Chapter Seven
Dorian stepped out onto the battlements and stared out into the thick fog, wishing his eyesight could penetrate the murky depths. Moirae was late. Too late for him to believe that something had just delayed her arrival. Either she had chosen to stay away or something had prevented her from coming.
While it was indeed possible that Moirae had decided it would be best to end their relationship as per their original agreement, Dorian found it difficult to believe she would do so without facing him. Her personality required her to confront challenges, not avoid them. But it also compelled her to seek out that which she felt entitled to—and he knew Moirae wanted the katana he had promised her. So either something at the castle had thwarted her from coming that evening . . . or she was in trouble.
Movement on the outskirts of the forest caught his attention. He took a deep breath and furrowed his brow. The haze was too thick for him to see who it was, but he recognized the faint, almost indiscernible scent. What was Metrick doing there? There was only one way to find out.
Dorian urged his black horse into a full gallop before he exited the gatehouse. If he could detect Metrick, then it was certain that Ionas’s spawn was aware of him. And based on the dissipating odor, the henchman was not there to confront Dorian but to watch and let his superiors know if he left.
After weeks of playing the Guardian and racing through the woods at night, Dorian was intimately familiar with the terrain—more so than Metrick. Within minutes, he was upon the hasty henchman, and with a single slice of the katana, the spawn’s side was ripped open, causing him to fall to the ground. Not waiting to slow down his mount, Dorian expertly spun off his still racing horse and landed on the ground.
Feeling the katana’s tip on his throat, the spawn knew he was facing imminent death.
“Why did Ionas send you to watch me?” Dorian asked impatiently.
Metrick smiled and the blood filling his mouth outlined his teeth. Death, the one thing he had feared most, was upon him, and he was grateful. But he would not die without issuing one final blow. “You’re too late, Dorian. Patras has her.”
“Patras?” Dorian echoed. “Just what does he want with Moirae?”
“I told him,” Metrick sputtered. “You . . . standing unharmed, unburned in the sunlight. . . .”
Dorian flicked the katana’s tip, and it divided the spawn’s head from its body, ending the halted speech. Dorian needed to hear no more. Metrick had been hidden in the forest and he had seen them that morning and informed Patras, who no doubt had notified Ionas before leaving to abduct Moirae. She was still alive, of that Dorian was positive. But she would be tortured before too long. As soon as Ionas and Patras realized that she had inherited the unique blood they coveted, they would want to find all in her family and would use any means to get her to talk.
Dorian broke the water’s surface and inhaled. Relief flooded through him when he detected Moirae’s sweet, alluring scent. There was only a handful of places Patras would have taken Moirae, and none of them were close to the other. But the Wolf’s Lair, located on the northern edge of the hills of Am Monadh Ruadh, was the closest and most fortified. Situated in the middle of a remote loch, the fortress Loch nan Doirb had been gifted to Robert II by his second wife. His merciless son, Alexander, tended to rampage the area and had no problem offering use of his father’s stronghold to someone like Patras, who fueled both his ambition and his cruel streak.
Bringing Moirae to Loch nan Doirb gave Dorian a distinct advantage, but it also presented a major problem. The loch allowed him to temporarily mask his scent and approach undetected by means of water, but once there, the place was nearly impossible to breach. Four towers were connected by a curtain wall approximately six feet thick and nearly twenty feet high. With the exception of an impressive iron gate, the east wall had no discernable defense and was the primary entrance from the shore. Consequently, it would be well manned with spawns. On the south wall, there was a second gateway, but because it provided no access to the inner court, the chances of him being discovered before getting to Moirae were high, leaving only one option. The western wall behind the chapel. All attempts to climb it had been futile . . . but never had it been tried by a nosferatu.
Carefully, Dorian rose out of the water, and though not without effort, he managed to scale the curtain wall. He moved quickly, for once dry, his scent would be strong enough to alert Patras and his men that he was near. Reaching the top of the chapel, he inhaled once again to assess the situation. Two things stood out. His nephew had not yet arrived, and the numbers of spawn were far less than Dorian would have guessed, but those he recognized were old and heavily experienced in combat.
Creeping near the rooftop’s edge, Dorian glanced around the inner bailey. Every scone was lit, and anything that could be used to hide a person, such as carts and barrels, had been removed. There was nothing left to conceal a sneak approach. Patras, who had always been strategically gifted, had grown even wiser since their last encounter.
Dorian was debating when and where he should drop down when Patras exited in the keep. It had been several decades since Dorian had seen the lead henchman. His brilliant white hair had grown long, but otherwise he looked the same. His body still possessed the hard-edge strength that enabled him to command a sizeable force of volatile spawns.
Patras extended one long arm and pointed to the largest of the men heading toward him. “Bring me the girl!”
Dorian did not recognize the bulky spawn, but it was obvious that the once Highlander was not the type who was easily intimidated. Nevertheless, he immediately turned and strode toward the kitchens. But before he could take more than a handful of steps, Patras stopped him. “Why is she in there?!”
The angry bellow could be heard throughout the stronghold, catching everyone’s attention. Undeterred, the spawn straightened his shoulders and pivoted to once again face Patras. “She refused to tell us the location of the others. So I ordered her to be bled.”
Patras marched right up to the man and demanded, “And just who gave you permission to issue such commands?”
“You did. You said to make her talk and you also promised that she was to be shared.”
“Dead, she is only good to us once. . . .”
Dorian could not hear the rest of Patras’s response, but it was clear he was furious. It was just as apparent that the Highlander Patras was dealing with had enormous sway among the other spawns and was not someone who could easily be eliminated without repercussions. Otherwise, the man would have been afraid not defiant, and most likely already dead.
Still composed, the spawn said calmly but loud enough for all to hear, “Just so you understand that when this is done,
we
”—he paused to point at all who were watching the interaction—“will no longer live according to your or anyone else’s will. She is for
all
of us. You are not the only one who is opposed to dying.” With those final words, the spawn turned and disappeared into the kitchens.
So that was why Patras was so interested in Moirae, Dorian thought to himself. It also explained why he had not spied or sensed his nephew once since his arrival. Ionas had no idea Patras had finally found who he had been looking for or that his henchman had discovered just why she was so important. Obviously Patras believed Moirae’s blood could do much more than just protect him from sunlight. Was it possible that it could also extend a spawn’s life?
If that was true and word spread about her or her family’s existence, it would not be simply a fierce battle among nosferatu—it would be the beginning of a major war that would affect all life. No longer would spawns be aligned with their masters. They would be masters themselves. Painful, destructive, and costly lessons that had taken a handful of nosferatu a millennia to learn after repeated attempts would have to be discovered by thousands of spawns. The human race would not survive such a future.
A cry from below caught Dorian’s attention. Moirae was being hauled outside. She was still wearing the same gown from when he last saw her, causing him to grimace. That meant she had been abducted on the way home. He had been a fool to think his teachings could keep her safe.
Her arm was bandaged and he could see blood stains through the strips of cloth, but by the force the spawns needed to control her struggles, the bleeding must have only just commenced, making her blood loss minimal.
Patras walked up to her and lovingly stroked her cheek. “Where’s Metrick?” he asked to no spawn in particular.
“He has not yet returned.”
Hearing the answer, Patras looked up and surveyed the curtain walls. Dorian knew he could not be seen where he was, but if he moved, his position would be revealed. But time was not on his side. He was drying, and soon the moss covering him from the lake water would no longer mask his presence. Whatever he was going to do, he would have to do it soon.
“Double the men guarding both gates.”
Moirae grinned with false confidence. “You are monsters, but there is one who can defeat you.”
Patras returned the smirk. “And you think Dorian is coming to
save
you?”
The color drained from Moirae’s face as she realized that her captor not only knew of Dorian, but was unafraid of him.
“Of course, Dorian is coming,” Patras mocked, “but not for the reasons you would like to believe.”
“I think he will come to kill you and your fellow monsters, or do you believe you can convince him to become friends?” Moirae spat out.
Dorian smiled, hearing her response. The woman was terrified, but she refused to give in to her fears.
Patras, however, laughed aloud. “Kill us monsters?”
“Yes.” The answer lacked complete belief, but it was not vacant of hope.
“Silly human girl.” Patras sniggered. “Don’t you know by now that he
is
one of us monsters? And with the exception of perhaps one other of his kind, your would-be savior is the most unmoved by mortals and their plights.”
Dorian listened to what Patras was telling Moirae, knowing that upon hearing the truth, she would believe it, but he forced his mind to focus on what was happening. Patras’s orders to increase gate security had caused the inner bailey to be evacuated, leaving only Patras and the two guards holding Moirae.
Shifting his attention to one of her guards, Patras asked, “Is the blood that was drained still in the kitchen?” Upon getting an affirmative nod, Patras continued. “Bring her to my bedchambers. I will be there shortly.” Then he turned to enter the kitchens.
Dorian scampered lightly to the other side of the chapel rooftop. It was not adjacent to the keep, but it was close enough. He waited until the two guards were in view and then dropped down onto them. He was able to instantly knock out one and then kill the other, but not before the spawn could issue a shout to alert the castle that Dorian was inside.
Freed, Moirae stared at Dorian. No warmth was in her eyes, only wariness, and he knew she was replaying Patras’s last words and realizing they were true. He threw her the smaller katana, and she snatched it out of the air, unable to reconcile that the monster Patras had described would arm her with such a weapon.
“Explanations later, Lady Destiny,” whispered Dorian. “We need to get through that gate.”
A sparkle leapt back into Moirae’s eyes just as the first wave came to kill them. Reacting on instinct and what training she had received, Moirae sliced with deft movements and strength the spawns had not been expecting. But the second group, seeing how easily the first had been defeated, came in more cautiously and dismissed the concept they were fighting a human woman, but something far more powerful and deadly. But it did them no good.
Dorian felt renewed hope. They were going to have to fight their way to freedom, but Moirae was performing in combat as he wished more humans would after hours of training and skills development. She had no fear. She was accurate, unemotional, and surprisingly creative. For the first time in his life, he felt like he had found a woman that could be more than a companion, but an equal. Someone whom he knew he would never tire of, someone who could instill daily meaning into his life . . . someone he could respect and love. It was absurd. She was a human, the one thing he had sworn to avoid, but it was too late. He did love her. Fully. Completely.
He also knew that even if they survived . . . it changed nothing.
They broke free and dashed to the gate only for a final small group of spawns to jump down and block their way. The large Highlander was among them. Dorian immediately lunged for him, fearing that Moirae, despite her inhuman strength, would not be able to tackle the giant. After several minutes of fighting, he finally struck him down. But just as the katana slammed down into the large frame, ending the spawn’s life, Moirae cried out. This time in sheer fear.
Dorian swung back around to see Patras biting down into her neck, drinking. Seeing Dorian, the old spawn released his grip and let her limp form fall to the ground. “I’m like you now, Dorian. A nosferatu. An immortal. We are brothers. You can try to harm me, but I will now heal. You cannot kill me.”