moors on cold, moonless nights, and at their boldest, appeared in shadows cast upon walls by flickering candle flames.
But for Campbell MacHendrie, who as of less than an hour ago had formally become the Marquis of Lycansay, monsters were the stuff of reality. They kept his family home from crumbling, guarded the far reaches of his lands, and most importantly, they were the blood that had given him life. Yet, for all he’d been taught and even witnessed, he couldnae help but sense there was more that remained untold than revealed.
And at the moment, he was starting to think that was for the better as he followed his cousin, Ian, through the torch-lit dungeons under Lycansay Hall.
“I dunnae understand,” Campbell said. “What could be of such importance that ye needed me to leave my dead father’s bedside?”
Ian spread his arms wide, skimmed his hands along the dungeon’s moss-coated walls. “This is all yers, now.”
Of that, he knew full too well. “Surely ye didnae bring me down here to tell me what I already ken.”
“Of course I didnae.” Skidding to a sudden halt, Ian and his impeccably polished black books intruded upon a horde of squealing rats emerging from a pool of stagnant water. He appeared unmoved by the scurrying vermin. “The monsters of Dundaire live down here. Are ye nae curious to finally learn what they are?”
His younger cousin by two years, Ian had a penchant for seeking trouble. Especially where trouble normally did not exist. “Nae really.”
“Me thinks they’re dragons and I say we slay them.”
“With what? Our bare hands?”
Ian frowned. “For a mighty marquis ye are a dolt, my lord. We shall use yer father’s swords.” He pointed to a trio of blades mounted on the wall to his right.
Reaching for the lowest of the finely forged weapons, Campbell ran his fingers over the double-edged steel. “Even if we gave it our best effort, we couldnae fight with one of these. Claymores are the blades of men and warriors.”
“Are ye saying we are nae men?”
“Of course we’re nae men. Ye are ten and I am two-and-ten. But my point was aimed at our lack of training. Do ye ken how hard it is to wield such a heavy sword?”
With a huff, Ian folded his arms over his chest, the moss-marred cuffs of his shirt barely missing the diamond-eyed wolf pin tacked low on his cravat. “Ignoring the monsters will win ye no favors with the villagers, Cousin.”
“As marquis, I need no favors with the townsfolk.”
A low grumble vibrated through the dungeons.
Ian tsked. “See what ye’ve gone and done? Ye’ve angered the house with yer pompous attitude. Next it will eat one of us.”
First, he was nae pompous. Second, he was nae the cause of Lycansay Hall’s fury as the house loved him as much as it had loved his father. “Houses dunnae eat boys.”
“I beg to differ. Just last week Octavia Lovegrove said a boy went missing in South Dundaire, a swath of his cravat found sticking out from the stones of Moonfell Abbey.”
Campbell tilted his head. “Since when did ye start listening to that Sassenach witch?”
Ian’s cheeks turned a bright red as he dropped his hazel-eyed gaze to the floor.
Campbell fumed. “On the soul of Saint Andrew, please tell me ye didnae kiss the Sassenach.”
“’Twas nae my fault. The lass bewitched me.”
Campbell shook his head. Ian had an excuse for everything, which was why it was a good thing his cousin had been born to the younger MacHendrie brother rather than to his own father or Ian would now be marquis. “Ye are a menace, Ian MacHendrie. A bothersome menace with yer love of tall tales and trouble. And now that I am marquis, ye better get ye head out of ye arse, because I will nae have ye causing me problems I dunnae need. Ye ken?”
Ian offered a pleading look as he raised his head and stared Campbell square in the eyes. “I am nae a liar. I ken what I saw at Moonfell Abbey. That boy was eaten—bones, hair, and all—by his own house. Do ye nae believe the fact?”
“No.”
“But his cravat was snatched. I saw the remnants of it with my own eyes. The house ate the lad.”
Bits of Campbell’s own clothing often snagged on the centuries-old fragments of Lycansay Hall. In fact, just today he’d ripped his favorite waistcoat on a protruding nail, while he turned a corner on the third floor. “’Tis a consequence of old houses, nothing more. Besides, Lycansay Hall