The journey had been quick as Talon had said, and the pilot had stayed as low as he’d been permitted which kept the wind shear down, so all in all the trip hadn’t been so bad. Flint was still grateful to land though, relief flowing through him when his feet hit solid ground again and Talon agreed, a brief, “Thank the Goddess,” dripping from the shifter’s mouth.

They’d landed in a large field near a group of buildings, a path cutting through it. The shifter carried his luggage and Talon led him to what he’d called a cottage, but in truth was a large bungalow, with three bedrooms, all with attached baths, a lounge, another separate sitting room set up as a cinema room, a huge kitchen with dining area that led out onto an enclosed patio that held a massive Jacuzzi. It was also set farthest away from the main house. He turned to Talon, raising an eyebrow. “Is your boss trying to tell me something, sticking me away like this?”

“What?” Talon’s eyes widened in confusion before he realized what he meant, then his face flushed, his head bobbing from side to side as he quickly tried to negate what he’d said. “No, absolutely not. If you’d rather have another cottage, just say the word and I’ll move you. We thought you might like your privacy, and this one is nearest to the helo’s landing area. Mister Alexander said you have the run of the property, including the main house, and you’re welcome to join him for dinner . . . well, not dinner as such . . . ‘cause well, you don’t . . . shit. I’m making a balls up of this. What I meant to say is, he says you can join him in the evening if you want to. He’s usually working during the day, that’s all. He also said to pass on his apologies for not being here to greet you this evening. He has a business engagement but he said if you want to meet him tomorrow then he’ll be available first thing. If not then that’s not a problem. I can pass on whatever you want to do.”

Flint felt every emotion rolling off the man and one of the main ones was good old-fashioned embarrassment. He couldn’t help but feel bad for putting him in that position so he held up a hand, stopping him and hoping to put him out of his misery. “Hey, I was joking. This is perfect for me. I’m planning on keeping out of his way as much as possible. I don’t want to play nice with him and I certainly don’t plan on visiting him in the evening if I can get away with it.”

Talon’s face told him different. Shoot. Flint exhaled loudly. “Damn, Talon, that look tells me I’ve gotta visit with him. Don’t I?”

“I think it would be . . . prudent, if you visited with him, on occasion. Just to be nice and say thank you.” Talon raised his huge shoulders, letting them fall back quickly. “He’s particular in that way, manners and such.”

“Shit.” Flint turned away, heading to the kitchen. “Is there any booze here?”

“Sure is.” Talon followed behind. “Stocked it myself. I heard that you have a fondness to one of our local brands so I’ve got it stocked for you, two different ones. They’re in the kitchen for you and unless you’re planning on drinking yourself stinking drunk all day, every day, there should be enough for your time here.”

“Glenmorangie, or Macallan?” Flint queried, surprised.

Talon chuckled. “I’ve done my research, and there’s Macallan Ruby, but there’s also two Glenmorangie Grand Vintage Malt . . . you’ve got expensive tastes, Flint. I’ve never tasted either of them, too rich for my meager pocket.”

“Well, you’re about to! Come on, join me, and then we’re heading back into Edinburgh.” Flint paused as a thought hit him, throwing over his shoulder, “Wait, has there been provision for my other requirements?”

As he entered the kitchen the answer hit him, his powerful senses picking up the tantalizing aroma of different blends of plasma. So many it took all his ability to sift through them, separating them out and cataloging them in his memory in rank of his favorites, top to least. There were even some rare ones in there that he was going to savor, but he’d save those for when he was alone and he could take the time to taste them fully . . . allow the liquid to warm to room temperature and let it linger on his tongue before permitting it to drip down his throat slowly so he could treasure every last drop of it.

“Yes,” Talon broke in on his thoughts, heading toward a separate fridge, his movements screaming shifter as he prowled toward it. “There’s a full selection in here for you. If you require more, let me know and I’ll have it restocked for you.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” He went to the fridge with the blood. “I’ll have a top up . . . can you pour us a drink while I do that?”

Talon didn’t bat an eye, shrugged, and didn’t look uncomfortable like most shifters did when a Vampire spoke about feeding in their company. He walked away mumbling, “I’m picking the expensive shit . . . hope you don’t mind. Hell, even if you do . . . too late, it’s open and I’ve poured, a nice big dram for the both of us.”

Flint ignored him, already retrieving a bag of blood and retreating into the hallway to sink his fangs straight through the plastic bag, dipping his head back and pouring the cold, viscous liquid down his throat. He barely tasted the A-Positive as it slithered its way into his system but it seemed to do the trick, sating the hunger that had already started to eat away at him again as he’d been chatting with Talon. His brain couldn’t understand quite what was going on inside him as usually he ate every few days, or at most, once a day if his body was under stress of some kind. But that wasn’t the case, so he drank the blood and he’d down some Glenmorangie and then head into Edinburgh and see where his senses led him . . . hopefully he’d find an answer. If not, he might end up in the crosshairs of the damn Directive and that was something he’d do everything in his power to avoid.

He had more than a few tricks up his sleeve, after all, he was almost as old as Victor, and you didn’t get to their age and not learn how to avoid the Directive . . . or defeat their operatives if it came to that.

Finishing his meal, he licked his lips and returned to the kitchen, dropping the empty bag on the counter. Talon glanced at it, swiping his hand across his mouth and making appreciative noises. “That’s the best dram I’ve ever tasted. You know how to pick a good whisky.”

“It’s Victor’s fault. He put me onto it . . . but what the fuck is a dram?” Flint reached for the glass that sat waiting on him, sniffing the liquid first and savoring the aroma before sipping it.

Chuckling, Talon swirled his whisky. “This here is a dram, a drop of whisky.”

“I see, rather I don’t, but good to know.”

He watched as Talon removed the empty blood bag and deposited it in a garbage can that was hidden behind a door beneath the counter. At least he knew where it was now. “Thanks.” he said as the shifter turned back to him.

“No problem.” He downed the last of his Glenmorangie and strode away. “I’ll get the car and meet you outside in five. If that’s okay? Or do you want to freshen up first?”

“Five minutes?” Flint asked.

“Aye, give or take a few. I have to go over to the main house to pick it up. Won’t take me long though but before I do that we should exchange numbers so we can stay in contact.” He tugged out his phone, swiping up ready to input Flint’s number while he did the same. They added each other’s and Talon nodded. “That’s us set, if you need anything at all while you’re here, just text me and I’ll make sure you get it. Mister Alexander has given me strict instructions to make sure you’re taken care of.”

Flint smirked, his eyes locking with Talon’s. “I bet he has.”

“Maybe you’ll let me in on what’s gone on between your boss and mine sometime.”

“Maybe I will,” Flint returned. “But that’s for a night where we’re relaxed and we’ve a bottle or two of booze inside us.”

“Sounds good.” Talon grinned back. “Right, so, do you want to freshen up, or not?”

“Make it ten and I’ll have a quick shower.” Flint decided, although he wanted to get on his way, he thought if he was going into a club he should change into one of his best suits. One of the ones that cost a fortune, well, even more than the one he wore now.

“Sure, I’ll wait outside for you when I get back.”

“Thanks.” Flint tipped his head, turning to head back to the bedroom he’d decided to take. He heard Talon leave as he undressed, setting his collection of blades carefully on the bed, all but the two that he carried into the bathroom with him. The jeweled knives that he carried everywhere with him. He placed them on the toilet, the nearest place to the shower he could get without taking them in with him, and he wouldn’t do that. They were too precious for him to get soaking wet, unless absolutely necessary.

He took a quick shower in the ostentatious bathroom, shaking his head and wondering if this cottage was the same as the others. It was a bit over the top for his tastes but he was only here for a couple of weeks, and even that was too long. If he could get home earlier then he would. He just had to figure out how to do it without offending Quinn Alexander. He was nothing if not resourceful and he was already trying to figure a way out of this damnable vacation forced upon him.

Drying off quickly, he dressed in a deep charcoal suit with a pristine white shirt, no tie, but he still deposited his blades around his body. Every piece of clothing he had was made so that his blades were hidden well and easy to reach. Although he had his Vampire abilities, of which there were many, he couldn’t shake his love for the steel he’d relied on when he was a street urchin. He’d become an expert then and his proficiency had only grown over his long life. He loved the feel of a blade in his hand and how it felt when it sliced through an opponent’s skin. He ran a hand over his body, checking they were securely in place. Hell, he wasn’t going anywhere without those, no matter what country he was in and he had no idea what he’d be walking into.

Checking himself in the mirror, he ran a hand over his damp hair, splashed on some of his favorite Creed aftershave and strode down the hallway when . . . bam . . . his legs almost gave out, buckling beneath him as his stomach cramped painfully, his throat closing and his fangs erupting so fast from his gums he tasted blood in his mouth.

His chest tightened as if a vice was around it, an invisible foe in charge and inflicting destruction on his body for some past offence. Flint’s eyes spun around, looking for the enemy he knew must be there . . . and came up empty. He was alone but the pain was real, so fucking real, his eyes closed as he fought to control the pain, fight through it and make sense of what was happening to him. His body was aflame with it for long seconds that dragged on and then it hit . . . like a sledgehammer hitting him square in the face. His mouth opening and closing on its own, he had no control over it whatsoever, his fangs seeking, searching, hunting . . . for blood. The thirst inside him was like nothing he’d encountered before. It was devastating to him, shocking him to his core as he grabbed onto the wall, his nails growing into sharp claws and digging in to aid him as he tore along the hall in search of food . . . anything to ease the pain lancing through his entire being.

Every muscle in his body tightened as he strained for control, his mind a turmoil of emotions that roiled around inside his brain like a stormy sea and he couldn’t grasp onto any one thought. Nothing made sense, nothing. The only thing, the only thoughts that made it through were . . . thirst, feed, blood. Then . . . a trickle of something floated around . . . he couldn’t grasp onto it as he tore into the walls with his nails, hauling himself toward the kitchen, but it was there, he could feel it. Something was whispering inside his brain and it was urgent, desperate, frantic, and he had to know what it was . . . but first he had to fucking feed!