Chapter One
As Marcus stood in front of the open door at the bottom of the north tower of the castle where he spent most of his waking hours, sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped down his face.
Coward.
A cool breeze curled around him, carrying the rich scent of the forest. He removed a silver flask from his pocket, unscrewed the lid, and filled his mouth with the thick, lukewarm liquid of concoction number twenty-seven.
When he had swallowed every foul drop, he stepped forward until his boots sank in the mud and the wind dried the moisture on his skin.
A familiar tingling began in his fingers, followed by the rhythmic pounding of his pulse in his head.
The moonlit trees reached for him with spindly arms and when he tilted his head up, the night sky was filled with twinkling stars that felt precariously positioned, as if at any moment, they would detach from the heavens and plummet to Earth, crushing him to dust.
Darkness crept into the sides of his vision.
He wrenched his gaze down and focused on a single tree in the distance.
It rushed toward him, barreling with the speed of a racing train.
He threw his arms up to protect himself, but the impact never came.
Someone grabbed him by the upper arm and jerked him backward.
The next thing he knew, he was lying on the cold, stone floor of his workshop and looking up at a towering man with piercing-blue eyes and unnaturally sharp cheekbones.
It was his younger brother Cordon wearing an expertly tailored, black wool suit.
As Marcus shoved to his feet, he wiped the dirt from his hands on his brown twill trousers to keep Cordon from seeing how they trembled. “What are you doing here?”
It had been months since any member of his nest had visited.
Not that he could blame them. Any affection his siblings had felt for him would have vanished after that disastrous day ten years ago when he had followed in their maker’s footsteps and fled the nest. The most he could reasonably expect was a grudging respect, given his position as the eldest.
Cordon poked a key on a prototype of a writing machine sitting on a table next to a narrow window in the circular room. “Saving you, apparently. What were you doing out there, pretending to be a scarecrow?”
Heat crept up Marcus’s neck. Rather than answer, he shoved past his brother and took a seat at his desk, where his journal was open to a fresh page.
There was enough time to record the results of his latest experiment before sunrise.
Unfortunately, the mixture of half cow and half pig blood was no more effective at staving off his attacks of nerves than any previous combination, as evidenced by Cordon’s timely rescue.
He stabbed his pen back into its holder. A decade of tireless research, and he was no closer to a solution than the day he’d fled to the Scottish castle. A less determined man would have given up ages ago, but he refused to surrender while he had people to protect.
Even if they hated him.
“You should be out searching for your mate,” Cordon said. “Not haunting this mausoleum.”
Marcus slammed his journal shut. “I didn’t think you cared.”
“Atrophy might not manifest the way you expect, brother. After I recovered, I checked with other nests. Several vampires reported entirely different progressions from the bruising and fever I experienced.”
Marcus leveled his best disapproving stare at his brother. “Do not presume to meddle in my affairs.”
He had no desire to follow Cordon’s lead.
Only a few months earlier, his brother had compiled a list of scandalous activities to complete before he died of the mate atrophy he’d been suffering.
During the execution of said list, he’d met his wife, Katherine, and the illness that had plagued him had vanished.
Marcus couldn’t deny Cordon’s miraculous recovery but refused to believe mating was the only solution.
There had to be another cure, one that didn’t require him to leave the castle or allow strangers to invade his sanctuary.
Since drinking Katherine’s blood had eased Cordon’s symptoms prior to mating, Marcus was certain his solution would be found in the blood that sustained his kind’s unnatural existence.
It was the only possibility left he had not yet fully explored.
Cordon shook his head. “I should have expected you wouldn’t take me seriously. Mating would require you to care about someone other than yourself.”
“That’s not fair.”
It was also not true. Marcus loved each member of his nest so much that their absence in his life was like a festering wound in his heart.
But he’d made a promise fifty years ago that he would do whatever it took to keep them together and no amount of pestering from his brother would steer him from that cause.
Cordon crossed the room and grabbed Marcus’s upper arms. “Don’t make the same mistake I made. I gave up searching, and it nearly killed me.” His voice cracked. “I needed you, Marcus, and you weren’t there.”
A lump formed in Marcus’s throat. He was extremely aware of the pain he’d caused by remaining in Scotland instead of flying to Cordon’s side when his brother had insisted he’d been dying.
Every part of him longed to beg for forgiveness, but that was not what Marguerite would have done.
She would never have allowed a display of dominance from a vampire lower in the hierarchy than her to go unpunished.
So even though he would have preferred to pull his brother into his arms and sob, he focused on the blood pumping through his body and willed it to gather in his shoulders. “Release me.”
Cordon’s eyes glowed a vibrant blue. “Not until you tell me why you ignored my summons.”
“I couldn’t leave my experiments.” It was a lie, of course. The true reason was an unforgivable sin that burned in his stomach like hot coals. He could no longer leave the castle, even if he wanted to.
His brother scowled. “If our maker were alive, she would be ashamed.”
Marcus bared his fangs, even as he mentally urged Cordon to stop. His brother was giving him no choice but to discipline him. “Release me before I am forced to make you.”
“Do it,” Cordon said, in a tight voice. “At least then I’ll know I made you feel something.”
Marcus sent his blood spiking out of his body, piercing Cordon like a hundred daggers.
His brother uttered a strangled groan before collapsing to the ground.
The crimson liquid staining his fine wool suit gathered into a pool, then crossed the floor and climbed Marcus’s boots and re-entered his body through the pores in his skin.
When every drop had returned, he crouched down and caressed his brother’s hair.
“Do not question me again.”
Cordon winced, but tilted his head to the side, bearing his throat. Submissive, at last.
Marcus helped his brother to his feet, then dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
As Cordon scurried away, Marcus turned to the window.
The moon sat high above the sprawling Scottish countryside, shining on a cluster of buildings.
The village was far enough away that he couldn’t make out individual structures, but could see the plumes of smoke rising from many chimneys.
A decade ago, he could have cooled his temper by taking a horse and riding into the woods to hunt. That was before his condition worsened. Now he couldn’t even make it past the garden without collapsing.
He wasn’t sure what was worse; knowing his siblings resented him as much as he resented Margurite or wishing desperately for their company—any company—regardless.
He ran a hand over his face. Dwelling on matters he couldn’t easily change wouldn’t help his situation. Better to distract himself with more mundane concerns. He picked up the pile of unread letters his housekeeper had left for him that evening.
The first three were of no consequence: requests from the few wealthy families who lived nearby to attend an evening of charades, a garden party, and a ball.
He wondered how long they would solicit him before they gave up.
It was almost enough to make him regret letting Cordon manipulate Queen Victoria into granting Marcus the title of the Earl of Kingsbury twenty years earlier.
He’d never enjoyed altering the minds of humans, but it had been necessary to convince the queen into accepting the unofficial documents that had listed him at the time as a man of eight-and-twenty.
Back then, he’d craved the power that came with being a peer of the realm. That confident, covetous Marcus was a stranger to him now.
He tossed the invitations unceremoniously into the fire.
The fourth envelope, however, was addressed to one of his publishing companies. It should not have been routed to him. He tapped the stiff paper, debating its fate, before he cracked the wax seal and flattened the missive on his desk.
By the time he’d finished reading, he was smiling for the first time in longer than he could remember.
May 30th, 1867
Miss Winifred Belltree,
Your letter reached my desk by chance, but I am pleased to have received it. You have my sincere apologies that ‘On the Aleppo Incident’ was printed without thorough review. I have had the person responsible for accepting submission replaced to ensure it does not happen again.
As per your request, I have included the latest volume of The Geographical Daily, which includes a retraction. If you have other suggestions, I would be pleased to hear them.
Sincerely,
Kingsbury