Chapter Twelve
Malcolm crept up the tower stairs with his beloved claymore gripped in both hands. He’d encountered precious few of Dracul’s men, which was a blessing but a disappointment, too. In his mind, he wanted to slaughter them all. Traitors, murderers and, worst of all, men who’d stood by while Brenin had been forced into sexual slavery to satisfy their twisted master’s needs. No fate was too bad for them to suffer. But he’d have to be satisfied with Alex and the others dealing with them. He had to focus on the main event.
As he rounded the last bend in the circular staircase, he saw light and heard grunting and groaning. Dracul’s hubris had made him vulnerable. His door was open and Malcolm had a clear line of sight to the fucker. He was mounting his latest slave on the bed, pounding into him from behind and oblivious to how his fate was creeping up to meet him.
This was the best outcome possible. Naked as he was, Dracul couldn’t pull a gun out of somewhere. Malcolm had a nine-millimeter strapped to his thigh because he wasn’t stupid. He still hoped that this final battle could be fought old-style. He and Dracul had one thing in common. They both preferred the sword to a gun—a point of honor for Malcolm and another example of Dracul’s excessive pride. He couldn’t conceive of someone, a mere human in particular, winning against him, under any circumstances.
Malcolm deliberately made a noise to be noticed. The boy on all fours squeaked when he saw him. Dracul shoved the kid away and staggered to his feet in the next instant. His face showed how his thoughts ran from ‘how the fuck?’ to ‘how dare you?’ Yeah, that was the thing about Dracul. He wasn’t scared of failure, only annoyed at the intrusion.
“I thought you’d been smart enough to sit out the war,” he sneered with his hands fisted on his waist.
“More fool me,” Malcolm admitted. “I thought I could. You’ve been instrumental in changing my mind. You couldn’t leave it alone, could you? Fabulous wealth and your own wee fiefdom here in Wales weren’t sufficient. You had to keep trying to take over the world. It ends now and at the point of my sword.”
No fear showed in Dracul. The guy had gigantic balls, that was for certain. “Of course, I could always count on you to stay mired in the past. Why didn’t you take off my head while I was distracted? This slut does a marvelous job of keeping my attention, I must say.”
“This is a battle, not an execution.”
Dracul rolled his eyes. “Honor? How dreary…and stupid. I will best you, naturally.”
Malcolm bared his teeth. “You can try.” He tossed his head to the far wall. “Go and get your sword, but know that if you reach for a gun, I’ve got one on me. Killing you with a bullet will be less satisfying for me, but you’ll be dead either way.”
“I don’t need a pistol to finish you.”
Dracul strutted over to the wall and pulled his sword off. It was heavier than Malcolm’s claymore, an English design. No matter. They were evenly matched regardless.
Patience not being one of Dracul’s strengths, he sprang for Malcolm seconds later. The steel blades clashed with a ringing sound that brought back memories. In fact, it allowed Malcolm to resurrect his sword skill with ease. Practicing with Darling had kept his edge. Thoughts of how he’d fought side by side with Fergus gave him heart.
He danced around the room with Dracul, neither of them gaining ground. Neither of them ceded it, either. They knocked over furniture and slipped on the rugs under their feet. They both started to huff from the exertion. This wasn’t going to be any easy kill. Malcolm didn’t want it to be. The longer he made the fucker suffer, the more he felt as if he’d avenged Brenin.
Then with a feint he’d learned from his dear, dead friend, Malcolm drew first blood. A gash of crimson welled up on Dracul’s arm before raining down in ash. Dracul hissed and pulled away from Malcolm’s range.
Coward.
There was little time for feeling the pleasure in his minor success, however. With a screech, the boy Dracul had been fucking launched himself at Malcolm. The boy’s attack came as a surprise. Malcolm wasn’t able to block it before the human raked his nails down Malcolm’s cheek. Och. Well, it wasn’t as if he weren’t scarred already from his time in the tunnel. He shoved the boy away and he landed with a howl against the wall. The momentary distraction gave Dracul a chance to attack.
He went for Malcolm’s leg, which was a mistake, as the kilt absorbed most of the blow. Malcolm staggered out of the way, twirled and lashed out. His strike hit truer, lacerating Dracul’s lower back and sending him flying forward. Dracul allowed the momentum to take him to the doorway. As he reached it, another figured loomed up from the stairs—Petru. Dracul’s lackey held a pistol in his outstretched hand.
“Kill him!” Dracul screamed the order as he skidded to a halt. So much for honor, of which, naturally, the arsehole had none.
Malcolm was reaching for his own gun, when Petru surprised them both. Instead of aiming at Malcolm, the man’s gaze skittered to one side, to a point beyond Malcolm, before returning to Dracul. For a moment, it appeared as if he were going to shoot the man he’d followed for centuries. Shock registered on Dracul’s face, as he obviously thought the same thing.
For a few tense seconds, Petru kept his weapon pointed at Dracul. Malcolm found himself silently egging the man to pull the trigger and also wanting him to leave so that the kill could be his. Finally, Petru backed away and kept going down the stairs.
Dracul wasted no time in following his former right-hand man, although he turned in the opposite direction, running up the stairs. Malcolm followed him, all the way to the top and onto the parapet. Dracul nearly took his head off when he popped through the door. The whoosh caught Malcolm’s attention just in time. He ducked, rolled and came up swinging.
Then it was all about the clash of steel. With the wind whipping around them, Malcolm and Dracul waged a battle worthy of the old days. For thousands of years, humans had fought one another in this very fashion. It was both old and new to them, their own kind having given up such petty fighting long before humanity had started walking upright.
It was satisfying on a primitive level for Malcolm, regardless. Every time he hit Dracul’s sword or body, it was to avenge Brenin. He wanted this man, this monster, to hurt the way Malcolm’s precious boy had. Every drop of blood spilled was in sacrifice to Brenin’s ordeal.
He cornered Dracul against the outer wall. They were both winded and slowing. But Dracul was more so, testament to how soft he’d become—or maybe Malcolm’s fury was more powerful than Dracul’s sense of self-preservation. On that note, Malcolm whirled around and, uttering his best highlander scream, threw every ounce of power he possessed into his next blow. Dracul’s sword winged away.
Now he had the bastard. He paced slowly forward, the point of his sword getting closer to Dracul’s neck. “Poor, wretched Dafydd wasn’t enough for you. You had to brutalize another one. Brenin didn’t deserve what you did to him. No one does, but he’s mine now, so you die for that alone.”
Surprise made Dracul’s eyes go wide. Then he grinned in a way that made Malcolm’s blood boil. “At least I die knowing what happened to the slut. I underestimated him. But enjoy him, by all means. I did. And every time you take him, you’ll know that I had him first.”
Malcolm screamed again, this time in their own tongue, using every invective available. He charged to deliver the killing blow. When he swung, though, all he hit was air. Dracul had catapulted himself over the edge and disappeared into the night.
Racing over, Malcolm peered down, expecting to see a pile of dust on the ground below. Instead, he realized that Dracul had gone down one of the rainwater catches. It was a narrow well that undoubtedly led to the cistern. Traces of blood turned to ash before his very eyes, testament to how Dracul’s body must have been torn by the stone walls.
“Cowardly fucker.”
Malcolm raced back into the castle, down the stairs and into the kitchen. He caught his boy’s scent and followed it into a storage room and eventually to the cistern. He was careful to sniff out any signs of Dracul before entering the moist cavern. There was nothing to see there except still water and a small pile of Brenin’s things. He gathered them up and scanned the water keenly. A full sweep of the perimeter showed no signs. The only logical assumption was that Dracul had died coming down the shaft.
Malcolm felt cheated, which was stupid. The fucker was dead, and that was all that mattered.
He returned to the kitchen. He found Alex and Logan there. They both turned with guns raised until they saw it was him. “He’s dead,” was all he said. No need to illuminate who he meant.
Alex nodded once. “That’s a relief.”
“Is there anyone left?”
“No. We’ve eliminated eight and no sign of any others. If they’re hiding somewhere here, Logan’s charges will likely take care of them.”
“They will destroy the cache of arms,” Logan said. “Not sure anything will bring down this structure.”
“We’ll take what we can get,” Alex replied. “We’ll meet you out with the others.”
Logan gave him a two-fingered salute. “I’ll be waiting for your signal to blow it, sir.” She left them alone.
Malcolm was still catching his breath and bringing down his adrenaline. “There should have been more.”
“I agree. Not all of them were billeted here, obviously. I’m not sure what threat they’ll be without Dracul to lead them. You’re positive he’s dead? I know that’s a stupid question…”
“No, it’s not.” Malcolm explained what happened.
Alex huffed. “Interesting about Petru. He finally turned on his master. We have to assume Dracul’s dead. That’s the one problem with our species—no body. We can’t stick around, in any event. Willem is already ferrying Harry, Paz and Demi back to the ship, along with Dafydd and the baby.”
Malcolm winced. “Och, I almost forgot about all that. What are we to do with the wee one anyway?”
“I’ll take him and Dafydd, if he wants, back to Boston. Perhaps Harry and Lucien will be willing to foster him. Dafydd’s done with fatherhood, apparently. That reminds me. There was no sign of the twins.”
“Bugger me!”
“I know. This was a mostly successful effort. With Dracul’s spawn still on the loose, and Petru, as well, we’ll have to stay vigilant. I will, anyway. Your part in the war is over, Malcolm. For good this time.” He came over and placed a firm hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “There would have been no doing this without you, my friend. I owe you everything.”
“You owe me nothing, sir.” Malcolm choked on his words. He needed to come clean once and for all. “All of this, the crash and being marooned, is my fault.” When Alex shook his head, he explained about his suspicions over his fellow navigator. “I knew he wasn’t up to the job. I should have said something.”
Alex closed his eyes briefly. “Oh God, Malcolm. I had no idea you felt this way.” He gave him a pained look. “Do you think I didn’t know his shortcomings? It was a political appointment. I had no choice about accepting him.
“I gave you all of the hard jumps. I thought he could handle this last one. I was wrong and we’ve all paid the price ever since.”
Malcolm shook his head. In those few seconds, however, a weight lifted off his shoulders. He felt as if he could truly breathe for the first time since…forever. And he had something to look forward to. Brenin. His boy.
“Shit! I almost forgot. There was a boy with Dracul. Weird hair of black and white stripes, obviously changed and loyal enough to Dracul to attack me. He still doesn’t deserve to die here.”
“Go. We’ll keep evacuating the others, but I’ll have Logan hold off on the big boom until you’re back.”
Malcolm wasted no time running to Dracul’s room. He entered cautiously and found it empty. Although he felt bad for the lad, it was not so much that he wanted to go searching the rest of the castle. It was time to go. He needed to see for himself that Brenin was safe and, God, he was tired. A month’s worth of sleep wouldn’t go amiss, as long as his boy slept by his side.
* * * *
Brenin paced and fretted, no matter what anyone else said. He wouldn’t stop worrying until he saw Malcolm for himself. It was almost impossible to believe that the monster was dead. He’d seen too many horror movies to not expect some last-minute resurrection. Besides, the castle was big. Even with their speed, he didn’t think Alex and the others had cleared every room.
A flash through the trees caught his attention. Then he was running toward it and into his man’s arms. “Malcolm! You’re safe.”
Malcolm held him tightly. “Aye, laddie, we both are, and isn’t that a grand thing?”
“I love you,” Brenin said in a voice muffled by Malcolm’s chest.
“And I you. Time for us to go home, heh?”
“To Rionnag?”
“Aye, if that is your will.”
“It is. I want to live with you and Darling and Cook and get to know the rest of the village besides Doc McPhee.”
Malcolm pulled away to take his hand. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
There was a loud rumble, then another and the ground shook. Logan laughed. They watched her push more buttons on her little black box. The woman was clearly in her element. She’d been a marine, Brenin had learned from the boys, and was damaged from the experience. That might be, but there was no denying she was having a hell of a time for herself.
Brenin looked back and saw the first plume of smoke. There went Dracul’s domain. He should have had more satisfaction at this ending. Instead, he only felt kind of hollow inside. The good news, however, was that his love for Malcolm was already filling up that empty space. He had hope that soon all that would be left of this horrible experience was enduring love for his man and the life they would make together.
Getting back to the old trawler proved more complicated than the coming had been. There were now half a dozen pure humans and a couple of changed boys, one of whom had a pre-pubescent hybrid clinging to his arm. Brenin hated seeing them trussed up and gagged, but there was no telling what any of them might do. They’d lived under Dracul’s rule for some period of time and might have even developed affection for one of the guards who’d been killed—either real or out of survival. Until they were back where they could be kept out of sight and under control, it was safer for everyone to keep them neutralized.
Brenin did his best, along with Mackie, Quinn and Jase, to help them all stay warm and calm, as they made their way down to the road. Val and Emil had commandeered a couple of the castle vehicles, which meant they could make it to the boat with only one trip. Good thing, too, given that dawn was breaking. They needed to be away before the inhabitants of the sleepy village started waking up. The smoke billowing out from the mountain wasn’t going to make things any easier.
Brenin reluctantly parted from Malcolm’s side the moment they boarded. While his man went to the pilot house, Brenin helped herd their ‘guests’ below into what constituted the crew’s salon. They seated everybody as best they could. Brenin really wanted to start untying them, but he knew he had to wait for Alex’s approval.
“It’s okay,” he said to the young hybrid as he put him next to his father on a padded bench. “You’re safe. I promise.”
The boy glared at him then sent a hardy kick right into Brenin’s upper thigh. It missed his groin by millimeters. The boy’s father grunted in alarm.
“Not to worry,” he assured him. “No harm done.” He moved to a safe distance nevertheless.
A bunch of squealing caught his attention. A hybrid had emerged from a cabin and Mackie had him in a choking embrace.
“Oh my God, Demi, you scared the crap out of me! Don’t do that again,” Mackie admonished. He pulled away and gave the other boy the once-over. “Are you all right?”
Demi rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.” He glanced over his shoulder at Duncan, who’d also come out. “Trey saved me.”
The cop scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, I don’t know. It was more of a joint effort.”
“Seriously?” Demi shook his head. “You…” He stopped, shook his head again and said, “You were great.” Something more passed between Demi and Duncan. The boy’s expression morphed into one not simply of love, but also of worship, maybe. The man’s face reddened, although his eyes conveyed a poignancy that was almost painful to see. He broke the gaze first and moved away.
Demi shuddered visibly before turning back to Mackie. “I’m just glad it’s over. Now I can come back to the club and save your awful choreography from itself.” He gave Mackie a saucy grin.
“Oh!” Mackie glared at him for about two seconds before taking him into another hug.
The other boys, Quinn and Jase, joined in until there was something of an emotional scrum going on. Brenin didn’t feel left out because he’d never been a part of their little group. Not really. And there was only one place he wanted to be anyway.
He left the salon and headed up to the pilot house. Malcolm sat at the helm, flanked by Willem and Alex. Brenin didn’t hesitate to wind past them and up to Malcolm. With a welcoming grin, Malcolm pulled Brenin up onto his lap. Brenin placed his head against his hard chest and closed his eyes.
* * * *
The next thing he knew, they were pulling up to the dock of Castle Rionnag. There was Darling, Doc McPhee and little Annika, who was bouncing up and down. The moment the lines were secure, the parade of warriors, their boys and their unwilling guests started emerging from below. Someone had obviously filled the welcoming committee in, because the doctor and the majordomo were neither surprised nor reluctant to wade in and take charge.
Brenin stretched and hopped off Malcolm’s lap to give him room to do what he needed. “What’s going to happen to them?”
“That lot?” Malcolm gestured toward the dock. “Their my problem for now. Ours,” he added. “I hope that’s okay.”
“It is. In a weird way, it gives me another avenue to heal from what the monster did. They’re as much his victims as I was. We can help them build new lives.”
Malcolm smiled and gave him a quick peck on the lips. “You’re a fine one, make no mistake, Brenin Jones. Not everyone who went through what you did would want to take on such a difficult task. You’d be well within your rights to demand they get out of your sight so that you could forget.”
“There’s no forgetting, is there? And I want to be useful.”
“It won’t be easy.” He shut down the engines and took Brenin’s hand. “The hybrid in particular will be a difficult thing to deal with.”
“Not so young. We age differently than you do. He’s older than he seems by human standards.”
Brenin pulled up short and glared at him. “You’re not to hurt him.”
“Don’t worry, my love. I won’t. I might have to lock him in my dungeon at some point, but…”
“It won’t come to that.” Brenin resolved right then and there that he’d do what it took to alter any bad traits the boy might have picked up from his alien father.
As they left the boat, he watched how Lucien walked up the dock with Demi in his embrace and the two of them in Harry’s. They were so obviously happy that Brenin found himself wishing for the same.
He gnawed at his lower lip before asking, “Do you want a son?”
Malcolm stumbled by the gangplank. It would have been comical if Brenin weren’t so focused on his question. “I can’t say as I’ve given that any thought.”
“I’m asking you to consider it now, please.”
“Och, Brenin, my bonny lad, that’s entirely up to you. For my own selfish reasons, I want to feed you my blood to keep you with me for the rest of my life. It comes with changes, though, if we do it while you’re young.”
“How old would I have to be before it wouldn’t work?”
“I can’t say for certain.” He led them down to the dock as they spoke. “Late twenties, early thirties, I guess. Harry would know best. It’s a big step, make no mistake, and one I’d never ask of you. After all you’ve been through, I’ll be that glad to have you in the way we’ve already been and not ask for more.”
Brenin believed him. The only problem was, he didn’t think that it would be enough for him. Dracul was dead. It was time to banish all traces of him. It wasn’t the right moment to have this deep discussion, however. There was work to be done. The former slaves needed to be settled in and, if this was to become Brenin’s home, he needed to get used to playing a major roll.
He tugged at Malcolm’s hand and picked up his pace. “Come on. There’s lots to do yet.”
Laughing, Malcolm allowed himself to be led. “Whatever you say, laddie. I’m yours to command.”
* * * *
Dafydd woke with a gasp. His head felt too heavy to lift, as did his whole body. There was a dull ache down where he’d once carried Dracul’s son. The baby was gone. He could tell that much. Relief washed over him, as did confusion. He couldn’t quite remember all that had happened and he had to blink a few times to see where he was. It was a bedroom, lovely and warm, but nothing he was familiar with.
“How are you feeling? Any pain?”
Dafydd jerked at the voice. It was gentle and he recognized it. Turning his head, he saw the young doctor coming out of the shadows. He looked down at Dafydd kindly and put his hand on Dafydd’s brow.
“No fever. That’s good.”
“Is it?” Dafydd’s voice was rusty and his throat hurt.
“You need water.” The doctor poured a glass from a pitcher on the nightstand and helped Dafydd lift his head to drink.
It was coolly delicious and he was pathetically grateful for the kindness. “Thank you,” he croaked out when he’d had enough. He still had some manners left in him.
Although no trust.
He eyed the doctor. “Do you own me now?”
The man was obviously startled by the question. He frowned. “No. Of course I don’t. No one does. You’re free. Don’t you understand that’s what happened when I arrived in your room?”
Dafydd shook his head slowly. “No. I… Dracul.”
“Is dead.”
The news hit him like a blunt instrument. He should have been elated, but all positive emotion had been beaten out of him long ago. The most he could muster was indifference. He lay there with nothing to say.
“Do you want to see your son?”
“No!” That was an easy answer. The thought of it made him sick. “I don’t want that thing anywhere near me.”
“He’s your child.”
“No. It’s only ever been part of Dracul’s master plans. It’s a weapon of destruction.”
The doctor seemed frustrated. “You know that’s not how it has to be. You spent time with Demi. Do you understand what he risked to save your life?”
Dafydd shifted his gaze to the ceiling. There was a pretty pastoral scene painted there. “I told him not to bother. In any event, his father was different, so he is. That thing you cut out of me has evil in its veins.”
The doctor sighed. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I don’t, though. He’s alive and well and is going to stay that way. Someone will bring him up if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t. You waste your time and breath if you think you can change my mind on this. Kill me now if my answer doesn’t please you.”
“Dafydd, you know I’m not going to do that.”
“You’re not saying it right.”
“I beg your pardon? Is there a better way for me to make my case to you?”
“I mean my name. You have an American accent.”
“Because I’m from America. Boston, to be precise.” Now there was amusement in the man’s tone.
Dafydd glanced at him. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care about any of that.”
“Don’t you?” The bed depressed as the doctor sat on the edge. Dafydd steeled himself to be touched but that didn’t happen. “You have a chance to live a good life now. With Dracul dead, you can come to Boston, start over.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you can. Look around you. This is what waits for you—comfort, safety, prosperity even. Alex and his family will take good care of you and ask nothing in return.”
Dafydd snorted. “There is always a price.”
“Not this time. Not anymore.” The doctor was quiet for a while, sitting and not touching, not preaching. Then, “Would you like to name your son?”
“How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t care about that thing.” Maybe if he goaded the man sufficiently, he would end him. I still want death, don’t I?
“So you’ve said. A baby needs a name, however. I’ll call him Diego.”
Dafydd couldn’t help frowning. “That’s stupid. He’s not Spanish.”
“True, although by your estimation, he’s not Welsh, either.”
Disgusted with himself for walking into the trap, he bit out, “Call him what you like, mun.”
“At least you’ve upgraded the baby to a ‘him’ and not an ‘it’. But your point is well taken. Just because I’m Hispanic doesn’t mean I should choose something from my heritage. I’m not the boy’s father, after all. What’s a good Welsh name for a boy?”
“Idris.” The moment the name passed his lips, Dafydd could have bitten his tongue. It must have been the pain meds he was on, making him fuzzy-headed and stupid with it.
“No, like my da… Never mind.” He turned away from the man. “I’m that tired and want to go back to sleep.”
“Of course. I’ll be right here if you need me. You’re safe, Dafydd. Did I say it right that time?”
“No.”
“I’ll have to practice.”
“Do as you please. It’s nothing to me either way.”
Closing his eyes, he ignored the man—or tried to. Even with his alien master dead and his rescue from his prison of so many centuries, he still felt trapped. This place was everything he’d never had—warm and inviting—and there’d likely be his fill of food, as well. It was a cage, nevertheless, and no amount of pretty words or creature comforts would change that.