Chapter Five

Dagan’s journey from Romania wasn’t without incident. His clan had been thirsty en route, ravenous for blood, necessitating several stops in secluded villages to feast. Appeasing their mischievous appetite had also waylaid them for a spell. Near Pembroke Castle, Estevan discovered a plot of werewolf graves and wasted little time in alerting the others. Several hours were lost desecrating the lycans’ eternal resting places, and another two covering their scent after the despoiling.

Now that they’d arrived at their destination in Wales, Dagan walked the confines of the northwest tower in Carew Castle and thought about the many times he’d visited the once magnificent structure over the centuries.

He closed his eyes and drew forth the energy in the room. Did the Lord and his pet monkey that had died in the tower a century ago still lurk among its ruins? No, the essences of their misguided spirits failed to appear. Apparently, they’d abandoned their posts like the other prior occupants.

Since he had an affinity for gloom and shadows, Dagan’s surroundings met his every expectation, but wouldn’t suit his father. With that in mind, he conjured an ebony throne with gilded arms, scattered the rodents to the four winds and called forth yards of billowing red silk to adorn the walls. Ah, yes, he must do something about the dirt and foliage rising up from the decrepit brick floor. Calling forth the finest marble from Italy, moments later an inlaid floor, reminiscent of the sculptures from the Parthenon, lay beneath his feet.

He walked to the throne, eased into the cushioned seat and wondered why his clan hadn’t returned with his father yet. The same sinister foreboding that had followed him from Romania settled in. It wasn’t like Traherne to be late for a rendezvous, thus the reason he’d ordered his relations to scour the countryside until they located him. Something was amiss, and yet even in all his infinite wisdom, the symbols and images of the conundrum eluded him.

Dagan smiled. Once they had the Prince of Wales’s sword in their possession, their strength would increase tenfold. The clans would no longer be relegated to the night world; the sword would grant them immunity from the sun’s harsh rays. Fighting his liege Lord for the sword was another matter. He couldn’t think about that now; he would obtain the sword and deal with the scaly abomination later.

Overcome with exhilaration, he clapped his hands. It seemed fitting that his father, the oldest vampire in the universe, would rule the one sect in the world that could walk in daylight.

Perhaps his sire had already obtained the sword and meant to surprise him this very night. Dagan put his head back, closed his eyes and reminded himself that all great things were worth waiting for.

* * *

Jolted from his trance-like state, Dagan jackknifed up.

Before his ebony throne stood his uncle, Estevan, with the grisly corpse of his father draped across his arms. "Found him in the woods after..."

Revenge beat a savage tattoo in Dagan’s chest and escaped his lips in a bestial yowl. He looked beyond Estevan’s bowed head and focused on the anxious faces of his father’s kin—Alvaro, his brother-in-law; Kale, his nephew; and Emmett and Johan, his sire’s cousins.

After rising from his perch, the heavy fall of his footsteps echoed against the marble floor. He looked down at his father’s headless body and closed his eyes against the debilitating pain. "I pray ye brought his entire remains?"

Alvaro cleared his throat drawing Dagan’s gaze to the coarse gunnysack in his outstretched hand. "Here, my Lord."

"He leaves the castle to finish the job he started five years ago and returns thus?"

Kale’s reverent tone reached him. "Andras couldn’t have slain him without the sword, my Lord."

"Gods be damned, the cursed weapon will be the death of us all!"

"It possesses magick," Estevan whispered. "Has served Maddock’s predecessors well for centuries."

Enraged, Dagan tipped his head back and felt the veins in his neck bulge. "I swear your death will be avenged, my father!" With harried stride, he returned to his throne and struggled to control his wrath. "No more, do ye hear?" He looked at those who had served his father well, and would now serve him, his gaze settling on Emmett and next Johan. "Ye will track his every move and report back to me. If Maddock leaves his manor at sunset, follow him until he reaches his destination. Find out who calls upon him and from whence they came."

Johan shrugged. "The healer’s visitors are many, my Lord."

"Then slake your thirst and reduce their numbers."

Emmett exchanged a malevolent sneer with Johan. "The sword, my Lord? Should we search his residence and deliver it to ye?"

Dagan’s laughter ricocheted off the domed ceiling. "Ye fool. Do ye think to succeed where the greatest vampire on earth failed?"

"I meant no disrespect, my Lord."

Dagan tapped the arms of his throne with pale, white fingers. "Rest assured; the rapier will be in my possession before I leave this godforsaken land."

"Forgive me, my brave leader, but if your father failed in his endeavor to kill Maddock and retrieve the Prince of Wales’s claymore..."

He rose and looked down on them from the dais. "Every being, man or creature, is possessed of weakness. Find Maddock’s and I’ll have him on bended knee bartering for the life of his loved one in exchange for the sword."

Kale’s eyes narrowed. "He’s not sought the path of the vampire after Traherne turned him. Your father said he continues his practice as a healer, albeit in altered form." He snorted through a chuckle. "At one time, Maddock clung to dreams of mortal love, but your sire robbed him of such foolish notions."

Estevan looked down at the broken body in his arms and grimaced. "The fine people of Abergwaun wouldn’t cavort with one of the insufferable."

"True, but he planned to share his life with someone before my father found him in the woods. One must believe Maddock has yielded to his cravings and transformed his beloved." A sinister laugh spewed from his throat. "His thirst for blood is as strong as ours."

"Yes, my Lord," Kale said.

Dismissing them with a wave of his hand, Dagan slumped onto the throne again. "Well, what are ye waiting for? Ye have your orders."

Estevan snuck a sheepish glance from behind a veil of long, white hair. "What shall I do with your father?"

Fighting back anguish, Dagan closed his eyes. "Return him to his crypt. When our business is concluded here, we’ll hold a service befitting the greatest undead that ever walked the Underworld."

Estevan bowed at the waist. "As ye wish."

"Return posthaste, ye are needed here."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Kale, take up a post near the gatehouse. We can’t afford to underestimate Maddock’s cunning."

"Alone, Dagan?" Kale’s brow furrowed.

"Do ye require an army to assist in this endeavor?"

"I fear the werewolves will rise from the graves we desecrated near Pembroke Castle."

"’Tis fallacy werewolves can rise from the dead. What's more, they don't have the ability to follow our scent now that we covered it." Dagan pinned him with a lethal glare. "Ye have more to fear from Maddock and the Prince of Wales's claymore than ye do werewolves. Now do what I ask and don't leave the barbican unless I send for ye."

Dagan's minions turned on their heels and walked from the hall. He watched their retreating backs and then lifted his head skyward. "On my sacred oath, I'll cut out his heart and place it in your still hands."

* * *

Andras flung himself into a chair in his study and cupped his chin in his hand. He couldn't stop thinking about Owen and the inexplicable draw between them. He shouldn't have caved in to his lust, his all-consuming yearning for the one person who righted his world by his mere presence.

No good could ever come of it. His life as he once knew it was gone, snuffed out like a candle thanks to Traherne and his godforsaken quest to obtain the sword of his ancestors. Passed down in his family for centuries, he knew of the mysticism surrounding the weapon, but never thought to test the hypothesis until the black hand of fate entered his life. And test it he did. When he discovered he could walk in sunlight while holstering the sword, he never questioned the weapon's power again.

He'd gone to the only person he could trust, Bellamy, his blade smith. The man had met his confession without pause or recrimination, and had convinced him to take up the weapon and defend himself against the dark lords of the otherworld. After endless weeks of tutelage and tortuous lessons, Bellamy had taught him to thrust and parry with consummate skill.

His great-grandfather many times removed, Owain ap Gruffydd Fychan, had led the men of west Wales in liberating the proud Welsh from the bondage of their English enemies. The weapon had served his progenitor well, as it would him now in defeating the bloodsucking undead.

Other than Bellamy, and now Owen, only one other person knew of his decent into Hell— Carys—the lass he'd raised after her parents were slain. He trusted her beyond measure, loved her as his own, and she'd returned that love one hundred times over.

Andras walked to the window and pulled back the heavy curtains. The sun had dropped beyond the horizon an hour ago, affording him a few precious hours of freedom. Never again would the brilliant rays warm his flesh, gone forever were the days of walking his beloved moors in daylight and inhaling the intoxicating scent of rain-kissed heather— unless he carried the sword on his person. Traherne had robbed him of all things he once held close to his heart...customary rituals he took for granted.

Bitterness rose like bile in his throat, sweetened by the thought Traherne would never again hold the power to deliver another into the realm of Hell. Others would come now, as he knew they would when he'd cleaved the vampire's head from his body. He had no choice. He'd surrender his life, everything he ever was or hoped to be to ensure that Owen wouldn't suffer the same fate.

The sin eater had solidified his suspicions, prophesied that death would come to the shire...many deaths. The perverse irony, that he, a physician, had been transformed into a vampire and could do little now to uphold his oath, choked him.

A frantic knock at the door jolted him from his bleak thoughts. "Enter."

Carys' ashen face rose before him. "Andras, ye must come; something terrible has happened to Glynnis."

"Glynnis Hale?"

"Aye. She didn't return home last evening. After scouring the countryside, her father found her in an abandoned manor in lower town. He makes his way here now carrying her in his arms."

The villagers had gathered in swarms by the time Andras met them outside Maddock Manor. Through the parted crowd, Edward Hale walked forward, his daughter's limp body stretched across his thick arms.

"Ye must save her, 'tis not too late," he keened above the shocked onlookers.

After one look at the pallid color of her skin and the deep wound in her neck, Andras knew the girl was beyond saving; she had died hours ago. With harried steps he closed the short distance between them and took Glynnis from her father's embrace. Then he shook his head. "She's gone."

The girl's mother collapsed to the ground, her high-pitched keens slicing through the cool night air. The angst-stricken father clasped his hands to the sides of his head and rocked back on his heels as if to wish the world away.

A voice from the crowd rose above the chaos. "A beast set upon her."

"'Tis a monster in our midst!" another roared.

Edward leaned over his daughter's corpse and brushed a finger over her pale cheek. "What are we to do, Andras? My child has been murdered, taken away long before her due."

Andras's perceptive gaze lingered on the puncture wounds at the side of her neck and a chill shivered down his spine. He lifted his head and scanned the distant terrain with the acute awareness Traherne's sect had announced their arrival in Abergwaun. Did Glynnis's death stem from a lone act of bloodlust or did Dagan mean to draw him out? How many did they number and would the killings continue until they'd satisfied their revenge? Or did Dagan now covet the sword as his father had? A sickening dread crawled through his gut.

The village clogger raised his knife in the air. '''Twas the sin eater, I tell ye."

"Aye, Glynnis said he watched her from yonder window." Edward pointed to the second story of Maddock Manor.

"Oh no, 'tis not true." Carys's tear-stained face appealed to the frenzied masses. "Owen is a gentle soul; he would not harm a hair on her head."

"Do ye deny ye harbored the sin eater in the manor?" Mrs. Hale's accusatory tone chilled the blood in Andras's veins. "Enamored of my daughter's beauty, he stalked the lass and set upon her while she picked berries."

A chorus of jeers split the night.

"I beseech ye to remain calm." Andras pleaded. "Allow the authorities to investigate.

Carys speaks the truth; Owen Rhys isn't capable of such a crime."

"He's possessed of sin, the most unholy of all mankind," Mistress Hale interjected. "Not until he showed his face in Abergwaun did one of our own die."

Paranoia and suspicion laced the air as Andras addressed them. "We don't know at this juncture what took her life. Allow me to examine her and I'll make a full report to the authorities." He tried to make his voice sound indifferent while inside waves of alarm rolled through him. He'd seen unruly crowds before; he knew they were capable of acting like a pack of rabid hounds when riled. He called on a reserve of fortitude and turned to the girl's father with feigned composure. "Please, Edward, allow me to examine Glynnis and I'll get to the bottom of it." He faced the crowd. "Go home, embrace your children, and thank the Almighty they're safe this night."

Disgruntled and muttering under their breaths, they dispersed and headed toward the steep incline that would deliver them to lower town.

Andras looked into the moist eyes of Glynnis's father. "Will ye trust me to see to your daughter? I'll treat her with the utmost care."

Edward wiped the dribble from his nose with his sleeve. "Will ye light candles? She's fearful of the dark."

Andras nodded. "Go now, take your wife home and I'll call on ye in the morning." He waited until the crowd disappeared down the knoll before turning to Carys.

The terror in her eyes mirrored his when she looked at the wounds in Glynnis's slender neck. "Oh, Andras, the long tooths have returned?"

His heart heavy, he nodded.

"But why, what do they seek?"

"That which they sought before, the Prince's sword." He paused, weighing his words. How could he tell Carys he'd killed Traherne in order to save Owen? He trusted her with his life, and she him. In the end, he decided to tell her. "The night Owen took on the sins of Mistress Davies, he was set upon in the woods."

She gasped.

"I followed him and a fight ensued."

Carys crossed herself and stared at him with questioning eyes.

"I killed the most powerful long tooth in the universe with the Prince's sword."

"Duw save us! What are we to do?"

"His family comes now to avenge his death and take possession of the weapon."

Another gasp. "Ye must go to Owen, tell him about Glynnis. There's no telling what the riotous villagers will do come morn if they suspect the sin eater."

Obliged to heed Carys's request yet compelled to stay away from Owen, Andras battled with warring emotions. A tangible bond existed between him and the sin eater, had from the moment he first looked at Owen after he'd arrived in Pembrokeshire. Deeper than the river Wye and stronger than the chains of Hell, he could no longer fight against it.

Before Traherne turned him, a minute spark of hope existed that one day, Owen might return that love. Surely, he felt the same intense physical awareness whenever their eyes met. Andras would take him away from this life of hopelessness to a place where no one would know about his past. For a brief moment, his heart sang and then despair threatened to bring him to his knees. He was a long tooth for Christ's sake, a bloodsucking predator, and he'd be damned if he'd deliver Owen to a doomed life of failure ten times worse than what he lived now.

"Andras?"

"Yes, Carys, I heard ye."

"I'll stay with Glynnis until ye return. Come," she said hooking her arm in his to lead him back to the manor.

Andras laid Glynnis down on the table in his laboratory and covered her with a sheet. Poor unsuspecting lass. Her only mistake was being in the wrong place at the right time when Traherne's demons came across her.

He closed his eyes against the montage of images rushing forth—Traherne circling him before lunging for his throat, the innate rush of euphoria that had washed over him as the vampire drained the blood from his veins, and the debilitating pain as he lay on the forest floor gasping for breath.

He turned to Carys. "Ye mustn't let anyone enter the manor while I'm gone."

Her brow furrowed. "What if someone becomes ill and needs your attention?"

"Ye must listen to me now, Carys! No one will come while I'm gone, and if they do, under no circumstances are ye to ask them into the manor."

Her eyes pooled with tears. "Very well."

"Long tooths have the ability to mimic any human or animal form. Traherne first approached me in the woods in the likeness of a doe." He ran his hands over a day's stubble on his chin. "I apologize for raising my voice."

"Apology accepted," she said.

"Vampires, in any form, can't enter a residence unless they're invited by a person who resides there, so let us come up with a secret passage."

Her head came up and she smiled. "What shall it be?"

He smiled in return. "Ye choose."

Despite the grave situation, a giggle left her lips. "Tatws-a-llaeth."

"Potatoes and buttermilk? 'Tis a fine choice; no one would suspect such a secret passage."

"Be careful, Andras. I'm so frightened."

"Don't be frightened." He walked over to her and placed his hand on the silken locks at the crown of her head. "I'll not let anything happen to ye. Bellamy will be in the stables until I return. If ye need anything, call out for him."

"Aye. Go now, and may Duw travel with ye."

Outside, Andras took to the sky and headed south. Toward Wdig and toward Owen, the sin eater.