MIDNIGHT HUNT: Book 3 of the Bonded By Blood Vampire Chronicles (8 page)

Monika slipped her fingers into his hair, pressing the back of his head to pull him to her. Their lips met…and Broderick was lost. She smelled of lavender and tasted of honey…tasted of Davina. She kissed like his wife—the same nibbling of his lower lip, the way she traced her tongue around his mouth, exploring, seeking. When she opened her mouth to him, he was helpless to resist and slid his tongue between her lips, delving deep. His hands smoothed down her sides, his thumbs tempted to brush the swell of her breasts, but he fought the indulgence. He snaked his arms around her torso and pulled her against his chest, lifting her in his embrace while he feasted on her mouth.

“I’ll just be a minute. Sit with him until I return.”

Broderick broke from the knee-buckling kiss and set Monika at arm’s length before the woman he met in the courtyard stepped through the door.

Monika gasped, adjusted her kerchief, which had gone askew, and smiled. “Good evening, Edda.”

“Good evening.” The older woman glared for just a moment at Monika before she flashed a bright smile. “Michael is having a difficult time sleeping tonight.” She held up a small potted pitcher. “I thought I would warm some milk for him.”

Monika drew her bottom lip between her teeth and suppressed a smile.
I guess she must have seen us.
She hugged her midsection.

Had Edda come to the door before she’d made her “announcement”? With his immortal hearing, Broderick had a hard time believing as much, but considering how lost he was in that kiss…perhaps he was deaf to everything around him. The thought unnerved him, because he was always the same around Davina, too.

Edda grabbed a small pot and poured some milk into it. “I’m glad to see you two have already started a fire.” She hung the pot on the crane and grabbed the cloth to handle the metal while she adjusted the height.

“Herr MacDougal, this is Frau Schmied,” Monika introduced.

Broderick held out his hand. When Edda placed her fingers in his grasp, he bowed and kissed her knuckles. “A pleasure to meet you, milady.”

Edda gawked for a moment, darting her eyes between Broderick and Monika, then retrieved her hand and sat in one of the chairs, pretending to watch her milk.
Lord have mercy, what a charmer!

Broderick fought a chuckle.

“The infusion is too warm for us to handle at the moment,” Monika told him. “We’ll need to wait just a little longer for it to cool.”

Broderick nodded, then regarded Edda. “Frau Schmied …your husband is the blacksmith, then?” Her surname meant just that—blacksmith or forger.

“Yes, he is.” Edda shifted in her seat and faced Broderick, smiling. “And what brings you to our little village, Herr MacDougal? With a name and accent such as yours, I would wager you are not from around here.”

“Nay, madam, I am not.” He crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow and a grin. “I come from a faraway land filled with monstrous beasts.”

Edda and Monika looked at each other and burst into laughter.

* * * * *

“Confess the truth now,” Angus Campbell coaxed in the crude, Germanic language, raising his arms for effect. “And I will set this innocent one free.” He stood between the two members of the Army of Light, who squirmed under his conditions. The crowd roared behind them, antagonizing the three heretics tied to the stakes, bundles of wood stacked at their feet.

The man named Peter tugged at his shackles, his face flushing crimson and eyes filling with tears. “You are an Inquisitor! Why are you trying to expose us?”

The woman Helga sobbed. “The Army of Light is faithful to the Church,” she protested. “We serve the Church and—”

“You are heretics!” He leaned forward and hissed, “I have seen your people harboring protection for Vamsyrians! Where is your order? Where are they housed? This is your last chance to confess.”

Peter clenched his jaw, but remained silent in his defiance. Helga wept. These two were just a means to an end. Angus already had what he wanted from them. The theatrics of the witch trial were a method to cover his tracks.

Helga simpered and regarded the girl tied to the stake at her side.

“She doesn’t have to die, Helga.” Angus strolled closer to the weeping woman. Dirt and tears stained her cheeks. Her plain, ragged tunic was soiled with nervous sweat and grime from the many times she had been on her knees, begging for mercy.

He lifted his blood-stained boot to rest upon the large bundle of twigs. “You have the power to set her free.”

Though she tried to avoid Angus’s scrutiny, she seemed almost helpless to prevent her gaze from dropping to him.

He wore his best expression of sympathy and compassion. “Don’t let her blood be on your hands. Reveal to me where your order is housed and, I promise, you and the girl will have the protection of the Bishop.”

“Helga, no! He lies! We are already sentenced. He cannot take us down.” Peter grunted as he yanked at the chains and cuffs pulling his arms over his head.

“Peter just wants you to suffer with him. You are doing the work of God by exposing this group of heretics.”

“Father Opfer,” she pleaded. “I don’t want to go to hell over this woman’s soul. I don’t want an innocent to die!”

“Sister Schuld, remember your oath.” Peter smiled through his tears. “You have the protection of God and will be in His arms this day. Do not listen to the lies of this man.”

Helga sagged forward, sobbing and nodding. While they were his captives, Angus had tainted their bodies, making their blessed blood harmless to him, thereby enabling him to feed and learn what they knew. But they would have resumed their routine of blessing their food and drink, so her tears and perspiration would be volatile once more. Angus donned his blood-red, lambskin gloves before he clambered up onto the pyre and grabbed Helga’s cheeks, forcing her to face him.

“Why are you wearing…?” Peter gasped. “You are the Blood of the Cursed.”

Angus leapt from Helga’s pyre to Peter’s and punched him across the jaw, rendering him unconscious. Angus leaned forward. “I can’t have you reciting the incantation, now, can I?”

The corner of his mouth turned up in satisfaction as the crowd cried louder for the fires to be lit. Trier proved to be a ravenous audience. Helga wailed. Angus ripped a strip of cloth from Peter’s tunic and secured the gag in his mouth.

Peter shook his head and raised it, grinning, red staining the cloth. “Da shilber gwow in yow eyesh gibes you away,
Bamsyrian
,” he mumbled over the gag. “Dey bill shee you burned.”

Angus chuckled and pulled the hood of his black, woolen cloak over his head. “Light them!” he called over his shoulder, and strolled from the scene, his back to the crowd, ensuring they never saw the evidence of
The Hunger
in his eyes.

The victims’ tortured screams, mixed with the licking flames and roaring crowd, echoed past him and into the surrounding forests.

The bishop will be pleased to know two more betrayers have been eliminated.

* * * * *

“That’s enough!” Monika screeched and covered Edda’s mouth, both of the women laughing as Edda fought to shove Monika’s hands away. “No more ridiculous stories about my childhood! You’re fabricating half of them!”

Broderick threw his head back and roared with laughter. “Only half? Those were so far-fetched, I thought for sure
all
of them were fabricated.”

“Oh, she was a sprite when she was a girl!” Edda said, when she’d finally grabbed Monika’s wrists. “Her grandmother said the faeries stole the real Monika from her crib and left this imp in her place.” Edda rose from her chair and popped Monika’s behind before she snatched the warm milk already poured back into the potted pitcher. “I best bring this to Michael so the poor dear can get some sleep.” She hugged Monika and left the kitchen house with a cackle.

Grinning, Monika shook her head and rolled her eyes. “The woman thrills at embarrassing me.” She shuffled to the hearth and set to the task of putting out the fire.

Broderick gazed admiringly at her in the dying light, warmth filling his heart. He was glad she had people like Edda in her life. “Shows how much she loves you.”

“That she does.” Monika collected their items from the sideboard, handing Broderick the jug of wolfsbane and his hat. “As I said, just paint the infusion on the rails and around the doors and window frames of your ship. You should be safe.” She then handed him the sack containing the sachets she created from the plant they strained and blotted. “Be sure these are dry before you and your crew carry them on your person.”

“Thank you for taking the time to do this. I know you didn’t have to.” Replacing his hat upon his head, he ushered her out the door and Monika grabbed the lamp before they stepped out onto the wide path. They exchanged stolen glances at each other on the short walk back to her cottage.

Monika brushed a few tendrils of hair from her cheeks, glancing about as if seeking an interesting topic to discuss. Broderick didn’t want to leave, but could find no other proper excuse to stay.

I wish he could stay longer, but… Gods! Just being around him feels so…right. Please let him be the one.

He smiled, pleased she had the same thoughts. But if he tarried any longer, he might regret his actions. This couldn’t be rushed. He had to make peace with his past. “How much do I owe you for the wolfsbane?”

“Oh, well, people in our village usually pay with favors or food.”

“And at the moment, I have neither. Your assistance has put me in debt to you.” Broderick reached into his sporran and produced a few silver coins. “I don’t have the local currency, but English silver has been accepted everywhere so far. Will this do?”

Her full lips parted and she nodded. “Um, yes. Thank you.” She stepped forward and accepted the coins.

The color blooming in her face was too endearing for him to resist. He trailed a curled index finger along her jawline. “Aye…the blush in your cheeks is very flattering, lass.” Of course that brought an onslaught of bright scarlet to her skin and the scent of her blood was almost his undoing. “I will bid you good evening, Fräulein Konrads.”

She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, near begging for Broderick to kiss their plump, redness again. Thankfully, she stepped back and hugged her midsection. “Good evening.” Suppressing a smile, she turned and opened her cottage door.

“I will be occupied during the day on the morrow, but might I call again after sunset?”

The thrumming of her heart tempted him to lean toward her, but he stood his ground. He needed to get away from this siren before he lost control. And the barrier was still up around her house.

“Yes, I would like that.”

Broderick bowed. “I will count the hours.”

She covered her lips with her fingertips, hiding a husky flutter of laughter. “Good night, sir.” He winked and, just before she closed the door, she placed the pitcher and lamp on the table and stepped back outside into the night. “Do you believe in fate? In destiny?”

Broderick crossed his arms—the jug and sack of sachets dangling from his hands by his ribs—and searched the sky, as if he might find the answers there. “I never wanted to. I didn’t like the idea of not being in control to choose my own path.” He rested his gaze upon her lovely, heart-shaped face and bow-like mouth. Then he disappeared into her sapphire eyes, which sparkled with hope. “But there are recent events that have made me reconsider my opinion.”

Monika glided forward and rested her hot hands upon his forearm. “I most certainly believe in fate,” she said in a throaty whisper. “And I think you and I were destined to meet.” She rose on her tiptoes and Broderick met her lips for a delicate taste. “Good night, Herr MacDougal.”

Like the sprite she was fabled to be, Monika flitted into her cottage, mischief dancing in her eyes.

Broderick stared longingly at the door, her kiss still burning on his lips, her scent still enflaming his loins. Was he merely missing intimate contact with someone or was she really his wife? No woman stirred an ache in his soul like Davina…and now Monika. Guilt spread like molten lead poured onto his chest. The last thing he wanted was to betray the love of his wife. She may be dead, but his heart still beat for her. This was why his friend Laurent had sworn never to fall in love. Why Vamsyrians were called the Blood of the Cursed.

He marched away from her cottage and, once out of the village, he dashed up the road to Vollstadt, slowing down when he reached the edge of town. Arriving back at his ship, he smiled at Paddy and Rob on the main deck, laughing and playing their instruments. Paddy blew into his flute and Rob stroked his violin, the two obviously drunk.

“I thought I gave Andrew orders for you lads to go into town and do this.” Broderick hopped onto deck as they craned their necks toward him.

Rob noticed the jug in Broderick’s hand. “Have you brought some real drink on board, Cap’n?”

“Aye, all they have is beer in this village,” Paddy protested.

Broderick chuckled. “Nay, ’tis not spirits, but you lads are welcome to a cask of Scotch in the hold.”

“Are ye sure?” Rob asked, but still rose as if to ready to fetch the barrel once the word was given. “We only have two left.”