“TRIBUNE SENECA,” SAID a sentry. He slapped his forearm across his chest plate and bowed as Quintus emerged from his sleeping chamber. “The prefect left word for you.”

Ermindale wouldn’t entrust anything important to a sentry, but he might as well hear it.

“Tell me.”

The sentry straightened. “The prefect expects the ship from Wick to arrive at midnight. He requests your attendance in the great hall for the reports.”

“Very well,” Quintus said and nodded before continuing down the passage.

Cargo ships sailing along the northern Scottish coastal routes had begun arriving a day or two late to port, but thus far no one suspected why. Quintus timed the legion’s raids on the vessels so that they took place so far out at sea that no one witnessed the attacks. The ship’s owners had no idea that their vessels had been first brought to Isle of Staffa, where the undead enthralled the crews. Using the mortal sailors as spies for the Ninth had been Ermindale’s idea.

“They’ll act as scouts, and gather information for us at every port of call,” the marquess had said when he proposed the new enterprise. “Every harbor town trades in gossip as well as goods. We show every sailor the portrait card of the wench, so they will look for her.”

Quintus had been surprised by how well the scheme had worked. The spy ships stopped at Staffa en route to their destinations, and their captains dutifully reported to Ermindale with what they had learned while in dock. Thanks to them they knew the McDonnels were also searching for Talorc and his woman. Ermindale had sent word to their mortal thralls in the villages and towns to misdirect the highlanders with false sightings. The undead had yet to find the pair, but with the McDonnels looking everywhere Talorc was not, they had the definite advantage.

Tonight Ermindale was expecting the Raven to arrive with another shipment of his turned slaves from the south, as well as one of the merchant ships, and would remain above ground to keep watch for them. That left Quintus to spend his evening more agreeably, first by examining the magnificent volumes brought back from a raid on an abbey, and then by attending to his less intellectual needs.

“See that I am not disturbed,” he told the passage guards before entering the cave that served as his private library.

Ermindale had catered to Quintus’s every whim when creating the library, transporting fine furnishings and carpets from one of his estates, and having the builders fashion sealed cabinets for the tribune’s every-growing collection of illuminated manuscripts. He’d even managed to put in a hearth, with a flue to channel the smoke up through a natural vent in the stone. Quintus often spent hours sitting by the fire and staring into the flames as he contemplated their progress. The Isle of Staffa protected them, the turned slaves had swelled their depleted ranks, and their thralls would happily kill for them. He never indulged in idle satisfaction, but for the first time since the Ninth had been cursed Quintus saw a future for the legion.

The seven manuscripts taken from the abbey proved to be the most ornate Quintus had ever seen. As he carefully inspected them, he took great pleasure in reading Latin again, and admired the monk’s intricate embellishments on the borders of the pages. Yet as much appreciation as they inspired, the accounts they contained represented the real treasure. He had been doggedly researching every resource he could find on the early pagan tribes of Scotland, in hopes of learning something that might explain the curse the McDonnels had used to change the legion into undead.

In this volume he found descriptions of several heathen rituals, which shared some connection with the strangely-carved stones the early tribes had left scattered all over Scotland.

On their Day of Choosing the young men of the tribe would be offered as living sacrifices to demonic spirits. The images of the demons would be inked onto their bodies, so better to possess them at their leisure. These marked warriors often proved to be formidable fighters, for they believed the spirits gave them unholy powers.

From the monk’s rendering of the primitive tattoos in the page’s borders, Quintus decided that the tribesmen had to be the same race as the McDonnel Clan. He frowned as he read the next passage.

Marked warriors had their choice of the most desirable young females, who when taken as wives were also demon-marked in smaller form. This ritual was never observed, as the warriors performed it in secret. The tribes believed that a demon-marked wife would do anything to protect her warrior—even sacrifice her own life.

If the account was true, then it was possible that the highlanders had their own form of enthrallment. Another of many similarities between the legion and the clan, it seemed. That they shared so many peculiarities that were not found in the mortal world intrigued him. If he could collect enough manuscripts on the subject, he might even ferret out why.

The door to his library opened and closed, and the scent of night-blooming flowers painted the air. Quintus closed the manuscript and rose from his desk before he faced his creation.

“I told you to wait in your chamber for me, my dear.”

“I tire of waiting each night.”

As white as the milk she had once carried in pails, Fenella stood wrapped in his scarlet battle cape, her icy blonde hair cascading in long, thick waves that curled around her hips. Her once pale-blue eyes now gleamed as black as his own, and the red flush on her lips told him she had fed only minutes ago.

“Why do you go to your books when you might come to me?” she asked. “They cannae give you pleasure. They only sit there and do naught.”

“You require much more attention,” he said. He went to her and bent to kiss her mouth, but she turned her face away. “Very well. We’ll return to your chamber to discuss the matter.”

“To lock me away again, you mean.” She shrugged out of the cape as she rubbed up against him. “So that dried-up old one willnae see what you have done. I move too fast for any eyes to glimpse me, you ken that.” She slid her cool hand up to his mouth, and rubbed her finger against the tips of his fangs. “I am your great secret, am I no’?”

Saving Fenella from death by changing her into an immortal had taken only a full day, as it did with the mortal males they turned, but it had also resulted in some unexpected oddities. The most startling, her ability to move with unearthly speed, was a talent which none of his men shared. Her sweet, willing nature had also been transformed into a dark, demanding seductiveness. She’d become as strong as any of his men, but the vicious cunning she displayed grew more dangerous each night. After she drained a half-dozen thralls by slashing their throats and bathing in their blood, Quintus had begun locking her in her bed chamber. But now it seemed not even that would contain her.

“You didnae come to see me last night,” Fenella said, pouting. “I was so lonely I facked a guard. His cock was like this.” She pinched the air.

Quintus felt her dark, sweet scent growing stronger, as it always did with her lust. It stirred his own.

“Come,” he said gripping her arm. “I will fuck you.”

“No’ now. Bring a lass for us to share later. I like to suck their teats while you fack them in the arse.”

She easily pushed him away and picked up the cape, wrapping it around her again before she blurred and vanished. Quintus went after her, but as soon as he stepped out into the hall he paused. All of the guards had vanished, and then he saw the piles of dust edging the stone floor. His jaw set as he glanced at the hidden passage that led to her chamber. He didn’t care how many mortals she killed, but murdering his men—her own kind—could not be tolerated.

He wondered with her speed if he could kill her by himself, and decided not to risk it.

“Tribune Seneca.” Quintus turned to find the deceptively wizened-looking Ermindale as he came out of a passage. “Our sea-going spies have brought news of great interest from Wick. Will you join us?”

Hiding his impatience, Quintus accompanied the marquess to the great hall. There he listened as the merchant captain reported a story about a dark-haired witch who had bespelled a shepherdess and attacked a drover in the northern highlands. Rife with the usual superstitious nonsense, the tale itself didn’t interest him, but he had the captain repeat the drover’s description of the witch.

“A petite woman with black hair and dark eyes who spoke strangely, my lord,” the mortal said. “He didnae understand many of the words she uttered, but said that she used her unnatural powers to pluck the very thoughts from his head.”

“If true, what a prize she would be, Tribune,” Ermindale murmured.

“Indeed,” Quintus agreed.

The other two druidesses who had joined the McDonnel Clan both had spoken strangely and used unfamiliar words. The first had used her fiery power to incinerate his predecessor. The second was a skilled tracker who had led the McDonnels directly to the legion’s new stronghold on the mainland before they could complete it.

“Bring me the portrait card,” Quintus ordered.

Ermindale retrieved the strange miniature, and Quintus read again all of the letters and numbers on it. Three groups of four numbers read 1994, 2012, and 2020. If they represented years, then the numbers before them might be months and days. The card itself looked far too perfect to be created by even the most skilled hand. Something about the oddity seemed just beyond his grasp.

“How did this witch appear in her person?” he asked the captain.

The mortal shrugged. “The drover remarked on how clean and comely she was, and how she had all her teeth still.”

“I want the woman captured and delivered to me unharmed,” Quintus said and handed the card back to his prefect. “We will sail to Wick, and have this drover lead our hunters into the highlands. They can bring her to the ship.”

“What of Talorc?” Ermindale asked, frowning.

“If she has the power to read a mind, by now she knows the traitor’s,” Quintus said. “She will lead us to Dun Aran. Or we will hold her until Talorc comes for her, and use her to persuade him to reveal the location.”

He ordered Ermindale to prepare for their sea journey, and then left the hall to attend to his murderous undead lover. He found Fenella sitting in her chamber, dressed properly and studying a large book.

“Fair evening, my lord.” She tore a page out, crumpled it and tossed it into the fire. “You didnae bring me a pretty mortal.”

Quintus eyed the book, and when he recognized it as one of his precious manuscripts he snatched it from her hands. A glance at the hearth made him shudder. It contained the scorched covers of the six others she had stolen from his library.

“How could you do this?” he demanded.

“’Tis no’ trouble to destroy lovely things, my lord.” In a blur of motion she grabbed the manuscript from his hands and threw it into the flames. “There. Now you’ve no reason to keep me waiting. Or shall I burn all the others you’ve hoarded away, to be sure?”

Quintus caught her before she could speed away and threw her across the chamber. Fenella laughed as she crashed into a trunk, making it explode into a burst of shattered wood and broken iron. She pushed herself upright, grinning as she brushed off her skirts.

“Why are you angry? You say I am your dear, your love, your precious beauty. If that is truth, nothing should matter to you but me.” She tore at her bodice until her breasts spilled out of it. “Am I no’ your sweet maiden still? Do you no’ desire me? Do you no’ want to fack me until I bleed from every hole?”

His rage abruptly dwindled. “Fenella, I would never hurt you.”

“Oh, but you have, my grand lover. You took me from the dairy, and brought me to this privy of an island. You drank my blood, and bespelled me, and used me as your hoor. You might have let me die, but no. You made me into a blood-drinker.” Her voice rose to a shriek. “Why did you do this to me?”

Quintus crouched down in front of her. “I could not let you die.”

“And now you wish you had. I’ve felt it since you turned me. You look upon me as you would a serpent, ready to strike.” She reached out to him, her small hand curling into his as the madness vanished from her eyes. “Here is what I ken. I cannae be your prisoner or your hoor, Tribune. I’m no’ a thrall.”

He’d underestimated her intelligence, which also seemed to be increasing by the day.

“Fenella, you could be so much more.”

“Aye, and I am. I’m undead, same as you and the others.” She pressed her cheek to his. “Make me legion, or end me.”

He drew her to her feet, and cradled her face as he kissed her cold lips. Her beauty no longer tore at his heart, for now he finally saw her for what she was, what he had made her. He could no more take pleasure in her body than he could one of the men.

“I command the legion,” he told her. “If you are to be one of us, then you must obey me in all things. No more slaughtering thralls, or killing guards, or destroying my precious things.”

“As you say,” Fenella said as her eyes narrowed. “What am I to do, then?”

Quintus smiled a little. “To begin, you will serve as my personal bodyguard. You will protect me with your life, and I will teach you how better to use your powers for me and the legion. Prove to me that I can trust you, and you will have much more.”

“Pretty mortals?” she said, sounding almost amused.

He nodded. “There are thralls for pleasure, but you need not cut their throats to have it of them. Save your blade for the McDonnels.”

Fenella’s gaze shifted as the door to the chamber opened. Ermindale stepped inside. In a flash she had him pinned against a wall, her dagger poised over his heart.

“Dougal,” Quintus said as he came over to rest his hand on Fenella’s shoulder. “Permit me to introduce our newest recruit, Optia Fenella.”

“A pleasure,” the marquess said as his eyes shifted down. “Mayhap persuade the optia to no’ cut off my head? I’ve a message from the mainland that cannae wait.”

“Release him,” Quintus ordered. Once she had, he handed her the keys to his own chambers. “Move your things to my quarters. I will see you there after I speak with the prefect.”

He walked with Ermindale into the corridor, where the marquess slammed the door shut and scowled at him.

“Are you out of your wits? You cannae turn wenches to serve us.”

“I am tribune, and I can do as I please,” Quintus informed him. “What is the message?”

“There isnae,” the old man snapped. “I saw what that crazed cunt did to the guards outside your library, and I feared for you. I have turned a blind eye so you could have your pleasure of her, but this must end now.”

A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Why?”

“Because you dinnae see what she is becoming,” Ermindale said and stabbed a finger at Fenella’s door. “She’s mad, like a foam-mouthed dog. I’ll no’ have her–”

“It was you who had her drained when she was a thrall,” Quintus said, and saw the flicker of panic in the old man’s eyes. “I thought as much. You did not care for my affection for her. Or did you mean to enslave her to you, so that she might act as your spy, like every other thrall in this stronghold?”

“I had to put an end to her,” Ermindale said, baring his teeth. “You spent every moment you could between her legs. She was a weakness you couldnae afford, and now she’s even more dangerous to your command.”

“You are my second, Dougal, and I value your advice.” The tribune leaned in. “But your interference with Fenella is reason enough for me to end your immortality. Meddle in my affairs again, and I will. Am I clear?”

“Perfectly, Tribune,” the marquess said and stepped back. He bowed stiffly. “I only hope you dinnae end up gracing her blade.” He stalked off.

Fenella slipped out of his chambers and came to stand beside Quintus.

“I listened at the door. I didnae ken he meant to have me killed. In truth I never saw who did it. They came from behind me.” Malice brightened her black eyes as she looked up at him. “May I have him for my pleasure, Tribune?”

“Not yet, my dear. He is still of some use to us, particularly with controlling the thralls.” He smiled a little. “Once I turn the witch, we will have no more need of the marquess.”