Chapter Fifteen

 

 

 

 

 

Speeding down every back street and alley to avoid detection and get to the other side of town as quickly as possible, Alaric tuned out everything and everyone, including Ruari and Sampson as he raced to save Ashlynn. Slowing to a crawl, he let his Harley idle as he rolled up next to the tall iron arch announcing one of the entrances to the sacred land.

Watching the last rays of the sun disappear over the horizon, he parked his motorcycle and followed the scent of buttercups and poppies to the very back of the cemetery. Standing outside the only mausoleum in the entire acre graveyard, Alaric tried to reach Ashlynn telepathically only to find that Androu had blanketed the structure in a thick blanket of Druid mysticism.

Not surprised to find the stone and iron door unlocked, he slowly entered the crypt, the scent of Ashlynn’s blood making his fangs extend and the beast within roar with the need to save the one meant to be theirs. Walking through the first alcove, down a dank, dark corridor, he saw the flickering light of a torch mere seconds before he saw the face of his Bloodmate.

Forcing himself to stay put, looking at the rivulets of blood flowing down her face from the small half-moon slices in her cheek, obviously caused by Androu’s nails, Alaric stifled the growl festering in his chest. He would rip the bloody bastard to shreds, burn his body until there was nothing left but a pile of ashes and then spread the soot to the four corners of the earth. Androu would be no more, not even a footnote in the annals of time, a nuisance well disposed of like the vermin he was.

Sensing the rogue’s presence but unable to locate him, Alaric kept his eyes trained on Ashlynn as he pushed the pure magic of the Dragons through the structure finally able to hear the slow, sluggish heartbeat of his Maker. 

Clap! Clap! Clap!

The mockingly slow clap of hands echoed through the mausoleum closely followed by a voice Alaric had spent four centuries trying to forget. “Look at this, Ashlynn. He came. The mighty Alaric MacLauren, son of the Chieftain Monadh Croibhe, grandson of Brygid, Leader of Clan MacAngoran, a royal from the olde country, come to save the day.”

The tall, shadowy figure moved through the shadows, protected by strong Druid magic that pricked at Alaric’s flesh as he continued, “Where is your lapdog? Where are your followers.” Cackling like the madman he was, Androu added, “Do not tell me you’ve come alone? Has the coward actually decided to fight a fair fight, man-to-man for the first time in his life?”

“What are you blathering on about, Androu? Was it not you who hung on Brygid’s every word? Suffered her every folly? Licked up whatever table scraps she left?” Alaric taunted as the heat of the rogue Vampire’s mysticism grew. Keeping his eyes trained on Ashlynn, Alaric tried again to reach her, wondering why she sat so still, so silent, not moving in the slightest.

“Isn’t that my grandmother’s magic I feel you wielding,” he snarled. “How does it feel to have stolen all Brygid secrets, sold her out to enemies and then left her to die while you cowered in the shadows?” Stepping into the light, trying to draw Androu out while getting closer to his Bloodmate, Alaric jeered, “Tell, me, Maker,” the word was fiery with venom, “Do your followers know what an utter bastard you are?” Scratching at the stubble on his chin, over exaggerating his contemplation as he took another tenuous step towards Ashlynn, he added, “Or have they abandoned you? Seen you for what you really are? Left you to drown in your own madness? Are you alone, Androu? Have you sought me out so that you may drag me into the pits of your own personal hell?”

An unholy roar ricocheted off the stone walls as if out of thin air Androu materialized, flying through the air, sword arced over his head, eyes trained on Alaric’s neck. Launching himself towards Ashlynn, the ancient Vampire landed only inches in front of his Bloodmate, ducking just in time to miss the reckless swing of his Maker’s blade.

Rolling away to the side, Alaric felt the sparks of Dragon fire dancing on his fingertips but feared catching Ashlynn in the crossfire. Looking for anything he could use as a weapon, Androu once again began to rant. “I did what I had to do to survive.”

Slashing his blade in Alaric’s direction, he wailed, “It is you who broke her heart. You who left your last living kin in search of a new life, wealth and fame in the New World. My Brygid…” Androu bared his fangs and hissed. “My beautiful love, the woman who owned my heart and soul… It was YOU!” With every word, his voice became more hysterical. “She never got over your desertion. Every day she plotted and planned behind my back. Went to those who were loyal to her, who believed her lies. Made them promise to keep her treacherous secrets.”

Madness burned in the depths of his soulless eyes, Androu was well and truly gone, not only was he rogue, but he was also deranged and psychotic. Over and over he slashed his blade, driving Alaric farther away from Ashlynn, deeper into the depths of the huge catacomb.

Endeavoring to keep the lunatic talking, Alaric asked, “What secret?” As he jumped atop a huge granite monument some ten feet high.

“She was leaving me!” Androu screeched, leaping up beside Alaric as the ancient Vampire dove to the floor.

Jumping to his feet, barely missing a flying slash of his Maker’s sword, Alaric grabbed a twisted piece of iron off of the dirt floor, raising it just in time to block another wild swing of Androu’s silver sword.

“She was following you!” Androu suddenly awakened from his demented stupor and with an impressive display of thrusts, parries, and jabs pushed Alaric backward until the backs of his knees struck stone.

Punctuating every move with more madness, Androu railed on, “I had no choice. She took every option away from me. She was sailing out the very next day. Chasing after you as she always did. Never seeing what was right in front of her. Me! The man who loved her enough to do what was necessary.”

Struggling to stay upright, feeling his balance listing to the rear, Alaric’s arms swung wide, flapping in circles, the iron poker he was using as a weapon flying through the air. With one last jab of the tip of his sword into the Alaric’s chest, Androu forced him over the granite ledge and into a circular brick-walled hole in the ground.

Falling so quickly all he could do was throw out his arms and hope for the best, Alaric’s hand made contact with something short and hard with sharp edges sticking from the wall of the hole. Ignoring the searing pain that cut through his palm and raged through his arm setting fire to his dislocated shoulder, the ancient Vampire bellowed, “I’m not dead yet, you bloody murderer.”

Looking up, he nearly lost his grip as Androu sat on the ledge Alaric had just fallen over, gazed into the hole and smiled. “It’s better this way,” he seemed to be commiserating. “It is truly horrible to see the woman you love beheaded. Trust me when I say it broke my heart…”

“As well as your mind,” Alaric growled, shoving the healing magic Carrick had taught him to use into his shoulder as he began to swing his body back and forth.

“You may be right, but I prevailed. I stole Brygid’s head from the pike outside the Duke of Argyll’s stronghold in the very castle of my Beloved’s kin and I carry it with me as a reminder of her.”

Scarcely believing what his Maker was saying, Alaric was shocked to his very core when Androu added, “And as such, I shall leave your Bloodmate’s, your Ashlynn’s, head by her body for you to keep to remember, a daily memento of your failing.”

Frenzied rage, unlike anything he’d ever known, exploded within Alaric. Raising his free hand, he shot Dragon fire at his Maker as he swung his body with such force that the sounds of the tendons in his arm and shoulder echoed to the depths of what he had figured out was an old well.

With one last swing, Alaric released his hold on the metal, whizzed like an arrow shot from a bow towards the flickering shadows above and landed with a roll on the dirt-covered floor. Racing towards Ashlynn, the mocking sounds of Androu’s voice filling the crypt, Alaric burst through the stone archway, fired a deadly stream of Dragon fire at the raised blade of Androu’s sword and launched himself into the air as the grip flew from his Maker’s hand.

Throwing his shoulder into Androu’s chest, Alaric wrapped his arms around his Maker’s chest tackling the deranged one with a loud thud onto the hard, earthen floor. Straddling Androu’s chest, Alaric pummeled his face with one punch after another. Over and over he beat upon the other Vampire’s flesh until it was little more than a bloody pulp and broken bones.

Slamming his hands over Androu’s ears, Alaric roared, “To the depths of Hell I relegate what little remains of your soul. May the Devil show you no mercy.”

Ripping the head of his Maker from his body, Alaric threw Androu’s head against the unforgiving stone wall, watching dispassionately as blood and gore flew in every direction as a loud crack of what sounded like thunder reverberated through the mausoleum releasing the magic Androu had been using. Jumping to his feet, Alaric raced to Ashlynn.

Waking from whatever spell Androu had suspended her within, her brown eyes slowly regained their usual sparkle as Alaric lifted her into his arms and carried her out into the cool night air. Speeding towards his bike, the ancient Vampire’s heart was nearly filled to bursting with love as Ashlynn snuggled close and sighed, “I knew you’d come. I never had any doubt.” Then laying her hand over his heart teased, “I’ll even deal with the blood and pieces of body parts on your clothes.” She kissed his jaw. “But only until we get home and you take a shower. I don’t want even a little part of Captain Cuckoo Pants anywhere near us.”