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But this one—this monster—tempted him. The Hunger urged him to finish it. Drain him. End him.

Broderick gritted his teeth and swallowed the urge.

Instead, he flooded the man’s mind with visions of torment—clawed demons, endless fire, the cries of children twisted into wails of vengeance. He left the villain screaming inside his own mind, cursed with nightmares he might never escape. Broderick hoped the torment would change his ways.

Satisfied and unburdened, Broderick dropped the whimpering man to the cobbles like so much waste and stepped over his trembling form.

He turned to the lad, crouching low, hands open and calm. The boy shrank back, trembling, eye huge in the gloom.

Broderick softened his tone. “Easy now, laddie. I’ll not harm ye.”

The boy shook his head violently.

Broderick exhaled and tried again. “I swear it. No harm’ll come to ye. Not from me.”

The boy cowered, curled so tight he looked ready to vanish into the stone itself.

Broderick stepped closer, then, with fluid speed, scooped the child into his arms. Before the lad could scream, Broderick pressed a steady hand to his forehead and closed his eyes.

“Sleep now,” he murmured.

The boy sagged in his grip, breath slowing.

Broderick shifted his weight and cradled him gently, muttering a low incantation of forgetfulness. “Remember naught, laddie. No fear. No pain.”

He eased the child to the ground, then inspected his swollen eye, the bruised jaw, split lip, and the gash near his brow. Rage flared anew.

Drawing a dagger from his sporran, Broderick pricked his palm without hesitation. Dark blood welled up. He spread it across the boy’s wounds with reverent fingers.

The flesh knit closed before his eyes.

A gift of immortality, his healing blood, but primarily used to erase the tracks of Broderick’s feedings. With the remainder of blood on his palm, he smeared it against Croft’s throat, and Broderick’s fang marks disappeared.

Scooping the lad back into his arms, Broderick stood and glanced toward the mouth of the alley. Somewhere, surely, someone knew this boy.

He turned toward the tavern, footsteps silent beneath the moonlight.

∞∞∞

Davina’s eyes snapped open at the sound of a scuffle just beyond her door. The fire in the hearth had burned low, nothing but glowing embers now. She lay still, breath shallow, listening.

Footsteps—unsteady, heavy.

MacLeod.

She threw back the covers and rose. Her bare feet met the cold floor, and she crossed to the hearth, grabbing the poker. She knelt, added a log for more light and warmth, and coaxed the embers back to life with quick, practiced jabs.

Behind her, the door creaked.Damn him.

“Och, lass.”

She turned, poker still in hand, just as MacLeod slipped into the room and shut the door behind him.

“I see the way of it,” he slurred, his fingers groping the edge of the door, “leavin’ yer door unlocked. Silent but clever invitation without alertin’ the household to yer desires.”

With a malicious chuckle, he strode to the chest of drawers and shoved it across the stone floor, blocking the exit with a screech of wood and iron.

Davina’s stomach turned to ice. She straightened, gripping the poker like a weapon. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”