Conquer the Highland Beast: The Vampire Dylan Macgregor (Hearts of Darkness) (6 page)

Highland Bar and Grill, French Quarter

“What the hell happened?”
Max sat down at the bar still shaking with residual rage. He had to get himself under control. Damn, his arms stretched the t-shirt he borrowed from Garr, and the material threatened to tear apart at the seams.

All along, he planned to ask about his heritage and the one way to get answers about his nature was to as
k Dylan, but until tonight, there hadn’t been enough of a reason to ask. Garr had hinted the older vampire suffered a horrific past, so he wasn’t enthusiastic about barging into Dylan’s private hell to figure out his own.

“I’m
hearin’ you thinkin’. Go ahead and ask yer questions. You’ve got thunder pounding in yer head, lad.”

When he was drinking, Dylan’s accent thickened in direct correlation with his Scotch consumption. A few more drinks and Max wondered how much thicker the brogue would get.

He picked up his beer and took a long pull, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m a research physician for God’s sake. You saw what happened to me.” He put his elbows on the bar and covered his face with both hands. “I can’t wrap my head around this change.”

“You’ve been through
a lot. Even I had more time to adjust—time you don’t have.”

“Y
eah, and you came from a different era, a time where all this was part of your background. I need data to reason through it all. Hell, I’ve seen enough bad vampire movies to grasp the gist of it, but the berserker makes me think of Thor and the big green guy from the comic books. Furthermore, now I’ve discovered Kyle’s diluted demon blood is in the mix.”

“Did you think you’d only be getting the good parts, then? You
wouldn’t have to deal with the rest?”

“No…that’s not…well, I could hope right?”

The vampire nodded and tapped the bar for a refill. The bartender jumped on it, pouring the Scotch over several cubes of ice.

Dylan held up his glass to the dim light. “You know ’tis the same drink I was drunk on the night before I died? Marching into battle with a hangover is the absolute worst. Well, not the worst. Being gutted is right up there on the things you do no’ ever want
ta do list.”

“T
ell me. I need to understand the berserker rage I’m experiencing and the demon I’m fighting. Or is it too painful for you to discuss?”

“Aye, ’tis painful.” Dylan threw back a shot of the golden amber, emptying his glass. “I imagine it always will be. Ye can’t lose your family and your way of life without enduring the loss, but it all happened a
verra long time ago. Time dulls the pain even if it never goes away.”

He patted Max on the shoulder. “Ye should know where you come from.
’Tis yer right and I swear to be tellin’ ye after a few more rounds of Scotch.”

“You don’t have to. I’m not sure anything can help me understand what I’m experiencing.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but there’s plenty to know. Your demon and the berserker will be difficult to control, or they will become your own personal hell. I once thought the rage was my punishment, my penance to suffer for my past deeds. Now, I believe it’s the killing that spawns the rage and feeds the berserker within me. You decide fer yerself after you hear my tale. I fer one, think you must avoid killin’ in the future if you wish to keep the darkness at bay.”

“Not a problem.
When I went to med school, killing wasn’t on my agenda.”

Dylan stared Max straight in the eyes. “But ’tis what the demon and the berserker are about.”

“Point taken.” Max glanced around the dark piano bar. A prune faced black man, so old he looked as if someone had pulled him out of one of the graves in St. Louis Cemetery, played soulful background on the piano while a pretty, mahogany-skinned woman with pale green eyes sang in some foreign language Max didn’t recognize. The tune was haunting, and the girl’s voice was deep and grittier than he imagined would come from her delicate throat.

“There’s a booth in the far corner, away from the music,” Max said.

“Go ahead and sit down. I’ll order the drinks and have them brought to the table.”

The bartender wasn’t the usual Barbie with a crush on Dylan. Max sighed, relieved to have a chance finally to talk without any distractions. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep up with Dylan, but he was going to try.

When Dylan returned, he sat down, poured a s
plash from his bottle of Scotch. “Close your eyes.”              

“Ah,
I don’t think I want to do this.” Sharing Dylan’s thoughts wouldn’t be easy. He’d done it once before. Max suspected this time it would be worse. He’d be feeling the same emotions as the storyteller.

“Aye.
’Tis the only way.”

Damn.
He’d just have to deal with it. If Dylan was willing to go through it for him, he could man up.

“Because of my fae gift you will be able to see what I experienced, and also what I saw in others’ minds during
those times. However, I can’t make it easy on you as I did for you and Shelby before, when I explained what was happening to you both. I’m too much a part of this to distance my feelings. So Max, if you’d rather not go through this pain—”

“Go on, Dylan. I need to know where I come from—what happened to my forefathers
—find out what I am.”

“You are a man.” Dylan slapped back another shot and added, “
And coincidence or destiny, we share a bloodline. The berserker within you descended from Odin as well.”

Max leaned his head
back against the booth wall, did as he was told, and Dylan began his story

The scenes Dylan recalled popped into his mind and he was immediately
whisked into the past—smelling the smells, feeling the cold, experiencing the fear
.

1686: Benocght Castle, Scotia

Screams. Frightening. Horrifying.

Sounds of agony and anguish ripped through the moors and over the cliffs. Covering his ears didn’t stop the terrifying sounds. From the small space where he crouched, in the hole where his father stashed him covered by crates, eleven-year-old Dylan Macgregor’s view was nothing more than a blur of blazing red flames and smoke.

Through a haze of dust, the smell of blood, and the stench of death, he watched the raiders maim or kill everyone and everything in their path. The attack on his family’s peaceful island off the western coast of Scotia took them all by surprise because...these were his uncle’s men.

“Be still.”
His mother’s mental warning touched his mind and he obeyed.
“Mind speak only.”
He and his sister, Jennie shared her fae ability.
“Stay where your father hid you, lad.”

Although every able bodied person in the keep appeared to be fighting back, they were no match for the seasoned warriors overrunning the grounds. Lunging and screaming curses, his father and his men fought, but they were still outnumbered by his uncle’s forces three to one, and were soon captured.

As Dylan peeked through the hole and watched the way the warriors bound up his wounded father and older brothers. The sight turned his stomach, and he had to fight back the bile creeping up his throat or retch.

Straining against the ropes binding him, his father could do nothing when Haruld’s men tore his sister, Jennie, from his mother’s arms and dragged her into the clearing at the center of the castle keep. As three men tied Dylan’s mother to a stake surrounded by a wooden pyre, others held knives to his brothers’ throats and forced his father into submission.

Helpless to stop the atrocities taking place all around, Dylan’s father warned Haruld, in a voice thick with anger, “There’ll come a day of reckoning—a day when ye’ll pay for the false oath ye’ve sworn to me and the abominable things ye’ve done.”

Dylan prayed his father spoke true, cursing his uncle beneath his breath. He wanted this vile murderer to pay.

With a cocksure grin, Haruld said, “Mayhap, brother. ’Cept, it won’t be at your hands.”

As Haruld lit the kindling of the pyre Dylan’s mother was surrounded by, he chanted words in a language Dylan didn’t understand. His mother’s thoughts filled Dylan’s mind, warning him.
“Do not reveal your gifts no matter what you see or suffer this night.”

Although his father could not hear his thoughts, still, Dylan searched his father’s thoughts and read his mind, hoping for direction.
“Stay hidden, lad.”

“No. I must do something.”

His mother’s voice filled his mind.
“Aye, you must... Your father’s intentions are clear. Live to avenge us. Continue our line.”

The raiders pulled his father’s head up by his hair, forcing him to watch as Haruld lit the kindling to the pyre and flames shot up around Dylan’s mother.

The trembling began in his little chest and vibrated through his entire body—fear and hatred filling his young heart.

Before the smoke obliterated the vision of his mother, he heard her final warning.
“Be safe and live for us, my braw son.”

His father’s roar of agony filled the night, and Dylan bit his fist to stay quiet, squeezing his eyes shut as his brothers cursed and howled out their sorrow until the men beat them into silence.

Struggling to obey his parents’ words, his determination did not falter. He repeatedly wiped the dampness off his cheeks, sobbing quietly as he watched his mother’s magical spirit leave her body.

Obeying his father’s command to stay hidden, and his mother’s warning, grew more and more difficult as the beast within him clawed for release. He was too young, but his skin crawled and blood pounded inside his head, thundering in his ears. He was afraid he couldn’t hold himself back. He placed a hand on the crate concealing his hiding place to stay focused in this world.

“Dylan, nay!”
A warning—an entreaty. Jennie risked a glance in his direction. For one moment, he met her horrified eyes.
“You must not reveal yerself.”
Fear filled her face, but he knew it wasn’t for herself.
“You must survive. Use yer strength to champion the weak.”

Jennie entered his mind, trying to help him hold the beast back.
Her clear determined warning shot through her pain as she continued her fight against the men assaulting her.

Dylan breathed deeply and ground his teeth, fighting for control.

“Close your eyes now, dear little brother, and do not watch this. I beg you.”

Dylan squeezed his eyes shut intending to give her the dignity she requested, but he was unable to block the visions coming from the raiders’ mind. They seeped into his thoughts, and to his dismay, Dylan saw everything. While his sister kicked and screamed, the rough males groped her. His father and brothers cried out, hopeless to help sweet Jennie.

“Grab the hellcat’s feet,” one man ordered. “I’ll not be losing my manhood tonight, not afore I’ve had a taste of the bitch.”

A slap from one of the men knocked her to the ground while another guard held her arms above her head. “She’s a ready piece. Too bad we can’t keep her.”

“Haruld said use her and kill her. We can’t risk it. She’s the witch’s spawn.”

The raiders beat her until she weakened and succumbed to her injuries, and then they stripped her, taking their turns with her at the foot of their mother’s blazing pyre.

“Do not let our deaths be for naught, Dylan.
Promise!”

“I promise, Jennie.”

He focused and for the first time discovered how to close his mind to everyone’s thoughts but hers. While the remainder of his world was destroyed, he listened to the remnants of his sister’s screams rip through the night sky and his heart, as his mother’s ashes drifted on the wind.

And
when Jennie’s voice faded, going silent in his head, Dylan opened his eyes and watched as her bloodied face fell to the side. He kept his mouth shut, but his mind silently screamed. “
Jennie, no—no—noooo!”

She smiled in his direction, beautiful in death. His lovely, gentle sister, who’d comforted him when he was scared or worried, had been used and discarded by filthy, grunting males, one right after the other—abused and beaten to death.
But her light did not go out. Her magic shimmered around her, and her spirit rose to greet their mother’s light before they moved off into the faery forest.

“Stop! Step away from her,” ordered Haruld when he stared at Jennie’s glimmering corpse. “She’s an abomination like her mother,” he shouted and moved back. “Stand back. Do not allow her light to touch you.” He studied Jennie’s body more closely, and then followed her dead stare, narrowing his eyes in the direction of Dylan’s hidie hole.

No longer caring what happened to him, Dylan wept openly. They’d burned his mother as a witch. He could hear the sounds of his people being tortured while his wounded father and brothers were beaten, and his sweet sister had been raped and murdered. The orders to stay safe retreated behind his rage. At his young age, the berserker within him was almost impossible to contain. Yet, he’d fought back the beast and contained it, obeying his parent’s wishes up until the very moment Haruld lifted the crate concealing his hiding place. Then the decision was out of his hands.

His uncle stared, assessing him. Dylan heard his thoughts and anticipated his uncle’s low estimation of his ability. When Dylan touched his thoughts, he was shocked by the man’s wicked plans. No one would survive this night.

“Take him,” Haruld ordered his captain.

Already exposed, Dylan would stand by no longer and watch his father held captive while the soldiers beat his bound brothers. It wrought the berserker rage within him to the surface.

“Nay, son. Run!”

He wished he hadn’t heard his father’s command, but he had to obey. He ran as fast as he could toward the edge of the circle and saw a straight shot through the gate.

“Stop him.”

The man who’d first put the knife into his father’s back turned and blocked his way. Too
late to dodge him, Dylan plunged his small dagger into the raider’s thigh. It was difficult pressing the knife through the tough leather breeches and into the man’s grizzle, but anger drove his strength. Finally, the blade penetrated.

Surprised by the attack, the raider doubled over and shouted out, fighting against Dylan’s efforts to stab him again. This time, with his life at stake, Dylan aimed for the man’s gut. The rage surfaced, spurring his puny strength.

He managed another strike before the raider went down. However, in the struggle, which had lasted too long, he missed his opportunity to escape. Another guard ran up behind Dylan and caught him up by the waist.

“What ’
ave we here, a mighty wee laddie?” He threw him into the fray where the soldiers were picking over his mother’s jewelry, tossing trinkets at one another.

Haruld bellowed at the group. “Leave the witch’s belongings. They’re more ’n likely cursed.”

With that remark, the vultures dropped the few broken pieces of jewelry and turned their attention to Dylan.

Haruld’s captain pushed Dylan forward holding his arms behind his back.

One burly man dressed in a plaid Dylan didn’t recognize, laughed in his face, saying, “Here’s a nice tender piece for those of ye with a taste for young male flesh. Ye can teach him how a real man properly uses his dagger.”

The loud, raucous laughter that followed made Dylan retch. The intent couldn’t have been clearer as they dragged him into the circle. He struggled harder against the man’s tight grip, but it was fruitless.

“NO!” The mighty roar burst from behind Dylan.

Dylan tried to turn only to see his father manage to rise from his defeated slump to shout and struggle. Blood poured from his face and chest as he bellowed what Dylan knew were idle threats. Even fatally wounded, bloodied, and unrecognizable, his father fought against his captors with renewed vigor. His body arched violently as he thrashed about, but fighting the ropes and the three men restraining him was futile. Dylan saw his own anger and fear reflected in his father’s eyes.

The rough hands on his body tore at his clothing. Dylan kicked the man who had first seized him, but the man punched him in the face and Dylan went down. The soldiers surrounding him took advantage of his position on the ground. Some punched, some kicked, and others attempted unspeakable acts while the rest shouted and urged them on.

Dylan refused to cry out, not after seeing what had happened to his mother and sister, not while his father and brothers watched his abusive degradation and humiliation. His tears were not necessary, not when his father and brothers cried out and screamed for him.

Mercifully, the assault on Dylan stopped. The group around him paused to watch when his uncle held up his hand to Dylan’s father. “Beg for mercy or watch as your sons die, brother.”

Dylan shook his head in warning, clearly sensing Haruld would grant no mercy. He meant to kill them all.

Dylan’s father collapsed in a heap and cried out for mercy, begging for his sons’ lives.

“Thank you. I’ll consider your request.” Haruld’s cruel laughter rang out over the anguished cries, pointed to Dylan’s oldest brother, and the soldier holding him took Liam’s head.

Dylan’s father screamed impotent oaths. And Kelan, just a few years older than Dylan started shaking.

“Ye should thank me, brother, for ridding you of the witch’s curse and her filthy spawn.”

Several men resumed the attack on Dylan. Soon he could no longer see his father or Kelan’s horrified eyes. He hadn’t missed the pain and the hopelessness he’d noticed before they disappeared behind the wall of men taunting him.

Whoosh! The sound of the blade connecting with flesh drew more cheers and laughter...then his father’s muffled sobs.

Nay, Dylan would not cry or beg for mercy—not for himself—and it was too late to beg for anyone else. Instead, he allowed the cold darkness to fill him. He memorized each face, the sound of each man’s voice, and vowed vengeance.

“Enough playing with the lad. Do what you will, just make sure he’s dead,” Haruld said. “Set fire to the village and let’s be done with this bewitched place.”

~~~~

Suddenly, the silence in his head filled with another voice right before one painful blow to the head stopped Dylan’s ongoing nightmare.

“Dylan, come to me. I’m frightened.”

His vision failed, but he heard the words of his childhood companion as if she were standing beside him. Blackness filled his sight, the pain stopped, and there was nothing until sometime later, when once again he heard Evie’s familiar voice call his name.

“Dylan. Do ye hear me?”

He opened his eyes and blinked. They burned like fire and his head throbbed. The nightmare returned. His father’s body lay sprawled beside his sister’s at the edge of the clearing as if he’d
crawled to her with his last dying breath. He didn’t need to look closer to see they were not breathing. Both of his brothers’ heads rested beside their corpses, eyes horror filled, mouths opened in death screams. Moreover, the stake, where his mother had been burned, was nothing but charred wood and ash.