SHADOWLOVE--STALKERS

by Claudy Conn

  He had heard many stories about the squire and his coterie of women, and none of those stories were pleasant. There were whispers amongst the society of Inverness about Squire Kenneth MacDunn. Those whispers hinted at his abusive behavior. He liked to rough his women up emotionally and physically.

  There was a nasty streak in the squire that could be dangerous. Chad had sensed it on the occasional times they had bumped into one another. The squire had a dark side, and that fact had come as a surprise to Chad. He had never noticed it about the man before his mother’s death. He had always thought the squire just a quiet, perhaps unfriendly sort, but something in the man’s nature had gone terribly wrong—Chad was sure of it.

  The sound of the squire’s powerful car played in his ears, and Chad realized he was getting closer. In fact, the squire would soon be riding his bumper. Chad made no attempt to move his Jag out of the way or increase his speed. It was a one-lane road and Chad normally did not behave like that, but the squire continued to provoke him by blowing his horn.

  He knew he was behaving perversely, almost looking for a fight, and still he stayed in the man’s way.

  He could see that Kenneth’s face was drawn with an expression of loathing and something else—what was that something else—jealousy?

  The squire was livid with jealously—over Shawna. Imagine that. Chad grinned to himself. The dawning of this realization served to widen his grin, and he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to taunt Kenneth MacDunn.

  His behavior was absurd, he told himself. He didn’t usually pick fights, but he suddenly wanted to pick one with the squire. Why?

  The road behind him, behind the squire, went to only two places: to the right, to the MacDunn Manor gate, yes, but if one went in the opposite direction down the road they were on, it would lead to a dead end that housed only one habitat, and that was Shawna’s cottage.

  The squire, Chad decided as he smiled to himself, could have only drawn one conclusion at finding him, at this particular juncture of the road, and that conclusion, the picture it drew for Kenneth MacDunn, had enraged him.

  The squire drove right up to Chad’s bumper and revved his engine.

  Chad smiled to himself, and idiotically, childishly, gave the squire a very rude sign. Och aye, ride me will ye? I don’t think so.

  However, Chad did get control and laughed out loud as he made his decision. He turned towards the village. He watched the squire in his mirror make a U-turn and head towards Shawna’s cottage.

  That had an immediate result. It totally wiped the smile off Chad’s handsome face.

  * * *

  Shawna had just put away her crystal and washed out the dish of herbs she had prepared for her spell when she heard a car coming to a stop outside. She went to her window and saw the squire, an odd expression on his face, just getting out of his dark Bentley and stalking her flagstone steps hard and fast to her front door.

  She went and opened it wide, to greet him with a smile. “Hi, Kenneth…come in.”

  “Am I catching you at a bad time?”

  “No, not at all…tea?”

  “No, I am in fact on my way to Inverness on business and just wanted to stop by and see you before I left.”

  “Terrific…come on in though so that I can close the door against the cold.” She frowned as he inclined his head and stepped through to fidget in her hallway. She closed the door and put her hands together. “Won’t you stay a little bit? I have some ale…”

  He shook his head and dove right in. “I just happened to pass Chad MacFare on my way here.” The lie sat smoothly on his lips before he added, “I hadn’t realized that you two were acquainted.”

  “Oh…Chad, yes, he gave me a lift home. I was out walking early—he was on his way to town.” Shawna fibbed and felt uneasy. Where was this going?

  He seemed to relax but only a little before he appeared to make up his mind to say something more about Chad. “Shawna…I am certain he is quite charming, but—be careful.”

  She allowed him a crooked smile. “When it comes to Chad MacFare, I am very careful.”

  He eyed her doubtfully. “You speak as though you know him?”

  “I don’t really, although we had met briefly in New York.”

  “You met in New York? Is that why you came here…?” Kenneth was shocked into asking.

  Shawna’s hand waved this off as ludicrous. “Heck no—I only met him briefly a couple of days before my flight.”

  He knew that she had leased the cottage from Mrs. Carver long before her arrival. He accepted this but frowned . “Right then, I am late, and so I must be off…but I won’t be gone long.” He moved towards her, and Shawna felt as though he were about to bend and kiss her.

  Do something—do something… She put out her hand and found his. She almost gave him a handshake like an idiot, recovered, and gave his fingers a squeeze. With contrived lightness she said, “Well, drive carefully, and I’ll see you when you get back.”

  “You can count on it,” he answered on a wide smile and turned towards the door.

  Shawna walked him to it, waved him off, and leaned backwards against it. She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she breathed out loud. “Whew!” It occurred to her that the squire was becoming a tat too attentive.

  * * *

  “Pick up that sword, Shawna!” Chad’s eyebrow was up, and there was a glint in his eyes, “Doona think ye can quit after twenty minutes!”

  “What is the point?” she snapped at him. “It isn’t as if I will be carrying it around with me ready to take off the head of an attacking vamp, now is it? The damn thing has a blade nearly twenty inches!”

  “Eighteen to be exact,” he snapped. “However, it will be at your disposal, when you need it, but first, you have to make it yours. There will come a time when you won’t go anywhere without it because Pentim will be on his way.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Och, lass, for the love of God and country—pick…up…the…damn…sword!”

  She narrowed her eyes and cast him an evil expression. He burst out laughing, and she turned before he could see the smile it drew from her. She picked up the sword. It may have been only eighteen inches long, but it had weight—and magic. She could feel its force travel through her arm. Its handle was made of silver with rune etchings, and she knew it was way more than an antique. It looked like it came from another world; she was sure, in fact, that ,it came from another world.

  She played with the handle, lifting the sword high, sweeping it through the air and then taking a stance to point it at Chad. “What really is this? Where did it come from—has it always been yours?”

  “It has been in the family a very long time. We aren’t sure where it came from, but it was given to m’grandmother when she was born.”

  “Was it? An odd gift for a baby.”

  “Aye, so it was, but everything about m’grandmother’s arrival at MacFare was odd.”

  She recognized at once that he was giving her an important piece of information, but she couldn’t fathom what it all meant. She frowned at him, and his voice was almost a soft caress as he spoke to her. “Now then, time has come to make it yours Shawna—make it want to come to you.”

  She wielded its length, and suddenly she was on the move with everything she had. She had learned all she knew about gymnastics from her grandmother. She leaped, she ducked, and all the while, she held onto the sword. Suddenly she found herself whispering to it as though it were alive, and it was. It came alive in her hand.

  “Make a mark on the target! NOW!” Chad shouted.

  For the tenth time that afternoon—but unlike the nine times before—when she threw the sword, it did indeed make its mark, exactly where she meant it to. She stopped, her eyes wide as she watched the sword tuck into the target board, its handle pointing towards her.

  “Call for it.” Chad was at her shoulder, touching her, running his hand down her arm to her elbow. “Call for it now.” Hi
s voice was a low growl in her ears, forceful, erotic, demanding.

  Shawna shuddered before she amazed herself. Words escaped her lips, words she hadn’t realized she owned. They were words that were foreign, and yet, she understood them. “Claimh mé” Sword to me, she had commanded. It jiggled in the wood but remained firmly planted.

  He hugged her from behind, pulling her into his hard body. He squeezed her with the excitement of the moment, and his voice was full with pleasure. “Good—now we are getting somewhere.” He walked over to the target board and stood next to the sword. “Do it again as though your life depended on it.”

  She tried calling it again with the same words, claimh mé, and it jiggled the target again but still did not come to her outstretched hand.

  “Again and again and again until I tell you to stop!”

  She did what he asked, determined, and suddenly she felt the sword vibrate towards her. She heard a hum, and all at once it had pulled out of the board and was flying towards her. She ducked, and it fell to the ground.

  He laughed hard and came to her to hug her and spin her around the room. “Lass…you did it.”

  She beamed with pleasure. “Not quite, and put me down.”

  He did and said, “It fell because you ducked and withdrew your hand. You have to keep your hand out and open, waiting for its arrival.” He looked well pleased with her, and then he astonished her by saying, “That is enough for today.”

  “Really? You are letting me off easy. I hadn’t expected it of you.”

  “No, I didn’t say we were done. I said it was enough sword playing. Now you are going to sit quietly while I tattoo you.”

  “Tattoo me? Oh no…no tattoo. What, are you nuts? Are you even qualified? Nope—not doing that.” Her arms folded into each other under her full breasts.

  His eyes traveled, and when she saw him look at her nipples poking out of her thin sweater, she felt them perk up, as though inviting him to do more. She imagined his tongue—and stopped herself.

  She was breathing hard. His eyes seemed full with desire, and when he spoke, his voice sounded…purposely controlled.

  “Yes, you are doing this. We can’t go on with any more dark magic until you have a tattoo. It won’t be large and it won’t be noticeable. It will be at the nape of your neck, and it will keep black magic from bouncing off the spells and into you. I am going to teach you some serious dark arts, and the more you practice black magic, the more tattoos you will need.”

  She took a step towards him, and before he realized what she was doing, she lifted the black T-shirt he was wearing. Her eyes opened wide at what she found. She had known the tattoos would be there…

  She stared without immediate thought. And then, also without thought, her finger reached out and traced one of the ancient rune designs. Interesting portions of his hard abs were covered in arcane lines of Celtic knots and arcane runes, and his biceps were banded with the same. “Whoa…” she whispered. “So, you and black magic…huh?”

  “I have found it necessary over the years to employ some…intense spells.” His response was softly spoken. Then he was looking down at her face, moving in to put his arms around her.

  She realized what he was doing but didn’t want to stop him. She almost jumped, in fact, into his arms, in her haste to get his mouth on hers. Damn but the man had erotic charm by the barrel full!

  RINGGGGG!

  They both jumped, and he spun around. On the wall was a house phone, and it wouldn’t stop its blasted ringing. She watched him frown as though he knew who it was.

  “I am sorry…I have to take this,” he said as he strode over and picked up the gray receiver and spoke softly into it.

  Shawna watched him. She heard every word because of her heightened sense of hearing. He was speaking to his father. Something was wrong, plans were being changed. Something…oh no—something to do with her grandparents?

  * * *

  Pentim Rawley swept a long-fingered white hand through his dark locks and sat back in his chair. The news he had just received was unexpected and unwelcome. However, there was nothing he could do about it.

  He had only met the uber-vampire once in his lifetime, and it had been an unpleasant experience.

  One hundred years ago and when he had least expected it, Dracula had brought him to his knees. It had been a feeling he had tried to forget. Pentim believed that he was probably the most powerful vampire now in existence. However, he knew he was but a speck on the earth compared to Dracula.

  He recalled how Dracula had merely twisted a finger to fill him with exquisite pain.

  All because of a female! He had been feeding on a lovely little young woman and was not yet finished with her. Her life’s blood still beat in her throat, and he wanted more…

  He meant to leave her with her throat torn open so that none would see the bite marks. The authorities would put it down as the work of a madman. He was always careful. However, as he drank her delicious blood, he felt rather than saw, something—someone—behind him.

  He had glanced up and caught his first sight of the Count of Dracula. He had heard all the stories, he knew that most of the stories were probably accurate, but nothing had prepared him for the aura of power Dracula exuded.

  The count had stood with the hood of his cape lowered. A slight breeze whipped at the hem of the black cape as Dracula lifted one long, white, bejeweled finger. “You will stand aside.”

  The bloodlust was in him, and it was difficult to obey. Dracula raised a hand, and one finger twisted in the air. It was all that was needed. Pain shot through Pentim, through his brain. His body twisted in agony, and he waited for the deathblow.

  The count stopped the pain as quickly as he had instituted it. His demeanor was cold, distant, and he demanded an immediate sign of devotion.

  Pentim was on his knees, head bowed. Dracula could destroy him with the flick of a wrist.

  At his back was the woman-child, just barely alive. Dracula took a few steps towards her and whispered to no one in particular. “It is she. I should have followed her home, but I did not wish to frighten her.”

  Pentim stayed in his crouched and bowed position. Evidently he had usurped the count’s…chosen victim. Was that what had happened?

  There had been no doubt then, that Dracula could instantly slay him. As the memory of that night flashed through his mind, he fidgeted.

  He had no idea what the count wanted with him now after all these years, and Pentim shuddered to think about the possibilities.

  Perhaps the count had decided that the Rawley clan was getting a bit too powerful for his liking. That had been a very real danger that Pentim had considered more than once. But again his instincts intervened and told him perhaps it was something else.

  When he had started his program of eliminating the newbie vamps, Pentim had been bothered with a twinge of concern regarding what the count’s reaction might be should he take notice. Apparently, he was going to find out.

  Dracula was an imposing figure of what had once been a man. He was tall, lean, and regal. His hair, unlike his twin’s tawny locks, was black, and he wore it slicked back and tied at the base of his neck. He issued a presence that hinted of ‘otherworldly’, and his power was enormous. He stood in the doorway, surveyed the room, and then lowered his eyes to Pentim. “Up with you,” he quietly said in an old world accent.

  Pentim was on his feet and bowed his head. “Count…I am honored.”

  Dracula had chosen to wear leather: a black leather long coat, black leather pants, and a black T-shirt. His boots were trimmed in silver. He took a leisurely step into the room and looked about to say on a low note, “Gaudy and ostentatious.”

  “Yes…but secluded.” Pentim kept his dark eyes lowered.

  The count seemed to glide as he moved in to stare down at Pentim Rawley. “I have very little interest in the world of vampires—a world I need not remind you exists because of me, because it was I who gave my blood to create your race so very lon
g ago.” He put up a finger to still any return remark that Pentim might have felt obliged to offer. “However, I do not like disorder. It leads to fear, and fear leads to chaos, and chaos could bring disquiet to the world in which I choose to live.”

  “Yes, but, sire—”

  “It is not your place to speak.” He paused for the fraction of a moment. “I see all…know much, and I have never approved of you, Pentim, or your ways.” He turned, and in the doorway was a petite and softly styled female. He put out his hand. “Come, my dear.”

  She stepped forward, and Pentim chanced a glance her way. He was surprised to find that the lovely vampire was looking at him with loathing. There was something oddly familiar about her…

  He frowned, and the Count immediately and quietly said, “Ah, I see you don’t really remember…but then it was over one hundred years ago. You were about to destroy this lovely child when I came upon you and requested she be given to me. Her name is Lilith.”

  Pentim felt a shiver scurry up his spine. Here was trouble. He stood silent and waited for the count to continue.

  “It was purely an accident that I should have been there and seen her—she who looks like the twin of my fallen bride.” He sighed, but there was a glint of anger in his amber eyes. “Had fate allowed me to find her first, I would have courted her, taken her slowly, minimized the pain…but that was thwarted by you.”

  Pentim closed his eyes and wondered what was about to befall him. There would be no escape from Dracula, who all knew was so much more than a vampire.

  “However, you did yield her to me even in your blood frenzy. It is why you still live. I took her, and she has been at my side ever since. However, she is most distressed with you. Recently she had alleviated some of her boredom in the company of another young woman her own age. They were friends, and the woman agreed to be turned by my Lil. The woman was under Lilith’s care and protection. She had merely strayed off for a little while, and you came across her and without discretion, without hearing her pleas, without listening when she told you she was under the protection of the House of Dracula, you killed her.”