Blood Sworn 1: Salva Me Page 17

  But not without taking the monster with him. Assuming the opportunity ever came. He’d counted on Thorven having moments of vulnerability, perhaps while he slept. Perhaps while feeding on the man he thought of as Argyle Holland. Thorven had no such moments. He never slept, and he controlled his Host through torture and sheer physical strength.

  Strength Morgan could never match.

  “What was I thinking?” The whispered words came out hoarse and ragged, and the mere act of talking aloud pulled on the barely clotted wounds of his neck.

  Somehow Laura had withstood this. His fragile daughter had borne such a thing twice and yet still permitted Jeremy to turn her. Bravery beyond measure. Morgan hoped it would carry her through the long years ahead, with none but her newly made nosferii family to protect and care for her. He knew Jeremy would do no less, so perhaps Laura would find some small bit of happiness for herself.

  A wave of pain coursed through Morgan, and he curled into a ball with a gasp. No position offered relief, but this one at least mitigated the nausea. He’d vomited once already and had no wish to repeat the experience. Not in his current state.

  He had to find some means to overcome this debilitation and accomplish the task he came here for. He had courage enough, knowing his death at Thorven’s hands was inevitable. Yet he had not expected the damned nosferatu would be so brutal to his Contracted Host. Nor had he counted on being incapable of doing so much as get out of bed.

  The painful spasms passed after a few moments, but he remained huddled on his side, thinking, praying he would not lose consciousness. He could not afford the oblivion of even restorative sleep. The horror must be ended by him, and soon.

  Even if Argyle Holland’s betrayal had not been the beginning, it had most certainly accelerated the process. So it was beholden upon Morgan to end it.

  “I can’t do anything from this bed,” he muttered, struggling to sit. He’d be damned if he would lie here helpless, doing nothing more than bemoaning his fate. His daughter had managed to fight off the madman twice. Pride would allow Morgan to do no less. And he could not afford to let Jeremy close to this monster. The last one had nearly killed the matchless Baron of Colbourne. How much worse would it be if Jeremy confronted Thorven?

  At last he reached a sitting position. Morgan rested for a moment, fighting for breath, every inch of his body on fire from the poison coursing through him. As he sat, he felt blood seep steadily from the wounds on his neck. Looking about the chamber, his gaze was caught by a standing mirror across the room, reflecting his battered image in harsh mimicry of his agony.

  His eyes skittered away from the sight for a moment. As a result of Thorven’s barbaric feeding technique, Morgan’s chest was liberally splashed with crimson. Looking down, he could just make out the edges of the stains on his thighs, evidence of further cruelty.

  Well, at least I was not inexperienced, he thought, trying in vain to suppress the surge of longing for Jeremy. I don’t know if I could have kept my sanity otherwise. He looked in the mirror a second time and managed the ghost of a smile. What I wouldn’t give to bathe well and have a long soak. The smile vanished. And to sit across from Jeremy in the great bath and discuss matters of the estate. Or even speak about when Lord Liverpool will demand our heads for Thorven’s atrocities.

  Having gained his second wind, Morgan stood, forcing his trembling legs to support him. Whatever else might come, he refused to lie naked in Thorven’s bed any longer. He was a Contracted Host, not some abused mistress.

  And he had to find some weakness to exploit.

  As he stood, the raging heat in his body surged and every nerve seemed afire. The sun’s rays shone through the window, striking the mirror and filling the room with a sudden furnace blast of heat. He staggered for a moment as he reached for his shirt and breeches where they had been scattered about.

  Heat. What had Jeremy said about the fever of overuse? He remembered a scrap of their conversation on the road.

  “…then the tales of vampires being destroyed by sunlight—”

  “—sprang from witnesses to the death throes of a nosferatu after the sun’s warmth pushed the fever beyond recall.”

  Morgan looked out the window at the gray clouds and their shifting patterns. The flares of sun were coming more frequently. Perhaps he could lure Thorven outside when the clouds had gone and the sun was fully exposed. He considered the overcast. It might take a day or two. Or three. Could he hold out that long?

  Even as he questioned himself, the answer came. I must. Whatever it takes.

  In the meantime, he dressed himself, agony shooting through his limbs as he donned each article of clothing. Lifting his shirt, he grimaced at the torn neck and the copious bloodstains coating it. After a moment, he dropped the ruined piece to the carpet. Dressing any further would be useless, given the state of the shirt. Not that it truly mattered whether he was decent or not. He would meet no one but Archibald Thorven in the echoing silence of Raavenshal.

  All the servants had fled Thorven’s presence, even the nosferii and minorii. Fear of their master’s madness had proven greater than their loyalty to the Raavenshal line. Morgan couldn’t imagine what their lives had been like the past few years, knowing what their master had been doing but too terrified and proud to say anything or seek aid.

  Enough thinking. The longer he stood, the more his body screamed for the comfort of oblivious sleep. He forced himself to take a step toward the door, doing his utmost to ignore the agony every movement brought.

  Sweat coated his body by the time he’d reached the ornate double door leading into the hall. The droplets of moisture were stained by the caked blood of his recent injuries, adding yet another layer of red to the top of his breeches. Not that it made much difference, given his overall state.

  His shaking muscles protested as he pulled the door open, though the hinges were well oiled and the door moved easily. He looked down the hallway for any sign of Thorven. If the madman held to any pattern at all, he would be seeking Morgan for a feed sometime in the next two hours.

  By which time Morgan devoutly hoped he had a solution to his dilemma. He had abandoned the man he’d come to love, his refound daughter, and all the friends he had made over the past dozen years. To have done so and then to die before he accomplished the goal he’d sacrificed so much for would be an intolerable shame.

  Morgan worked his way slowly along the hall, using the ornate wainscoting as a handrail of sorts. When he reached the main stair, the sight of the winding descent made him dizzy for a moment, and he clung to the carved raven atop the banister until the floor was once again solid beneath his feet.

  He started down the stairs, focusing on each step as though it would tumble him into an abyss if he missed it. Halfway down, a shudder sliced through the continual tremors as the feel of a now too-familiar stare pierced him. Looking up, he fought against the urge to retreat as he locked eyes with Thorven.

  In a day’s span, Raavenshal’s skin had gone ashen, his blood-rimmed eyes seeming to burn in his face. A trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth suggested a recent feeding. Morgan shuddered to think the nosferatu had been hunting while he slept. But something else could be at work here. Perhaps the monster had begun to hemorrhage inside as he pushed his body past its limits.

  Jeremy had told him long ago the nosferii were as susceptible as any man to injury and death, the blood they fed on being an adaption that worked with their daily provender to keep them healthy. Assuming they fed properly and with regular frequency. While the original infection had nearly exterminated their ancestors, it still lived in their bodies, rendering them vulnerable if they failed to feed. Morgan had never studied medicine, but Jeremy had explained it as something akin to hemophilia, an inability of the blood to clot.

  Perhaps if he held out long enough, Thorven would die of exsanguination as he bled out from his own predatory excesses.

  Morgan forced himself to stand straight, fighting to keep his trembling to a mini
mum. He did not fear Thorven, not precisely, but the last feeding had been almost more than he could tolerate, physically or emotionally.

  “I see you are finally out of bed, Argyle,” said Thorven with that rictus of a smile. “I thought you would sleep until tomorrow.” A flash of lucidity lit his eyes. “Most likely you would prefer to be unconscious at the next feeding.”

  Something obscene colored the words. Morgan could not pinpoint exactly what, but the tone and the implication both suggested vileness and rot.

  “I need a bath,” Morgan replied, choosing to ignore the disturbing insinuation. “I detest wallowing in my own filth.”

  Anger creased Thorven’s brow as blood suffused his white face with splotchy color. “This is not Colbourne Manor, you ass. Haul water like a scullery maid if you want to wash.” He moved up riser by riser, each deliberate step an attempt at intimidation. “It doesn’t matter. You will be filthy again soon enough. Why bother?”

  The leer accompanying the comment scored a hit, though Morgan refused to let it show. “I have an image to maintain, as your Host. Wallowing in blood and other filth does little to support it.”

  The fevered flush rose, as Thorven reached Morgan’s position on the stair. “No one will be stopping by for tea, you bloody fool,” he raged as once again a flash of sanity crossed his face. “You’re well and truly mine, and mine alone. I won’t let you leave. Your blood belongs to me!”

  Morgan held his ground in the face of Thorven’s anger. At times like this, it seemed as though the madman knew he wasn’t Argyle and was playing with him. At others, Thorven’s confusion appeared absolute. A dizzying whirlwind of dangerous contradictions.

  After a moment, the nosferatu turned away from Morgan to retrace his steps back down the stair, though he stumbled a few times. “Have it your way. You always were a little too high in the instep for your own good. You know where the kitchens are. Bathe in there, for all I care.”

  Morgan waited until Thorven had vanished through a door to the right of the stair. With luck, it would be one of the parlors, or perhaps a study. If Raavenshal held to tradition, the sanguis cubiculum would be behind the grand stair. The kitchens would be just beyond.

  Thorven had come close enough that Morgan had been able to feel the fever heat radiating from the nosferatu. The heat had sparked an idea, something that might not require waiting until the dismal weather changed. The madman had told Morgan to bathe in the kitchens, intending insult, but the words had brought to mind the baths at Colbourne Manor and the hypocaust system which heated the water.

  No such system existed here, of course. The idea for the heated bath had come from Jeremy’s Japanese heritage. Morgan recalled how the pipes worked, as they ran beneath the floor to warm the water that filled the great bath and generate the hot air filling the empty space under the floor, heating the ceramic tiles lining the whole room.

  The recollection had given him an idea.

  Like most great houses, Raavenshal boasted a large kitchen that housed an enormous fireplace suitable for cooking large quantities of food for parties and other occasions. Ordinarily only one or two of the ovens would be lit, though the central hearth would stay banked.

  But when all of the great hearth and its attendant ovens were burning, the kitchen became a veritable hellhole for the kitchen staff. If he could get a roaring fire going on the hearths, perhaps he could delay his bathing long enough for Thorven to come get him. Even if the heat didn’t overcome the man at once, it might weaken him long enough for Morgan to use one of the great knives or perhaps throw him into the fire, like Hansel from the old fairy tale.

  * * * *

  Jeremy shoved the papers across his desk with a snarl of frustration. None of the old writings mentioned anything about how to handle a nosferatu who shared a venom base with the nosfera doing the hunting. If he couldn’t find what he needed, he’d have to go in blind and rely on wits and stratagem. The last time he’d fought a nosferatu, Makoto had gotten separated from him, and their fool of a Host had launched himself in front of Jeremy at just the wrong moment.

  He reached up to touch his shoulder, rubbing at the bite mark he’d not had time to fully heal. Morgan had left this second bite right on top of the first, as though without conscious thought. A conundrum to puzzle over once Morgan was safely home and Thorven dead and buried.

  “Are you in pain, danshaku? Should I tend to your injury?”

  After the first shock, Jeremy tried to dissemble. Clearly, Makoto had seen the mark when he’d barged in this morning. Jeremy sighed, thinking he should have known better than to allow the samurai to see his bare skin. The man missed nothing, even when worried. Though Makoto’s voice radiated firm concern, a sign the samurai would not tolerate deception, Jeremy had no intention of discussing this particular situation with his faithful retainer. Makoto may have raised him, but certain topics should be taboo. “It’s nothing. I slept wrong.”

  “I do not believe you, danshaku,” Makoto answered, his voice reflecting his words. “This is not the time for you to make such protests.”

  Irritation settled on Jeremy’s shoulders along with everything else, making his nerves far too brittle to be tolerant. “Whether you believe me or not has no bearing on this conversation. The matter is not for discussion.”

  “All matters must be discussed now, Takeshi-bocchan!” Anger and another, stronger emotion colored Makoto’s voice.

  Almost as soon as he erupted, Makoto had himself under control again. “Forgive me, danshaku,” he said, bowing deeply. His cheeks and ears burned red with embarrassment.

  Jeremy turned away and pulled his shirt off, keeping his back to his retainer until he was certain Makoto had regained his composure. When Jeremy turned around again, Makoto had returned to his usual calm facade, though his eyes still reflected his discomposure.

  “You haven’t forgotten your keigo in many years, Makoto. What worries you, that you would lose your face and polite speech in such a fashion?”

  Relief filled Makoto’s eyes at the understanding. “I am anxious about Holland-san. His decision was commendable but unwise. Such a bite suggests a mind in chaos.”

  After a moment’s consideration, Jeremy realized Makoto wished to assure himself the bites were not the result of a frenzied attack. Feeling like a schoolboy caught doing something dirty by his mother, Jeremy nodded at Makoto to approach and examine his shoulder.

  Gentle fingers probed at the tender point. While he’d cast a swift glance at the mirror as he dressed in haste, the only thing Jeremy could say for certain was that the marks had not disappeared as swiftly as was usual. Those trailing fingers lingered for a moment, almost caressing the bites, and then Makoto stepped back, his expression showing more confusion rather than satisfaction or concern.

  “These marks, danshaku, they resemble those of recently turned minorii.” Makoto began pacing the floor, a clear sign of agitation in the usually imperturbable samurai. “During the turning, did you exchange the full amount of the changed venom? Is it possible a portion remained within Holland-san?” The questioning glance after the words felt weighted with unspoken supposition.

  An odd question, one Jeremy had to ponder at length. After thorough consideration, he realized he could not provide any definitive answer. He said as much. “In truth, I cannot fully recall the turning with any precision. I was too wrapped up in—well, in what came after.”

  Makoto did not seem in the least surprised. “You had found your true partner, your tamashī no hanryo. Such a thing would obscure all else, danshaku.” Makoto stopped his pacing to stare up at the bookshelves lining Jeremy’s office. “There is something else to consider. Holland-san is yutakana hosuto, is he not? The legends hint of more than just bountiful blood.”

  Jeremy’s first thought was an outright denial. Such stories were bedtime fare for young nosferii children. Tales of the bountiful Hosts, who changed from human to nosfera out of love for their masters. Patent impossibilities.

  Makoto mu
st have seen the refusal on Jeremy’s face, for he reached up to pull an old history book from the shelf. One of the oldest treatises on the development cycles of the minorii, written by an ancient Japanese physician.

  “Danshaku, do you recall this work by Hisagawa-sensei?”

  “Yes, though I haven’t looked at it in many years. Dr. Hisagawa laid out the first principles regarding the proper handling of the minorii after a turning.”

  “He also discusses the theories behind the tales of the yutakana hosuto. Perhaps the tales had a basis in fact.” Makoto cradled the book, a pensive frown creasing his forehead. “You should complete your preparations, danshaku. I will prepare my yumi and read Hisagawa-sensei’s work.” He turned to leave but stopped at the threshold. “I will send for Master Carter, as well. If things do not go well, you must have a compatible Host. He can at least meet such a low standard.”

  Jeremy could think of nothing to say, though he did manage a nod. The last thing he needed was Will Carter and his persistent requests to become the Colbourne Host. Jeremy did not want to consider the possibility of losing Morgan. He had no desire to make anyone other than Morgan his Host, but Makoto had the right of it; Carter was indeed compatible, despite his irritating personality.

  As Jeremy watched Makoto leave, he considered the shocking suggestion his retainer had left behind. He’d thought those bites of Morgan’s were merely aggression, driven by unstable emotions after the turning. What if Makoto’s suppositions were correct? What if the turning had been incomplete, as least as far as his Host’s condition? Would it change anything?

  The legends Makoto had referred to were nothing more than nosferii children’s fairy tales, no different from normal humans’ stories of princesses being woken from sleep or frogs turning into princes by the kiss of their true love. Bedtime stories for sweet dreams.