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“I don’t feed him! I was told to kill him! That would be counterproductive if I fed him, don't you think, Your Grace?" Nichols said callously.
Marc’s delicate jaw clenched. “I’m going to have two men cut your hair so that we can wash it. Can you promise not to hurt them?”
The offer was tempting. His stomach rumbled at the thought of that long ago memory of sweet liquid, but he wanted to feel his face more than anything. He nodded firmly.
“Okay, I’m trusting you. Don’t hurt them and I promise I will feed you,” Marc said. Ephraim didn’t care. He couldn’t even count the number of times Nichols promised him that.
Marc nodded to two men to begin their work. Ephraim placed his hands under his backside to help ease the temptation to grab one of the men and ease his hunger.
“I appreciate that, sir,” one of the men said. Ephraim nodded and watched his brother approach Nichols. This could be interesting.
“Do you know why I’m here, Nichols?” Marc asked in a deceptively calm voice.
“To finish your brother off, Your Grace,” Nichols said with his chin raised. He was making his stand. In his mind Ephraim and every living soul that entered the dungeon deserved his cruelty.
Marc laughed, taking a dagger from one of his men. He walked around Nichols as he toyed with the blade. “No, I think you’ve proven that is quite impossible. Of course, if I had known that my brother was still alive I would have come sooner instead of mourning him. Tell me, Nichols, who was the poor soul that you burned and buried in my brother’s name?”
Nichols puffed up his chest. “I don’t remember the name. Your father demanded I provide a body to go with the story and I did. It’s not my fault the boy turned out to be a demon.”
“Hmmm, then explain to me why fifteen years ago when I asked you about my brother you lied and told me that he was dead and then yesterday when I approached you with the same question after my father’s deathbed confession you told me the truth?”
“Because fifteen years ago you weren’t the D-“
“Duke,” Marc finished. “Yes, I believe that is what finally allowed you to speak. You believed I was worried about my position and allowed me into this little secret. I also believe that you were hoping I would continue to pay you what my father did to keep him here and this story a secret.”
“Of course.” Nichols began to fidget.
“How are we doing?” Marc asked his men without looking away from Nichols.
“Almost done, Your Grace,” Marc’s personal valet said. “We’re done shaving and cutting his hair. We’ll wash him now.”
Ephraim ran his hand over his face. The skin was thin and tight, but it was still his face. He felt like crying. He had to place his hands back under him before he did something to stop this.
Marc watched his brother get scrubbed and then dried. He sat na**d on the floor, looking like a very young skeleton. His brilliant blue eyes had lost the look of youthful innocence. Gone was the boy he once knew. This man looked hard and angry.
“Has any man been here for less than ten years?” Marc asked in a loud voice.
Only one man raised his hand. Tom, he’d been here less than two weeks and refused to be cruel to Ephraim. “How long has this man worked here,” Marc asked Nichols.
“A week or two.”
Marc nodded and looked at his brother. “Has he been good to you?”
Ephraim looked at Tom. The man looked frightened as he should, but Ephraim knew he wasn’t afraid for himself. The man had a newborn son to raise on his own. That was the only reason he took the job. He told Ephraim that when he snuck him water to rinse his mouth late at night.
“He’s been good to me. Let him be,” Ephraim said dismissively. He didn’t want anyone to know how much Tom’s kindness meant to him in case this was a new game. He didn’t want Tom dragged into it.
Marc nodded. “You have a choice, work for me or share their fate. Which will it be?”
Tom bowed. “You, Your Grace.”
“Good. Give this man a weapon. Mind you if you go against me you will share their fate.” Marc gestured to the other footmen.
“I swear my loyalty to you, Your Grace.”
Marc nodded and gestured to the rest of the men. “Has any of them been kind to you, Ephraim?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No.”
The men cursed under their breath. “Good,” Marc said. He gestured to the two men attending to Ephraim to move away. “Let’s start, shall we?” he said cheerfully.
Nichols’ eyes narrowed. “Start what exactly?”
Marc shrugged one shoulder and began to pace again. “The feeding, retaliation, revenge, whatever you want to call it.”
He gestured with the knife to two of his men. The rest took positions and aimed their weapons at the footmen. “If anyone moves kill him.”
Ephraim watched curiously as two of Marc’s men grabbed a footman who’d enjoyed pissing on him, and dragged him towards Ephraim. “Please, feed yourself,” Marc gestured towards the men, “These men, I believe owe you.”
His stomach growled viciously at the thought. He didn’t question it. He didn’t care. After what these men did to him he had no qualms about killing them, but he had to make sure. For some reason he couldn’t do it without hearing it from Marc. “Marc?” He put everything into that one word.
“Eat up, little man,” Marc said in the same endearment he used all those years ago.
“No!” the footman screamed as he was dragged towards Ephraim. “No!”
Marc's men held him down in front of Ephraim. Ephraim’s eyes narrowed on the pulse he could see clearly on the man’s dirty neck. He licked his lips. His fangs dropped and instinct took over. He latched onto the man’s neck, sucking the sweet hot liquid that poured out, greedily. The man screamed as he struggled. Ephraim’s own shaky hands came up to hold the man.
Once the body was drained Marc offered him another and then another. Ephraim watched in awe as his skin filled in and tanned. Muscles appeared beneath the skin. By the sixth body Ephraim looked like the same man he woke up to be twenty years ago, Marc thought. With a gratified smile he looked at Nichols, who’d paled considerably. Two footmen tried to escape during the feeding. They preferred a quick death over being fed to the devil. Their lifeless bodies were hauled over to Ephraim who made use of the blood.
Four footmen remained shaking against the wall. Fresh urine soaked the front of their trousers. They were sobbing loudly. “Please, Your Grace! We’re sorry! We’ll do what you want!”
