Not bothering to answer, Nevin continued on. The only thing he did anymore was hunt. He hunted his own kind and many didn’t take kindly to that. Nevin couldn’t give a shit. He wasn’t hiding. If someone wanted a fight, he’d give it to him. But for now, he kept walking.
The group was growing. Once more, a voice called out "Cum te cheamă?” What is your name?
Once more Nevin ignored the question, instead trudging along.
The mob grew. Soon, more Nightkind than Nevin had ever seen in one place were crowding around him. With a heavy sigh, he turned and addressed the vampires.
“I ken you’ve heard of me, and I ken you’re looking for a fight. I can feel it on the night breeze. You’ll find no quarrel with me unless I find you killing humans.”
“I’d rather just kill you!” a voice called from the back.
His smile was feral. “You are welcome to try.”
But a smooth, cultured voice spoke, interrupting the insults being slung Nevin’s way.
“So this is the Demon Blacksmith. You are a long way from home, Highlander. Why have you come to my territory?”
Nevin watched as the crowd broke apart to allow a smartly dressed vampire whose mere presence affected the crowd, to walk through. His mere presence spoke of wealth, and he was obviously in charge of this group of Nightkind. Nevin sneered at him.
“I doona owe you anything, least of all an explanation.”
The vampire’s eyes flashed red. “Och aye,” he mimicked Nevin, “you do.”
This vampire was more powerful than any he’d ever met, save the female who had turned him so many years ago. Nevin could feel his power rolling over him in waves. His skin prickled, his fangs lengthened, and he knew his eyes were red. Most vampires had red eyes only when they fed, but Nevin’s had yet to change back to his natural brown. One more mark against his soul. If he had one.
“These are my lands. I am king here.” He didn’t raise his voice once, yet the authority and power was evident in each word spoken. “You will obey me.”
“I obey no man,” Nevin snarled.
“I had hoped you’d say that.” He turned to his men. “Take him alive. The queen would hate for her pet to die by our hands.”
Confused by the statement, Nevin nearly missed the first attack. The fangs of the male who jumped him dug into the meaty part of his shoulder, but he took the man and threw him to his people. An all out brawl began in earnest, and he fought like a man possessed. He fought with fang and sword until he lost count of how many heads he’d taken, how many limbs he’d cleaved, and how many of those men had given him similar injuries.
Soon enough, the fight shifted and they no longer looked to injure him enough for capture. They were trying to kill him. After what felt like hours, the self-professed king called a halt to the bloodbath. Before Nevin could find him, the bite of steel sliced through his neck. A familiar feeling, he’d forgotten how much it hurt.
But death wouldn’t come easily to one such as him. Nevin gripped the blade as it bit into his flesh and with sheer brute force, was able to maneuver it out of his throat.
“Interesting,” murmured his attacker. “I can see why she likes you.”
Darkness took over the edge of his vision, closing in on him until he couldn’t see anything. The last thing he heard before he fell was that smooth accented voice.
Chapter 5
Once more, Nevin woke from death. His eyes were crusted shut with blood, and his throat burned. Decapitation was a bitch. When he tried to rub the grit from his eyes, he found couldn’t move his arms. His legs felt useless too. Was he bound? He obviously hadn’t lost his head, but from what he remembered, it was a near thing.
Muttered voices caught his attention. Feigning unconsciousness wasn’t difficult since he could barely move. Keeping his breathing even was a feat, though, as he was certain he had a gaping wound in his throat. Straining to listen, he only caught a few words.
“It’s unnatural.”
“ No one should survive that.”
“ But he pulled the blade from his neck. I saw it!”
“Demon Blacksmith...”
“He kills his own kind…”
“The queen won’t like this.”
Finally prying open his eyelids, Nevin risked looking around. He saw bars and stone. A dungeon? Wouldn’t be the first time.
Dropping his head back down, he listened and plotted. He’d escape. His arms strained at the chains. He was a blacksmith, he knew the links would have a weakness. Systematically pulling, there was no give. But he was still weak. As soon as his strength returned, he’d try again. The blackness took him once more.
When he woke again, there was no confusion, Nevin instantly remembered where he was. He began working at the chains once more.
“Ah. You’re awake.”
Stiffening, he tried to turn his head, but with his neck still unhealed, he couldn’t move much. He’d had no warning that he wasn’t alone. No telltale scent or sound. That was unnerving. His senses had never failed him.
“Go fook yourself.” His voice was gritty, it didn’t sound like him at all. Nearly losing his head must wreak havoc with the vocal chords. He once more pulled at the chains that held him.
“My queen will find favor with my gift.” Nevin knew the man smiled, amused at his attempts to free himself. It didn’t matter. Nevin would get free. There was no alternative.
He means me, Nevin thought. I’m the gift. What had he been called earlier? Pet. He was no man’s pet, least of all this mysterious queen’s. He was burning with curiosity, and although this man seemed chatty, Nevin refused to ask.
“There is interest in your gaze. You must remember our queen?” Nevin simply glared.”No? More’s the pity. She’s never forgotten you.”
Nevin wouldn’t rise to the bait. He still didn’t know who held him, but he memorized the man’s face. One didn’t forget the man who’d tried to behead him.
The cultured voice interrupted his thoughts again.
“I’ll see to it that you’re healed. Once you’re healed, you’ll be kept chained. I can’t let my Lady’s pet loose, now can I?” Nevin scented a woman being brought in.
“Drink.”
“Nay. I’ll no’ drink anything you have to offer.”
“Oh I think you will,” his amusement was clear. “Given enough time, you won’t be able to help yourself.”
Nevin feared he was right. Healing from an injury this severe was hard, and made much more so when he wouldn’t feed. The man walked out, his guards dragged the woman after them leaving Nevin alone with nothing but the rats for company.
The rats…
Chapter 6
Nevin lost count of how many nights he had been locked in the dungeon, but he’d broken the chain and managed to free his left foot. He smiled grimly. He’d also helped the castle with its rat problem.
Each night the woman was brought down to him. Each night he refused. His neck hadn’t fully healed, but the rat blood was helping. It was just slow. But he didn’t give in. Not even when the woman’s wrist had been cut and held before him. It was all he could do not to lunge at her, giving away that both of his feet were free now. He snapped his teeth in frustration, the only sign that he wasn’t calm.
“You’ll give in soon.” The man’s smug voice grated over his nerves. He thought Nevin couldn’t last much longer.
“Nay. I won’t.” Nevin’s voice was devoid of anything. It was flat and firm, giving the man pause.
Each time he left, Nevin continued working on his chains. He wasn’t at full strength, nowhere near, in fact, but he was stronger. He pulled at his bonds, the cuffs digging into scabbed over wrists, from where he pulled at them each day. Something had to give. The rats were attracted to his smell, but even they had given him a wide berth lately. If he could just get one more, maybe then he could break the chain.
There! He could hear a rat scurrying about. Stilling himself, he waited. It felt like hours
, but finally one came close to his foot. He brought his boot down on the beast, and trapped it between his feet. Maneuvering it up, he tossed it as best as he could towards his mouth.
Success! He caught the rat with his fangs and bled it dry. The small burst of strength allowed him to pull at his chains once more, until he heard his thumb pop. With a snarl, he yanked it all the way out, his broken digit bleeding all over. Lightning-fast, he snagged a second rat and tore into it. His thumb began to knit itself together.
He would be gone by the next night, this he swore. With one hand and both his legs free, he was able to use his legs for leverage. He wouldn’t hesitate to break his other thumb to get free, if he had felt it would help. The chains creaked, he was so close.
Footsteps signaled his nightly feeding. Shite! The hell with it. Growling, Nevin broke his other thumb, yanking it through the cuff. When the guard opened his cell, Nevin lunged at him, ripping his throat out. The other guard couldn’t draw his sword fast enough, and Nevin quickly snapped his neck.
“I’ll see you in Hell,” snarled the last man. He drew his sword and shoved the woman to the ground.
But Hell didn’t want him. It had spat him back out, and Nevin refused to go back a third time. Bleeding and tired, he had no patience for this. Dodging the man’s blow, he was behind him before he could blink. While the confused man turned too slowly, Nevin took his head.
Bending down to the woman, he noticed her eyes were glazed over.
“Lass? Hullo?”
No answer. Was she in some sort of trance? He hefted her over his shoulder and ran.
Nevin ran until he could no longer run. His chest heaved, but the farther he got from the castle, the more agitated the woman became. By the time he finally had to stop, she was screaming at the top of her lungs. He put her down and she ran back towards the castle. Shaking it off, Nevin turned to catch his bearings. He needed to hunt.
A shuffling indicated a large animal nearby, perhaps a boar? He didn’t care, he couldn’t afford to be picky at the moment. He scented a moose. He knew the people of this area poached moose from the royal preserves. He thought he was in the Carpathian mountains, the ancient Dacian lands, so chances were he would be poaching as well. No one would catch him, he thought as he lunged at his prey.
He dropped the carcass and headed toward the sound of water. He needed to get the stink of the dungeon off of himself.
***
Stepping out of the water, Nevin knew someone watched him. But that wasn’t what bothered him. That scent…
He couldn’t get it out of his mind. He’d been trying to outrun her for centuries. The woman who only hunted him in his memory.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. His voice was gravelly, not yet healed.
She didn’t answer.
“Why are you here?” he gritted.
The scent was gone.
Nevin roared his anger and frustration to the sky, no one to hear him, not even the moon, on this dark night. He stalked into the woods, determined to put her behind him. He would stop thinking about her. Never again, he told himself. But he could still smell her, a teasing, lingering scent as if she laughed at him. As if to say, Never is a long time.
When you were immortal, never was an eternity.
Present day
His prey ran. They always ran. Nevin MacLachlan loved it when they ran. The thrill of the chase, the fear he could smell, the capture.
He tackled the man around the waist. Slipping plastic zip ties on his prey, he hauled him away. The sick bastard babbled in fear. Good. This man had raped and murdered a woman, landing him in jail. But scum like this man never stayed in jail, and had jumped bail. Nevin took the bounty.
When the man tried to tear away, Nevin tightened his grip to the point of pain, knowing his prey couldn’t escape. This one was worth fifty grand, and Nevin wanted him off the streets.
The scar on Nevin’s neck was proof that he didn’t fuck around. Because yeah, some injuries did scar. Some injuries were so traumatic that they never healed properly. His vocal chords had been cut that night, lending his voice a dark, gritty quality that helped frighten his prey into submission. Not that he needed help.
He never found out the would-be king of the vampire’s name, but he knew where he lived, and they would meet again. One day, he thought. One day.
Never far from his mind was the female vampire who had changed him, damning him to this endless hell. Nevin pushed himself farther, faster, trying to outrun the memory of her taste, her scent. He had centuries ahead of him, an immortal life where he would always want her, and always hate her. But now, he had purpose. He would hunt. He would kill every last vampire he found. They feared him already. They should. He was the Demon Blacksmith, broken no longer.
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Excerpt from RONÉ Award Honorable Mention Highlander Reborn:
Scotland, 1304
The blood dripped down his forehead and caught in his eyebrows. Nevin didn’t have the energy to wipe it off. He leaned heavily on his sword, trying desperately to catch his breath. The moon gave off plenty of light, but his vision was turning dark. He tried to glance up at the stars one last time but he couldn’t move his head. His body numb from blood loss, he’d gone beyond pain. His body was much too weak to register it. Before his knees buckled and he fell to the ground, the last sound Nevin heard was a woman’s soothing voice telling him to lie still. He couldn’t see her, though. All he could see was darkness. Everywhere he looked there was only a thick, endless field of nothing.
A light formed and pulled him closer, closer. It was warm, and he was so terribly cold. But he couldn’t move. The darkness held him back. He instinctively knew that once the thick, inky black had him in its grip, he would never be free. So he fought. Nevin struggled and strained, trying with everything he had to reach the light, but he only exhausted his depleted strength even more.
The welcoming warmth of the light drifted farther and farther away. If he could have reached for it, he would have. But he couldn’t move. The Dark would not relinquish him. Not now, not ever.
***
Amalia brushed her fingers across her warrior’s sticky forehead. The blood didn’t bother her, his death, however, would. When she’d seen him struck down in that bloody, gods-awful battle, she’d shrieked in denial and rushed to his side. She was beyond furious. He wasn’t supposed to die. Not yet. She hadn’t had enough time with him. She found an unmarked patch of skin on his neck, leaned down and laved his skin with her tongue. His blood tasted bitter with the taint of death. Pressing her lips against his ear, she whispered, “Lie still,” and she bit his neck.
She didn’t have to drink much from him since he’d lost most of his blood on the battlefield. She immediately bit her wrist and held it to his mouth, praying he would drink, praying this would work. A shadow slipped over them, obscuring the silvery moonlight. Amalia didn’t glance up, she knew who it was.
Her voice snapped like a whip, “I expressly commanded you not to kill him.”
Sebastian flicked a non-existent piece of lint from his shoulder. “We were more concerned with defeating the heathens, than watching out for your pet Highlander.”
Amalia looked at him then, fury in her eyes. “He was not to be harmed.” A rippl
e of her power was carried on the wind, causing Sebastian to shudder. Amalia returned to stroking her warrior’s face, waiting for him to turn.
“And what happens when he wakes?” Sebastian’s silky smooth voice interrupted Amalia.
She glanced sharply at him. “What do you mean?”
“He’s spent his life fighting our kind, you cannot possibly think he’ll be grateful to you for turning him.” The ennui Sebastian usually projected was missing, in its place was true curiosity.
In truth, Amalia had worried about that, but when faced with letting him die, or knowing she could save him, she was willing to chance his ire. This magnificent warrior deserved a much longer existence than the miniscule six and twenty years he’d lived.
Amalia had been watching him for months now. He didn’t know it, but she knew him. Nevin Maclachlan was a skilled blacksmith who lived in a cottage in the village. He had lost his wife to one of her kind, and ever since her death, he had fought in every battle against the Nightkind he could find. Instead of sleeping like most humans, he hunted her kind at night. The man was impressive. He slept very little, yet he spent a full day in his smithy forging weapons.
One evening, a night where the moon hung low in the sky, Amalia had been hunting when she’d realized that someone was following her. An amused smile tipped her lips at the thought someone would dare hunt her. No one hunted Amalia. She was royalty. And she was very, very powerful. Stepping out into a patch of moonlight, she turned. He stepped out from the cover of shadow and his hands fisted. She noticed the glint of metal in one of his hands. So he thought to kill her, did he? This arrogant human could no more kill Amalia, than he could sprout wings and fly. Gliding towards him, Amalia noticed his body tense in preparation for an attack. But he did not attack her. How curious.
“Demon,” he spat.
Amalia cocked her head at the venom he injected into that one word. Interesting.
She regally bowed her head a fraction. “Human,” she greeted him.