WHEN QUINTUS SENECA sailed off to collect the McDonnel laird, Bryn had remained on the cliffs until the black ship disappeared from view. Although she’d suspected they could no longer see her, she’d continued to wave her kerchief in the air like a hopeful lover. Quintus had taken all of his fellow Romans with him, leaving behind the newly-turned and woefully-trained. Since no one of real value to him remained, he’d given her complete authority over the stronghold.

All this, thanks to Titus Strabo’s recommendation, bless his blackened heart.

For the rest of that night she made her preparations in her chambers, and had her ladies spread their favors liberally among the garrison to keep the soldiers that remained busy and out of her way. As she worked she dreamed of what she might do once she’d accomplished her purpose. She could take her ladies back to the mainland on one of the black ships, and set up a new, all-female lair in some town with deep cellars and rich men. She might enthrall a noble, have him marry her—in a midnight ceremony, of course—and live as a grand lady by night, holding gatherings and balls so she could have her pick of the local mortals on which to feed.

The possibilities tantalized her, but only one truly satisfied: becoming the first female tribune of the Ninth Legion, with an army of undead females to command, and holding pens filled with enslaved male mortals they could use like whores.

It amused her to think of such fancies, for she would dearly love to see the bastarts who had been abusing females all their miserable lives being forced to perform as they were, with all the humiliation it entailed. She could not guess how many nights the black ship would be away, however, and she could not let this one chance at revenge slip through her fingers before it returned.

The madness that burbled inside her like a black fountain would surely settle then.

The following night Bryn went to the kitchens. The cooks had already returned to their quarters for the night, so the large hall stood empty. Through it she walked until she entered the store room, where the meat, grains and fruits used to feed the island’s mortals were kept. There she moved aside a sack of dried apples in the corner to reveal a niche in the wall, from which she took the bottle she had labelled as whiskey and filled the night before with her special brew.

Bryn uncorked the bottle but took care to keep it well away from her nose. The infusion she’d made of wolfsbane root and other, very lethal herbs could do as much damage when breathed in as it would when eaten or drunk. Seeing the colorless tincture made her smile fondly. It always brought back a memory of her father’s shop in the village. As a bairn she had sat and watched him carefully preparing his potions and poultices for the local laird and his household. The wealthy paid dearly for their treatments, her da had told her, when all they needed was to cease their excesses.

A pity the facking Romans had never learned that.

Bryn held the tincture at arm’s length to tip it over a plate of chopped vegetables and smoked meat, and sprinkled them well. She then returned the bottle to its hiding spot, covered the plate with a thick cloth, and carried it to her private chamber.

There her bed slave greeted her with his whines of love and need, his naked cock rising and stiffening with equal fervor. “Mistress, I didnae think you would return so soon. How may I serve?”

Pathetic, Bryn thought, just as she had been before being turned. The memories of all that the undead had done to her crowded in her head, gnawing at her like a horde of rats.

“You’ll eat before you attend to me, for you need to build up your strength,” Bryn said as she handed him the plate, and uncovered the food. “Be quick about it, lad.”

The mortal began stuffing his mouth, chewing and swallowing so quickly he nearly choked several times. Once the plate had been emptied he grinned hopefully at her. “Now may I pleasure you, Mistress?”

A polite knock sounded on her door, and she smiled. “No’ just yet.”

Outside stood two of her ladies and one of the newly-turned guards, who appeared to be one of the Hispanians taken as a slave and turned during Ermindale’s tenure. Bryn often wondered why the marquess had not survived longer. He must have been as dense as every other undead with a cock.

“Is this the soldier you wished to reward, Mistress?” the younger whore asked.

Bryn nodded, and opened the door wider to admit them. To the guard she said, “My ladies tell me you are the finest lover among the legion.” A terrible lie. All the whores feared the Hispanian’s brutality. “We give special attention to such men.” She gestured to the bed slave. “You may feed on my thrall tonight.”

The guard scowled. “Feeding is not permitted while we are on duty, by order of Titus Strabo.”

Bryn minced up to him, kissed his cheek, and murmured, “We willnae tell anyone.” She stroked the side of his face. “And you look so hungry.” She nodded toward her bed slave, who was not yet showing the effects of the tainted food he’d gobbled up. “I’ve no’ yet fed on him tonight. He’s just eaten, so his blood will be rich and hot.”

That was all it took to persuade the guard. He bared his fangs, and then with three strides seized the bed slave. He bit deep, drinking the mortal’s blood as it spurted from the wound. Like most of the newly-turned the guard had not yet learned to control himself while feeding, so even if he tasted any taint in the blood, he would not be able to stop drinking.

Bryn closed the door and locked it, leaning against it to watch as the guard stiffened and released the bed slave, who collapsed.

“Something is wrong.” He tottered toward Bryn, almost reaching her before he fell to his knees. “What have you done to me?”

“I’ve rewarded you,” she reminded him. “This was for beating Bridget so badly it took the blood of three mortals to heal her. For tearing into Agnus so savagely that she yet cannae walk without limping. And Gennie here, shall we remind him of what he did to you, lass?”

“He remembers, Mistress,” the younger whore said tonelessly.

Bryn waited until he fell forward onto his face, and then walked over to daintily lift her skirts and use her slipper to nudge him onto his back.

“He doesnae turn to ash,” one of her ladies muttered. “Mistress, you said ’twould end him.”

“The tincture willnae kill him.” Bryn bent down and prodded the guard, who remained stiff and staring at nothing at all. “As I thought, it has merely frozen him. Now we must wait and see how long it lasts.” She took out the small, sharp blade that she kept tucked in her bodice, and offered it to Gennie. “And what he can feel while it does.”