Now she walked on, quickening her pace, the chill of the night, or perhaps unease, making her teeth chatter. She resisted the urge to peer about, to search for some sign of Killian. She knew she would see no hint of his presence. He blended seamlessly with the night.
The hunter. She shivered as she recalled his words, uncertain how she felt about that. He would do what he must to keep humans safe from one of his kind, but what did that make him? And what did it make her that she loved him nonetheless?
She turned onto Queen Street and continued toward St. Giles. They had determined that she would take the quickest way to Coptic Street this night, through alleys and courtyards, for that was the darkest route, the most isolated, and their best hope to draw out the man they sought.
Summoning the memory of her previous encounter with him, she recalled that he was tall, draped in a flowing black cloak, his hands gloved, his face shadowed by a low-crowned hat. There was little enough to hint at his identity, but for some reason, she thought of Mr. Simon. Of his height and the fact that, while he attempted to lay suspicion on Killian, he, too, had been present on the ward on the day of each murder.
But that was the conundrum. The day of each murder. If Mr. Simon was a newly turned vampire, how then did he manage to stand in the light?
A sound distracted her, and she whirled to see a group of dark, furry bodies nosing at the gutter. Rats. Twitching her skirt aside, she made a soft exhalation, then walked on.
Keeping a wary watch on her surroundings, she passed the darkened chandler’s shop, and the black windows of the stores that dealt in all manner of birds and small animals. Between the buildings, the alleys and courts darted in all directions, made chilling and menacing by the impenetrable fog.
In the distance, a dog began to howl, a solitary, mournful cry. Shivering, Sarah hesitated and looked about, the hair at her nape prickling and rising. She could hear the sound of her own breathing, harsh and loud.
Drawing her cloak tight about her, she walked on, daring a glance over her shoulder that revealed nothing save darkness and mist. But she sensed him, the man who stalked her. He had come. And with him came her fear.
The sound of footsteps rang hollowly on the cobbles close behind her.
She froze, attuned to the faintest noise.
The footsteps stopped as she stopped, and when she began her trek once more, the echo of booted heels hitting the stones resumed.
A sharp trill of fear cut her, and she prayed Killian was behind her, for she had no wish to confront the man—the vampire—on her own. No sooner did the thought coalesce than the rising tide of her fear dissipated somewhat. Killian was watching, blanketed by the night. She had no doubt of that.
Faint sounds carried from the surrounding streets and buildings, raucous laughter, a woman’s sobs, a baby’s frantic cries. But all she could focus on was the ringing steps of the vampire that followed her, his steps matched to hers, neither falling back nor drawing near.
Just as she and Killian had planned, she turned down the same alley where the murderer had cornered her before. Up ahead, the wooden cart was angled to block the way exactly as it had been the last time she walked this route. The thick vapor swirled around the wheels in ghostly embrace.
She kept her steps even until she reached the wagon; then she spun to face the length of the alley, her back pressed against the rough wood, her pulse hammering a frantic rhythm. She felt isolated here, the fog building a boundary between her and the rest of the world.
Before her, tendrils of mist stirred and parted, and she gasped as a dark shape emerged. Her heart slammed about in her chest like a bird desperate to fly free.
She saw him then, the vampire, there before her, a handful of steps away. His cloak hung about his tall frame and the low-crowned hat was pulled down on his brow as it had been when last he hunted her. Panic clawed at her, though she knew Killian was near, knew he would let no harm befall her.
Her breath rushed in and out in short, panting gasps. Her arms trembled as she raised her cudgel, her full attention focused on the man who moved toward her, one step, another, bringing him closer and closer still.
Slowly, he raised his hand toward her. Her heart leapt to her throat.
The sound of cloth flapping in the wind carried to her, and a dark shape plummeted down from above, black cape rising like wings. She gasped and jerked back as Killian landed neatly on the balls of his feet, directly behind her pursuer.
With a hiss of surprise, the man began to turn, but Killian was on him, his lips peeled back in a feral snarl, his arm coming tight around the stranger’s throat, holding him fast.
With his hands clasped about Killian’s forearm, the man struggled to break his hold. His efforts were in vain. Regardless of how he twisted and clawed, Killian held him.
In the tussle, the stranger’s hat knocked free. Shaggy, dark hair tumbled across his brow and his gaze jerked up to lock with Sarah’s. Her vision narrowed to a tight black tunnel and she swayed where she stood, overwhelmed.
Shock and disbelief slapped her, and she sagged against the wooden cart as Killian slammed the man against the wall of the alley.
Her cudgel slipped from her hands to clatter against the stones, and she pushed herself upright, stumbled forward.
“Killian, no,” she cried. “He is…dear God…he is my father.”
The two men stood frozen, each staring at her.
She was dizzy under the onslaught of emotion that buffeted her. A thousand words tumbled to her lips, but she could manage only one.
“Why?” she cried, her gaze locked on her father, her nerves frayed and twisted in a Gordian knot.
“Daughter,” he said, then pressed his lips tight and said nothing more.
“Why did you let me believe you were dead? Drowned?”
“No, I—” He brought his hands up before him, a gesture of despair.
“How could you—” She broke off and simply shook her head, too confused, too overcome by hurt and betrayal to formulate the slurry of her thoughts into any semblance of coherent speech.
Killian stepped back.
“Do not leave, Mr. Lowell,” he breathed as he strode to Sarah’s side. “Do not move. Certainly, do not force me to stop you.” He dragged her against him, wrapping her in the haven of his embrace.
She could not say how long they stood thus. Perhaps only seconds, perhaps far longer. At length, she felt her control return. Drawing a shaky breath, she stepped free of the shelter of Killian’s wonderfully safe embrace, her gaze lifting to meet her father’s tormented stare.
“I thought you were an opium addict. I thought that under the influence of that foul drug you fell in the Thames and drowned.” She paused as the implication of his presence clarified in her thoughts. “You let me think that.”
“I did. And I am sorry.” Her father held his hand out to her, tears glittering on his lashes. Even in the paltry light, she could see his pallor and the deep black circles beneath his eyes. He had suffered, and it hurt her to know it. “I was never an opium addict, Sarah. I wanted you to think it because it was the only way to shield you. The symptoms you saw were…it was the hunger. It only grew stronger, a gnawing pain that ripped me to bits until I dared not be near you, dared not trust myself. My God, you have no idea what I have become. I did want to die. I tried. Flung myself in the Thames. Only…my kind do not die.” He drew a great shuddering breath. “My God, I have missed you so.”
He lurched forward, as though to take her in his arms. Moving so fast he was little more than a blur, Killian insinuated himself between them, using his body as a shield.
“And you trust yourself now, Mr. Lowell?” he asked, darkly soft.
“She is my daughter,” her father said, trying to shove Killian aside.
“She is my light, and I will let nothing harm her,” Killian replied, unmoving.
Overwhelmed, Sarah looked back and forth between the two. Her lover was a vampire, and her father had returned from the dead. She w
as engulfed by the enormity of all that had transpired.
“How were you turned to a vampire, Papa?” she asked. “How did you become what you are?”
“You know about vampires? You know?” he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“I do. And I need to understand how you became what you are.”
“The patient from France. You remember? The friend that Mr. Montmarche begged me to see.” His mouth twisted and his tone turned to a sneer. “My kindness was repaid by betrayal. He was a vampire, burned by the sun. His skin was blackened and falling away, and he was desperate for blood. He drained me nearly unto death.”
Sarah shuddered at his words, for the images they conjured were ghastly. She recalled the dead patients at King’s College, their wrists torn open, bloodless.
“No,” she gasped.
With a sigh, her father reached out and laid his hand on her cheek. Beside her Killian tensed, ready to leap to her protection.
To protect her from her father.
“You cannot know,” she whispered to Killian. “I thought him dead, and here he is. Alive. Touching me.” She swallowed against the lump that clogged her throat. “I thought I would never see him again. I never even had a body to bury.” She paused. “I thought I was alone.”
Laying his hand against her back, Killian said nothing, but she could feel the tension that pulsed beneath the surface, sense the beast he had warned her lurked beneath the thin veneer. He did not trust her father, and she understood that, understood his need to hold her safe.
She reached back and took his hand, twined her fingers with his as she turned back to her father.
“You say he drained you nearly unto death, but how is it that you became what he was?”
“Montmarche’s friend…” Her father made a dull laugh. “You know, I never did learn his name. Well, he gave me the choice. To die, or to take his blood and live. I chose life. But I did not understand. Not until I woke with the thirst.” He exhaled sharply through his nostrils. “He was long gone by then, and I was left with the thirst and a thousand questions.”
Killian made a small sound of disgust. “The newly made making more newly made. A dangerous folly. And he did not teach you how to drink without killing?”
Her father turned quickly in Killian’s direction, shock chasing across his features. “You know these things? How? How can you—” He broke off and stumbled back, looking between Sarah and Killian, shaking his head from side to side as though trying to clear a noise from his ears. “You said she is your light.” His tone was edged with horror. “You are with my daughter, yet you are like me? A vampire?”
“I am vampire,” Killian confirmed.
For a moment, the three of them stood in an awkward, motionless tableau, and then her father turned to her and held his hand out in supplication.
“Sarah, my darling, I would not have left you alone had I a choice. But I have watched you from the shadows. Guarded you as best I could. I dared not be near you, for I was afraid both of what I might do to you, and of what you might think of the aberration I have become. But…you already know. You—”
“Mr. Lowell,” Killian interjected. “Have you been killing patients at King’s College?”
With a gasp, Sarah shook her head, only then recalling exactly why they had lured him to this place. Because of the murders. Murders. And Killian meant to end the string of deaths by terminating the killer.
“What? King’s College?” Her father scrubbed his palms over his face. Dropping his hands, he glanced first at Sarah, then Killian. He seemed to sink into himself as he made a gesture of futility. “Yes. I saw no other course, no way to slake the hunger. I took only those who were suffering. Only those who would die regardless. You know, I can sense that now. I can feel death clinging to every breath. I know who will not survive, no matter what medical machinations are offered.”
“So you chose with care.” Killian’s lips turned in a faint smile, and his tone was one of understanding. “I admire both your restraint and your compassion. It is common that the newly turned feed in a mad frenzy without thought or care. That you held yourself from that is admirable.”
Something in his tone made Sarah’s breath catch. Something dark.
He would kill her father.
She could not let him. But, oh God, her father was himself a murderer.
Her gaze jerked to Killian’s, and she found him studying her, his eyes flat, his expression ruthlessly neutral. There was a sinister side to what he was. He had warned her of that.
“Killian,” she whispered, even as her father said, “Sarah—”
Killian’s gray eyes gleamed in the darkness, holding her trapped, breathless. He had told her this. He had told her of the murderers and thieves that he had fed from. Was her father to be his next victim?
“No, love. That is not the way of it.”
Love. She drew a sharp breath, stunned by the term. Killian would not use it lightly.
“In three centuries, I have never made a vampire. The responsibility of that was too great to consider.” He cast a sidelong glance at her father. “And now I go from being completely alone, to having a complete family.” He made a wry smile. “There is a certain dark irony in that.”
Her thoughts whirling, Sarah could only gape at him, trying to understand his meaning.
Killian inclined his head to her father, and said, “If you would afford us a moment of privacy, sir?”
Without waiting for a reply, he took her hand and drew her off into the shadows.
“He will need to live with us, at least at first, until I teach him the way of things,” Killian said. Then his gaze grew somber, and the teasing glint disappeared. “Do not answer me, love, only listen to what I offer. I want to turn you.”
“Turn me?” Even as she echoed the words, his meaning became clear. He wanted her to be as he was. “Killian—”
“Please”—he pressed his fingers to her lips—“hear me out. I want to share eternity with you. To show you the world. To never see you grow a day older than you are now. But there is a price. Both your father and I were turned without knowing the full extent of what we would become. If you choose this, love, if you choose me, I need you to make that choice with full understanding.
“So say nothing yet, my love. Make no hasty decision.” He pulled her against him, and brushed his lips across hers. “Stay with me, Sarah. Be my light, my love. And when you are ready, only then give me your answer.”
Epilogue
One year later
Sarah snuggled close against Killian’s side, languid and replete in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Reaching up, she dragged her fingers through the thick golden silk of his hair, loving the feel of it.
Loving him.
A year they had been together, and each day was a gift, a treasure. And in that year, he had shown her what it meant to be a vampire. The joys, the beauty, the freedom. The burden, the loneliness, the temptation.
Nothing ever came without a price.
But he had never again voiced the offer to make her what he was, and she had never asked.
Until now.
Rolling so she lay atop him, she stared into his eyes, his beautiful pewter and ice eyes, then leaned down and pressed her mouth to his.
“It is time, Killian.” She drew her long hair to the side, baring the column of her throat. “It is time, my love.”
He smiled, and dragged his fingers along her pulse where it throbbed beneath the fragile skin of her throat. “You are certain?”
“I am. I would know the cool and wonderful beauty of the moonlight, the sweet music of the night,” she whispered, offering back to him the words he had shared so long ago. “You are no longer alone. I would be with you always, Killian. Always and forever.”
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Hannah Howell’s HIGHLAND SINNER!
Scotland, early summer 1478
What was that smell?
Tormand Murray struggled to
wake up at least enough to move away from the odor assaulting his nose. He groaned as he started to turn on his side and the ache in his head became a piercing agony. Flopping onto his side, he cautiously ran his hand over his head and found the source of that pain. There was a very tender swelling at the back of his head. The damp matted hair around the swelling told him that it had bled but he could feel no continued blood flow. That indicated that he had been unconscious for more than a few minutes, possibly for even more than a few hours.
As he lay there trying to will away the pain in his head, Tormand tried to open his eyes. A sharp pinch halted his attempt and he cursed. He had definitely been unconscious for quite a while and something besides a knock on the head had been done to him, for his eyes were crusted shut. He had a fleeting, hazy memory of something being thrown into his eyes before all went black, but it was not enough to give him any firm idea of what had happened to him. Although he ruefully admitted to himself that it was as much vanity as a reluctance to induce pain in himself that caused him to fear he would tear out his eyelashes if he just forced his eyes open, Tormand proceeded very carefully. He gently brushed aside the crust on his eyes until he could open them, even if only enough to see if there was any water close at hand to wash his eyes with.
And, he hoped, enough water to wash himself if he proved to be the source of the stench. To his shame there had been a few times he had woken to find himself stinking, drink, and a few stumbles into some foul muck upon the street being the cause. He had never been this filthy before, he mused, as the smell began to turn his stomach.
Then his whole body tensed as he suddenly recognized the odor. It was death. Beneath the rank odor of an unclean garderobe was the scent of blood—a lot of blood. Far too much to have come from his own head wound.
The very next thing Tormand became aware of was that he was naked. For one brief moment panic seized him. Had he been thrown into some open grave with other bodies? He quickly shook aside that fear. It was not dirt or cold flesh he felt beneath him but the cool linen of a soft bed. Rousing from unconsciousness to that odor had obviously disordered his mind, he thought, disgusted with himself.
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