Page 13 of Midnight Conquest

MacLeod’s arrival had unsettled more than just the staff. Her husband had removed any locks she’d had on her doors, but since his absence, she hadn’t needed locks since threats to her were gone. Now she wished they’d been installed.

She closed her eyes, praying the brute passed out cold—and left before dawn, as he claimed he would.

∞∞∞

Broderick moved like a shadow through the mist-choked streets of Stewart Glen. The crooked buildings loomed above him, their weathered beams and stone facades pressing inward as if judging his presence. He walked tall, unbothered, meeting their silent scrutiny with the confidence of a predator in familiar territory.

Men like Davina’s husband weren’t rare—they were the rot that festered in plain sight. And where there was rot, there was feeding to be done.

The night was damp and thick, the fog swallowing color and sound alike. His footsteps made no sound on the cobblestones as he slipped between pools of lantern light.

Stretching his senses outward, Broderick opened his mind to the chorus of mortal thoughts that simmered beneath the surface. In his early years, the flood of voices had nearly broken him—so many minds screaming, pleading, rambling. But with time and ruthless discipline, he’d learned to sift through the noise. Now, the thoughts came only when summoned, each one a thread he could pull.

Tonight, one thread snapped taut.

A flash of imagery—a meaty fist slick with blood, the crunch of knuckles, a pair of stocky legs in filthy trousers.

A muffled cry pierced the stillness. Then another. He turned toward the sound, steps silent, and slipped into the alley.

There, in the gloom, an ogre of a man loomed over a boy no older than ten. The child cowered, arms raised to shield his head. Blood painted his face, his eye swollen shut, lip split wide.

“You owe me! Now where is it?” the brute snarled.

Another slap. Another whimper.

Broderick stepped to the edge of the shadows. “Whatever ye think he has,” he warned, smooth and cold, “I’m sure he’d have given it to ye by now.”

The man spun. The boy peered around his legs, his one good eye wide with fear.

Broderick felt the Hunger stir—hot and low in his gut—but held it at bay.

The man squared up, puffing out his chest. Broderick caught the flicker of thought: “I can take him.”

He jabbed a sausage-thick finger at Broderick’s chest. “This ain’t yer business. Turn ‘round an’ walk away, or—”

Broderick seized the man’s hand and crushed it.

Bones snapped like dry twigs. The man shrieked and dropped to his knees.

Broderick hauled him up by his stained tunic, lifting him easily until their faces were inches apart. The man’s heart pounded like a war drum, the scent of terror sweet and heady.

His canines descended. The Hunger surged.

Broderick bared his fangs, letting the man see what was coming.

The brute’s eyes bulged as panic seized him. He kicked and thrashed, howling—until Broderick slammed him against the alley wall, the sound echoing like thunder between the stones. The man groaned, stunned. His struggles weakened.

Broderick gripped his face, turning it roughly aside, and sank his fangs into the thick cord of flesh just below the jaw.

The blood hit his tongue like fire and honey—heady, thick with sin. As always, the torrent of memories followed. Broderick braced himself.

He saw the man’s life unspool behind his eyes: a childhood of abuse, twisted into something darker. Instead of breaking the cycle, the bastard had embraced it. He had hurt others—children—used them, sold them.

Faces flashed before Broderick’s mind. Frightened. Broken. Forgotten.

Croft was his name. The bastard lorded over a growing chain of trafficked children stretching from Strathbogie to Stewart Glen, peddling their innocence to nobles who masked their depravity behind silk and coin. This child in the alley tonight was one of the few in a new chain the wretch had started in Stewart Glen.

Broderick hunted the wicked. Drank from those who preyed on the helpless. But he did not kill. That line, thin as it was, still mattered. He was no god. No executioner.

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