Blood Sworn 1: Salva Me Read online

  Jeremy shoved at Thorven to get him out of his mind, trying to shut the rest of the visions away, but they would scar his memory forever. He staggered to his feet and wrenched free of Thorven’s grasp, breaking the mental contact at last.

  Jeremy drew his breath in great gasps; he had forgotten to breathe under the assault of those barbaric memories. Through the haze of his horror, he could hear the other hunters arguing to attack, hear Makoto’s powerful denial.

  If he could not end this soon, he would have to call on the others. He could see Thorven gathering his strength, and Jeremy wasn’t certain he could withstand another mental barrage. Somehow, his enemy had gotten the upper hand. Jeremy was at a disadvantage; without direct contact, he could not control Thorven’s thoughts. Yet he absolutely refused to probe any deeper into the filthy morass of that leprous mind.

  He did not want to use his hunters. They were there to prevent escape, but that was all. Facing the nosferatii was too dangerous for anyone but those with the proper blood. Only Makoto could directly aid him, from longstanding familiarity and a unique mental bond. Yes, it must be finished soon.

  Jeremy forced himself to straighten and look Thorven in the eyes—though the effort cost him—and prepared for one more round. He had to find a way to keep Thorven’s vile memories at bay.

  “Still so stubborn, Jeremy,” Thorven said, sneering. “So honor bound to do your duty. I’m what you fear to be,” Thorven gloated. “What all of you are too afraid to be. What you’re too weak to embrace.” His bloody sneer widened. “You’re too weak to defeat me. I am far stronger than my poor cousin, who so nearly killed you.”

  Thorven’s cousin. The words settled on Jeremy’s heart, weighted with the deaths of David and Morgan’s family. “Perhaps,” Jeremy whispered. “But I must still do my duty. Your existence is vile,” he added, though the words would carry little weight, given Thorven’s depravity. Even so, the next words should cut, if he guessed right. “No wonder Argyle left you.”

  With a howl of fury, Thorven tackled Jeremy again, pinning him to the floor and baring dripping fangs once more, this time for a lethal bite.

  Another arrow sank deep into Thorven’s unprotected side, seeming to sprout directly from his flesh. The shock broke Thorven’s hold on Jeremy’s mind, the reprieve giving Jeremy precious seconds to slam his mental defenses in place. He shoved the horrible images of Morgan’s suffering into a dark corner of his mind, forcing all emotions from his face.

  He then faced Thorven once more, determined to finish this.

  Jeremy watched as his once-lover yanked the arrow out, seeming to savor the pain. Only days before, the man had been sitting in Jeremy’s study. Haggard, yes, exhausted, yes, but nowhere near this imminent collapse. Thorven must have indulged heavily in his venom since then, bringing it to even greater concentrations as his body rotted from the sepsis.

  Or perhaps the sweltering heat of the room had accelerated what had already begun.

  Jeremy circled Thorven cautiously, searching for an opening. The sheer strength of the madman meant the usual tactics would not work. He couldn’t touch Thorven’s mind, not now. With the abhorrent memories awaiting him, Jeremy would not risk the mental connection again. Another repetition of those unbearable thoughts would break his control utterly.

  He risked a glance at Makoto, who stood over Morgan with his yumi trained on Thorven. The samurai’s face was like granite, but his black eyes glittered flint-hard with hate. The nocked arrow quivered ever so slightly with suppressed rage.

  Morgan’s eyes were fixed on Jeremy, their deep amber depths filled with pain—and meaning.

  “Fight fire with fire.”

  Morgan’s voice echoed through Jeremy’s head. The urge to run to Morgan’s side nearly overpowered Jeremy, but he turned to watch Thorven instead. He could not afford to be distracted, not again. Nor could he allow any weakness that might open his mind for another invasion.

  An odd hitch filled Morgan’s mental voice. It seemed to fade in and out. “Fight fire with fire, Takeshi! Use your venom.”

  “I will, when the time comes.”

  “No, you bloody fool…not for the kill…for yourself.”

  Again, there was a hesitation. Morgan’s voice in Jeremy’s head definitely seemed farther away. “Guard…yourself.”

  Morgan’s voice slipped completely out of his mind as Jeremy realized what had been asked of him. Guard himself? With his venom?

  With sudden clarity, Jeremy understood. To fight the strength of a nosferatu this deep into the venom madness, he must give himself the same insane strength.

  But could he stave off the inevitable craving for more? It was addictive, he’d been told, though each time he’d used even the tiny amount necessary for hunting, he’d been repulsed by the sensation.

  Thorven grinned at him, bloodied arrow in hand, and a vicious, unnatural lust blazed out of his eyes. A shudder rippled through his body, the greenish slime of nosferii venom pooling at the corners of his mouth. The unholy light in Thorven’s eyes became even more concentrated.

  “He’s mine, Jeremy. You stole him from me first.”

  The time for hesitation had passed. With a grimace, Jeremy allowed his venom to flood his throat, the burn bringing tears to his eyes.

  The earlier clarity became a clear pane of glass that shut out all distractions. Tremors shook his body as the heat of his poison flooded each muscle with godlike power. His skin felt impervious to any sort of hurt.

  And he could smell—everything. Thorven’s anger and hatred, Makoto’s worry for him and for Morgan, and his beloved Host’s injuries and impending death.

  His rage escalated as he realized what his enemy had done.

  “How dare you,” he seethed, his fury seeking an outlet. There would be no mercy. The last time he’d attempted mercy, he’d lost the Host he and Makoto had shared for many years. It had almost destroyed him, though it had led to his ultimate happiness. “How dare you touch what’s mine!”

  With the last words, he threw himself at Thorven, fangs bared and ready to deliver death. For a moment or two, Thorven held him off, matching Jeremy’s venom-enhanced strength with his own.

  But Jeremy’s power was fresh, new-made, and his body had not succumbed to the rot of overuse. The difference became crucial, and gradually he forced Thorven back until the man crumpled to the floor in a vain attempt to evade Jeremy’s fangs.

  “Please,” Thorven whispered and then gagged on his own blood.

  Jeremy did not hesitate. Not this time. He sank his teeth into Thorven’s neck, delivering just enough venom to push the nosferatu’s already failing body into fatal shock. He relinquished his bite almost immediately and sank onto the bench beside the long kitchen table, wiping the taste of rotting flesh from his lips.

  As he watched, Thorven curled in on himself, foam dribbling from his mouth and mixing with the noxious fluids already staining his skin. Violent tremors shook the man Jeremy had once known as a lover and a friend, and Jeremy could no longer bear to watch.

  He’d always forced himself to stand witness to a nosferatu’s death throes, in penance for the death stroke he delivered. Jeremy couldn’t bring himself to watch now. His anger, his pain—both sensations were too agonizing.

  “Hurry, danshaku.”

  Makoto’s voice pulled Jeremy back to awareness, though the cruel clarity of his surroundings did not diminish. He found himself at Makoto’s side without conscious thought of moving.

  Morgan lay with his head cradled in Makoto’s lap, his blood staining the black hakama the samurai wore to an even deeper shade of night. As Jeremy knelt beside him, he opened his eyes, their dark amber depths clear and unclouded, despite the gray tinge to his lips.

  “I’m sorry,” Morgan said. “I had wanted to protect you, but I wasn’t strong enough.” He closed his eyes, his breathing ragged and hoarse. “Forgive me.” A shaking hand caught Jeremy by the wrist. “You are my true master.”

  The contact renewed the mental
link again, and Jeremy could not suppress his shock at Morgan’s next thought.

  “Bite me, Takeshi. Poison me so I can die by your hand, not his. I can’t bear the feel of his filth in my veins.”

  No. Absolutely not. Jeremy refused to do such a thing. He looked at Makoto, whose steady gaze never wavered. As though he too had heard the awful request.

  “He is dying, danshaku.” Pain laced Makoto’s voice, pain Jeremy hadn’t heard since David’s death. “He did well. He deserves to choose the manner of his death.”

  He had heard, then. How, Jeremy couldn’t say. Everything that had happened in the past week had thrown his world and his beliefs into utter disarray.

  “Please, Takeshi. I don’t want to die like this, with the memory of Thorven’s fangs being the last to touch me.”

  Jeremy closed his eyes. The last words came like a blow. Thorven being the last to taste Morgan’s sweet blood? Being Morgan’s last memory as a Host?

  “You are cruel,” he whispered, opening his eyes again. “Cruel to ask such a thing.” He lifted Morgan to hold him against his chest. “But I cannot deny you. I have never been able to do so.”

  Makoto touched him then, and Jeremy felt the faintest whisper of the man’s thoughts touch his.

  “He has chosen, Takeshi. Do not delay this.”

  Jeremy wanted to do just that. He had found his tamashī no hanryo. He did not want to lose him—not this way. After another moment, he bent over Morgan once more.

  “Are you ready, Hostia Aeternus?” He tilted Morgan’s chin upward to expose the joint between neck and shoulder. An area untouched by Thorven’s fangs.

  “Yes.” Morgan extended fingers to trace Jeremy’s lips. “Just like the turning.”

  Jeremy reached inside himself to let the beast take over, allowing the strong will of the nosferatu hunter to deliver one more bite, a bite filled with the heat of his venom. He prayed he had not miscalculated. Morgan had begged for death, but Jeremy did not want to bring him more agony than was necessary.

  He delivered the clotting bite then, sealing the wounds, and held Morgan close as his body shuddered from the combined poisons. Each painful contraction wrenched Jeremy’s heart, and he couldn’t decide if he longed for Morgan’s release or wished for the impossible fairy tale of Morgan’s turning without aid.

  Morgan gripped Jeremy’s shoulder, pulling him close. “I love you,” he whispered. “Should have said so sooner,” he added, each word coming with effort. His eyes slid closed as his body went limp.

  Jeremy couldn’t bring himself to move his hands, to determine if Morgan lived or not. Makoto reached in to feel for Morgan’s pulse. After a moment, the samurai gave Jeremy a cryptic glance. “Let us bring him home, danshaku, so he may rest peacefully until the end.”

  Relief filled Jeremy for an ecstatic moment before true understanding dawned. “He is not dead, then,” he sighed, stricken.

  “Not yet, danshaku. Morgan-san is at rest for the moment.” After another sidelong look, Makoto added, “We must get him to Colbourne Manor quickly, danshaku. Master Carter should have arrived by now.”

  How ironic. The man had spent several years begging to be Jeremy’s Host. Now, it seemed, he would have the opportunity at last. It no longer mattered who the next Host would be. Unable to find words to voice any of this, Jeremy stood, lifting Morgan in his arms. “Makoto, have the others take care of this mess. I need you to return with me.”

  “Hai, danshaku,” Makoto said, understanding. He gave a quick hand signal to the others, who moved to gather Thorven’s body. “Hai, danshaku.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jeremy watched, stone-faced, as Makoto bathed Morgan’s body with supreme gentleness, tending to the many injuries Thorven had inflicted.

  “Shindeshimau!”

  Jeremy flinched at the shout. Makoto rarely cursed, but when he did, it was impressive. This time, however, Jeremy could not bring himself to admire the choice words. Makoto’s hands had reached an area that would have humiliated Morgan had he been aware. Jeremy had anticipated something of the sort, given the images from Thorven, but Makoto’s reaction suggested the injuries were far worse than he’d realized.

  “Continue, please,” Jeremy said, keeping his voice as steady as he could.

  Makoto obliged, though more epithets followed as he did so. When he finished, he bandaged the wounds as best he could, then tucked Morgan into the coverlet with care. He looked at Jeremy, his grave face revealing just how much Morgan’s injuries upset him.

  “He is stronger than I thought, danshaku.”

  So much meaning in those words. “Hai, Makoto. Haruka ni tsuyoi.” Jeremy shook away the thought of Morgan’s great will. “Has Carter arrived?”

  “Hai, danshaku. Master Carter waits in your study.”

  “Bring him here. I need to feed.” Jeremy said the words with reluctance, not wanting anyone other than Morgan. But using his venom to kill twice had exhausted him. Nonetheless, he refused to leave the room. Morgan was not dead, not yet, but it would come soon enough. Jeremy would hold vigil in this room until it happened. When he fed, he would sate only his blood hunger, nothing more.

  In the eternity of waiting for Makoto’s return, Jeremy retraced his steps, wondering if he could have done something to foresee the impending disaster. As he worried, he passed his hand across Morgan’s brow to smooth the spill of tawny hair, and froze in shock.

  Where there should be the clammy chill of impending death, there was fever. Heat as intense as a turning radiated beneath his hand, warming still more to his touch.

  Wait. Turning heat. Was it possible? Could he turn Morgan at this stage? Even now, Makoto ushered Will Carter to this very room. Could he be persuaded to act as a turning Host?

  Scarcely five minutes had passed before Makoto returned, Carter in tow.

  “You sent for me, Lord Colbourne?”

  Formality from the impudent William Carter? The young man must have sensed something was amiss. His quietly respectful tone suggested unusual compassion.

  Jeremy gave Carter a level stare. Dare he ask such a thing? A second further, and then he forged ahead. “I need your help with a turning.”

  “What do you mean, help you with a turning?” Confusion rang in Carter’s voice. “I thought you summoned me to be your Host. I thought—” He let the words die away as he caught sight of the prone body in the great bed.

  Jeremy finished the sentence for him. “You thought Holland was dead. He very nearly is, but his body is fighting the infection. We might have a chance, if we turn him.”

  Understanding dawned on Makoto’s face, and he hurried to the bed to examine Morgan closely. After a tense moment, he nodded, a smile lighting his eyes for the first time in a long while. “It is possible. He burns with sufficient heat, danshaku. I am ashamed to have missed it when I bathed him.”

  “How in the hell do you expect to do that? Turnings are handled by the nosfera’s Host, not some substitute like me.” Carter didn’t screech, not quite, but his shock was clearly evident.

  “You are not a substitute, Will,” Jeremy said, trying to pacify what must be a humiliating blow to Carter’s pride. “You are correct. Originally Makoto sent for you to act as my Host if Morgan—if Morgan died. He did not, but he has been badly poisoned.”

  Carter gave Jeremy a level stare and then looked away. He stood silent for a while, the delay seeming interminable. He gave a sigh, finally. “I know you don’t think much of me, Jeremy. I’m too much of a dandy for your comfort. And my pestering you so often probably sat even less well.” A pause laced with uneasiness filled the bedchamber. “But I know you love him,” Carter finished, though the admission clearly cost him. “Can you bring yourself to touch me the way you must in order to guarantee the turning is a success?”

  Jeremy stared at him in surprise. He hadn’t realized Carter was so well versed in turning lore. Then again, he’d aspired to be the Colbourne Host, so perhaps he’d studied. “I can, and I will.” He sank onto
the bed and buried his face in his hands for a moment, dreading the situation he faced. “I must.”

  “Perhaps not, danshaku,” Makoto said, placing a book in Jeremy’s hands. “Hisagawa-sensei has a most interesting theory regarding the yutakana hosuto. I had considered it before we left to retrieve Holland-san.”

  “What?” Puzzlement filled Carter’s voice.

  Not that Jeremy blamed him. He was just as perplexed. “How do Morgan’s abilities as a bountiful Host alter the situation?”

  “Bountiful host? You mean Holland is Hostia Aeternus?” Carter’s surprise would have been ludicrous, if not for the situation. “No wonder you refused me,” he added with a sigh. “I certainly could never compete with a man like that.”

  The wistful tone caught Jeremy off guard. Clearly, the petulant requests had been for more than mere status.

  “Hisagawa-sensei writes that the tales of the yutakana hosuto turning may have truth in them.” Makoto flipped the book opened to the pertinent pages.

  Jeremy stared for a moment at the ancient kanji. The Colbournes had been hunting nosferatu in England for less than nine centuries. In Japan, the Yamakawa clan had been tasked with destroying the chi no akuma, the demonic vampires of legend, for nearly seventeen hundred years, at the order of Queen Himiko of Yamataikoku.

  Jeremy read slowly, absorbing the ancient words, remembering bits and pieces of his childhood and the tales of the warriors who had filled the ancient Yamakawa fortress.

  When one uses the bountiful Host to change the poison, he translated, taking care to mind the nuances, a permanent change may occur in the blood of the Host. If the Host is then not tended to as though he too is now greater than human, his blood will continue to burn within him. When blood is given, the burn relents, and it is possible the bountiful Host will then become as the changed ones without need of ritual.

  Shock sang through Jeremy. Shock, and an impossible hope. A chance to save Morgan without the need for a turning Host? It seemed impossible, yet Hisagawa’s treatise was used by all nosfera cultures, not just those in Japan.