The comment startled Dorian, for the discussion typically took a turn of encouragement, with Aeolus attempting to persuade him to end his wandering ways, plant roots, and establish another empire. “I would argue that I did not let it crumble. Mortals cannot grasp the value of anything beyond their own lifetime, and dealing with them is tedious and wearisome. I only walked away when staying became pointless.”
Aeolus stroked his long braided ponytail styled in the way of bushi. “Humans are bound to destroy anything great built, either by them or us.”
Careful to remain under the heavy shade the garden’s foliage provided, Dorian stepped forward and waved his arm at Aeolus’s men training in the distance with precision and stamina rarely seen in humans. “Hopefully not this?”
Aeolus sighed and nodded with knowledge of someone who had seen the future and knew what it held. “No, not anytime soon, but you and I both know that we will live to see it end. Meanwhile, it entertains me.”
Dorian stared quietly at the training fields, listening to the short staccato of the words the men barked with each movement. “I envy humans sometimes.”
“You wish to train in the sunlight?” Aeolus teased.
Dorian shook his head. The harsh rays didn’t immediately kill his kind, but they burned, making the warmth of the sun one of the few things humans enjoyed that he could not. But after nearly two millennia, the desire for sunlight no longer pulled at Dorian’s soul. “It is their mortality I covet. Living such short lives changes their view of the world.”
“It limits them, you mean.”
“Aye,” Dorian agreed. “And such ignorance is something to be desired.”
Aeolus shook his head. “Think, brother, you have been here in Japan, what? Five short years? To us, an extended vacation, but to a human that is a significant portion of their brief life. If you are to envy a mortal being, then envy a spawn. They at least live long enough to taste a sample of what life could be like.”
Dorian arched a single brow. Aeolus had a point, but a spawn’s lifetime was just long enough to make them crave true immortality. As a result, they were consumed with extending their already long lives. In the end, they possessed the same flaw as humans. Greed, something immortals understood to be unnecessary—and unfulfilling.
Aeolus and Dorian followed the green canopied path back to the house, pausing to look out at the calm bay where fishing vessels were returning with the afternoon’s catch. “You are welcome to continue to stay as long as you like, but your increasing boredom will not be alleviated here. You should find Ionas. He tends to keep your mind occupied . . . for at least a while.”
Dorian grimaced but kept his eyes focused on the bay. Aeolus was right. He was bored. For the past couple of centuries he had passed the time fighting, mostly covertly, and often as a Scot, just to antagonize his nephew. Ionas had initiated the Viking raids in an effort to prove a point—civility was not a requirement to conquer a people. Dorian believed otherwise. Either grow and prosper or be vanquished to the next brutal bunch of nomads overtly seeking power. All people secretly wished for a better life—no matter who they were or where they resided. Ionas held fast that it was power not prosperity that drove men. An old circular argument that had no end.
“I’m not Ionas’s keeper.”
“Who is? Who could be for any of us, at that point?”
It had been nearly two hundred years since Ionas went away to lick his wounds after losing their last quarrel. Communication concerning that part of the world rarely came to the distant islands Aeolus had chosen for his current home, but Dorian had no doubt his nephew was hatching up a new way to spoil the majestic lands Dorian had grown to love. To his kind, revenge was not something rushed or personal, but an art that required time to both plan and execute, a simple concept mortals could not grasp.
Unfortunately, to learn of his nephew’s newest brutal scheme meant interacting with humans, something Dorian now avoided whenever possible. Humans were ingenious, but tedious. Their short lifespan affected everything about them—their thoughts, ambitions, desires, accomplishments, and most especially their relationships. And yet, dawdling, when it came to Ionas, was nearly a guarantee of spending even more time mingling with mortals to clean up the mess. Two hundred years was not a lot of time, but it was enough to recover and plan bigger and yet less obvious forms of revenge.
Dorian twirled the long sword effortlessly in his palm, letting the sleek edges catch the light as he debated the idea of returning to Scotland. Never had Dorian held any blade of its like, and though he knew it was a petty emotion well beneath him, he secretly enjoyed the idea of irritating his nephew Ionas by possessing it. “I think it’s time to check on Kilnhurst,” he finally said after some time.
“And perhaps find another thorn to stick in Ionas’s side?” Aeolus asked, echoing Dorian’s thoughts. “He wasn’t pleased with the last one.”
“Nay. Just stop whatever he is planning.”
“Same thing,” Aeolus argued.
“Come with me. Last time you had fun, if I recall.”
“I was in between children then.”
“So?” Dorian remarked. Like him, Aeolus disliked coupling with spawns, which left one feeling more empty than satisfied. But his brother had no issue mating with a human, something he did regularly and not just with one. At first, Dorian believed Aeolus’s seemingly constant desire for more children was driven by the hope of eventually producing another immortal. But the mysterious inherited element that made their immediate family nosferatu was too diluted in their offspring to grant the burden of perpetual life. Their children could not digest blood. As a result, they ate meat and lived like all other humans—briefly. After nearly two millennia of watching Aeolus continue with his cavorting ways, Dorian decided that his brother’s affinity for human female flesh and the resulting mortal offspring was sincere and most likely would never change.
Aeolus shrugged, acknowledging Dorian’s simple but telling comment. “Still, this time our nephew is all yours. I intend to spend the next several decades seeing what these Eastern men can achieve. They are good, quick, and surprisingly clever.”
Dorian laughed out loud, hearing the spark of genuine interest in his eldest brother’s voice. “Well, ‘ruler of the winds,’ can you spare me a ship?”
Aeolus returned the chuckle. “An ancient title I have not heard for some time. I’m feeling generous. I’ll give you two ships and let you keep one. Just return both crews, and send back news of Ionas and whatever else might be of interest. When do you want to leave?”
“Soon,” Dorian lied.
“I know you, dear brother. Your voice says indifference, but Scotland holds your heart like this place holds mine. You may pretend otherwise, but now that you have decided to return, I know you are quite eager to depart.”
Dorian continued to stare out at the bay, which was now crowded with anchored fishing boats due to impending nightfall. Yes, he loved Scotland. Living among the massive peaks made him feel vulnerable, ignorant—mortal. It had been one of the few places where his unusual height and size did not look out of place.
But Aeolus was wrong about his desire to return. Then again, his brother was unaware of the real reason Dorian had left his beloved home.
Chapter One
Badenoch, Scotland—1365
Moirae Deincourt rounded the last turn of the keep’s steps and stopped at the door before exiting. She extended her hand out the opening and sighed as cool droplets hit her skin. At least the afternoon rain had slowed to a sprinkle. She surveyed the path across the small bailey toward the noisy party held in the great hall. Glenneyrie was not an extensive castle. There were several larger in the area, most notably the vacant Kilnhurst only an hour’s hard ride away, but Glenneyrie’s smaller size suited her needs.
The two-story keep was made of stone and completely enclosed, allowing entry and exit through an attached tower that also formed part of the gatehouse. The other inner buildings, including the grea
t hall, had been built of wood. Aside from the keep, the only other structure made of stone was the small but functional curtain wall surrounding the castle, making it neither a sought-after prize nor an insecure shelter. Ideal for Moirae, who required a home that provided some degree of comfort and security, but one that also didn’t draw attention.
Unfortunately, Glenneyrie’s occupants and visitors could not be categorized similarly.
Moirae took a deep breath and hobbled toward the party. Several men stood in her way, but not a one looked directly at her or moved to allow her easy passage. Moirae paid no attention to their rudeness. Being ignored was far better than the alternative—the subject of deliberate ridicule. With the flawless skin of youth, long honey-kissed hair, and a tall thin frame, she was just shy of beautiful, needing only a few more womanly curves to transform her into a stunning vision. But it was not her immature bosom that kept men away. It was her less-than-perfect leg.
Some called the night she turned seventeen a tragedy, others called it a miracle. Caught in a burning barn, she should have died along with her beloved grandmother and mother. The fact she had defied death and learned to walk with only a limp after being crushed by a beam was indeed a miracle. But her family’s death had been no accident. Moirae’s memory of that horrid night had not faded with time. Just the opposite. Their death had become the sole motivator of her life.
Moirae held her breath as she maneuvered through the mixture of rotund, brawny, and bony male bodies, all needing a bath. The doors to the great hall, like usual, were open, beckoning those to enter and make merry with their laird and fellow clansmen. She stepped inside and instinctively rubbed her aching thigh, stiff from a week of inactivity—something she intended to rectify before dawn.
Faking a smile, Moirae waved at the overweight man who fancied himself a Highland laird. Raised as a Lowlander, the man was no more a Highland warrior than she, but he had inherited the title, and until he was unseated, the man would frivolously spend his clan’s wealth on a stream of festivities. Until such time, she would stay and pretend to be his cousin.
He acknowledged her presence with a bare movement of his chin and slight flutter of his fat fingers. She didn’t miss his look of relief as she headed away from him to the other side of the room. The debauched man was spooked by her, but she came with a sizeable purse, and in return, he gave her a private room and—with the exception of requiring her to make token appearances at his parties—he left her alone. The arrangement had served them both well, and she hoped it would for a few more years before someone became fed up with his ineptness and seized control, forcing her to find other arrangements. And whenever that day arrived, she would just disappear. No one would search for her. Upon her grandmother’s wrongful death, she had become truly alone—a fact Moirae had only just recently begun to accept.
She had arrived later than usual to the party, and the hall’s small gathering room had already become quite full, making it difficult to sit down at the bench she normally occupied. Typically, she liked to come early and leave the same way, but tonight, she sought information that came with the later crowd—more specifically, the clan’s most effusive and notorious three gossips.
“Lady Moirae!” they all exclaimed simultaneously in mock surprise. The largest and most vocal of the women, Esa, continued with a lopsided grin. “You missed our last two celebrations.”
Moirae swallowed the sarcastic desire to ask which babe had learned not to soil himself. Recently, the celebrations, as Esa generously called them, had been so numerous and prompted for such ludicrous reasons, Moirae wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that it was the laird’s achievement of finally seducing his chambermaids they were celebrating. Instead, she returned Esa’s smile, knowing that if any of the clansmen ever changed their minds and decided to pay Moirae attention, the warm female welcome she just received would be her last. But as long as she was no threat, her presence would be neither overtly welcomed nor shunned.
“Perhaps you overslept, my lady?” asked Saundra with a touch of malice, hinting at Moirae’s strange sleeping habits.
Moirae shrugged off the rhetorical question. Fact was the evening suited her more than the day. As a result, she spent her nights awake and her days asleep, which made her seem odd to others. But again Moirae didn’t care. It enabled her to avoid people and engage in more reclusive activities. “Enion is dead,” Moirae offered, wondering if they would even care.
“The old hunter?” Esa half asked.
“Aye,” Moirae replied, not correcting the gossipmonger. To Esa, Enion had been an archer, the lowest of all fighting men and, therefore, nothing more than a peasant. But to Moirae, he had been one the best bowmen of Badenoch, a skill he had done his best to teach her. The man had been her only true friend, serving as the father she had lost as a child and re-instilling her with a purpose for living. The least she could do was be with him during his final days.
“My son told me he had died. Nothing catching, I understand,” Esa lightly pressed, not really wanting or expecting an answer.
“Just old age,” Moirae replied, and then quickly fabricated, “I heard there was another attack.”
Being at Enion’s side for the past week, Moirae had not heard about any incidents, let alone violent ones, but knew from experience that it was best to guide the old woman away from launching into wearisome stories about her son as quickly as possible.
Esa bit down on a piece of deer meat, not even bothering to wipe the juice dribbling down her chin. With her mouth still full, she answered Moirae’s question. “Aye! Have you not heard? Twice this week.”
Moirae grimaced. Badenoch was almost entirely wild mountainous country. Its myriad skyscraping hills, glens, and lochs brought together the borders of many clans, not just a few. Consequently, skirmishes were common as the forests held some of the best deer hunting in the Highlands. The temptation to trespass and engage in petty thievery of animals and tools while hunting was too great to resist.
Bedina, whose love of gossip rivaled Esa’s, could sit quietly no longer. “Aye, and the demons are back.”
Moirae mentally dismissed the comment, for she was one of the rare few that had actually seen a demon. When the menlike creatures did reveal themselves, they rarely left anyone alive. “How do you know it was a demon?”
“Shamus said that it looked like a man but with incredible strength and had sharp teeth that dripped with blood,” Esa added.
The description caught Moirae’s attention, for if the report was true, her real enemy had finally arrived. No longer was clan infighting plaguing Badenoch’s inhabitants—but something far more menacing.
Word had arrived more than a year ago about a string of bizarre attacks in England that were slowly making their way into the Lowlands. Pillaging had been replaced by men on a destructive search for something, and all too often they killed just for pleasure. Yet just what they were looking for remained a mystery.
At first, Moirae had no interest in the outrageous rumors and had planned to leave Badenoch if and when the danger arrived, but then details that described the fearsome invaders reached Glenneyrie. The creatures raiding the houses and villagers were unlike any men anyone had ever seen—except Moirae. They were the ones who attacked her and her family the night her leg was crushed. Learning of their existence and impending arrival had changed everything.
Soon afterward, she had met Enion, began her training, and started to prepare for the day the demons would arrive. After spending nearly six months building the necessary musculature and perfecting her aim, Moirae had decided to test her abilities under the stress of real combat. As a result, the mysterious Guardian of Badenoch had come to life, defending the weak against those who harassed them.
But if the old farmer who had been ambused during her absence knew what the demons looked like, that meant he had lived through an attack . . . but that was impossible. “Esa, how did Shamus get away?”
Esa and Bedina scoffed concurrently. “How
else? The Guardian. He saved Shamus and then his kin.”
Moirae was struck dumb. Had she heard right?
“Shamus’s mother, Biddy, actually saw him,” Esa continued with a wide, toothy grin just before taking another bite.
Bedina licked her lips, loving that she had Moirae’s rapt attention. “Biddy said the Guardian was the finest man she had ever seen.”
“Huge—” added Esa.
“Aye, huge, with black hair and matching eyes and riding a new horse as dark and large as the Guardian himself.”
“Biddy called the horse a nightmare,” Esa interjected, remarking on the story Shamus’s mother spoke of just last night.
Perturbed at Esa for interrupting, Bedina frowned at her friend and stated pointedly, “Biddy also said the Guardian used a long thin sword made of moonlight that could send the demons flying.”
Moirae sat in shock, barely registering what the two women were jabbering. With each new description, Moirae’s jaw became more rigid and the outrage in her emerald eyes grew. Moonlight? A sword? A new horse! All things she had been forced to avoid because of what she was—a woman.
“Shamus said he looked like a Highlander but didn’t sound like one from around here,” Esa continued to prattle, smacking her lips.
“Oh, his voice!” Bedina sighed longingly as if she had been the one to hear it. “You should hear Biddy describe it! Deep, like a hero’s song.”
Moirae groaned, throwing her face into her hands. A deep voice! Whoever had the impudence to take over the role she had so carefully created was executing it in a way she had only dreamed of doing.
Placing her palms on the table, Moirae rose to her feet. The thief may have more flair than her, but she was not about to surrender the role of Guardian without a fight. It was her idea. She had earned that title after a significant amount of pain and anguish, and most importantly, the role was critical to her plans. So she was not about to share—let alone relinquish—the one thing in her life that gave her pure satisfaction.
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