Eternal Hunger: Scottish Vampires Read online

  For my family. Thank you for always believing in me.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, 1860

  “You’re the angel of death,” the woman on the bed whispered.

  The lass was young, no more than twenty, and deathly ill. Her red hair was soaked with sweat and matted to the coarse hospital sheets. He could see the fever burning in her eyes.

  St. Dymphna’s Charity Hospital. It was where beggars, whores, and London’s impoverished came to die, away from the delicate eyes of society. It was also an ideal feeding ground.

  “No. I’m not. I give you my word,” Malcolm MacRoyce whispered as he took her wrist in his hand. It wasn’t the first time a feverish patient had mistaken him for a demon. The assessment wasn’t too far off.

  “Then who?” she whispered.

  He didn’t answer. No point in further delay. He felt the stirring of another patient behind him. He had to be quick. He gently covered her mouth with his hand while he brought her wrist to his own mouth and bit.

  She gasped, the sound muffled against his palm. The flow of her blood past his lips was slow and erratic. Weak. He grimaced at the unwholesome taste and steadily drew more of her into himself, seeking to remove the disease thriving in her blood.

  The girl’s breath misted against his palm. Her gasp of fear had turned into something quite different. Her body went limp, and she sighed with pleasure.

  The memory rushed over him before he could check himself: Another girl, ages ago. Blond hair instead of red covering the pillow. Her unusual eyes stared up at him as she moaned softly into the darkness while he lay above her.

  He shut his eyes against the memory and drew deep on the wound, shuddering at the taste of poison. By drinking the blood of the sick and replacing their diseased blood with his own, he could often cure them. Once he’d realized this, he’d felt obligated to make this the only way he fed. It was the one consolation in an eternity of punishment. The only way he could feed without the guilt.

  But drinking the blood of the sick was not without consequences. He was slowly poisoning himself. Perhaps the world’s slowest form of suicide.

  He released the woman’s wrist and covered the wound with his hand to staunch the bleeding. He then savagely bit into his own wrist and brought it to the girl’s mouth.

  “What?” she gasped.

  “Medicine.”

  A drop of his blood touched her lips, and she tasted him, too feverish to realize what she was doing. After a moment, she began to take greedily, small gasps of pleasure escaping her in between her suckling.

  “Enough.” He pulled his wrist away after a moment. She moaned with disappointment but was too weak to resist. He dared not risk any more: too much would mean a curse rather than a cure.

  And he would never curse another to his fate.

  She lay back on the cot with her eyes closed, her breath steadying and her fever beginning to break. Malcolm stood, a little unsteady. Her diseased blood was already affecting him.

  Behind him, another patient groaned. Malcolm glanced over his shoulder. The man was older, his face and hands distorted by the telltale lesions of the pox, but there was nothing Malcolm could do for him. His blood could only heal fevers and flesh wounds. A disease so severe could not be cured.

  He stopped on his way to the door, hearing the soft sounds of sobbing behind him. The lass he’d just healed lay crying.

  “Baby,” she whispered in her sleep. Her hand moved to the flat of her stomach protectively, though there was no longer anything left to protect. Her fever must have been brought on by a stillbirth.

  He sighed before leaving the room. He could heal her body, but he knew better than most that nothing could be done for a broken heart.

  ***

  Malcolm braced himself against the alley wall behind the hospital. The rain pummeled down in cold, hard slashes. He gritted his teeth, willing himself not to retch as another wave of sickness hit him.

  He lifted his face to the rain, catching the drops on his tongue, washing the taste of blood from his mouth. It was always like this after he had taken from the ill. It would end soon, as it always did. But not as fast as it used to.

  The hairs on his neck prickled. Someone was watching him.

  Not a muscle in his body moved. Not even his heart. There was no sound save for the rain against the pavement, yet he sensed danger. Another of his kind, but who or what it wanted Malcolm didn’t know. He remained still, letting the other think he was unaware. His fingers inched toward the blade at his belt.

  As abruptly as it had started, the feeling of being watched was gone as if it never were.

  Had he imagined it? Drinking from the ill had weakened his body so much. Could it have weakened his mind as well?

  His hand fell away from the blade. He wouldn’t find the answer now. He had other matters he must deal with. And a ball to attend.

  ***

  Tonight, no matter the cost, Emily Adams was going to have her first kiss.

  She stood at the edge of the ballroom, watching the glamorous spectacle before her. The Masked Ball was the most elegant event she’d attended in all her twenty-one years. Gold and crimson cloth covered the ballroom. Men and women of fashion floated about, each in costume or mask, their voices mingling with the clinking of crystal and the violins from the quartet. Dozens of liveried footmen drifted through the crowd like ghosts, collecting empty champagne glasses and silently replacing them.

  Somewhere here was the man she was looking for. She just wasn’t sure where. Or who.

  “Pardon me!” exclaimed a rather rotund woman dressed as Marie Antoinette who came barreling toward her.

  Emily ducked aside just in time to avoid colliding with the plump monarch. Safe from being trampled, she adjusted her mask and scanned the crowd, seeking the right conspirator. Some guests had forgone masquerade costumes in favor of traditional ball attire and a harlequin’s mask, as she had done. Her dress was slate-gray silk, a few seasons out of fashion and slightly too large, but still the nicest dress she owned. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a simple bun, and she’d finished the outfit by adding a gold chain and small pearl pendant. Her mother’s.

  She spotted a pirate toasting a sheikh on the far side of the ballroom, along with what she supposed was meant to be a Grecian dei
ty, though it looked alarmingly like a man in his dressing gown. None of those would do. It would be that much harder to remain discreet with a man whose attire was designed to catch the eye. Not to mention how ludicrous she’d feel embracing a man decked in a wig and rouge. Ideally her choice would be young and attractive. Enough of a rogue to steal a kiss from her, but enough of a gentleman to be discreet afterward.

  And she might have just found the perfect candidate.

  A young, foppish-looking gentleman watched her from a dozen feet away. He was fair and slim, with limbs long enough to be called lanky. A black mask concealed the top half of his face, but his smile was evident.

  This was her chance.

  He inclined his head in a half-bow and raised his glass in silent salute.

  Emily swallowed. Her mouth felt suddenly like she’d been chewing cotton. This would be the hardest part. The charming, the flirting, the seduction. All things she had pitifully little experience with. She was grateful for the mask.

  She forced her lips into a smile, hoping the result did not look as awkward as it felt. The dandy saw it, and his own grin widened. For the first time she noticed the prominent gap between his front teeth.

  This was so different from what she’d dreamed of as a girl: of meeting a man who was kind, intelligent, and pleasingly formed. A man who didn’t mind her eyes or her scandalous family. One who would marry her and give her a family.

  But that was no longer possible.

  The dandy moved closer, that knowing smile still on his lips. She braced herself, sucked in a breath. This is how it starts.

  He halted five feet from her, his smile faltering as his eyes widened in surprise. Emily’s heart sank; she knew why he’d stopped. He made a quick, awkward bow and abruptly turned away.

  Blast. She silently cursed herself, the dandy, and her eyes—the feature that had always made her different. When a footman passed, she accepted a champagne flute and took a fortifying but unladylike swallow.

  She wouldn’t give up so easily. Carpe noctem. The night was not over yet.

  CHAPTER TWO

  This night could not end soon enough, Malcolm thought as he gloomily surveyed the scene before him. Intoxicated aristocrats stumbled about the floor in asinine costumes. The ladies feigned unawareness of the gentlemen ogling them while the quartet played song after song, each remarkably like the last.

  Once he had loved just this sort of revelry. Well, perhaps it hadn’t been exactly the same. The people, the country, the century . . . those things were different. Yet it all seemed the same beneath the gilt and glisten. Only he had truly changed.

  “What was it about a masked ball that confused you, MacRoyce?”

  Malcolm didn’t bother to look at the dark-skinned man who’d come to stand beside him. “I don’t play dress-up, Saïd. I’ll leave that to the English.”

  “I’m surprised they let you through the door.”

  As if on cue, a masked footman appeared before them, offering a black mask on a silver tray. Malcolm met Saïd’s eyes as he accepted the mask. The footman bowed and disappeared.

  “You are attracting attention we do not need,” Saïd said.

  Malcolm tied the mask over his eyes. “I never have to worry about that when you’re about, Saïd.” A Moslem from the deserts of the Holy Land, Saïd stood out in the crowd like a peacock in a chicken coop. There was a time when Malcolm had been taught to hate and kill men like Saïd. Infidel. Savage. That was before he’d learned a man’s religion didn’t make him a monster. True monsters were something else entirely.

  An auburn-haired woman in a silver mask sauntered by, her eyes shamelessly roaming over them. Saïd’s gaze followed the woman. “I know you are eager to get back to Rosscairn, but stopping this fiend is crucial.”

  Malcolm grimaced. “I’m here, am I not?”

  “He could be here tonight. Five of the victims were from the aristocracy.”

  “And two weren’t.”

  “Still, if he is targeting the upper echelons, then he will not be able to resist such an event.”

  Malcolm’s eyes moved over the crowd once more, seeking anything amiss. Over the last month, a series of murders had terrorized London, reports of it reaching as far as his home in the Highlands. The bodies had been drained of blood, their necks and faces savaged as if by a wild animal. The victims were all men under the age of forty. Other than that, they seemed to have rather little in common, saving a profound lack of luck. The papers speculated that a madman was responsible, possibly one with a dog trained to attack and devour its victims.

  Malcolm knew it was one of their kind. He and Saïd had never killed to feed and had sworn to stop any who did. There were others who did not follow the same code, but most of them at least valued discretion if they did not value human life. This killer was the opposite. It was as if he sought to advertise his crimes rather than conceal them. Malcolm could remember only one other time when it was so.

  He sighed. “I have no’ seen killing like this since—”

  “Since Henley,” Saïd finished for him.

  “Aye.”

  “That was long ago.”

  Malcolm pushed back the grim memories of his former friend and greatest enemy. “Not long enough.”

  A figure on the other side of the room caught his eye. It can’t be . . .

  She was swathed in gray silk, and so small it was amazing he’d noticed her. In the melee of bright colors and garish fabrics, she drew him like a cool ocean wave. He only saw her from behind; still, she was so familiar that for a moment he forgot where he was. And when. The line of her shoulder, the way she tilted her head. Like seeing a ghost.

  “MacRoyce, are you listening?”

  Malcolm shut his eyes, forcing himself back to the moment. When he opened them, Saïd was staring at him with an irritating look of concern.

  “What is it?” Saïd asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You had that look in your eye. You know, the one you get when you think of—”

  “I told you. T’was nothing.”

  Saïd shrugged. “As you say.”

  Malcolm grunted and returned his attention to the crowd, careful to avoid the temptation in silver. The sooner this was finished the better.

  ***

  She shouldn’t have taken that pill, Emily thought as she fanned herself harder. The apothecary had assured her the little gray pills would suppress the ill humors, and stimulate blood flow, thus concealing her paleness and preventing one of her attacks. Yet she couldn’t ignore the distinct dizziness that often occurred when she took them. She could feel the concoction swirling through her blood, making her lightheaded and unsteady.

  Shake it off, Emily.

  “Emily—”

  She turned to see her friend Lettie Oliver, looking positively angelic in a white gown with feathered wings and a matching mask. Lettie was one of the most eligible ladies in society: lovely, kind, and standing to inherit a fortune. Emily had met her the season before while doing charitable work at the hospital. Emily was still amazed that she and Lettie had become friends, considering their nearly epic difference in social status.

  Lettie smiled. “Em—ahh, I mean, Friend. Can you guess the identity of this mysterious guest?”

  At Lettie’s side was Madame Simone de Séverin, widow of Albain de Séverin. She wore a mask sewn from peacock feathers, with one feather standing tall in the center, in the style of a maharaja. The matching emerald gown complemented her dark hair and eyes perfectly. Though she stood next to Lettie, who was nearly two decades younger than her, most eyes lingered on Simone. And she knew it.

  “I should know her anywhere,” Emily said. “A pleasure to see you again, Madame de Séverin.”

  Lettie beamed, “Oh! You are too clever. And Madame, can you name this guest?” she gestured dramatically at Emily.

  Simone’s eyes moved over Emily’s plain features and plainer dress with barely hidden distaste. “I fear I cannot.”

  Le
ttie laughed nervously. “Your disguise is too good, Em, er— friend! Give us a clue!”

  Emily forced herself to smile. “I saw you not a month ago, Madame. In this home. At luncheon.”

  Simone examined Emily intensely. The moment stretched on. Lettie’s eyes flicked anxiously between them. Finally, Simone asked, “Are you Miss Maribel Eldridge?”

  Lettie stifled a gasp. Maribel Eldridge was a spinster ten years Emily’s senior, and three stones heavier. “No,” Emily replied, her jaw stiff.

  Simone shrugged. “Then I cannot guess.”

  “I’m Emily Adams. A pleasure to see you again, Madame.”

  “Indeed.” Simone inclined her head. “Of course, you will forgive me, ma chère.”

  Of course. Emily smiled. “That is the point of a masked ball, is it not? I should be quite put out if you did know me.”

  “Just so, Emily!” Lettie chimed in, looking relieved.

  Simone’s eyes narrowed. “You’re quite pale, my dear. Is it part of your costume?”

  Emily started to answer, but Lord Oliver, Lettie’s father, approached and chimed in. “Yes, is anything the matter, Miss Adams? It isn’t the punch, I hope.” He scrutinized Emily with concern, his bald spot shining through his patch of red hair.

  Emily was touched by the genuine concern in Lord Oliver’s eyes. Yet she was used to such well-meant, if dangerous, remarks and had an arsenal of excuses to deter them.

  “Forgive me, Lord Oliver. I am not used to such excitement.”

  “Hmph. Well, nonetheless, you must have some cake. Not right for a girl to be as thin as yourself.”

  “Pa-pa!” Lettie whined.

  Emily smiled at Lord Oliver’s chiding, hoping this was the end of the topic. She knew she was too thin. But a slice of cake would make no difference.

  Lettie quickly changed the subject. “Emily, did you read the article in the newspaper about this ghastly fellow—”

  “Oh yes.” Simone interjected, before Emily could answer. “They just found another victim this morning. An Irishman.”

  Murder, Emily thought. Perhaps it wasn’t the worst way to die. No sick bed, no horrible anticipation. She stopped herself, ashamed of her thoughts.

  “The paper reported that the man was gutted like game,” Simone said.