“Atrophy might not manifest the way you expect, brother. After I recovered, I checked with other nests. Several vampires reportedentirely 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 youweren’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 beendying. 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 tomakeyou.”
“Do it,” Cordon said, in a tight voice. “At least then I’ll know I made you feelsomething.”
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 thathe 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—anycompany—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 thanhe 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 ofThe Geographical Daily, which includes a retraction. If you have other suggestions, I would be pleased to hear them.
