Nightbred: Lords of the Darkyn (7 page)

“Fucking right you do.” His mouth curled around the cigar as he puffed. “You came out here to think about your mother.”

She started to reach for her throat before she controlled the impulse. “No, Master. I was waiting for you to return.”

“I can smell your tears, you lying bitch.”

Werren’s gaze went to the cigar; he’d used one just like it to torture her after one of the men had gone missing. “Yes, Master, I lied. I was thinking of her.”

“Then we should pay a visit to her hovel.”

No argument would sway him, so Werren closed her eyes. When she opened them, the present had become the past, and she and Dutch stood in the tiny, one-room cottage of her childhood. Every detail was absolutely correct, from the crude cross fashioned of twigs and twine hanging over the door to the squat shape of the blackened three-legged pot standing over the cold, dark hearth.

“It baffles me, to see this dung heap from which you sprang.” Dutch strode around the room. “Did the duke tup her here, on the rushes, or did he call her up to the main house?”

“I can’t say, Master.” Werren picked up one of her few playthings, a torn linen napkin that had been mended and knotted into the shape of a hare. The material had been so fine she would sleep with it tucked against her cheek. “I imagine after I was born he stopped using her.”

“No, he used her here, in the dirt and the filth.” Dutch caught her arm, jerking her over to the rough-hewn table where she and her mother had taken their meals of bread and kitchen scraps. “It’s where all you greedy trollops belong.” He shoved her down face-first onto the pitted, scarred wood and held her there by the nape of her neck. “Isn’t it, Duchess?”

“Yes, Master.”

He crouched down to whisper beside her ear, “Admit it. You watched them going at it. That’s why you crave it so much.”

“Yes.” Werren had no memory of seeing Magda with anyone except the undertaker, who had only touched her to search her nightclothes for valuables before removing her corpse from the cottage. “I did watch them.”

“What are you waiting for? Hoist your skirts.”

Werren reached down and slowly pulled up the voluminous material, baring her buttocks, thighs, and stockings.

Dutch kicked her feet apart with his foot and reached down to release the front of his trousers. “Been thinking about it, haven’t you?”

“All night, Master.” It was the truth. She’d been dreading this moment for hours. Not for the rough, painful ram of his entry into her body, nor the grunting sound of his pleasure as he pushed in to his root. It was the awful warmth that spread from his hand like a fever, burning down her throat and pooling in her breasts, sucking at her will until it swallowed it whole.

She had never once wanted him, but he forced her to feel whatever he desired. For now it was longing and need; in another moment it might be revulsion and agony.

Dutch’s power streamed through Werren, lifting her hips, undulating in time with his thrusts, and moving her hand down between her thighs. One of his favorite ways of humiliating her was to bring her to the very edge before spewing himself inside her and then pulling back his possession of her senses, leaving her without relief.

“You were listening to me and the Italians,” Dutch accused, pumping into her harder. “Do you know there is another like me, this Lucan of Alenfar? He is searching for my emeralds, too. What do you think of that?”

Werren had to pant her reply. “Do you wish me to go to him, and find out what he knows?”

“You could never get past his guards.” Dutch leaned close. “As if you’d risk your neck for me?”

“I would do anything for you.” It sickened her to say such things, but he expected it. “My ladies and I have no way to make a place for ourselves in the world. Without you to care for us, we would die.”

Dutch grunted, shuddering and jerking as he had his pleasure.

Werren remained where she was until her master withdrew from her body and shoved her away. Then slowly she stood, rearranging her skirts and ignoring the wetness between her thighs. “Thank you, Master.”

Chapter 7

J
amys felt the approaching dawn, and looked down at the girl sleeping in his arms. Chris had barely stirred, but the color had gradually returned to her face, and the tenor of her breathing told him that she was in a deep sleep that would last for several more hours.

Spending much of the last three years training or retiring alone to his tower chambers had sometimes made Jamys wonder if he was fit to share his life with so fragile a creature. He’d meant only to guard his heart, but instead he had retreated from every reminder of the happiness that might someday be his. As much as he cared for his father and stepmother, the effortless manner with which they displayed their love had been a constant, grinding reminder of how alone he was. How many times had he turned away from seeing Thierry weaving a strand of his stepmother’s dark hair through his fingers, or Jema sidling against his father, as content as a sleepy cat?

Now he realized it had been more envy than despair. He’d wanted what Thierry and Jema shared for himself, with his own woman, his own wife. Only one would do, and yet would not do, for his dream was Christian, and Christian was mortal. She could no more share his eternal life than a butterfly could mate with a spider.

Some of the Kyn took human women to wife and loved them as fiercely as they would a Kyn
sygkenis
, but Jamys couldn’t even assume Christian would want to be his. The hopelessness of not knowing what she might desire had gnawed at him constantly. Would she prefer a mortal husband, one who could give her children and grow old with her? What if the thought of giving herself and her heart to a Kyn male repelled her?

He was no hulking, muscle-bound warrior; even with the physical changes training had wrought, he’d never look older or more commanding. Without the reward for finding the gems, he wasn’t even sure what he could offer Christian, and feared what he might subject her to instead. What if the darkness inside him, with which he had lived since his mother’s betrayal, prevented him from ever giving her what she needed?

Now she lay beside him, her soft breaths caressing his skin, her small hand resting against his chest, and he had never felt so right with the world. She fit him as beautifully and naturally as if she had been born a part of his body; like some phantom limb he had lost long ago and forgotten until now.

The scent of her skin and the pulse of her blood beneath it distracted him from his nobler thoughts, and drew his hand to the buttons of her blouse. The garment looked too restricting for comfort, or so he told himself as he released the pearly button over her collarbones. Her thin skin felt as smooth and warm as a brushed kiss against his fingertips, and he slipped free a second button, and then a third. A few inches of silver chain glittered, and he used it to gently tug the old cross free of her garments.

The cross was older than she; older than any he had ever seen in the possession of a mortal. The silver used to fashion it had been hammered, not cast, and the maker’s hand had coaxed hair-thin strands into impossibly complicated Celtic knots. In the center of the cross a small cabochon of milky quartz glowed, serene as moonlight save for a single dark green flaw at its heart. The pendant gleamed from the care she had taken to clean and polish it, so it was obviously precious to her, but she wore it hidden beneath her garments, as if it were something secret or shameful.

As Jamys released the pendant, Christian shifted beneath his hand, her blouse falling open another inch to reveal the inner curves of her breasts, flushed now like her throat with a delicate pink.

Jamys rolled onto his back, curling his hands into fists as he stared up at the dark ceiling. Behind his lips his fangs pulsed as they stretched full-length into his mouth, as hot and hard as the shaft swelling beneath the front of his trousers. He could think of nothing but sinking into Christian, his fangs piercing the softness of her throat, his shaft forging deep into the wet heat between her thighs.

The shadows deepened inside him as they attempted to lure him from the strain of resistance. His darkness told him how he could be inside her before she opened her eyes; how simple it would be to bespell her even as he fucked her. Blood and sex always made him stronger; it would be nothing to compel her to give herself to him, to stay with him, to sleep through the day with him. When again the night came, he could wake with her in his arms, warm and eager and willing to see to his every pleasure. This way, he would never hurt her. . . .

Jamys closed his eyes, trying to shut out the images flashing behind them, and once more saw his mother’s exquisite face, her lovely mouth curved in a rare, genuine smile. She didn’t speak, but he knew what she would say:
After all you have suffered, my poor darling boy, you would deny yourself your heart’s desire? If you are careful, you can probably make her last for years. . . .

Imagining Angelica’s approval scalded Jamys, burning away at the lust racking him until nothing remained but ashes of self-disgust. He turned to draw the coverlet over Christian before he rose and went into the front room. He wanted to go down to the lists and challenge the first warrior who looked askance at him, and beat him into the dirt, but that would solve nothing.

Jamys wanted to ask her whether she still had feelings for him, or if he had been completely mistaken in his suspicions. But his fear of her answer was far greater than his desire to know.

He had only one chance to win her, and that was to become a man Christian could admire as well as love. He would do that by finding the gems, delivering them to Richard, and securing rule of Ireland.

Once he retrieved his laptop from his traveling case and set it up on the desk, he switched it on and accessed the Internet. His initial search for information on the
Golden Horde
produced more than eight million references, most of which had nothing to do with seventeenth-century pirates. He recalled the scant information from the high lord’s summons, and refined the search to include the keywords
Jamaica
,
emeralds
, and
lost treasures
. That narrowed the results to one hundred thousand, among which he found the Web site of Professor Charles Gifford, a salvage specialist turned piracy historian who had spent much of his career searching the waters between Jamaica and Florida for the wreck of the
Golden Horde
. The site, decorated as it was by images of skulls and old coins, offered a surprising amount of information about seventeenth-century piracy around the Caribbean, including an entire section on the island of Jamaica.

Jamys skimmed through it until he found the first mention of the
Golden Horde
:

Port Royal authorities, dockworkers, and islanders recorded sightings of the infamous pirate ship, which all accounts describe as sporting black sails, a skeletal-looking crew dressed in rags, and strange red lights glowing on deck. According to the final entry in the port master’s log, the ship circled the island several times but never came into port, nor did the crew ever come ashore.

This record is contradicted by the journal of Father Bernard Bartley, whose mission in Runaway Bay provided sanctuary for reformed pirates, most of whom had been sailors captured during raids and forced into the life. At the time the Horde was sighted on the north side of the island, Bartley wrote this after finding a half-dead man washed ashore near his mission:

“He had been brutally treated, and expecting his demise, I offered him absolution, so that he might go before God with the grace of his sins forgiven. The castaway refused, insisting that Hell would be nothing to his life. He claimed he had brought ashore his master, the captain of his ship, who had him steal the jewels from a relic buried in the sand; jewels that had been used by the first mate to transform his captain into a monster. As the fever took the castaway’s wits, he began to rave about this transformation, during which his master had died and then come alive again to drink the blood of the crew. That night, an hour before he died, the castaway cursed his master, this Captain Hollander, that he might never know port again.”

Few facts are known about the captain of the Golden Horde, whom some records name as Frederick Hollander. The most popular myth associated with this captain was a bargain he struck with the devil to trade his soul for eternal life. As you might expect, there was a catch, as the legend claims that Satan (or perhaps the curse of the much-abused castaway) doomed Hollander and his crew to sail the seas in darkness forever. Several eyewitnesses supported the myth, and insisted that as soon as the sun rose above the horizon, the Horde would simply vanish into thin air. . . .

Jamys copied the information and stored it in a file before he returned to the Web site’s front page. One of the coin images, a Spanish gold piece sporting a cross similar to the Templars’ martyrdom cross, looked vaguely familiar to him. When he couldn’t place it, he returned to the search results.

Another Web site devoted to salvage diving and recovery maintained an archive of mapped voyages. He checked the index for the
Golden Horde
, and found an antique map that showed several routes around the island as well as one leading up to the American mainland before it ended in a series of dashes. When he checked the legend, he saw that the dashes indicated the last known position of the ship.

Jamys imagined any mortal reading the accounts of Hollander and his ship would dismiss them as myths or superstitions, as the historian had. But details involved with the curse and the castaway’s claims made him suspect Hollander had not been human, but Darkyn. An immortal obliged to travel by ship in that era would not have been able to store blood for any length of time, and so would be forced to feed on the crew while at sea. Hollander would also have the Kyn’s nocturnal nature, which would compel him to avoid the discomfort of the sun’s rays by sailing only at night.

Much of the information on the sites that mentioned Hollander and the
Golden Horde
had been condensed and interpreted; what Jamys needed to see were the actual documents and maps from the seventeenth century. Fortunately for him modern humans who were obsessed with the past preserved such things with great care, and kept them in museums and the libraries of important institutions. When he returned to Charles Gifford’s Web site, he discovered the historian had scheduled several lectures at the Miami Maritime Museum, to which he had also donated Father Bartley’s journals.

Jamys didn’t want to involve Chris in his quest, but his unfamiliarity with Lucan’s territory made it almost a necessity. As he made note of the museum’s address, he heard a ringing sound coming from his traveling case, and reached in to take out his mobile.

The caller ID displayed the number for his father’s private line at the stronghold.

His ruse had been discovered, it seemed. He was tempted to shut off the phone, but if he didn’t answer the call, Thierry would order the garrison to begin searching for him.

He pressed the speaker button. “Yes, Father.”

“When you bespell a mortal in order to assume his identity, you should remember to adjust his memories as well,” Thierry said. “Where in God’s name are you?”

He considered how to answer that. “Where I am safe.”

“Since you are not here, I disagree,” his father snapped. “You are to return to the stronghold by nightfall.”

“No.”

Thierry growled, “You mistake my meaning, son. I do not make this a request. I am your suzerain as well as your parent, and I say you will come home at once.”

It gave Jamys little satisfaction to repeat his father’s words back to him. “I am not a warrior.”

“You are my son, Jamys.” Thierry’s tone softened. “There is no need for this estrangement and rebellion. Tell me where you are, and I will come there.”

“To bring me back,” Jamys amended.

“Yes. No.” His father made a frustrated sound. “Permit me to make right this thing between us. You wish to train with the garrison? I will direct my captains to instruct you. I will have my builder construct a villa on the grounds for you so that you may set up your own household. I will give you whatever you wish, boy; you have but to say what you need.”

He closed his eyes. “I am not a boy, Father.” He felt Chris’s hand touch his shoulder and covered it with his own, drawing strength from it. “I am a man.”

“Of course you are—”

“Then let me be one.” He switched off the phone before Thierry could reply, and set it down beside the laptop, and stared at it. “Forgive me. I did not mean to wake you.”

“I was a little cold.” Chris picked up the mobile. “I know this is encrypted, but if you keep using it, he’ll find a way to track down the signal.” She removed the back to extract the battery and the SIM card. “We keep a supply of smart phones downstairs that can’t be traced. I’ll get one for you to use while you’re here.”

She said nothing about the conversation she’d obviously overheard. “You are not going to tell Lucan?”

She moved her shoulders. “If he asks me who I’ve given phones out to lately, I’ll have to say you’ve got one.”

“About my father,” he persisted.

“I think you should tell Lucan about it.” She sat down beside him. “From what I overheard it sounds like you could use some advice. Lucan can seem unfeeling and sarcastic and kind of scary sometimes, but underneath all that sneering superiority and cold-blooded heartless killer thing he does, he’s just a guy trying to get by. He’ll understand.”

Jamys had long suspected the same, and nodded slowly.

“The sun’s almost up. You should get some rest.” Her eyes strayed to the notes he had been writing. “Are you planning to go down to Miami for something?”

“Yes.” He opened Gifford’s Web site and tapped the screen where the lecture information was listed. “This.”

Chris read it, and then eyed his notes again. “You ran away from home to attend a lecture on piracy? Couldn’t you have just taken a class at the local community college?”

He pulled up the account from Father Bartley’s journals. “I want to know more about this.”