Highland Thirst (3 page)

“Then
mayhap we should have worked until moonrise, mistress.”

“Who
cares for your family? For your poor mother and your other siblings?”

“Ranald
and Mangus are of an age to be the heads of the household.”

“Has
my cousin told ye what your punishment will be?”

“He
gave us each ten lashes, mistress, and we thought that the end of it, but then
he threw us in here.”

“I
think he means to feed us to the monster,” said another man, his voice weak and
a little unsteady.

“What
monster, Fergus?”

“The
one ye just went to look at.”

“There
is no monster there, just a mon.”

“Nay,
mistress, that is no a mon e’en if he appears to be one,” said Colin. “Ye
havenae heard him. He makes sounds like a beast, howling and snarling, e’en
hissing. And the laird tortures him for hours demanding answers no mon could e’er
give, asking questions about living forever and all of that. And the mon should
be dead by now or near to it after all the laird has done to him, yet he isnae,
is he.”

“Colin,
I was just there, seeing him and speaking with him. He is just a mon.”

“He
killed Peter. The laird dragged Peter down here last night and when the poor
fool was carried back by us he wasnae alive and his neck was all torn up, like
some beast had ripped it open.”

Heming
winced even as he felt an urge to protest. He had not torn up Peter’s neck.
Hervey had sliced the man’s neck, drawing blood, and then had his guards force
the poor man closer and closer to Heming. Weakened by loss of blood, nearly
maddened by pain, Heming had been unable to fight the dark hunger stirred to
life by the scent of Peter’s blood. He could not be sure, but he may have
roughened the wound already there when he had fed off the man. He was sure,
however, that Peter had been alive when he had been dragged away, alive and
well able to recover given a little care.

“What
are ye saying, Colin? That the mon down there, the mon chained hand and foot to
an iron cage, ripped open Peter’s throat and fed on him?”

“‘Tis
what it looked like. Chained hand and foot, ye say?”

“Aye,
naked and caged like an animal.”

“If
ye had seen Peter, mistress, ye wouldnae doubt us. Me and Fergus fear we will
be next, that we are being kept here to feed that demon. Mayhap the laird
thinks that will be the only way he can keep the monster alive and get the
answers he seeks. The laird is bargaining with the devil, he is.”

“What
crime had Peter committed?” Brona asked, her voice little more than a whisper,
but Heming could hear the shock she felt trembling in every word.

“Ach,
mistress, ‘tis nay something I can tell ye.”

“Tell
me, Colin. Ye have just told me I have been speaking to a demon who rips out
men’s throats and drinks their blood. I think there is little else ye could
tell me that would shock me more than that.”

“Peter
was a bonnie lad, aye? Slim and fair with a bonnie face.”

Heming
could almost smell the tension in the silence that followed that statement.

“My
cousin loves men?” Brona asked after a few moments.

“Aye,
mistress. I am thinking he likes the lasses too. ‘Tis against the church’s law
and all that, but I dinnae judge such men. They do nay harm, nay more than any
other. S’truth, I ken one or two such men and they are good men, aye? Peter
wasnae one of them, though, and he told the laird so, but the laird doesnae
like to be told nay, does he. A lass can be forced, aye? ‘Tisnae so easy to
force a mon, especially when ye dinnae want the world and its mother to ken
what ye are about.”

“Then
mayhap Peter isnae dead. Mayhap it was all done to force Peter to say aye.”

“He
must be dead. The demon took his soul. ‘Tis what demons do, aye?”

“Colin,
I find it verra difficult to believe the mon I just spoke with is a demon. If
naught else, surely he would have the power to get away from Hervey. That my
cousin may lust after men was something I had begun to suspect. Only the fact
that I kenned all too weel that he beds women kept me from being sure of it. I
didnae realize ye could lust after both. I had another cousin, a woman, who
only loved other women, so I am nay ignorant of such things. Aye, I was a
little shocked but, as ye say, I cannae condemn as the church does. God made us
all, didnae he, and I cannae see how loving someone, anyone, can be such a
great sin. Lusting as my cousin does, aye. Love, nay. But, to harm or kill a
person because he or she doesnae share your lust is wrong. Verra wrong. I
thought it was all done willingly.”

“Most
times it is, mistress. E’en the lasses who dinnae really want to warm the laird’s
bed make no real complaint when they are called there. It isnae worth it, aye?”

“There
will ne’er be another nay uttered now,” said Fergus. “Nay when it could mean a
demon will be fed your soul.”

“Ye
cannae be sure that is what happened, Fergus,” said Brona. “I came down here
because I heard whispers about a mon down here, a mon caged like an animal and
being tortured. I decided I needed to ken what my cousin was doing and why. Now
I have e’en more I must learn about such as what has happened to Peter. And why
the two of ye are still held here. I must go now, however, for my cousin will
soon be arriving. Answer me this, Colin—do ye and yours have anywhere safe ye
can flee to?”

“Aye,
mistress. Why?”

“I
am nay sure yet, but this is wrong. All of this is so verra, verra wrong.”

Heming
heard the soft rustle of skirts as Brona fled the dungeon. The rapid click of
the dog’s claws against the stone floor told him that Mistress Brona was
running away. It was no surprise. The fear of being discovered down here might
be enough to make her run, but he suspected talk of demons and murder gave her
speed as well.

He
sighed and tried to get into a more comfortable seated position. It appeared
that Mistress Brona Kerr was just what she seemed to be—a young woman appalled
by the actions of her kinsman and struggling to decide what, if anything, she
could do to right things. Unfortunately, that young woman now had to wonder if
he was a demon who had killed a man by ripping out his throat and drinking his
blood along with his soul. Heming had to wonder if she would even bother to try
to find out the truth now. It would not surprise him to discover that she no
longer even thought he was innocent of all but attracting her cousin’s interest
in the impossible.

It
was difficult not to rage against a lost chance at freedom. Heming knew that,
if Peter was dead, all chance of Mistress Brona helping him to escape her
cousin was gone. She might not fully believe he was some soul-sucking demon,
but she would certainly think him some dangerous madman.

An
all too familiar footstep dragged Heming from his morose thoughts and his whole
body tensed. Hervey was returning and with at least three men. The blood that
had been forced upon him had almost healed all of his wounds and restored his
strength, so Heming knew that this time the torture would last for a long time
simply because he was now strong enough to endure it. He pushed aside a sudden
overwhelming sense of defeat. He could not let Hervey know that he was slowly
winning this uneven battle. He prayed that Mistress Brona would judge him
innocent and find a way to free him from this hell for he knew he was doomed to
madness if this constant torture continued for very much longer.

He
also prayed that Hervey did not want to see the drinking of blood again. Colin
and Fergus feared they were being held for just that reason and Heming knew that
was a real possibility. He also knew that if he was driven to feed again on
either of those men, he was doomed. No one at Rosscurrach would help him then.

Two

Brona
quietly left the great hall, the meal she had eaten sitting heavily in her
stomach. She was not sure what had troubled her more—the way Hervey had played
the hospitable, ever-smiling laird, a man interested in and concerned about his
clan, or the way Angus had watched her. A shiver went through her. She had seen
lust in the man’s eyes, a dark, predatory lust. She might be innocent in body
but Hervey had not been laird of Rosscurrach for long before she had begun to
learn all about lust, so she knew what she had seen in Angus’s cold eyes and it
terrified her. The man was as hard and cruel as Hervey.

Forcing
all thought of Angus from her mind, she hurried up to the lady’s solar.
Relieved to find it empty, she hurried toward the narrow opening near the far
wall. She lit a lantern and stepped inside, but instead of following the
corridor all the way, she stopped about half the way through. Grabbing the rope
handle of one of the chests that lined the hall, she pulled it away from the
wall, revealing a hole in the floor. By the look of the thick drape of cobwebs,
Brona suspected that no one had ever told Hervey about the secrets of
Rosscurrach. He was not a man to ignore the advantages of such passages within
his walls, either using them himself or sealing them off so no one else could
use them.

She
grabbed a broom used to sweep the floors of the solar and the bedchamber
connected to it by the passage. Brushing away the curtain of cobwebs, she then
tucked the broom in the crook of her arm and stepped onto the narrow stone
steps leading down into the many passageways running through the walls of Rosscurrach.
Once below the level of the floor, she grabbed another rope handle attached to
the bottom of the chest and dragged it back over the hole.

Using
the broom to brush aside the worst of the cobwebs in her way, Brona made her
way down to the narrow passageway that would lead her to the one running behind
the great hall. She knew that Angus and Hervey would have sought the chairs by
the fireplace the moment she left. Even as she approached the chimney she
feared she would not be able to eavesdrop on the men for too long. It was
uncomfortably warm near the chimney. The sound of the men’s voices quickly
distracted her from the discomfort she was already beginning to feel, however.

“MacNachton
isnae telling us anything,” complained Hervey.

“He
will,” said Angus in that deep, cold voice that always made Brona shiver
inside.

“Angus,
I have been torturing the mon for nearly a week and he still shows no sign of
weakening. The only thing left for me to do to him is to start taking off wee
pieces of him. Although it might be interesting to see if he could recover
from, let us say, the loss of a finger or a toe. Do ye think he would drain a
mon dry ere he could fix that?”

“What
I think is it was a mistake to make him drink Peter’s blood.”

Brona
put a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp of shock and horror. Colin and
Fergus had spoken the truth. Sir Heming had drunk of poor Peter’s blood. Even
after hearing that horrifying truth, however, she still found it difficult to
believe the man was a demon, hell-born, and a slave to the devil. Surely there
would be something she could see or sense or even smell that would tell her she
was in the presence of a demon. She had a gift for scenting the evil in a
person, even what they felt at times, but she sensed no true evil in Sir Heming,
only something feral. And since her gift worked best with animals, that feral
part of him should have told her a lot, yet all she had felt was that air of a
predator but one that was no threat to her.

“It
gave me the proof I needed to verify all of the tales told about the
MacNachtons. They are demons.”

Angus
snorted, the sound rife with scorn. “He isnae a demon. If he was some spawn of
Satan, ye wouldnae be able to treat him as ye do. He would have some power,
some ability to cast spells or the like, that would get him out of that cage
and at your throat. Aye, and he would be trying to get ye or one of your men to
give him his soul in trade for the information ye seek.”

“He
drank Peter’s blood and his wounds immediately began to heal.”

“That
just makes him some strange creature, doesnae it. Mayhap more animal than mon,
for many a predator drinks the blood of its kill. It still doesnae prove he is
a demon.”

“Ye
dinnae think he stole Peter’s soul?”

“Nay.
Peter shows signs of recovering and I see little difference in him from what he
was ere ye cut his throat and handed him to the prisoner. And, dinnae forget
that ye had to nearly force the mon to do what ye wanted him to, shoving a
bleeding Peter right under his nose several times e’en though MacNachton was
crazed and near blind with pain from the torture ye had inflicted upon him. Do
ye truly think a demon would show such restraint? Nay, a demon would have drunk
Peter dry and laughed as the poor fool died.”

“If
MacNachton isnae a demon then what
is
he?”

“I
am nay sure. As I said, just a different breed of mon, mayhap. Who kens. But,
nay, I dinnae think he is some spawn of the devil. We couldnae hold him if he
was, nay e’en with silver and iron. There havenae been any signs of a witch’s
or demon’s tricks about Rosscurrach, either. No curdled milk, no sickening
animals, naught but the usual. The mon does have strengths and skills we dinnae
have, but ‘tis said the whole clan has such things. I cannae believe the devil
would make a whole clan his minions and then allow them to stay hidden away
within their own lands. No one creates such an army without intending to put
them into battle.”