“Dinna be so pigheaded, Dorian,” Gloria snapped. “He’s a fine, upstanding noble, and an honorable man.”
He begged to differ, but this time, he merely nodded and kept his lips sealed.
“Aye, then,” Gloria nodded, satisfied enough. “Come.”
Silently, they trudged through the snow and up to the cottage door.
“I’ve not been here in some time,” Gloria admitted as she lifted the latch. “Ach, ‘tis in sore need of a cleaning with all the dust and cobwebs.”
Forcing his voice to remain calm and mild, Dorian prodded, “And where have you been staying? Is it warm at least?”
Gloria picked at her skirt and hesitated. “He doesna wish me to say…” she began but her voice dwindled away and the next moment, a shadow near the cold hearth suddenly moved. A beautiful smile split her face. “Emilio! Emilio, my love.” Stretching her hands out, she glanced over her shoulder at Dorian and said, “Dorian, this is Emilio. Emilio Marchesi.”
A figure advanced from the shadows and stepped into the dying light streaming through the doorway. Revealed, was a slim, elegant man wrapped in a red velvet, fur-trimmed mantle fit for a king. Aye, he was handsome, with olive skin, shoulder-length dark hair, and a classic Roman nose. But it was the eyes that Dorian found troubling. Cold. Calculating. Even more chilling than the unsettling smile curving his chiseled lips.
“Dorian,” Emilio murmured, cocking his head to one side as he came to a stop in front of him. “Dorian of Clan Ramsey.”
Instinct told Dorian to run. Aye, something unholy lurked in this man. A stab of fear pierced his chest. Reaching back, he grasped Gloria’s arm and gasped, “Go, Gloria. If you’ve ever loved me, lass, go!”
She glanced at him, surprised. “Go? But why?”
Emilio’s brow arched in cool amusement. “Please, la mia bella donna, stay,” he inserted smoothly, blowing her a kiss. “Love of my life, I beg you, ti imploro, please stay.”
It was nothing more than a demonstration of control, meant to inform Dorian just who held the power.
For several long, timeless moments, Gloria stood there, chewing her lip as indecisiveness warred on her face. But then, she stepped up to the Sicilian and slipped her arm through his.
Dorian’s heart sank.
The man’s eyes glittered with arrogance. “Ah, but we are brothers. Siamo fratelli. Take my hand, the hand of friendship, mio fratello.”
The next moment, Dorian felt his forearm nearly crushed by an unforgivingly severe, cold grip. He swallowed, astonished at the speed with which the man moved, but even more with the coldness of his flesh, a coldness that reminded him of Jacques, the Frenchman from the inn.
“Brothers,” Gloria repeated firmly. “See, Dorian? There’s not to fret over.”
Dorian lifted his chin, intending to object, but Emilio’s strange, scintillating eyes caught his attention, drawing him in so that he couldn’t look away.
“Yes. Fratelli. Do not fear, Gloria, amore mio,” the Sicilian whispered even as his eyes began to glow. “Your brother is precious to me. Prezioso. I will not harm him. He shares the same blood that pulses through your veins. A blood I must protect. Yes, I will protect you both.”
A shiver crept down Dorian’s spine even as his eyes felt strangely heavy. Gloria said something, but he couldn’t understand her words. He saw only Emilio’s glowing eyes. He squinted in an attempt to focus his gaze and clear his thoughts, but the effort only made him queasy. Ach, was he drunk?
Gloria’s red braids swam across his vision.
He focused on them.
Aye, his sister. Wee Gloria. He had to protect her from this man.
The more he zeroed in on the thought, the more he seemed to shake off the strange heaviness invading his soul. Summoning every ounce of will and strength from every fiber of his being, Dorian forced his lips to open. “Gloria, go,” he panted. “Run if you value your life, lass! Run!”
A mixture of rage and wonder lit Emilio’s eyes. “Bravo. Bravo. Such strength,” he breathed. “Incredibile.” But then his dark lashes fell. “Alas, but I have little time to play.”
The next moment, Emilio’s hand struck Dorian’s jaw a glancing blow, sending him reeling back against the cottage wall.
“You shouldn’t have insulted him, Dorian!” Gloria screamed hysterically in the background.
The mysterious heaviness invading Dorian’s mind vanished in an instant. He didn’t waste time. Roaring, he grasped the hilt of his sword, but he’d barely cleared the weapon an inch from the scabbard before Emilio struck him again, sending him crashing against the opposite wall.
Gloria gasped and her hands flew to cover her mouth.
Picking himself up, Dorian shook his head and faced the man standing near the door. “I’ll shove my blade up your nostril and have done, ye gorbellied gudgeon,” he swore, dropping into a thick highland brogue.
But he’d scarcely taken a single step in the Sicilian’s direction before the man surprised him yet again, seeming to strike his head, punch him in the gut, and shove him back all at the precise same moment and with an impossible strength.
Dorian crashed, landing hard as a sick horror blossomed in his stomach and the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.
The man was unholy.
Inhuman.
“No!” Gloria screamed, reaching for Emilio. “Do not harm him! He’s my brother, Emilio.”
The man shrugged her off. “Do not hinder me, donna,” he commanded coldly, drawing his lips into a mirthless smile. “A dog must know his master, eh?”
Slowly, Dorian wiped the blood from his lip. “Run, Gloria,” he gasped. “Now!”
Fear flickered across her face, a fear that gave him the strength to move again. Ignoring the pain constricting his chest, he staggered to his feet and lunged.
But the Sicilian moved with impossible speed. One moment, he stood before Dorian and the next, behind, whispering in his ear, “You cannot fight me, foolish mortale. And your blood is far too precious to spill—for now.”
There was a sharp crack. Pain roared through Dorian’s body. He barely registered the sound of cackling laughter and Gloria sobbing as his consciousness began fade.
He heard her scream, “No! I canna leave Dorian! I willna go with you!”
And then slumping to the floor, his eyes closed and darkness swept him away.
Chapter 5
Tracks in the Snow
Dorian moaned. His head pounded. Slowly, he lifted his lashes. His fingers and nose felt like ice. He frowned, wondering why he sprawled half in the snow, half inside the cold, empty cottage with the night wind blowing over him. Sitting up, he ran a hand through his hair, shaking the snowflakes out—and then froze.
Everything returned in a rush.
Horrified, he jumped to his feet and cupping his hands over his mouth, shouted, “Gloria! Gloria!”
But only silence replied.
With a growing sense of dread, he scanned the trampled snow. Clearly, Gloria had struggled, and valiantly, but the single, deep set of tracks disappearing towards the forest told the tale that she’d lost. Emilio had abducted her.
Dorian spat in contempt. “Your time is short, Sicilian,” he swore under his breath, sprinting towards the stables. Soon, he’d saddled his horse and with his sword hanging from his belt and Elizabeth’s dagger tucked inside his shirt, he set off at a quick trot, anger taking root, deep within him.
The full moon hung high in the sky, illuminating Emilio’s tracks in the pristine blanket of snow covering the ground. Once inside the forest, the moonlight easily penetrated the bare branches, allowing him to still follow. Odd. Emilio hadn’t bothered to cover his tracks. Was it arrogance? Overconfidence? A trap? Dorian shrugged and drew his sword. It didn’t really matter. He would prevail. Nothing would stop him from saving his sister. Nothing.
The trail led up the slope of Ben Nevis, the high rocky peak looming above him. Snow fell in scattered flurries, but he merely drew the hood of his
cloak against the spray kicked by his horse’s hooves and pressed on. In the distance, an owl hooted, but he paid it little heed, other than noting he’d crossed with more owls than usual, of late.
Ahead, the trees thinned and as Emilio’s tracks suddenly veered towards the right, he urged his horse a little faster, breaking through the tree line and out onto a rocky, mountain path dotted with heather, gorse, and a little snow.
But he’d gone no more than five yards before Emilio’s trail vanished.
“God’s Blood!” Dorian swore, striking his fist on the saddle’s pommel.
Suddenly, a wolf’s keening howl rent the night air.
Dorian’s gelding pricked up his ears and danced sideways. “Easy, lad,” he soothed, tugging the jittery animal’s head back.
An answering howl sounded from close by.
Uneasiness crept over Dorian’s flesh. Beneath his legs, he felt his horse tremble. “Ach, this willna do,” he muttered aloud, scanning the bare, rocky slope spreading out before him. “Let us ride away from here, aye?”
With no further sign of the Sicilian or his sister in sight, he could do nothing other than pick a direction and pray it was the right one. Choosing to continue an eastwardly course, he clenched his jaw, kicked his horse’s flank, and trotted along the tree line to scan the snow and rocks.
Within fifty yards, he spied tracks and following them back into the trees, pulled rein beside them.
Aye, footprints, to be sure, but not those of a man.
He gave a long, low whistle. “Wolves.” He caught his breath in disbelief at the sheer size of the paw prints. “Ach, it canna be! ‘Tis the size of a horse!”
His gelding suddenly sidestepped, and the next moment, Dorian heard something to his left. Cautiously, he lifted his blade and squinted into the dark underbrush.
Nothing.
After a moment, the owl hooted again, closer this time. His horse stamped its foot, nervously. A chill gust of wind blew through his hair.
“Aye, lad,” Dorian agreed, perturbed. “Let’s move.”
Gripping the reins, he turned his horse’s head, but they’d taken only a few steps before he spied something stalking under the trees, again to the left. The next moment, snuffling grunts came from the direction of the thicket ahead, as long, pointed shadows appeared in the snow behind him.
Wolves.
Swearing silently, he sought to retrace his steps only to find his path blocked by two wolves. The first, a majestic gray beast with massive paws and rows of sharp, pointed teeth, and the second, a much smaller wolf with an ebony snout and fur glistening in the moonlight.
Cursing under his breath, Dorian pulled his horse sharply to the right.
A new wolf emerged, a silver one as yet another emerged from the shadows, baring its teeth in a wolfish grin and swinging its tail like a whip. The uncanny expressions startled Dorian. The wolves appeared almost … amused.
Only one path lay open. He had no choice but to ride forward—and fast. Spurring his horse into a gallop, he dashed through the trees, again attempting to break out of the forest, but the great beasts kept pace, hemming him in on all sides except the one.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Were they herding him? He could only pray it wasn’t into the arms of a bigger pack.
Unnerved, Dorian crouched low over his horse’s neck with the branches whipping over his head as they madly dashed forward. He knew he couldn’t stop. He stood little chance fighting these wily beasts. Several times, he tried to break free, but they would have none of it. They padded by his side, but made no moves to cross paths or attack either.
Finally, something flickered through the trees ahead, and in moments, Dorian burst into a small clearing surrounded by tall pines. A large fire crackled in a ring of stones, and a finely crafted teapot with four matching cups rested on a nearby log.
But Dorian paid little heed to these oddities. More wolves appeared from behind the pines. Ten, for certain, and judging by the shadows moving through the woods beyond, at least a dozen more lurked, ready to join.
Catching their scent, Dorian’s horse whinnied and shied, frantically pawing the air.
“Nay, mon ami,” a familiar voice suddenly said. “You’re among friends, I promise you.”
The next moment, an elegant hand caught his horse’s reins and with an unholy strength, pulled the beast down on all fours.
Startled, Dorian found himself staring down at Jacques, the Frenchman from the inn. The man ignored the wolves milling about only an arm’s length away. He stood there, calm, relaxed, and with a small smile twitching the corners of his mouth. The moonlight played over the scar gracing his cheek, giving it an almost silver glow.
“Pleased to meet you once again, Dorian Ramsey,” Jacques bowed, waving a welcoming hand. His dark eyes flicked to Dorian’s sword. “You will not need that here. Here, you are safe. I promise you.”
“Wolves,” Dorian hissed in astonishment. “Dinna you see them, man? Draw your sword and fight with me!”
The fur ridging the wolves’ spines lifted and their tails swished.
“Nay, there’s no need,” the Frenchman corrected with an easy grin. “They’re friends.”
A growl from behind made Dorian whirl, sword still in hand.
The great gray wolf along with the smaller, ebony one broke free of the pack and stepped inside the circle of firelight.
“Foolish man,” the gray wolf’s lips parted to hiss. “Tramping alone in the woods on this night of all nights. It is Wolf’s Blood Moon. Do you wish to die?”
Dorian’s mouth fell open as he promptly fell off his horse and landed in the snow.
Laughter ringed him, a soft, breathy animal sort of sound.
“The woods are dangerous,” the smaller, ebony wolf explained in higher tones. “And not only because of Wolf’s Blood Moon.”
Gasping, Dorian scrambled back, tripping over a log and nearly falling into the fire.
“Ho, there!” Jacques laughed, appearing suddenly behind him to yank him aside. “Not the teapot, mon ami. Have a care. I must read my leaves.”
“You and your tea leaves,” the gray wolf snorted in disgust, padding forward to arrange himself before the fire’s crackling warmth. “One may not discern the future by reading boiled leaves, Jacques. Why do you persist?”
“Mayhap if they are read in just the right way, it may be so, cher oncle,” Jacques disagreed good-naturedly.
“I’ve gone mad,” Dorian choked, dazed and noting for the first time that he’d dropped his sword. It lay glittering in the snow a good six feet away, well out of arm’s reach.
The gray wolf followed his gaze. “You will not need that,” the beast assured, unruffled.
The ebony wolf giggled.
Dorian would have lunged for it anyway, had not another wolf padded forward to stand directly on the blade.
“Come,” Jacques said, reaching for the teapot. “We must speak, you and I.”
Slowly, Dorian rose to his feet, dusting off the pine needles from his cloak and plaid. “I fear I have struck my head,” he murmured apprehensively. “And though I be befuddled, I must leave, straightway. I have my wee sister to—”
“The wolves are searching for Gloria as we speak, tracking her scent over the slopes,” Jacques interrupted smoothly. “And when she is found, we will fight by your side and free her. Oui, you are a trustworthy, honorable man highly skilled in the art of war, but this war is not a human one, mon ami.”
Dorian hesitated. He couldn’t deny the truth of the man’s words—not when wolves spoke with a human tongue.
Jacques stirred the embers with a stick and tossed another branch into the flames as a lanky, silver wolf jumped onto one of the logs and casually dropped the carcass of a small rabbit.
“You must eat,” the animal said, locking gazes with Dorian. “You’ll need your strength about you this night.”
Dorian simply stared, still unable to believe his ears.
The smaller,
ebony wolf trotted forward. “You’ll probably want that cooked,” it said, even as the tone and timbre of its voice shifted from animal to human.
As Dorian watched, the back hind legs extended, the body lengthened, and the ebony fur melted in a blur. The next moment, a young lass stood there clad in a simple homespun gown. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen, but her wiry, lithe form spoke of strength, and the blue eyes sparkling from under long, black braids held more than a dash of humor.
Swearing, Dorian backed away. “I fear … I am delirious,” he swallowed, his eyes wide, incredulous.
“The Wolf Kind,” Jacques said as if the simple title alone would explain everything.
“I’ll roast the rabbit for you,” the lass volunteered, her voice quivering with silent laughter. “My name is Bianca.”
Dazed, Dorian wiped the back of his hand over his brow.
In the distance, a howl drifted on the wind.
The gray wolf sprang to his feet. “I will take three to meet him,” he growled and then bounded away.
Jacques snapped his fingers. “Perhaps news, oui? Let us hope it is so,” he said as Bianca set about preparing the rabbit. “Rest, Dorian, and gather your strength. For this night’s fight, you’ll need every wit about you. Tea?” He extended a small, delicate cup completely at odds with the forest surroundings.
Wondering if he were caught in a dream, Dorian accepted the tea, dimly noting the coldness of Jacques’ fingers before he put the cup to his lip. He tipped it back and swallowed. The hot liquid scalded his throat, but alas, did not wake him from any slumber. Could it be he was truly awake?
Before he could set the cup down, his companion eagerly snatched it away and tilted it towards the fire. “Ah, let us see what your leaves may say. The universe is a mystery to be explored, mon ami.”
“In tea?” Dorian murmured, striving to comprehend the strangeness of his situation.
“Alas, I may no longer drink tea,” the Frenchman confessed with a devilish grin. “But I find the leaves as fascinating as ever.” He gave a long, low whistle. “And these leaves … astonishing! On this night, you will accomplish the impossible. Indeed, ‘tis written in the stars as well as in the teacup.”
Taming the Vampire: Over 25 All New Paranormal Alpha Male Tales of Contemporary, Military, Shifters, Billionaires, Werewolves, Magic, Fae, Witches, Dragons, Demons & More Page 79
