Page 9 of 'Til All the Seas Run Dry

“Aye?”

“I don’t want more scars.”

Callum laughed, but as he did, he looked at Robbie’s neck, at the beautiful floral design that spanned it, like spring rising from depths of his shirt.

“I willnae disturb your art,” he said. He meant it too.

He was careful as he leaned forward and fit his mouth against Robbie’s throat, as he placed his fangs gently against the vein, as he bit down, puncturing precisely.

Robbie gasped.

And then Callum pressed his tongue to Robbie’s throat and sucked, tasting the coppery brightness of his blood mingled with salt. It wasn’t the salt of the sea. It wasn’t the earthy, loamy taste he’d been hunting for. But it wasn’t vanilla sugar body lotion. It was sweat. Honest, clean sweat.

Robbie sighed and relaxed back against the couch cushions as Callum loomed behind him, drinking deeply. But piercing through his grief, his ever-present weariness of it all, was the thrill of anticipation.

He would catch Esther MacLaren. And he could put this whole nightmare to bed for good.

3

Esther MacLaren was a witch from Savannah who had crash-landed into Jory’s life and was now sitting in Jory’s desk chair, her leg bouncing wildly underneath the surface. Esther had a chaotic vibrance about her that had drawn Jory immediately, and they’d become fast friends.

Her new friend had gotten into some trouble when she’d walked in on a vampire feeding scheme where patrons of a nightclub were being drugged and fed upon and then disposed of. It made Jory sick to think of. There had been a momentary flare of panic in Jory’s gut when Esther had told her that the vampire was called Callum MacLeod. But then she remembered that it couldn’t beherCallum MacLeod. He’d been dead for centuries.Lifetimes.

Esther was hiding out with Jory for the night until her car was finished at the mechanic. She’d be gone by sunrise the next day, running not only away fromthisCallum MacLeod, but trying to get out of town before Hank Dove could stop her. Jory knew of Hank. It was a small town. Everyone knewofeveryone. He was a recluse. The strong, hulking, silent type. And Esther had fallen head over heels in love with him.

Jory’s earlier itchiness persisted. Not literally, but a phantom itchiness that usually meant something was about to happen.

“Are you okay?” Esther asked, always in tune to the people around her, and Jory nodded.

Esther raised a skeptical eyebrow but didn’t push. They sat in silence for a long while, Esther drinking her coffee, Jory sipping her water.Always so thirsty, lass, the deep voice of her memories said.

“Do you…” Esther ventured, setting her coffee down on the desk. “Do you want to see a picture of Callum so that you can tell me if you see him sniffing around town?”

It seemed like a good idea. Especially if shit went sideways. Jory nodded. Esther grabbed her phone and began typing with both thumbs.

“Here,” she said after a moment before handing her phone to Jory.

Jory sucked in a breath.

Hair the color of dried sea grass. Gray eyes, like the slick backs of whales at dawn. The thick eyebrows, stern jaw.It cannot be, her brain screamed.It is not possible.

And yet, for a man to look so identical to his ancestor after nearly a thousand years of genetic dilution and distribution was just as impossible. Moreso, perhaps.

Jory felt the fat tears slide down her cheeks as she stared at his picture. He wasalive. She stroked a gentle fingertip down his cheek, which did nothing but move the image on the phone.

“Jory?” Esther asked hesitantly. “Do you know him?”

Jory bit her lips between her teeth as her eyebrows came together. A tear dripped off her chin and fell to the floor. Her brain felt like it was spinning wildly in her head, lights and colors blurring in a dizzying whir like a carousel out of control. It came back to her. The attack. Lying by the sea’s edge as she bled and bled. Hearing his shout of dismay behind her. She remembered her dress feeling wet and heavy, from blood and seawater, clinging to her skin as Callum hauled her torso into his lap.

“Marjory. Marjory, mo cridhe. Nay, nay, nay, nay. You cannae—I cannae—You cannae leave me alone,” he’d whispered against her hair, clutching her against his chest.

There’d been so much blood. It couldn’t possibly have all been hers. His sun-bleached shirt had been soaked red with it. He’d been so cold, too cold to live, and she remembered shivering as she closed her eyes, feeling the breeze feathering against her neck, her cheek, the soft shell of her ear.

She was the daughter of a god. Immortal. Eternal. It would take more than a knife to end her life, or whatever had slashed her throat. But her body needed sleep to heal, and so, wrapped in her beloved’s arms, she had allowed herself to sink into it, deep and dreamless. But when she had awoken, she’d been alone on the sand. Callum was gone, not even a body left behind. The sun had risen and begun to set; the tide had come and gone.

Jory remembered standing, stroking her fingers along her throat and shoulder, feeling the healed, whole skin beneath them. She crept to their cottage, ears pricked and listening for any danger. But there had been nothing. Not even the sea birds shrieked.

The cottage was dark, their bed empty, and there was no sign of Callum. His sword was gone and with it, her sealskin. From time to time during their years together, she had let him wear it for warmth. So great was her trust. He’d been so cold holding her. Perhaps he had lived. Perhaps he had followed their attacker. She had waited for him.