Blood Sworn 1: Salva Me Read online

  A sullen look crossed her face, replacing the disbelief. “The king protects you. Then why does the Church hunt you?”

  “Well asked. Only a few know of the king’s protection. The prime minister is among those privileged to know. The Church hunts against the Crown’s wishes, and those who do so are duly tried and punished if they are caught. Our monarch does not want an open schism with the Church again. Thus our need for secrecy.”

  Laura closed her eyes, her hands trembling despite her tight grip on the downy bedding. Her breathing grew ragged for a moment, long enough for him to grow concerned; then she opened her eyes again. “Will you kill him, this rogue? Do you consider him a monster?” The last words were hoarse.

  Morgan did not turn, for fear his desires would be too plainly displayed. He knew this was the ancestral duty of the barony, knew and understood it on one level, but he wanted desperately to hear Colbourne say so.

  “Yes, Miss Holland. I will find him, and I will kill him. He has left us no choice in the matter.” Colbourne’s voice echoed with the faintest hint of resignation. “And though he may have once been a nosfera, even a man of honor, his actions have made him the monster you claim.”

  Colbourne’s gaze shifted, and Morgan shuddered at the bleakness reflected there. He’d never seen such a look in his master’s eyes before. Yet none of that grimness resounded in Colbourne’s calm answer.

  “While I regret the interruption to your reunion, it is time for your father to return to bed, Miss Holland. He should be resting, as should you.”

  An implacable hand lifted Morgan to his feet, giving him no choice but to follow. He felt Laura’s hand slip from his. An omen of the future? He shivered, the burn replaced by tongues of ice leaching warmth from his bones.

  Colbourne did not speak again until they were well down the hall. The iron control in his voice left no doubt of his ire, the anger he had not revealed in Laura’s room. “I have said before, you must not leave the bed. You risk the turning every time you move about.”

  The chill encompassing Morgan wrapped itself even tighter about his body, and the shivers became shakes. “I had to see her, to remind myself—”

  “Of why you are doing this.” A thaw, in some respects, but something sounded off. “Stop thinking. It only interferes with the process.”

  They walked on in silence, while the agony in Morgan’s bones intensified. It would take the flames of a dozen fires to heat his body. He shuddered, his mind hazing out, becoming blank with the rime permeating his very core.

  When Colbourne’s room came in sight, the relief came sluggishly, the faintest hint of warmth to thaw the edges of his frozen state. He stumbled across the threshold, collapsing just inside the door, unable to take another step.

  “To the bed.” Colbourne hauled him to his feet, all but dragging him to the beckoning expanse. When he laid Morgan on the bed, gentleness underscored the firm touch. “Please don’t get out of bed again.” A caress of Morgan’s hair emphasized his words. “These sheets are saturated with my scent. It will help drive the heat level back up.”

  Saturated with his scent? With his master’s powerful pheromones? He turned his face into the pillow, unable to fight the desire to inhale. The unmistakable fragrance of his nosfera master began to drive the chill away. He closed his eyes, gripping the pillow as his longing grew.

  Just the thought of his master—of Jeremy—touching him, lying with him… Just that was enough to bring a surge of pleasure to his groin. His balls tightened, and he bit his lip against the whimper that wanted to follow. Still, he couldn’t fight this need, this wanting of Colbourne’s touch.

  He rolled over, burying his face, determined to control this compulsion. One day, perhaps, such a thing might be beyond his abilities, but for now he would hold on to what remained of his dignity. Jeremy covered him in the rumpled bedding, stroking his brow and leaving a streak of fiery sensation in passing.

  “Sleep, Morgan,” Colbourne commanded. “We have two more days yet before I can reclaim the venom.”

  The silken sheet and heavy coverlet cocooned Morgan in growing warmth, driving the chill in his bones back once more. The abominable ache remained, but exhaustion rapidly overtook him, and his eyelids shut of their own volition.

  Chapter Eight

  The next two days proved to be a trial of Morgan’s endurance and willpower. Every ounce of flesh, every bit of sinew, had become wreathed in hellfire. Agony beyond reason gripped him, an intense pain relieved only by Jeremy’s touch. He found himself counting the hours between visits, shamed by the fact, yet unable to avoid the intrusive thoughts. His temper had frayed, leaving him snappish at the most trivial of annoyances.

  The day had come for the turning, though it was not yet the hour. Colbourne had not visited but instead had focused on the preparations for Laura’s change. Morgan knew the exchange would take place in the sanguis cubiculum, but beyond that he had no knowledge of the specifics. The deeper mysteries of such turnings had been placed in the hands of the nosferii nobles, those of pure blood, the only ones who could accomplish the complex healing ritual.

  He glanced at the one man who had become his constant companion and who now sat polishing their master’s boots. Makoto Morinaga had been with the Colbourne family far longer than any other attendant. Nominally a footman, the samurai performed a variety of duties, chief of which was to track nosferatii for Colbourne. The man was the only member of the nosferii minorii Morgan had met. The very length of Makoto’s service to their master assured him Laura’s survival would bring the reward of longevity, at least.

  “How is my daughter?” Morgan knew Makoto would answer truthfully, unlike many of the others who had flitted in and out of these rooms.

  “Poorly, Holland-san.” Makoto raised his head, though his hands never ceased with their task. “It is a good thing the turning will be today.”

  Morgan took a moment to digest the calm statement. Will it succeed? Do you have faith in Lord Colbourne? Those were the words that wanted to escape his lips. He wrenched his thoughts away from such questions and asked a more personal one instead. “What is it like? The change?”

  Makoto stared at him for a long while, his unreadable expression revealing nothing of his thoughts at such an intrusive interrogation. When he finally spoke, the emotion in his voice took Morgan by surprise.

  “A rebirth,” he said, and the faintest flush crossed his olive skin. “I had wandered lost for months after the slaughter of my daimyō and his family, until I met the deranged one. I was dying in shame, rōnin, masterless, powerless. Yamakawa-sama offered me the chance to regain my honor and avenge my dead lord.” He looked steadily at Morgan for another long moment. “But you wish to know if your daughter will feel pain, and whether she will forgive you for asking this of her.”

  As much as he feared the answer, Morgan couldn’t resist asking. “Will she?”

  “Pain, yes, she will feel pain.” Makoto’s hands finally stilled. “Everything changes, and it takes many years to feel complete again. But forgiveness? That answer must wait until she finds either happiness or despair.”

  Panic started to claw at Morgan, panic that he had made the wrong decision, had begged her to take a step she would regret in order to satisfy his sense of guilt. Laura had told him both Julie and Stephen were dead. She was the only remnant of his past, of the life he had before he met Jeremy Colbourne. He feared losing that connection.

  Shame gnawed at his gut, shame that he had so abandoned his former existence. Shame that he had buried his love for Julie and the children they had created together in a deep corner of his heart.

  A heart saturated with the feel of a man, a vampire, a being that needed the blood of others to survive. Even now, knowing his daughter might not survive the turning, Morgan’s thoughts turned to his master in anticipation of the next step toward the completion of the process.

  Makoto seemed to sense his unease. “Danshaku knows what he is about, Holland-san. He will do all he can
to ensure the success of the turning.” The samurai paused, looking away for a moment in remembrance. “Much depends on determination. If your daughter wishes it to be so, if she truly longs to live, then she will survive.”

  “Makoto is correct, Holland.”

  Morgan nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Colbourne’s voice. The rapid pulse of his heart refused to slow, thrumming through him in an excited rush of heat that flooded straight to his groin.

  “Everything is ready, Makoto. Will you summon the attendants?”

  “Hai, danshaku.”

  As the man slipped out the door, Morgan turned to watch Colbourne as he paced through the room. Morgan had never seen the man so restless. Moreover, his pallor suggested little to no sleep. Could the invincible Baron of Colbourne be anxious? A patent impossibility. Nevertheless, he asked the question uppermost in his mind.

  “What worries you, Lord Colbourne?”

  Colbourne ceased his pacing, turning back with an abrupt about-face. He settled onto the bed, clasping his hands as he leaned forward onto his knees. “Makoto said ‘much depends on determination.’ I’m determined to ensure both you and your daughter do more than merely survive the turning.”

  Morgan shivered at Jeremy’s grimness. He’d never before heard such apprehension in Colbourne’s voice. Icy fingers clawed their way up his back, intensifying the continual burn that had accompanied him since awakening. He gripped the bowed shoulder nearest him, though the action woke his nerves to greater pain.

  “I have faith in you,” he said, offering the simplest answer. “I trust you to protect us all.” He tried to ignore the acid worry lurking. “You’re the Baron of Colbourne. It’s said you’ve never failed a turning.”

  Colbourne’s back straightened as the muscles under Morgan’s hand grew tight—with resolve? Or something else? “True. I have never yet been unsuccessful.” The dark head turned to face Morgan, earthen eyes taking on the strange red fire that always preceded a feeding, though the odd undertone still floated beneath the confident words. “Then let us proceed. Can you stand?”

  A strong hand steadied Morgan as he stood, liquid fire running through every muscle. Makoto had helped him dress earlier, an indignity he had suffered to avoid the worse humiliation of having Colbourne do it. Somehow, he did not want to show any weakness to his master, despite more than a decade of feelings that had reached the level of close friendship. There had only been the one thing he had denied Colbourne. The one thing he could no longer escape.

  He pushed the thought to the back of his mind. If the turning was to succeed, Morgan could not allow such limiting thoughts to take hold. The constant strain on his temper proved the instability of his mind. The past two days had shown him the depths of his own fears and the pinnacles of his desires. Two things he meant to keep to himself. Forever, if possible. Both shamed him to the core of his being.

  Walking proved another test of his endurance. Each footstep felt as though leaden weights had been attached to his ankles. His calves screamed in agony at the abuse, but he would not be carried nor aided beyond the shoulder Colbourne offered him. If determination was what it took to accomplish the turning, then he would show it now.

  He’d spent three days abed, writhing against the war inside him and surrendering to the excruciating pleasure of Colbourne’s other ministrations. Something had changed in the last half day, however. The ferocity of the burn had shifted, become something different from the unremitting sting of the first day. Each beat of his heart sent fire surging through him, flooding him with pain and a desperate desire for Colbourne’s fangs.

  Morgan focused on each step as though it would be his last. His concentration rewarded him with the sight of the sanguis cubiculum, ornate doors standing open. Inside, the futon lay spread across the center of the room, while the space normally behind the folding screen had been taken over by another, smaller pile of bedding, where Laura lay. Several women from the household surrounded her, while a nosfera Morgan had never seen sat cross-legged on the floor at her side.

  He turned to Colbourne, who answered his unspoken question.

  “His name is Lawrence Bellforth, a cousin from my father’s side. He is a full nosfera, though not pureblood. Bellforth has agreed to provide your daughter with blood from the attendant Hosts.”

  Blood. Morgan had not thought beyond the turning. From all he’d heard, those who were newly turned craved blood on a daily basis until they adapted to the changes within them. Laura would drink the blood of those who sat by her, tending to her at this moment. The idea made him shudder. Then another, darker worry took him.

  “What happens…after?”

  Colbourne looked at him, a wry smile driving away the lines of care for a moment. “Until she wakens to the changes, her desires will be limited to blood. After the transfer, Lawrence will take her to her room for the first feeding and give us privacy. I am certain your strength of will can hold until then.”

  Morgan hoped the heat flooding his body did not reflect on his face. The words alone fanned the constant blaze to an inferno, leaving his neck tingling with anticipation. Other parts of him too reacted to the implicit promise of “after.” He firmly quelled the surge of desire, focusing instead on the necessity of staggering forward to the futon and collapsing to his knees on the piled cotton bedding.

  Colbourne followed with more grace, settling beside him and helping him shift to a more bearable position. Just that simple connection awoke the hunger to serve, an intense need for the bite of those sharp fangs. The baron’s hands gripped him, pulling Morgan close with no preparation.

  “Now?” he begged, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “Now, Morgan,” Jeremy answered, his voice low, his breath hot.

  A shiver of longing washed over Morgan, and he turned his head to offer his neck.

  JEREMY CONTROLLED THE shaking sound of his desire as best he could. The strong lines of Morgan’s neck became his focus. Nearly half a century had passed since his last turning, yet he could not recall losing his senses in such a fashion before. It was as if Morgan’s blood called to him, something he’d thought a mere fanciful remembrance of their first meeting.

  Hostia Aeternus. That name had sprung to his lips without thought, and it resurfaced now as the throb of Morgan’s pulse beckoned Jeremy from beneath the smooth flesh of his neck. Hostia Aeternus, the Eternal Host, suggesting an inexhaustible source of life. Impossible, yet the idea would not leave him.

  He touched his tongue to Morgan’s neck, tasting the salt of sweat, the texture of soft skin. He delayed as long as he could, wanting to ensure the numbness had taken effect, but Morgan grabbed his shoulders.

  “Please, do it now.” The words came through gritted teeth, suggesting pain—or was it desire?

  How could he refuse such a demand? The hunter in Jeremy rose with a snarl, reminding him how easily his veneer of civility could be torn. Triggering his fangs, he sank them deeply into Morgan’s neck, feeling the slick of blood begin to flow. He fought the urge to retract his teeth and swallow that sweetness, but this first crucial blood flow was for the turning. A second contraction of his throat muscles, and he began to draw Morgan’s altered blood back into himself, mingling it with his venom. Once the proper amount was collected, he released his hold for a split second and then bit again to ensure the wounds would seal for the moment. Morgan collapsed backward, the aroma of his lust almost overpowering Jeremy.

  He fought the distraction, turning his back on the call and crossing to where Laura Holland lay. With a gentle touch, he roused her, hoping she would not recoil in fear from the blood on his lips.

  “It is time,” he said softly as Lawrence cradled the girl in a sitting position against his chest.

  She looked at Jeremy with old, old eyes. Eyes that understood, denied, and consented, all in a frozen eternity. Then she closed her eyes and offered her neck.

  He licked his fingers and traced the barely healed scars, then sank his teeth into her neck, fo
rcing the altered blood and venom into her as swiftly as he dared. Though it was not a process to rush, he did not want to draw it out. The memories she already possessed were terrible enough.

  When the transfer was complete, he withdrew his fangs, allowing Lawrence to deliver the clotting agent. He watched Laura closely, waiting for the first indications of change or of death. Within a few moments, tinges of color began to return, driving away the gray hue of illness, first around her lips, then around her fingertips. Small signs but positive nonetheless. Assuming she accepted the first gift of blood, Laura Holland would survive and join the ranks of the nosferii minorii, though it would be decades before she developed even rudimentary fangs.

  Her eyes fluttered open, and he recognized the haze of freshly awakened blood-hunger. He nodded to Lawrence, who gestured to the nearest attendant. Jeremy smiled at the choice, a maternal older woman who had often acted as a guest Host for visiting nosferii. Laura was in good hands.

  It was time to return to his Host. “Send word of her progress, Lawrence,” he said to Bellforth. “It is better for me not to be present for the first feeding.”

  “Yes, Lord Colbourne,” the young man responded. “I will advise Makoto.”

  Jeremy gave a brisk nod and headed back to the futon. Halfway there, Morgan accosted him, despite the unsteadiness of his feet. Would the man never learn to stay put? It was a failing that had lasted twelve years and seemed likely to last until the day the man died.

  “How is she?” Morgan asked, his voice shaking.

  “The turning is a success, at least for the moment. The rest is up to her. As long as she accepts the first blood feeding, she will recover fully and become minore.” He gave Morgan a long look. “Back to the futon. I still need to feed, you know.”

  Morgan’s cheeks darkened with embarrassment and clear desire. “Yes, Master,” he whispered.