Highland Blood Moon: A Cassidy Edwards Novella - Book 3.6 Read online

  “Strange, indeed,” Dorian agreed under his breath.

  They lapsed into silence then, which was broken only by the sounds of the blacksmith ladling soup into a bowl and setting it down on the table.

  Dorian sighed. There was nothing to do but wait for morning to arrive. Fighting a deep sense of unease, he ate his supper and settled back to watch the smoke rise steadily from the peat burning on the hearth.

  The Sicilian

  Dorian awoke with a start, belatedly realizing that something soft and blunt repeatedly struck his chest. Fists. A flash of freckles and long, red braids pierced his bewildered state, and he sat up, beaming from ear to ear.

  “You took so long!” his sister wailed, pummeling his chest. “’Twas summer when I sent that message, you big oaf! ‘Tis midwinter now!”

  Chuckling, he rose to his feet and gathered Gloria close in a bear hug. “’Tis pleasing to see you hale and hearty, lass, after all that has happened here,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion. “And ‘twas no fault of my own, you wee hellion! I came as soon as I could, having only received your message three days ago.”

  Stepping out of his embrace, Gloria swatted his arms, even as a warm smile spread across her face. He saw then that she’d changed dramatically. She’d lost weight, and her white skin appeared even whiter than usual, rendering the freckles even more pronounced. But it was her cheekbones that he noticed most of all, standing out in her elfin face in sharp relief and making her blue eyes seem almost … haunted.

  Concern flooded through him. “Are you well? Has this Sicilian mistreated you now?” he gasped, the words erupting from his lips.

  His sister’s chin snapped up and she immediately stepped back. “Ach, Ian’s been blathering, aye?” she retorted, her voice harsh and her words clipped. “The old fool canna keep his tongue in his mouth.”

  The severity of her tone startled him as much as her words. Not the reaction he’d expected. Frowning, he reached down and gave her braid an affectionate tug. “The man cares for you, lass. He looked after both of us for years, aye? Sees us as his own. Ach, you know that well.” Indeed, after their parents had passed away, the blacksmith had always been there. Gloria had loved him as a father.

  But there was little love in her face now. “Meddled, Dorian,” she corrected, her voice hard and unrecognizable. “He’s a meddlesome old gossip.”

  Puzzled, Dorian combed his fingers through his unruly hair. Aye, Gloria clearly wasn’t herself. ‘Twas time to cut to the heart of the matter. “I would meet your Sicilian. Where is he now?” he asked, striving to keep the timbre of his voice light and gentle.

  Her eyes narrowed into suspicious slits, but finally, she replied, “He canna come now. He suffers from an illness and canna walk in the sun.”

  Dorian’s brows ascended to his hairline. “Pah! What foolishness is this?” he demanded, his patience vanishing in a heartbeat. “If he canna walk in the sun, then take me to him, and at once!”

  “No!” Gloria retorted angrily. “You’ll not insult my love and name him a fool, Dorian. He’s my soulmate—”

  “Your soulmate?” he interrupted angrily, swallowing a violent expletive with the greatest of difficulty. “Did he wed you now?”

  She raised her chin. Tears of pride glittered in her eyes. “Ach, but he will. He—”

  “Dinna be daft, lass,” he grated, grasping her by the shoulders. “’Tis no fault of your own. I canna fault you. But ‘tis clear this man lies.”

  “What would you know?” she challenged, defiant. “You left. You don’t know him. And why do you think you’ve a say in the matter now?”

  “I’m your brother!” he inserted, his astonished voice ringing in the rafters.

  She opened her mouth to reply, but he stopped her with a finger upon her lips.

  “Keep your breath to cool your porridge, now, aye?” he said in a softer tone. “Enough. ‘Tis my duty to see you safe, wee Gloria. I am bound by oath, by blood, and by my heart to see it so. Aye, for you, I’d even fight a battalion of kinswomen with crossed arms and puckered brows!”

  They stood there, chests heaving, and then all at once, her face crumpled. Was that fear flickering in her blue eyes? His heart tugged.

  “Ach, I’ll see you safe, Gloria,” he whispered again, drawing her to his chest. She clung to him almost desperately, weaving her fingers through his plaid as if anchoring herself.

  For a time, they simply stood there, until he finally expelled a long, deep breath and murmured, “Aye then, when the sun falls, I would meet this man.”

  “Aye,” she agreed, closing her eyes and burying her face in his shoulder. “Aye, and you will.”

  * * *

  By sunset, deep lines of worry etched Dorian’s face. Within an hour of their reunion, he’d learned enough about the Sicilian to know that by dawn, he’d be riding away with Gloria in tow—willing or unwilling.

  The mysterious Sicilian had arrived in the village on midsummer’s eve with the cloak of a nobleman and a leather sketchbook tucked under his arm.

  “He’s an artist,” Gloria explained, moon-eyed. “He’s drawn so many lovely sketches of me.”

  Dorian winced. “An artist?” he grated. “Charcoal on paper provides little food or warmth on a cold night.”

  When her lips thinned into a line, he swallowed the remainder of his criticism, and it took a fair amount of cajoling to get her talking once again. When she did, he panicked all the more.

  Only a mere three days after the man’s arrival, the first Night Viper attack had occurred.

  “But my love had naught to do with that,” she insisted, reading his alarm. “Faithfully and each night, he joined the village men to search for the viper. He even valiantly battled the wolves. Wolves, Dorian. Huge white and gray ones.”

  “With his charcoal?” Dorian muttered acidly under his breath.

  That made her walk away, delaying the conversation yet again. He spent the remainder of the day wheedling himself back into her good graces, all the while fretting over her blindness on the matter.

  Finally, as the sun fell, he found himself again in her peaceable company.

  “He should be here soon,” she promised, slipping her arm through his as they left the barn and headed towards their childhood home. “I’m so glad the two of you will finally meet.”

  Dorian ran his hand along the back of his neck, wishing he could say the same, but a flock of birds exploding from the nearby trees distracted her from his silence. She watched the birds disappear into the gathering gloom before turning back to him.

  “He must be there,” she said with an eager smile. “He always startles the birds so.”

  Dorian arched a brow at the bizarre statement. “I canna wait to meet him,” he said, trying his utmost to mask any trace of mockery in his voice.

  Aye, he couldn’t wait to meet the man. ‘Twas clear he was a lily-livered fool, idly passing his days in sleep and his nights in the sketching and seduction of innocent women. He deserved a sound thrashing—maybe even more—before being sent off with haste.

  He took one look at his sister’s face and clenched his jaw. Apparently, he hadn’t disguised his true feelings as well as he’d thought.

  “Dinna be so pigheaded, Dorian,” Gloria snapped. “He’s a fine, upstanding noble, and an honorable man.”

  He begged to differ, but this time, he merely nodded and kept his lips sealed.

  “Aye, then,” Gloria nodded, satisfied enough. “Come.”

  Silently, they trudged through the snow and up to the cottage door.

  “I’ve not been here in some time,” Gloria admitted as she lifted the latch. “Ach, ‘tis in sore need of a cleaning with all the dust and cobwebs.”

  Forcing his voice to remain calm and mild, Dorian prodded, “And where have you been staying? Is it warm at least?”

  Gloria picked at her skirt and hesitated. “He doesna wish me to say…” she began but her voice dwindled away and the next moment, a shadow near the cold
hearth suddenly moved. A beautiful smile split her face. “Emilio! Emilio, my love.” Stretching her hands out, she glanced over her shoulder at Dorian and said, “Dorian, this is Emilio. Emilio Marchesi.”

  A figure advanced from the shadows and stepped into the dying light streaming through the doorway. Revealed, was a slim, elegant man wrapped in a red velvet, fur-trimmed mantle fit for a king. Aye, he was handsome, with olive skin, shoulder-length dark hair, and a classic Roman nose. But it was the eyes that Dorian found troubling. Cold. Calculating. Even more chilling than the unsettling smile curving his chiseled lips.

  “Dorian,” Emilio murmured, cocking his head to one side as he came to a stop in front of him. “Dorian of Clan Ramsey.”

  Instinct told Dorian to run. Aye, something unholy lurked in this man. A stab of fear pierced his chest. Reaching back, he grasped Gloria’s arm and gasped, “Go, Gloria. If you’ve ever loved me, lass, go!”

  She glanced at him, surprised. “Go? But why?”

  Emilio’s brow arched in cool amusement. “Please, la mia bella donna, stay,” he inserted smoothly, blowing her a kiss. “Love of my life, I beg you, ti imploro, please stay.”

  It was nothing more than a demonstration of control, meant to inform Dorian just who held the power.

  For several long, timeless moments, Gloria stood there, chewing her lip as indecisiveness warred on her face. But then, she stepped up to the Sicilian and slipped her arm through his.

  Dorian’s heart sank.

  The man’s eyes glittered with arrogance. “Ah, but we are brothers. Siamo fratelli. Take my hand, the hand of friendship, mio fratello.”

  The next moment, Dorian felt his forearm nearly crushed by an unforgivingly severe, cold grip. He swallowed, astonished at the speed with which the man moved, but even more with the coldness of his flesh, a coldness that reminded him of Jacques, the Frenchman from the inn.

  “Brothers,” Gloria repeated firmly. “See, Dorian? There’s not to fret over.”

  Dorian lifted his chin, intending to object, but Emilio’s strange, scintillating eyes caught his attention, drawing him in so that he couldn’t look away.

  “Yes. Fratelli. Do not fear, Gloria, amore mio,” the Sicilian whispered even as his eyes began to glow. “Your brother is precious to me. Prezioso. I will not harm him. He shares the same blood that pulses through your veins. A blood I must protect. Yes, I will protect you both.”

  A shiver crept down Dorian’s spine even as his eyes felt strangely heavy. Gloria said something, but he couldn’t understand her words. He saw only Emilio’s glowing eyes. He squinted in an attempt to focus his gaze and clear his thoughts, but the effort only made him queasy. Ach, was he drunk?

  Gloria’s red braids swam across his vision.

  He focused on them.

  Aye, his sister. Wee Gloria. He had to protect her from this man.

  The more he zeroed in on the thought, the more he seemed to shake off the strange heaviness invading his soul. Summoning every ounce of will and strength from every fiber of his being, Dorian forced his lips to open. “Gloria, go,” he panted. “Run if you value your life, lass! Run!”

  A mixture of rage and wonder lit Emilio’s eyes. “Bravo. Bravo. Such strength,” he breathed. “Incredibile.” But then his dark lashes fell. “Alas, but I have little time to play.”

  The next moment, Emilio’s hand struck Dorian’s jaw a glancing blow, sending him reeling back against the cottage wall.

  “You shouldn’t have insulted him, Dorian!” Gloria screamed hysterically in the background.

  The mysterious heaviness invading Dorian’s mind vanished in an instant. He didn’t waste time. Roaring, he grasped the hilt of his sword, but he’d barely cleared the weapon an inch from the scabbard before Emilio struck him again, sending him crashing against the opposite wall.

  Gloria gasped and her hands flew to cover her mouth.

  Picking himself up, Dorian shook his head and faced the man standing near the door. “I’ll shove my blade up your nostril and have done, ye gorbellied gudgeon,” he swore, dropping into a thick highland brogue.

  But he’d scarcely taken a single step in the Sicilian’s direction before the man surprised him yet again, seeming to strike his head, punch him in the gut, and shove him back all at the precise same moment and with an impossible strength.

  Dorian crashed, landing hard as a sick horror blossomed in his stomach and the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.

  The man was unholy.

  Inhuman.

  “No!” Gloria screamed, reaching for Emilio. “Do not harm him! He’s my brother, Emilio.”

  The man shrugged her off. “Do not hinder me, donna,” he commanded coldly, drawing his lips into a mirthless smile. “A dog must know his master, eh?”

  Slowly, Dorian wiped the blood from his lip. “Run, Gloria,” he gasped. “Now!”

  Fear flickered across her face, a fear that gave him the strength to move again. Ignoring the pain constricting his chest, he staggered to his feet and lunged.

  But the Sicilian moved with impossible speed. One moment, he stood before Dorian and the next, behind, whispering in his ear, “You cannot fight me, foolish mortale. And your blood is far too precious to spill—for now.”

  There was a sharp crack. Pain roared through Dorian’s body. He barely registered the sound of cackling laughter and Gloria sobbing as his consciousness began fade.

  He heard her scream, “No! I canna leave Dorian! I willna go with you!”

  And then slumping to the floor, his eyes closed and darkness swept him away.

  Tracks in the Snow

  Dorian moaned. His head pounded. Slowly, he lifted his lashes. His fingers and nose felt like ice. He frowned, wondering why he sprawled half in the snow, half inside the cold, empty cottage with the night wind blowing over him. Sitting up, he ran a hand through his hair, shaking the snowflakes out—and then froze.

  Everything returned in a rush.

  Horrified, he jumped to his feet and cupping his hands over his mouth, shouted, “Gloria! Gloria!”

  But only silence replied.

  With a growing sense of dread, he scanned the trampled snow. Clearly, Gloria had struggled, and valiantly, but the single, deep set of tracks disappearing towards the forest told the tale that she’d lost. Emilio had abducted her.

  Dorian spat in contempt. “Your time is short, Sicilian,” he swore under his breath, sprinting towards the stables. Soon, he’d saddled his horse and with his sword hanging from his belt and Elizabeth’s dagger tucked inside his shirt, he set off at a quick trot, anger taking root, deep within him.

  The full moon hung high in the sky, illuminating Emilio’s tracks in the pristine blanket of snow covering the ground. Once inside the forest, the moonlight easily penetrated the bare branches, allowing him to still follow. Odd. Emilio hadn’t bothered to cover his tracks. Was it arrogance? Overconfidence? A trap? Dorian shrugged and drew his sword. It didn’t really matter. He would prevail. Nothing would stop him from saving his sister. Nothing.

  The trail led up the slope of Ben Nevis, the high rocky peak looming above him. Snow fell in scattered flurries, but he merely drew the hood of his cloak against the spray kicked by his horse’s hooves and pressed on. In the distance, an owl hooted, but he paid it little heed, other than noting he’d crossed with more owls than usual, of late.

  Ahead, the trees thinned and as Emilio’s tracks suddenly veered towards the right, he urged his horse a little faster, breaking through the tree line and out onto a rocky, mountain path dotted with heather, gorse, and a little snow.

  But he’d gone no more than five yards before Emilio’s trail vanished.

  “God’s Blood!” Dorian swore, striking his fist on the saddle’s pommel.

  Suddenly, a wolf’s keening howl rent the night air.

  Dorian’s gelding pricked up his ears and danced sideways. “Easy, lad,” he soothed, tugging the jittery animal’s head back.

  An answering howl sounded from c
lose by.

  Uneasiness crept over Dorian’s flesh. Beneath his legs, he felt his horse tremble. “Ach, this willna do,” he muttered aloud, scanning the bare, rocky slope spreading out before him. “Let us ride away from here, aye?”

  With no further sign of the Sicilian or his sister in sight, he could do nothing other than pick a direction and pray it was the right one. Choosing to continue an eastwardly course, he clenched his jaw, kicked his horse’s flank, and trotted along the tree line to scan the snow and rocks.

  Within fifty yards, he spied tracks and following them back into the trees, pulled rein beside them.

  Aye, footprints, to be sure, but not those of a man.

  He gave a long, low whistle. “Wolves.” He caught his breath in disbelief at the sheer size of the paw prints. “Ach, it canna be! ‘Tis the size of a horse!”

  His gelding suddenly sidestepped, and the next moment, Dorian heard something to his left. Cautiously, he lifted his blade and squinted into the dark underbrush.

  Nothing.

  After a moment, the owl hooted again, closer this time. His horse stamped its foot, nervously. A chill gust of wind blew through his hair.

  “Aye, lad,” Dorian agreed, perturbed. “Let’s move.”

  Gripping the reins, he turned his horse’s head, but they’d taken only a few steps before he spied something stalking under the trees, again to the left. The next moment, snuffling grunts came from the direction of the thicket ahead, as long, pointed shadows appeared in the snow behind him.

  Wolves.

  Swearing silently, he sought to retrace his steps only to find his path blocked by two wolves. The first, a majestic gray beast with massive paws and rows of sharp, pointed teeth, and the second, a much smaller wolf with an ebony snout and fur glistening in the moonlight.

  Cursing under his breath, Dorian pulled his horse sharply to the right.

  A new wolf emerged, a silver one as yet another emerged from the shadows, baring its teeth in a wolfish grin and swinging its tail like a whip. The uncanny expressions startled Dorian. The wolves appeared almost … amused.