THE FIRE BURNED bright in the brassier as Mowbray placed the poker back into its flame. He was enjoying this much more than he had anticipated, he thought as the vampire writhed in pain his skin blackened where the hot poker had bitten into his flesh.
Though of look of defiance still burned within the creatures unnatural eyes.
Perhaps he would burn one of them out of his skull, Mowbray pondered, and then thought better of it, he wanted the creature to be able to see what awaited him.
While Mowbray studied the vampire closely it gritted its teeth as the intense pain ripped through the creature's body, but it did not try and fight back.
Those eyes, burning brightly with defiance, seemed prepared to accept whatever fate lay ahead of him.
Mowbray studied its eyes for a moment longer, searching for any sign of fear, some hint that the creature understood what awaited it.
Mowbray moved closer crouching down mere inches from the bars of the cage, so close that should the creature choose to strike out he would easily be caught within the thing's powerful grasp. But it made no effort to stir from where it lay. A low moan of pain escaping its lips.
"I though you would have put up more of a battle my friend?" he said, venturing ever closer to the bars of the cage.
Mowbray's lips curled into a cruel smile as he watched the vam-pire's eyes narrow.
"You have been remarkably resilient," he continued, his voice little more than a whispered taunt. "I had expected a threat or two. Mayhap even a desperate plea for mercy?"
There was no fear in Vincent's face. Only a look of pure hatred.
Mowbray chuckled.
He reached between the bars, deliberately bringing his hand within inches of the creatures face.
Vincent's lips parted, revealing the tips of his fangs.
"You should have killed me when you had the chance," he hissed hoarsely.
"And where would the fun have been in that?"
Mowbray's smile widened, revealing the cruel satisfaction he took in the suffering he intended to inflict.
He moved closer still to the cage, his eyes never leaving Vincent's face.
"No, I think I shall take my time with you. There are so many interesting play things here, within Johnas' vast collection of torture devices."
He swept one hand slowly around the cellars walls, drawing Vin-cent's attention to the various instruments of suffering that lined the walls and rested upon the heavy wooden tables.
Vincent's eyes followed his gesture, taking in the sight of Johnas prized collection in silence.
Mowbray noticed his eyes as they swept across the room.
"Oh, I see," he said, chuckling softly. "You are wondering which one of Johnas marvelous toys I shall choose to use next."
He rose slowly to his feet and wandered toward one of the tables, trailing his fingers lightly over the rusted iron instruments as though admiring the craftsman's fine work.
"I confess, I have not yet decided which device we shall play with next." He glanced back over his shoulder.
"But I assure you, my friend, we shall have ample opportunity to discover which ones cause you the greatest pain."
Vincent's jaw tightened, but he offered no reply.
Mowbray returned to the cage and crouched before him once more.
"And when I have finished with you," he whispered, "perhaps I shall introduce your little witch to Johnas's play things before she burns."
Vincent's eyes flashed bright crimson.
Mowbray smiled.
"Ah, there you are." Mowbray chuckled.
Vincent surged forward, his teeth snapping shut mere inches from Mowbray's outstretched hand.
Mowbray snatched it back just in time, but not before grazing his knuckles against the rusted iron bars.
A thin line of blood ran from Mowbray's hand. For a moment, neither man moved.
Then a few fine droplets fell to the cold stone floor. The smell struck Vincent instantly.
His nostrils flared as the copper scent of Mowbray's blood filled his nostrils. His eyes darkened to a deeper crimson, burning brighter than before, as the beast began to rise.
Mowbray stared at the wound upon his knuckles. Then he looked back at Vincent.
The vampire was no longer looking at him as a man. He was looking at him like his prey.
Mowbray slowly withdrew his handkerchief from his lace sleeve winding it securely around his wounded hand, and his expression hardened.
"Point to me, I believe." Vincent snarled, a cold look in his eyes.
Mowbray's expression twisted with anger.
He turned abruptly and crossed the cellar, once more seizing the glowing poker from the brazier.
The metal radiated an angry orange glow as he gripped it tightly, before turning and stalked back toward the things cage.
"You find this amusing, do you?" Mowbray spat.
Without waiting for an answer, he thrust the glowing iron between the bars pressing it against Vincent's already festering flesh.
The creature's body arched violently against the chains that bound him. A howl of pain tore from his throat, echoing through the cellar as the searing metal burned into his flesh. His fingers curling into fists, the chains rattling violently as he fought against the agony it inflicted.
Mowbray held the poker against its flesh for several moments before finally wrenching it free.
Vincent sagged against the bars, breathing heavily, the smell of scorched flesh hanging thickly in the air.
Mowbray stared at him, waiting for the vampire to cry out again. Instead, Vincent slowly raised his head.
His eyes meeting Mowbray's.
"Point to you." He wheezed, and despite the intense pain, a faint, defiant smile touched his lips.
Moving from the shadows where he had concealed himself while Mowbray tortured the vampire, Johnas abruptly seized Mowbray's arm, restraining him as he raised the glowing poker once more, making to thrust it once again through the bars.
"Enough!" Johnas cried.
Mowbray jerked his arm free of Johnas' grip and rounded on him, his face twisted in anger.
For a moment the two men stared at one another.
Then Mowbray slowly turned his attention back to the cage.
He studied the abomination within it, watching as the vampire struggled to draw breath, his flesh still sizzling where the heated iron had touched him.
A cruel smile slowly returned to Mowbray's lips.
"Very well."
He turned away abruptly and paced back toward the brazier, tossing the glowing poker into the flames. It landed with a hiss as the fire swallowed the cooling metal.
Mowbray stood before its glow for a moment, his hands resting upon his hips, before glancing back over his shoulder at Vincent.
"Come, Johnas. I think a drink would be just the thing to clear the smell of burning flesh from our nostrils,"
He offered, before making his way up the stairs.
Johnas followed, feeling quite ill from the night's activities.
Though he had always known Mowbray to be a sadistic bastard, he had no idea just how sadistic the man truly was until he had watched him torture the creature in the cage.
His agonized screams still echoed unpleasantly in Johnas' mind as he climbed the stairs.
He swallowed hard, trying to rid himself of the bile rising in his throat.
The two men retreated to the study, where Johnas poured them each a generous measure of whiskey, before lowering himself heavily into his chair and taking a long draft, his gaze lingering uneasily upon the cellar door.
Mowbray, however, settled comfortably into the chair opposite, seeming unaffected by what had just transpired.
He raised his glass in a salute.
"Slainte" he said before lifting the glass of whiskey to his lips, and taking a sip. A satisfied smile playing upon his face.
Johnas looked askance at his companion before quietly clearing his throat.
He could still taste the smell of the creature's scorched flesh at the back of his throat.
He took another swallow of whiskey, hoping it might wash the foul taste away, but it only seemed to linger.
His eyes drifted toward the cellar door.
"What is it?" Mowbray asked, noticing his unease.
"Nothing," Johnas replied too quickly.
The lie was obvious.
Johnas shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
He had wanted the vampire captured, he had wanted the creature punished for all the trouble it had brought upon him, but watching Mowbray torture it had been something altogether different.
He glanced uneasily at Mowbray again.
The man sat across from him as calmly as though he had spent the evening playing Acey-Deucey rather than tormenting a trapped creature.
Johnas shuddered at the memory.
There was something deeply unsettling about the ease with which Mowbray seemed to regard the suffering before him, as though it were nothing more than a game played for his amusement.
Johnas swallowed hard before finally speaking.
"I think we should cease torturing the creature, for the night, anyway, my friend." Johnas said nervously as Mowbray made to rise.
"After all, if he dies, then we shall never know where the witch is hiding, My Lord," he added placatingly, hoping his use of the title might placate Mowbray making him more amenable to his suggestion.
Mowbray paused.
For a moment, Johnas feared he had overstepped his bounds.
Then Mowbray turned slowly to face him, and the nobleman snorted, his expression one of utter contempt.
"You were always squeamish, my friend." Johnas shifted uneasily in his chair.
"I merely think we should use a little prudence. The creature has already endured a great deal."
"A great deal?" Mowbray scoffed. "He is a vampire, not some trembling peasant!"
He reached for his whiskey and took another swallow.
"But then again, perhaps you are right," Mowbray pondered, gazing into the fire.
"If we could find the witch, then imagine how happy the vampire would be to watch as his..." He spat the next word with open contempt.
"Love."
A cruel smile spread across his face.
"Imagine how easily he could be broken if he were forced to watch her suffer the same fate as his brethren at my father's hands."
Johnas shifted uneasily in his chair.
Mowbray's eyes remained fixed upon the flames, but his thoughts were already elsewhere.
"And I think," he continued softly, "that would be far more entertaining than killing him."
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed upon the dancing flames.
"There has been talk of her being sighted in the village. What say you, Johnas?"
A forgotten memory stirred within Johnas' mind.
Some days ago, on a night when he had indulged his fondness for whiskey far too freely, he remembered stumbling to the wall that surrounded the churchyard after dark to relieve his aching bladder, his senses dulled by drink.
When he had thought he glimpsed a woman enter the sacristy alongside the priest.
He had been certain it was Eldra.
Though the following morning, he had dismissed the memory as nothing more than the fevered imaginings of a drunken fool.
Yet now, with Mowbray's words fresh in his mind, Johnas felt an uneasy feeling creep over him.
If what Mowbray claimed was true, then perhaps it had not been a dream after all.
Perhaps he really had seen Eldra.
And if that were so, then Johnas knew exactly who could tell them where she had been hiding.
* * *
When Mary had quite recovered her wits, Eldra escorted her upstairs to the room she shared with Maeve.
Mary was still shaken from the ordeal of fleeing Johnas's house, unable to bear Vincent's agonizing cries as they echoed up the cellar stairs, yet the color had begun to return to her cheeks.
Eldra gently helped her sit before the small mirror, then began tending to her disheveled hair.
She carefully repinned Mary's auburn hair, smoothing the loose strands back into place under her Wimple, and doing what she could to make the lady presentable once more.
Mary watched Mary's reflection in the mirror, her hands trembling slightly in her lap.
"I look a fright," she whispered, placing her hand over Eldra's where it rested on her shoulder.
"You look like a lady who has been through a trying ordeal." Eldra replied, gently giving her shoulders a reassuring squeeze.
Mary listed her eyes to look at Eldra as their gaze met in the mirror.
"Remember, Mary, you have an important part to play in our plan to rescue Vincent."
Mary drew in a slow breath and nodded.
"I shall do whatever is required."
"Good. Then let us make certain Mowbray never suspects what we are about to attempt."
Eldra held Mary's gaze in the mirror a moment longer before going over Mary's part in the plan with her again.
* * *
Mary slipped in through the back garden door, moving as silently as she could manage. She had barely taken two steps into the kitchen when Bertha emerged from the shadows, a cast iron skillet raised high above her head, ready to strike.
Bertha froze when she recognized Lay Mary.
"By all the saints, ye scared me half to death, my lady, creeping in through the door like that," she whispered, quickly lowering the skillet, and hiding it guiltily behind her back.
"You did not do my heart any good either, Bertha," Mary exclaimed quietly, pressing a hand against her breast.
Bertha gave her an apologetic look before setting the skillet down upon the stove.
"Where are Johnas and Mowbray?" Mary asked, keeping her voice to a whisper.
"Where else?" Bertha replied with a weary sigh. "They have been at the whiskey bottle since they came up from the cellar an hour ago."
Mary's expression tightened. "We must speak quietly, Bertha."
The old woman leaned closer, and Mary lowered her voice even more.
"Is Vincent still alive?" she asked.
"I reckon so, I heard him a moanin' through the door when I pressed my ear to it after the Master and his royal high ass retired to the study." Bertha whispered.
"Thank God," Mary sighed." and I shall require your help. If you are willing that is?" Mary searched Bertha's face for an answer.
"If it puts the screws to those two whores sons in the study ye can count on me," she replied a mischievous smile playing across her wrinkles face. "Bless you Bertha." Mary replied, grasping the old woman by the hand, then filled Bertha in on the part they were to play in Eldra's plan to free Vincent.
* * *
Eldra, Mathew, and the others gathered at the tavern before setting out on their mission. Robert and the priest would remain behind, preparing themselves to tend to any among them who might be wounded in the coming fight, including Vincent, should they be lucky enough to bring him back alive.
From what Mary had described of the tortured screams rising from the cellar, Eldra feared the worst for her dark love.
As they moved out into the moonlit streets, Eldra offered up a silent prayer for a successful rescue, and, above all, that she would find Vincent alive.
Whatever awaited them inside Johnas' house, she could only hope that whatever damage had been inflicted upon him, Vincent would heal with time.
Eldra could feel the sensation of power gathering around her as they walked side by side through the shadows.
It was a subtle feeling at first, a faint tingling beneath her skin, but with every step it seemed to grow stronger.
She glanced towards Mathew and the others, wondering if they could feel it as well.
There was something about the darkness that gathered around them that felt different. As though unseen forces were stirring, drawing them inexorably towards whatever fate that awaited them.
Eldra could not explain it, but deep within her heart she sensed that something was being forged between them, a bond born of danger, loyalty.
And love.
Perhaps, she thought, this was her destiny, to fight beside these men, to stand or fall within their company, no matter what the outcome might be. She gazed upon each one as they moved silently through the moonlit shadows, every face showing a grim determination.
For the first time, Eldra understood that destiny was not always some great path laid out before a you, waiting to be discovered.
Sometimes, it was a choice, and this was theirs.
She pulled Vincent's father's spatha from beneath her cloak, feeling it vibrate with purpose beneath her touch, as if it too could hear the call of fate.
The ancient blade seemed almost a living thing as she held it in her grasp, humming with a power she could not explain.
Eldra tightened her grip upon its hilt feeling a strange warmth travel up her arm, spreading outwards until it filled her.
Whatever awaited them within Johnas' house, the sword seemed ready to face it, and so was she.
* * *
Mary crept into Mowbray's bed chamber, hearing him snoring softly as he slept, while Bertha waited nervously on the landing outside. Creeping ever closer to his sleeping form she scanned the bedside table for the key to the cage in the cellar where Vincent was imprisoned.
There was no key.
Mary's heart sank.
She froze as he shifted restlessly in his sleep as he rolled onto his back, the fires light catching a flash of something that lay upon his bare chest.
The key.
It hung from the long gold chain fastened securely around his neck, the metal key resting against his skin.
Strands of grey had begun to thread their way through the hair on his chest, and She wondered if Lady Philippa found it enticing or yet another reminder that her lover was growing older?
With a slight effort she pushed the thought from her mind, focusing on the task at hand.
Obtaining the key so that Eldra could release Vincent from his prison. She studied the key in the low light cast by the dying fire in the grate.
She would have to get far closer than she had anticipated if she were to remove it from around Mowbray's neck without waking him.
Her heart began to pound fiercely as she took another cautious step toward the bed.
Slowly, she began to reach toward it.
Her fingers were mere inches from the chain when Mowbray's hand suddenly shot out from beneath the blanket, grasping her by the wrist, twisting it painfully.
Mary cried out.
"And what exactly do you think you're doing?" Mowbray growled.
He swept the blanket aside, and rose from the bed in one swift movement, his grip tightening painfully around Mary's wrist as he twisted it sharply. Mary gasped as he pulled her closer, bringing her face mere inches from his own.
The foul stench of whiskey and sweat assaulted her senses, and combined with the sharp pain shooting through her wrist, left her light-headed as she struggling to remain standing.
Mowbray's eyes narrowed as he stared into her frightened ones. "What business brings you creeping into my bed chamber in the middle of the night?"
Mary swallowed, her mind racing, as the key still hung from its chain against his bare chest.
With one swift movement, Mary grasped the key in her free hand.
Summoning a strength she had not known she possessed, she yanked it from around Mowbray's neck, snapping the chain in half.
Mowbray stared at her in stunned disbelief.
But before he could react, Mary tossed the key toward Bertha.
"Run!" she cried out.
Bertha caught it against her chest and immediately turned for the stairs. Mary spun back to face Mowbray.
He stood before her, his face dark with fury, his eyes glowering down at her.
For one brief moment, neither of them moved.
Then Mowbray's expression twisted into something far more dangerous.
"You," he snarled." you shall pay dearly for this."
"I think I have paid dearer for far less," she retorted, a look of defiance blazing in her eyes.
"From the moment of our marriage you have played me for a fool, but no more," she said between gritted teeth.
Mowbray viciously twisted her wrist and then smiled as he heard the snap, before tossing her across the room like a poppet discarded by a petulant child.
Mary cried out in agony, clutching her arm tightly against her body as tears sprang to her eyes.
Mowbray stood over her, breathing heavily. For a moment, he simply glared down at her. Then his gaze shifted toward the open doorway. "Bertha," he growled.
She had the key, and he lunged through the doorway, his bare feet striking the cold floor of the landing as he hurried after the old housekeeper.
Mowbray caught up with Bertha at the top of the stairs, his hand shooting out, grasping her firmly by the arm.
"Give me the key!" he snarled.
Bertha twisted violently, desperately trying to free herself from the hold he had on her arm.
"Ye will see me dead first!" she spat.
In her desperate struggle to free herself, the old woman's foot slipped from beneath her and for one terrible instant, she teetered at the edge of the stairs.
Then she fell.
Bertha tumbled headfirst down the staircase, striking her head on the steps as she went before landing in a heap upon the polished wooden floor below.
The key flew from her grasp, skittering across the floor before coming to rest near the study door as Bertha's body lay twisted and motionless.
Mowbray stared down at her for a moment from the landing, his chest heaving.
Then his gaze fell upon the key.
The front door burst open with such force that it was torn from its hinges.
Mathew stepped over the threshold, his battleaxe at the ready.
His eyes immediately fell upon Bertha where she lay crumbled and lying motionless at the bottom of the staircase.
"Bertha!"
He rushed to her side, dropping to his knees, placing the axe on the floor beside her.
His heart sank as he gazed down upon the old woman. Her head lay twisted at an unnatural angle, her body lifeless.
"Dear Christ," he whispered crossing himself, then he tenderly closed Bertha's sightless eyes.
For a moment, Mathew could do nothing but stare down at the dead housekeeper, unable to comprehend what his eyes were bearing witness to.
Then he slowly raised his head.
His eyes fell upon Mowbray, standing above him at the top of the staircase.
The two me glared at one another for a heartbeat.
Then Mathew's expression hardened.
"You'll pay for this," he growled, before rising to his feet, and rushing up wards to where the Bertha's murderer stood.
In an instant, Mowbray turned and ran back toward his chamber.
Mathew surged after him, his heavy footsteps thundering across the landings floor.
Mowbray reached his bedchamber only moments before the giant. Slamming the door shut, and throwing the bolt.
A heartbeat later, Mathew's massive body crashed against the door with such force that the wood splintered.
Mowbray stumbled backward, staring in horror as the door groaned beneath the impact.
Another thunderous blow shook the chamber as Mathew struck the door with his battleaxe.
Mowbray desperately glanced around the room, his eyes falling upon the window.
Mary still lay where he had thrown her, a satisfied grin curling her lips.
"Now you will get your just reward," she said, painfully drawing her legs beneath her while attempting to rise.
Mowbray ignored her.
He crossed to the window throwing the shutters open. The cold night air rushing into the chamber as he looked down, calculating the height of the drop to the ground below.
Then he glanced once more over his shoulder at the damage to the door.
Another blow from Mathew sent the wood groaning violently against its hinges.
Mowbray looked back toward the window.
The drop was high, but not impossibly so, and he had little choice.
"Damn you all," he muttered, meeting Mary's eyes.
Grabbing his discarded shirt from the back of a chair, Mowbray hastily pulled it on before gripping the window frame.
With one last look over his shoulder, he swung himself out of the window, dropping heavily to the ground below, and landed painfully in the holly bushes that lined the walls at the back of the house.
The sharp leaves tore at his trousers as he struggled to free himself. With a loud curse, Mowbray dragged himself free, quickly recovering his footing.
He limped toward the garden gate, wincing with every step, then slipped out into the silent street.
Keeping his head low, he rushed through the streets, having only one thought in mind.
The Wolf And Lamb.
He needed to rouse his men and once he had them at his command, he would return to the house and make everyone within it pay with their lives for what they had done.