Highland Thirst Read Free Page A

says we have failed in our duty to him,” replied a man with a deep, rough
voice, bitterness dripping from every word.
    “Failed,
Colin? How could ye and your brother have failed in anything? Ye work from
sunrise to sunset.”
    “Then
mayhap we should have worked until moonrise, mistress.”
    “Who
cares for your family? For your poor mother and your other siblings?”
    “Ranald
and Mangus are of an age to be the heads of the household.”
    “Has
my cousin told ye what your punishment will be?”
    “He
gave us each ten lashes, mistress, and we thought that the end of it, but then
he threw us in here.”
    “I
think he means to feed us to the monster,” said another man, his voice weak and
a little unsteady.
    “What
monster, Fergus?”
    “The
one ye just went to look at.”
    “There
is no monster there, just a mon.”
    “Nay,
mistress, that is no a mon e’en if he appears to be one,” said Colin. “Ye
havenae heard him. He makes sounds like a beast, howling and snarling, e’en
hissing. And the laird tortures him for hours demanding answers no mon could e’er
give, asking questions about living forever and all of that. And the mon should
be dead by now or near to it after all the laird has done to him, yet he isnae,
is he.”
    “Colin,
I was just there, seeing him and speaking with him. He is just a mon.”
    “He
killed Peter. The laird dragged Peter down here last night and when the poor
fool was carried back by us he wasnae alive and his neck was all torn up, like
some beast had ripped it open.”
    Heming
winced even as he felt an urge to protest. He had not torn up Peter’s neck.
Hervey had sliced the man’s neck, drawing blood, and then had his guards force
the poor man closer and closer to Heming. Weakened by loss of blood, nearly
maddened by pain, Heming had been unable to fight the dark hunger stirred to
life by the scent of Peter’s blood. He could not be sure, but he may have
roughened the wound already there when he had fed off the man. He was sure,
however, that Peter had been alive when he had been dragged away, alive and
well able to recover given a little care.
    “What
are ye saying, Colin? That the mon down there, the mon chained hand and foot to
an iron cage, ripped open Peter’s throat and fed on him?”
    “‘Tis
what it looked like. Chained hand and foot, ye say?”
    “Aye,
naked and caged like an animal.”
    “If
ye had seen Peter, mistress, ye wouldnae doubt us. Me and Fergus fear we will
be next, that we are being kept here to feed that demon. Mayhap the laird
thinks that will be the only way he can keep the monster alive and get the
answers he seeks. The laird is bargaining with the devil, he is.”
    “What
crime had Peter committed?” Brona asked, her voice little more than a whisper,
but Heming could hear the shock she felt trembling in every word.
    “Ach,
mistress, ‘tis nay something I can tell ye.”
    “Tell
me, Colin. Ye have just told me I have been speaking to a demon who rips out
men’s throats and drinks their blood. I think there is little else ye could
tell me that would shock me more than that.”
    “Peter
was a bonnie lad, aye? Slim and fair with a bonnie face.”
    Heming
could almost smell the tension in the silence that followed that statement.
    “My
cousin loves men?” Brona asked after a few moments.
    “Aye,
mistress. I am thinking he likes the lasses too. ‘Tis against the church’s law
and all that, but I dinnae judge such men. They do nay harm, nay more than any
other. S’truth, I ken one or two such men and they are good men, aye? Peter
wasnae one of them, though, and he told the laird so, but the laird doesnae
like to be told nay, does he. A lass can be forced, aye? ‘Tisnae so easy to
force a mon, especially when ye dinnae want the world and its mother to ken
what ye are about.”
    “Then
mayhap Peter isnae dead. Mayhap it was all done to force Peter to say aye.”
    “He
must be dead. The demon took his soul. ‘Tis what demons do,