The men dressed, Cal at first confused about the kilt and attempting to retain his boxer briefs … and Eric, adjusting his newly acquired, most comfortable clothing and adorning it with a beautiful tartan and broach the lovely Lady McAffrey had obviously provided just for him.

“Where’s mine?” Cal asked, gawking at the regal vampire looking more Scottish than he himself.

“You haven’t earned it yet, my friend. Now, this is a dirk, you –”

“Gimme that,” hissed Cal. “I know what a damn dirk is.”

“Yes, well, don’t cut yourself. What’s your plan, there are only a few hours remaining of the night.”

Cal’s plan? His plan was to get some sleep then mosey on down to the camp and introduce himself as a joiner around noon. Of course, he knew better than to vocalize that plan. “Ah, well, for tonight, I figured lets find you a safe place to sleep during the day. We’ll stay put, the camp will move, but be back for the important battle.”

“Move? At night?”

“Yeah, a night march.”

The vampire’s brow rose, all matter-of-fact. “Then we move with it. You’ll rest the day with me and we’ll do the trek with the Jacobite warriors.”

“No, no, no need. We’re early, Eric. I just want the big battle.” Shit, this wasn’t going like he wanted.

“Are you a leader? No. I decide. Besides,” grinned Eric with an evil scowl. “There will be battle on the journey, we should take part. How else can you write about the whole thing? Now, it’s too late to introduce ourselves. We’ll do it after sunset tomorrow. You will rest with me.”

“Fine. Sure.” Hell no. The minute you’re dead to the world, I’m out, Cal thought.

Eric had other plans. He led Cal to the hills and located a deep cave. It was low but had not been occupied by anything other than wildlife hunkered against a storm. In the bundle from the lovely Lady McAffrey was a length of rope. The vampire made good use of it and whether Cal wanted to or not, he was bound wrists and ankles to the vampire who became dead weight the moment dawn arrived.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Cal thought about what the hell he was doing and why. He tried to justify the whole thing. And, he did his damn best to assure he’d remain alive after the vampire woke, hungry and all fangy.  Manipulating his fingers carefully, he tugged the tartan free from Eric and managed to twist it again and again around his own neck. Eric was just egotistical enough to hold off the blood sucking and not damage the pretty plaid.

It was easily the longest day of Cal McAffrey’s life. The cave was dark as night but his body knew it was daytime and itched to get out and see what he could see. How could vampires stand this? Nothing has color or life in the night. Well, short of a pretty lass … and tied to a dead man, there wasn’t much likelihood of Cal getting any more in historic Scotland under Bonny Prince Charlie than he did under John Biebe’s roof.

He dozed often but never reached the depth of sleep to assure restfulness. What if his guess on the dates were wrong? What if he was off, maybe by years? The uprising began decades before Culloden. He could be way off. Miles from Culloden.

Eric stirred and Cal stiffened. “You bite me, I swear to God I’ll drag your sorry ass out into the sun tomorrow morning!” He hissed and kicked to assure the vampire heard him clearly.

“It seems to me, we have trust issues here,” Eric said as his mouth dove for Cal’s wrist.

“Goddamn you! Uh … oh.” The fangs were out but they were focused on slicing the bondage.

“Would this be considered BDSM?” The vampire chuckled just before the ropes snapped. “I told you I would not drink from you.”

Finally free, Cal scrambled away and rubbed his wrists. No damage, whew. But there was a concern. “So, who are you going to drink from?”

Eric shrugged, arranged his tartan. “Someone.”

“Great. What the fuck have I done, bringing a vampire here to end people’s lives? Things are tough enough out there.”

“I promise to only drink from a soldier about to die. Will that suit you? And besides, I don’t kill every time I feed. In fact, I seldom kill anymore … unless the human provokes me, like your capturers last evening.” He grinned. “To be honest, I hardly need to feed very often at all. I’m very … very … old. Come.”

Cal followed Eric out into the chilled night and through the darkness. “How old?”

“More than a thousand years. I was a Viking warrior. The son of a great Chief.”

“Ah,” Cal tripped over an unseen root and quickly righted himself. “So that’s why you think you should do the leader stuff, huh? But don’t you be forgetting, this is my mission and my book and all my idea.”

Eric turned and offered an elegant, over-zealous bow. “Yes, McAffrey, it is your idea. But how would you get here without me? I think we should be talking about a partnership.”

“A what?”

“You write your book, research possibilities provided by yours truly … then you share the profits with … yours truly.”

“You’re a greedy bloodsucker.”

“That I am. Down. Now.”

The last two words were so calm Cal never got the point until Eric swung a leg and dropped him to the ground. Less that twenty feet away, sixteen British soldiers, their red coats glowing in the moonlight, poked bayonets into the underbrush. Cal held his breath, Eric had no breath to hold but lay still as death right at the reporter’s side until the danger passed.

“Let’s go.”

“Where?” Cal’s first reaction was to run the other way. All he wanted to do was observe. It was looking more and more like observation would not be in the cards.

“We follow. There will be something for you to write, I guarantee.”

“Yeah, yeah. And someone for you to drink, I’m sure.”

“Did I not bring you food last evening? Now you must tolerate my need to feed. Silent. Oh, ah. Keep low, here it goes.”

To his horror, Cal sat in the tall grass and watched a scuffle. Eight Jacobites in kilts against sixteen Red Coats. Twice he covered his head. Not one rifle fired but the battle was as brutal as anything Cal had ever seen in his life … even on a movie screen. A wild yellow-haired Scot swung a ball – really, a freaking iron ball with spikes on a chain – taking out three soldiers himself. Then, without warning, Eric the Viking vampire was right in the middle of it, tossing men left and right. Cal gulped and cringed. At least he seemed to be fighting for the good guys. After a surprisingly brief period, sixteen British soldiers lay writhing or dead in bloody puddles, three Highland Scots were motionless … and one vampire, looking dead as he really is.

That Eric, such a kidder.

The Scots gathered their wounded and melted over a hill. When they came back for their dead they’d find one less … and discover that the remaining were drained of blood.

Cal stood and tossed his hands “Ah fuck, now that’s just gross.”

“Did you get your story?” Eric ran an arm across his mouth and shook back his hair.

So close to the dead, Cal was suddenly weak. He lowered to a knee and searched for a pulse. The Highland Scot was a massive man, a brave soul and powerful fighter. It took four of the soldiers to take him down and now? “Jesus,” gasped the reporter.

Eric knelt beside him. “McAffrey, you’ve never been a soldier, have you?”

Cal’s head shook. He couldn’t take his eyes from the bloody pulp. The Brits had gouged the man’s face until it was unrecognizable. In that moment before Eric had joined the fight, the other Highlanders were almost completely overtaken and this poor man was being bludgeoned beyond death. Cal looked up.

“You jumped in to help them.”

“It was battle. I enjoy battle.”

“No. This man’s plight made you join in. You did it for him, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t a fair fight.” Eric stomped off.

“Are you saying you were an honorable warrior?” the reporter didn’t even bother to shout, he knew the vampire could hear him.