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

  Only one path lay open. He had no choice but to ride forward—and fast. Spurring his horse into a gallop, he dashed through the trees, again attempting to break out of the forest, but the great beasts kept pace, hemming him in on all sides except the one.

  The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Were they herding him? He could only pray it wasn’t into the arms of a bigger pack.

  Unnerved, Dorian crouched low over his horse’s neck with the branches whipping over his head as they madly dashed forward. He knew he couldn’t stop. He stood little chance fighting these wily beasts. Several times, he tried to break free, but they would have none of it. They padded by his side, but made no moves to cross paths or attack either.

  Finally, something flickered through the trees ahead, and in moments, Dorian burst into a small clearing surrounded by tall pines. A large fire crackled in a ring of stones, and a finely crafted teapot with four matching cups rested on a nearby log.

  But Dorian paid little heed to these oddities. More wolves appeared from behind the pines. Ten, for certain, and judging by the shadows moving through the woods beyond, at least a dozen more lurked, ready to join.

  Catching their scent, Dorian’s horse whinnied and shied, frantically pawing the air.

  “Nay, mon ami,” a familiar voice suddenly said. “You’re among friends, I promise you.”

  The next moment, an elegant hand caught his horse’s reins and with an unholy strength, pulled the beast down on all fours.

  Startled, Dorian found himself staring down at Jacques, the Frenchman from the inn. The man ignored the wolves milling about only an arm’s length away. He stood there, calm, relaxed, and with a small smile twitching the corners of his mouth. The moonlight played over the scar gracing his cheek, giving it an almost silver glow.

  “Pleased to meet you once again, Dorian Ramsey,” Jacques bowed, waving a welcoming hand. His dark eyes flicked to Dorian’s sword. “You will not need that here. Here, you are safe. I promise you.”

  “Wolves,” Dorian hissed in astonishment. “Dinna you see them, man? Draw your sword and fight with me!”

  The fur ridging the wolves’ spines lifted and their tails swished.

  “Nay, there’s no need,” the Frenchman corrected with an easy grin. “They’re friends.”

  A growl from behind made Dorian whirl, sword still in hand.

  The great gray wolf along with the smaller, ebony one broke free of the pack and stepped inside the circle of firelight.

  “Foolish man,” the gray wolf’s lips parted to hiss. “Tramping alone in the woods on this night of all nights. It is Wolf’s Blood Moon. Do you wish to die?”

  Dorian’s mouth fell open as he promptly fell off his horse and landed in the snow.

  Laughter ringed him, a soft, breathy animal sort of sound.

  “The woods are dangerous,” the smaller, ebony wolf explained in higher tones. “And not only because of Wolf’s Blood Moon.”

  Gasping, Dorian scrambled back, tripping over a log and nearly falling into the fire.

  “Ho, there!” Jacques laughed, appearing suddenly behind him to yank him aside. “Not the teapot, mon ami. Have a care. I must read my leaves.”

  “You and your tea leaves,” the gray wolf snorted in disgust, padding forward to arrange himself before the fire’s crackling warmth. “One may not discern the future by reading boiled leaves, Jacques. Why do you persist?”

  “Mayhap if they are read in just the right way, it may be so, cher oncle,” Jacques disagreed good-naturedly.

  “I’ve gone mad,” Dorian choked, dazed and noting for the first time that he’d dropped his sword. It lay glittering in the snow a good six feet away, well out of arm’s reach.

  The gray wolf followed his gaze. “You will not need that,” the beast assured, unruffled.

  The ebony wolf giggled.

  Dorian would have lunged for it anyway, had not another wolf padded forward to stand directly on the blade.

  “Come,” Jacques said, reaching for the teapot. “We must speak, you and I.”

  Slowly, Dorian rose to his feet, dusting off the pine needles from his cloak and plaid. “I fear I have struck my head,” he murmured apprehensively. “And though I be befuddled, I must leave, straightway. I have my wee sister to—”

  “The wolves are searching for Gloria as we speak, tracking her scent over the slopes,” Jacques interrupted smoothly. “And when she is found, we will fight by your side and free her. Oui, you are a trustworthy, honorable man highly skilled in the art of war, but this war is not a human one, mon ami.”

  Dorian hesitated. He couldn’t deny the truth of the man’s words—not when wolves spoke with a human tongue.

  Jacques stirred the embers with a stick and tossed another branch into the flames as a lanky, silver wolf jumped onto one of the logs and casually dropped the carcass of a small rabbit.

  “You must eat,” the animal said, locking gazes with Dorian. “You’ll need your strength about you this night.”

  Dorian simply stared, still unable to believe his ears.

  The smaller, ebony wolf trotted forward. “You’ll probably want that cooked,” it said, even as the tone and timbre of its voice shifted from animal to human.

  As Dorian watched, the back hind legs extended, the body lengthened, and the ebony fur melted in a blur. The next moment, a young lass stood there clad in a simple homespun gown. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen, but her wiry, lithe form spoke of strength, and the blue eyes sparkling from under long, black braids held more than a dash of humor.

  Swearing, Dorian backed away. “I fear … I am delirious,” he swallowed, his eyes wide, incredulous.

  “The Wolf Kind,” Jacques said as if the simple title alone would explain everything.

  “I’ll roast the rabbit for you,” the lass volunteered, her voice quivering with silent laughter. “My name is Bianca.”

  Dazed, Dorian wiped the back of his hand over his brow.

  In the distance, a howl drifted on the wind.

  The gray wolf sprang to his feet. “I will take three to meet him,” he growled and then bounded away.

  Jacques snapped his fingers. “Perhaps news, oui? Let us hope it is so,” he said as Bianca set about preparing the rabbit. “Rest, Dorian, and gather your strength. For this night’s fight, you’ll need every wit about you. Tea?” He extended a small, delicate cup completely at odds with the forest surroundings.

  Wondering if he were caught in a dream, Dorian accepted the tea, dimly noting the coldness of Jacques’ fingers before he put the cup to his lip. He tipped it back and swallowed. The hot liquid scalded his throat, but alas, did not wake him from any slumber. Could it be he was truly awake?

  Before he could set the cup down, his companion eagerly snatched it away and tilted it towards the fire. “Ah, let us see what your leaves may say. The universe is a mystery to be explored, mon ami.”

  “In tea?” Dorian murmured, striving to comprehend the strangeness of his situation.

  “Alas, I may no longer drink tea,” the Frenchman confessed with a devilish grin. “But I find the leaves as fascinating as ever.” He gave a long, low whistle. “And these leaves … astonishing! On this night, you will accomplish the impossible. Indeed, ‘tis written in the stars as well as in the teacup.”

  “Then I must go,” Dorian said, rising to his feet. “My sister—”

  “Please, please,” Jacques appeared behind him in a flash, moving in a blur to press him back down to the log. “Please, sit,” he said. “Sit.”

  “How do you move so quickly?” Dorian gaped in astonishment, sinking back down to the log. “You move faster than sight, just as Emilio—”

  A hissing sound greeted this name, and Dorian glanced up to see the Frenchman crouched before him as if appearing from thin air, his lips curling in disdain. “Emilio. Emilio Marchesi.” Jacques’ nostrils flared in disgust. “We share an enemy, you and I. I’ve been tracking him for many weeks, attempting to ascertain just what mann
er of evil he spins at the Mindbreaker’s behest. ‘Tis too great a story to tell here, mon ami, but know simply that the Mindbreaker is a creature evil-incarnate, and I believe Emilio Marchesi will lead me to him. The world truly is not as it seems.”

  On that, at least, Dorian could agree. He studied the Frenchman a few minutes before asking, “Then what is this world? A world in which wolves speak and men move faster than sight?”

  “Nay, not men,” Jacques replied, cracking a smile.

  That reply disturbed him, but he would know the truth. “And if not men, then what?” Dorian pressed. “I weary of riddles. Nay, I have little time for them.”

  Jacques tilted his head to one side as if measuring him before answering softly, “A vampire moves faster than sight, Ramsey. A creature of the night. A Chosen One.”

  “A vampire?” Dorian repeated, his eyes narrowing. “I’ve heard naught of such a creature.”

  “A vampire, an eternal creature who may not walk in the sun, but lives in the night,” Jacques continued, his eyes taking on a distant look. “A creature of immense strength and varied talents, and … one who feeds only on human blood.”

  That made Dorian’s brows disappear into his hairline. “A death by hanging is too good for such a foul creature,” he growled, wondering if Jacques spoke in ghoulish jest.

  But there was little amusement about the man. “Nay, mon ami,” the Frenchman said with a long sigh. “Hanging would not harm such a one. Emilio Marchesi is one such creature … as am I."

  Dorian leapt to his feet, his eyes searching once again for his sword. “Night Vipers!” he gasped, recalling Ian’s tale.

  Jacques cocked a brow his way. “Ah, so your village has quaintly named our kind,” he acknowledged with a nod. “But ‘twas Emilio who murdered those women, not I. And from what I could tell, he did so to gain complete access to your sister, Gloria. For a reason I’ve yet to discover, he finds her blood most precious—”

  Dorian lunged for his sword, but Jacques reached it before he’d scarcely moved an inch.

  “I am not your enemy, Dorian Ramsey,” the man swore, blocking his path.

  “How do I know ‘twas not you who slew my aunt and cousin?” Dorian choked.

  The Frenchman shrugged and, bending down, retrieved the sword from the snow, offering him the weapon’s hilt first. “I serve your lady, mon ami, the Lady Elizabeth.”

  Dorian blinked, astonished.

  “And I am certain these words have strayed across your ears afore,” Jacques continued with an easy smile. “Honor. Justice. Forever. Never fading throughout the long march of time.”

  Dorian froze, recognizing the words of Elizabeth’s parting message.

  “’Tis by no strange coincidence that she gave you that dagger, the one you hold so close to your breast. ‘Tis a dagger of pure silver, is it not?” Jacques asked, cracking a smile. “Vampires may die in only two ways, mon ami. With a stake of wood driven through their heart or by the blade of a silver dagger piercing the same. Silver … allow me to show you what havoc silver wreaks upon the flesh of my kind. Please, draw your silver blade and touch my hand with it.” He extended his palm in Dorian’s direction.

  Slowly, as if mesmerized, Dorian fumbled in his shirt and unsheathed Elizabeth’s small dagger. The instant the metal grazed Jacques’ skin, the flesh sizzled, peeling back.

  Startled, Dorian jerked back. To his utter amazement, the wound on the vampire’s hand healed almost instantly. “Immortal, indeed,” he gasped, wiping sudden sweat from his brow.

  “You are not defenseless against me, noble Scotsman,” Jacques said with a grin. “Come, sit. You must have many questions. I will answer as many as I may in the time we have, mon ami. Come.”

  Slowly, Dorian sat and not caring what any might think, closed his eyes and cradled his aching head. Yes, he had many questions. And Elizabeth? Just what did she know of this? Emilio? Vampires? Wolves that spoke? Just where did he begin?

  Fortunately, Jacques seemed inclined to start on his own. Returning to the fire, the vampire stretched his long legs out as a wolf joined him, settling down at his side. “Traditionally, vampires and wolves are enemies,” Jacques mused aloud as he ran his fingers over the tawny wolf’s fur. “But some form uneasy alliances.”

  That made Dorian lift his head. “Uneasy?” He frowned, licking his dry lips. There seemed nothing uneasy between the vampire and wolf sitting so cozily near the fire.

  “Ah, but I do not speak of myself. I am a Night Hunter,” Jacques answered, laughing as the wolf by his side nuzzled his hand. Turning to the beast, he murmured, “Yes, my beauty. I shall. I promise.”

  The wolves ringing the fire opened their mouths in what appeared to be wide grins but there were so many teeth showcased, Dorian couldn’t truly be sure.

  Suddenly, Bianca streaked past him, melting into wolf form as she moved. But once changed, she stood alert, lifting her head and sniffing the wind.

  A moment later, Dorian heard the howl, faint and distant.

  The wolves leapt to their feet. One of them nudged his arm with a wet nose.

  “Come,” Bianca said in a low, growling voice. “They have found her.”

  “At last,” Jacques said with a grin. “It begins.”

  The Horror of Night

  Dorian galloped with the wind, but compared to the pace set by the wolves and vampire, he moved with the speed of a snail. The second time they circled back to wait for him, he waved them on instead.

  “I will meet you there, Jacques,” he called into the chill night air. “See her safe.”

  “Soon, then,” came the reply.

  He no sooner heard the words than the elegant vampire disappeared in a blur with the wolves on his heels—all save one. The young ebony-haired Bianca bounded up to Dorian’s side instead.

  “I will show you the way,” the wolf growled, exposing her sharp canines. “Follow me. ‘Tis time to ride.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, praying it wasn’t already too late.

  Kicking his horse’s flank, he galloped after Bianca as she streaked away over the mountain. The full moon hung overhead as they dashed over treacherous ridges and fields of fallen rock, until finally, they entered a narrow glen covered in silver birch, their slender trunks gleaming in the moonlight.

  With each step, the forest thickened and the path grew treacherous, forcing Dorian to slow his horse to a walk. There was little he could do, save fume at the delay.

  Suddenly, Jacques stepped out of the shadows and grabbed the gelding’s bridle. “The remainder of your journey must be on foot, mon ami,” the vampire greeted softly. “Leave your horse here. The wolves will protect him.”

  If Dorian hadn’t been so concerned over Gloria’s safety, he would have found the statement rather perversely amusing. Dismounting, he asked, “And have you found her?”

  The vampire hesitated. “Yes, but ’tis not so simple a thing. Come. I will show you.” Without waiting for a response, he vanished into the trees.

  Frowning, Dorian followed, but within a few yards, lost sight of the vampire’s trail. Once again, he relied on Bianca to lead the way.

  A few minutes later, they came upon Jacques kneeling behind a clump of saplings. He didn’t look up as they arrived. Instead, he pointed and murmured, “There.”

  Crouching slowly, Dorian followed the line of his finger and cautiously pushed a branch aside for a better view.

  A narrow stone croft perched on a rocky ledge scarcely more than a stone’s throw away. The slate roof tiles and the steps leading up to its door appeared weathered and worn by time, but the stones used to cement the windows shut seemed new. Dorian frowned. Who would seal the windows and why? He eyed the place curiously and then noted it stood dark, silent. Not one glimmer of light could be seen.

  “’Tis abandoned,” he said, growing impatient. “Pray tell, preciously what is not so simple a thing here? Where’s Gloria, now?”

  Over his shoulder, a wolf growled in reply, “The moon weeps blood o
ver the croft this night, human. ‘Tis an evil omen.”

  Dorian glanced back at the night sky to see the full moon indeed hanging low, its surface tinted a slight, dull red. “Balderdash!” he snapped. “’Tis simply a full moon. I’m not one to believe in omens. Is Gloria there? ‘Tis a simple question that begs only a ‘yay’ or ‘nay’.” His fingers flexed over the hilt of his sword.

  “’Tis Wolf Blood Moon this night, and a Blood Moon is dangerous, mon ami, when a warlock is involved,” Jacques explained, cocking his brow at the croft.

  This time, it was Dorian’s turn to lift a brow. “A warlock?” he repeated, startled. Not only vampires and wolves, but warlocks and witches as well? Licking his suddenly dry lips, he added, “Be quick, man, ere I lose my patience.”

  The vampire tossed him an understanding look but continued smoothly enough, “And ‘tis not just any warlock that lurks inside. ’Tis Lord Rowle in that croft, Ramsey. One of the most powerful warlocks to walk this earth.”

  Lord … Rowle? Lady Elizabeth’s foul husband? Dorian caught his breath, taken aback on many levels. Was there no end to it all? Astonished, the words fell from his lips. “What world is this that hides in plain sight?”

  “A world that will take much too long to explain here, mon ami,” Jacques granted, drawing his lips in a sympathetic line that passed for a smile. “Both Lord Rowle and Emilio hold your sister inside, but the difficulty lies in the fact the warlock set wards that prevent any wolf from approaching. As long as those wards stand, ‘twill only be you and I, Ramsey. No matter which scoundrel I attack, ‘twill leave you with the other, a mighty warlock or an ancient vampire who—”

  “Nothing will stop me from saving my sister, Frenchman,” Dorian cut him short. He found little value in waiting. Most likely, Jacques would only seek to dissuade him. Steeling his resolve, he spat, “You’d best pray to keep up with me then.”

  He rose to his feet and drew his sword in one swift motion, and spraying snow in all directions, burst from the trees to sprint across the clearing. He closed the distance to the croft in seconds, but still, Jacques arrived first.