Chapter Three

Owen awakened from dreams of gilded swords, blood-drenched fangs and a commotion at the bedchamber door. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he sat up in bed and lit the nearby lantern by the light of a silvery moon.

"A missive arrived moments ago." If not for Andras's familiar voice, Owen would have sworn a black-clad phantom crossed the room to hand him the parchment.

He seized the Roman god's gaze for a long, palpable moment before holding the paper against the flickering lamplight:

Come at once. The dead cakes have been prepared. Reese Davies.

Davies's ailing wife had either succumbed or hung on the precipice of death. He grimaced with bitterness. Again he'd don the heavy shroud of a pariah, an outcast in the village, like his father and grandfather—sin eaters one and all. He'd eat the bread, drink the ale, and offer a short prayer at Mistress Davies's deathbed. And like countless times before, he'd consume the sins of the deceased.

Andras stepped from the room while Owen rose from bed and dressed, and thank Duw for it. His feelings for the man had escalated tenfold since arriving at the manor two days ago. The thought of returning to his solitary existence, deprived of gazing upon the visage of his every fantasy, tore at his heart.

In the hallway, Andras handed him a hooded cloak. "''Tis a chilly night; ye will need this."

"I can find Davies's abode on my own."

Andras looked at him askance. "'Tis my duty to pronounce her dead."

"Very well," he said and didn't feel very well at all. Every minute in the man's presence was more tortuous than the last.

The moon shone full over Abergwaun, lighting the star-strewn path to Davies's opulent country estate. Andras lifted the brass knocker on the massive door and rapped three times.

Footsteps reached them from the other side and then the hinges groaned. "Follow me." The servant nodded toward the inlaid marble hallway.

They followed the man's harried steps down a darkened corridor, Owen aware of the distance the brittle-backed valet maintained from the sin eater. Only when death called did the villagers seek him out. Once his duties were concluded, great pains were employed to wipe out all traces of his visit, including burning the mazar bowl his unholy lips had touched.

The stale air in the bedchamber loomed heavy, and there lay Mistress Davies, her long peppered hair fanned out on the crisp, white pillow. Perched in a chair near the bed, her husband alternated between weeping into a linen handkerchief and clasping his wife's bloodless hand.

He watched Andras skirt the bed to stand beside the grieving husband. Leaning over her prone body, the physician checked her pulse before casting Reese a somber gaze. "'Tis time."

"Boy," Reese growled, rising to fetch a tray on the night bureau. "Earn your sixpence." Davies placed a tray upon his wife's abdomen—crusts of bread bearing the woman's name and a bowl of ale. "Nesta's greatest fear was to be relegated to the halls of oblivion. I bid ye take up her sins."

The room fell silent and Owen looked across the bed into the gun-metal depths of Andras's eyes. He'd never tire of the sharp angles and shadowy planes of the man's face. He closed his eyes against the lurid images—the broad shoulders, narrow waist, and powerful legs. Another vision appeared behind his closed eyelids, Andras's heavy sacks and thick sex beneath the snug leather breeches.

Duw forgive me.

It wasn't unusual to hear his father's voice while performing the duties of the sin eater, as he heard it now. 'Andras is under the influence of a gruesome phantom. Be wary, son.'

Vampire or no, Owen had been no less enchanted with the man after hearing the somber words. He'd never seen such a magnificent being, man or woman. The midnight hair enthralled him. The strong, aquiline nose and sculpted features drew him into a tangled labyrinth of cravings he longed to satisfy.

Andras's voice sliced through the deep cavities of his mind. "Owen, there's little time." He stepped up to the bed and lifted a slice of bread from the tray. It was then Mistress Davies's soul escaped through her mouth and drifted toward the open window. Watching the stream of diaphanous, gray smoke, he marveled that he alone bore witness to her essence departing the mortal world. He said a silent prayer the kind, elderly woman would soon meet Duw.

Blowing his nose into the well-worn hankie, the grief-stricken husband interrupted Owen's brief reverie. Clasping the bowl of ale in his hand, Owen downed the liquid and stuffed the bread into his mouth, chewing with care. Closing his eyes, the archaic words tumbled from his lips. "I consume your earthly transgressions, Mistress Davies, and render your sinless soul free. For your peace, I pledge my own soul. Amen."

With a sob, Davies placed a sixpence into Owen's hand and offered a firm nod. His obligation as a sin eater complete, he pulled the hood of his cloak over his long hair, turned, and headed toward the bedchamber door. He'd return home now and do his best to find joy amid his pathetic existence.

Like before, the servant kept his distance while ushering him to the front entry, the sound of their soft footsteps broken by a familiar voice. "Owen, a word with ye before ye journey home."

He turned and gazed into the silver eyes. "'Tis late and the forest is a dangerous place at night."

"Aye, the elders say in the dark of night the woods turn into a realm of the otherworld." He looked away from the beautiful face with a sardonic chuckle. "The elders also have sore elbows from lifting heavy tankards of ale."

Dismissing his humor with a frown, Andras said, "Perhaps ye should sleep in the stables until morn."

The man stood so close, and yet remained untouchable. "Thank ye, sir, but I know the forest well."

"'Tisn't safe, I tell ye; trust me."

Andras looked at him with creased brow as decadent images surfaced. On the cot in his one-room shanty, Andras had mounted him from behind in the same manner the beasts of the woodlands copulated. Did the man hold the power to see what played out in his mind? He had to be gone from this place, couldn't stay in Andras's stable tonight, not after the man had bewitched him so.

His father’s voice. Steer clear of the long tooth, son. Be wary.

And what if his father's words were true? If Andras was indeed a vampire, did it change his feelings for the man? He wanted him, thirsted for Andras to touch him, stroke his cock, suck his nipples and, yes, thrust deep inside him. Insanity warred with logic, but in the end, sane reason deserted him. He hungered for Andras, long tooth or no.

Owen unclenched his jaw and drew a deep breath. "Thank ye for your concern, but it goes without saying sin eaters aren't welcome in the village. I'll return to my abode and save ye further duress."

"Very well." Andras's clipped words drew the valet's gaze. "I bid ye a safe journey." With that, Owen turned from the mesmerizing eyes and walked from Davies's estate.

* * *

Moonlight slanted through the pine trees, and in the stillness of the forest, the ocean roared in the distance. Owen stumbled on a rock, regained his footing and followed the silver ribbons down the narrow path.

"The forest holds danger and mystery," his tad always said.

From the inflection in Andras's voice tonight apparently, he felt the same. The man had tried to warn him without alarming the servant. And he'd tried to tell Andras he couldn't spend another night under his roof hungering for his touch.

A fluttering of giant wings to his left brought forth a shocked gasp, and another stumble. He fell to his knees as the moon ducked behind a patch of clouds and pitched his world into darkness. Through the black mystery of the forest, he narrowed his eyes and searched for the airborne creature. When the skin at the nape of his neck prickled, he wished he'd taken Andras's advice and stayed in the stables. The scent of horse dung would have been preferable to the fear anchoring him to the forest floor.

His tad's voice echoed in his ears. "A vampire cannot enter a private dwelling unless the occupant grants him permission. Most long tooth attacks occur outside the abode in isolated areas at night."

Get up, Owen, ye dolt! Run! Ye have got to make it home!

Clambering to his knees, he stilled when a brilliant flash exploded in the clearing ahead. Beneath a canopy of evergreens, a beast appeared in his line of vision. Nay, it was not a predator of the forest but an upright human form. Shrouded in billowing black, his white skin shone like a beacon under the inky sky. Terror seized him as the phantom advanced at a foot-dragging pace, the undercurrents of death heavy in the morbid air. The ghoul’s eyes crazed with bloodlust, his long white fangs descending, he circled him.

Owen's throat constricted with fear, yet the specter's ageless features and hypnotic eyes immobilized him. Time ceased to exist and his immortality rushed forward. Death clung to his pores; he felt it surround him like a black shroud.

Lladd amser. His father's words for Killing Time lashed about him like a hard rain. He knew someone would die again soon, but never suspected the someone would be him.

In the breath of a heartbeat, a new shape burst onto the scene, exploding through the bracken with lightning speed. Without pause, the newcomer lunged, the flash of his sword powerful and true. Metal met metal in a timeless dance of deflect and parry, to meet time and again beneath the shadowy moon.

A peal of laughter bounced off the trees. "Well done, Andras. Someone has taught ye well."

His name fell from Owen's lips on a whisper. "Andras?"

The scene played out before him like an act from a Shakespearean play...except the characters knew one another.

Andras gave no answer to his enemy's false compliment, but rather countered with a vicious upward slice toward his groin. The being lunged with a heavy thrust and sliced open Andras's shoulder. Owen focused on the torn fabric of his jerkin, waited for a stream of blood to arc through the vaporous air, and groaned when it failed to appear.

Vampire against vampire, their bodies whirled and twisted in a maelstrom of flesh and bone. They thrashed and tumbled on the ground only to continue the fight moments later in the branches of a massive oak.

Paralyzed, Owen watched with his heart in his throat.

Long fangs gnashed and an anonymous bloodcurdling scream rent the air. Still it didn't end. Blades clanked beneath moonbeams and then Andras pirouetted with the agility of a jungle cat. Time ceased to exist as he brought the claymore up high above his head. On the downswing, the mighty blade keened its death knell and severed the long tooth's head from his neck. The demon's limp body tumbled from the branch and landed three feet from Owen. Gray smoke rolled from the creature's open cavity, his body recoiling like a giant serpent's tail in the last throes of death.

Owen clutched his abdomen and retched. Long seconds later and fighting off waves of dizziness, he lifted his head and stared into the ghost-white face of Andras Maddock. Bent at the waist, the physician gasped for precious air, yet kept his keen sight on the periphery of the clearing.

Owen followed his gaze with sickening dread. Were other long tooths waiting to attack? And who or what was Andras?

Andras jumped from a low branch of the tree with the sinuous grace of a cat. He holstered his sword in the scabbard about his waist. "Can ye walk?"

Owen nodded.

"I suggest we leave. Now."

"But, who―?"

"If we remain here, more will come, and I cannot fight them all."

"More?"

Andras straightened and studied him with narrowed perception. "'Tis certain."

He fought through the rising panic and looked at Andras's shoulder. "No blood again."

"Aye, but 'tis the least of our worries. I'll explain soon if we live long enough."

Mesmerized by the voice and in shock over the scene that had played out before him, Owen looked into the cold, lifeless eyes of the dead man. "Vampires here in Pembrokeshire?"

"I could ask the same: a sin eater in our midst?"

Owen knelt beside what remained of the long tooth and tried to form the words he knew by heart. His lips moved, but no sound came forth.

Andras shouted his alarm. "What in the hell do ye think ye are doing?"

"Claiming his sins."

"Are ye daft? Traherne is a pure-blood bequeathed with mystical powers. He suffered none of the typical weaknesses known to his kind."

"I'm a sin eater, Andras."

"Ye mustn't assume his transgressions."

"I've learned to divest myself of the sins I assume."

Andras's mocking laughter echoed around him. "Not from the oldest vampire in the universe. If ye think to regurgitate his sins ye are mistaken." He shook his head. "Ye could die."

"Pity, that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It can't kill me." Owen placed his hand over his heart. "I'm already dead."

Compassion flitted through Andras's eyes, replaced by steeled determination. "Get off your knees; recant whatever portion of the creed entered your mind. Do it now, before―"

Demons howled in the distance, clotting Owen's blood.

Andras looked above the tree tops. "They come."

Before Owen could react, Andras flung him onto his back, soared into the night sky and flew above the trees.

Another wave of dizziness washed over Owen, whether from the towering heights or the fact he clung to the neck of a vampire, he didn't know. He fought back the bile in his throat and closed his eyes, relieved that within minutes they landed in front of his humble abode. Scrambling from Andras's back, he collapsed to the ground in a heap, and clutched the hard-packed earth.

A hand reached out to him. "Rise now, we must get inside."

"Is it true what my tad said . . . a long tooth will not enter unless invited?" "'Tis true," Andras said with a half-smile.

Owen hobbled to the entrance, kicked it open with the toe of his boot and nodded for Andras to follow him. He crossed himself, barricaded the door with a chest, and turned to stare into the face of the most handsome vampire he'd ever laid eyes on.