Blood Sworn 1: Salva Me Read online

  A trembling hand gripped the back of Jeremy’s head as he trailed his tongue along the underside of Morgan’s cock. When he reached the tip, he savored the tang of the drops beading the head, drawing the taste deep as he slid his mouth down again.

  Morgan shuddered, his fingers tightening their grip. His hips lifted, and he buried himself in Jeremy’s throat, spending himself as he must be doing in his dream.

  Jeremy sat up, content, enjoying the taste of Morgan’s satisfaction yet wishing the man had been fully aware, not merely dreaming of the pleasure he received. Jeremy resettled the sheet, pleased at the heat radiating off his Host. He could let the man sleep for at least three hours before stoking the flames again.

  Chapter Six

  “Where is my father?”

  A reasonable question. Jeremy pondered the best manner in which to answer the true enquiry beneath her words: not where but how.

  “He sleeps at the moment. Blood-changing is hard on a Host’s body. It will take three days before the changes to my venom are complete. Then the turning will begin.”

  She glared at him, amber eyes full of distrust and hate, despite her fragile hold on life. “You feed on him, don’t you?” Monster did not pass her lips, but Jeremy heard it nonetheless.

  “I do. Under Contract agreed to by both of us.”

  “You tricked him.”

  She accused him, taunted him with his greatest sin. Nevertheless, there was no need to explain himself to this angry, mistrustful waif.

  “Perhaps,” Jeremy temporized. “How the Contract came about has nothing to do with you.” It aggravated him, the extent to which he longed for the approval of this stranger. For the approbation of this child, the fruit of Morgan’s loins. He suppressed the irritation and faced his accuser. “For now, he is suffering for your sake. The one who attacked you poisoned you beyond your ability to heal. This choice will save your life.”

  “Kill me, rather, won’t it?”

  Again, Jeremy answered the true question beneath her whispered comment. “Not as you think, Miss Holland. You will either survive the turning, or you will die. If you do survive, you will become nosfera minore, one of the changed. Nonetheless, you will still be a living thing.”

  Her disbelieving look told him she had learned the usual misinformation disseminated by the Church.

  Jeremy strode to her bedside, taking a thin hand in his own and placing it over his heart. Her eyes widened at the steady thump. “Vampire I may be, Miss Holland, but as you see, tales of our racial peculiarities have been exaggerated. We are neither undead nor are we incapable of dying. We are just as susceptible as any human being.”

  Laura Holland’s hand shook as she shrank back from his touch and the knowledge he had just conveyed. “Then why?” Her voice cracked with her combined fear and weakness. “Why do you drink blood?”

  “Merely to survive.” A half-truth. She was not yet ready for the entire truth of the existence she would face after the turning. “You will learn our history soon enough.”

  She leaned back into the piled-up pillows, closing her eyes. He could see the faint glimmer of tears beneath the shuttered lids. Her shallow breathing had become rapid, and he cursed himself for allowing her to become distressed. Her weakened condition worsened daily, but nothing he could do would speed the incubation process. Until the third day had passed, she must suffer the agony of the nosferatu venom burning her from the inside.

  “Miss Holland, I am sorry there is no alternative. Your life is precious to Morgan…to your father. He would have you live and thrive as part of our society.”

  She turned her face away from him, but he caught the shine of the tears she’d held in before. “What if I don’t want to?”

  Jeremy sighed. “Then the turning will fail. You will die and join your mother in the afterlife.”

  She sat bolt upright, then doubled over, coughing and clutching at her chest.

  “Damn.” He hastened to her bedside, reaching for the infusion of laudanum set out upon the bedside table. “Drink, child.”

  Laura grabbed his hands, her own trembling too fiercely to hold the glass. He guided it to her lips, carefully administering the dosage. When her spasms subsided, he laid her gently back, pulling the coverlet up to her chin.

  “Forgive me, Miss Holland. I had not meant to alarm you in such a manner. Your rest is equally as important as your father’s. Otherwise you will not have the strength necessary for the turning.”

  “How did you know about my mother?” The words came out in a croak.

  “While we are not immortal, our lives are longer than ordinary humans. I have seen young women in your condition far too many times before. In most circumstances, they have no one to care for them, usually through death or misadventure.”

  Laura made no answer but did surrender a grudging smile at the accuracy of his guess. Her eyes slid closed once more, and Jeremy took it as a sign for him to leave her to the rest he himself declared a necessity.

  He closed the door with care as he left, though he was not certain she slept. Whether she did or not bore little influence on his actions. She needed as much rest and quiet as Morgan, and he’d no business rousing her feelings to such an extent. Moreover, if she were truly averse to the idea, their conversation may have weakened her determination to live.

  Striding down the hall, he considered the odd mixture of strength and vulnerability she presented. That adamant will could only have come from Morgan. Jeremy hoped it would bring her through the turning unscathed. Not all who survived did so with their wits intact. The pain, the change, the knowledge—all too often these overset the mind beyond repair, until the newly made nosfera minore became little better than an obedient slave. A risky business. No nosfera noble liked to undertake a turning for precisely that reason.

  As he made his way to his study, he considered what to do with his time. Still another two hours before he needed to tend to Morgan. Visiting now would only prolong Jeremy’s personal frustrations.

  Damn it all! He wanted the man to love him, not merely succumb to physical desires from nosferii hunting pheromones. As fiercely as he yearned for Morgan’s body, what Jeremy truly longed for was Morgan’s heart.

  Jeremy’s greatest fear about this turning was that his beloved steward would yield only due to the changes, not from any emotional bond. No other person had invaded Jeremy’s heart this way, and he suspected no such hope awaited him in the future.

  Yet no other path existed for him. This act would bind Morgan Holland to the Baron of Colbourne until the day Holland ceased to exist. If no greater bond grew out of the situation, then Jeremy would spend the rest of his life in a living hell.

  He’d already steeled his heart for the inevitable loss when Morgan’s shorter lifespan ended. In many ways, the prior stalemate had been safer for his feelings, regardless of Jeremy’s frustrations. He could enjoy the chase, decry the lack, and keep his innermost feelings locked away. The turning would steal that safety from him, leaving him vulnerable to greater loss.

  He faltered to a stop, taking a moment to collect himself. After a breath, he continued. He was the Baron of Colbourne. It behooved him to remember and bury such weakness far, far beneath his exterior. Regardless of the outcome of the turning, he would lose Morgan one way or another. Better to enjoy what he could now and regret later than never know the touch of the man again.

  * * * *

  “The Master of Raavenshal is calling, Lord Colbourne.”

  Jeremy looked up, a grin splitting his face for the first time since Laura Holland’s discovery. “Send him in, Makoto,” he said, spirits lightening for the moment.

  Shortly after, Archibald Thorven strode confidently into Jeremy’s library, a smile creasing his Nordic features.

  “Arch, how good to see you,” Jeremy said, rising. “It’s been ages!”

  “Not quite, Jeremy, but close enough.” Thorven chuckled. “Still, it has been too long.”

  They’d shared a childhood and muc
h, much more for many years after. Thorven remained his best friend, despite the frequent lengthy lapses between their visits. Jeremy’s heart unclenched a bit. Having the support of the Master of Raavenshal would go far to dispel the cloud of misery hanging over him.

  “What brings you to Colbourne, Arch?”

  “Nothing much. I’ve grown bored settling accounts. Worse, my estate is running thin. I’ve got to replace almost half the village. Everyone’s dying. Some damn nosferatu has been savaging my people, and I can’t find the villain.”

  “So you came to the Baron of Colbourne, since it’s his responsibility.” Jeremy sighed. So much for a light visit. “Whoever he is, he’s quite mad at this point. I picked up a girl just last night who’d been savaged almost beyond hope.”

  Thorven must have heard the nuances of Jeremy’s tone, for those piercing blue eyes sharpened. “Don’t tell me you are attempting a turning? You know how dangerous that is. The three of you barely stand a chance.”

  “Just don’t tell that to my Host. At the moment, he’s suffering for the sake of the girl. Turns out she’s his daughter. It came as quite a shock to both of us.” Jeremy fiddled with a pen on his desk, absently noting the dulling point. “I haven’t told him there’s any danger beyond the possibility of failure.”

  For a moment, silence hung in the air between them. The sudden harsh intake of Thorven’s breath broke the tension. “So you haven’t told him about the potential for the two of you to succumb to the poisoning? Brave of you, considering.”

  “There is no need for him to know that at this juncture. Hard enough for him to contemplate losing his daughter.”

  Thorven settled into a wingback chair by the fireplace, his long legs stretched before him, almost as though he needed the heat to warm them. His lean face bore shadows, suggesting the village depredations at Raavenshal had taken a toll. “Is your Host so valuable, then?”

  Jeremy gritted his teeth to hold back an intemperate reply. They’d had this argument before, many times. The Masters of Raavenshal had never considered a Host’s happiness important. Though Thorven and he had once been far more than friends, the man’s adherence to discredited paths had driven a wedge between them for a long while. The friendship had been repaired, but until now, the subject had gone untouched.

  Thorven’s pale face went ashen for a moment. “Forgive me, Colbourne. I spoke without thought. Of course the man’s value is beyond price.” The words sounded sincere and fully repentant.

  Jeremy took a breath, giving his friend a forgiving nod. “From the look of you, you have gone with little to no rest in your hunt for this nosferatu. I’ll consider the words as never spoken.”

  A small touch of color returned to Thorven’s face. “Thank you. The hunt for this beast has drained my energy almost to extinction. I could use a rest, but it doesn’t appear any will be forthcoming in the immediate future.”

  A splash of wine would help. Jeremy poured a small glass of brandy from his desk decanter, handing it to the exhausted Master of Raavenshal. “Drink, Arch. Then tell me of this abomination that hunts your villagers.”

  * * * *

  “Nnn.”

  Morgan shifted, coming slowly to wakefulness, every part of him aching. Well, every part but one. That part resonated with the remnants of remembered passion. Heat crossed his face as he recalled the dream.

  At night in his sleep, he freed himself to re-live that shocking moment when he’d first experienced the touch of a man. No, not just the touch of a man. The touch of his master. The feeling had sunk deep into his soul, branding him with the intensity of his need for Colbourne’s touch. He denied it at every turn, reluctant to accept a deeper intimacy, despite the exquisite sensations those caresses produced.

  Everything would change now. With Colbourne’s venom rushing through him, his sensitivity had increased a hundredfold. Even now, the memory of sensation floated across his skin like a ghostly caress, the longing for his master wrenching his gut like the direst hunger.

  Without conscious thought, he stroked himself through the silken sheets, shuddering as he imagined Colbourne’s hand touching him as it had done so many years ago. That first heated grip, sliding along Morgan’s jutting length through his worsted breeches. The slick palm cradling him, stroking him to completion yet leaving him longing for still more. That first blazing contact of fingers at his rear, pressing inward and upward, filling him, satisfying a desire he’d never before considered.

  Morgan pressed his hips against his hand, striving to bring the memory some physical reality. Rolling over, he thrust forward against the smooth covering, trapping it between his aching member and his curled palm. He shuddered at the sensation, yet despite the exquisite pleasure, he wanted still more. He slid himself through that silken grip again and again, groaning in longing for the remembered touch. As he neared his peak, frustrated, wanting what he so desperately denied himself, he reached behind, inserting first one finger, then another, the awkward position preventing full penetration.

  But it was enough. One stroke, two, three, and the tremors of his orgasm began, clenching about his probing fingers as he spent himself onto the silken sheets. After a final shiver of completion, he lay exhausted on the bed, cheeks aflame in embarrassment. Fingering himself to come! Shameful. Yet still he yearned, the recollection of Colbourne driving into him building a fire that would not stay quenched.

  “So this is what he meant,” Morgan whispered into the sheets. “I’ll never be free of this wanting, will I?”

  He buried his sweating face in the pillow to hide the mortified tears, though no one was present to see.

  So this is what he meant.

  Chapter Seven

  Jeremy watched impassively as Thorven departed. Then he sank into the wingback chair behind his desk, fighting the urge to collapse across the burnished mahogany. Thorven’s horrific news had drained him of any positive feelings. The damn nosferatu hunted in Sussex, Jeremy’s own seat, and the death toll climbed every three or four days. Raavenshal was depleted to near a third of its original number, and the ordinary citizens of the outlying villages now cowered inside their homes, terrified of the night.

  Savaged corpses, left lying where anyone could see; the rank smell of nosferii poison rife in the air. If Thorven did not exaggerate the situation, Jeremy could certainly expect to hear from Lord Liverpool before too long. The Prime Minister would demand the Baron of Colbourne perform the duties for which the barony had been established. The responsibilities had been laid out in the ancient agreement that protected the nosferii communities of England and kept them marginally safe from the Church’s unforgiving clutches.

  His head ached from the mere thought. The finding of Laura Holland confirmed a rabid hunter scoured London’s streets. Yet the news proved far worse. Jeremy’s seat in Sussex had fallen prey to the maniac. Thorven’s own Host had been killed by the beast. Unless more than one maddened nosfera stalked the nights, the insane monster’s killing field could be anywhere in England. None of the other nobles had brought such depredations to his attention, yet now he must reach out to each of them in turn, to learn the true extent of the nosferatu’s haunts.

  One more reason to worry, lest the turning misfire and take out the Baron of Colbourne before he’d sired his heir, leaving the madman to run free. No one else had the power to deal with the creatures. Moreover, the baronial seat had never been left empty; the blood of his line was too valuable. With his sons promised elsewhere, Jeremy had known he must produce an heir.

  While Morgan had been an unattainable dream, Jeremy had avoided pursuing the necessity of breeding for too long, thinking it would drive a deeper wedge between the two of them. He had been certain his stubborn Host would not view the situation with understanding. Now that Morgan was his at last, Jeremy’s fears had only increased. Yet now he had taken a step that might deprive his people of their protector.

  A knock at the study door interrupted his dark reflections.

  “Three hours
have passed, danshaku.”

  Jeremy looked at Makoto, then sighed and nodded his understanding. He was in no mood for what would follow, but he’d be damned if he’d leave such intimacies to another. Morgan would never forgive him.

  “I’ll be up shortly, Makoto. I have some notations to make with regard to news brought by the Master of Raavenshal.”

  The man nodded, his handsome face creased with concern. “Will you need my services for the hunt, danshaku?”

  Trust Makoto to know what was afoot.

  “Yes, but not until the turning is complete. I cannot afford to be absent until success or failure has been determined. Ready yourself and Jacob, though, to be off at a moment’s notice.”

  “Hai.” The samurai’s sturdy figure filled the door frame before the lacquered wood blocked Jeremy’s view.

  Jeremy fiddled with his pen, staring at the Skin-Bound Book where it lay spread open on his desk. The names and dates listed on the pages before him represented all the nosferatii hunted since the barony had been established. The last name on the list bore complicated memories. The hunt had nearly killed him, yet it had brought him to Morgan Holland.

  And to the headache upstairs, awaiting the turning. The smell of carrion and sepsis had almost overpowered Jeremy when he tended her. This nosferatu, it seemed, could prove to possess venom more toxic than any he had seen before. Despite the generational increase in the strength of nosferii venom, a nosferatu newly come into his madness shouldn’t be this poisonous. The miasma of decay that surrounded Laura Holland suggested a nosferatu who had hunted for years unnoticed. The thought alone was enough to sicken him.

  They had to find a more effective treatment. Turnings had become chancy things. Though history stated the chances were one in two of success, in recent years most turnings had failed, in large part due to the increased toxicity of nosferii venom. In truth, Laura Holland’s chances of survival barely exceeded one in four.