Knight After Night

by Jackie Ivie

  “Spying.”

  “Please. Sit. We mean you no harm.”

  “Of course not. That’s why you lied to get me in your clutches and why you keep me here against my will while you show me paintings. It has nothing to do with harm. Just abduction and illegal imprisonment and then slow starvation.”

  “Roderick? Fetch Miss Pritchard a scone. With honey. And tea. It’s near tea time.”

  “You’re joking,” Jolie replied.

  “I need your help, Miss Pritchard. I won’t worry you for anything else. You have to help us catch a monster.”

  “A monster. Right.”

  He took a deep breath. His fingers tightened on his cane but that was the only sign she’d bothered him.

  “You have valuable information, my dear. You don’t know the scope of it, and I’d rather you never learn. But I will have that information. I have to have it.”

  “I don’t have anything. I’m new to Scotland. Just arrived. Honest.”

  “Sit. Please? You’re giving me a crick in the neck to look up at you.”

  Jolie regarded him for some time. Then she sat again in the hard ladder-back chair, facing what had gone to three paintings. The last was another rendering of Thoran, with a supremely bad hairstyle, leaning against a pillar. This one was circa 1901, clothed from the Edwardian period. And before her eyes, the oldest one seemed to move. Just slightly, with a waver that made the eyes more defined and more akin to molten silver. Fathomless.

  ‘A Chroi.’

  Odd words filled her ear, spoken as if Thoran sat beside her, sending it into existence, bringing back vivid memories and remarkable reactions. Jolie focused on the painting, looking the third duke in the eye while she blinked reality back into place from wherever it was hiding. She took a breath to steady herself. “Let’s get this over with, then. What do you need? And why do you think I have it?”

  “Have you looked at the paintings?”

  Jolie looked to the ceiling. Then back. It was possible the man had Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, too. She’d just thought him senile. She blew the sigh so hard it puffed out her lips, sending the minute sting of her split lip into play. She busied herself with her lip gloss while he waited. She was finished before he spoke to her again, exhibiting Old World etiquette while she acted and started feeling like an uncouth brat. “All right. I’ve looked. They’re very good. Masters painted them. So what?”

  “They’re the same man.”

  “They’re the same clan ,” she corrected him.

  “No, Miss Pritchard. They’re all Thoran Alexander MacKettryck.”

  “That’s it. I’m leaving.” Jolie made a move to stand. One of his henchmen pushed her back into the seat and held her there with a heavy hand on her shoulder. Unpleasant shivers ran from the spot.

  “You can’t deny the proof before your own eyes.”

  “Proof? Listen up. I’m tired of being man-handled, and I’m tired of innuendos, and I’m tired of nonsense. I’m just plain tired. I can tell a line of bull no matter how pretty it’s dressed up. I see you like MacKettryck. Or you like old paintings. Be my guest. Enjoy them.”

  “They’re alike. You do see that.”

  “You’re right. You got me. Those guys are definitely alike. Because they’re related. It doesn’t mean a thing. In fact, this entire episode is starting to approach nightmare status. If this is all you wanted from me, it’s a bust. I can’t help you.”

  “We happen to think you’ve met him.”

  “Who?”

  “Those three…gentleman. Or rather, that one gentleman.”

  “Impossible. They’re dead.”

  “Exactly. Oh good. Tea has arrived.”

  Jolie opened her mouth but shut it again as a teapot and two cups were placed on the table. The service was atop a silver platter with a creamer and sugar container of the same grade of silver. They’d also added all sorts of sandwiches and baked cake things, and scones. Her mouth watered without asking it to. Roderick poured. She ignored the tea, picked up a scone and ate. Heaven knew when she’d get her next meal. Or what it would be.

  “Open your mind. Look. Listen. And then help us.”

  “Do what?”

  “Find him.”

  “Who?”

  “The gentleman in those pictures!” He stamped his cane for emphasis and two little spots of color tipped his skeletal cheeks.

  “This is stupid. And I’m not baby-sitting if I’m not getting paid.”

  “You’re in danger, you little fool!”

  A shiver touched both arms and flew her back at his tone. And the way he’d stomped again with his cane. Jolie looked at him without expression for long moments before leaning forward to lift a little sandwich thing they appeared to have cut the crusts off. She tasted it and made a face. They’d used some sort of cucumber filing. She’d tried it once before at a fancy garden party. It hadn’t been to her taste then and it wasn’t now. She picked up her hot tea, looked at the loose tea leaves coloring the bottom before sipping it. She should’ve asked for sugar.

  “How so?” She finally asked when nobody said anything.

  “Have you ever heard of the vampires?”

  Jolie choked on her next sip. “Vampires? You’re talking… vampires now?” She tried not to laugh but the giggle escaped. His expression didn’t change.

  He nodded.

  Jolie cleared her throat and put the tea down before she spilled it. “Of course I’ve heard of vampires. Everyone has. The legend supposedly has its roots with a Prince Vlad Dracul who used to impale his victims. And then he feasted while they died all around him. Bram Stoker used that medieval legend and other cult superstitions to write the Dracula novel. It’s fiction. They’ve made countless film versions of it. I truly hate to break it to you, Lord Beethan…but vampires are not real. Truly. It’s been proven. So. I guess that means I can’t help you. I haven’t got the right drugs.”

  ‘ A Chroi. Where are you? ’

  Thoran’s whisper raised the hairs at the back of her neck and she jerked a glance to the paintings as if daring them to move. Nothing shifted. She blinked. She had to get some sleep. And out of artificially lit environments. Maybe take a brisk walk outside. Anywhere insane old men with tales of potential vampires didn’t lurk.

  “Stoker got it wrong, Miss Pritchard. But we forgive him. He hadn’t met any.”

  ‘ Jolie… ’

  The voice came again, as easily heard as if he were right beside her, whispering it. She was surprised they didn’t hear it. She opened her mouth. And then shut it. It wasn’t gaining her a thing to argue with them. She’d try something different: agreement.

  “Let’s say…I’ll believe you for the moment. And let’s say I’ve actually met…a real vampire.” Her voice cracked. She had to clear her throat in order to continue before she laughed. “And let’s just suppose that he’s attracted to me for some weird-ass reason no one can decipher. Because I’m like everyone’s idea of what a vampire would be looking for. I mean, look at me. I rarely wear makeup and I don’t even own a curling iron.”

  “Lineage is what matters, Miss Prichard. Lineage.”

  Jolie pursed her lips. “I’m an American, Sir. We don’t do lineage. And even if I did, I’m such a mongrel I can’t qualify for any social program. Hard to track my lineage.”

  “Not so very hard.”

  “You’ve tracked my lineage, too?”

  “That’s not what I said. I said it’s not so hard. Not in these days of DNA and instant information…computers. Molecular biology. It’s surprisingly simple. As soon as MacKettryck located and procured you, we’ve been searching for any data about you.”

  “Procured?” That sounded especially heinous. Her plan of agreeing with him wasn’t working. Jolie pinched her nose next. “Ok. I give. I’m fated to be a vampire’s next meal. Nothing much I can do about it. Can I go now?”

  “You won’t be his meal. Or you wouldn’t be here now. We think you’re his mate.”

  Jolie
stood. “That’s it. I’m done. I’m leaving and if one of you tries to stop me, I’m macing him. You’re warned.” It was a bluff, but she made it a good one.

  Lord Beethan smiled, folding more of his skin into wrinkles. And then he sobered into a sad expression. “He’ll come for you, Miss. He’ll get you. It’s a foregone conclusion.”

  “Then why are you here? If there’s nothing to be done?” And why am I still here listening? Jolie yanked her sweater tighter, buttoning it clear to the chin. It didn’t work. She was still chilled.

  “You’re smart. Witty. Quick.”

  “And I’m tired,” Jolie quipped.

  “If MacKettryck contacts you again, call us.”

  “I don’t have your number.”

  “Roderick?”

  One henchman held out a little tiny credit card sized thing that had one button. One.

  “What does this do?”

  “Contacts us.”

  “And what will you do? Show up with a bunch of crucifixes?”

  “The levity is out of place, Miss Pritchard, and has been this entire meeting. But you’ll learn that soon enough. You’ve been warned. That’s really all I can do. It’s up to you now. Wear the caller. In your pocket or where you can reach it easiest. Night and day. In the shower. Jogging. Everywhere. It’s water-resistant.”

  “That’s it?”

  He nodded.

  “And I can go now?”

  He nodded again. Roderick moved to the door, and opened it to a loud creak showing the age and non-use of this particular room.

  “Shouldn’t I do something else? Wear garlic around my neck? That sort of thing?”

  “Only if you like the smell.”

  “What?”

  “That one’s a myth. Always has been.”

  “What about the crucifix?”

  Lord Beethan waved his hand. The other servant man handed her an ancient looking piece, suspended from a thick metal chain. It wasn’t a cross, exactly. It had a loop at the top and etchings all through it.

  “That’s a Celtic cross. Old. Powerful. Wear that.”

  A Chroi?’

  Thoran’s whisper came again, speaking the same words and in the same manner. As if calling to her. Jolie took the cross and put it over her neck where it fell to mid-belly with the length of the chain. She tucked it beneath her shirt and then she walked toward the door. And light. And sanity. Nobody stopped her.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  She turned at the door and watched Lord Beethan stand, leaning heavily on his cane. They didn’t look like they’d be much help if she actually believed any of their nonsense and pushed the button.

  “Certainly.”

  “What does ‘ A Chroi’ mean?”

  “It’s Gaelic. It means ‘My heart’. Or perhaps a better translation would be ‘My Love.’ Why?”

  Jolie patted the cross. “No reason,” she mumbled, and took the stairs at a run.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Good evening.”

  Jolie started from contemplation of the setting sun coming through newly leafed trees as it glinted on the water and moved her glance to the Highland god looping an arm about the tree directly to the right of her, getting graced with red and yellow hues of sunset. He looked real enough. Hard. Firm. Massive. Absolute manly. That added another point to his favor. Thoran was much better looking in the flesh than either old painter portrayed. It had been a trick of the lighting combined with the eerie atmosphere of that cellar place. Along with the company she’d kept. It had to be.

  “Must you?” she asked crossly.

  He moved to pass in front of her, looking especially solid, before sitting on the left side of her, bowing the bench seat with considerable weight.

  “Must I what?”

  “Go all Dracula on me. As well as all the other stuff.”

  “What is a…Dracula?”

  “It’s the lead in a movie. The original movie. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it. And expect me to believe it, anyway.”

  “Verra well, lass. I will na’ do that.”

  “You haven’t seen it?”

  “There is no correct answer, so I decline the offer.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Your wish is mine to grant this eve. You doona’ wish me to say I haven’t seen this Dracula movie. Therefore I will na’ say it.”

  Jolie shook her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “It isn’t a thing, Thoran. It’s a what. Why do I feel like I keep talking but the hard-drive just keeps spinning?”

  He didn’t say anything for so long she had time to look at his long fingers, placed with the pads together, his muscled calves showing beneath his kilt. And then she had to grasp the fact that he wasn’t wearing a shirt beneath his kilt band thing today. That put more amazing muscle on display than a world class wrestler claimed. The man was jaw-dropping. Fit. And golden kissed as if he went about naked. A lot. In the sunlight.

  Wait a minute…

  “What are you doing out?” she asked.

  “Out where?”

  “Out…doors. In daylight. Sun light.”

  “I get outdoors a bit, lass. Usually near eve. Why?”

  Jolie swallowed. “No reason.”

  “But I insist.”

  “Insist away. It’s not changing anything. I don’t have to explain anything to you. Or anyone else for that matter.”

  “Like whom?”

  She took a breath and held it. “What do you want, Thoran?”

  “To sit near you. Talk with you. Feel you…beside me.”

  “Oh. You can stop right there.”

  He’d scooted closer without reflex action on any part of him. Or her eyes had missed the move.

  “Why?”

  He’d turned toward her and was breathing all over her, matching her inhalation for inhalation. And the exhalations, as well.

  “Because I’m all confused. Tripping over my tongue. It’s your fault, too. For being such a babe. It’s hard to think straight…let alone form words if I have to do it while looking at you.”

  He pulled the upper part of his body back, leaving his hip right where it was. Pressed against hers, sending vibrations through his plaid kilt and her jeans.

  “That is a severe affront, I feel.”

  Jolie smirked. He did sound insulted. She couldn’t imagine why. “Affront? To be called a babe? That’s a good thing, Your Highness.”

  “My title is Your Grace. Only royalty use Highness.”

  “I’m attempting sarcasm.”

  “With a title? I’d prefer you na’ use it at all. And how is being a ‘bairn’ a good thing?”

  “I said babe.”

  “Same thing.”

  “No, it’s not. Babe is another term for hunk.”

  “Hunk? Of what?”

  “Those are terms for handsomeness, Thoran. Good looks. Supreme male beauty. Gorgeous, jaw-dropping attractiveness. Way beyond the norm.”

  “You refer to me?”

  His eyebrows lifted with what looked like genuine surprise. That easily displayed the perfect silver-shade of his eyes surrounded as they were by lush lashes. He was the exact description of male beauty. She had to swallow and look away before it tied her tongue and scrambled her wits.

  “Of course you. Don’t you ever look in a mirror?”

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  “It’s a severe waste of time.”

  “As gorgeous as you are? I can’t believe you never look at yourself. No man is that humble. Especially one that looks like you. You should be on the cover of a magazine. Make that several magazines. And up on a few billboards. In a gladiator outfit or something. A loincloth. Wow. For the image that brings to mind. I can just see it: you…all oiled up and brandishing that huge sword of yours. Or better yet, you should be eye candy on some actress’s arm. I can think of several who’d look good with your escort. In a tuxedo. Double-wow. I’d bet
ter quit before I can’t banish that image when I try and sleep.”

  “What image?”

  He didn’t sound insulted anymore. He sounded confused. She wasn’t looking to check why. It was enough the rays of setting sun were touching on him. Without searing his flesh anywhere she could tell.

  “You. In a tuxedo.”

  “Would that be a good thing?”

  “Heck, yeah.”

  “I begin to doubt they speak King’s English in Alaska. I canna’ follow many words you say this evening.”

  “You really should get out more. Or something. No. Forget it. Maybe that’s a bad plan.”

  “Why?”

  “You’d stop traffic anywhere you go. Truly. You sure wouldn’t be sitting on a park bench watching a slow moving current with the likes of me.”

  “Where else would I be?”

  “Oh…I don’t know. Stepping over all the women in your path, I assume.”

  “Women in my path?”

  “You walk into any club and watch. I bet you’d need a body guard to peel the women off. Trust me. Even the gays would adore you.”

  “Gays?”

  “You know. Homosexuals.”

  “Sodomites?”

  Now, he sounded really offended. Jolie laughed. It had a carefree sound she’d thought lost with all the vampire nonsense. “Yeah. Those guys. Sodomites. They know a good thing when they see it. And you’re definitely a good thing.”

  “Are you attempting to anger me?”

  “You’re a homophobe? For shame, Thoran Alexander MacKettryck, uh…the fifth.”

  “Sixth. And that due to the dukedom. Actually I’d be the seventh with this exact name if you count the fourth Earl of Umber. He was also Thoran Alexander. But that was before we earned the highest title.”

  “How very upper crust of you, Your Grace.” Jolie said it in a snooty accent, gleaned from watching too many hours of the British channel.

  “That does na’ sound to be a good thing.”

  “Then stop quoting your lineage to me. As if you need further enticement.”

  “To what?”

  “Your bed.”

  There. It was out. And without one bit of warning. Jolie was flushed with the exercise of keeping her tongue from tripping over itself and hadn’t cleared that comment beforehand. There was an awkward silence for some time as she waited, holding her breath, just as he seemed to.