Chapter Two
Brenin woke with a cry that he muffled instantly. Stay quiet. Don’t let the monster know you’re awake. It was too late, however. He wasn’t lying in some bed in a large room. Instead, he sat strapped into the front seat of a beat-up SUV that seemed particularly small, given that it was occupied by a huge man behind the wheel.
No, not a man—an alien just like the one he’d escaped. Oh God, I failed. He remembered it clearly now, how he’d stumbled out of the tunnel after fleeing for his life and right into the arms of another captor. The agony of his ribs had sent him down into unconsciousness, but now he was awake and all too aware that he was being driven away. The question was, to where?
“Easy, laddie,” the alien said without taking his eyes off the road. “You’re safe.”
Brenin barked out an almost hysterical laugh at the reassurance. How could that be even remotely possible under the circumstances? He might not be with Dracul anymore, but he was with someone just as dangerous and probably as vicious. Slumped against the door, he felt particularly vulnerable. He tried to sit up. Fire licked at his side, making him grimace and drop back.
“Try not to move. You might have a broken rib or two, and until Doc McPhee has a go at you, it’s best not to jar anything.” The alien’s mouth tightened into a straight line. “The fucker had a right go at you, didna he?”
Brenin blinked back at him, confused. The guy sounded Scottish, which made no sense. From what Dafydd had told him, he knew Dracul had spent centuries in Wales and yet he spoke as if English wasn’t his mother tongue. His accent had been impossible to place because every Earth-born language was foreign to him. Either Dracul was terrible at blending in or he hadn’t bothered to try. This one was different. In what way and whether that would be better or worse for Brenin remained to be seen.
“He beat and raped me every day,” he said in a quiet tone that didn’t betray how much it cost him to speak of the horror out loud.
The driver turned his violet eyes on him. “He’ll not be doing it anymore. No one will.”
The alien returned his gaze to the road. It was still pitch-black out with cloudy skies. Only the headlights revealed their path and it seemed the road was too narrow for the speed they traveled. And yet, the alien appeared at ease and Brenin didn’t feel at risk of harm—not from an accident, anyway.
He looked away and out of his side window. If he went slowly, he could shift his position without a huge amount of pain. He was warm, as well, and that was something new. The castle room had been freezing, and with no clothes or covers, he’d had to become accustomed to being cold and miserable. Here, the heater blasted warmth onto him and he noticed that, in addition to the clothing Dafydd had given him, he was wrapped in a large woolen plaid. It smelled vaguely of smoke and some kind of spicy scent that he couldn’t place.
He glanced at the alien and noticed for the first time that while the man wore a simple long-sleeved shirt, he also had on a kilt. It was a real one, too, not the kind tourists bought or fancy men sported to play at being a highlander. It was worn and smudgy. It rode up his right leg, exposing a large knee as the alien worked the gas pedal.
“Who are you?” Brenin dared to ask. What difference did it make if he pissed the guy off? He was either one of Dracul’s minions who was taking Brenin to some hideous death or he was the next animal in line to use Brenin as a chew toy. He knew these monster aliens’ ways and had already learned that being good made no difference. There was no appeasing their appetite for cruelty.
“I’d say a friend, but that would be cheeky of me. Let’s say I’m an ally.”
“Never,” Brenin scoffed. “Pull the other one. It’s got bells on.”
“It’s the truth, laddie. I know you don’t have reason to believe me, but while Dracul and I are of the same species and we landed on your big, blue ball here together, we are enemies now.”
“My name is Brenin Jones, if you’re going to call me anything.” He supposed ‘laddie’ was better than ‘slut’. He was feeling peevish for sure—and rash. Perhaps somewhere down deep, he hoped to goad this creature into simply killing him once and for all.
“Well, I’d say pleased to meet you, Brenin, if not for the circumstances. I’m Malcolm MacLerie.”
“You aren’t, though, are you?” he snapped back. “I don’t care what you wear or how you speak, you’re still an alien. A monster!” He spat the last word out, leaning toward the guy, his ribs making him gasp.
“Easy, now. Dinna fash yourself.” He shot Brenin another look with those violet eyes.
On Dracul, the color had been creepy, especially as they’d go blacker then red, depending on his mood. None of it had boded well for Brenin.
“I’m not going to hurt you. You have my word on it.”
“Do you honestly think that means anything to me after all I’ve been through these last few months?” He looked away, out of the window again, blinking furiously at tears. Damn. He’d stopped crying long ago, knowing that signs of pain and misery only made the monster happy.
A few minutes ticked by, the only sound the noise of rubber running on the road and Brenin’s harsh breathing. Then, “I was doing surveillance on the castle, looking for Dracul’s warrior numbers and any security weaknesses. My thermal imaging equipment gave me a human heat signal. I knew you were his slave because that’s all he does with humans.”
The alien grimaced. “We would have got you out eventually, but when I saw you on the run, I intercepted you at the tunnel exit I’d found earlier. There was no choice in that. Dressed as you are, you wouldn’t have lasted long out in this cold. And Dracul’s goons would have found you easily enough, regardless.”
Brenin rubbed his feet against the floor. His socks were still damp, although the heater was doing a decent job of drying them out. “Dafydd gave me what he had.”
He licked his lips, noticing for the first time that they weren’t split as they had been. Shooting a look at his captor, he wondered how that might have happened. Their saliva could close wounds. A shudder ran through him at the memory of how often the monster had drunk his blood.
The alien glanced at him sharply. “Are you cold, laddie?” He turned up the heater fan without waiting for an answer. “We’ll be at this wee, out-of-the-way dock before dawn and take off for my home in my boat. Dracul will never find you.”
Brenin choked back a cry and swiped at tears leaking down his cheek. “I’m not worried about him anymore, mun. It’s you that scares me! How long before you do to me what he did? I don’t care what you say. I know what your kind is like and I’d rather die than go through all that again.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Brenin knew that he meant them. Without a second’s thought, he fumbled for the door handle. At the speed they traveled, he could only hope launching himself from the SUV would be enough to end him and his misery.
The vehicle he’d rented in the sleepy fishing village wasn’t big enough for Malcolm’s comfort but he was grateful for the tight fit now as he lunged to keep the Welsh boy from opening the door. His unwilling passenger screamed as Malcolm’s arm banged against the kid’s chest of necessity. Malcolm needed to grab the handle while he maneuvered the SUV to the side of the road and braked. Once it came to a stop, he lifted his other hand from the wheel and used it to corner the boy within his embrace.
Brenin was like a wild thing, flailing against Malcolm’s loose hold, trying to get the door open. It took little to contain the boy, but it was impossible to do so without hurting him. Heartbreaking tears ran down his bruised cheeks and dripped off his chin. He was hysterical with his fear and mindless with it.
“God’s teeth, boy, please don’t fight me. You’re only going to do yourself more harm and I’m not going to let you run away. I’m trying to save you!”
The human clawed at Malcolm’s arms, his efforts pitifully weak. “Just do it! Please, kill me. Snap my neck if you have to. I know you’re strong enough.”
Malcolm tugged the boy closer, taking him away from the door, and pressed him against his chest. “I’ll do no such thing.”
“Sink your bloody monster fangs in me, then. Drain me dry.” As Brenin strained against his hold, his neck stretched to expose the pulse point at the base of this throat.
Malcolm doubted the human had deliberately set out to entice him in a way that Malcolm’s nature made it nearly impossible to resist. He was already attracted to the pretty boy against his better judgement. The lure of sinking his fangs into that exquisite blue vein was almost overwhelming. He opened his ears to listen to how the blood and the heart raced. For a few insane moments, it was all he could focus on. His dick pressed against the confines of his smallclothes and he was damn glad to have put them on. A kilt would have done a poor job of hiding his arousal and it was the last thing the boy needed to see.
Then the sound of the sobbing snapped him back to what mattered. All the fight had gone out of Brenin liked a popped balloon. He sat pliant in Malcolm’s arms with his head hanging and his shoulders shaking.
“There now, laddie,” Malcolm soothed. “I’ve got you and in a good way. I promise that. No killing, no blood-sucking…no nothing you don’t want me to do.” He couldn’t make his tongue speak of the worst of Dracul’s abuse. That the bastard had used this frail boy as a fuck toy was an outrage that Malcolm would gladly avenge when the time came.
He rubbed his hand lightly up and down the boy’s arm, liking that his plaid covered him. His foot remained jammed against the brake, as he hadn’t had the opportunity to switch the gear into park. His leg started to ache, but he ignored it. As much as he wanted to put a greater distance between them and the castle, he didn’t dare risk continuing until Brenin had calmed enough to stay in his seat.
The boy slid into Malcolm and let his head drop against his shoulder. It would have been a touching show of trust if not for his next words.
“I hurt and I’m tired of fighting. You do what you want. I won’t struggle or try to run off. I just want some relief and sleep. Can I have that much?”
Malcolm placed a hand on the human’s head and ran his fingers through the lank hair in the only way he knew how to give comfort. “Of course you can—the sleep, anyway. I can do nothing for the pain until I get you back home. Do you want some water, then?”
Brenin shook his head and took a shuddery breath. He felt so immensely frail, more so than most humans. He was all but skin and bones. Well, Cook would fatten him up right quick once she got her hands on him. Aching leg or not, Dracul be damned, too. He could stay there forever with the boy in his arms. That would be stupid, though, so Malcolm forced himself to let go and help the boy sit back into his own seat. Brenin didn’t fight him, his dull gaze stuck to a spot on the floor as Malcolm made sure the seatbelt was in place.
When there was no good reason to keep his hands on the boy, Malcolm returned them to the steering wheel and pulled back onto the road.
“Get some rest. We’ve a ways to go yet.” With that, he kept his focus on the driving and not on the still, defeated boy by his side.
* * * *
Brenin woke with a start, once again disoriented and on edge until he remembered where he was. The small cabin onboard the alien’s boat rocked as they sped along to only God-knew-where—a castle along the Scottish coast apparently. He hadn’t been taking much notice of what his captor said. He’d been too wrung out from the crying jag to care and had wanted only to lie down and sleep.
He rolled over onto his back with a wince. His ribs still felt as if they were on fire, and that wasn’t the only pain, just the worst of it. But there was nothing new plaguing him. Despite how he’d fought the alien while in the SUV, the guy hadn’t beaten him—or worse. He supposed it was a matter of waiting for a better opportunity, except that seemed wrong somehow. It would have taken nothing for the beast to clock him a good one, at least, and yet he hadn’t done so. He’d simply held Brenin within the circle of his massive arms, stopping him from leaving.
The opportunity to escape had passed, regardless. Unless he wanted to try jumping off the boat and drowning himself, he had no choice but to accept his fate and see what this next monster would bring. He rather doubted he’d be allowed to succeed going overboard any more than he’d been permitted to jump out of the moving vehicle. These aliens were quick as lightning and stronger than oxen. He stood no chance of gaining his freedom and any notion to the contrary had been wishful thinking. Poor Dafydd would die for nothing.
Taking a tentative breath, he felt out the possibility that his body would allow him to get up and use the en suite. His bladder was full to bursting and the bottle of water sitting on the shelf by the bed was tempting. He had a powerful thirst now that the drugs had worn off and he’d slept some. When he didn’t see stars in front of his eyes, he dared to sit and swing his legs over the side. He didn’t even question why he was still wrapped in the alien’s plaid, nor did he consider shoving it off when he stood to stagger over to the toilet.
The wool kept him warm enough, for the cabin was chilly. He’d bet the topside was freezing. Given the way he had to brace his legs against the boat’s movement, he gauged it was going at a fair clip. Add the winter temperature in with the wind and you’d have a ball-freezing time of it steering the craft. And he knew from grizzly experience that the aliens were equipped the way any human man was.
This crazy bastard wears a kilt, no less.
It seemed impossible that an alien would disguise himself as a highlander in the twenty-first century. Maybe he’d imagined the whole of it. So many recent blows to his head could have scrambled his brain. There was only one way to know for sure and to find out what his immediate fate was going to be. He couldn’t trust any of his memories, that was for certain. And while he could hide out in the cabin, he was done with being a victim.
After relieving himself and downing a fair amount of the water, he was ready to brave the outside. Gathering the plaid tightly around him, he opened the small door and stepped into a narrow hallway. A short flight of steps later, he staggered onto the windy deck. Since his capture, his hair had grown out, enough to whip around his face. He had to drag strands back behind his ears to get a good look around.
The first thing he saw was the green coast not far from where the boat sped along. The sight gave him comfort, although he wasn’t sure why. Something about being out to sea would have frightened him more, although even on land, he was no closer to being free. With a hand on the railing to steady himself, he turned to look at the open cockpit behind him. There, with this long, thick legs braced, stood the man he remembered.
Not man, alien. Monster. Except he didn’t look like one, not from this angle anyway. The wind whipped his kilt, exposing the backs of his knees and corded thighs. His thin cotton shirt didn’t look sufficiently warm for the weather, but lots of muscular men withstood the cold better than most. His long, black hair was held back with a few braids on either side pulling the strands away from his face.
There was only a hint of a jawline and a strong, straight nose visible. He looked for all the world like an extra from Braveheart, although no one in their right mind would have cast him. He would have eclipsed Mel Gibson if they had. While there’d been an oily, repulsive quality to Dracul, this one presented a masculine beauty that must turn unsuspecting heads.
Not that Brenin was one. He knew all too well the vicious cruelty of the aliens. Tired of being a victim, however, he made himself approach the helm. A swell caused the boat to rise and rock, tossing him off his stride.
The alien threw out his arm and caught Brenin by the waist before he landed on his arse. “Careful, laddie. The sea is rough this time of year and I’m pushing the throttle to get us home faster.”
Brenin grabbed hold of the bracing arm, even though he hated doing so. Its implacable firmness, nevertheless, made him feel safer. “It’s not my home, now is it?” he said, raising his voice against the wind and giving his tone more bite than was wise, given how much this creature could hurt him. “It’s my new prison.”
The alien—MacLerie, he supposed he should think of him as—glanced sharply at him while he continued to steer with one able hand. “It’s not that, no—neither your home nor your prison. But it is a safe place for you to rest and heal while my friends and I take care of Dracul once and for all.”
Brenin blinked against the salt spray, appreciating the briskness of the open air because the plaid did keep him nice and cozy warm. “If I’m not a prisoner, why didn’t you leave me back in that village where you kept this boat docked?”
MacLerie turned to give him a pointed look before replying. “And how long would it have taken, do you think, for Dracul’s men to sniff you out and drag you back? I would have had to go in and rescue you before we’re ready to tackle him head on, and likely we both would have died in the effort.”
“Why would you bother? I’m nothing to you and it’s not as if you can’t find a boy of your own if that’s your intent. I expect you already have one waiting in your bed.” He’d intended to make an accusation, and in a sense he had, although not quite in the way he should have. It sounded disturbingly as if he were affronted at the idea. Horrified, he hurried to clarify what he really meant. “You’re all monsters.”
MacLerie shook his head. “Ah, laddie, what you don’t know is a lot. Give me a chance to explain, to prove to you that I mean you no harm and that when it’s safe to do so, I’ll see that you return to your home.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to reply that he had no home—hadn’t for nearly a year. His father’s tolerance for Brenin’s gayness had ended within weeks of his mam’s death. He’d been forced to leave and had resorted to living in shelters once his friends’ largess had dried up as well. That was how the monster had found him, a homeless piece of trash trying to survive without even his General Certificate in his hand. No family, not enough education and no decent job prospects had made him the perfect target. He still was, truth be told.
Chop sent him staggering once more, this time against MacLerie. The man hugged him closer to his side. Brenin grabbed on to the man’s waist without thinking. He met implacable hardness. But when his side collided with the guy’s hip, he couldn’t hold in a grunt and hiss. MacLerie somehow pulled away while holding him steady.
“Easy, there. You should go below and sit down at least. It’s a wee bit bumpy out here, given how hurt you are.”
Shaking his head, Brenin tightened his grip on the man. “I want to be in the fresh air, if it’s all the same to you. I’ve been trapped inside for months.” He craned his neck back to gaze at the bright blue sky. “It’s glorious to be out in the sun.”
“Oh, aye, I understand. Mind now that you don’t overdo. And I’m that sorry if you’re hungry. I don’t have anything t’hand, but I called ahead and Darling will have Cook putting on a proper breakfast for when we arrive.”
Darling? “You have a wife, then?” Why did my tone turn surly again?
MacLerie laughed, although it was genuinely joyful, not the grating gloating of Dracul. “Naw, Darling is my majordomo and a more dour man you’ll never meet, even though he’s half English. But he’s loyal to the bone. Cook’s a woman from the village and a dinnae ken her name. I’ve never thought to ask. She scares me a wee bit, truth be told.” He flashed a smile at him and Brenin had to look away from the gleaming beauty of the man.
“I’m hungry right enough,” Brenin admitted.
“Another hour or so should see us…there.” He’d meant ‘home’ and Brenin knew it. But he was sensitive and didn’t use it for fear of rubbing me the wrong way? Is it possible that this alien is what he claims to be and not what I fear?
Time would tell, and staring out at the white-capped water, he knew for certain that there was a still a will to live in him. He wasn’t ready to end it just yet. Perhaps his sense of optimism was stupid. In a few hours, he might be trapped in another monster’s bed, weeping and as miserable as he’d been for months. If so, there would always be some chance to end his life. When he’d run from Dracul, he’d done it to live. If escape proved impossible in this life, he’d achieve it in the next.
For now, he’d allow himself some small measure of hope that he was free from enslavement.
* * * *
The rest of the journey was made in relative silence and bracing enough to clear Brenin’s mind from the remaining fog of the drugs Dafydd had given him. The pain wasn’t unbearable, but he was looking forward to some relief once they arrived at MacLerie’s home. He didn’t bother to question why he remained at the man’s side, either, although, if pressed, he would have said it was to keep his feet under him. It simply didn’t hold the kind of fright in him that it should have. And, from the vantage point of the helm, he was able to enjoy the view.
Rolling hills along the coast turned to craggier ones. Then, as they came around a curve in the shoreline, he spotted what looked like a fishery and behind that, sitting higher up, was a brooding castle.
“That’s my precious salmon farm,” MacLerie said with a nod. “And beyond is the place I’ve lived for…well, a while now.”
Soon, the man slowed the engines and pulled closer inland. They entered a small cove with a bit of a sandy beach to a dock that held a few other vessels. Some were smaller than the one they were on and one was much larger—a yacht, really—and it must have cost a pretty penny. These aliens had been on Earth long enough to amass some amount of wealth, he’d learned.
“Sorry, laddie,” MacLerie said, pulling his arm away. “I’m going to need a wee bit of room to bring us in.”
It took a perverse second for Brenin to make his fingers unfurl and step away. He told himself it was because he was afraid of falling. Really, he feared distancing himself from the man who he’d already become dependent on. There was an older man standing on the dock, peering at him with an expressionless, craggy face. He wore a dark suit with a vest in the same plaid Brenin still had wrapped around him. His stern demeanor reminded Brenin of the awful creatures that fawned over Dracul and did his bidding.
MacLerie pulled the boat alongside the dock with obviously practiced ease and tossed the rope coiled nearby to the man. He had to be the majordomo, Darling. Such a funny name, although Brenin would bet the lines in the man’s face hadn’t been made by humor. Nevertheless, the guy caught the rope handily and tied it off without any obvious effort, something he’d done plenty of times, likely. That surprised Brenin. Surely there’d be more people working such a large estate. Then again, how easily could an alien get and keep human help? Maybe the rest of the aliens were somewhere inside the castle or the outbuildings.
Hanging from rafters or lying in coffins until the sun goes down.
He wasn’t sure where his sense of humor came from, given his circumstances. And he knew that no matter how much these creatures captured the legend of vampires, they didn’t only come out at night or burn up in the sun. MacLerie was testament to that much. The guy didn’t seem to mind being outside. He easily shut down the boat and helped his man secure it to the dock before turning to Brenin.
“Let’s get you inside, laddie.” He held out his hand.
“You can call me Brenin, you know.”
MacLerie flashed grin. “Brenin it is, then. Come. I’ll help you up.” He held Brenin’s hand with his big one to get him up on the side and over the narrow span to the dock. He didn’t let go, however, even after Brenin’s feet were both on the wooden planks.
“Take a second to get your land legs back,” MacLerie said cheerily. “I know we were on the boat for only hours, but still, it was that choppy, so…” He turned to the other man. “This is Darling. Darling, this is the young Mr. Jones I told you about.”
The majordomo inclined his head. “Welcome to Castle Rionnag, if I may be so bold.”
Pulling the plaid tighter, Brenin said, “Thank you, I guess.”
Darling looked at his master with one eyebrow raised.
“Mr. Jones is reserving judgment about us, Darling,” MacLerie said rather cheerily. “And given his time with Dracul, who can blame him?”
“Indeed, sir, most unfortunate.” The older man turned his steely gaze on Brenin. “I assure you, young master, this is a safe place.” His sincerity and his obvious humanness did a lot to relax Brenin.
“Is Doc McPhee about, Darling?”
“Not as yet, sir. Old Mrs. Cameron down in the valley is taking her last journey and the doctor is helping to ease her way as best she can. She promised to come as soon as she is able. She did add that if matters were urgent, her medical assistant could come earlier.”
MacLerie’s palm slid up to the center of Brenin’s back. “I don’t think that will be necessary. We might give the boy some ibuprofen with his breakfast. Surely that won’t hurt. What do you think, Brenin?”
It took him a moment to appreciate that he was being asked his opinion. It had been a while since that had happened. He nodded. “Um, yeah, if you please.”
“That’s fine, then. Let’s get you up to the castle. Can you walk or would you like some help?”
Brenin briefly pictured being swept up in those brawny arms. The image frightened him, although not as much as it should. “No, thanks, I can walk.”
Darling cleared his throat and looked pointedly down at Brenin’s feet. “I think you’ll find the crushed stone path uncomfortable, dressed as you are, sir.”
Scrunching his toes, Brenin considered that observation. “I guess you’re right.”
MacLerie stepped into his line of vision. “I’ll be as careful as I can.” That was all he said before tucking his arm around Brenin’s waist and behind his knees. A split-second later, he was airborne and cradled in the alien’s embrace. His heart beat frantically before he could calm himself. The pressure of the fingers gripping him increased.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” MacLerie’s voice was as tight as his hold.
Brenin dared to look up at him from under his lashes. Those violet eyes were wide and fixed at a point around Brenin’s mouth. No, at his neck, where his jugular pulsed. And a bit of pearly white showed around the man’s lips. Brenin mewed in distress, memories of fangs sinking into his flesh making him fearful at an animalistic level.
“Shh, dinnae fash yourself.”
Really? Was Brenin truly not supposed to worry about how he was trapped, not only in an alien’s control but in his very arms? The pathetic thing was, he’d almost forgotten his precarious and morbidly bizarre situation.
“Mr. Jones?” The majordomo gently tapped his shoulder. When Brenin shifted his gaze to the man, he said, “I have been in MacLerie’s employ for over fifty years now and I can assure you, he does nothing without consent. You are safe here, and may God strike me down if I let anything untoward happen to you.”
Brenin blinked back at him, amazingly comforted by the old-fashioned, yet obviously earnest, vow. “Th-thank you.”
“You are very welcome.” The man flicked his gaze at MacLerie. “You might stop standing around with your fangs flashing if you want to prove an amiable host. Sir.” With that admonishment, the man turned on his heel and marched off.
MacLerie started after him, although at a slower pace. “Well, if ever I get too big for my britches, there’s always Darling on hand to bring me back into line. I’m sorry, laddie-Brenin, for my lapse. My nature is not unlike Dracul’s, and while I do a far better job of keeping it under control, I’m not always as strong as I’d like to be.”
Brenin curled inside the plaid. “Do you drink blood?” He had to ask. It was the one thing in particular that the monster had done to him that he couldn’t abide the thought of. Even the constant rapes and beatings had paled in comparison to having his vein tugged at.
“Aye, I do, yes. That’s our nature, but I get my blood by the bagful normally these days. And, like Darling said, I never take what isn’t given freely.”
“I will never do that for you.” Brenin didn’t care what the consequences were for his refusal.
MacLerie kept his gaze on the path ahead. The lines around his mouth tightened. “Of course not. I’ve told you. You’re not a prisoner and you’re not my slave. You are my guest. I take nothing and expect you to give me nothing, except time to make the world safer for you and everyone else.”
There was no more talking for the rest of the short journey up to the castle. They entered through a side door that looked hundreds of years old. Up close, he could see that the structure was mostly ancient stone with some weathered wood here and there. It was one of those buildings that had been expanded on over the centuries. He wondered how long MacLerie had lived there and what had happened to those that had built it in the first place, if the alien hadn’t.
The master of the place didn’t put Brenin down once they were inside. Instead, he carried him into a small dining room that was positively medieval. A roaring fire was lit in the large stone fireplace at one end. A plump, middle-aged women bustled about, setting food down in two places, one at the head of the table and the other to the right of it.
She looked up at their approach and smiled broadly. “Now, here is the dear lad. Come. Put him right on this chair. I’ve got a nice hot bowl of porridge for him. Don’t make that face, laddie,” she scolded good-naturedly. “You haven’t tried mine yet to judge and there’s a wee bit of honey in there as well, to make it go down better. And I’ve got some scones and bacon for later, once we’re sure your poor stomach is taking to everything all right.”
The woman had a point, he realized. He hadn’t been given much to eat since his capture and all of his insides were a bit tender from the beatings, as well. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said sincerely as MacLerie put him down beside, not on, the chair she’d indicated.
“Now, you just call me Cook. Everyone does.” She smiled brightly again. Her homey appearance could have guaranteed her a spot in any period piece put on by the BBC.
Brenin slid into his seat, trying to hold back the wince that still came from any change in position. After picking up his spoon, he dipped it into the oatmeal and took a small bite. It was good, a little sweet and creamy. He smiled in gratitude.
“Good and all, then,” Cook said with a firm nod. “Go on and tuck in yourself, sir. Imagine haring all the way to Wales without so much as a snack.” She shook her head and tsked. “Eat your black pudding. I’ll be getting that pain reliever for you, dearie,” she added before leaving.
MacLerie sat in his chair and laid his napkin across his lap before picking up his cutlery. His plate was piled high with all manner of food, including the dreaded black pudding. Brenin made a face when the man cut a piece in half and stuffed it into his mouth.
The alien grinned as he chewed, then swallowed. “Don’t look so horrified, Brenin. A proper Scotsman would eat this without my alien nature.”
Brenin returned his attention to his bowl. “I know, mun. I just don’t like it myself.”
“But you do like Cook’s porridge?”
“Yes, it’s a proper breakfast for me right now. I wouldn’t mind a scone, though.”
“As Cook said, see how that sits on your stomach. No one’s going to make you eat anything or do anything you don’t want to here, Brenin. We’ll see what the doc has to say about your injuries, and then,” he added with a sigh, “as much as it pains me, I’m going to have to start asking you questions about your time with Dracul. We mean to end him, my friends and I, and I think you’re the perfect person to help us succeed.”