Eternal Hunger: Scottish Vampires Page 4

  One day, he and his elder brother, Gregor, had gone to play with the wee animals and found the one with the unmatched eyes gone. A wench from the kitchen had drowned the helpless thing in the well, claiming its strange eyes to be the sure mark of the devil.

  Malcolm had cried, though he’d been too old to do so. Gregor had comforted him as he always did, putting his arm around Malcolm and letting him weep. Then he’d told him a man never let his enemies see his hurt. They’d taken revenge on the kitchen wench by throwing pies of cow dung at her when she’d gone to fetch water. Malcolm’s father had beaten him for it, but it had been worth it.

  A more recent memory surfaced: holding Gregor’s hand as his eyes went sightless. His lifeless body covered in blood. Malcolm’s arrow in his chest.

  Malcolm shut his eyes and forced the image away. He couldn’t let himself remember. If he did, he’d fall apart.

  “I do not blame them for feeling so.” Her voice drew him back to the present. “I know my eyes can be . . . unsettling.”

  The firelight played over her features, making her skin glow in the darkness. Seeing her like this, the rumors of witchcraft seemed even more possible. She was lovely in her own way, he realized, with soft, rounded curves and a face of innocence. He couldn’t stop the desire from rushing through his veins. Personally, he didn’t find her eyes frightening at all—just different. Unique. Like magic.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  She did. The combination of blue and gold was almost dizzying. She seemed uncomfortable holding his gaze, as if it were a rare thing for someone to look her in the eye.

  He stepped forward till only an inch separated them. “I have never seen eyes as beautiful as yours before. And I think I never will again.”

  She smiled shyly, glancing at the floor once again.

  She liked him, he realized. Surprising. Nearly as surprising to realize that he liked her too.

  He shouldn’t encourage her. He’d be off to war in a few days. To prove his worth to his clan and his father, and to atone for the sin of his brother’s death. He hadn’t wanted a wife. Marriage was a duty for him. He’d not encourage her to feel something he couldn’t return.

  He thought all this, but it didn’t stop him from lowering his mouth to hers. It was too much: her scent, her skin, the ale still swirling through him. He wanted her now, before she changed her mind about him. She truly believed him innocent of his brother’s death. How many others could he say that of? Not many members of his clan. Not even his father.

  Her lips were soft and tender beneath his. And though the kiss was small and chaste, there was enough promise in it to heat his blood like fire. Her warm hands moved to his arms, clinging to him, and he nearly went mad.

  There was something here worth returning for. Something to come home to, and for a terrible instant he didn’t want to go to war. But it was too late now. He’d pledged himself. How could he face his father, his clan, if he didn’t go?

  He pushed the dark thoughts aside, taking his melancholy out on her. He moved forward, guiding her backward to the bed. He gave her a little push, and she gasped, tumbling backward. He was on her before she could move.

  “I don’t know what to—” she started, but he cut her off, covering her mouth with his. This time he kissed her hard, demanding. She moaned against his lips and he growled in response.

  He was ready, and moved his weight more forcefully upon her, forcing her to spread her legs for him. He ran his hands over her mindlessly, faster and harder, then fumbled to free himself, maddened by the feel of her warm thigh against his length.

  She’d buried her face into his shoulder. Hiding. He wanted all of her.

  “Look at me,” he whispered.

  She hesitated, then moved her face from his shoulder. Their eyes locked and he pushed into her.

  ***

  By the time he and his men arrived in the Holy Land, Malcolm knew he’d made the greatest mistake of his life.

  James Douglas was dead, killed by the Moorish army in Spain. The greatest living hero of Scotland, who’d fought and won hundreds of battles, had been struck down before ever setting foot in the Holy Land.

  Half the party had returned to Scotland, escorting Douglas in death as they had in life. The remainder continued on, set upon fighting in his name. Malcolm went with the latter, as did Henley and Iain MacKeith.

  The months of journeying took their toll on the men. He could see it in their faces and hear it in their words. Malcolm had been sorely tempted to return home. But his mission was not yet complete. He had to atone for the sin of his brother’s death. He still had to prove himself to his father.

  What would she think of him if he returned home before his task was finished?

  At last in Jerusalem, they joined the band of other knights on crusade—French, Spanish, even English. He watched men he’d known his whole life fight and die, cut down in a haze of blood and sand. He took lives himself, men whose names he did not know but whose faces he would always remember. He’d gone there to prove himself to his father and his people. But he saw no honor in slaughter.

  Henley was the opposite. He threw himself into battle, relishing every kill. God’s cause meant nothing to him; warfare was what he revered. Malcolm hardly recognized the boy he’d grown up with, and wondered if he’d ever known him at all.

  One night the enemy swept into their camp, outnumbering them. Most died before they could reach for their swords. Malcolm and a few others managed to escape into the desert.

  The desert closed around them like a burning fist. They quickly ran out of water, and soon afterward, men began to die. One by one, of thirst or heat, until there were none left save Malcolm, Henley, Iain, and a Moslem noble who’d been taken hostage, named Saïd. They’d all but set the barbarian free, no longer having the resources or the energy to hold the man prisoner. They’d reached an odd sort of truce with the infidel. Malcolm wondered if perhaps the savage would turn on them and slit their throats in the night. He wondered if it wouldn’t be a relief.

  The heat was unholy, as if hell were rising to consume the earth. The sun was his enemy, pursuing him with unfathomable relentlessness. It beat at his back and shoulders, searing the flesh from his body. When he closed his eyes against it, he saw an ocean of red.

  Despite the heat of the day, at night it was freezing. Malcolm lay shivering in the sand, his skin burned so badly it caused a fever. The sun was inside him now, burning him from within, making him sweat in the cold, covering him in frigid fire.

  He called out for her. He knew he could not be cured. It was too late for that. But if she would just sit by him . . .

  “Hush. Your woman is not here.”

  Hands drew fabric over his frozen, useless limbs. A cloth moved over his face and head, soaking up the chilled sweat from his face and hair. A grain of sanity returned.

  “Henley . . . ?” But when he opened his eyes, it was not his friend who aided him but his enemy. The Moslem had given him water and drawn a blanket over his freezing flesh.

  They should have died in that desert, but they found a miracle instead. Or perhaps a curse. An oasis. Rippling behind waves of heat. Not a mirage but reality.

  They drank until they couldn’t take another sip. Wild fruit grew on the bushes surrounding the spring. They plucked nearly every bush bare, devouring the fruit, setting others to dry. Their strength returned twofold. Their sun-blistered skin healed. It was as if they had walked into the Garden of Eden.

  They couldn’t remain there forever. Once the threat of death was removed, they recalled the lives they’d left behind.

  Except for Henley. The war had changed them all, but it had broken Henley. At night Malcolm heard him whispering, dreaming there was a woman at the oasis with them, one who had led them there. The sleep-talking continued until he whispered to himself while awake as well.

  One night they went to sleep beneath the lush foliage circling the topaz lagoon, and awoke surrounded by desert. The oasis had vanished. Not as if it had dried up—but as if it had never been there at all.

  They’d all been paralyzed with shock, except for Henley who’d grown enraged, hysterical, accusing them of causing the oasis to vanish. He grabbed his sword and charged Malcolm, but before he could strike, Saïd stabbed Henley through the gut, saving Malcolm’s life.

  The sword had skewered Henley straight through, buried to its hilt, the darkened blade protruding high through his back like a staff. He doubled over, hands clutching the sword handle, but he didn’t fall as a man should have. He grunted, then slowly straightened, his hands still clutching the handle. His eyes locked on Malcolm as he pulled the sword from his body.

  That was how they’d learned they could not die.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  London, 1860

  Malcolm stalked down the hall of Saïd’s townhouse. He knew this house on Park Lane nearly as well as he did his own. It was decorated with an impeccable taste most London wives would give their eyeteeth to possess. The only exception to its studied charm was the hookah that served as a centerpiece on the drawing room tea table.

  Saïd sat by the hearth, and his dark skin glowed in the firelight, making him look like a bronze statue. Malcolm often wondered how Saïd could bear to live so far away from his own homeland, his own people, only tolerated because of his wealth.

  He understood how his friend must feel.

  “What in the hell happened to you?” Saïd stood from his chair. “I turn my back for one minute and you vanish into thin air, while I have been hunting all night—” He stopped, examining Malcolm. “What is it? You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

  Malcolm said nothing, then began to laugh, the sound harsh and horrible even to his own ears. A ghost. Indeed. When he collected himself, he saw Saïd had poured two tumblers of whiskey and was watching him with concerned jet eyes. Malcolm accepted the tumbler and drank deeply. His body could scarcely tolerate normal foods anymore, but he made exceptions.

  “So what has happened this night?” Saïd asked.

  Malcolm exhaled, feeling the warmth of the whiskey fill his insides. “I think perhaps I am losing my mind.”

  Saïd snorted. “I would have thought your mind lost long ago.”

  “Ye may have to kill me.”

  Saïd grimaced. “I surely hope not. It would be a real pain in the ass, trying to chop through your thick skull.”

  Malcolm grunted and took another gulp of the whiskey.

  “What has brought this about?” Saïd asked.

  Malcolm sighed, searching for the words. “I saw . . . her.”

  “Her?” Saïd’s eyes flicked to the talisman at Malcolm’s neck.

  Malcolm flinched slightly, remembering how the ring had seared his skin only hours ago. He ran a hand through his hair and proceeded to relate the details of the night. Saïd listened intently, his dark eyes reflecting the firelight.

  “Well, don’t just sit there, man! Say something!” Malcolm demanded once he’d finished.

  “You’ve been visiting the hospitals, haven’t you?”

  Malcolm sighed, staring into his glass. “Aye.”

  “You know the danger. Drinking the blood of the sick will weaken you. Madden you. Kill you, perhaps.”

  “You think this is a hallucination? That I am losing my mind as Henley did?”

  Henley’s mania had not abated after they’d left the oasis. With his new strength, he’d become a menace, killing indiscriminately and even attempting to create others like himself. From Henley’s experiments they’d learned it was possible to turn a mortal into one of their kind by draining nearly all the blood from their body and replacing it with one’s own.

  Malcolm had tried reasoning with Henley. He’d even attempted to sequester Henley to cure him of the bloodlust, but Henley had escaped, and for decades Malcolm had had no idea of his whereabouts.

  At last he’d tracked him to Paris, where he’d found him in a slum lying in a near-delirious stupor brought on by bloodlust. Naked bodies were strewn around him, all dead or dying. Henley had started to reach out his hand, his eyes lighting up with fond recognition, before Malcolm struck the blow that closed them forever.

  Though their kind were immortal, they could be killed by decapitation or by a wound that severed the heart. Having to kill Henley haunted Malcolm to this day, but it was right that he’d been the one to do it. They’d once been friends.

  “Well.” Saïd spoke, interrupting Malcolm’s reverie. “In all likelihood, you are going mad. That would be infinitely more plausible than the alternative: that a woman who has been dead for centuries has somehow returned. But then, look at us. We are proof that the unexplainable can be real.”

  Malcolm was silent, taking this in. He recalled the feeling he’d had in the hospital. The distinct sensation of being watched. It had vanished so quickly, perhaps he had imagined the whole thing? He’d planned on mentioning it to Saïd, thinking it might be relevant to their search for the killer. Now he decided against it. It would only further Saïd’s belief that Malcolm was poisoning his mind.

  “I know the people of the Indus Valley believe something of the sort,” Saïd continued. “That a man can be reborn many times, with no memory of his previous lives.”

  Malcolm thought of the old folktales his clan had told—legends, mostly to entertain the children, of lovers separated by death, born again, and reunited. “Aye. My clan have similar tales. Rubbish is all.”

  “Perhaps not rubbish. You know,” Saïd spoke quietly, “there is no sin in falling in love again.”

  Malcolm’s shoulders stiffened. “I did not love Nora.”

  Saïd shrugged. “As you say. But to be haunted by a woman so, after all this time?”

  Malcolm stared into the fire, watching the embers die in the hearth. “She betrayed me. Cost me everything. My clan, my home.”

  He remembered the terrible journey back from the Holy Land. It had taken almost twice as long to return because of his new sensitivity to sunlight. He’d been desperate to see his home and his wife again, but terrified of revealing to her what he had become.

  When he arrived at last it was to find his home in ruins, the lands surrounding it abandoned. His clan had been attacked by the MacKeiths, the same clan he’d pledged his allegiance to. His father had been killed in the battle and nearly all of the clan members had moved on, seeking refuge with allies in the North.

  He’d also discovered that soon before the attack, his wife had left their home and returned to her own people. Clearly she’d known the attack was going to occur, was perhaps even instrumental in planning it.

  But her duplicity had not saved her life. A report had told him that she had survived the battle only to die of an illness soon after.

  He could not doubt Nora’s involvement. And nothing was more shameful than the fact that her betrayal hurt him nearly as much as the loss of his father and his home.

  “Are you sure?” Saïd asked.

  “Aye. Her clan broke the alliance while I was at war. She must have been instrumental in their attack. They could no’ have been so successful without her help. Our fort had many hidden passageways. They could not have destroyed us so without someone giving them information. And she had left me—left our keep just days before the attack.” Even all this time later, Malcolm heard the scorn in his voice. He’d always been convinced of Nora’s involvement, though he could never question her or seek revenge.

  And Emily Adams remembered none of this.

  “Didn’t Iain also know this woman?” Saïd asked.

  Iain MacKeith. Just hearing the man’s name set Malcolm’s nerves on edge.

  “Aye. He was—is her cousin.”

  The centuries had done nothing to subdue the hatred between himself and MacKeith. Malcolm couldn’t blame MacKeith for the broken alliance, as they’d been together in the Holy Land during the attack. But he could blame him for what had happened since then.

  After the attack, the MacKeiths had seized the majority of Malcolm’s land, including the most valuable tract, the Deagh Tir, beside the ancient stone circle. Malcolm had struggled for years to raise an army to take it back. But with his clan gone, it was impossible. Instead he had spent the centuries watching the MacKeith clan grow and thrive, prospering from the land that was rightfully his. Malcolm had tried many times to buy back the land—offering more than twice its worth. But Iain always refused.

  “I think I have found the connection between the victims,” Saïd said, snapping Malcolm out of his brooding.

  “Oh? What is it?”

  Saïd’s eyes pinned him. “They all resemble you.” Saïd picked up a newspaper from the coffee table. “Lord Douglas Fairfax, aged thirty-two. Beloved husband and renowned player of chess. Dark hair and light eyes.” He turned the paper toward Malcolm. On the page was a small charcoal sketch of the deceased man. He’d been young, with an ovular face and dark hair.

  “All men in their prime. All with dark hair and pale eyes. Like you.” Saïd said.

  “You cannot be serious. That description could be half the men in this country!” Malcolm protested.

  Saïd picked up a second paper from the table. “Patrick Doyle. A fisherman originating from Belfast. Twenty-five years of age. Black hair, blue eyes.” He put the paper down. “Lord Easton fit the same description, as did John Fairfax. There is no sketch of Lord Reynolds, but I met him last year at the Fultons’ dinner party. Quite the dashing fellow. He got drunk and flirted most disastrously with his host’s young wife. He fits the description as well.”

  “Enough. Your point is clear, though its relevance is not. If they had all resembled you, my friend, that would be a connection. But I? Half the men in London fit that description. Half of Europe for that matter—”

  “But the victims don’t resemble me, do they? And I disagree with your assertion. Most Englishmen have hair at least one shade lighter than your crow-colored head. And of those men with hair as dark as yours, how many also have light eyes? And look to be the same age?”

  “It’s still not nearly enough for a legitimate theory.”