Blood Sworn 1: Salva Me Page 18

  Yet the treatise in Makoto’s hand had been written by a respected physician, the man who’d laid the foundation of all medical treatment pertaining to the nosferii minorii. If Hisagawa had considered the possibility of such a pure turning, perhaps the fairy tales had more substance than not.

  He shook the thoughts away and turned back to his own work. While they dithered, Morgan languished in Raavenshal Keep, subject to Thorven’s twisted mind. Given the state of the most recent corpses on the roads to Colbourne Manor, Jeremy could only hope whatever impulse had driven Thorven to summon Morgan would also keep Morgan alive. Whether that would be a blessing or a curse was anyone’s guess.

  Settling once more before the papers strewn across his desk blotter, Jeremy considered the best approach. The boy James had come from one of the Colbourne villages, so Jeremy had no way of knowing what his hunters faced, or whether Thorven had subverted others at the Keep to the ways of the nosferatu.

  The last madman Jeremy had encountered had been someone from the outlying towns of Sussex. He had not pursued the possibility of the madman belonging to the Raavenshal clan. Such distinctions had been unimportant at the time, since all nosferatu wisdom stated the monsters were crazed individuals addicted to the venom burn. Now, though, knowing Thorven had been preying on people in such a fashion brought everything he understood about nosferatii into question.

  How could the man have visited Jeremy just a few days ago and not shown any indication of advanced mental disarray? Thorven’s pallor and physical exhaustion could have been seen in any nosfera noble handling such devastation on his lands. Moreover, how could the bastard come and sit in Jeremy’s study to speak of his own crimes as though he were the victim rather than the perpetrator? The questions made Jeremy’s gut burn with anger at such use of his hospitality.

  As he scanned the old building plans for Raavenshal Keep, he spied a small side passage by the back gardens. It looked to lead into the lower storerooms beneath the kitchen.

  “That will do quite well,” he muttered to himself, allowing his fangs to descend as the hunter in him rejoiced. “Your killing days are over, Archibald Thorven.”

  As he spoke the words, the urge to strike immediately rose to the fore, and he ruthlessly pushed it back. This time he would go in fully prepared. Morgan’s life was at stake; he would not risk an overhasty stroke, not again. He’d lost one Host to such a miscalculation. He would not lose another.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The logs on the great hearth began to burn steadily as Morgan fed the flames with wood and assorted twigs from the kindling basket. His face was slick with perspiration, and his head swam with the effort to stay alert. The huge fireplace had been cold when he’d entered, and he had been forced to lay a fresh fire. It had taken him the good part of an hour to bring about the strong flames that now forced the shadows to the deep recesses of the hearth.

  It would be another hour more before the fire burned hot enough to flood the kitchen with the heat he sought. For now, though, it warmed the large room a fraction and brought some comfort to his aching body.

  But he needed the scorching temperatures of a great fire, so he continued to add wood and prod at the glowing logs with the poker. Thankfully none of the stored faggots were damp; everything caught fire immediately, the heart of the wood glowing orange as the flames invaded.

  Sweat coated every inch of him, making him glad he’d left his shirt behind in the room. His breeches clung to his legs with a cloying stickiness, and the stains had grown darker and more prominent.

  The wound on his neck still seeped blood, though the trickle had slowed considerably. He stood for a moment, fighting the nausea that had become a constant companion. As he looked around the kitchen, he spied a corner door he hoped led to a cold room. He needed meat, and beer or malt, anything that would give him strength for the coming trials. Crossing the room, Morgan opened the door onto a short flight of steps leading to precisely the room he’d hoped. He exited a moment later with everything he needed, as well as some old cheesecloth to clean with after he’d eaten.

  He ate slowly, trying to minimize the pain. Every bite and swallow sent a dagger through his neck as the brutalized tissues protested each movement. Even when he’d torn away from Jeremy, his neck had not been in as much agony.

  Well, if God and that fickle mistress Luck were both with him, it would soon be over. One way or another. And hopefully, Thorven would be finished as well. Morgan took a final bite and then rested his head on his arms for a moment. Yes, one way or another, it would end.

  He sat up, momentarily sated, and headed for the side door, cheesecloth in hand. The rain barrel should have sufficient water to wash in. Forgoing hot water would be hard, but after stoking the fireplace, he had no energy left to haul water between the rain barrel and the hearth. Cold water would suffice and perhaps clear his hazing senses.

  Morgan shivered a bit as he cleaned the blood from his skin, wincing as he dabbed at the torn flesh of his neck. When he reached the waist of his breeches, he stripped them away with care, every movement a stark reminder of what had just passed, and what would soon follow if he failed.

  By the time he had finished with his ablutions and reentered the kitchens, the large room had become the furnace he’d hoped for. The fire crackled and roared in the great hearth, and waves of scalding heat billowed out from the large recessed ovens. He stood for a moment, basking in the sensation, perspiration sliding over his chilled skin as the warmth sent a shudder of pleasure through him.

  Soon. Yes, very soon, he hoped. He’d prettied himself up, so to speak, though he very much doubted Thorven cared if his prey smelled fair or foul. Perhaps even such a small thing would cause the madman to relax his vigilance. After all, hadn’t Morgan cleaned himself just for his master? He could only hope Thorven’s twisted mind would think such a thing and make Morgan’s task that much easier.

  Exhaustion settled in as his aching head swam with the effort of staying upright. He collapsed onto one of the benches by the hearth corners and leaned forward to rest against his knees. He dreaded what he faced. It had to be done, but by God how he wished it all back. Wished the monster had no connection with him. Almost, he wished they had never found Laura. But only almost.

  Laura’s discovery had brought him to accept the one thing he had denied since he’d met Jeremy. To save her life, he had finally thrown away his misbegotten pride and uncovered the truth of what had led him to abandon his home, his family. He loved the Baron of Colbourne, had done so since he’d found him bleeding to death on a Sussex country road. However novel his discovery of the nosferii had been, he’d never truly forgotten; he’d run away, that was all. He’d fallen in love with a man at first sight and been too damn stubborn to admit to such a thing. A coward, that was what he’d been—and what he still was, to admit to it only after abandoning his family yet again.

  “Time to get this over with,” he whispered as a different pain flooded him. He would give anything for the ability to touch Jeremy’s mind once again. I miss you, Master—Takeshi. I love you.

  In his desperation, he fancied he could hear Jeremy’s answer— “It’s about bloody time you admitted it, Hostia Aeternus. You should have said so sooner.”

  The kitchen door slammed open, and Morgan looked up to see Thorven advancing on him, bloody eyes filled with utter madness. As he watched, the green ichor of venom dripped from the corners of the nosferatu’s mouth, mixing with the blood collected there. A violent tremor shook the gaunt frame, though the madman crossed the kitchen with frightening speed.

  Morgan groaned as Thorven’s bruising grip pulled him into a crushing embrace. Then those needle-sharp fangs ripped through his brutalized neck in a vicious bite, tearing a scream of agony from him. The burn of Thorven’s concentrated venom ate into Morgan, and panic set in as he realized the nosferatu meant to kill.

  JEREMY SLAMMED INTO the brick-lined wall of the side passage as Morgan’s pain sliced through his head. Moments before, he
’d felt the incredible touch of their mental link, something that should be impossible without direct contact. The link vanished abruptly, cut off within seconds of the agonized cry echoing past the wooden door in front of him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of lacquered black as Makoto brought his bow to bear, holding steady aim on the door. The deadly yumi was the samurai’s weapon of choice, followed next by his katana and the smaller wakizashi. The two swords could wreak havoc up close but interfered with Jeremy when he grappled with their quarry.

  “Steady, danshaku,” Makoto whispered.

  Jeremy did not need the reminder, but the spoken words helped guide the pounding rage flooding him. The muscles in his jaw ached as he controlled his fangs by sheer instinct.

  This had always been the most dangerous part of his duties; hunting nosferatii required the use of the mind link for control, and the use of the powerful Colbourne venom for the final blow.

  He had always feared the last. The heavy responsibility of using his natural defenses against his own kind, to administer a lethal dose of the nosferii toxin—it came too close to becoming the thing he pursued. It was why he always had others with him, particularly Makoto, the only nosfera, minore or otherwise, who could bring him back from the killing rage with any safety.

  But now he welcomed the feeling. Welcomed it and looked forward to it. The beast inside him that had arisen at the turning now slavered for vengeance on the man who had taken Jeremy’s Host. His tamashī no hanryo. His soul mate.

  The monster had dared drink of the blood source that belonged to Jeremy alone. Worse yet, it terrified him to think of Thorven violating Morgan physically, stealing the exquisite gift Morgan had so recently yielded.

  And if Jeremy found Morgan dead…

  Even Makoto might not be able to keep Jeremy from tearing Thorven limb from limb.

  He forced his mind to focus, giving a nod to Makoto, who flattened against the wall of the passage, yumi still pointed at the door. One of his minore hunters slid forward to grasp the door handle, turning the knob slowly for absolute silence. Jeremy allowed a tiny drop of venom to drip onto his tongue, shuddering in distaste at the noxious burn.

  Within seconds he felt the burn reach his tensed muscles, and his surroundings took on an unnatural clarity. Despite the low light, he could see perfectly, scent and sound also equally enhanced.

  He could now smell the sweet fragrance of Morgan’s blood—heavily tainted, almost saturated with Thorven’s poison. A growl rumbled low in his throat, and he fought the temptation to relinquish control of his civilized self. That control was the only thing separating him from the monsters he hunted, more necessary to his task than any other weapon he could bring to bear.

  At the sound of his anger, however, the hunter at the door flung it wide open, and Jeremy launched himself through the gap as fast as he could move. Behind him, he could hear the others follow, as well as the whistle of an arrow leaving Makoto’s bow. The missile sang through the air and sank deeply into Thorven’s shoulder, forcing him to relinquish his prey.

  With surreal slowness, Morgan sank to the floor, skin ghastly pale beneath the blood that ran from his savaged throat. Jeremy forced himself to ignore his heart, which wanted nothing more than to hold his Host close to his chest. Instead, he focused on Thorven while the hunters moved swiftly to guard the exits. Makoto dashed to Morgan’s side.

  “You always were too fond of your Hosts, Colbourne.” Thorven’s voice echoed with contempt. He appeared unaffected by the arrow wound, yanking the shaft out with complete unconcern. His eyes burned with the mad rage of the uncontrolled animal lust that had nearly destroyed the early nosferii. “You never did learn.” A bloody leer followed. “You should try it sometime.”

  “I have no desire to do so. You know that.” As Jeremy said the words, he tried to reach out, to connect with Thorven’s depraved mind. He hated doing this, despising the unclean feel of the nosferatii thoughts. He caught a glimpse, and then the mental door slammed shut, leaving him reeling from the horror of the lust, the hunger driving Thorven.

  A sneering grin met his efforts. “You can’t reach my thoughts, Jeremy. I know the feel of your mind.” Thorven licked his lips. “Didn’t we touch each other so intimately before?” A laugh followed. “Why deny yourself? We are natural predators, and they are only our food.”

  It wasn’t the first time Jeremy had heard such taunts. Each hunt, his nosferatu targets had similar words for him. Yet this time the words touched him, drawing out his rage. His usual detachment was missing. This time, his quarry had done the unthinkable and attacked the wrong man. Had taken something precious, something that belonged to Jeremy.

  “How long have you been nosferatu, Arch?” With his heightened senses, he could see, hear, and smell the decay. Thorven’s fever reached Jeremy even from where he stood, despite the heat from the kitchen. The man was fast approaching the critical point just before dissolution. With any luck, it would slow Thorven’s movements enough for Jeremy to accomplish his grisly task.

  He moved forward deliberately, keeping his pace even, controlling his fury. Jeremy reached out one last time, hoping to find some means of control. “How long have you hunted those loyal families who have served Raavenshal for centuries?”

  As he spoke, he insinuated one thought, slipping through the crack left by Thorven’s arrogance. “Relax. Relax, and drop your guard.”

  Thorven’s laugh sent a chill down Jeremy’s spine.

  “How long? Forever. Didn’t you realize? You, the great nosferatu hunter, the Baron of Colbourne, the nosfera oath sworn to hunt me. We have always been your prey, as these pathetic humans are ours.”

  Shock shook the venom-burn from Jeremy’s body. Forever? He’d never realized. Nor had any of his ancestors. The knowledge handed down through the years had never suggested such a thing was possible: that one of the oldest nosfera families had been hunting undetected for a millennium. The mind connection vanished beneath his horror.

  “You’re surprised.” Thorven reached Jeremy’s side with the speed only venom-enhanced muscles could match, defying his debilitated appearance. “You always were too concerned with your ancestral duty to hunt us. Not to mention your misguided notions of civilized society. Did you never wonder why we have such gifts? Question why we should deny ourselves?”

  “Never.”

  Thorven seemed momentarily taken aback by Jeremy’s unequivocal refuting of such thoughts. His bravado faltered at last, his breath coming in great gasps as his overheated body struggled to maintain itself.

  Jeremy pressed his advantage. “Never,” he repeated. “Humans are too precious to us. Without them, we would die out from hunger and attrition.” He triggered another tiny drop of the venom, needing to reinstate the excruciatingly clear awareness of his surroundings. He could not afford to drop his guard, not now. He took a cautious step forward. “The Council will hear about this. Raavenshal will fall, and the name will be stricken from the Council rolls.”

  Thorven licked his bloodied lips, and Jeremy could see and smell the tarnished copper of Morgan’s lifeblood. His glance strayed to the great fireplace, where Morgan lay not far from the soot-covered bricks of the hearth. Makoto had fashioned a makeshift bandage, but the gray hue of Morgan’s face sent a shaft of ice through Jeremy’s heart.

  He averted his eyes, bringing his attention to bear on Thorven once more. His distraction had cost him precious seconds, though—seconds that were an eternity to a nosferatu. Thorven tackled him with a snarl, fangs fully bared and dripping with venom.

  As they grappled, Jeremy could smell the decay beneath the toxin. More than that, the fetid odor of decomposition suggested Thorven’s body had begun the dissolution process. Those deadly fangs closed in on Jeremy’s neck, and he threw himself backward, feeling the dripping points burn his skin.

  Thorven licked his bloodied teeth, tearing through the flesh of his tongue. Jeremy shuddered at the sight of the gash, watching in horror as bloo
dy pus oozed from the wound.

  Morgan had been tainted by that rot. Bitten, raped, and deeply poisoned. Jeremy’s red rage began to burn once more, and he bared his own fangs, pushed beyond his control.

  “Yes, yesss…”

  The hissing voice in his head invaded him, finding its way in through his anger, seeking out his memories of Morgan and savoring them with a sick delight.

  “So you bound him to you, did you? You never let me know your heart that well.”

  Stumbling against the long table, Jeremy flinched at the snarl of outrage Thorven loosed inside his head. Who was Thorven angry at? He steadied himself, trying to drive out the invasion, fighting the confused images of Morgan/not-Morgan flooding through.

  “Too insolent to know his place.” A ghoulish smile crossed Thorven’s bloodied lips. “I punished him, though,” Thorven added almost conversationally. “You won’t want him back now.”

  Jeremy cried out in horror as visions of Thorven feeding on Morgan filled his mind. He sank to his knees, desperately trying not to see, not to hear, not to feel the sickening act.

  “This is what I did to him,” the unwelcome presence said. “See it. Taste it. His blood was thickened by pain. I drew out his terror against his will. I took his body the same way.”

  Thorven’s hand grabbed Jeremy’s hair, the scorching contact forcing the images deeper.

  Morgan’s flesh rending beneath fangs that ripped instead of pierced. His writhing body pinned beneath Thorven’s weight, screaming in agony as his captor forcibly entered him, mind and body. Poison flooding Morgan as Thorven fed. Sharpened nails clawing Morgan’s back, thighs, and stomach, digging into the already shredded flesh of his neck.

  Thorven’s exhilaration at the taste of primal fear. The unparalleled double sensation of unending pain and terror. The manic glee of pumping venom into struggling prey while both cock and fangs pierced unwilling flesh. The overwhelming sweetness of blood soaked in agony.