a place, however. Their people were being hunted and the hunters were getting more organized. The very survival of their people depended upon gathering as much information about their enemies as possible.
Once he was inside the inn, however, Heming’s wariness grew even sharper. He and Tearlach found a table set away from the others, their backs to the wall, but that did little to calm him. A burly cold-eyed man served them ale and as Tearlach paid for it, Heming looked around. The first thing he noticed was that there were no serving wenches to be seen. That was odd but he knew there could be many reasons for that. What could not be so easily explained was the fact that no one paid them much attention. Two kilted Scotsmen in an English border inn should draw attention but aside from a few hasty, sidelong glances, everyone continued talking and laughing. And there was a false note to all of that talk and good cheer, Heming thought as he drank his ale with more haste than enjoyment.
It was not until the three well-dressed people, two of whom had actually shown a natural curiosity about two Scotsmen in an English inn, got up and left that Heming knew he and Tearlach had made a serious error in judgment. “The ale—” he began as an odd feeling started to creep over him.
“Was poisoned,” growled Tearlach as he slammed his empty tankard down on the scarred wood table.
“Nay, not poisoned. Something to weaken us or make us sleep.” Heming saw that all those fleeting sidelong glances were becoming far more intent; the men obviously were watching and waiting for whatever potion he and Tearlach had just drunk to take effect. “Didnae taste it at first, but the taint of it is now verra clear. I just thought the ale wasnae a verra good brew.”
Tearlach stood up and started for the door. Heming quickly joined him. The fact that everyone in the inn just sat and silently watched them caused Heming’s insides to chill with alarm. Even before Tearlach opened the door, Heming knew they would not be escaping this trap. His thoughts were already clouding over and he felt as if he were trying to walk through thick mud. Once they were outside, the cool night air did nothing to ease that. Heming staggered and he saw Tearlach do the same. They both managed to stumble along for a few more feet although Heming wondered why they even bothered, for they would never make it to their horses.
The next thing he knew he was on his knees. Tearlach fell to his knees right beside him a heartbeat later. Heming tried to fight the pull of the potion but was not really surprised when he next found himself sprawled in the dirt, Tearlach quickly sprawling at his side. His last sight was of dozens of booted feet encircling them.
Consciousness came to him slowly and painfully. Heming felt as if his head were going to split apart. Then he recalled sprawling in the dirt, dragged into unconsciousness by some herb or potion slipped into his ale. He slowly opened his eyes and stared around him in utter disbelief. He was in a cage, thick silver chains holding his wrists and ankles to the heavy iron bars surrounding him. He was also naked and weaponless and there was no sign of Tearlach. Hearing footsteps, Heming fought down his rage and the panic he felt twisting inside of him. A moment later a tall, elegantly dressed man stood before his cage.
“Weelcome to Rosscurrach,” the man drawled and coldly smiled.
The name sounded familiar but it took Heming a moment to place it. Then he recalled that he and Tearlach had stopped in an inn near the keep a few days ago. It was the home of the Kerrs. Their laird was named Sir Hervey Kerr and he was not well liked, if Heming recalled correctly. This slender man, dressed as if he were about to attend the king, did not look like the cold, brutal man they had heard whispers about, but Heming knew all too well that looks could be deceiving.
“Tearlach,” he began, intending to demand to know where his cousin was.
“Your companion? I fear he is now the guest of the Carbonnels and enjoying all the comforts of a secure English dungeon. My ally, Wymon Carbonnel, intends to make your cousin tell us all about the hiding places of your people. We wish to locate your many nests so that we can clean them out.”
“He will tell ye naught. Nor will I.”
“Oh, I dinnae intend to ask about where all of ye hide yourselves. Nay, ’tis my intention to find out all of your strengths and weaknesses.” He lightly rubbed his pale, elegant hands together. “I have many an idea on how to test them. I fear ye willnae find that as enjoyable as I will, however.”
“And just why have ye made us your enemies?” Heming suspected the man knew far too much about the MacNachtons already, but wanted to hear the man admit to it.
“Ye and your ilk are the enemies of all men. Ye are an abomination. I find it an insult that ye e’en look like a mon instead of displaying clearly the mark of the devil as ye should. No mon of conscience can allow such spawn of hell to continue to exist. ’Tis time the ones ye see as prey become the hunters.”
Heming did not believe the man was truly on some righteous crusade against evil, but would not try to guess what his game really was. “I am but a mon,” he said quietly.
“Nay, ye are far more than that. Dinnae play me for a fool. Ye will soon show me all of your strengths and weaknesses; reveal all of your secrets. ’Tis said that your kind can live forever and I mean to find out why.”
Something in the tone of the man’s voice told Heming that what the man had just said was a clue to his real intentions, but Heming’s head was throbbing too much for him to be able to sort it all out right now. Once his head cleared, his first thoughts were going to be how to escape and then rescue Tearlach, not about what this swine wanted. Heming refused to think that this was how he would meet his end—as a caged beast for this courtier to torment. When the man took a few hasty steps back, Heming suspected his rage was revealing itself upon his face.
“Ye cannae escape,” the man said, a faint tremor in his voice revealing his fear. “Those chains are made of silver and, just in case that is a myth, the cage is made of iron.”
“What? In case I am fey as weel as a demon?” Heming was not surprised to hear the low rumble of a growl in his voice, for his anger was running hot and wild. “Ye have heeded too many tales told to scare bairns.”
“Och, nay, MacNachton. I ken what ye are—a bloodsucking, soul-eating abomination. I will learn all of your secrets, including why ye and yours should be blessed with such long lives. Here is where the truth of your evil will be fully revealed and here is where ye will die.”
Watching the man stride away, Heming murmured, “Nay, fool, the only one marching toward that fate is ye. Ye are now a walking dead mon.” It was a vow, one Heming full intended to fulfill no matter how long it took.
One
He had eyes like her pets, almost solidly black as if the center had grown so that he could see more clearly in the dark. Brona Kerr immediately decided that was not precisely true. The man’s eyes were decidedly far more feral than her dog’s or even her cat’s. The fact that both of her pets were tense, their fur bristling slightly, told her that she was not the only one who sensed a dangerous wildness in the man. Yet she knew her pets were as confused as they were wary, as if they each sensed a friend as well as a foe.
The man was caged like some feral animal, thick silver chains holding his wrists and ankles to the fat iron bars of the cage. Water and a congealed stew sat in bowls set in one far corner of his cage and a bucket sat in the other. There was no bedding for him, not even the thinnest of old blankets. Despite the fact that he was naked, he did not appear troubled by the damp chill of the dungeon. In the flickering light of the torches she had lit, his skin appeared to be almost golden yet the wounds she could see on him should have left
