Catch & Hold-Legend (Legend series) (31 page)

“Now, young John … ’tis time you spoke a word, and that word, my big boy, should be mama!” With that she tickled the lad’s tummy, eliciting a peal of laughter from him.

Breslyn watched her in fascination. He felt a stirring inside him to have this—have her and her babe.

They stood a long moment like that, in the large Great Hall, and Breslyn was aware he had not enjoyed a domestic scene like this since his parents were killed in the Great Battle …

All at once, the sweetness of the moment was exploded as a shout filled the air. From seemingly out of nowhere a charging imp of a filthy urchin nearly slammed into them in his rush to get outdoors.

Breslyn’s hand had gone automatically to his sword at the sound of a man’s shout from behind the urchin, but he removed his fingers from the hilt and with speed and agility reached out and scooped up the lad, who took to kicking and screaming. Breslyn held him up dangling off the stone floor and ordered, “Quiet, child. That’s it … be at ease, lad. No one shall hurt you—trust me in this.” Breslyn had the satisfaction of observing the lad calm down, and he allowed him to stand but retained his hold on him.

“Don’t promise what you canna give, my friend!” roared a tall, broad-shouldered, handsome devil. He shook his head of long black waves as he closed the distance between them.

“Since when did you take to terrorizing urchins?” Breslyn laughed and with one arm shifted the struggling boy while extending the other to the heir of Belfor.

“It is what I do to eavesdropping, filthy little …” Storm MacClean grinned broadly as he took Breslyn’s hand. “My Laird of Dagda … we are well met! Welcome, and if you give over the brat, I shall attend to him.”

Breslyn eyed the lad he held by his filthy collar and looked him over. The boy was frightened, and his eyes pleaded for help. There was something about the child, but what it was eluded him. He frowned as a notion entered his head, and a slow smile would have curved his sensuous lips had he not stopped himself in time. He believed he knew something that at the moment no one else did, something the youth was desperately attempting to keep secret. He decided to keep quiet and watch it play out. He said to the dirty lad, “There now … no more running … we will sort this out.”

Storm was an excellent depiction of his unusual given name.
 
He stood looking like a veritable whirlwind, scarcely contained, with his raging blue eyes and his agile, muscular warrior body tense with annoyance. He moved in closer to have a better look at the dirty-faced boy and demanded, “Well? Speak you? Why were you listening in at the library door?”

“You misunderstand, my laird … I was simply bent over … trying to repair my shoes …” The boy lifted a leg covered by worn fustian cotton and wiggled his poorly covered foot. “… ’tis when you opened the door and startled me.” The boy’s voice was young and shaky. Breslyn and Storm exchanged glances. Breslyn kept his peace and waited to see how his friend would handle it.

Storm shook his head. “What think you, Breslyn—have we one of Edward’s spies here at Belfor?”

The boy put up a fist and shook it at Storm MacClean. “
Do not say it
! I would die before ever I would spy for Edward and the Brits!

Both Breslyn and Storm MacClean heard the sincerity behind the words, and Breslyn said softly, “I believe him—do you not?”

“You believe this rag of a child. He no doubt has lived on nothing but lies,” Storm said ruefully. He sighed heavily and looked away from the youth to ask, “So, but tell me, my laird, what brings you here to Belfor?”

“I have news … of a sort. I thought we could plan a stratagem and then ride to Robert the Bruce together later in the week.”

They slapped one another’s shoulders, evidently both well pleased with this before Breslyn added, “Aye … it will be soon, Storm.”

Chartelle had been only half listening to them as she sent her son off with his nanny. Her immediate concern was for the urchin. She went near him and touched his cheek, whispering, “Fear not, child.”

She then turned to her brother and Breslyn. “You big oafs!” She wagged a finger at them. “This is but a poor lad. I have seen him in the stables, helping the grooms for mere table scraps of food. His name is Alex, and he is an orphan. I have asked Cook to make certain he was bathed and fed, but apparently, getting him into a bath today was more than she could manage.
I, however,
shall manage very well.”

“Yes, but, sister—” Storm began his objections.

“An orphan, Storm.” Chartelle interrupted him on a firm note. “It is our duty to help him.”

Storm’s frown softened as he regarded his younger sister. Eight years her senior, he was fond of her, enough that he had taken a position against his father when his father had decided to marry her to Francis Bouthe of Dumfries. Storm had never liked the match, and his instincts had proven correct. Chartelle had confided in him, and it was his deep desire to run the bastard down and return him to dust.

“So you say …” Her brother frowned as he regarded the lad. “My gut tells me otherwise. Something is not quite right here, Chartelle … and we must tread warily.” He shook his head. “I tell you, this child—here suddenly and just now—doesn’t fit. I am concerned that he is a spy for the English king. Lord knows the Brits have them everywhere.”

“Impossible,” Chartelle softly said and shook her head. “He is not a spy, but a poor and hungry lad.”

“Chartelle, I caught him eavesdropping.”

“I don’t believe it, and if he was eavesdropping than it was idle curiosity …
naughty,
but not evil. Come, Alex. What you need is a bath and a trip to our kitchens.”

“Chartelle, I am not done questioning him yet.”

“Perhaps not, and still … for the moment, you are.” She lifted her chin. “How is Father?”

“Slipping fast.” Storm’s eyes dimmed sadly.

Chartelle reached up and touched Storm’s face to whisper, “As soon as I see to the boy, I will go to him.” Chartelle sighed and took the child’s delicate hand, surprised at its smoothness. She had expected the poor boy’s hand to be covered with calluses and blisters. A sudden doubt assailed her. Could Storm be correct? Was this child making his living as a spy? She did not believe it, not for a moment. As she led the boy away she said over her shoulder to her brother, who called his objections still, “Yes, yes … you may continue to question him later when he has been cleaned and bathed. For now, the child is with me!”

Storm and Breslyn exchanged glances. Breslyn, Prince of the Tuatha Dé, burst out laughing and said to her brother, “I believe the lady has spoken.”

Like sexy vampires?

Meet Damon from
ShadowHeart—Slayer

~ Prologue ~

DAMON DRUMMOND STOOD on a rooftop—arms at his side, legs spread in a wide stance—and stared at the scene that had just begun to unfold five stories below in an alleyway only dimly lit by the lights from the various apartments above it.

At both ends of the alley, New York City was ablaze with activity and bright with its city lights. Even at one in the morning the streets were still filled with a flow of people out on the town.

Damon made quite a picture. His black, thick hair fell in layered waves and framed his handsome face. The wind at the top of the building whipped at his shiny locks and at his tall, rugged body, but he didn’t bother to zip his black leather jacket closed. He rubbed his cold hands against his jeans as he watched the red-haired beauty below lure her prey deeper into the deserted alley.

Damon’s eyes, brightly alert with interest, were lit in their recesses with gold at a striking variance with their dark depths. He was keenly intrigued as he studied her style and took her measure, filing away his observations as though he were a research scientist observing an exotic new species. He watched her move and sway and entice her prey deeper into her web, and he waited for the inevitable. This was not the first time he had followed her into the night.

He saw the newbie slink in after her as the beauty pretended she didn’t know he was coming up behind her. She put on a grand show. Damon saw that her hand was already inside her unbuttoned denim jacket, and he knew her fingers were wrapped around her deadly weapon.

She stopped, turned, and pushed a long strand of her fire-lit hair away from her provocative features. She smiled bewitchingly at the young man now tripping with anxious need and awful, raging blood-lust towards her.

Her voice was disdainful when she spoke. “
Oh
—hi there … Are you following
me
?”

An animal grunt came out of the newbie’s mouth as his lips drew back, and he bared his fangs. What happened next went down so swiftly that a lesser person watching would not have realized the skill and strength it had taken. It looked so easy … she made it look so easy, but Damon knew otherwise. A newbie’s brutal strength was derived from the bloodlust, and no human could withstand its onslaught.

The newbie charged, but she went into a spin and was lightly, easily, and gymnastically out of his way and at his back. Before the newly made vamp understood enough to recover, she had her sharply pointed stake plunged into the nape of his neck and just as quickly had it withdrawn.

He turned to stare, stunned but not down. He made an agonized sound and reached back for his neck. His hand filled with blood, and he stared at his hand as his body filled with the poison that wood inflicts on a vampire.

She took his moment of confusion and used it to ram the wooden stake into his undead heart, and he collapsed in a heap. He stared at her before he whispered, “Your time … will come …”

She stood back from him for a moment as though saying a prayer. Then she withdrew the stake, wrapped it in some kind of cloth, and slipped it into its Kevlar sheath, which was strapped around her shoulder under her jacket.

Damon’s dark, well-shaped eyebrow arched with interest as she turned and slowly walked away, leaving the body in the alleyway. A newbie vampire would not disintegrate. She didn’t seem to care.

He supposed, as she did, that the police would list it as they did so many others as an unsolved case, and it would be filed with the cold cases as time went by.

The beauty picked up her pace, and Damon noted the style of her walk was controlled; she was careful not to use her slayer ability at super-speed.

He couldn’t stop himself from noting that her butt was perfectly shaped and tantalizing, and he could see she didn’t give a damn about her looks. She had only one goal, and that goal was totally at odds with his.

She was confident—probably overconfident, and that wasn’t good. She was killing at least two vampires nearly every other night, and one of these nights she would come across a vampire who knew just how to handle and overcome her …

However, she was smart, and she had been piecing the puzzle together. She had discovered bits and crumbs, and she’d tracked the clues relentlessly. It had Damon deeply concerned, because she was looking for one vampire in particular.

The beauty’s name was Nikki Walker. She was a vampire slayer, and Damon Drummond—well
,
he was a vampire
 …

~ One ~

NIKKI STARED UP at the small inn not too far from Harcourt Street in Dublin. It was a perfect location. Quiet, and it seemed to cater to older couples and a few business sorts. It wasn’t too far from the Temple Bar area, where she would do her vampire scouting, and so it was perfect for a home base.

She picked up her two bags and climbed the high steps that took her inside, where a small but brightly lit lobby greeted her. A man behind a mahogany counter, with an office of sorts at his back, caught her attention with his deep, Irish brogue, and she had to concentrate in order to understand what he was saying.

He laughed and clipped whatever he had said into a simple, “Good morn’ to ye, miss.”

“Oh hi …” Nikki smiled as she put down her suitcases and moved towards him. “I have reservations … Nikki Walker.”

“Ah, yes … ye requested the top floor … a suite.” He looked to be in his early twenties, and she couldn’t help but notice that he gave her an interested once over as inconspicuously as he could before he gently pushed some papers across the wooden high counter for her to sign and requested to see her passport.

As she bent to take care of the paperwork, her long, gold-lit red hair fell about her face. She pushed it away, looked up, and saw that he was staring. She smiled amiably as she could see he was about to ask a question.

“Are ye here on business then?”

She smiled and said ambiguously, “In a manner of speaking.”

“Oh, aye then,” was what he thought an appropriate response, and Nikki gave him a warm, friendly smile. It was obvious that he wondered what a young (and she could see he thought her pretty) woman was doing all alone at a hotel frequented by the senior crowd on this quiet street in Dublin. He couldn’t know it was the perfect place for what she had to accomplish.

Quiet and secluded was everything she needed.

She wasn’t who she had been, not anymore. She didn’t feel young and pretty and ready to take on the world in the normal way young women did. Graduate school was a thing relegated to another time in the future … friends, love … out of the picture for now.