MIDNIGHT CAPTIVE: Book 2 of the Bonded By Blood Vampire Chronicles (20 page)

“Well,” he said rising with a grunt. “Such an indifference to pain may prove helpful.” He absently scratched at the tingling itches across his abdomen.

Tying his horse securely to a low-hanging branch, he checked the stilettos at his hips, positioned them the way Broderick had shown him, and adjusted his baldric to settle the sword at his side.

He breathed deep. As Cailin had instructed him before their sparring session, he closed his eyes and imagined the construction of a brick wall around his mind. The mason workers stacked the bricks, but then began to argue over the inconsistency of the job being done. James imagined himself coming on the scene and scolding them, being the task master to bring about accord. Reluctantly, the workers resumed, casting disapproving, sideways glances at each other while he supervised.

James opened his eyes and chuckled. “Very interesting indeed,” he mumbled and crouched low, heading toward the castle structure.

He stopped and let his eyes roam the landscape. When had the sun set? He shrugged and slinked through the darkness.

* * * * *

Broderick stepped down from the last rung on the iron ladder, turned and almost collided with Malloren Rune.

“Very wise of you to feed before our sessions.”

At first taken aback that he hadn’t heard her, Broderick eventually nodded. “I was unsure of how many exercises we would do this evening. I thought it would be best if I had my full strength.”

She continued to stare at him. Crossing his arms, he waited for her to make the next move. The corner of her mouth turned up in amusement and she twirled to proceed down the corridor. Broderick cocked a suspicious eyebrow before following her.

Malloren led him through the various corridors and doorways, navigating their way through the labyrinth until they emerged into the library where he’d first entered the underground chambers.

“Please proceed to the center on the lower level. We have tomes to consult.”

Broderick did as she instructed, and she mumbled the initial incantation as she slid the bolt. A tingle of apprehension thrummed in his gut. She padded down the stone stairs to the lower level, seated herself at the center table and, with an open palm, motioned for Broderick to join her.

“What do you know of the origin of the Vamsyrians?” She settled back comfortably in her armed chair.

“Evangeline told me only briefly that…” He was about to say “they”, but the nagging thought of the choice he’d made forced him to include himself in this race. “She told me briefly that
we
are creations of Satan…and that making the choice to become a Vamsyrian is turning our backs on God. However, that is all I know.”

She nodded. “Vamsyrians are Satan’s revenge against God. They are a mockery of Christ’s redemption.” She rose from her seat and strolled slowly about the room. “Jesus shed His blood so that humanity might have eternal life. Satan created Vamsyrians to shed the blood of the innocent so they might have immortality. The ultimate goal for Satan is to trap the human soul within the body, forcing the Vamsyrian to kill and build an increasing mountain of sins against the soul, thereby preventing it from obtaining any redemption.”

“So that is why we have turned our back on God, by choosing to become…an offspring of Satan.”

She leveled her eyes at him. “Yes, Vamsyrian.”

Broderick clenched his jaw. As much as he did not want to admit his part in this choice, he was fully conscious of his decision. His wife Evangeline had betrayed him and he believed, at the time, she was responsible for the slaughter of his family. When she had been the one to stand before him as one of “God’s chosen”, he wanted nothing to do with God and his ways. He consciously rejected God.

“There is hope for redemption, though, Broderick.”

He squinched with skepticism. “But Evangeline said once we made this decision, there was no turning back.”

“Jehovah rarely creates such inescapable situations.” She raised an eyebrow, hinting at the many secrets she held.

Broderick grumbled.
God’s blood, this woman enjoys this position of power knowledge affords her!

“I spoke of a prophecy.”

He nodded.

“This prophecy foretells of a warrior created who will be the Deliverer of God’s wrath on the Vamsyrian race. Through their destruction, there is redemption.”

Broderick rolled his eyes and shook his head. “So, the redemption of which you speak is through death.”

Malloren’s unemotional silence was his confirmation.

He stood and paced. “How appropriate.” The ramblings of the Church in his youth—of sacrifice and suffering in the name of the Lord—needled his shoulders with its endless lessons fraught by guilt and judgment. “It seems God’s salvation is always through suffering and death.”

“As you recall,” she went on, ignoring his rants, “making the choice to become a Vamsyrian had to be an educated decision. You had to face a member of the
Tzava Ha’or
and—”

“Hear both sides of this coin,” he grumbled. “Aye, I remember.”

“It is important, Broderick MacDougal,” she stressed. “If someone is changed unwillingly into a Vamsyrian, Jehovah will release His wrath on the Vamsyrian race, cleansing the earth of their presence.”

Broderick ceased his pacing and faced Malloren with his jaw dropped in disbelief. “The choice had to be a willing one, Elder Ammon said. But I did not know the full extent of the choice I made.” The realization hit him like a stone to the chest. “You are telling me God is releasing his wrath on our race because of me?”

She smiled a knowing grin. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

* * * * *

“Come now, lassie.” Jasper’s gruff voice invaded her fitful dreams, his meaty hands inconsiderate of her body or sleepiness as he yanked her out of the chair and dragged her through the dusty chamber. “Lord Angus wants to see ye in the Grand Hall.”

Cailin struggled with the blurriness of heavy eyes and limbs and tripped several times, yelping at her already sore feet. Jasper grunted and pulled her along, shoving her into a cushioned armchair. Surprisingly, the chair felt good and she arranged herself more comfortably as she surveyed her new surroundings. Blinking to accustom her eyes to the
 
light, she focused on a massive hearth which came into view, a blaze dancing in a fireplace large enough for one to stand in. Torches burned along the walls of the Grand Hall. In the center, a gargantuan chandelier hung with myriad candles flickering and dripping their wax onto the floor below. This room seemed well-used. There were no signs of cobwebs or dust in the high-ceiling rafters or on the tables in a rectangular U-shape formation around the room and behind her. The chair in which she sat was positioned at the mouth of the “U”, Jasper standing just behind her and to her right, while she faced a raised platform that housed a long, head table.

She glared over her shoulder at Jasper, who winked at her, and she delivered an equally scathing glower to the rest of the men stationed around the room. An observation platform edged the entire hall—starting at the back-right, skirting along the right wall, the front wall and the left wall, ending at a door to the back-left. At the entrances to this second level, two more men stood on post. She directed her attention back to the head table and grumbled.
Six men plus Jasper and only one small blade.

“Sweet, sweet Cailin,” a deep voice drawled, echoing in the vast room, and gooseflesh rose on her skin at the eerie familiarity.

Chapter Eight

Cailin snapped her head to the right and caught her breath as Angus swaggered toward her. The corner of his mouth curved sensuously, his hooded gaze seductive and alluring. Frowning and standing before her, he tipped her head up with a curled index finger under her chin and hitched his breath.

“’Tis beautiful enough to steal my breath from me…in spite of your disheveled appearance.” Angus stepped back and surveyed her, the crease between his brows deepening.

In a blur, he back-handed Jasper, who fell to the floor, gasping. Cailin squeaked her surprise.

“I did as you asked, m’lord.” Jasper wiped the blood from his split lip. “She is here for your pleasure.”

“Dotard! And what pleasure am I to find in this poor lass, half-starved and spent from your mishandling?” Angus closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, clenching his fists. Training his gaze on her once more, his eyes softened. “Please forgive this dolt, Cailin.” He bent forward, brushing his cheek against hers, and scraped her skin with his whiskers. Inhaling deep, he caressed her brow with his mouth as he feathered his way to her other cheek. “I shall tend to your needs,” he whispered.

Cailin shivered at the heat of his words against her ear and shrank from him.

Angus chuckled, but did not stand upright. He placed his palms on the arms of the chair, his face still hovering above hers as his deep-green eyes roamed her features. The last time she had encountered Angus, she was ten years of age. He had made similar arrangements to have her and her mother captured and brought to some holdings closer to Edinburgh than this location. Though he looked the same and he still used the same taunting voice, his effect on her was entirely different. His mannerisms toward her were purely…sexual.
Aye, that is the difference.
He oozed with sexuality and lustful intentions.

Cailin gasped when his knee settled between her thighs. His gaze dropped to her mouth and his tongue swept his lips as if he prepared for a scrumptious feast. With his hand at the nape of her neck, he held her in place as he kissed her. Sensuously at first, then growing more urgent. Cailin refused to open her mouth to him, though his tongue and lips made insistent demands.
So much for this amulet preventing him from touching me!

Angus pulled back. He panted and his brows drew up in what appeared to be confusion. After several moments of his searching gaze and his breathing seemed to return to normal, he grinned and stood.

“Welcome to Glen Morin, sweet Cailin.” Grabbing the throne on the opposite side of the head table, he lifted the wood chair and swung it over to his side. Cailin blanched as the solid thump of the dense furniture confirmed its weight and size…and he had tossed it about as if it were hollow.

Angus sat upon the velvet cushions and threw a leg over one of the arms, propped his elbow on the other and rested his chin in his palm. With a frown, he regarded Jasper. “Cut her bonds. She is a guest in my home.”

Jasper scrambled to his feet, procured her silver-plated dagger from his belt with a smile and sliced through the ropes binding her wrists in a single swipe. He nodded appreciatively at the weapon, winked at her and replaced the coveted knife in his belt.

“I am impressed…about many things,” Angus complimented. “You have grown into quite a vision from the gangly little waif I saw so many years ago. Knowing my friend Jasper here, and judging by the rawness on your wrists…” He glowered momentarily at Jasper before diverting his gaze back to her, the lust returning in his eyes. “’Tis obvious you did not have a pleasant journey here, yet you remain steadfast in your scathing glares against me. I see every indication that if you had the opportunity, you would drive a silver stake through my heart…and perhaps relish in the experience.” His soft laugh caressed the air around her. “Am I right, sweet Cailin?”

She nodded.

He laughed outright this time and sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees and amusement sparkling in his lustful gaze. Cocking an eyebrow and squinting, he rubbed his chin as he considered her. “I am curious, though, over how well you have managed to block your thoughts from me.” He sat back and crossed an ankle over his knee. “My dear brother must be getting better at teaching you such skills. Even with Davina, I caught a glimpse here and there of her precious little musings.”

Cailin inwardly sighed with relief.
At least the amulet is working in that regard.

Angus averted his eyes to one side, apparently looking to the back of the room, and he nodded. Directing his attention back to Cailin, he said, “Hungry?”

A thin, elderly man shuffled forward to the raised platform, carrying a tray overloaded with fruits, breads, cheeses, roast chicken, a pitcher and two goblets. He grunted as he precariously set the tray upon the head table.

“Thank you, Malcolm.” Angus nodded at the servant, who nodded in response and shuffled out of the room. “Please, my dear.” Angus sauntered forward and gingerly took her hand in his. Not wishing to be confrontational at this point, she allowed him to escort her, limping in the process. He stopped and looked at her feet, then glared at Jasper. Cailin gasped as Angus swept her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way around the table. He seated her in the matching throne armchair in the second place of honor. “Help yourself,” he encouraged. Turning his chair to face her from across the table, he again sat in his casual display, leg hung over the arm.

Cailin’s mouth watered as the buttery aroma of the bread teased her senses. She near-drooled at the roasted chicken, skin glazed golden-brown and crisp to the eye. The grapes, round and plump, would surely burst in her mouth. She very much wanted to partake of the bounty before her, but this was Angus Campbell and he was not to be trusted.

Her host chuckled. “Come now.” He rose and poured her a cup-full of deep-burgundy wine. “Do you think I would have you brought all this way just to poison you?” He poured himself a cup and drank deep. “You must know I would derive no satisfaction in such a heinous act.”