The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love (23 page)

“I let out a low groan. ‘But what about the Butcher?’
I complained. ‘Never mind that now. We have more pressing matters to discuss.’ He paused for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. ‘Much like the beasts of the field, God designed our bodies and the act of love for the creation of offspring.’ I eyed him apprehensively. ‘Were the cooper and the barmaid trying to make a bairn then?’ He laughed. ‘The act of love is not without pleasure...so many will do it for
recreational
rather than
procreational
purposes. In that way, we differ from the beasts. Animals experience only the instinct to breed...while human beings desire physical closeness when they experience strong feelings such as love, passion, or lust. And kenning Mackay as I do, what he was feeling for the serving wench was almost surely the latter.’ I looked at him wide-eyed and asked, ‘Lust, do you mean?’

“He nodded and said,
voice hushed, ‘Lust is a more powerful and dangerous emotion than you can ken, Graham. If a man’s character is weak, lust can take a hold of him, bewitch and bedevil him, and tear his soul apart. A man of good character, understanding this, will use the strength of his will to curb his lust, to resist the temptations of the flesh. D’you ken what I’m telling you?’ ‘I think I do But tell me something, Granda. Can you do it just for pleasure with your wife?’ ‘Of course you can,’ he conveyed with a wink. ‘That’s one of the reasons a man marries. As the Bible says, ‘To avoid fornication, let every man have his own wife, and let every woman have her own husband.’ I eyed him suspiciously. ‘Are you telling me I’m going to have to live like a priest until I’m married?’ He chuckled softly. ‘That is between you and your own conscience, Graham. But if and when you do partake of the pleasures of a woman, you must promise me you will not conduct yourself in the manner of the cooper, dipping your blade into every scabbard that’ll have it. It is behavior unbecoming a Logan. And I willna have my grandson gallivanting about in so roguish a manner. So do what you must. But when you must, mind your Ps and Qs. Do you hear?’

“‘Dinna fash
yourself, Granda. Like I said, it was fairly disgusting.’ He eyed me with a look of skepticism. ‘Did you not feel even the slightest twinge while observing the rutting cooper?’ I shrugged. ‘I did feel a wee pang of something when gazing upon the lass. Her thighs were lovely. As smooth and white as fresh cream. And she had huge bosoms, which Mackay squeezed like they were melons at the Saturday market.’ My Granda laughed again. ‘When it’s yourself doing the squeezing, you’ll feel differently. I can promise you that. And that’s why I’m taking the trouble to speak to you about it now... though I’d advise you to wait a few years. Kenning you as I do, you’re likely to fall hard for the first lassie who bats her eyes at you twice. But mind yourself. Even these auld eyes can see you’re growing into a bonny young man. And you have titles, a fortune, property...and a heart as big as Scotland. Lasses will flock to you like hens to a barnyard cock. And some of them willna be above using their wiles to entrap you. Mind yourself, eh? And when it comes time, choose a wife who truly loves you for the size of your heart. Not the size of your purse.”

Graham stopped and crushed his cigarette in the ashtray.
She remained silent for a moment or two, and then, “I do, as it happens.”

His brow furrowed in confusion. “Do?”

“Love you for the size of your heart.”

“Oh, aye?” A smile nudged the edges of his mouth. “And here I thought it was for the size of my prick.”

She laughed. “Well, that too.” After a couple of beats, she added, “Did he ever get round to telling you about Cumberland the Butcher?”

“Aye
. He was a wily old bugger to be sure, but always true to his word.”

“So tell me
.”

He coughed in surprise. “About Cumberland the Butcher?”

“Why not?”

“
Because,” he said, thinking of his itinerary, “this is neither the time nor the place.”

Chapter
19: Cabaret Phantasmagoria

They’d been on the road for more than five hours now and were nearly to Edinburgh, thank God. The smell of her blood in the cramped confines of the car was driving him to distraction. Except for the few nips he’d taken from her, he hadn’t had human blood in weeks. And he felt the depravation in the extreme. But how to hunt with her in tow? And how to appease his carnal needs afterwards?

“I’m going to need to feed, lass
.” Eyes on the road, he licked his lips. “And I’d like it if you came along. Could you bear it, do you think?”

“
Probably. But why can’t you just feed from me?”

“Because
...if I keep taking your blood, you’ll soon end up with a bad case of anemia.”

“
Then why take me with you?”

“Aye, well
.” He licked his lips. “To put it rather bluntly, once I’ve fed, I’ll need sex.”

“Oh. I see.”

His eyes flicked toward her. “You don’t have to, of course, if you find the idea distasteful. But I thought, if you were game...you could maybe help me lure a suitable donor into the vaults.”

Her forehead wrinkled.
“The vaults?”

“Aye. The club I have in mind
is in what’s called the South Bridge vaults. Have you not heard of them?”

She still looked puzzled.
“Should I have?”

He shrugged. “I only thought
you might have done because of your interest in the occult. The vaults, you see, are among the most haunted places in Scotland, which, given our bloody history, is saying something, no?”

“I’ll say. But is it true?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen a wee ghostie. As far as I can figure, they operate on a different paranormal plane than I do.”

Her brow furrowed.
“Really? Wow. How interesting.”

“Aye. I s
uppose it is. But I’m that glad of it too. If you want the truth, I’ve never much cottoned to the idea of wraiths.”

She didn’t say anything more, so he looked out through the slapping windshield wipers.
It was raining hard now and growing dark. The landscape was still flat and barren, but becoming more urbane as they drew closer to Auld Reekie, as Scotland’s capital was dubbed in days of old because of the smoke from countless coal fires.

“So, what do
you want me to do? At the club, I mean.”

“Pick up a lad
,” he told her. “The burlier, the better. And try to get him to go into the vaults with you. And I’ll take it from there.”

“I hate to tell
you this,” she began with a wary look. “But you’re overestimating my skills of seduction. The truth is: I’ve never picked up a man in my life.”

He lifted an eyebrow in interest.
“Oh, aye? Well, I can’t say I’m sorry to hear it. But still, it shouldn’t be difficult for a lass with your bonny looks to—”

“
You really think I’m pretty?” she asked, beaming.

“Of course I do. But it’s no
t a matter of personal taste. You’re beautiful, Cat. Can you not see that when you look in the mirror?”

“No.”

“Well, you are.” He reached over to squeeze her thigh. “Whether you see it or not. And no lad with eyes in his head is going to turn down a chance to...well, you ken what I mean.”

“I only want to
attract you.”

He smiled at her. “I feel the same myself, believe me. But I need to feed. And it’s easier for
you to lure some unsuspecting lad into the vaults than for me to feed on the street...or in the gents and risk being seen. But, like I said, if you don’t have the stomach for it, I’ll understand.”

She gave him a hard look.
“Did I say that?”

“Does that mean
you will?”

“Sure.
I guess.” She shrugged. “It might even be fun.”

He laughed. Fun?
The lass really did have a dark side, didn’t she? 

“Tell me more about the vaults.”

After clearing his throat, he launched into his spiel: “They were built in the late seventeen hundreds to connect the High Street to the outer boroughs. At first, they were occupied by tradesmen, wine merchants, cheese-sellers, bookbinders, cobblers, leather cutters, watchmakers. That sort. But they were prone to flooding, so, the shopkeepers soon cleared out, making way for the seamier element: prostitutes, criminals, drug addicts, and the like. Burk and Hare, the infamous body snatchers, used to hunt their victims there.”

“As did
you, I gather.”

He shrugged. “Aye, well. What can I say?”

“But they’re safe now?”

He let out a small laugh. “
You’ll be safe enough with me, I should think.”

* * *

Four hours later, Cat was looking at Cabaret Phantasmagoria thinking: if Count Dracula owned a nightclub, it would look just like this one. Dark and smoky; death heads everywhere; stone dungeon-like walls. It reeked of cigarettes, beer, dirty water, and sweat. There was a huge bar at one end of the room, a stage at the other, and a crowded dance floor in the middle. Colored lights pulsed in time with the industrial metal pounding in her ears like a jackhammer on crack.

Arm arou
nd her waist, he guided her toward the bar. She was grateful for the support, already feeling a bit buzzed. Back at the hotel, they’d raided the mini-bar while getting ready to go out. He’d changed into his kilt and biker boots, which made her happy, and she’d put on a vintage cocktail dress with lots of necklaces and high heels, forgoing knickers to give him quick access when the time came. She was nervous about what they were planning, but also thrumming with a dark thrill.

While they dressed, he’d explained
how most humans could lose up to fifteen percent of their total blood supply—roughly a liter in the average adult—without experiencing any symptoms. And, give or take a few ounces, that was all he ever took, from the femoral artery so the marks went unnoticed.

Now, scanning the crowd for a suitable candidate, she felt at once conspicuously exposed and deliciously naughty. She wasn’t sure what
to look for beyond someone husky, for him, and not too skanky, for her.

“What would
you like to drink?” he asked near her ear.

“The usual.”

He let her go and leaned over the bar. Swallowing hard, she let her gaze roam over his backside. He looked so bloody hot right now it was all she could do to keep from reaching under his kilt for a feely.

“A dirty martini,” he
shouted at the bartender, a skinny guy with a shaved head and tattooed arms. “And the lass likes it filthy, eh?”

Five minutes later, she had her martini and he had a double single-malt.
He’d been smoking more than usual the past couple of hours, so his bloodlust must be getting pretty bad. They took their drinks to one of the booths overlooking the dance floor and slid in on either side. As she lifted the glass to her lips, she moved her eyes between him and the dancers, a gyrating mass of black clothing and bare flesh. There was a good selection of men, several of whom had removed their shirts. Her eyes traveled from one to another in search of a suitable candidate.

“Go out and have a dance.” His eyes were dark and hungry. “And I’ll watch from here
.”

She took a gulp of her drink
and licked her lips. She’d never been much of a dancer. In fact, she’d never really danced at all. Fictional lovers didn’t afford many chances to burn up the floor.

“Won’t
you dance at least one with me?”

“I’m here to hunt.” His voice was sharp and impatient, but softened a little as he added, “I’ll take
you out dancing another time. I promise.”

Offering him
a withering smile, she slid out of the booth and got to her feet.
Whoa. Head rush.
She set her hand on the table to steady herself.

“Are
you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she lied. “It’s just the high heels.”

Reluctantly, she made her way to the dance floor, which pulsed with blue light. The music, if you could call it that, was a pounding wall of noise. Thankfully, it wasn’t too crowded, though nobody seemed to be dancing with anybody else. She found a spot within clear view of Graham, closed her eyes, and began to move. Little by little, she loosened up. Now and again, she stole a peek at him, glad to find him watching with lust-hooded eyes. Spinning around, she shook her bum and lifted her skirt a little as a preview of coming attractions.

Turning back to him with a
seductive smile, her breath caught. There was a trashy-looking bottle blonde in an obscenely short mini skirt leaning against the table, blocking her view.
What the fuck
?
Was that bitch hitting on him?
She glowered at the interloper’s backside, hoping to repel her with the heat of her gaze.

The next thing
she knew, two meaty hands gripped her hips. She whirled around. There, towering over her, was a mountain of a man with a pierced eyebrow and spiked red hair. Under an open leather vest, his doughy chest glistened with sweat. Down below, he wore a red tartan kilt and combat boots with neon laces.

“
You’re pretty,” he yelled at her over the music. “And a good dancer.”

She could hardly return the compliment, though he did seem to
match Graham’s bill for a strapping lad with hemoglobins to spare. She threw a conspiratorial glance toward her thirsty date, praying she found him watching. The bimbo was still there, damn her, and still blocking the sightline between them.

“My name’s Rory
,” the big lad said, recalling her attention. “What’s yours?”

“Jane.”

“Are you here on holiday, Jane?”

Nodding, she forced
a smile. Another glance toward the booth wrenched her heart. He was gone. Alarm flaring, she cast around in search of him, finding him in the bar queue, eyes on her. When their gazes met, he gave her a nod.

She danced closer to Rory, bumping against him. He grunted, grabbed her hips, and pulled her backside against the front of his kilt. His hands
found her breasts and squeezed them through her dress. He had her locked against him and was grinding against her with salacious glee. Gulping, she threw a glance toward Graham. He was on the edge of the dance floor now, eyes smoldering. He took a sip of whisky and nodded toward the rear exit he’d pointed out earlier.

Rory, meanwhile, had a serious hard on.
The thought of how quickly he could be inside her unnerved her a little. She leaned back, rubbing against his buoyant erection. “Would you like to get out of here?”

“Fuck yeah
.”

Taking hold of his
meaty wrist, she led the way off the dance floor, grazing Graham with her shoulder as she passed him on her way to the rear exit.

* * *

The vaults, cold and creepy in the extreme, would have been pitch black if not for the electric lantern mounted outside the door through which they’d just exited. The air smelled fustily of damp stone and urine. Pulse racing and gut knotted, she led Rory through the chamber into another, just as Graham had instructed. Behind her, she could hear the big lad’s plodding footsteps and quick breaths. Her breathing also was accelerated. She was excited too, but also scared to death.

“This place is cool
, aye?”

Rory’s bur
r echoed off the chiseled walls, giving her chills. She hugged herself, rubbing her arms for warmth.

“They say it’s haunted.”

“Cool. Do you think we’ll maybe see a ghost tonight?”

As if on cue, Graham appeared before them, wreathed in mist.
Gasping as surprise shocked her heart, she stepped aside while Rory squealed like a girl. If not for the hard-on, he probably would have pissed himself.

Graham, looking
his prey in the eye, spoke in a smooth, hypnotic voice. “You’ll remember none of this. Not her, not me, not what I’m about to do. Not a bloody thing. Nod if you ken what I’m saying, lad.”

Rory nodded blankly.

“Good. Now, get down on the floor, spread your legs, and hike up your kilt.”

Rory robotically followed his instructions. As
the big lad lifted his kilt, she stole a peek at his equipment. Not surprisingly, in light of his proportions, his engorgement was sizeable. Not as big as Graham’s, mind, but nothing to sneeze at, either. Desire rumbled deep in her pelvis as the vampire knelt down and positioned his mouth over Rory’s inner thigh.

This
is so fucking twisted. And so fucking hot!

Throwing a glance back at her, Graham laughed. “
You did well, lass. This lad’s got the build of a champion caber-tosser.”

She laughed too,
although tensely. Caber tossing was the sport of throwing logs, the object being to get the caber to flip end-over-end. It took incredible strength and, therefore, incredible muscle mass. She was pleased he was pleased, but still trembled with a combination of fear and dark excitement.