The Dracove (The Prophecy series) (24 page)

“You don’t find true love through sex, dumbass. Maybe he’s old fashioned or something, which wouldn’t be all that bad, would it?”

“No, it wouldn’t. I’d love to meet a guy like that.”

“You’d be bored with a guy like that.”

“True.”

Cianán had heard enough. She’d looked happy, but he knew she was only uncomfortable around him because of his behavior. He cursed himself. He
knew
her past. The damn wolf had told him more when he linked minds with her than the visions had shown him.

The thought of Grantlund delivering her right into his arms made him smile.

He couldn’t lose her again. It took him ages to find her. Fate wanted him to find her. Grantlund saw the mark, and that was enough proof for him.
And he gave her that damned locket.
He wouldn’t have the ability to do anything to her while she wore the wretched thing. He’d felt its power once before. It was much more powerful than the crystal she’d been wearing the evening they went to dinner. Both of the items had been enchanted. He knew who charmed the locket, but wondered whether Kylie’s mother had also been a cunning woman. He needed to decipher a way to rid of the damned piece of jewelry. There had to be a way. His anger once again lashed out toward Grantlund.

“He has defied me once too often.” In a time long past, a fledgling defying his Master would burn. Of course, long ago the fledgling would never dream of doing such an atrocious act.

He’d thought about killing the boy long ago. After all, he
did
create him, so to speak. He wanted more than anything to kill him the other night, but this wasn’t the place. His demise wouldn’t bring Kylie to him. The situation was different than the last. Killing Grantlund might drive her away and he would have to take her by force.

That was
not
an option.

Having Grantlund betray her somehow would be so much more satisfying. She’d come running to Cianán and he’d be there waiting with open arms. He could do whatever he wished with her after that. He nodded, agreeing with his decision. Now he only had to come up with a plan to bring it about.

His ears pricked at a distant sound loud enough to distract him from his thoughts.

The coyotes howled. He smiled, joining in their song from his perch atop the telephone pole. Obviously, they weren’t hunting. Hunting sounded more like a pack of hyenas. He closed his eyes and listened to their song. It was so beautiful, so graceful; a sound both relaxing and invigorating all the same.

Time to feed
. He jumped into the night to search for another victim. He’d fed earlier, but he felt the need for a bit more than mere blood. Soaring across the sky, he searched the dark streets until his eyes fell upon a lovely young lady walking swiftly down a neighborhood street. A lonesome song strummed through his ears. He watched her enter her house. His mouth twisted into a grin with thoughts of what he’d do to her this night.

Rain trickled down around him, soaking the grass covering her grave. He used to come to this cemetery centuries ago to remind him of that horrible night: the night he held her lifeless body in his arms for the last time, unable to bring her back. As long as her murderer was out there, he could never let himself forget.

Long ago, he missed her more and more each passing day. The days turned into years. Those years grew into decades and centuries. He was ashamed; his love for her seemed to fade. The vision of her lifeless body; however, was forever etched in his mind. His most recent nightmare ended with him holding a soaking wet, lifeless Kylie instead of the pale, blood-drained Siobhán. It scared the ever-living hell out of him.

Was Siobhán’s death his fault, as Cianán had insinuated? He didn’t know anymore. Confusion clouded his mind. Would he be to blame for Kylie’s death as well? He shook the thought from his mind.
God forbid.

He knelt beside the gravestone, placed a flower in front of it, and brushed his fingers across the name—
Siobhán Brigit O’Ruairc
. That evening long ago intruded, unfolding all over again.

* * * * *

1406 A.D., Ireland

He’d been watching her for three years. Watching and waiting from the shadows. She couldn’t see him. In her mind he was dead. Many times he’d wanted to reach out and touch her, comfort her when he saw tears fall quietly down her cheeks. Cianán never noticed her sorrow and that angered him. If he cared for her, why did he not notice how sad she’d become?

On occasion, he tried to reach out to her, not caring if she saw him, but she ran away the moment the shadows moved. She’d become fearful since he died. Living in his home didn’t help matters, but Cianán had insisted upon it. Grantlund couldn’t understand why. He heard her tell Cianán a monster chased her through the halls of his home. Cianán would laugh and tell her it was her imagination playing tricks on her. He wondered if Cianán wanted her to go insane, for that was what was happening to her. Surprisingly, Cianán had yet to use his mind control on her. It had been a curiosity Grant wouldn’t understand until years later.

He remembered what Cianán said to him on the eve of his death, about how important she was to him. Recently, he learned of her importance, opposed to Cianán’s lies. While she slept, he worked his magic to protect her—a spell on the locket he’d given to her as a wedding gift. The locket she wore every day and night since his death. He’d made it with his own hands. His hope was that it would protect her from Cianán, or any of the others for that matter. He placed a drop of his blood inside the locket to strengthen the spell against his brethren, whether or not they were of Cianán’s coven.

From that point, all he could do was wait. He didn’t know the ‘when’ of what Cianán had planned. He’d looked forward to it. Cianán told him Siobhán would be returned to him then, but the Master lied to him. Grantlund discovered Cianán planned to kill her.

And he’d be forced to watch. He could think of nothing else, no way to save her. He wasn’t strong enough, even as a vampyre.

He’d left the gathering at Cianán’s to check on her, but that was some time ago. He didn’t enjoy the convivial atmosphere—’the Feast of Age’, Cianán called it. ‘The Feast of Vampyres’, Grantlund called it. Unknowing mortals socialized with their soon-to-be murderers at the festivals. Cianán held the party twice a year, and Grantlund had yet to enjoy one of them. Not all of the humans would be murdered, but it still disgusted him.

Grantlund wasn’t sure he liked his new life. He was always a peaceful man, never bringing harm to a soul unless he absolutely had to. Perhaps to defend himself, or Siobhán, but that was all. Where did peace get him? Turned into a vampyre, an immortal—something he never chose to be. He was forced to ‘hunt’ mortals, something he used to be. Hunt them down the way his wolfhounds once hunted for him.

He missed his dogs greatly and wished they hadn’t been killed. When he came back after his death, they acted differently toward him. It was Cianán who’d slaughtered them when they tried to attack him.

Another reason to hate Cianán—the man took everything he ever loved away from him.

His mind shifted back to checking on his love.

He treaded softly through the kitchen. He had to be quiet, even though Siobhán was most likely sleeping.

Grantlund entered the foyer from the side. His senses told him something was askew. He passed his large painting of The Morrigan and went to smile at her, but something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. He snapped his head around to fully view the horror before him.

Crying out, he ran over to her, dropped to his knees, and slid on the carpet, the force behind his speed bunching the large rug between them. He stared at her in disbelief, afraid touch her. The wound on her neck looked like a slash, but someone had definitely drained her. He reached out with a trembling hand and touched her arm. Her cold flesh had him withdrawing his hand in the space of a heartbeat. She’d been dead for some time. He forced himself to touch her again, to be sure. Feeling the coldness once again made him cringe and nausea struck.

He cradled Siobhán’s lifeless body in his arms. Tears ran down his cheeks. He rocked back and forth with her, clutching her head to his chest. Finally, his screams echoed to the heavens, and redoubled when he looked at her pallid face. He brushed her lifeless cheek, touched her still lips with a light grace of his fingers, trying, hoping desperately to bring life back to them. In his torment, he thought he might be able to save her. He cut his wrist and poured the stream of blood into her mouth. But she’d been dead too long.

Now she would never be with him, even if Cianán’s lies had been true.

“Who did this to ye, my love?” he whispered. “I swear I’ll hunt ‘em down.”

He carried her to the parlor and laid her down on the davenport, placing the locket in her hands. It belonged with her and not on the floor. Holding her hands in his, he knelt beside her and sobbed, his face buried just beneath her bosom. His sorrow subsided. He stared at her, the memories flashing through his mind—the time he’d spent with her, danced with her, stolen a kiss from her when no one was looking.

Rage pushed sorrow out of the way.

He stood and stormed out of the room, out of his home—a place where she should have been safe.

He flew to Cianán’s home, and entered with a wrath the gods would envy. He kicked the door open. The few people lingering in the entry quickly moved from his path, save for a tall blonde woman. She blocked his path to Cianán.

“Let me pass, Shealynn.” She was Cianán’s Amazon guard, and perhaps his lover. She’d been with him a long time, longer than he had. Grantlund tried to step around her, but she moved again.

“You seem to be upset, Grantlund. What troubles you?”

“You trouble me, now let me pass,” he growled.

“I don’t think Cianán wishes to be disturbed by anyone right now. There
is
the gathering. Mayhap you can see him later.”

“He’ll see me now!” His yells echoed around them.

Shealynn stepped away from his anger and let him pass.

He stormed through the archway into the parlor. All of Cianán’s guests turned to look at him. Some of them mortal, some of them not; only he and his brethren could tell the difference. Sometimes the mortals knew why they were invited, but most of them had no idea. They’d heard his yells, but didn’t see his eyes. He changed them back before he stepped in, knowing there were mortals inside. Though it was a subtle change, they still would have noticed it. Cianán might have killed him for something as small as letting his control slip. He’d seen it happen before.

Cianán smiled and looked over to him, but his smile quickly faded. He walked over to Grantlund and placed his arm around his shoulders.

“What troubles ye, my son? I sense somethin’ amiss.” Cianán walked him out of the parlor and into his study.

“It’s Siobhán.” Anger lingered in Grantlund’s voice.

“Siobhán? What of her, did she see ye?”

“She’s dead.”

“WHAT?” The glass in his hand exploded in his clenched fist.