Chapter Thirty
Marcus prowled the halls like a caged animal.
He’d tried reading, but his mind refused to focus, and pacing was proving equally futile.
It had been less than a day, but he ached as if something vital had been ripped out of him.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Winifred.
Was she safe? Did she miss him as much as he missed her?
Were Jonathan, Cordon, and Kitty watching over her properly?
Why hadn’t any of them returned with news?
Sending them all had been a mistake. If he’d ordered Cordon to remain behind, he could have relied on his brother’s mental bond with Kitty to relay information back from Glasgow.
He climbed the steps to his tower. Working would at least distract from the pain in his heart. It was better than stalking the castle and frightening the maids.
But when he reached the top of the steps, his legs burned and there was a crackling in his lungs. He stumbled to the window and cranked it open. The cool air flowing over his skin provided some relief, although a dampness beneath his shirt suggested he’d aggravated his sores.
As he looked out over his land, he noticed a gathering of cows in the pasture. There was something on the ground, a pile of what appeared to be turnips. That was odd, as he had instructed his staff to feed them only grass and hay.
He put his hands on the windowsill and felt a punch.
He’d sliced his thumb on a sliver of wood.
The wound did not heal right away but oozed dark-red blood.
It was nearly identical to the cut Winifred had sustained in his workshop on their wedding night.
He brought the digit to his mouth and nearly gagged at the sour taste.
It was the same flavor he’d noticed in his tainted samples.
That meant whatever had infected his livestock was still affecting him.
It seemed impossible, given he’d only drunk from wild-caught animals, his valet, and his wife since discovering the contamination, but there was one way to know for sure.
Especially now that the thicker glass he’d commissioned had finally arrived.
He used the sharp edge of a knife to slice his upper arm and when he’d collected enough for a sample, placed it in the device.
The gears spun smoothly as he cranked. He counted in his head for two minutes, then opened the lid and removed the vial. The layers were much more distinct, although the topmost one was frustratingly pink.
A gentle rap at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Enter.”
“You have a guest,” his butler said. “Mr. Ethan Sorrow wishes to speak with you.”
There was a stranger inside his home. A hunter.
Marcus felt like worms were burying their way through his flesh.
Now that Winifred was gone and his affliction had made him as weak as a fledgling, they were staging their attack.
He would never get to tell Winifred how much he cared or discover if she was his fated mate.
She’d return from Glasgow to find his decapitated corpse hanging from the ramparts.
A familiar tingling started in his fingertips. This sample slipped out of his hand. His nerves were getting the best of him again.
One, two, three… Inhale. Four, five, six… Exhale.
It took a few attempts, but eventually, the tightness in his chest eased and logic reasserted itself.
If the hunters wanted him dead, they would not have announced themselves.
This must be something else. Possibly regarding Winifred.
If she’d been taken hostage, the hunters might have prepared a list of demands.
He burst into movement, stopping only when he’d reached the receiving room. There was a man waiting dressed entirely in black, with an unusual, triangular-shaped hat perched atop his head.
Outside, a wolf let out a plaintive howl.
Marcus took a deep breath, then walked forward. “Good afternoon.”
The man spun around and reached into his jacket before slowly lowering his hand.
“My lord,” he said. “I am Winifred’s uncle, Mr. Ethan Sorrow.”
It was at that moment that Marcus recognized the gold-tipped cane clutched in the man’s hand. He was the heckler from the symposium. The man who had triggered his first attack.
“No,” Marcus whispered. He didn’t want to believe the evidence before his own eyes because if it was true, then this was another of his failures. If he’d done his duty after the wedding and joined his guests, he would have seen and recognized the man then.
Mr. Sorrow grimaced. “I see you remember me.” He lifted his cane. “It was a strategic decision, attending that event and pretending to be one of your kind. Given that it brought you here, I will not apologize.”
Marcus wanted to strangle the man, but doing so would only bring more hunters. He cleared his throat. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
He would not mention Winifred’s trip in case he was wrong, and she was safe in Glasgow under the watchful guard of his brothers.
But what if they’d been captured, too?
Mr. Sorrow inclined his head. “I did not come to see my niece, if that is what you are wondering. My ward is seeing to Winifred’s…
education. When Felicity reveals the extent of your bloody past, Winifred will never want to return here.
As to the other members of your nest…” He shrugged.
“The vampire traps we left near their daylight resting places were more than enough to subdue them. I expect they’ll escape eventually, but by then, it will be too late. ”
The wriggling worm sensation in Marcus’s chest returned.
That explained why none of his nest siblings had returned with news.
They were trapped in wooden caskets, likely screaming in agony as the herbs infused in the traps burned their skin as effectively as sunlight.
Cordon and Jonathan were strong enough that they’d escape on their own, in time, but Marcus could only pray Winifred had not been caught.
If the hunters had tortured Cordon’s mate, they wouldn’t live long to regret it.
The only thing that kept Marcus from throttling Mr. Sorrow was the knowledge that the man had underestimated Winifred. She might be devastated to learn her beloved cousin wasn’t innocent, but he trusted she would not be so easily turned against him.
Mrs. Gillanders entered, laid out a tray of biscuits and sweets, curtseyed, then twisted the fabric of her black skirt in her hands.
“That will be all, Mrs. Gillanders,” Marcus said.
Her forehead wrinkled, but she left.
That was when he noticed the sky outside the window had taken on a deep orange hue. It was a color he recognized from more than a century earlier when he’d clung to a broken chunk of mast in freezing water as violent winds had fanned the flames consuming what had once been his ship.
“What have you done?” he whispered.
Mr. Sorrow chuckled. “An unfortunate accident with a lantern in a barn on the edge of the village. I am afraid your staff will soon be drawn away to help fight the fire.”
It appeared the hunters had thought of everything. Marcus clenched his jaw and gestured to the two couches in the center of the room.
“I will be frank, my lord,” Mr. Sorrow said, when they were alone. “I would prefer not to fight.”
Marcus felt his eyebrows rise. It was an extraordinarily rude way to begin a conversation, but he would not rise to the bait. He was married to Winifred and there was little her family could do about it.
Aside from murdering him.
“However,” Mr. Sorrow continued, “I cannot allow my niece to remain here unless I know you are taking proper care of her.”
Marcus resisted the urge to snort. He’d already suspected Mr. Sorrow was holding Winifred hostage, but now he was certain.
If her uncle had cared about her wellbeing, he would have attended the wedding ceremony.
Instead, he’d appeared only long enough to upset Winifred with his fictional claim of a ‘feud.’
“Tell me what you want,” Marcus said.
Mr. Sorrow leaned forward. “I propose a truce. If you give me your word she will not become a vampire, I will withdraw my hunters and guarantee we will not pursue your nest.”
Some of the tension drained from Marcus’s body. Was that all the hunters wanted? “I assure you, she is happy, and I have no intention of making her a vampire.”
“I am glad to hear that.” Mr. Sorrow said. He picked up a treat from the tray. “Candied turnip. How creative.”
Turnips again. He’d been seeing them all over his property. “I believe we have a surplus.”
“Interesting.” Mr. Sorrow turned the treat around with his fingers. “Do you know what happens to livestock that eat too many vegetables from the Brassica family?”
Marcus shook his head. He relied on his groundkeeper for such knowledge.
“They weaken until the farmer has to put them out of their misery.” He put the dessert down. “And now that I have stalled long enough to ensure none of your staff will come running to your rescue, I can confirm it is precisely what we intend to do to you, my lord.”
Marcus felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head. Turnips. Countless hours spent in his workshop trying to find the source of the contamination and the answer was so simple. It was almost as embarrassing as having a hunter be the one to tell him.
But before he could decide how to respond to the threat, the window shattered, and an enormous silver wolf leaped into the room.