Blood Sworn 1: Salva Me Read online

  “What, precisely, do you mean, my lord?” Morgan managed to keep his trepidation in check, though an uncomfortable thought crossed his mind.

  Colbourne looked him over, his expression as enigmatic as ever. After a long moment, he tapped the book in Morgan’s lap.

  “The third Master of Colbourne developed the method all nosfera nobles use today. He describes it in detail in the third section of the book. I have marked the correct page with a ribbon.”

  Colbourne’s hand stroked the bound edge in a caressing glide. Morgan swallowed as he watched the long fingers. The feeling that ate at him grew daily, until it had become almost a living thing writhing in his gut. Everything his past stood for fought this attraction, yet the call to succumb, the desire to yield—body, heart, and soul… That desire had started to fill every fiber of his being.

  He wrenched his eyes away, focusing his attention on locating the thin strip of fabric marking the passage. With utmost care, he turned the vellum pages as a single mass, revealing the strong, upright hand of the third Master of Colbourne.

  To-day we rejoice! A hard-won victory, indeed, but we have found the secret at last. It was Daniel who suggested it. My loyal Host, always ready to sacrifice for me. Yet we have won in the end. He surrendered his flesh, yielding to my poison, and my caress. Such a simple thing, too simple. The fever of our joining, of continued touching, keeps the heat balanced at the necessary level. I have recorded the precise manner and frequency, so that the knowledge may pass on to our descendants.

  Joining? A shock of alarm—and unanticipated desire—flooded Morgan. The nobles used sexual contact to… What was it? Maintain the appropriate heat levels? To what purpose? He read further, skimming over the entry until he found the answer to the question uppermost in his mind.

  The light fever of the body such intimacy brings appears to keep the poison from overwhelming the Host. Moreover, it seems the heat is sufficient to purify the venom, allowing the Host’s blood to bring out beneficial properties for reclamation.

  If he understood correctly, this combined body heat somehow stabilized the process of altering the toxic nature of nosferii venom. He knew enough from previous instruction that the success rate of turnings had increased over the years due to reliable venom alteration. He’d also been aware the noble’s Host was traditionally the vessel of choice.

  Now he knew something more was involved—and why Colbourne had responded the way he did to Morgan’s naive question.

  That brought another thought to the fore. “You said in England the Colbourne family is responsible for hunting the nosferatii. What, precisely, did you mean?”

  Colbourne smiled, the sharp points of his fangs sending a shiver of unexpected desire through Morgan. He shoved the feeling back where it belonged and waited expectantly.

  “Each country has a family who bears this responsibility, though most of them are related to either the Colbournes of England or the Yamakawas of Japan.” Colbourne said the words slowly, as though reluctant to share the knowledge.

  The full import of the words struck Morgan after a moment. His breath caught at the enormity of the simple statement.

  “Do you mean that both your family lines carry this burden?” It was an appalling thought, the idea of such a heavy family legacy. “Is that why your mother was—”

  “—from Japan, yes.” Colbourne stared past Morgan for a moment, in apparent reminiscence. “Nosferii females are rare. Fertile women even more so. Intermarriage between races and cultures has become the only way to keep the pure nosferii lineage. As I mentioned before, the Yamakawa family has been hunting for nearly seventeen centuries. It is the most valuable bloodline in the whole of our race.” A hint of sadness echoed in Colbourne’s tone.

  “It must have been difficult for her,” Morgan said with some diffidence. “To leave her family and come to England to marry someone she didn’t love.”

  Colbourne gave him a measured look. “She did not come to marry my father, but to have him sire an heir. By English law, I am a bastard.”

  “Yet your succession was legitimated?”

  “My father formally acknowledged me, as did his wife. When she died, he invited me to England to begin preparing for my accession. He was dead twenty years later, at the hands of a nosferatu.”

  A thousand questions plagued Morgan, but he focused on the most pertinent. “Did your father have other sons? Did they quarrel with you being the heir?”

  “His English sons did not question the issue. His wife was an ordinary human from a local community in Sussex, so the children she bore him were full nosferii, though not pureblood. They all understood the necessity of a pureblood taking the title.” After a pause, Colbourne continued. “You’ve met my sister, Lady Helen. She currently resides in the Dower House on the other side of the estate.”

  “What of your brothers?”

  “Both of my English brothers are doctors. They have chosen to devote their time to furthering the research on nosferii venom. The two of them have been invaluable to me.”

  Morgan started to ask in what manner and then stopped as a thought caught him. Jeremy had said “my English brothers.” Were there others?

  Before he could ask the question, Jeremy gave him a crooked smile. “The pure bloodlines become rarer as each century passes. Nonetheless, my father did his duty well. There are Colbourne sons scattered across the Continent and Asia, though he left no surviving pureblood daughters. Helen is my only sister to survive childhood, but she is merely full-blood.”

  It took Morgan several minutes to digest all of this. Though he’d long understood the peculiar nature of nosferii attachments, somewhere along the line he’d missed this particular oddity. “Such an arrangement must have been hard for your father’s wife, I imagine,” he said finally, thinking on the idea.

  Colbourne gave him another inscrutable look. “Perhaps.”

  A new thought struck Morgan then, and he asked the question before he lost his nerve. “What of you? Do you have children somewhere, from similar arrangements?”

  This time a dark flush touched Colbourne’s face for a brief moment. “Yes. I have three sons and a daughter.”

  Morgan blinked, astonished. In twelve years, he had never heard of this. Why hadn’t he met the heir-presumptive? Colbourne must have seen the confusion on Morgan’s face, for he gave a wry smile.

  “All purebloods are raised with their mothers. If they are destined to inherit a title or estate or court position, they return to their fathers’ homes only when the time is right for them to learn their offices.” Colbourne stared out the window for a moment. “I sired my sons before I became the Baron of Colbourne, so they are promised to other houses. I am still without my own heir.”

  “You are reading my mind again, Lord Colbourne.”

  “Forgive me. Although in my defense, I did not truly pry. Your thoughts were very much in the forefront of your mind and therefore quite open.” Morgan chose to ignore the comment and its implications. Instead, he grasped at a thought that had come to him regarding Lady Yamakawa. “It must have been difficult for you and your mother to come here. I understand that Japan does not allow visitors. How were you able to leave the country? Are all citizens permitted to travel?”

  “No. Most Japanese cannot leave the country, on pain of death. My mother and I had both the Shogun’s permission and exemption from the travel edicts due to our residence in a disputed territory. Also, of course, our status as Chi no Kami. It helped matters considerably that our race is considered to belong to the gods.”

  “Chi no Kami? You used that term before.”

  “It is the Japanese name for nosferii. In essence, it means blood gods. They call nosferatii Chi no Akuma, or blood demons.” Colbourne tapped the book on Morgan’s lap. “We digress far too much, Holland. Continue.”

  Dragging his thoughts away from the intriguing discussion of Colbourne’s background, Morgan dutifully turned the page. He was almost fearful of the next passage, given the impl
ications of the last. Before he could fix his eyes on the words, a sharp rap at the door drew his attention. He relaxed his white-knuckled grip on the book as Makoto hastened into the room. Despite his expressionless face, the samurai’s dark eyes glittered with urgency.

  “Our searchers have found another victim, danshaku. I directed them to take her to the peony room.”

  “Damn.” The expletive came out in a growl. “Come, Holland, let’s see if we can’t at least get the poor woman’s name this time.”

  Morgan closed the book, watching in fascination as the mere act of closure forced the three lock pieces from their respective slots. His astonishment nearly led him to miss catching them before they tumbled to the oriental carpet beneath his feet.

  Colbourne reached for the book, moving quickly to lock it away in the great black desk. Returning to Morgan’s side, he reassembled the amulet with practiced ease, slipping it over his head to rest beneath his shirt once more.

  “Haste, danshaku, please. The young lady is in dire straits.”

  Makoto never spoke in such a fashion to Lord Colbourne. The samurai was unfailingly respectful, ever conscious of his lord’s status. The girl’s injuries must be life threatening, to push the loyal retainer to such a comment.

  They did not run, not quite, but near enough so their hasty passage through the halls bestirred the staff to duties of which Morgan was only vaguely aware. Clearly, the household understood the situation and knew their responsibilities. Most of those working here had grown up knowing such situations—unlike Morgan, so newly come to this knowledge despite the dozen years of his residence here.

  They reached the room where the girl waited. Morgan hesitated on the threshold, recognizing the stench of near-lethal sepsis. He steeled himself and pressed onward into the chamber, reaching Colbourne’s side with a few lengthened strides.

  Morgan looked at the limp figure on the bed, fearing to see the same laxness of death he’d witnessed mere weeks ago. His eyes skimmed over the bloodied neck; her gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes suggested the girl lived her life on the edge of society. Tawny hair spread in a cloud about her head, suggesting a prettiness her current state belied.

  Fawn-colored tresses… Morgan’s knees buckled as recognition struck, and he stayed upright through sheer force of will. She couldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be. Beside him, Lord Colbourne’s rapid spate of orders sent maids scurrying out of the room, yet Morgan barely noticed their departure or their subsequent return.

  “God help us. She’s not in much better shape than the last.”

  Colbourne’s resigned comment jolted Morgan from his shock. Death? He refused to contemplate the idea. There was another way.

  Three weeks ago, Colbourne had firmly negated the possibility, but now no other choice existed. Morgan could not bear the alternative. “Will you turn her, Master?”

  Colbourne’s head snapped around at the words, dark eyes wide and tinged with red. “Who is she, Holland?”

  Morgan heard the shock in Colbourne’s voice. He also felt the underlying Compulsion, though he would have offered up the answer willingly. “Laura. Laura Holland. My daughter.” He drew a breath, then another, trying to keep his voice steady. “If there is anything I can do, my lord, I’ll gladly do it.” He kept his calm, though the effort cost him. “Whatever it may be.”

  MORGAN’S DAUGHTER. THE words punched through Jeremy. Honor-bound to protect those his Host held dear, Jeremy had never inquired, as he ought to have done. Now he faced a choice he did not want to make but could not refuse. A task that held its own danger, beyond the simple odds of life or death.

  Moreover, grim irony cast an eerie, unnatural shadow over the entire affair. Morgan Holland, five foot ten inches of masculine power, knew quite well what such an offer could entail. He’d read the words not ten minutes ago. Even so, Morgan now dangled a lure as cloyingly sweet as it was bitter: a chance for Jeremy to bind him for life. To guarantee Jeremy would never again know the denial he’d faced or suffer through the self-restraint just past.

  He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind where they belonged, focusing instead on the girl’s pallor. A rosy flush covered her cheeks and blushed her lips, yet the rest of her skin was deathly pale, drenched in beaded perspiration. The bleeding had slowed but not stopped, and her lifeblood stained the sheets in a slowly growing crimson patch.

  “Give me your wrist, Holland.”

  Morgan obliged without question, extending an arm and turning back the lace-edged cuff. Jeremy lifted the strong wrist, stroking his tongue over the sensitive skin, triggering the anesthetizing chemicals in his saliva. With a grimace, he extended his fangs just enough to pierce that fragile layer and draw blood.

  The moment the copper taste touched his tongue, he swallowed, allowing instinct to trigger the necessary proteins that halted bleeding. Bending over the girl, he sank his dripping fangs into the tattered flesh of her neck, glad for her unconscious state. Any touch had to be excruciating. Even so, she moaned under his bite.

  Satisfied her bleeding was under control, Jeremy collapsed into the chair beside the bed, trying not to gag from the foulness in his mouth. Nosferii venom might not directly harm others of his kind, but the noxious stuff smelled and tasted like rotting carrion. Moreover, this particular venom had a more revolting flavor than usual.

  “Take this.”

  Jeremy opened his eyes as Morgan thrust a soaked handkerchief at him. It smelled of gin, likely from the flask his steward carried in his vest pocket. The alcohol would cleanse his fangs, so he bunched up the soggy material and bit, eyes watering as the fumes warmed the inside of his mouth. He swallowed, not really wanting to drink, but needing the cleansing heat. The faintest hint of acrid copper accompanied the alcohol. Morgan must have used this cloth to stanch the wounds on his wrist. “Thank you, Holland,” he said once his mouth felt reasonably clean again. “I detest having that taste in my mouth.”

  “I’d rather not have you bite me with that filth on your fangs.” Morgan’s response held stark awareness. “You’ll need to feed beforehand, won’t you?”

  Damn the man for being so bloody practical. “Yes. Long and deep, Holland. Are you prepared?” The conversation now skirted dangerous waters. At this point, only a turning would save the man’s daughter. Jeremy had tasted it in the poisoned blood coating her neck. The nosferatu had emptied his venom into the girl; the pungent smell of infection was rank.

  Worse still, Jeremy had seen the beginnings of angry red streaks beneath the blood slicked across Laura’s neck. At this point, nothing but a full feeding would do if they hoped for a successful turning. He courted disaster if he attempted it on anything else. It had been less than the Contracted nine-day span since he’d taken Morgan, but there were emergency provisions in any Host Contract.

  “I am prepared, my lord,” Morgan replied, eyes fixed on his daughter.

  “There will be consequences, Holland,” Jeremy said, unwilling, but owing that to the man. “This close to a previous Hosting, you will be more susceptible to my pheromones.”

  “I know.” Morgan faced him directly, his dark amber eyes unflinching. “It is not as though I am still an uninitiated child. I said I would do anything. I hold to that, even if it means I yield to your postfeed desires.”

  Such a clinical way to put it, postfeed desires. But there was more to the aftereffects than mere postfeeding indulgence. They hadn’t been able to discuss the fact that a turning could trigger lasting changes in the Host, changes amounting to a compulsion.

  “You may know, Morgan Holland,” Jeremy said with emphasis, “but you do not understand.”

  Morgan stiffened. Jeremy could see his struggle to fight the controlling words, but Jeremy had used the full measure of his abilities. His steward now had no choice but to hear him out.

  “A turning involves infecting the Host with nosferii venom. Not only will you feed me before I attempt the turning, you will yield to my fangs while I deliberately poison you. A small dose, but po
isonous nonetheless. After three days, I will reclaim the venom by the same means, properly altered by your blood.”

  Understanding blossomed at last in Morgan’s eyes, but Jeremy’s control would not allow him to speak.

  “Your human sensibilities of masculine and feminine sexuality have kept you from indulging my ‘postfeed desires,’ as you call them. After this, you will no longer have that luxury.”

  “Why?” The single word came out in a croak. Cords of muscle stood out on Morgan’s neck, evidence of the effort he exerted.

  His strength of will impressed Jeremy once again. There were few nosferii, and even fewer humans, who could withstand the full powers of the Baron of Colbourne. “You will change, Morgan,” he answered softly. “The process will infect you. Not enough to turn you, but enough to shift your internal chemistry. You will no longer be able to resist those desires you suppress in yourself. They will become an urge, a need—a compulsion you cannot deny.”

  Jeremy looked Holland in the eyes once more, releasing him from his hold as he reverted to the formal language of a Contract. “I ask you, Morgan Holland: is this choice your earnest desire and of your own will? Will you yield, knowing there is no return?”

  Morgan’s face paled as the import of what he faced penetrated. Yet his voice was steadier than before when he replied with the same formality. “It is both my desire and my will. I will yield, Master, for I do not wish to return.”

  Jeremy sighed. For good or ill, it was done, Contracted by their formal words. He only hoped Morgan’s proud independence would stand the change unscathed. That strength had drawn a dying Jeremy to Morgan’s side a dozen years before. He’d hate to see it vanish forever.

  Chapter Four

  Morgan paced the confines of Colbourne’s bedchamber, his mind a jumble of incoherencies. Dread of Laura’s imminent death had driven him to ask the unthinkable. Colbourne’s reluctance had been palpable, yet he’d bound Morgan in Contract nonetheless.