the brute who was going to issue the final blow. Then instinct took hold again and, without warning, the attacker’s face changed from glee to shock as the dagger she yanked off his dead friend’s belt plunged into his chest. Then the world went dark from the impact of her head hitting the ground as he fell upon her.

  Dorian let go a stream of Greek curses. He had been aware of the attack, but because he had sensed no spawns, only humans, he had held back—too far back. He knew the woman was there, but she had claimed to be the Guardian of these lands and demanded to be left alone. Fool.

  His fury with Moirae was genuine, but he was equally furious with himself for believing that because of her speed and skill of getting onto a horse she could actually defend herself.

  He had yet to determine the purpose of Ionas’s raids, but Dorian was relatively sure they were based on a personal quest versus something larger and involving revenge. Whoever his nephew was looking for most likely wasn’t in the vicinity, and Ionas would soon be sending his henchman farther north, if he hadn’t already. Dorian was dithering on leaving just as she “asked” when at the last moment he decided to see for himself how a sprite of a girl performed as the Guardian of Badenoch.

  To prevent her or her attackers from knowing of his presence, he had kept at a distance. At first, he had been impressed at the speed and accuracy of her shots, but then everything changed. The numbers of assailants suddenly grew and became too much for her to handle alone with only a bow and arrow. Within seconds they had her surrounded. Dorian instinctively readied his katana and spurred his horse into a full gallop.

  He peered through the distance, seeing Moirae on top of her horse. He yelled out, but it was too late. One of the attackers came up from behind and knocked her down to the ground, lifting his sword high before swiftly plunging it down. The smell of her blood filled the air. A second later Dorian was upon them. With inhuman strength plus a millennia of training and expertise in combat, he end
ed the fight, killing the remaining half dozen men within minutes.

  Yanking one body up by his hair, Dorian bit down into the neck and drank the warm, life-giving beverage. He threw the corpse away and studied the large mass that hid Moirae’s body. He could still smell her sweetness. Human women with her spirit were rare, and Dorian regretted that he had not been able to save her.

  Repugnance filled him at the absurd idea. Aeolus was right. He was bored. He must be for it was incredulous that a single woman’s death could mean anything to him. Why should it? It changed nothing in the larger scheme of things. Thousands of mortals died every day, and yet they still bred, rebuilt their numbers, and continued with their greed. It had taken several centuries for him to comprehend that even an immortal could not change the nature of man. Humans were who they were—limited by their own mortality.

  Still, Moirae had intrigued him.

  He reached down and started to pull off the one who had dealt the death wound when he heard her groan.

  “Moirae?” he whispered, easily tossing aside the massive body that had her pinned to the ground. Her shirt and mantle were soaked in blood, but he could hear her breathing. She was still alive.

  On impulse, he lifted her into his arms and jumped back into his saddle. Holding her close, he rode as fast as he could back to Kilnhurst, unthinking of what he was doing and why. The attraction he felt for her wasn’t fading. If anything, it was growing.

  It had been too long since he had encountered anyone interesting, and even longer since he had been with a beautiful woman. Having both in his arms pounding his legs across the countryside was lunacy. But the idea of letting her die had suddenly become unacceptable, leaving him with two choices. Take her to safety and find her help or make her his spawn. And he was not about to do that.

  True nosferatu were limited to those direct descendants of Hellen, but with each generation, the blood disease that made them immortal became weaker. No nosferatu had been born in over fifteen centuries. A bite from one, however, could change a human into a spawn with enhanced abilities. And while spawns lived for time spans much longer than that of a human, they were not immortal. Spawns could create spawns, but with each siring, the regenerative element became more diluted, significantly hampering their offspring’s abilities and lifetime. Not a single spawn was truly immortal.

  Dorian glanced down at Moirae’s limp body, and the flawless white skin of her long neck caught his eye. He had no desire to fall back into impulsive feeding habits that too often created unforeseen results with impacts that lasted far too long. Still, she was tempting.

  Upon the clattering sound of his mount’s hooves hitting the rockier soil, Moirae’s eyes popped open to reveal haunting green orbs. The blood on her leine proved she was injured, but the fire in her eyes suggested that she was not quite in the mortal danger he had believed. Quite the opposite. Moirae Deincourt was very much alive and very angry.

  Moirae’s senses told her where she was before she even opened her eyes. Elation that she was not dead had been almost instantly replaced by the realization of just who had saved her. She was mortified. The man probably had witnessed her humiliating failure and had taken pity on her. Well, she needed no one’s compassion, and certainly not his. She opened her eyes and flashed him her most withering look.

  He blinked. Good.

  In an effort to sit up, she pushed against his chest, but that turned out to be a mistake. He was not wearing a cape, only an unusually dark, smooth, shimmering shirt. The loosely strung garment allowed her fingers to touch his flesh, from which she immediately recoiled. He was rock hard and cool to the touch, as if he had been outside just a little too long. But more than that, the sensation of feeling his skin excited her, a feeling no man had ever induced.

  “Let me down,” she weakly commanded, annoyed that her voice betrayed what he was doing to her.

  When her flaccid demand resulted in no response and no release, it bolstered her indignation and she tried again. “Let me down now.”

  “You’re hurt.”

  Her annoyance was growing with each second, and the dismissal in his voice was more than she could take. “I assure you than I am not hurt,” she replied and began to squirm in ingenious ways that should have assured her freedom. But the damn man seemed to predict her every move.

  She had thought he would tire of fighting her, but it seemed to be a game of wills, and she refused to be the first to surrender, so the struggle continued right until they reached the winding path that indicated Kilnhurst was in sight. He raised a hand to some unknown lookout, and immediately the drawbridge lowered just in time for their arrival. The portcullis raised and they went through, stopping just inside the bailey. He lowered her to her feet before throwing his own leg over the animal’s back and landing on the ground with a thump.

  A figure suddenly appeared from nowhere and just as quickly disappeared with the horse. So her opposition wasn’t staying alone in the castle. Well, of course he wasn’t. And he did say that he was not trespassing.

  Moirae was so lost in thought and questions, she had not realized her savior was about to disappear into the gatehouse, when he turned around and asked, “Are you coming, Lady Destiny? Or would you prefer to again profess your skills as the Guardian out here in the night air?”

  Moirae gritted her teeth, clenching her lips together even tighter. Self-humiliation was one thing—being openly mocked was another. Squaring her chin, she cocked a brow at him, and then moved as gracefully as her bad leg would allow through the opening. Only then did she grasp just where she was. Inside Kilnhurst.

  The wooden gatehouse entrance looked like a simple tower door, but it opened into something quite unexpected. She had assumed she would see a typical storage area or perhaps a stairway opening that led to the castle’s curtain wall. What she saw was nothing of the kind. She was indeed in a room, and opposite of her was an ornate archway that led to a hallway on its other side. Understanding suddenly flooded her. Kilnhurst’s double curtain walls were not just protective barriers but formed a huge quasi-building that went around the complex. The idea was unique and Moirae was positive no one else had conceived of such an idea. Such a structure would have aroused envy and eventual duplication.

  Moirae could feel the dark figure smiling with pride as he sauntered past her, indicating for her to follow. It was the first time she had been able to sense any emotion from him. And while part of her was relieved to know she could sense him at least some of the time, her focus was on assessing the man who had turned her life upside down.

  He was a noble, or had been raised like one, for there was nothing subservient about him. His stride was long and smooth so that he appeared to glide—not walk. Far from feminine, the controlled movement gave him an aura of power most men only dreamed of possessing. Moirae found herself growing jealous as she did her best to disguise her ungraceful limp, which was near impossible at the pace he was moving.

  Deliberately slowing, she let him disappear ahead and continued to pass through one archway, and then another, following the bend of the dimly lit hallway that conformed to the circular structure of the curtain wall. Sporadically, she would see doors. Most were closed, but a few were open, enabling her to glimpse the dark interior. Most appeared unused, and if the rooms had windows, they were not visible. The resulting darkness created a comforting atmosphere she had grown to prefer.

  Turning one last time, Moirae saw Dorian standing in front of large double doors, waiting for her to catch up. Upon seeing her, he opened them and stood aside, allowing her to pass. As she moved by him, she inhaled, getting a whiff of two large dogs hidden farther down the hall. Both were alert to their presence and ready to attack if signaled, but just what their master wanted, she had no clue. Once again she could not discern any emotion from Dorian. Only her sense of sight and touch told her that he was there. It was as if he had the ability to turn on and off his feelings. She was tempted to ask how but had no idea how to phrase the question without reveal
ing too much about herself.

  With a puzzled brow, she entered the room, which, unlike the others she had spied, was glowing with candles that cast shadows everywhere. Moirae got the impression she was being invited into his lair. The leather furniture was large and padded and she knew no one local had made such items. There was an elaborate desk in one corner with both recognizable and foreign items on its surface. But the most remarkable object was on a narrow table centered on the far wall. Propped in a wooden frame was the unusual, deadly sword she had witnessed him use that first night. Beside it was an empty holder, hinting that he possessed more than one of the rare weapons.

  “You have nice taste, Laird,” she said, turning around to face him.

  The title caused a slight smile to crack his deadpan expression. For a brief instance, Moirae could once again sense him. She had surprised him and he had enjoyed the feeling. “I am no laird. I just own a castle,” he corrected her.

  Moirae shrugged her chin, glad to learn that he did not just know Kilnhurst’s owner—the castle actually belonged to him. It was also heartening to hear him admit the truth about his lack of title. She had known he was not a laird, but in her experience, most men would have let such incorrect assumptions continue for as long as they could benefit from it. “I wonder what clan you purchased it from.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Aye,” she answered, gazing at him intently before continuing. “But I have a feeling that asking questions about how you came to live in this place would be waste of time.” She licked her lips. “The previous owner had nice taste.”

  “My nephew still does. He prefers to live well.”

  “And you?”