Highland Blood Moon: A Cassidy Edwards Novella - Book 3.6

by Carmen Caine

  “A covert attack it will not be then,” the vampire announced with a wicked gleam of amusement in his dark eyes.

  The next instant, he whirled and kicked the door back with a crash.

  Nothing could have prepared Dorian for the macabre scene inside. Horror met his eyes, a horror that would forever etch itself upon his soul.

  The croft was dark, lit only by a handful of wax tapers melting in an iron candelabra near a small table at the back. Next to it hung a large, metallic, hollow ring suspended from the ceiling, a ring large enough for a horse to jump through.

  But it was the dark pool staining the flagstones beneath the ring that caught Dorian’s eyes.

  Blood.

  And on the edge of that pool, he spied something that made his heart stop. The Ramsey clan colors—Gloria’s plaid.

  “Jacques,” a deep, distinguished baritone observed from the shadows close by. “You show your face to me, at last. Have you finally come to pledge allegiance?”

  The Frenchman slouched casually against the door and crossed his arms, for all the world looking like he’d just come to chat about the weather. Yet when he spoke, his voice held a deadly thread of anger. “Alas, Lord Rowle, but I fear I do not come as a friend, much less a servant.”

  “A foolish choice,” the warlock’s voice snaked through darkness.

  Their voices faded from Dorian’s consciousness as he recovered enough from the shock to dash towards the Ramsey plaid. Falling to his knees, he stretched out his hand, but at the last moment, he couldn’t bear to lift the material. Aye, he knew a body lay underneath. Gloria’s. He saw the slim outline of shoulders and hips. And was that a hand, pushing out from under the Ramsey green? The pit of his stomach dropped. The fingers were limp. Lifeless. Marble white.

  His heart shattered.

  “Nay,” he gasped in denial.

  Gloria was not dead. His wee, trouble-causing sister couldn’t be.

  Tears burnt his lashes but he forced them back. Nay, he couldn’t weep. Not yet. Not until he set things right. Burying the soul-sweeping sadness threatening to overwhelm him, he focused on rage instead, and springing to his feet, raised his sword and roared in a thick, highland brogue, “Nay, ‘twill not be so! I’ll slay the both of ye myself! Ye’ll die in agony this very night, knowing a Ramsey planted his blade atween your ribs!”

  The soft murmur of voices paused, and the shadows near the door moved.

  A man stepped into the dim candlelight, a tall, arrogant man with a magnificently crafted, black velvet, gem-studded cloak falling from his broad shoulders. His black hair glistened with a light dusting of silver and his jaw stood out, harsh and forbidding in an ageless face. Dorian knew who he was. Lord Brian Rowle, a warlock … and Elizabeth’s cruel husband.

  “Ramsey, is it?” Lord Rowle queried in thoughtful tones, lifting a long, slow brow before glancing up at the rafters to ask, “This is the one?”

  “The Second Sight runs strong in him,” Emilio’s voice floated down from the gloom above. “Unusually strong. Vigoroso.”

  At the sound of the Sicilian’s voice, Dorian whirled, gripping the hilt of his sword tighter. “Come down and meet the vengeance of my blade, foul creature,” he hissed.

  Lord Rowle’s eyes glittered. “Foolish man, but yet, I must thank you for saving me the trouble of fetching you here,” he said with a chilling smile. “Come, Emilio. Our quarry has so kindly arrived on its own. Perhaps all is not lost this Blood Moon.”

  “And if it fails?” Emilio’s voice echoed through the darkness behind. “Che succede? What then?”

  Dorian whirled but saw no sign of the vampire as from the corner of his eye, he caught the warlock’s shrug.

  “Then Elizabeth’s blood shall spill,” Lord Rowle said with a careless laugh. “I weary in waiting for my heir.”

  At the sound of her name, Dorian’s heart threatened to stop once again. Could he not keep those he cherished safe? He glanced over at Jacques still lounging in the door. As their eyes met, the vampire flicked his gaze to the rafters with a barely perceptible nod.

  Dorian squinted in unspoken agreement.

  Aye, ‘twas decided then.

  Gripping his sword tighter, Dorian focused on Lord Rowle, his designated foe.

  The warlock’s eyes had narrowed into slits. “You flinched when I spoke of Lady Elizabeth,” he said coldly. “Do you know my wife?”

  With another roar, Dorian charged, swinging his sword wide as Emilio dropped from above. But Jacques was there as the vampire landed on the croft floor, flashing past to strike him hard in the chest and sending him crashing against the croft’s opposite wall before Dorian’s blade had scarcely finished arcing upwards in the warlock’s direction.

  But as Dorian’s sword began its downward swing, the warlock simply … vanished.

  Startled, Dorian froze and then whirled, turning in all directions.

  There was no sign of the man.

  Astonished, Dorian kept turning, searching in all directions and half crouched at the ready.

  Around him, Emilio and Jacques engaged in a heated battle, dashing through the croft in blurred streaks of dark shadows punctuated here and there with moments of clarity. Each time, revealing one or the other gaining the upper hand. First, Jacques tossed Emilio into the rafters. Next, Emilio threw him across the croft. Again, Jacques threw Emilio against the wall. Then, the blurring began again.

  All the while, Dorian searched the shadows, sword at the ready.

  He was entirely unprepared for the sharp metal of a dagger abruptly piercing his ribs from behind. The searing, lancing pain rendered him momentarily speechless.

  “Foolish mortal, you cannot fight me,” Lord Rowle hissed in his ear, giving the dagger a sharp twist before thrusting it deeper.

  Dorian drew a ragged breath—or tried to. In the middle of it, his lungs ceased breathing entirely.

  Suddenly, Emilio appeared before him, grasping Jacques by the throat and swiftly punching him in the gut, which sent him flying across the croft as easily as if one had tossed a child’s ragdoll.

  Ach, they didn’t stand a chance with these unholy creatures. How quickly the tide turned.

  Again, the warlock’s dagger bit Dorian’s flesh, unleashing a new haze of pain. He frowned. ‘Twas so unlike him to simply stand there and let someone use him as a pincushion. He felt strangely lethargic, almost drunk, just like he had with Emilio earlier.

  “I’ve spelled him,” Lord Rowle said, sounding as if he spoke from far away. “Take him to the ring, Emilio. Let’s not waste one drop of his precious blood, shall we?”

  Emilio appeared before the warlock’s words even finished, and a second later, Dorian found himself draped over the ring.

  “How does it feel, imbecille?” the Sicilian grated in his ear. “So easily caught in the spider’s web?”

  Still, Dorian struggled to understand. Spelled? Was he under some unholy influence? He hung on the ring, bent at the waist, and frowned, bewildered, as the warm trickle of his blood slid over his flesh to join Gloria’s pooled below.

  Pain danced over him. Then, in the silent agony of his suffering, he heard the rustle of the plaid nearby.

  “Dorian, is that you?” a faint voice gasped.

  Gloria?

  Alive?

  Gloria still lived?

  A protective rage welled up from deep inside him, burning the haze and clearing his mind in an instant. Gloria lived, but both she and Elizabeth stood in the path of imminent danger.

  He had to rescue them both. Failure wasn’t an option.

  Closing his eyes, he forced himself to focus. Clearly, the warlock held the upper hand in hand-to-hand combat. There had to be another way—

  “The doll,” Gloria interrupted his thoughts in a whisper so soft he wasn’t sure he’d truly even heard it. “The doll on the table, Dorian. It’s his ward. Break its neck. ‘Twill free the wolves to aid you.”

  His lashes flew open.

  Behind him, Jacques and Em
ilio still fought in the croft, and a quick, furtive glance over his shoulder revealed Lord Rowle had turned to join them.

  It was now or never.

  Summoning his strength, Dorian slid off the ring and lunged for the table. He saw the doll. A grotesque thing, quite delicate, really, and carved from wood. It wouldn’t take much to snap its neck.

  His fingers had scarcely closed around the figurine when he heard the warlock’s shocked hiss from behind.

  “Impossible! No one can break a Rowle spell,” the man said, astounded. “No one, and certainly not a mere human!”

  The dagger followed next, razor slice after razor slice stabbing Dorian’s flesh. He gripped the doll tighter. Aye, he was losing too much blood. The smell of it sickened him. And yes, he stood only one slash away from death, but he’d see the infernal doll’s neck broken first.

  Determined, he ignored the plunging blade and focused only on the doll, bending its head back as Lord Rowle began to shout.

  “Aye, take that, ye beslubbering sot of a Rowle,” Dorian gasped, struggling. “I’ll not let ye harm those I cherish!”

  Then two things happened.

  First, the doll’s neck snapped with a quiet sort of pop.

  Second, a burning blaze of pain jolted Dorian’s entire body and, dropping the doll, he gaped down, stunned, to see metal protruding from his stomach.

  The warlock had impaled him with a sword—his own.

  Aye, ‘twas a deathblow, but oddly, he felt nothing.

  “You will pay.” Lord Rowle’s enraged features swam into view. “And everything you cherish will pay as well, fool.”

  Dorian couldn’t respond. His knees gave out and he fell across the table.

  He could hear the wolves, howling and snarling outside the croft as the warlock ran to the back of the cottage. Bending down, he pulled a rusted ring embedded in the floor, and lifting a trap door, revealed a set of stairs winding into the darkness below. An escape route.

  Outside, the wolves howled, striking the croft stones, their assault causing dust to sift down from the rafters above.

  “Come, Emilio,” Lord Rowle raised his voice in warning. “The wolves paw at our door.”

  “Misfortune clings to you like a shadow, Rowle,” Emilio spat. “Sei davvero stupido! How could you be so foolish to let this happen?”

  But the warlock had already gone.

  Gritting his teeth, Dorian tried to raise himself from the table, but with little success. The next moment, Jacques sailed over his head to crash against the wall and collapse into an unmoving heap on the floor.

  Again, Dorian tried to stand, but his body betrayed him. Ach, he might not be able to move, but he could still speak. As a rush of wind headed towards the trap door, he managed to choke, “I will find you, Sicilian. You will die under my blade. I swear it.”

  He thought he was too late. He just stood there, sprawled over the table, his cheek flat against the rough, wooden surface, and the only sound he could hear the snarling of the wolves outside as they tried to break into the croft.

  But then, a deep chuckle echoed up from the trap door. The next moment, strong fingers clamped over Dorian’s shoulders to flip him onto his back.

  Emilio’s dark features stared down at him. “Ah, you wish to know of your sister?” the vampire hissed, baring two long fangs. “I claimed that treasure for myself whenever I pleased, night after night, and when I grew weary of her naïve charms, I tasted the blue vein of her neck as it throbbed against her bare skin—”

  Rage boiled up within Dorian at those words, a rage he channeled into strength. Somehow, almost magically, Elizabeth’s silver dagger appeared in his hand. Gripping the weapon, he heaved himself off the table and drawing upon every last shred of strength he possessed, braced his legs and plunged the silver blade straight into vampire’s heart.

  As the flash of silver met and shattered bone, astonishment flashed over Emilio’s face. Throwing his head back, his lips parted in a shrill, keening cry as he stumbled back. The silver dagger sizzled his flesh, opening a gaping wound that grew even as Dorian watched.

  Still, it wasn’t enough to mollify the anger in Dorian’s soul. “’Tis only fitting I give ye the brotherly, highland welcome ye deserve, Sicilian,” he spat, slipping into his highland brogue as he grabbed Emilio by the neck and punched his jaw, enjoying the satisfying crunch of bone giving beneath his fist. “Who’s the fool now, aye?”

  “By chance a cripple may catch a hare,” Emilio rasped, his eyes burning savagely. “You are dead. Sei morto!” Spreading his lips wide in another bloodcurdling scream, he tugged at the silver dagger scorching his flesh.

  A moment later, the silver blade clattered to the floor.

  Dorian fell back, astounded.

  Emilio rose up to tower over him, death in his eyes.

  “Beware, Emilio,” Jacques’ elegant voice sounded from the croft door. “’Tis time to welcome our howling friends, is it not?”

  Emilio’s lip twitched as the French vampire unlatched the door. “This is not finished between us, Ramsey,” he whispered the promise.

  And then in a blur, he vanished into the shadows down the trap door.

  As the wolves bounded inside and rushed past him, Dorian dropped to his knees, clutching his stomach. Hot, sticky blood oozed between his fingers. Ach, nothing could staunch the flow of it. He was done for. He knew that well. Aye, each wound throbbed in agony. More than one rib had punctured his lungs. ‘Twas a miracle he hadn’t died already.

  Exhausted, he closed his eyes and fell.

  He must have blacked out. When he opened his eyes again, the croft seemed brighter. Someone had lit more candles. He felt Bianca’s ebony snout push against his arm.

  A shadow fell across Dorian’s face and with the greatest of efforts, he focused his gaze on Jacques’ concerned eyes peering down at him. Aye, the vampire had suffered many grievous injuries, but even as Dorian watched, the cuts and gashes began to heal. Immortal, truly. And clearly impervious to silver, despite what he’d said before in the woods.

  Recalling Emilio plucking the silver dagger from his heart, he felt the need to say, “I pierced his heart with silver, but he dinna die as you claimed he would, Frenchman.” He tried to hold up his shaking hand as if it somehow offered proof.

  “You must have missed, mon ami,” the vampire replied gently. “But it matters little. Your strength is incredible, my friend. Unbelievable! I know of no other who could break a Rowle spell and then drive a blade anywhere near Emilio’s chest. You have fought so valiantly.”

  “Nay,” Dorian disagreed. “I plunged it straight into his heart. He canna be what you think.”

  “Ah, then, ‘tis a mystery of the universe,” Jacques replied, his face filling with sorrow.

  Dorian knew the cause of that sorrow. He closed his eyes. Aye, he was dying. “Protect them,” he whispered. “Swear you will protect them.”

  “Upon my life and for all eternity,” Jacques replied, knowing of whom he spoke.

  “Dorian!” Gloria choked. “Is that you? I canna see!”

  At the sound of her frightened voice, he managed to turn his head, enough to see she lay close by. The thought of how she’d suffered made his blood boil, giving him a last inhuman surge of strength to lift his hand enough to touch her fingers with his.

  “I’m here,” he whispered.

  “They used me for something evil,” she whispered between sobs. “’Tis my fault, Dorian!”

  “Nay, lass,” he swore, squeezing her hand as best he could even as he felt his feet turn numb, cold.

  She didn’t answer. He tried to move close but weakness prevented him. Squinting, he could see her breath coming in short, rattling gasps.

  “’Tis too late, mon ami,” Jacques whispered, running his long, elegant fingers over her brow.

  Tears slid down Dorian’s cheeks. He’d failed his sister. And now? Would the wolves find Rowle or would he fail Elizabeth, too? If only he could heal himself like Jacques, if only
…

  His eyes lit with sudden hope. Grabbing Jacques’ hand, he gasped, “Make me a vampire, Jacques.”

  Jacques’ head snapped back. “’Tis Wolf Blood Moon, mon ami. No vampire can be made on such a night.”

  “Turn me, too,” Gloria’s lips moved weakly, surprising them both.

  The Frenchman’s eyes again filled with sorrow. “Ma belle femme, the both of you are far too weak and on this night of nights, ‘twould be impossible for even the strongest to find his way back, to choose to become a Chosen—”

  “He speaks the truth,” Bianca said, suddenly padding up to Dorian’s side. Her eyes mirrored the grief in Jacques’. “A Wolf Blood Moon is the one night when a vampire cannot return to claim their body as a creature of the night. ’Tis the moon of wolves, when their strength waxes and that of a vampire’s wanes. No vampire is strong enough to battle the moon on this night, not one ray of light can penetrate the veils to guide your way back. ‘Tis written in the stars. You will wander in the darkness forever.”

  “I’m … a … highlander,” Dorian panted stubbornly. “I‘ve … strength … enough. I’ll battle … through … hades itself.” He frowned at the stiff clumsiness of his lips. He could no longer feel his legs.

  Jacques bowed his head. “No one doubts your courage, mon ami.”

  “What harm is there in trying?” Dorian gasped weakly.

  At his side, Gloria nodded in agreement, too frail to speak, but he saw the tears shimmering in her eye.

  “Harm enough,” Jacques’ voice choked with emotion. “Those who fail in finding the way back on a Wolf Blood Moon are doomed to wander the veil between worlds for eternity. I cannot condemn you to such torture. Not so honorable, so courageous a man. Nay, such a thing is impossible.”

  At his side, an odd stillness settled over Gloria’s slender, broken body.

  The wolves began to howl.

  Clenching his jaw, Dorian forced his lips to move for the last time. “Impossible?” His chest felt so tight he couldn’t breathe. “Did not … your leaves say otherwise? I … will … return. I swear it.”