Evermore

Byrne felt the same. Whatever their lot as vrykolakas, they were still Scotsmen. There was no question of not going.



Byrne sent most of his men into the forest as the Brus had directed. There they would protect their human allies while the trees protected them from the worst of the sun. On the other side of the river, Locksley had risen to command the English archers, who had no inkling that he would use them to spring the trap the Brus had laid for King Edward.



All that was left for Byrne was to ride out against the cavalry when they tried to flank the Scots, and let loose his personal demon against them. The English had grown soft over the years, and had forgotten the lessons their ancient warrior fathers had taught them.



Byrne was happy to reacquaint them with their history.



The only blessing his affliction bestowed upon him was to wipe away his memory of what he did when he allowed it free reign. And so it was, when the thing was done, he found himself riding alone, his horse and weapons soaked with the blood of the fallen. He would have entered the forest, where his men were surely slaughtering the misled archers, but he spotted his colors left planted but unattended in a pasture. He veered toward them, intending to carry the violet-and-white standard with him as a sign of his own victory.



The summer sun and lack of rain had withered the rich green grass, so he did not notice the patches of dead turf fitted together, or what they covered. His horse had plunged wildly as his forelegs crashed through the pit trap's deceptive roof, and Byrne was thrown over his head to smash down onto stout, sharpened stakes tipped with copper.



Byrne lay impaled and trampled from the horse's efforts to escape. He had already suffered dozens of wounds during the fray with the cavalry that had healed over, but the blood he lost had sapped his strength. Now more blood pumped from these new wounds, which would not heal or stop bleeding until the stakes were pulled out or Byrne died.



He managed to pull through all but the one piercing his chest. That one was stuck fast, and he grew too weak to do more than loosen it.



Byrne knew the pasture lay too far from the battlefield for anyone to spot the pit. His men had a healthy respect for his affliction, and would not search for him until nightfall. Whoever laid the trap knew what he was and how to hurt him; surely they would return to finish the deed.



He was going to die here, alone and forgotten. He accepted that, and listened for the sound of footsteps. He kept one stake curled in his hand. If he were to die, perhaps he could take his killer with him.



Her scent told him she was young, human, and frightened. Not his killer but a girl, perhaps from the village. Her footsteps moved toward the pit, and although he could not see her for the sun in his eyes, he heard her steps change with her direction, and a prayer muttered in, of all things, English.



He called to her in the same tongue: "Dinnae leave me alone here, lass."



A cloud passed over the sun even as the narrow shadow appeared above him. She wore a black dress of poor homespun and no covering over her dark, tangled hair. She had washed recently with strong lye soap, but it could not erase her own scent, like kitchen herbs growing tangled among meadowsweet in the sun.



"I cannot free myself." He held out a hand that shook violently with the effort. "Will you help me?"



He expected nothing. An English girl would not save a dying Scotsman, not after three days of watching his kind slay hers.



She reached down and took his hand, but did not make the mistake of trying to pull him up. Instead she used it to climb down into the pit with him.



Long, silky hair touched his face, tickling his cheek and nose. The girl pulled up her skirts and straddled him, keeping her weight on her knees on either side of him. Now he could see her face, young and stricken, and felt the cautious touch of her hands around the stake protruding from his chest.



"You should be dead, my lord," she said, her gaze moving from his tartan to his face.



"Aye." Byrne saw heaven in her eyes. "Soon, I think." He groaned as she tried to grasp the bloodied shaft, her fingers slipping.



Byrne couldn't feel his limbs anymore, he had grown so cold, and he put his hand over hers. He had no more words, and his heart stilled in his chest as his lungs sighed out his last breath. He would go, if only she would hold his hand.



She did something with her skirt, winding it around the stake and gripping it and his hand tightly. "Father in heaven, too many have died who never had chance to fight for their lives. I beg you, spare this one man."



Byrne convulsed, his heart roaring in his head as the lass somehow wrenched the stake out of his body. She cried out at the great gush of blood that soaked both of them, now bending low to press her hands against the wound.



Her eyes, dark and filled with tears, were but a whisper from his. "Forgive me, my lord. I have killed you."



"I will live," he murmured, bringing a bloodstained hand to her hair. "What is your name, child?"



"Jayr." She frowned. "I am not a child. I am ten and seven."



"So you are." With the gore and filth all over him, and his severely weakened state, he could not shed enough scent to seduce her into cooperating. Nor did he care to. "Jayr, you must help me again, or I will die."



She reared back. "I will fetch a doctor—"



"There is no time. My enemy could return at any moment, and I am too weak to fight him off. I need you to heal me, lass." He felt his dents acérées surge into his mouth, and took no pains to hide them from her. "I must bite you to take some of your lifeblood. It will close my wounds and give me strength. Will you give it to me?"



She went very still, her eyes unblinking as she stared at his mouth. "You are one of those called the Darkyn." When he nodded, she closed her eyes briefly before she fumbled with the top of her bodice and dragged her hair out of the way.



Byrne wondered if he was delirious, for she could not be doing this. "You are not afraid."



"In the convent they say you fought in the Holy Land, and are as fallen angels. That God will richly bless anyone who gives you aid." Her voice trembled as she asked, "But I am a little afraid. Will it hurt?"



"Only for a heartbeat, lass, and then you will forget the pain and the fear," he said, his voice growing thin. "I promise you."



He let her come to him, lying across him as she brought her throat to his mouth. He kissed the sweet, delicate skin there, and on her cheek, and at the corner of her mouth. When he felt her shiver, he put his arms around her and opened his mouth, striking as quickly and mercifully as he could. She flinched, gasping once as her hands fisted in his shirt.



Her blood flowed into him, warm and intoxicating, flooding his veins with unseen sunlight. Byrne drank from her until he felt the edges of his wounds pulling together, and then lifted his mouth to fill his lungs with the taste and smell of her.



Jayr put her hand to the two puncture wounds he had left in her skin, and gazed down to see the wound in his chest closing over. "You are well? You will live now?" When he nodded, she laughed and hugged him, her mouth descending to kiss his with innocent joy.



Byrne caught her face between his hands and brought her mouth back to his. The taste of her made him forget the killing, the heaps of bodies, and the ugliness of this war. She knew nothing of men, for his tongue in her mouth made her go rigid, but he stroked the inside of her lips and rubbed the softness of her tongue with his own until the tension left her limbs.



A moan humming in her throat, a new dampness coloring her scent, and something inside Byrne fell apart.



He did not think as he lifted her up, shoving her skirts out of his way and then reaching under them, hooking his fingers in the slatted crotch of her drawers to tear them apart. He only needed the taste of her, and brought her to his mouth so that he might kiss the lips no man had seen or touched. He found her mound bare and fragrant with her arousal, and put his mouth to her there, parting her with his tongue and tasting the barest hint of slickness from her slit. He needed to be inside her, and worked his tongue into her, using it like a cock to penetrate her while she shook between his hands, her voice silenced, her hands digging into his wrists.



The jewel in her tight little purse brushed against his upper lip, a kiss from a fairy's tongue. He brought his mouth up to capture it and suck until she made the sweetest sound he had ever heard from a woman and shuddered uncontrollably in the throes of first pleasure. As she crested, he reached down to yank open his trousers and free his cock.



He could think of nothing but impaling her, and so he did, lifting her again and settling her on the head of his cock. Despite the wetness from his mouth and her pleasure, he could force his way into her tightness only by short, hard inches. Byrne felt her muscles gripping him, drawing him in rather than forcing him back out. Then her maidenhead gave way to him, and one last push lodged him in her to the root.



Byrne looked up and saw that pain and fear had taken her from him, and smashed the hold slavering hunger had over his senses. "Lass."



"It hurts." She drew his face to her throat. "Bite me again. Please," she added when he only kissed her. "Take me there again."



Feeding from her a second time was dangerous, but Byrne could not deny her the ease she would have from his bite or himself another taste of her. He struck a second time, groaning as his fangs punched through her skin and his cock surged deeper. The mists rose inside his head, and he tried to draw back, but they clouded his mind, drawing him down into the bloodrealms, where she was waiting.



Byrne had no memory of what happened after that, but he knew what he had done just the same. He had surrendered to the bloodrealms, where he took her blood and her body, in the most perfect communion of his life.



Where he loved her and was loved by her.



Where he grew strong, and made her weak.



Where he had left her to die.



Chapter 8



Jayr hurried to the guards' hall, where Byrne would be meeting with his captains before retiring for the night, but found her master waiting alone.



Byrne stood by the central fireplace, leaning with one arm on the mantel as he stared down into the flames. It seemed to Jayr as if his eyes glowed as red and hot as the fire. That happened only when his temper grew unmanageable, something every soul within the Realm who knew their lord's affliction feared.