Chapter Eleven

 

With a touch of his hand, Michael released Jo and Frederik from their bindings. The chain remained around Frederik's neck, and he made no move to remove that part of it, but for the first time, in so many days, there was no one to hold it.

Although Jo had never been a cruel master, not being led around like an animal was riveting. And yet, now, there was no longer any reason for the two of them to remain close.

Still, Michael gave Frederik a firm warning he would cut his head from his shoulders, burn his body and his home, and then leave him rotting for wild creatures to devour, should he attempt to flee. Frederik hid the golden chain beneath his jacket with a grumble. He was no coward. He would not run while Amelia's life hung in the balance. The dark-haired angel had said MacNiel was not responsible for the order on the MacGreggor clan, but that did not explain why his sister would be within these walls, nor did it give a proper account of her condition.

Michael's next order of business was to use those same hands to cup Jo's face. Frederik carefully watched as the deep color left Jo's face, the sheen of sweat vanished, and the many long scratches melted away from his now healthy skin.

"I trained ye better than to accept such damage to yerself, Jo." Michael admonished him when the healing was complete.

Jo inhaled deeply as Michael pulled his hands away. "'Tis difficult for a mortal. Every scratch shows."

The angel took Anael's reins, and they strode down the hill and toward the gates as easily as if they were invited guests. For all Frederik knew, Michael had already been inside and had told MacNiel of their expected visit.

For the sake of appearances, they had given Frederik leave to ride Anael as though he were the beast's master. Both Michael and Jo walked at either side of him as personal guards instead of his keepers.

At first, Frederik worried the men above them, squinting down through the torchlight with crossbows and guns, would see Michael's wings, or even refuse them entrance based on his and Jo's dirty garb. Instead, they called down for him to identify himself. When he announced who he was, the men called an order to lift the wooden gate without hesitation. So they had expected him.

He glared down at Michael. The angel kept his eyes firmly ahead as they passed under the single wooden portcullis.

In the courtyard, a squire came forth to take Anael to the stable while another led them inside. It had been many days since Frederik had experienced a roof over his head. The space was by no means small, but the walls surrounding him, the clap of his shoes against the old stone floor, were suddenly foreign and alarming. There would be rooms to search, and he had no idea where to begin. Where were they keeping Amelia? A room? A pit? Did this meager keep even have a pit?

His blood tingled and itched as though ants crawled beneath his skin. He had to remind himself that Amelia was no prisoner of this house. She was not in any danger.

"The lord and lady are waiting for ye." The squire said, pulling Frederik from his musings.

"Lady? MacNiel is not married." Frederik said. That was the entire reason for his—or rather Zadkiel's—deception with clan MacGreggor.

The boy gave him an odd stare and continued to lead them inside the keep. "'E has been wed this last month, milord."

Frederik said nothing else as they came in from outside through heavy wooden doors with black, iron hinges. Married this last month. He tried to recall how long it was exactly since his sister left him, but it was much longer than a month. Long enough to be wooed and wed to be sure. But Amelia would never . . . . No. There was some mistake here.

The converted keep they entered looked like the inside of a manor home, though there were hardly the luxuries of one. The oak furniture was bulky, lacquered, but still plain. A grandfather clock chimed in a corner, farther down the hall, Frederik could see where the stone stopped and the modern, wooden walls began, and from around a stone wall—which had been covered in a fleur-de-lis wallpaper—Amelia walked out, a pleasant smile on her lips, exposing long fangs. With a blue plaid wrapped around a red gown and trailing over her shoulder, and her long, dark hair down in a well-kept braid, she had the carefree air of a woman who had not spent any recent time under duress.

She halted at the sight of Frederik, shock briefly draining the blood from her lovely features, before a red flush colored her cheeks. That her cheeks had colored at all meant they'd kept her well fed. Frederik and Amelia openly stared at one another.

She had not been expecting him. She'd walked into the room before someone could announce Frederik and his party's presence.

"Is that yer sister?" Jo asked. No doubt, he, too, was searching her for any signs of distress.

Amelia's mouth twitched up in a nervous smile. It vanished when he did not return it. "Frederik, what are you doing here?"

With a speed he thought the chain around his neck had robbed him of, Frederik rushed forth and grabbed her around her thin shoulders, squeezing tightly. "Are you hurt? Give me your hand."

"Frederik!" She protested under his grasping hands, but eventually she let him yank up both her wrists for examination. He counted the fingers on both her hands twice to be certain they were all there.

The sick, hot feeling of vomit rose inside him again. There they were, long, pink, and healthy, her nails well-groomed, and the thing that burned inside him most, the family ring, passed from their mother to her years ago, the berry-sized ruby that Frederik had cleaned blood from, resting right where it was supposed to. Was any of what he'd witnessed, read, and felt in his hands, real? He'd killed many people, looked into the eyes of mothers and their children before ending their lives, and cursed himself from ever having the other half to his soul—all over a trick.

"What are you doing here?" Frederik asked.

She attempted to pull away but he would not release her. "I—I came here."

"Came here?" He yelled. "You were supposed to be in London!"

A hand touched his shoulder, but he shrugged it away.

"I had been sent a message that you were being held against your will! Why did you not tell me you were coming here? Why—?"

The hand on his shoulder gripped harder. "I'll be much appreciative if you release the lass." The voice was thick and held a burr that did not belong to anyone in his group.

Frederik turned his head without releasing his sister. A heavily muscled chest faced him. Frederik craned his neck up to see a square head framed with coarse sand colored hair and beard. This mortal was large indeed.

"MacNiel, I presume?"

The giant Scotsman with long hair nodded and boomed. "Aye, and you would be?"

"My brother, Frederik." Amelia responded for him. "I told you about him, remember?"

"Aye, but you never mentioned he had habits of putting his hands on you."

"The question I am most concerned with is whether you have put your hands on her."

"She is my wife." MacNiel growled.

Confirmed! Frederik saw red. He released Amelia and nearly went chest to chest with the plaid-wearing warrior before a flaming sword came between them and had them leaping away from each other.

Amelia shrieked and grabbed Frederik. They fell backward in their haste to be away from such a near flame, and she pulled him close to her and away from the fire, to protect him, and to be protected. He could tell this by the way her eyes watched the fiery blade with suspicion and awe.

The troubling thing was that, had he not been the nearest body available, he felt she would have made a grab for MacNiel instead.

While an iron sword cast in fire may be an incredibly frightening thing toward vampires who despised so much as a candle flame, MacNiel, in a fit of bravery and speed even Frederik found impressive, lifted his own heavy sword from its sheath behind his back, and readied for battle.

On sight of Michael, his enraged face relaxed, though his expression was no less annoyed than before.

"Hmph," he said, lifting his long sword away from Michael's face, and sliding it back down into its sheath. "You returned quickly."

Michael did the same with his own blade, the fires disappearing when sheathed. "I told ye I would."

Only then did Michael's eyes return to Frederik, to whom Amelia still fiercely clung. His bearded face took on a look of shock. "He is the damned one?"

Amelia gasped at MacNiel's choice of words, and what little flesh visible under all of that scraggly hair flushed under her scrutiny. "Not because he is a vampire, love."

Frederik felt Amelia's arms tighten around his shoulders. "Then, why—?"

Frederik gripped her hands into his and gave them a gentle squeeze. "I'll tell you in a moment," he said. "Not now."

She looked at him, then at Michael and Jo. She judged the situation to be safe, pulled herself out from behind him and ran out to her husband's open arms.

Frederik squashed down the ire that rose within him as he lifted himself to his feet. "Amelia, did he force a marriage onto you?"

Amelia threw her little hands around MacNiel's boulder-sized shoulders. She had to stretch to his toes in order to accomplish such a task due to his size. "No!"

"No?" He could hardly believe his ears. "Then how did you come to be married, without my knowledge, to a Scotsman?" A mortal Scotsman, he wanted to say.

"I believe the lady was clear," Michael said flatly.

"You stay out of this!"

MacNiel looked between all three men in front of him, then put a meaty hand on Amelia's little arm as she attempted to protect him.

He did not complain about the way she cared for him. So MacNiel was aware his wife was not as fragile as ladies of her small size usually were.

However, Frederik still thought to attain some clarification. "You are aware she is a vampire, sir, yes?"

Amelia hissed at him. Frederik stepped back.

MacNiel answered in place of his wife. "What the sun will not have, I will gladly take. I care not that she is not like other women." He grinned through that ridiculous beard. "It makes for good fun in the bed."

Amelia blushed and made a hushing noise at him, her hands waving as though to ward off the humiliation of his words.

He was talking about her strength. It brought an image of his sister, the only remaining person alive who shared his flesh, dominating this incredibly large warrior who wore a belted plaid and carried a horned sword on his back.

As his temper began to soar once again, Jo spoke. His voice was hushed, hardly noticeable under the tension of the room. "Ye must think vampires to be truly evil, Frederik, if ye believe love cannot be found for them."

"It is not that I believe no one can love us," Frederik said, his lower eyelid twitching as MacNiel put his hand on Amelia's waist. "Just that it cannot be found with mortals."

"Why not?" Amelia demanded, snapping her attention to him. "Why can I not have this man for my husband? He is as good as any other."

"Amelia—"

"No. That is not true. He is better than all others. Certainly better than those rare others we find who are like ourselves." Her chest pumped up and down as her anger overtook her. MacNiel petted her hair and shushed her as though she were a horse he could tame. Amelia's breathing evened, the snarl in her lips smoothed, hiding her fangs, and her fingers no longer clenched as though she wished to strangle someone.

"I thought you were in danger," Frederik said at last. "The things I have done for you, so that you could hide here with a . . ." He did not know how to refer to MacNiel.

He could not call the man her lover; they'd wed. But Frederik refused to identify with him as his brother.

A cautious curiosity entered Amelia's eyes. "What things have you done?"

Frederik could not look at her. He looked at MacNiel. The man he had spent much of his energy hating and of whom he had fantasized, devising a variety of ways he could rip the skin from his bones . . .

"You are aware of the MacGreggor clan?" Frederik said.

The giant hulk of a man actually staggered. "That was . . . ? You did that?"

"Yes."

He did not bother looking back at Amelia. He could see enough of her in his peripheral vision. She remained silent, gaping in a most unladylike fashion at him. He had slaughtered hundreds of mortals for nothing. When he finished with them, some appeared as peaceful in death as they had in sleeping life. Most of them had not been so fortunate.

Frederik pressed his fists to his eyes to ward off the images. They would haunt him for the rest of his life. However long that would be. He had promised his head to Michael so long as they rescued Amelia. As there was nothing to rescue her from, he had nothing to do but wait for the angel to claim his debt.

Michael cleared his throat. "Now that ye are all aware of the mistake that has been made, perhaps I should tell ye why it has been made."

*****

Frederik could not believe his luck. His horrid, unmerciful luck.

MacNiel was actually a hospitable host. Once Michael had explained everything, the large Scot had immediately offered Jo food to eat and Michael a chair to rest in. He had even sent for an animal from which Frederik could drink blood. Baths were being prepared, and then the servants would take their garments for mending and washing.

It was nearly too much to bear. Malcolm MacNiel was not the villain in this tale. He seemed to be a jolly sort of man who perhaps enjoyed his ale a little more than most, but Amelia did not seem to mind any of that, she'd even sat in his lap at the table in the great hall during their meal, occasionally stroking his beard and purring like a content kitten.

She was a woman who was obviously very much in love, and MacNiel stared at his wife constantly with affectionate eyes. Even when the serving maids came, heavy bosoms heaving under the thin slips of gowns they wore as they bent to fill goblets, he did not look in their direction. He was a loyal husband.

Husband. Frederik had shuddered as he went to his chamber. He and Jo received their own bedchambers, where steaming tubs awaited them. There were serving maids prepared to help him along with his bath, but he wanted to be alone. He requested they leave the drying linens within reach and sent them away. He bathed and shaved himself for the first time in so long—though MacNiel had tried to talk him out of the latter—and he was now waiting for his clothes so he could get out of the ridiculous, plaid costume he now wore. After everything that happened, he would not have minded sharing a room with Jo and finding his comfort with him.

Jo had better not have accepted the aid of the maids.

Frederik took the only wooden stool in his borrowed chamber away from the low burning fire, placed it beneath the narrow stone window, sat, and stared. Even with MacNiel's limited funds, it seemed he could still afford glass, and, through them, Frederik watched the men with swords as they walked along the battlements under the blue moonlight, broken by the orange light of torches. Michael had told of Zadkiel's threat, and MacNiel had acted by immediately putting more men on sentry duty.

From Frederik's position, he could see their faces, alert, and searching for any possible threat coming for them or their lord. Such dedication was a product of loyalty, not a spell of the mind. MacNiel was not nearly as powerful as Frederik once thought him to be. He wished he had known that sooner.

MacNiel had so far been a decent sort whom Frederik would have been glad to have called his friend under any other circumstance, but he had wed his sister without informing him first. Perhaps they could have avoided this whole mess if one of them had simply said something to him. Apparently, they had been in contact for months, and Frederik had never suspected. He pressed his palms to his face and breathed a hard sigh.

A soft knock rapped on his door. He already knew who stood on the other side.

"Enter, Amelia." Of course, she would wish to speak with him in private. In MacNiel's great hall, she'd had little opportunity to do more than glance uneasily at him.

The door slid open with a moan, then shut heavily behind her with a loud metal clomp. He could not bear to look at her. He heard her sigh.

"Brother, please."

"Am I a horrible sort of sibling to have?"

A pause. Then: "What?"

He turned to look at her. She seemed both cautious and leery of him. He damned himself for whatever it was he'd done to give her the impression she needed to fear him.

"I had always assumed it was your maiden pride that kept you from marrying, not a fear for what I would do to your husband."

Amelia rarely appeared small in front of him, but, standing there, face turned from him and hands clasped in front of her, she made an odd picture. "I did not believe you would kill any man I chose for myself. I just knew that, unless it was another vampire, you would never approve."

Frederik rubbed away the coming headache from his skull. "Of course, I do not approve."

Amelia's eyes snapped to him, flashing.

Frederik stood and went to her. She folded her arms. He put his hands on her shoulders despite the obvious lack of invitation.

"I do not approve because he will grow old in front of you, wither, and die. You will be unable to have children with him, his seed"—Frederik paused and made a face. He did not wish to think of a man's seed anywhere near her—"it cannot create life within you. You know this. Why did you choose him?"

"The same reason you chose that man downstairs. And do not stare at me like that. You spent an hour in the great hall, and, whenever you were not staring at me, you were looking at him."

"Well that hardly matters because there is nothing between him and me."

"But do you love him?"

Frederik clenched his fists. "I do not see what—"

"Do you, or don't you?"

"This has nothing to do with what you and I are speaking of. He is an angel, and he will return home. I cannot have a life with him."

"That is all the confirmation I need. You love him because we do not choose who we love."

"No," he agreed. "But we choose whether or not to act on that love." He thought of the day he walked away from Jo five years ago. He shoved the memory away.

Amelia gaped at him. Her face hardened into an unhappy mask. "If this is how you wish to live your life then I cannot stop you. But I love Malcolm, and, if loving him means I must one day watch him die, then so be it. Mortals watch those they love die every day. It is a part of their existence, yet they still love. Perhaps that will be sacrifice enough for me to gain the other half of my soul, or perhaps he is the other half of it."

"That is a great deal of 'perhaps,'" Frederik said. "Our souls are completed through sacrifice, prayer, and acts of kindness. They are not found within others."

"You would, of course, believe something like that." With a swirl of her gown, she turned her back to him and went to his chamber door. She paused before exiting. "Malcolm and I have spoken of our"—her jaw tightened, and Frederik could clearly see the difficulty she had with the subject —"inability to have a family. The boy and girl you found in that village, they would have a good home with us."

"You would be content to raise children not your own?"

She looked at him. "You said so yourself. I am unable to become a mother with Malcolm, and he adores little ones. Why should we not share our love with children who may need it? Is that not an act of kindness?"

Frederik had nothing to say to that.

Amelia shook her head at him and left in an angry huff, slamming the door behind her.

Frederik nearly ran after her. His last hours were fast approaching, and he did not wish to have her angry with him. But he halted himself before he could make it to the door.

It was better this way.

In her anger, and her new vision of him as a heartless ogre, she may not mourn so deeply when she learned of his death.

Amelia had wed a mortal man. Frederik wished with all his might for her happiness. The last thing he ever wanted her to feel was sorrow. Whether she liked it or not, MacNiel, her giant, lumbering man with the Scottish burr in his voice would one day die, leaving her entirely alone and heartbroken, with only her memories to keep her company. She could transform him if she chose, but then he would be one of the soulless vampires, and she would be forever cursed to only have half her soul, and it would burn in Hell. Punishment for daring to turn a man into a monster.

"Just as ye would have been if ye allowed Jophiel to remain with ye, aye?"

He closed his eyes at the Heavenly voice. "How many visitors can I expect, tonight?"

Michael. Although the angel had spared him from shedding any more unnecessary blood, Frederik did not wish to be around him. In fact, Michael was the last creature Frederik wished to see. The angel was a reminder of the evil he had done.

"Only myself," Michael answered.

He did not hear the angel come into his chamber, and Frederik still faced the shut door. Another one of their Heavenly tricks?

"I could not help but overhear yer conversation with yer sister. Such thoughts are not very agreeable," Michael said.

"So I have been led to believe."

Suddenly, his voice was closer, an arm's length away as opposed to across the bedchamber. "There are matters that need to be discussed, Grimm."

Frederik had known this was coming, even if Jo denied it. There was still a price to be paid to make amends for his actions. "I know."

"Good."

Frederik turned to face the creature who wished to kill him but who was not his enemy. Although MacNiel had offered both him and Jophiel clean garments, Michael was still dressed in his angelic armor. The moonlight gleamed off the artificial muscles in the polished breastplate.

Frederik recalled a time when he had seen a similar sight on Jo. He had removed the breastplate, pleased to see the muscled chest and abdomen beneath was just as exquisite as the armor itself.

Michael's lips quirked. "I am not Jophiel."

Frederik looked away with a heated blush. He wet his lips and replied. "Yes, forgive me, but must you do that?"

Michael did not even have the decency to appear remorseful. "Aye, I must."

Jo could not read minds even when he had his wings. It must be this particular angel's rank that allowed him such easy admittance to his head.

Michael made a sort of face that suggested he agreed with that thought, but he said nothing. Frederik glared at him.

Michael lifted his hands. "I promise I will . . . attempt to not hear any of your stray thoughts."

Frederik supposed he should be grateful for that much. "When will Jo come for me?"

Michael sighed, and when his hand went to rest on the hilt of his sword, Frederik stiffened.

Michael lifted his hand away. "Be at ease. Forgive me. 'Tis a habit to rest my hand there."

Frederik did not lower his guard. Michael's hand returned to its resting place.

"Jophiel . . . is being difficult. He seems to believe that because not all was as it seems, ye should be given a leave of sound mind for yer actions in that village."

"A leave of sound mind?"

"A second chance."

"I know bloody well know what you meant," Frederik muttered. He could not understand how angels talked as such.

Michael eyed him narrowly. "Regardless, such a thing cannot be done if he wishes to return to Heaven. And you still have not paid your debt."

Frederik winced. Indeed, he had not. He deserved to die. After what he had done, he deserved so much more than that.

"Must it be Jo who makes the final thrust of the blade?" Jo did not wish to do it, and Frederik did not want to try to convince him to deliver it, despite how deserved it was.

The reason for Michael's visit suddenly became clear to him. And Michael, thought-reader that he was, nodded his approval. "I will be the one to take yer head."

"When?"

"As soon as the matter with Zadkiel is settled."

That could be anytime from an hour to a fortnight. "Before we go any further, I have a request." A request that he could not be denied.

"And what would that be?"

"That, in exchange for my co-operation, my soul not be sent to Hell."

Michael barely seemed to resist scoffing. He held it back. "Ye cannot possibly believe there is a place in Heaven for ye."

Frederik fought back his growing ire. "I was hoping for the in-between."

"Limbo?"

Frederik nodded. He was not entirely aware of the details of it, other than it was an extremely boorish place to reside. But there was one thing he hoped to be true.

"It is indeed quite a lonesome place, even with company," Michael said, agreeing with his thoughts. "But, with proper behavior, ye could be reincarnated back to the mortal plane."

Precisely what Frederik wanted to hear. The potential for a second chance lifted the burden he carried ever since discovering the angels wanted to seek justice, personally. Even should it not been true, an eternity of existing in boredom was more than he could have hoped for. "I have your word that I will be sent there after my death?"

Michael narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Jophiel told me how ye continually offered yer life in exchange for the safety of yer sister, and I saw that when we first met here. Was all that a farce? Simply because ye thought ye could barter yer way out of Hell?"

Frederik wanted to punch the man in his frustration, but despite everything, he still wore the golden chain, and Michael was an angel. There would be no question who would win in a brawl. He took a calming breath.

"When Jo told me he had been sent by someone else to kill me, I knew there would be no negotiating my fate other than to gain time. Had he decided to kill me then and there, I would have happily gone to Hell so long as he promised to rescue her. Now that I have the opportunity to . . . receive a lesser sentence, as it were, can you blame me for trying?"

The corners of Michael's mouth lifted very briefly, and then he nodded. "I suppose I cannot. Very well. We have an agreement."

Frederik sighed.
"What is your plan to return Jo's wings?"

Michael put a hand on his shoulder as though they were comrades in arms, which, he supposed, this made it so.

"First, we must see to Zadkiel. Leave the rest to me."