Chapter Four
“Sir, you’ll kill him.”
Dafydd’s vision tunneled as he gasped for breath. Instinct had him fighting to live, even while he welcomed the death Dracul was handing him with his crushing fingers. He managed a grimaced smile in defiance as he glared up at his torturer.
“Sir!” Petru loomed behind Dracul then Drogo joined him. The two of them tugged at Dracul’s arms to stop him. “Think of your son, sir. If you kill the slut, you kill your seed.”
Dracul bared his teeth and snarled. For a second, his hold tightened more before he unclenched his fingers and let go. Dafydd gasped for air, coughing and heaving breath into his burning lungs.
Dracul huffed beside the bed as if it had been he who had been strangled. His red eyes bore into Dafydd with a hatred that he’d rarely shown, even in his most monstrous moments. No surprise there. Dafydd had deprived him of a toy and, worse, had bested Dracul at his own game—had transgressed against his very person.
“You’re dead,” he spat out. “When my son is liberated from your body, you will die in agony. I promise you that.”
Dafydd stared back in defiance. While he lacked the breath to respond, he did his best to convey his contempt with his eyes alone. He wasn’t afraid anymore. At this point, he welcomed death. Against all odds, Brenin had made it. He’d escaped the castle grounds and, based on what Petru had said, the boy still hadn’t been found. Dafydd could only hope he never would be. He welcomed Dracul’s fury, knowing that it had been Dafydd’s own efforts that had caused it. It was pathetic, to be sure, that such a thing brought him pleasure, but such was what his life had come to.
Dracul turned to Drogo. “How did it happen?”
“Sir?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” Dracul spat out the warning as he advanced on the doctor. “How was it that Dafydd could drug me? Where did he get the necessary medicine—and in such quantity?”
Ah, finally.
His haze of anger was lifting and he was working out how he’d been bested. Dafydd would have felt sorry for the doctor if the creature hadn’t been cut of the same monstrous cloth. He’d used Dafydd for his own sadistic needs and had exacted a heavy price for the help.
Drogo backed up with his hands raised. “Sir, I don’t know. He must have procured local plants during his outings before he was confined by you, like his anti-contraception medicine.” The man’s nervous gaze flashed over to Dafydd. “Your slut has ever been treacherous.”
Nice try.
Dracul’s steps didn’t stop. “That is true, but I’m not a fool. There is no way he could have stored away and processed anything on this miserable mountainside, hidden it and poisoned my wine with it without my noticing.” He shook his head slowly. “No, he had help.
“And who else would have such access and knowledge?” He sprang forward to close the gap between them. He grabbed Drogo by the neck and leaped across the room, sending them both crashing against the far wall.
“What price did you extract for your betrayal?” Dracul lifted Drogo by his throat, making the man’s legs dangle and dance against the stone. “Did the slut suck your cock or did you dare put that pathetic thing into another of the holes that I alone control?”
Dracul shook the doctor and banged him against the wall in emphasis. Drogo clawed at the hand that was crushing his windpipe. The speed with which Dracul choked the life out of the other creature made Dafydd appreciate how much the monster had been reining in his strength moments ago. Then, in a blur, Dracul replaced his hand with his teeth and ripped Drogo’s throat out. By the time he let go, ashes scattered around him and piled up on the floor.
There was silence in the room, the only sound being the harsh breaths of both Dafydd and Dracul. Petru made no noise at all, merely stood calmly waiting for his orders, as per usual. He really was the perfect dog to lick Dracul’s hand.
“Get that piece of trash out of my bed and my sight. Take him to the tower room in the west wing. Chain him to the bed there. I’ll have no more trouble from him.”
“Yes, sir.” Petru didn’t move, however. He opened his mouth.
Dracul, who wasn’t even looking at him, somehow sensed his lieutenant had more to say. “What?”
“It’s just that with Drogo…gone, there is no one to deliver your son safely.” Petru took a hesitant step toward his master. “I mean, from what I’ve seen of birth, the babe is at risk as much as the slut bearing him.”
Dracul whirled around, his face contorted once more with rage. To his credit, in a way, Petru didn’t cringe or even go into a defensive stance, not that he’d done anything wrong. No, that was Dracul. Dafydd laughed inside at the notion that the monster had allowed his impulses to hinder his own plans. The little creature moving inside Dafydd would likely not survive being ripped from his womb.
“We’ll get another doctor,” Dracul said, as if the answer were too obvious to be discussing.
“A human can’t be trusted, and there is only one other of our kind qualified.”
“Don’t waste my time stating the obvious, Petru. Go get him.”
“Horatiu won’t help you, sir,” Petru replied, again showing a surprising amount of courage. “He would rather die, I’m sure.”
Dracul grimaced and practically stamped his feet in frustration. “Then make sure you bring leverage along with him. He has a slut and a brat of his own. Either will do. For fuck’s sake, do I have to think of everything?” he added, throwing up his hands.
Petru inclined his head. “Of course, sir. A good idea.”
“Of course it’s a good idea!” Dracul stomped his way over to his favorite chair, grabbing the bottle of wine as he sat. He started to take a swig from the bottle before frowning at it and throwing it into the fireplace.
He sat fuming for a few seconds. “Clean up that mess,” he said, jerking his thumb at the pile that was once Drogo. “Get my slut out of here then send yours to me, along with a new bottle of wine.”
Petru had turned and was in the process of tugging Dafydd to a sitting position. He froze and looked over his shoulder. “Andri?”
“As if I know his name—or care. I need relief and he’ll do as well as any other. Pretty, as I recall, and I expect you’ve trained him well.”
A look crossed Petru’s face. It was a mere flash before his usual stony mask slipped back into place.
You don’t like that, do you? Not into sharing with your beloved master, Lap Dog?
Petru wrapped his hand around Dafydd’s hair and used it to yank him to his feet. Dafydd bit back a cry, but he was perversely pleased that Drogo was dead and Petru a little bit—perhaps a lot—pissed off at losing his toy to Dracul, not that Dafydd imagined the boy would care. From what he’d seen, Andri was happy to be a slave to an alien. Maybe it was an act of desperation, a way to cope with his situation. Dafydd didn’t know and he didn’t have the energy to worry for him anyway. As Petru half carried, half dragged Dafydd to the door, he knew his own lot was going to get a whole lot worse before the eternal peace of death could liberate him.
* * * *
Why arent’ you wearing your kilt?
Two days after the fact and Brenin replayed that dumb question in his head every hour like a clock.
What is the matter with me? No good would come from dwelling on his unfathomable lapse, and it was even crazier for him to feel a little let down every time his path crossed Malcolm’s and he saw that he still wore boring, old jeans. Brenin’s time with the monster must have given him permanent brain damage. That was the only answer that made sense.
He wandered down the dim hall on the third floor of the castle and tried to work up the courage to open the doors he found along the way. Darling had already told him he could go where he liked and poke around to his heart’s content. And, being a boy like any other, he couldn’t resist exploring the large and ancient building. It was like something out of a book, a place filled to the brim with suits of armor, huge paintings of stern people in clothing from long ago and lots and lots of rooms with furniture covered in sheets. The idea of opening up these dark rooms now that the sun had set sent a shiver up his spine. It was all a fine location for a horror movie and it came with its own monster.
No, that wasn’t fair. Not really. Malcolm was an alien for sure, but he’d been nothing but kind to Brenin. He’d stared hopelessly into the eyes of true evil often in the last few months and knew that there was nothing like that dwelling in Malcolm. After the first twenty-four hours of coping with his escape, Brenin had found a measure of peace, and he’d had a clear enough head to assess his current situation. Foolish he might be, yet he felt safe and almost carefree.
Almost. Flashes of memory caught him without warning, sending him into paralyzing misery for a few minutes until he could pull himself together again. His nights were filled with bad dreams. He woke with whimpers rather than screams, a leftover defense from his captivity. Dracul hadn’t been best pleased by being woken by his captive slave and had taken his anger out with a beating followed by a fucking to ‘settle Brenin down’. The instinct to survive had been so strong that Brenin’s mind had managed to keep him quiet, even during his worst nightmares. He wasn’t sure he would ever lose that forced muteness.
In the light of day, he knew that Malcolm wouldn’t fault him for the noise. The man likely would come and offer him solace. After the tender way he’d washed Brenin’s hair that first night, there was little question of that. Was that what Brenin wanted, though? To have the alien come in and take Brenin in his arms and…hug him? Stroke his hair and whisper reassuring murmurs? Now that was something that made Brenin shiver for sure, and while it should have been from fear, it wasn’t. His reaction disturbed him more than thoughts of ghosts and ghoulies leaping out of unused rooms.
He didn’t want to think of it, and exploring the castle was as good a way as any to occupy his time. There were books aplenty in the two-story library and television, of course. A computer was available in Cook’s office for him to use, as well. He wasn’t, as Malcolm had promised, a prisoner. He could go outside to walk the hills and gardens if he so chose or go down to the rocky shore, so long as he told Darling where he was going. For safety’s sake—or so Malcolm had said. He hadn’t done so only because he didn’t feel up to exposing himself to anyone other than the few people in the castle. As big as it was, the place gave him a sense of cozy safety.
As he neared the end of the hall, he paused and cocked his head. The screeching strains of a bagpipe reached his ears. “No way.” But yes, it was. He caught himself grinning. It was too much, really.
There was a closed wooden door in front of him, its massive iron hinges and latch testifying that it was likely original to the castle. The sound of the pipes grew louder as he got closer to it. He stopped a couple of steps away, working up his courage to proceed. Just when he reached for the latch, the door swung open. Brenin stumbled back, his heart tumbled and his eyes popped wide.
It was only Darling. The majordomo held a silver tray under his arm. He arched one brow at Brenin. “Mr. Jones, I’m sorry to have startled you.”
The man always spoke like he was on some BBC2 period piece, and the use of Brenin’s last name sounded ridiculous to his ears.
Swallowing down his waning fear, he said, “No worries, Mr. Darling. I was only poking about and thought I heard bagpipes.” Of course, he had. With the door open, the music came floating into the hall.
Darling sniffed. “The master often likes to play of an evening.” He winced at a particularly loud, off-key note. “Obviously, not well.” Then stepping to one side, he added, “If you’d like to see the tower room for yourself and believe your hearing can weather the assault, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind the company.”
Beyond the doorway was a twisting set of stone stairs with a rope railing attached to the outer wall. The thought of going up it was almost irresistible. “Really? It would be okay?”
“I’m certain of it,” the man replied. “However,” he continued before Brenin had taken a step, “be forewarned, Mr. Jones, that you will see the master as he truly is. He has tried to present a more, shall we say, human visage to you these last two days. While in his private domain, he needs only be himself.”
Brenin hesitated, his foot almost raised. “Perhaps I shouldn’t disturb him after all, Mr. Darling.”
“That is entirely up to you. I’ve known the master for many decades and I can assure you that he will welcome your presence, so long as you aren’t frightened by him.”
Brenin licked his lips. “No, I won’t be. He can’t scare me, not after the horror I’ve lived.” Saying the words out loud cemented the notion in his head. He wasn’t afraid of Malcolm.
“Very well. Then I bid you good night, Mr. Jones.” The majordomo left without looking back.
It took Brenin another few seconds before he went for the stairs. They were steep and worn, but the rope railing was substantial, so he didn’t worry about falling. He winced a few times at the terrible music filtering down. In fact, Malcolm’s bagpipe playing was so bad that it added levity to the situation and served to banish any lingering unease.
At the end of the steep climb was another wooden door that stood only partially closed. Brenin peeked through the sliver of light. Seeing nothing, he tipped it open until he spotted Malcolm looking once more like a highlander. The man paced back and forth in front of a window, his hair braided on both sides, a white linen shirt covering his broad chest and his kilt hanging in folds around his thick thighs. He wore no boots, though, leaving his legs and feet bare. There was a decided chill to the room, but if the laird of the castle felt it, he didn’t show any evidence.
The man squeezed his bag and blew into his pipes with seeming ease, if not skill. As Brenin watched for a few seconds, Malcolm made his way over to a table in the corner and paused his playing to take a long swallow from a silvery cup. Malcolm’s eyelids drooped and he heaved a great breath before putting his drink down again. He clasped the blowpipe to bring it to his lips once more then stopped and turned to stare at Brenin.
There was a moment, perhaps a second or two, when their gazes met. The distance between them was too great for Brenin to see into Malcolm’s eyes and yet something not quite fear and not quite cold shimmied up his spine. His breath caught, and in that space of time, Brenin’s head emptied of thoughts and there was a stillness to the room and himself that left him frozen to the spot. Then Malcolm smiled and the weird spell broke in favor of a different strangeness. Brenin felt shy but not unwelcome.
“Good evening, laddie. You’re powerful brave to enter my lair and test your mettle when it comes to listening to my caterwauling on the pipes.”
Brenin entered the room more fully, stuck his hands in his front pockets and shrugged. “It’s not so bad, like.”
Malcom barked out a laugh. “It’s bloody awful and that, mind, is after centuries of practice. Fergus always said I was fooling myself if I thought I could ever master this instrument.”
“Fergus?”
Malcolm’s expression changed, turned in an instant from cheerful to somber. “A friend. He died long ago.” Looking away, he took his cup and drank deeply this time.
Brenin came closer. “May I have some? The wine,” he amended with a nod to the glass decanter on the table. He realized right away that the request was pointless, given that there were no other cups.
Malcolm’s eyes flashed. “It’s not wine.”
“Oh?” Brenin stared more closely at the bottle and saw that the red liquid was clinging to the sides with a thickness that no wine held. “Oh!” He took a step back then made himself stop, feeling foolish. “Of course. Sorry,” he added, although he wasn’t sure why.
Malcolm put his cup down and moved to block Brenin’s view. “No, I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s upsetting to see and think about.”
Now Brenin felt really bad. “You have nothing to apologize for. This is your private space and you should do what you like in it. Mr. Darling warned me not to come up unless I could deal with your true nature.”
“Darling said that, did he?” When Brenin nodded, Malcolm added, “What else did he say, then?”
“Nothing, except that you wouldn’t mind my intruding.” In his mind, Brenin was already turning to leave, certain Malcolm wasn’t happy with his presence.
“Och, he was right about that. Other than my embarrassment over my pitiful playing, I’m happy to have you here, so long as you’re not frightened.”
“I’m not,” Brenin was quick to assure him. He glanced around the circular room. “It’s proper lush here, isn’t it?” He set his gaze back on Malcolm. “I mean…it’s like something out of a fairy tale.”
“It is, yes, although I’m old enough to remember when those stories didn’t end happily.”
Brenin stared down at his feet. Darling had outfitted him with nice sets of clothing that fit—jeans, sweaters—the whole lot, including new trainers. He hadn’t worn anything new since before he’d left home. “I know all about that, but still, exploring the castle has been a grand time. I know you say you don’t mind, but I hope that’s true and not you just being polite.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure anyone has accused me of being that much.” Malcolm removed his bagpipes and went to set them down in a place clearly designed to hold them. “The truth is I’ve been hiding out in this big, drafty monstrosity for a very long time, so long that I’ve seen many generations of the villagers come and go.”
“They don’t tell on you?”
“I’ve gained their loyalty through the test of time. At first, I protected them against the English, who were hellbent on wiping out the Highland way of life. I saw them through famines and wars and all manner of strife. They don’t all know who and what I am, but they don’t ask questions and they have been surprisingly loyal, even those that leave the hills for the Lowlands and beyond. I’m blessed in that way.
“Although I’d never bring the war with Dracul to them, I’ve on occasion met him in battle elsewhere, despite my efforts to live a quiet life. I’m bloody glad I did on this occasion, given that you are here, safe.”
“You don’t like fighting.” Brenin stated the obvious.
“No. What I like are the stars.” His face lit up in a bright smile. “Would you like to see where I come from?”
Brenin found himself surprisingly intrigued. “Is that possible?”
“Aye, in a general sense. Come over here.”
Brenin followed him across the room and over to a large window. A telescope stood in front of it, something he hadn’t noticed before. It should have caught his attention right off, except Malcolm’s presence loomed larger and more attention-taking than anything else. Just the thought of it gave Brenin a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach—not a bad one, only disquieting. He ignored it and focused on the telescope.
Malcolm stuck his eye against the lens and adjusted the direction then angle of the scope. “Here, laddie. Take a look.” He stood aside to give Brenin room.
Slowly, shyly, but with tremendous interest, he peered into the lens. He saw a bunch of lights in some swirling pattern. “What am I looking at, like?”
“The Andromeda Galaxy. It’s where my planet is located.”
Intrigued, Brenin squinted. “Can I see it with this?”
“No, this instrument is not powerful enough and my home world is at the far end of about two-and-a-half-million light years away from here.”
“Oh.” Brenin stepped back and looked at him. “That sounds a long way off.”
Malcolm grimaced. “It is.”
“How did you get here? I mean, I think I learned something in school about traveling at the speed of light and such. It’s impossible, innit?”
“Not if you use a wormhole.”
“Go on… They really exist?”
“They do.”
“How do you navigate it without getting crushed or lost?”
“With difficulty.” Something passed over Malcolm’s face, and for all that it was alien, it showed a human-type grief. “The navigator miscalculated and we left the wormhole too early and crashed here.”
Brenin stepped closer, drawn to the guy’s obvious need for comfort. “Was that you?” He couldn’t say why he asked the question. He simply did because it seemed important for him to do so.
Malcolm looked away. “No, it wasn’t me. Although I was—am—a navigator, it was the other one onboard who plotted that last course. You see, in a hive, there are always redundancies and a ship is manned the same way—two for each station, except there is only one captain and one first officer.”
He paced away and went over to his drink. “Sorry,” he said, holding the cup to his lips. “I need to finish this.”
“It doesn’t bother me.” That was mostly true. He was careful not to watch. “If it wasn’t you plotting that course, why do you feel guilty, mun?”
Malcolm looked at him with startled eyes. “Is it that obvious?”
Brenin shrugged. “To me, yes.”
The alien drained his cup and refilled it. “You’re the first to think so or, at least, the first to call me on it.” He drank some more. There was a flash of fangs, which set Brenin’s heart racing a bit until he reminded himself he was safe with this man. Malcolm wasn’t a monster.
“We normally don’t get to pick what our role in life is going to be. I was fortunate in that my family and hive accepted my interest in navigation. My shipmate had no such interest. We had to spend a lot of time together of necessity and he told me as much. He had no intrinsic interest in the stars. Didn’t appreciate their beauty and the stories they had to tell.”
Malcom returned to the telescope and pressed his eye against the lens while he swirled his cup of blood. “The irony is that I used to do this very thing back home. Only then, I was gazing at the Milky Way, intrigued and wondering what I might find there. I was disappointed when the ship I was assigned to had another destination in mind.”
He straightened, drank and appeared in deep thought as he stared out of the window. “Anyway, he was senior to me. Not my place to question his scheduling or how he went about his duties.” He turned to Brenin. “But I knew he wasn’t up to the job. His placement had been political, not one of my captain’s choices for the crew. I knew all that and said nothing.”
Brenin frowned. “Was that a possibility? Saying something to your captain? I don’t think a human would have. Like, I once saw one of my teachers snatch something at school. I never told because I didn’t think anyone would care what I had to say and he was a good teacher, for all that.”
Malcolm gave him a sad smile. “You’re very perceptive. That navigator never did anything outright wrong that I could take to the captain. It was only my impression and that wasn’t sufficient reason to complain. One doesn’t disrupt the hive without good reason.” He sighed then drained his cup. “And still I wonder what would have happened if I had expressed my concerns to the captain. I was right to worry.”
Brenin took a step toward him, something unexpected and unnamable drawing him closer to this creature when he should have been putting more distance between them. He could smell the blood, and that alone should have sent him screaming.
Why am I not afraid?
“What happened to him?”
Malcolm’s nostrils flared as he stared at Brenin. He didn’t answer right away. Then, he abruptly turned and strode back to the table. “He, ah, didn’t survive. Most of the crew died on impact.” Putting his cup down, he picked up the decanter and drank directly from it.
Instead of staying put, Brenin perversely followed him. “How many did that leave?” It occurred to him that he didn’t know how many of these creatures walked the Earth.
“A couple of dozen.” Replacing the decanter, Malcolm stood with his legs braced and his hands folded in front of him. “There are fewer now that we’ve been waging war with each other.”
He sidestepped his way around Brenin and went back to the telescope. He looked at the stars again. “I’ve used this room as an observatory since I settled here. My equipment has changed over the years but the view hasn’t. I guess some foolish part of me hopes to see a rescue coming.”
“You said that wasn’t possible.” Brenin scuffed his toe on the stone floor and held his place. It was stupid to continue this little dance around the room—and mystifying.
“So I did—and it isn’t.” Pulling away again, Malcolm shook his head with a grimace. He also appeared relieved to see Brenin had remained where he was. “I’m sure they’ve written us off as dead and dust. They would have grieved then carried on with little thought to us again. That’s life in a hive.”
Brenin resisted the urge to approach him for a second or two before he started moving again. He came within a foot of the alien and made an aborted attempt at touching his arm. “I’m that sorry.”
Malcolm cocked his head. “Are you now? After all my kind has put you through, you can still sympathize with me?”
Brenin’s cheeks heated and he couldn’t keep his gaze steady. “Why not? It wasn’t you who hurt me and I know well what it’s like to have no home to return to.”
Malcolm reached out briefly before he snatched his hand back as if he, also, had had the urge to touch then thought better of it. “You have no place to go, then, even free from Dracul?”
Brenin shook his head. “I was living in a shelter with empty pockets. When Dracul’s dog, Petru, snatched me, I was out and about to try my luck at the one thing I thought I could do to make some fast money.”
“Och, laddie, no.”
Brenin looked up at him and blinked back tears. “Jobs are scarce and I’ve got no training.”
“There’s always jobs that don’t involve selling your body.”
“Easy for you to say, living in this fine castle.”
“Perhaps you’re right. Who am I to give advice? I’ve made a rare hash of things since I stepped foot on the starship. That’s for certain.”
“You saved my life, so I can’t agree with you there.”
“Och, well…” Malcolm took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You should leave.”
Brenin blinked at him again, suddenly fearful of what it would mean to be out on his own. “I don’t have anywhere to go! Can’t you give me a job, like? I’m sure I can learn about salmon or whiskey-making.”
Malcolm startled him by cupping his face in a move too fast to see. Brenin should have pulled away in fright, yet he stood there, staring up at the alien, feeling comforted. “I meant leave this room, laddie. Not the castle.”
“Oh!” Brenin stifled a laugh. “That wasn’t very wise of me.”
Malcolm ran his thumb along Brenin’s jaw. “You can stay as long as you like here. If you want a job, I’ll give you one…when you’re ready.”
Brenin smiled. “Thanks.”
“But you really must leave. The blood… Well, I don’t have to tell you what it does to me, do I?”
Brenin’s smile died and he flicked his gaze downward. Or, tried to.
“Don’t, please. I can’t control it and I don’t want to scare you.” Letting go, Malcolm turned his back on him. “Off to bed, laddie. I’ll see you in the morning.”
It was on the tip of Brenin’s tongue to protest before he remembered that Malcolm was right. He didn’t want to see how drinking the blood had aroused this man. Brenin wasn’t ready for anything even remotely like a sexual encounter for all that he was beginning to feel comfortable in Malcolm’s company.
He headed for the door. “Yes, you’re right. Good night, then.” He fled down the stairs faster than was wise. Before he reached the bottom, the shrill notes of the bagpipe met his ears. He couldn’t help but smile.
.