Lachlan

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  Other Titles by D. B. Reynolds

  D.B. Reynolds VAMPIRES IN AMERICA

  Raphael * Jabril * Rajmund

  Sophia * Duncan * Lucas

  Aden *Vincent

  Vampires in America: The Vampire Wars

  Deception * Christian * Lucifer

  The Cyn and Raphael Novellas

  Betrayed * Hunted * Unforgiven

  Compelled * Relentless

  Vampires in Europe

  Quinn * Lachlan

  The Stone Warriors

  The Stone Warriors: Damian

  The Stone Warriors: Kato

  The Stone Warriors: Gabriel

  Lachlan

  by

  D. B. Reynolds

  ImaJinn Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  ImaJinn Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-910-0

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-947-6

  ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2019 by D. B. Reynolds

  Published in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

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  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo/Art credits:

  Man (manipulated) © Fotorince | Dreamstime.com

  :Elok:01:

  Dedication

  To Jane Sanderson and Jean Blair, two fascinating women who made my first visit to beautiful Scotland a trip I’ll never forget.

  Look for me, because I’m definitely coming back.

  Prologue

  The Highlands of Scotland, 1846

  LACHLAN MCRAE woke on his first night to bloodshed and death. He lay on a rough bed in the deep, dark basement where all McRae vampires were left to rest after being turned. It was a clan tradition to turn the strongest of their warriors, a tradition so old that no one could say when it began. Lachlan was proud to have been chosen, but by all the saints, he ached in body and bone, the pain made worse by the small bed being such a poor fit for his long frame. But none of that mattered now. It was the sound of screams, the clash of blades, that drew his gaze to the stone ceiling overhead.

  Minutes dragged by before he could force his reluctant body to move, as if his head didn’t know how to control his legs and arms anymore.

  “What’s happening, Lachlan?”

  He turned slowly at the sound of his cousin’s groggy voice. “Don’t know, Fergus,” he managed, his mouth drier than bracken in winter. “But I’ll be finding out. Is Munro stirring yet?

  “Aye,” a scratchy voice responded. “I’m with ye.”

  Lachlan raised his head when everything went nearly silent up above. He’d have rather the sounds of battle than this ominous quiet. “Grab blades soon as ye can, lads,” he murmured. “But stealth is th’ watchword. Follow my lead.”

  His cousins didn’t say a word. They didn’t have to. They’d been following Lachlan’s lead since the three of them had been babes barely able to crawl.

  Lachlan climbed the twisting stairs, footsteps silent despite his stature. He was a big man, even by McRae standards. Tall and broad, both. But he’d always moved like a ghost through the heather, his uncle’s favored scout for all that you wouldn’t know it to look at him. And now, with the newly born vampire gift coursing through his blood, he was quieter even than a ghost, and one hell of a lot faster.

  He paused at the basement door and glanced back. His cousins were right behind him, their eyes glowing red in the dim torchlight. He blinked at the unfamiliar sight and wondered if his own eyes were as bloody. The thought didn’t last as a furious roar rose over fresh screams from above. He pushed the round, wooden door upward. Hinges squealed, but the sound went unheard in the empty kitchen. Where was everybody? He could hear the renewed clash of blades from the courtyard, but the women and children should have been taking shelter here, deep within the fortress. It had been years since they’d endured any serious assault, but memories were long. The clans weren’t a peaceful brotherhood. Friends could become enemies in a fortnight. All it took was a single setback, and they’d start looking beyond their borders for something better. And so the women and children, who were the future of the clan, drilled as hard as the warriors. But their duty was to survive, not to fight.

  He shoved the overhead door all the way open, catching it just before it would have crashed to the floor. Most likely there was no one to hear it, but his body acted without thought, aiming for stealth, just as he, too, had been taught since childhood.

  The three of them climbed into the kitchen, not yet as graceful as they were accustomed, but warming with every step. Following the growing sounds of battle, they made for the main passage, heading for the courtyard. They’d no sooner taken the first twisting turn than Lachlan froze, his gaze swinging to stare in disbelief at the heavy door that hung open on the resting place of the elder vampires of the clan, including their Chief. But it wasn’t the open door that made his breath catch in his lungs. His nostrils flared at the dusty scent. He didn’t need his newly born vampire senses for this. It smelled like death. Vampire death.

  “Lachlan?” Fergus whispered, his gaze following Lachlan’s. “Is that . . . ?”

  “Aye. But we don’t know who yet, so . . .” He paused. “Let’s go.”

  They found the first bodies
next. Two McRae warriors, human not vampire, the smell of their blood so strong that Lachlan could hardly think. He was a day-old vampire. He’d woken starving, and blood was blood. But he would not lick the death’s blood of his own kin. He might be vampire now, but he was still a McRae.

  The next body was a woman, small, with long dark hair covering her bloody face, arms clasped around a wee child who lay perfectly still. He went to one knee, heart in his throat as he brushed the woman’s hair aside. Fergus bit back a choked cry and pushed forward to kneel next to her, anguish creasing his face at the sight of his sister and her child. “Sara.” It was an agonized whisper, barely heard against the battle still raging outside.

  Lachlan forced himself to be practical, to shove down his own grief. His lovely, laughing cousin was dead, her barely-born son along with her. But her spirit was screaming for revenge, not tears. He stood and offered Fergus his hand. “Come, laddie. We’ll mourn her properly, after we kill th’ bastards that did this. Their dead souls will pave her way inta that paradise th’ priests prattle on about.”

  Fergus’s jaw clenched as he covered his sister’s face with her shawl, then gripped Lachlan’s hand with a grim nod, and stood.

  Discarding stealth, they raced for the courtyard. A quick glance showed an uneven battle as their remaining human cousins faced off against a band of vampires wearing the Ross tartan. Lachlan roared as he waded into the battle. That the enemy was Clan Ross didn’t surprise him. They’d been enemies of the McRae a hundred years over, for all that they’d both kept the truce of their last bloody battle. What surprised him was that the Ross vampires had made it to the fortress this soon after sunset. Granted, he and his cousins were so newly made that the sun had set some hours past, but even so, the Ross vampires must have slept nearby to attack so quickly. It spoke to considerable planning, but it wasn’t the secrecy that bothered Lachlan. It was the troublesome fact that the McRae guards set about during the day must have been killed before the fighting even started. For there was no way they could have missed this many fighters on their doorstep.

  But the dead could be tallied later. It was time to save those he could from an enemy so craven that he countenanced the killing of women and children, not to mention the slaughter of vampires in their daytime beds. Such acts could only be avenged with death.

  Lachlan rushed into the courtyard, breaking through to the front of the line with ease, stout McRae warriors moving aside without being asked, like water parting before him. It was an odd thing, but Lachlan didn’t squander thought on it, as he hefted his broadsword and blocked a blade that would have beheaded a clansman. In the next moment, he dropped his metal shield and instead drew on his newfound vampire strength to wield a second blade in a deadly dance that laid waste to his enemies. Blood flew as the screams of Ross warriors joined the cacophony of battle, as vampire and human warriors alike fell to his blades. But these weren’t the deaths he hungered for. His two swords rose and fell in a whirl of steel, but even as he fought, he scanned the ranks of his enemy, seeking the ones who were behind this cowardly attack. The ones who had to be there.

  His dark gaze locked on the man—the vampire—he sought. Erskine Ross, who styled himself a vampire lord and thought he could rule all the Highlands. McRae had no interest in that kind of an alliance, one that would set Ross above all others. Highlanders had long memories, and the Ross clan had a habit of turning on their friends as readily as their enemies. But their tendency toward perfidy had nothing to do with their strength. Erskine Ross, in particular, was a powerful vampire. He was also dishonorable enough to have devised this dastardly attack on sleeping vampires, and on women and children.

  Blades whipping around him, Lachlan shoved his way through the crowd, careless of his own safety, determined to confront the black-hearted Erskine. The powerful vampire stood his ground, grinning as his gaze locked with Lachlan’s, while around them, the retreat sounded and the Ross fighters fled.

  Lachlan finally came within shouting distance of Erskine, the battle dying between them, blades dripping as they stared at each other. Erskine wasn’t as big as Lachlan, but his tremendous vampire power made up for it, making him seem twice his size. Lachlan had power, too, but he had barely begun to unleash it. He wasn’t as weak as some he’d observed in the past, vampires who had to learn to walk again, much less to wield a blade. At some future date, he might even fight Erskine and win, but not this night. That didn’t mean he’d bend his neck and surrender, however.

  “This will not stand, Erskine,” he called as the field cleared. “McRae will have our revenge.”

  The vampires to either side of the powerful Erskine snickered. “End him now, my lord,” one of them drawled. “We killed the elders, why leave this babe at our backs?”

  Erskine’s grin became a laugh. “For my amusement,” he said finally, his accent pure lordly English, as if he considered himself too high and mighty to speak his born tongue. “Look at him. He’s so fresh, he still stinks of humanity. It will be entertaining to watch the great Clan McRae stumble and fall under his leadership. Assuming he survives his first blood.” He scoffed and started to turn his back on Lachlan.

  “You’re right,” Lachlan said. “McRae’s revenge will not be soon, but it will come. And when it does, it will be my hand that ends you.”

  Erskine shrugged. “Be a good lad, or we’ll kill the others.”

  Lachlan stiffened. “What others?”

  The self-styled vampire lord jerked his head at the lackey standing next to him. The man gave a loud whistle and suddenly, there was a shuffle of feet near the ruined front gate. He heard a chorus of soft cries, and then a dozen McRae females were shoved into the shattered opening, none of them older than sixteen, while the youngest was barely ten, clinging to her sister’s waist. Lachlan had no siblings, but he had cousins aplenty and he recognized every fierce scowl and tear-stained face.

  “You would do this cowardly thing? Take women and children prisoner?”

  Erskine Ross shrugged. “Hostages are common enough in war, as are slaves. But these will be treated well and released at edge of McRae lands, as long as you mind your place.” He smirked, then glanced at the sky. “Dark’s a wasting and we’ve a fair ways to go,” he said to his fighters, then paused to toss a warning over his shoulder. “Mind what I said, Lachlan McRae. Before the next new moon, I will be Scotland’s first vampire lord. Your clan chief and his council refused to see it, so they had to die. But it will take every sword we can muster to defend our lands. Be smarter than they were. I would welcome your strength in the coming battle. But know this . . . I would just as easily wipe you from the earth if you continue to oppose me.”

  Erskine gave him his back then, as if Lachlan was nothing. No threat, no warrior. Nothing but a baby vampire with no power.

  He growled, muscles tensed, but Fergus stopped him with a hand on his arm. “It grinds my heart too, cousin. But you’ll only get yerself killed, and we need ye.”

  Lachlan swung his head to stare at his cousin. “Ye think so little of my skills?”

  “Uh course not,” Fergus snapped. “But th’ facts remain. Let th’ arse think ye weak. It will only help us when we finally kill him.”

  Lachlan stared after the departing enemy, torn to the roots of his soul.

  “There’s dead here what deserve a proper send-off, ‘n’ someone has to organize a defense of th’ living,” Munro said somberly, walking up to join them.

  “Surely, Taskill—”

  “Dead,” he said flatly. “And the others with him. The faithless bastards began their attack in daylight. They arrived as human traders, two of them. One made his way into the elders’ resting place ‘n’ murdered . . . everyone. We’re all that’s left, cousin. Th’ three of us are th’ only McRae vampires still livin’.”

  Lachlan stared. Granted, he’d known some vampires had died. But all of them? Taskill had
been nearly 400 years old, and he’d led Clan McRae from the shadows for most of that time. If Lachlan and his two cousins were truly all that were left . . . . “Why did Erskine Ross let us live?” Grief made the words little more than a rasp of noise. “Why didn’t he kill me?”

  “He said it himself,” Fergus said grimly. “For one, he needs pure tough warriors t’ keep th’ Highlands in Scottish hands. But beyond that, he doesn’t know ye, cousin. He doesn’t see yer strength, not only t’ wield a blade, but t’ lead. He believes this is th’ end of Clan McRae as anythin’ but a memory. But he’s wrong. If it takes two years or two centuries, ye will rebuild Clan McRae, ‘n’ when that happens, revenge will be ours.”

  Chapter One

  Washington, DC, present day

  JULIA HARPER shoved her water bottle into the curve of her elbow, holding it above her purse as she dug in a pocket for her key . . . and didn’t find it. “Shit,” she cursed softly and switched everything to her other arm to dig into the opposite pocket. She kept telling herself she was going to put the damn key on her key ring, but she hadn’t yet. She’d only moved in last week and there was a mountain of higher priority tasks demanding her attention. Finally finding the elusive little sucker, she shoved it into the lock and pushed into her townhouse, letting the door slam behind her.

  The four-bedroom townhouse was too big for her, but her dad, and his accountant, had insisted she needed a bigger tax write-off, whether she needed the extra bedrooms or not. It was either that or pay more taxes, her dad had explained. And because she trusted him, especially when it came to the substantial family trust that he managed, she’d bought a townhouse she never could have afforded on her salary as a cubicle dweller for the CIA. Some of her colleagues, knowing she came from old money, had asked why she was working for the CIA at all. She usually brushed it off with some comment about needing something to do, but the truth was that she’d joined the CIA for the challenge of working as a field agent. She’d almost gotten there, too, but that was a story for another time. A time when she wasn’t wearing workout clothes that were still damp with the sweat she’d earned in the dojo that night, trying to keep up the fighting skills she’d learned before her dream died.