MIDNIGHT CONQUEST: Book 1 of the Bonded By Blood Vampire Chronicles (33 page)

The age-old hatred erupted, and Angus clenched his fists. Broderick knew who Angus was, and yet Broderick purposely made himself the enemy, seeking to end Angus’s life. Broderick had been given everything denied to Angus, yet he still wanted Angus’s blood. Angus pounded his fists against the ground upon which he sat. “None of it was enough for you!” Broderick’s entire life had been a mockery of what Angus hoped to achieve. No matter how hard Angus tried to prove himself, Broderick shoved his nose in Angus’s position amongst his brothers, like a dog in its own excrement. Rick even stole Angus’s idea of using immortality for revenge, no thanks to Cordelia. What a fiasco that turned out to be.

Angus stood and dressed, then pushed his way out through the cellar door in a hidden corner of the high-ceilinged room. Listening to the sounds of the area to make sure he was alone, Angus heard the distant rumble of thunder from the north. Another storm. He smiled at the appropriate setting the icy weather would create. He set off down the hill, through the dense forest several miles northwest of Stewart Glen. As he glided silently over the snow, dashing between the trees, he chuckled over the new development in his plan. He needed a distraction, and the poor lovesick man with the hairy knuckles he observed in Strathbogie last night would be just the one.

* * * * *

Veronique’s hand trembled as she pushed at the stone wall behind the bushes. With her grandmother asleep and Broderick still out for the evening, she had grabbed what she needed and slipped away from the camp with no one’s notice. The darkness of the deep night made finding Nicabar’s path difficult, and the newly fallen snow didn’t help. Even though the white landscape provided a backdrop to at least see the shadow of trees, she hadn’t the proper shoes to protect her feet. Nor did she have anything for her hands to guard against the cold.

Why didn’t the wall open the way it had for Nicabar? She cursed under her breath and tried again. Nothing. Veronique’s fingers crept along the cold stone in the darkness, searching and shivering from the freezing temperature. She held her shawl closer around her shoulders, not giving up.
There!
She pushed the nub protruding from the stone and the wall submitted. Breathing a sigh of relief, she pushed the wall section with all her might and stepped into the dark passage. A deafening silence oppressed her, the shadowed courtyard empty and ominous. A heavy, throttling sigh from one of the horses shattered the stillness and she gasped. Gritting her teeth, she crept along the stables, cringing at the crunching of her steps. She waited at the corner of the stables, hunting for movement. Confident she was alone, she stepped across the courtyard—thankful her footprints mingled with the multitude of others—and over to the castle wall. Listening for any sound, she tried the door she had seen the man named Seamus use, thankful the latch hadn’t been locked.

The kitchen lay dark and empty. Veronique waited until her eyes became accustomed to the blackness. Tiptoeing through the hall, keeping close to the wall, she peered into the first door. The dark shapes seemed familiar. She stepped into the doorway and recognized the parlor where she told Davina about Broderick’s true nature. She snorted as she thought of the stupid Scot. Now that she had her bearings, she backtracked into the kitchen.

The illumination from the open, outside door helped her make out the shape of a large table at the center of the room. She padded along the walls, trailing her hand along the wooden panel, and almost screeched at the clanging of the implements she’d touched. Stilling them, she darted her eyes around the room, waiting for someone to come running in to investigate the commotion. She could just make out two doors along the back wall. Scampering to close the outside door, she tiptoed her way blindly to where she saw the first door, and ducked inside. She waited in silence.

The thick scent of ale and foodstuff surrounded her. She listened, but nothing save the hammering of her heart pounded in her ears. The pitch-blackness of the room seemed suffocating, so she eased the door open to let in some of the dim lighting afforded by windows near the ceiling. Still no one appeared in the kitchen. She sighed and turned to contemplate the room. With her eyes now more accustomed to the dark, she saw shelves of provisions lined the walls, and several huge barrels sat in the corner. This was what she wanted! She searched franticly for the honey pot.
There!
Lifting the lid, she stepped before the pot and looked inside, hesitating.

Veronique clutched the stolen vial in her smock pocket. Autumn crocus, an herbal liquid Amice used to cure gout. Veronique remembered tasting the bitter brew when she was younger, sneaking through her grandmother’s potions, intent on sampling the many exotic-scented concoctions, not knowing at all what she did. Lucky for her, Amice caught her only after trying the first vial—the autumn crocus. Even after Amice made her vomit, she remained sick for two days. The painful experience from her childhood formed a bitter tang in her mouth, reminiscent of the poison.

This honey may be eaten by anyone in the household
, she surmised.
What if someone else gets sick instead of Davina?
She replaced the lid and bit her lip. What if she missed the mark entirely? Davina would still be able to accept visitors while someone else suffered and lay sick in bed, not solving her problem. She searched the contents of the cupboard for answers, as if the vegetables and dried meats could tell her what to do. Veronique stopped short and gasped with excitement. A small jar next to the larger honey pot bore the name “Mistress Davina” in the pottery surface. She opened the lid and sniffed.
Honey!
She shook her head and giggled.
The spoiled brat has her own supply!

Putting the lid down on the shelf beside the pot, she held the vial and again hesitated. How much? Veronique tested only a little of the potion as a girl, but she drank the concoction directly not diluted, and she was much younger. What she held in this vile was enough to kill Davina. Veronique shook her head, certain she wouldn’t eat the whole jar. But what if she ate too much? Did she want to put Davina through such torture? Part of her said nay, she didn’t want to be responsible if things went wrong. But the other part of her quickly pushed away any of the warnings threatening her mission. This part of her wanted to see Davina suffer. She closed her eyes and imagined Broderick, seeing him pursue Davina with a passion she dreamed he would pursue her with; a passion she had not seen him pursue anyone else with, but that Davina. What made her so special? The most frustrating part was how Davina opposed Broderick at every turn. She despised him. Why did he want her so much? Why, when Veronique came to him willing and able and so much in love with him already? She swallowed the lump in her throat and gripped the potion tighter.

Veronique poured the entire contents of the tiny vial into the honey and used the wand to stir the potion about.
Davina will not eat it all
, she reasoned. Veronique grinned, very satisfied with the completed task. Putting the vial back into her smock, she replaced the small honey crock and turned toward the door. A shadow and bright light crossed the wall. Veronique froze. Shuffling steps sounded in the kitchen, and she shrank back into the pantry, trying to disappear into the darkness. Veronique’s heart pounded in her ears as the door opened and she ducked behind a barrel.

The silhouette of a female entered the pantry, a candle sitting on the kitchen table providing the bright light. Though the shadows hid the person’s face well, Veronique could just make out the features. She put her hand over her mouth to keep her fright in check.
Davina!
Several prayers rattled around inside the young Gypsy’s head. Davina grabbed her crock of honey and left Veronique undiscovered in the darkness. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief and almost collapsed on the floor. She waited a moment before peeking through the doorway. Davina sat at the table in the center of the kitchen and Veronique sat back in her hiding spot behind the barrel, biting her curved index finger to keep from screaming her frustrations. She would have to wait until Davina finished and went back to bed.

Sitting at the long prep table in the kitchen, Davina placed the crock before her and swirled the honey around with the wand, her chin in her hand as she watched the golden liquid glistening in the candlelight. “Oh, Kehr,” she sighed and closed her eyes.

She could almost see her brother sitting at the table beside her, his large frame leaning against her—shoulder to shoulder—resting on his elbows as he dipped his finger into the honey and pulled out a dripping mouthful. She chuckled. “You were always a glutton about eating our honey.”

“I am not!” he retorted.

Davina pursed her lips at her brother. “Aye, you are indeed!” She dipped a delicate finger into the crock and coated the tip with the sticky treat. “You don’t have to load your finger up with all the honey it can take. Just a taste, Kehr.”

Davina brought her finger to her mouth and touched her tongue before she closed her lips around her finger and let the honey melt into her mouth. She opened her eyes. This new batch of honey Seamus picked up yesterday tasted bitter. She would have to speak with him and find out from whom he’d purchased it. Had he changed beekeepers? She tried another sample, shrugged and continued eating. Aye, she would indeed need to speak with Seamus. She closed her eyes once more.

“See?” she continued her imagined conversation with her brother. Davina swirled the honey around, enjoying the smoothness on her tongue and the roof of her mouth. “Savor every drop of this nectar from the Gods.”

Kehr held his laughter back for as long as he could, and then burst into a mild fit. “‘Nectar of the Gods,’” he mocked. “Savor all you want. I’m gorging.” They giggled together in the darkness.

Davina opened her eyes to find herself alone again, the candle flame twirling its silent dance upon the wick, morphing the shadows around her, drawing her into its lazy movements. The flame glistened like a star through her tears, a half-hearted grin tugged at the corners of her mouth as she continued eating the honey, choking back her grief.

* * * * *

 
“Sorry, lass,” Broderick said to the young woman sitting before him in the tent. He released her hand and smiled. “I cannot give you details. The lines do not reveal anything more than generalities.” She cast him a dreamy smile. This was the third trip the lass made into their tent to see Broderick, and though he didn’t normally read a palm more than once, twice at the maximum, they needed the funds. Nevertheless, she was there for more than mere fortune telling, and he didn’t feel right about making her part with her coin. When a long silence passed and she failed to get up from the table, Broderick leaned forward. “I cannot give you what you seek, lass. Run along now.” Her hand flew to her blushing cheek, her smile vanished from her face, and she dashed from the tent without depositing any donation. Broderick shook his head, feeling sorry for the girl.

Sighing, he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, alone to ponder his fruitless search the night before. There were times when Broderick could sense Angus, certain he would pop out of the darkness from behind a building or tree or rock. Then the presence disappeared. No more tingling sensations in his midsection, no more hairs rising on the back of his neck. Nothing. He wanted to comb the land for his enemy, not sit here reading fortunes. Conversely, he didn’t want to leave the people he loved alone and vulnerable, so he stayed to protect them.

Mulling over the failure would do him no good. He turned his attention to other matters: His dreams. They were becoming more disturbing as the nights wore on. Frowning, he recalled the frantic images of Davina wasting away—her face gaunt and her gut cramping. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get near enough to help her; her cries for his assistance went unanswered. He wanted very much to check on Davina, but needed to focus his attention on Angus, and she was too delightful a distraction.

Making his way to the tent opening, he noticed Amice and Veronique sitting at the fireside. Flames performed a flitting dance in the pit as the women huddled near its warmth. The snow on the ground lay thick. The cold silence broke when hurried footsteps sounded in the camp.

Rosselyn stumbled up to them. “Amice, we need your help! Davina is ill.” Her bottom lip quivered. “We fear she may die!”

Broderick’s heart battered in his chest, and Amice stood. “What are her signs?” she asked.

“She has complained her stomach and throat hurt. She has been very thirsty, but taking anything has been difficult for her to swallow. And she has terrible diarrhea.”

“How long has she been like this?”

“All day,” Rosselyn supplied.

“Veronique, fetch my basket,” Amice ordered. Veronique ran to the caravan and emerged with the basket in hand and concern in her eyes. Amice took the basket, squeezed her granddaughter’s hand in thanks and turned to Broderick. Amice stopped. Her brows raised and suspicion in her eyes, she grabbed Veronique’s hand again. This time, Veronique made a desperate attempt to loose herself from her grandmother’s probing grasp.

“What have you done, child?” she demanded in French.