His head fell back, mouth opening to loose a scream at the sky, a sound of pure rage. He was making himself a target, alerting any manner of creature that may be lurking near of his presence, but he didn’t care. Let them come. Fey blood was just the thing he needed to wash away the remains of this night.
Nothing stopped him on his rampage back to his cabin, no goblin coming for its pound of flesh, or siren singing for his soul. Adrenaline soaked his veins, filled him with the need to destroy something, to make something or someone pay for the disaster this night had become.
It took him three tries to open his door, to convince his body to grasp the handle and turn it without ripping it off or smashing his way through the wood. He couldn’t hear anything over the rush of his own blood, and it wasn’t until he’d stumbled into a room that should have been dark and blessedly quiet, that he realized something was wrong.
There was a fire crackling in the hearth. Cheery flames were licking at a pile of logs that looked to have been burning for at least an hour. The blankets had been dragged from his bed and now lay in a thick pile in front of the flames, couching the two wolves who should have been guarding the pit. They lay curled in a pile of fur, their chests rising and falling with the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep. Their legs were dressed in clean bandages and even from here Mac could smell the thick herbal poultices pressed into the wounds beneath the gauze.#p#分页标题#e#
The urge to scream at them, to grab their sleeping bodies and hurl them out into the cold night to sleep like the worthless dogs they were tingled in his muscles, but he neither moved nor spoke. Even through the chaos in his tormented mind, one cold, hard fact remained. The wolves could not have made that fire.
“Good evening, Sheriff Mac Tyre.”
The voice was cool, a subtle breeze that slid through the heat of the room to send a chill down Mac’s spine. His hands dropped to his sides, but he had no weapon. His dagger had been taken from him, ripped from its sheath by one of the masked traitors. Renewed anger chased away the fear and he faced the direction of the voice with his spine straight, fingers curled. A chuckle fluttered up his chest, spilled from his lips. He would tear the intruder apart with his bare hands.
Even when he faced the direction of the voice, it took him a moment to see the speaker. He stepped out of the corner, shadows trailing behind him, stirred by the hem of his black cloak. His footsteps were silent, his tall frame moving with eerie grace. Firelight played over pale features, lighting up the blue eyes that watched him with the steady intensity of a bird of prey. A lock of white-blond hair shifted within the hood of the cloak as the man tilted his head.
“My dear sheriff, you do not look well.” His voice was the same soothing tone it had been a moment ago. “Do sit down by the fire. Warm yourself.”
“It is a dead man you are for entering my home without permission.” Mac took an unsteady step forward, ready to wake the worthless wolves if he needed to.
A strange smile pulled at the stranger’s mouth and for just a second Mac swore he saw a hint of fangs. Mac paused. Fangs. Vampire? Were there vampires here? He raised his hands to his temples, pressing against them to try and ease the throbbing headaches threatening to split his skull. He had to think. He was missing something, something important.
“It pains me to see you this way,” the stranger said, a disapproving set to his jaw. “And it would be best for our conversation if you were thinking with a clear head.”
There was movement, a flutter of blond hair. The glint of a silver blade. Mac instinctively drew back, his eyes struggling to process the world around him. One minute the vampire was standing before him, shrouded in endless black waves. Then the creature vanished all together. Something pulled hard against his neck, followed by the faint hiss of severed leather. The pressure vanished. He instinctively grabbed for the iron medallion, his source of protection.
It was gone.
Mac hissed and stumbled back. Black fabric skirted around the stranger's legs as he towered next to the fireplace, looking for all the world like he hadn’t moved. He held Mac's medallion in front of the firelight, the necklace's leather twine wrapped around his black-gloved fist, metal swaying back and forth like a pendulum.
“I understand the desire to protect yourself against the tricks of your enemy, sheriff, but really, you must weigh the benefit against the cost.” He cupped the metal in the palm of his hand, looking from it to Mac. “It pains me to see what wearing that little piece of jewelry has done to you. You are a better man than this.”