Blood Sworn 1: Salva Me Read online

  Jeremy couldn’t think. For the first time in his life, he could find no path out of this darkness. His heart had been deeply wounded before, but not like this. Not this soul-rending desolation he felt now.

  “Kare wa watashi o suteta,” he whispered, stricken. “Watashi no yutakana hosuto.”

  “He has not abandoned you, danshaku,” Makoto said from the doorway. “He is too honorable to do such a thing.” Unabashed fury rang clear in Makoto’s voice. “He is more than yutakana hosuto, more than the bountiful Host of legend. He is tamashī no hanryo, soul mate, your other half. You must trust in him, danshaku.”

  Makoto’s unexpected scolding woke Jeremy from his immobility. Whether his faithful retainer had the right of it or spoke only from his heart’s belief, none of it mattered. Morgan had gone to Thorven. Regardless of the reason, it meant his beloved Host was in danger, a fact that only made Jeremy’s task harder.

  “Forgive my weakness, Makoto,” he said with a bitter smile. “I am far too old for such self-pity.”

  “Perhaps, danshaku,” Makoto said, his calm returning somewhat. “I am here to guide you, as always.”

  Jeremy nodded, already considering his options. “Can we assume Thorven is at Raavenshal?”

  “Yes.” Makoto turned, gesturing toward the door. “As you ordered, I spoke with the night footman. A young boy delivered a message to Holland-san last night, before he retired.”

  Last night? Then Morgan had planned everything, including the achingly tender seduction. “Is the boy still here?”

  “Hai.” Makoto summoned the shadows hovering in the doorway.

  Mrs. Croft and Arthur entered the study, the boy in question unsteady on his feet as he accompanied them.

  “This young man is James Tarlton, my lord,” said the housekeeper. “Master Holland asked me to care for him. He said the lad was a victim of the nosferatu. His neck is gravely injured, and he has lost a lot of blood. Mistress Ellen tried to help him, but he would not let her near.”

  Jeremy looked at the boy, who faced him in abject terror. James had clearly been raised in the nosferii community—he evinced no confusion over what had happened to him. He was simply frightened beyond measure.

  Rather than calling the child to come to him, Jeremy walked toward the lad, distressed to see the boy’s trembling increase as he neared. He stopped a foot away, kneeling so he would appear less daunting. “You do not need to be afraid here, James. I will not hurt you. My responsibility is to see the one who did will never do so again.” Jeremy waited a moment to let his words sink in. “You have been badly hurt, but I must tend to your wounds. Will you allow me to help you?”

  After a tense moment, the boy nodded, though he clung to Mrs. Croft’s skirts like a child much younger than his years.

  Jeremy unwound the bandages and clenched his jaw painfully when he saw the ragged wounds Thorven had left on the boy. The injuries were reminiscent of those he himself had inflicted on Morgan, when Morgan had pulled away a few weeks ago.

  This child was far too small and weak to do the same with an adult nosfera, despite how well grown he was for his age. Particularly when that nosfera was so far gone in venom-madness he’d become nosferatu. No, the horrific gashes had been made with deliberate intent.

  “You’ve been very strong to come this far with such an injury.” Jeremy considered a moment. Likely the boy came from the area, either from Thorven’s estate or Colbourne lands. “Do you know who I am?”

  After a long stare, the boy answered Jeremy with a nod.

  “Then you should know I keep my word, correct?”

  Another nod.

  “The Master of Raavenshal did this to you, did he not?” He kept his voice as level as he could, but his outrage crept in nonetheless.

  “Y-yes, my lord,” James managed at last. The trembling had gone, replaced by weariness and the faintest modicum of trust. “He found m-me on the r-road,” the boy started, and then stopped to draw a deep breath. Doing so clearly pained him, but when he released it, his voice was steadier. “He found me on the road from Ashton Village, my lord.”

  One of Jeremy’s own, then. He examined the boy carefully, looking for even the smallest signs of sepsis. He saw none. Now for the next step. “The wounds will not heal without the second bite, James. You know this, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” The whisper barely reached Jeremy’s ears, even as close as he knelt.

  “Will you allow me to bite you?”

  James nodded with a jerk, but his gaze skittered about the room to look at the assembled crowd.

  Jeremy understood at once. “Arthur, Mrs. Croft, will you step out of the room for a moment?” He returned his attention to James. “You know me, so I assume you know this gentleman.”

  A faint note of pride crept into the boy’s face. “Yes, Lord Colbourne. He is your retainer, one of those warriors from Japan.” At Jeremy’s nod, he continued. “He’s minore too, and one of your hunters.”

  “Good lad. Now, stand up on this chair. It will be easier for me to do what is necessary. Makoto will stand beside you to see you do not fall.”

  Makoto’s presence was more to prevent the boy from struggling, in case his panic from earlier reasserted itself. The samurai had sufficient strength to hold James still long enough for Jeremy to deliver the sealing bite. Moreover, most of the village boys were fascinated by Makoto, so the lad might stay still just to appear strong to the notorious warrior.

  James scrambled up, with some assistance from his hero. The corners of Makoto’s mouth twitched as though he had quashed a smile. Understandable. Jeremy’s lips fought to do the same thing.

  “Then, shall we count to ten?”

  “Not three?”

  “No, ten is much better for this,” Jeremy replied blandly, nodding to Makoto.

  Makoto stood out of the boy’s range of vision and lifted his handkerchief to his mouth to wet it. He began dabbing at the boy’s neck with the damp cloth. The lad flinched but then stood rock steady.

  Jeremy gave him an approving smile. “Let’s begin, then. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.”

  When they said the last number, James shut his eyes tightly, and Jeremy sank his fangs into that fragile neck as swiftly as he dared. He could feel the faintest tremble underneath his hands, and his heart wrenched at the boy’s fear.

  Jeremy finished in less time than it had taken them to count. “Done. You did very well, James. Thank you for being so brave.”

  “Come, James-kun,” Makoto said, helping the boy off the chair. “You should rest now. I will advise Mistress Croft to bring you a pleasant treat if you sleep well.”

  Jeremy watched the pair leave the room; his dark mood lightened a bit as he saw the boy attempting to be someone worthy of Makoto’s notice. Well, Jeremy had been young once. And he had admired his loyal retainer just as much.

  Paper crunched underfoot, catching his unwilling attention. He picked up the discarded foolscap, running his gaze over the unwelcome message. It read like a final farewell, though the scrap bore no words of affection or attachment.

  But why? Why seduce him with love and then sneak away like a thief in the night, leaving Jeremy to suffer the slow madness of a Contract that had not been unbound?

  Unless Morgan knew this would end in death.

  With reluctance, Jeremy turned back to his desk, to where the Skin-Bound Book lay open to those names. Looking them over, he considered each entry in turn.

  James. Clearly, that referred to James Tarlton, the young boy who had just left.

  Julie Holland. Morgan’s wife. Stephen Holland, Morgan’s son. Both victims of the nosferatu, if Laura spoke truly.

  Laura Holland, though alive, had most definitely fallen prey to the monster.

  The note Jeremy held said where Morgan stood.

  “Archibald Thorven is my true master.”

  Jeremy’s breath caught at the terrible understanding. Morgan had left to act as Thorven’s Host. Doing so would gi
ve Morgan the intimacy needed to find and act on a perceived weakness. Even so, even if he managed to destroy Thorven, it would still have but one ending.

  Morgan’s death.

  One question needed an answer. Who was Argyle Holland?

  Jeremy considered for a moment, and a thought began to grow. On the road here, Morgan had mentioned his grandfather being summoned to the main hall at Raavenshal. Argyle Holland, perhaps?

  It was almost a quarter-century past now, but Jeremy recalled the rumor that had reached his ears about Archibald Thorven’s Host at the time. The one who had broken Contract and left immediately after. He’d never heard the name of the man, but the nosferii circles had been abuzz with the tale. Thorven’s arrogance had been at its peak then, so Jeremy had fully believed the rumor. Archibald had always been hard on his Hosts, believing them little more than a source of sustenance and sexual satiation.

  Considering Morgan’s attitude toward what came after the feed, Jeremy could well imagine what someone from the Holland family might have said with regard to any nosfera’s appetite, let alone the distorted self-important beliefs of the Raavenshal clan.

  It had been about the time Thorven had approached Jeremy to renew their friendship. Jeremy had never asked for a reason and Thorven had never mentioned anything, beyond apologizing for his behavior. The matter that had once come between them had never been touched on afterward, though Jeremy had been pleased to see Thorven’s new Host being treated with more dignity.

  So what had caused Thorven to fall so deeply into the abyss of madness? If Argyle Holland had once been the Raavenshal Host, his decampment had made a positive change, at least at first.

  “Danshaku?”

  Jeremy started at the sound of Makoto’s voice. Lost in thought, he had forgotten Makoto would return after seeing James safely in the care of Mrs. Croft. He struggled to return his features to their usual serenity. Makoto had seen him at his best and his worst, but always expected Jeremy to present a suitable face regardless of the turmoil in his heart. When he looked up, Makoto’s impassive expression bore the faintest hint of approval.

  “Have you considered your words from earlier, danshaku?”

  “Yes. I apologize for my hasty words. You are correct; Morgan Holland is a man of honor. He would never abandon us unless in dire need.” As he spoke, the reality of the morning finally settled and another question arose. “Why are you here? You could have sent word with one of the others.”

  “Forgive my impertinence, danshaku,” Makoto answered, his eyes reflecting his troubled mind. “Laura-san spoke of the first time Raavenshal attacked. He wished to find Holland-san and became enraged to find him gone. That is when Raavenshal killed Holland-san’s wife and son. His attack was swift and merciless. Yet he took his time with Laura-san, feeding first, which allowed her to escape.”

  Jeremy considered this. “Then he deliberately sought her out to try again. If Morgan is his true target, though, why not approach him directly?”

  “Perhaps he has, danshaku. The boy said he brought Holland-san a note.”

  “Then Thorven summoned Morgan, and he went.”

  “Hai. It is what I think also, danshaku.”

  “So what message drove him to leave?” Jeremy’s fingers lingered on the names in the book. “Why take such a step alone?”

  “Perhaps he seeks to regain his honor by this.”

  Makoto’s words pierced Jeremy’s heart like an arrow made of ice. Makoto was correct. Of all Morgan’s virtues, veracity and honor were paramount. He never lied. And he never broke his word. Breaking Contract in such a way would be a violation of Morgan’s most treasured values.

  Then a disturbing thought settled on Jeremy’s heart like a stone. Was Morgan atoning for the sin of abandoning his daughter? Or for the sin of his grandfather in breaking Contract?

  “Makoto, do you recall the stories of Thorven’s runaway Host?”

  The samurai’s expression was grim. “Hai, danshaku.” Something about Makoto’s answer suggested more than just that simple response. “There were rumors the Contract was not properly dissolved.”

  Shocked, Jeremy stared at Makoto, unable to find words for a moment. “In what way?”

  “Among the Raavenshal minorii, it was said the young master’s Host left service but did not unbind the Contract with mutual agreement. When they were sent to retrieve him, they were turned away by his family, who said they knew nothing of the matter.”

  The Contract had not been unbound? Jeremy sank into the chair behind him, unable to maintain his balance for the moment. All the air he needed to breathe had been stolen by Makoto’s words.

  Everything now fit perfectly, but understanding did not make his next choice any easier. “Then Morgan has gone to kill Thorven,” he said at last, and his voice shook. He disregarded the loss to his dignity, so greatly did he rue what he must say next. “He must have decided the task was his alone, for his family is responsible for the creation of the nosferatu.”

  “Please explain, danshaku.”

  Makoto’s voice was as steady as Jeremy’s was not. Moreover, it carried the stern tones the samurai had once used to school a wayward young nosfera into obedience.

  “Thorven’s missing Host must have been Argyle Holland, Morgan’s grandfather.” Jeremy drew a breath. Makoto, being minore, would not know the full consequences of the situation. Breaking Contract without a proper unbinding between Host and nosfera was bad form under the best of circumstances. But for the nobles, the purebloods, it could literally be a matter of life or death. Or madness. “For those of us with the pure bloodlines, Makoto, the creation of the Contract involves a compulsion on both sides. When the Contract is not unbound, the compulsion often leads to suicide or madness for both Host and nosfera.”

  Comprehension crossed Makoto’s face. “Then Holland-san’s grandfather breaking the Contract is the reason Raavenshal became chi no akuma.”

  “Yes.”

  “So Holland-san has gone to regain his family’s honor.”

  Jeremy said nothing. Honor was one of the two virtues closest to Morgan’s heart and to his pride as a man. If he had to choose honor over truth, he would choose honor. Always. This particular attribute had caused Morgan to make their first informal Contract a binding commitment.

  “Danshaku, Holland-san does not have the strength to fight Raavenshal. I do not wish to see him harmed.”

  An unusual comment for Makoto, who rarely expressed strong attachments. Though Jeremy and Makoto had both seen almost three centuries pass, Makoto had already been a man grown when he was made minore. When Jeremy had been born a decade later, Keiko Yamakawa had given her precious son into the care of the samurai, trusting him to raise the heir to a British barony with all the virtues of a Japanese daimyō.

  And not once in all the years Jeremy had Contracted with his Hosts had Makoto suggested anything close to affection for any of them. Yet now his concern carried the unmistakable warmth of friendship and respect.

  “Then will you help me retrieve him? I would rather have you with me for this task than any of my other hunters.”

  “With respect, danshaku, I would not stay behind, even if you ordered it so.”

  “Then go and prepare.”

  “Hai, danshaku.” Makoto gave Jeremy a formal bow and left, practically running down the halls.

  Jeremy stared after the samurai for a moment, then leaned his head against the cushioned back of his chair. Had it really been a mere five days since they’d found Laura Holland? It seemed like much, much longer. In such a short span, his life had undergone more turmoil than at any time he could recall.

  Considering the strength of Thorven’s venom addiction, their preparations must be thorough. Unfortunately, that meant careful planning and at least a day wasted, with the man he loved in the hands of a monster. The necessary delay terrified Jeremy, but they had no chance of rescuing his stolen Host otherwise.

  If he couldn’t bring Morgan home safely, he didn’t want to
return at all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Morgan groaned as a fleeting ray of sunshine blazed through smudged windows bared by wide-open draperies. The blessed grayness of the overcast sky beyond soothed his fiery nerves, but the glare through the occasional gap in the clouds proved excruciating. He lifted an arm to cover his eyes, wincing as the movement jolted the raw flesh of his neck.

  His neck wasn’t the only raw part of him, but at the moment, it hurt the most. As for the other area, well, he avoided thinking of it as best he could. He endured it, he bore it, but he did not think about it. Moreover, he had worse miseries to manage, though just the day before he had considered the sexual matter the most unpalatable part of the whole business.

  He had been wrong. So very wrong.

  He’d believed he could handle a mere feeding. After all, it was what he had done every nine days for a dozen years and been none the worse for wear. Now he knew what truly drove the legend of the vampire, the nosferatu, that hell-spawned devil who drank blood and devoured souls.

  Archibald Thorven, Master of Raavenshal, noble nosfera of a long family line, was more than mad. His insane depravity had to have started well before he had been abandoned by Argyle Holland. The obscenities seemed to have no end. Morgan no longer wondered why his grandfather had broken Contract and fled.

  Morgan had been shocked the first time Jeremy had touched him—the first time he’d realized the sex afterward was a traditional part of nosferii society. He had expected the normal postfeed transaction with Thorven.

  To his horror, Thorven didn’t just feed and make love afterward—he fed brutally in the midst of satisfying a savage sexual appetite. If this was how he’d treated Morgan’s grandfather, the marvel was not that Argyle had left but that he’d managed to stay as long as he had. Worse, Thorven’s behavior suggested he had been killing for years beyond count.

  More horrifying still, Thorven poisoned his Host while he fed. Not enough for the kill but enough to disable. The burn of his venom seared Morgan from the inside out. He’d thought himself in unadulterated misery during the turning. This was far, far worse. The agony of Thorven’s venom coursing through him made Morgan physically ill. It made him welcome the thought of death.