LIKE A ROMAN statue washed ashore after a disastrous wreck, Quintus Seneca stood on the plateau atop the Isle of Staffa, and watched as a Ninth Legion ship dropped anchor in the distance. He could see the roughness of the waves churning against the lapstrake hull, now so heavily tarred that the long staggered planks looked like mere ripples. The enlarged, reinforced holk was bulky and unbeautiful from stem to stern, but it easily carried three hundred of his men. He had personally directed the refitting of the cabins and lower decks to protect the undead patrol crews from the lethal rays of daylight.

“’Tis the Raven,” Ermindale said. The silver-haired marquess beside him snapped his fingers. One of their escort trotted over to him. “Send out dories for the patrol, and ready fresh thralls for them.”

The centurion slapped his forearm across his chest and bowed over it. “At once, Prefect.”

Quintus could not fault Ermindale as his second in command. The marquess had taken to his duties with as much relish as he had surrendering his mortality to become an eternal blood-drinker. While he was Scottish, the man had an aura of authority that was undeniable. He also presided over the legion without sentiment or malice, which was rare even among Romans. If not for the transport and sanctuary provided by his slaver ships and vast estates in the north and south, the Ninth Legion might have been exterminated by now. Quintus didn’t trust Ermindale, but as long as he continued to prove resourceful, he would keep him as his second.

As they returned to the entrance of their cavernous lair, Quintus saw that the sentries watched Ermindale closely.

“You are making the guards nervous, Prefect.”

The marquess smirked. “I have since Ficini departed this earth.”

The fact that Ermindale had slain his predecessor to attain his position did not tarnish him in the men’s eyes. Such deadly ambition had always been a hallmark of Roman nobility. That the marquess had done so without permission, however, remained a silent point of contention.

“Try not to murder anyone else,” Quintus said mildly. “We yet remain at half-strength.”

Beneath the island’s grassy plain the legion had extended the tunnels and caverns to create a new stronghold. In another month it would be ready to house the remainder of the legion. At Ermindale’s southern estates his former slaves were in the process of being turned into undead and trained as replacements for the Romans who had fallen during the northern siege. Once the new troops were brought to the Isle of Staffa, Quintus could initiate the final phase of their plan to remove the only obstacle between the legion and rule over Scotland: the McDonnel Clan.

Inside the lair Quintus walked through the passages lined with naturally-formed basalt columns that lent the air of a temple to the underground complex. Mortal thralls, busy with the daily work of looking after their undead masters, smiled and nodded as they passed. A dozen smiths they had abducted from their villages now happily forged new blades in the armory. A line of maids snatched from their noble households giggled as they carried mounds of washing into the laundry. The smells of cooking drifted from the huge kitchen that prepared daily meals for the island’s thralls, all of whom had been converted with the new method of enthrallment Quintus had discovered.

Drinking only a small amount from the veins of the undead, and having their wounds healed with a smear of undead blood, turned ordinary mortals into absolutely devoted, willing slaves.

“I will join you and the men shortly,” Quintus said to the marquess, and left him to enter his private chambers.

Cases of books taken from monasteries and great estates lined the stone walls. Finely-knotted carpets covered the rough floors. A few candles illuminated the darkness, enough to see the voluptuous body reclined on the curtained bed. A silky fall of long, bright golden hair was all that adorned Fenella Ivar’s translucent skin. When Quintus stood over her she opened her light blue eyes and smiled.

“Have you need of me, milord?” she asked in her dulcet voice.

He sat down beside her, and took one of her strong, square hands in his. Her palm and fingers still felt rough from the years she had spent laboring as a dairy maid, but he liked how they felt on his cold flesh.

“Not now, my dear,” he said. He was becoming exceedingly fond of the maid, and that seemed a dangerous weakness, especially when he saw how pale she had grown. “You should dress and go have a meal.”

“If that is your wish, milord,” she said. But she pushed herself upright, pressing her large breasts against him. “You ken what I hunger for.”

Quintus felt how cold and clammy her skin was, and kissed her brow. “Eat something, and I will join you again later.”

He left Fenella to meet the patrol from the ship in the large cavern serving as their command center. He found them and the marquess gathered around a broad map table.

“We bring news, Tribune,” Cicarus, the optio commanding the patrol, said. “As we returned to the ship we picked up the blood scent of an injured mortal female. We spotted her in the arms of a highlander, here.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “But they escaped before we could capture them. We found a half-dug pit in the grove that contained her blood, but lost the scent of the woman at a nearby stream.”

“Mayhap you interrupted a murder,” Ermindale suggested sourly.

“That grove was where the fire-throwing witch murdered Tribune Lucinius,” Quintus said and frowned at the optio. “Describe the highlander to me.”

“Tall, red haired, and dressed in dark garments. He wore no tartan.” Cicarus thought for a moment. “He did carry a bundle of spears harnessed to his back.”

“That was the McDonnel traitor, Evander Talorc,” Quintus said softly. “What else?”

“We recovered this from the grave.”

The optio handed him a small, soiled white rectangular pouch hanging from a finely-wrought chain.

Quintus fiddled with the clasp until it opened, and removed a small folded object filled with strange colorful cards made of some slick material. One of them bore a miniature portrait of a dark-haired beauty, and tiny words printed all over the card.

“California Driver License.” He touched the raised lettering of the signature under the portrait. “Rachel Ingram.” The numbers and letters made no sense to him, so he showed the card to Cicarus. “Is this the woman?”

“I believe it is, Tribune.” The optio sniffed the card. “And it smells of her.”

Talorc had disappeared along with Fiona Marphee, Quintus’s most valuable mortal spy, more than two years past. Rumors that the former McDonnel seneschal had betrayed his clan for his lover had slowly spread over time, but no one had seen them since the destruction of the Ninth’s original lair.

“I want all of the men to see this,” Ermindale said, taking the portrait card from Quintus and handing it to Cicarus. “Every patrol is to search for this woman and take her alive.”

The optio bowed. “As you command, Prefect.”

Quintus waited until Cicarus left before he said, “We need Talorc, not a female.”

“If he wished her dead, he would have left her for our men,” the marquess said. “That he took her away shows she has some value to him. Perhaps she is his new lover. If he betrayed his clan for the last wench he facked, then he will again. A branded traitor like Talorc may even choose to ally himself with us against them.”

Now he could see the marquess’s reasoning, and yet felt a surge of anger. Ermindale had no regard for women, and if they succeeded in capturing Rachel Ingram, would likely enthrall her to serve as his personal whore.

“Talorc kens where Dun Aran is,” Ermindale said. He smiled as if he’d been given a gift. “We’ll double the patrols, and alert our mortal spies. And we’ll want more of those, by the way.”

“Try to enthrall some men as well as women,” the tribune advised his prefect.

Quintus discussed the areas to search with the men, and then left Ermindale to arrange for the new patrols while he returned to his chambers. He saw that his bed stood empty, but when he drew closer he found Fenella sprawled naked and unconscious on the rug. He pressed his fingers to her throat, and found her pulse weak and fluttering. Her lips and fingernails looked bluish, and her flesh felt cold as ice.

“Milord,” she gasped. “I cannae…breathe.”

He had killed enough mortals to know she was dying, yet he had been so careful not to take too much of her blood. This was the work of another. Her life would end in minutes, unless he gave her immortality. But no female had yet been turned and made undead. He had vowed to avoid it at all cost.

As he lifted her to the bed, he saw fresh bite marks on her throat, marks that could not be his. A dull rage rose up inside him.

“Who did this to you?”

She murmured something unintelligible, and went limp.

Whoever had done this thing would suffer for it, but in this moment he had to save her, which meant feeding her his blood before her heart stopped, and beginning the process of turning her. He raised his wrist to his mouth, biting into his own flesh to make himself bleed.

He pressed the wound against her lips. “Drink,” he said softly. “Yes, my sweet. Like that, my love.”