Nightbred

Jamys remembered several chambermaids who had vanished; Angelica claimed they’d run off with their lovers, or had left to take better positions in other households. Yet none of them had ever been seen again, and now he suspected that his mother had killed them in one of her rages.



The Brethren hadn’t simply turned Angelica into a traitor, he realized. They had broken her bond with Thierry, and had driven her mad in the process.



Everyone had assumed that, like Thierry, Angelica had recovered from being separated from her life companion as soon as they had been reunited. She had been clever enough to act the part of a sygkenis and prevent anyone from suspecting her insanity.



I knew I had gone mad long before I found Jema, his father had once said. Had I been rational, I might have put an end to myself. But madness is its own purpose, and has its own beauties and desires.



Years of guilt sifted away, their impossible weight turning to dust. The monster of Angelica’s insanity had betrayed them to the Brethren. The mother Jamys had always loved, the beloved wife who had devoted herself to him and his father, had in fact never returned to them. She had died in Italy.



A memory of Angelica’s face, now serene, drifted into his mind. As if she knew his thoughts, she nodded and smiled, and then she was gone.



Peace and determination entwined inside Jamys, eradicating his anger and fear as he drove the last miles to Fort Lauderdale. When he came to the barricades and detour signs directing traffic away from the stronghold, and saw the warriors who had taken discreet defensive positions, he turned off the road and parked in front of a crowded restaurant.



Inside the maître d’ met him at the door. “I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t offer valet parking.”



Jamys touched his shoulder, issued his instructions, and then entered the restaurant. There were more than a hundred mortals dining, but the windows were closed and the ventilation minimal. Curious eyes turned drowsy, and voices fell silent as the scent of sandalwood spread through the dining room.



When the last mortal had stopped speaking, Jamys said, “My lady is in danger, and I need your help.”



Once he had commanded them, he went back to the kitchens, and did the same with the waiters and all the staff except one teenage boy who had been washing dishes, from whom he borrowed his high-top sneakers.



“You will guard the premises until the others return,” he instructed the boy as he finished tying the laces.



A final stop at the executive chef’s station provided him with the last of his needs, and Jamys was ready. He walked through the now-empty dining room, plucking a napkin and a lighter from one of the tables as he passed.



Outside on the street the barricades lay on their sides, knocked over by a hundred bespelled mortals, who now filled the street in front of the stronghold. Lucan’s warriors had left their positions to surround them and attempt to herd them away, only to find themselves being drawn into the mob of dancers.



Jamys chose an empty spot on the far side of the building as he stuffed the linen napkin in the neck of the bottle of brandy he had taken from the chef’s station. He flicked the lighter, setting the brandy-soaked napkin aflame, and lobbed the bottle high over the heads of the mob. It smashed into the empty sidewalk, the spray immediately bursting into a large fireball and a plume of black smoke.



The secondary distraction of the fire drew away all but two of the warriors still standing guard at the entrance to the stronghold, and Jamys attacked them from their left flank, dropping beneath the thrust of their blades and coming up between them to bury his daggers in their sides. He struck to disable, not to kill, and one toppled to the ground while the other clutched his side and turned on him.



“Durand.”



“Glenveagh.” He countered his movements. “As you are, you cannot fight me. Stand down.”



“The order is to kill anyone who attempts to intrude.” He grimaced as he lifted his sword. “I must end you or die trying.”



“So be it.” Jamys feinted with one blade at Glenveagh’s heart and, when the warrior parried, used his other fist to knock him into the street. As Glenveagh scrambled to his feet, Jamys entered and barred the door behind him.



Inside the nightclub twenty warriors stood in combat formation, their bodies surrounding a seated figure. The captain of the guard regarded him steadily, but he appeared pained, as if he was locked in dread.



Jamys advanced, stopping just out of range of the captain’s blade. He stared past Aldan at Lucan, who lay sprawled atop an armchair that had been dragged out of his office, a bottle of bloodwine in one gloved fist and a long sword dangling from the other.



“Where is she?” Jamys demanded.



“The prodigal traitor returns.” Lucan toasted him with the bottle before taking a swallow. He tossed the bloodwine aside, clambering to his feet with uncharacteristic clumsiness. “How biblical of you, boy.”



“Give Christian to me,” Jamys said, “and you need never lay eyes on either of us again.”



“Finally bedded her, did you?” Lucan grinned. “Was she any good at it, or did she whine and flop about?” He shook his sword at Jamys. “There be the rub with fucking these mortal wenches. All tears, no stamina.”



“Captain,” Jamys said to Aldan, “Lord Alenfar has insulted me and Miss Lang.”



The captain’s expression turned grim. “So it would seem, my lord.”



“You’ve no right to the Pearl Girl,” Lucan snarled. “She is my property, as are these men, this stronghold, and all that surrounds us. They will all do my bidding now.”



“No oath to you binds Christian,” Jamys said. “Tonight she agreed to become my kyara, and gave herself to me.” As Aldan stared at him, he nodded before he said to Lucan, “My scent is all over her. You had to know she was mine when you took her from the island.”



“So I had her taken,” Lucan sneered. “What of it? You can do nothing about it.”



“Stand down and bear witness,” the captain ordered, and the men moved to line the edge of the dance floor.



Outrage darkened Lucan’s face. “What are you doing? Get back over here and defend me.”



“Forgive us, my lord.” Aldan sketched a bow so shallow it bordered insulting. “While the circumstances are yet unclear to me, by your own admission you have verified Lord Durand’s claims against you. You have given him the right to challenge your rule.” When Lucan’s face remained blank, he added, “You have to fight him to the death, my lord.”



“Oh, is that all?” Lucan dropped his blade and stripped off his gloves. “Come here, whelp. I will be merciful and make it quick.”



“Using ability in a death challenge is not permitted, Suzerain.” Aldan picked up his sword and thrust it at him. “You must fight by blade.”



Jamys saw Lucan grasp the sword, and reach with his free hand to touch the golden medallion hanging around his throat. Ghost images of it echoed in his memory. He had seen the piece on Professor Gifford’s Web site . . . and, before that, hanging from the bull neck of the Kyn Jamys had encountered on the night he had arrived.



The visiting warrior who had come to his suite to take Christian and use her for sex, what had he called her? No need to play shy, Pearl Girl. I know how it is with ye household wenches. He’d used the same sly nickname Lucan had just uttered— You’ve no right to the Pearl Girl—and had worn the same medallion.



Jamys had no more time to think, for Lucan came at him, his sword sweeping through the air toward his neck. Jamys dodged the blow meant to decapitate him and brought up his daggers to parry the vicious backhand thrust that followed.



Jamys ducked under his arm only to find himself pinned against one of the bars. As Lucan charged, he vaulted over the counter.



“Durand.” A sword came flying at him, and Jamys reached up and caught the hilt. By then Lucan had reached him, and he barely eluded a blade thrust to his chest. The suzerain’s sword cut through the flesh of his upper arm, causing his blood to spill in a wide swath.



Jamys dropped down, using his Kyn strength to leap over the bar behind the suzerain, who spun around to prevent the blow to his own neck. As their blades clashed, sparks burst from the metal, and Jamys used the split second of blinding light to fling his remaining dagger into the center of Lucan’s neck.



With a roar the suzerain staggered backward, slashing at Jamys as he reached for him. He stumbled as Jamys yanked his dagger free, using the shorter blade to cut through the chain holding the medallion, which fell to the floor between them.



Lucan put a hand to the shallow wound at the base of his throat, and stared down at the glittering gold piece. When he looked up again, his eyes turned pure silver, and he threw his sword away from him in disgust. He then straightened and bowed his head. “The match is yours, Lord Durand.”



Behind him Jamys could hear the murmurs of the men watching. By surrendering, Lucan had lost not only the fight but his rule over the jardin—and, if Jamys so chose, his head.



“So it is.” Jamys lowered his blade and returned the bow. “But I did not challenge you, Suzerain. My quarrel is with the Kyn who held you bespelled.”



“Bespelled. So that explains my madness.” Lucan eyed Aldan, who had come to join them. “Captain, where is Mr. Vander?”



Aldan looked uncomfortable. “You permitted him to leave the stronghold unattended some hours ago, my lord.”



“He has taken the women to a ship,” Lucan told Jamys. “I know not where it is moored, but we will find it.” His eyes shifted. “Herbert?”



“My lord.” Burke appeared, his face battered and one eye swelling shut. At his side he held a pistol, which he returned to the holster inside his jacket. “I trust you are yourself again?”



“Indeed. Lord Durand was kind enough to free me of Vander’s control.” Lucan looked disgusted. “Did that bastard use me to do that to you?”



“He did, my lord, but it was not an especially impressive beating.” Burke sniffed. “I’ve actually suffered worse at the hands of my chiropractor.” He removed a device from his pocket. “I also know where our ladies are being held.”