Draco fled through the warren of narrow streets below Castle Rock. A stitch stabbed his side—a reminder that, with a belly full of ale and mutton, he wasn’t in the best state to escape the warriors who pounded the alleyways behind him. Nonetheless, the fear of being caught spurred Draco on.
His feet flew over the slick cobbles, damp after an afternoon shower of rain. Ahead, a wagon laden with baskets trundled out onto the street, blocking Draco’s way.
Spitting out a curse, he leaped up onto the wagon, causing the mule pulling it to give a shrill, grating whinny.
“Hey, get off!” the man leading the mule bellowed.
Draco ignored him. Nimble as a hare, he clambered over the mountain of wicker baskets and then jumped, landing lightly on his feet on the other side.
Shouts echoed off the stone buildings behind him, but now Draco allowed himself a grin.
Catch me if you can.
The wagon would slow that lot down, giving him time to get away.
Emerging into the wider thoroughfare of Grassmarket, Draco sprinted east. He knew Edinburgh well; he’d visited the town hundreds of times over the centuries, watching it grow from a Roman fort to a thriving Scottish royal center. The tangle of fetid alleys around the fish market would be easy enough to lose those idiots in.
Still, despite that he was close to shaking off his pursuers, Draco regretted lingering in town on this visit. The White Horse was comfortable, and the serving lass there had shared his bed the night before. Instead of leaving that morning as he’d planned, he’d enjoyed a hearty noon meal before sauntering out to the stables to saddle his horse.
Henry and his lads had been waiting for him.
Henry, the king’s son, had been after reckoning with Draco ever since he cuckolded him three years prior. It would probably have been wise for Draco to avoid Edinburgh for the time being—but he wasn’t given to being wise.
He liked to push things to the limit, every time.
Losing his lover Magda had turned him reckless. He’d been part of the raid afterward that massacred those responsible for her death—but had learned first-hand that vengeance sometimes left a bitter taste in a man’s mouth. The years since hadn’t been easy, but he’d realized he had no choice but to move on.
Draco left Grassmarket, diving into a dark lane and narrowly missing being doused by the chamber pot someone emptied overhead. Still grinning, as the fear of capture gave way to the thrill of escaping, Draco rounded the corner.
And collided with a wall of leather-clad muscle.
Henry’s thugs were on him in an instant. Heavy fists collided with his face, his stomach.
Shit. He was sure he’d out-smarted them. How had the bastards caught up with him?
Draco fought savagely—but to no avail. They had him cornered, and they weren’t going to let him slip their net again. Grunts and the sound of fists pummeling flesh filled the lane. No one came to Draco’s aid.
Eventually, he hung between two of them, his head throbbing from the beating he’d just sustained, spitting out blood onto the cobbles.
A tall figure stepped out of the shadowed recesses of a building that overhung the street. A thin, young man, with aquiline features and dark hair brushed back into a rakish widow’s peak, stood before him.
Henry, son of King David of Scotland, had been waiting a while for this moment. “Finally … we have the freak.”
Freak.
The name made Draco’s mouth twist. Of course, Henry had discovered Draco’s immortality a year earlier, when he’d jammed a dirk into his guts in an Edinburgh ale house and seen his victim alive and well the following day.
He’d caught and tried to kill Draco twice more after that.
Really, Draco was a fool to come back to Edinburgh.
Over the centuries, he’d made a point of keeping who he was a secret. Folk didn’t tend to respond well when they discovered an immortal walked amongst them. Draco was a Moor of Valentia, a town on Spain’s southern coast, and he’d been born well over a thousand years earlier. He’d joined the Roman Ninth legion at twenty winters, and had ended up in Britannia a few years after that. And then when the Ninth fell in northern Caledonia, he’d been one of three survivors cursed by a Pict witch to eternal life.
Draco couldn’t die, although that didn’t mean he couldn’t feel pain.
“How’s Suisan?” he slurred. They’d smashed his head repeatedly up against the wall,