Blood Sworn 1: Salva Me Read online

Morgan wrenched his gaze away from the embarrassing sight, looking downward at the small recess below and the porcelain shaving shelves his master had imported at great expense. The bright glint of an open razor caught his eye.

  Jeremy must have been using it to shave before the bath, as was his wont. Whatever the reason, Providence had left it within reach. Morgan could pick it up without having to dislodge Jeremy from where he lay cradled against his chest.

  Once Morgan had the razor in hand, he stared for a moment at the brilliant gleam of its sharp edge. With luck, he would not cut too deeply. Once Jeremy awoke, a single bite would seal the wound. He closed his eyes and breathed a short prayer to God he was not making a colossal mistake. Then he drew the razor over his left wrist in a single swift stroke.

  The brief sting of the blade rewarded him with a steady flow. Morgan held his wrist to his mouth, filling it with the copper taste of his own blood. Once he had a mouthful, he gathered Jeremy close, delivering the life-source through his unconscious master’s lips. Massaging Jeremy’s throat, he managed to get him to swallow, and then he repeated the blood transfer.

  After a few more such feedings, Jeremy’s eyes fluttered open, his lips assuming the proper flush of health. A good thing, for Morgan had grown light-headed with the freely flowing blood. He wasn’t certain why; Contracted feedings took a great deal more, and he’d never been this giddy.

  “Morgan?” Jeremy’s voice sounded as though it come through a thin layer of cotton. “What are you doing?”

  Relief shuddered through Morgan at the hoarse voice. “Forgive me, Master. In my blind lust, I injured you. You wouldn’t wake up, and I did not know what to do.”

  “You’re bleeding.” Despite the bland comment and mild tone, Morgan could hear the faint Compulsion in Jeremy’s voice to answer his unspoken question.

  “I couldn’t wake you, so I thought the best thing would be to give you blood, since I did not allow you to feed properly.” He couldn’t suppress the shamed flush that crossed his cheeks. “Your razor was nearby, and it proved a simple enough thing.”

  “Simple but risky. What if I hadn’t woken? You might have passed out as well.” Jeremy reached up and touched Morgan’s lips, his hand gentle. “You fed me by mouth. Thank you. It must have been a distasteful experience.”

  Distasteful? Actually, the thought had never crossed Morgan’s mind. Not that it would have mattered. He would do anything to assure Jeremy’s safety, even from his own stupidity and lack of control. Morgan reached out in turn, cautiously touching the rapidly healing bite mark, once more in awe of the nosferii ability to heal. “It was necessary,” Morgan answered, feeling his face heat in embarrassment. “I couldn’t think of another way.”

  Darkness beckoned him at the edges of his vision, and he shook his head, hoping to clear his muddled thoughts. A sharp pain at his wrist almost pushed him over the edge, and then the soothing familiarity of the nosferii clotting agent buried the sting under its coolness.

  “Let’s get you to bed,” Jeremy said, standing easily. “Or would you prefer to eat first?”

  Morgan glared up at him, irritated at the rapidity with which his master had recovered. “Feed me.”

  A laugh greeted his curt reply, despite the overt lack of courtesy. “Certainly, Hostia meam, most certainly. Can you stand?”

  The familiar calm reassured him. Strained though things had become, something had been set right, at the very least. His lord and master had regained some modicum of equilibrium, and the glow in his eyes suggested his blood needs had been reasonably satisfied for the moment.

  “I can stand, Master,” he answered, doing his best to prove it by getting to his feet unaided. He stood still for a moment, waiting for the room to cease its infernal spinning so he could move to the antechamber and dress. “I think I could eat an entire leg of mutton right now.”

  Jeremy laughed. “I’ll make certain Cook carves enough to sate your appetite. We should dress before we step foot out of the bath.”

  Morgan walked to the antechamber, somewhat unsteady but able to manage the short distance to the benches and press holding his folded clothes. With only the slightest wobble, he settled onto the bench and began to clothe himself.

  Jeremy had followed close behind, and his proximity calmed Morgan, though barely an hour before such closeness had grated on every nerve. Something had changed in them both. Whether it was for better or worse remained to be seen.

  Chapter Eleven

  Raavenshal lay deserted, every fire grate empty. The halls echoed the silence of the catacombs beneath the great house. All the servants had fled, their loyalty to the name proving unable to withstand the test of their master’s madness.

  Thorven laughed to himself, the sound reverberating through the gallery that housed his ancestors’ portraits.

  Mad. Yes, he was quite mad, and he knew it. The man who had declared madmen did not know of their madness had never experienced that dreadful fall into the abyss.

  How could he not know? Once, he’d been sane, and the bittersweet memories of those days lay bricked up at the center of his soul—if he still had one, that was. He could just barely touch those hazy recollections, like one would faintly notice the scent of a woman’s perfume lingering in a chamber inhabited long years ago.

  The madness tasted fresher, shivering through him with the rancid lure of an opium den. Powerful, addicting, unforgiving.

  He’d tasted the flesh of his victims and found it sweeter than their fear-stoked blood. The first terror as he bit, the agony of their shredded flesh, the gibbering panic as they realized death had come for them. Their final, desperate pleas for the mercy of oblivion. Followed by his feast.

  The urge to devour had even subsumed the lust that came after feeding. Gnawing on raw, bloodied flesh as he slaked his physical lust only heightened the need to consume his prey until his gut could hold no more.

  Thorven heard the hysteria that filled his laughter—heard it and welcomed it. He’d become what the world feared: nosferatu. The unstoppable hunter. The maddened monster that must be destroyed. The unthinking butcher of innocents.

  Except they were wrong. No one had ever been permitted to reach this state, this sublime existence of godhood. This was the true destiny of all nosferii, the true face of his ancestors and his descendants. He could still think, still plan and prepare.

  He knew who to hunt next. Not the girl, that substitute. No, this time, he would hunt the man who had left him, who had abandoned him to hell. Whose blood was all he needed, always.

  Argyle Holland. The betrayer.

  * * * *

  Morgan watched Jeremy’s restless figure prowl through the study, each pass an emphasis of their mutual concerns. Fully dressed, they’d sated their physical hunger with a midnight meal of salt mutton, cheese, and preserved pears, then retreated to this sanctuary in an attempt to uncover the identity of the nosferatu.

  And carefully avoided any discussion of what had happened in the bath.

  Not that it seemed a deliberate evasion on Jeremy’s part. In fact, to some degree, their relationship seemed to have returned to normal, at least insofar as his master’s manner. He had regained the collected presence, the calm assurance that had been a hallmark of the Baron of Colbourne since Morgan had first found him lying bloody on a country road not fifty miles west of here.

  Yet something was decidedly missing. The strained undercurrent that had marked their recent days, the pained stress of Jeremy bearing Morgan’s willful refusals—those had vanished. To be replaced by this easy, indefinable camaraderie.

  While he couldn’t precisely identify what had changed in his master, Morgan knew what had changed in his own heart. His need to be close, his desire to possess Jeremy and be possessed by him, those sprang from a love Morgan could no longer deny. Still, admitting it was impossible, at least at the moment. He had fought for so long to keep his heart in check, denying what had begun the moment they’d met. Throwing away that steadfast resistance would l
eave him vulnerable.

  He could not afford such a thing. He had to protect Laura, who represented everything left of his former life. Until they caught the nosferatu, his daughter’s life hung in the balance, despite the success of the turning. Her safety could not be assured until the monster was dead.

  Then there remained the words spoken on the road to Sussex. Jeremy had mentioned Raavenshal, and Morgan couldn’t help but wonder what connection his master had with the masters of that house. After all these years, he finally understood his grandfather must have served at the main hall as a Host. Clearly, his father and grandfather had chosen to protect the family, keeping the true nature of the new landowners hidden from the others. Even after Argyle Holland had come home from the master’s hall broken in body and spirit.

  Why had his grandfather been so shattered when he’d finally returned? Why had he ever returned at all? Morgan’s life as Host to the Baron of Colbourne had never been a thing he regretted, with the singular exception of the sexual desires that followed a Hosting. Had his grandfather been equally unable to accept such things? If so, could Argyle have broken the Contract without following the proper protocols? That would explain the man’s weak hold on sanity. Morgan had been told breaking the nosfera/Host Contract could be disastrous if both parties were not in accord.

  “Morgan!”

  He came back to his present surroundings with a jolt. His mind had wandered too far afield if his master called him so sharply.

  “Forgive me, my lord. I was caught up in thought. I humbly beg your pardon.”

  “There is no need for formalities, Morgan,” Jeremy said with a sigh. “I merely commented on the possibility this abomination is one of the nosfera from Raavenshal.”

  “You suggested such a thing earlier. Why?”

  “All of those unfortunate victims we found lay along the roads we took to reach Colbourne Manor. Those same roads also lead straight to Raavenshal Keep. To reach my estate, we turned aside and followed a private road through my land. Had we continued without turning, we would have ended at the drive that enters Thorven’s estate.”

  “So why not ask Thorven to help us hunt for the nosferatu? If you think it might be someone from his estate, shouldn’t he be responsible for catching the monster?”

  “Archibald Thorven, despite being an old friend and boon companion, has neither the training nor the inclination to do such a thing. Nor would I ask it of him, particularly if the nosferatu is one of his own.”

  Boon companion? Something strange resonated in Jeremy’s voice, or perhaps it was suggested to Morgan by the odd heightening of his senses since the turning. He could be wrong, but he’d have sworn on his dead wife’s grave, wherever it was, that more than friendship lay between Jeremy and this Archibald Thorven.

  Unexpected jealousy rose in Morgan’s breast at the idea. He ruthlessly quashed his immediate irrational thought: what if Thorven is the damn madman? Instead, he focused on Jeremy’s statement about the beast. “Why consider only the nosfera? What about the minore? Aren’t they just as susceptible to this madness?”

  “No. Unlike the pureborn, minore never develop venom. The changes caused by the turning only permit the growth of rudimentary fangs and, eventually, the anesthetizing saliva. Only true nosferii have the physiology which permits the development of the toxic venom.”

  “How many purebloods inhabit Raavenshal?”

  “Perhaps a dozen, at best, between the hall and the surrounding areas.”

  Again, the odd undertone. This time, Morgan’s jealousy spurred him to voice his suspicion. “What of the Master of Raavenshal? Could he be the one we seek?”

  Jeremy started, fixing Morgan with his dark eyes. “I seriously doubt that.” After an uncomfortable pause, he turned away to stare into the flickering fireplace. “However, it would be unwise of me to disregard the possibility that a close friend is the culprit. Two of my ancestors did so, with devastating consequences.”

  “And if he is the nosferatu?” Morgan couldn’t help but insist.

  “Then I will be hard-pressed to meet him. The Raavenshal family is older than mine, and their venom likely more potent.” The words were quiet, almost whispered, tinged with resignation and dread.

  “Is he that powerful?” Morgan did not want to believe anyone existed who could prove a match for the Baron of Colbourne. An uneasy thought settled on him as he recalled the circumstances under which they had met. Clearly, the last nosferatu had possessed a strength Jeremy had not anticipated.

  “It’s not just physical power. It’s also the toxicity of the venom and how much and how long the madman has been using it to enhance his natural abilities. The more frequently he uses his venom, the more concentrated it becomes. The older and purer the bloodline, the higher the toxicity in the beginning.”

  Morgan flinched at the haunted look in Jeremy’s eyes.

  “As I said, the Raavenshal bloodline is older, two centuries older. Moreover, the Colbournes have several blood ties with the Raavenshals. Our clans have intermarried many times. Thorven is a kinsman. Four times removed from me, but his venom will still burn.”

  After a moment of thought, Morgan rose, crossing to Jeremy, whose emotions called to him somehow, as though the link they had created earlier were still in place. “I am uneasy, Jeremy. I’ve never met Thorven, but I know something of the Raavenshal family. They care little for ordinary people, and I think they abuse their Hosts.”

  Jeremy turned at the comment, his keen gaze piercing Morgan. “An acute observation. What makes you say that?” A faint red tinge colored his dark eyes.

  “I think my grandfather may have been a Host at Raavenshal. He was never the same after he returned, and he refused to allow any of us to serve at the main hall.” Recalling his grandfather’s frailty, Morgan continued, “I remember him before he left. A strong, vital man, broad-shouldered, with a muscular frame any blacksmith would envy. He served at the hall for ten years, I believe. When he returned, he seemed shrunken in on himself. His shoulders were still broad, but no strength remained in him. My father worried himself to an early grave keeping my grandfather’s secrets.”

  Jeremy’s gaze fixed at some point beyond Morgan’s shoulder. “You are correct; the Raavenshal clan treats their Hosts with less than the best of civility. Many of the minorii and lesser nosferii do not follow the main family’s example, but many others do.”

  Morgan could have sworn something else hovered on Jeremy’s lips unsaid. “And how does Thorven treat his Hosts?”

  “With reasonable civility. Nonetheless, I doubt Thorven is the one we seek.” The answer came quickly. Almost too quickly, and with a hint of impatience, as though the questions disturbed Colbourne.

  Morgan’s jealously drove him to pry a little further, if only to pierce Jeremy’s confidence in Thorven’s innocence. The thought that the two had once had an intimate relationship would not leave him. The idea burned through him, urging him to uncover the truth, to ask questions he knew should be left alone. He quashed most of the angry thoughts, settling for the one uppermost in his mind. “Why are you so certain it is not Thorven? Is there something between you?”

  Those red-tinged eyes flared with anger and then resumed their normal color moments later. The threatening tension vanished, and Jeremy sank into a chair beside the fire. After a silence that lingered for an eternity, he spoke. His voice had regained its normal controlled serenity. “Your question sounds driven by jealousy, Morgan. Nonetheless, it is not totally misplaced.”

  He looked away, staring into the fire for a long, long moment. “Yes, there is something between us. Or rather, there was. Once, we were lovers. More than half a century ago, to be more precise.”

  Morgan considered, shoving the jealousy to the back of his mind where it belonged. “You’re certain he could not be the nosferatu?”

  Jeremy turned his attention back. Stirrings of unease touched Morgan at Jeremy’s bleak expression.

  “I am certain of nothing anymore, Hostia
meam,” Jeremy said. “While your concerns have merit, he visited me less than a week past and appeared fully sane. The one we seek is too far gone to have presented such an appearance. Thorven did look haggard and worn, but he is the Master of Raavenshal. He is responsible for protecting his people.”

  “What if the worst is proven correct? If the Master of Raavenshal is the nosferatu, what then? Will you face him?”

  “There is no other choice. I am the Baron of Colbourne. My hands hold the fate of all nosferii—the prime minister has charged me under one of our nation’s oldest Contracts. I will hunt the madman and perform my duties. To the death, if need be.” Jeremy’s words were clear and unequivocal.

  Morgan had no doubt of his master’s determination. He recalled the bloody wreck he had found all those years ago, and shuddered. He had no wish to repeat the discovery or make a worse one. The only thing he could do, other than watch, was to ensure Jeremy never wanted for the blood sustenance that could prove the difference between life and death. “Then you should rest. Even if the madman proves to be some nosfera from the Raavenshal estate, it cannot hurt to be prepared for the worst.” After a moment, he added, “I would rather you face him fully rested, whoever he is.”

  Jeremy turned, a faint smile softening the grim look. “I’m glad to see you and I have returned to our senses, at least somewhat. It strengthens my heart to know you will support me.” He moved from the fire, stepping close and resting his hand on Morgan’s shoulder.

  The heat of that strong hand sent a wave of reassurance through Morgan. Along with that comfort, a tingle of sensation tugged at him, embers to be fanned to a blaze with but a momentary caress.

  “Since you insist, I will go to bed.” Jeremy’s hand slid from Morgan’s shoulder in a passing caress as his master headed for the study door. “Thanks to your efforts earlier, I shouldn’t need to feed again for two days, at the least.”

  Morgan allowed the feeling of Jeremy’s approval to wash over and through him, as it settled in pleasant warmth somewhere at the center of his being. The connection they had shared earlier seemed to whisper to him, though it could not possibly be intact by this point. Besides, his master had promised him there would be no intrusion into Morgan’s mind without his consent. Jeremy Colbourne was a man of his word and would never break such a vow.