To Tame A Highland Warrior
Page 42

“Release him,” Grimm said quietly.
“Eh?” The man glanced around, startled. A sneer crossed his red face as his gaze lit on Grimm, who was partially concealed by the shadows. The meat butcher straightened menacingly, suspending the boy by one hand. “What’s yer concern wi’ me business? Stay out o’ it. I dinna ask yer opinion and I dinna want it. I found the l’il whelp stealing me vittles—”
“Nay! I dinna steal! Bannion gives us the scraps.”
The meat butcher backhanded the lad across the face, and blood sprayed from the child’s nose.
In the shadow of the lean-to Grimm stared transfixed at the bleeding child. Memories began to crowd him—the flash of a silver blade, a tumble of blond curls and a bloodstained smock, pillars of smoke—an unnatural wind began to rise, and he felt his body twisting inside, reshaping itself until he was hopelessly lost to the rage within. Far beyond conscious thought, Grimm lunged for the meat butcher, crushing him against the stone wall.
“You son of a bitch.” Grimm closed his hands around the man’s windpipe. “The child needs food. When I release you, you’re going to go in the kitchen and pack him a basket of the finest meat you’ve got, and then you’re going to—”
“Like ’ell I am!” the butcher managed to wheeze. He twisted in Grimm’s grip and plunged blindly forward with the knife. As the blade slid home, Grimm’s hand relaxed infinitesimally, and the butcher sucked in a whistling breath of air. “There, ye bastard,” he cried hoarsely. “Nobody messes wi’ Robbie MacAuley. ’At’ll be teachin’ ye.” He shoved Grimm with both hands, twisting the knife as he pushed.
As Grimm swayed back, the butcher started forward, only to fall instinctively backward again, his eyes widening incredulously, for the madman he’d stabbed with a brutality and efficiency that should have caused a mortal wound was smiling.
“Smile. That’s it—go on, smile as ye be dyin’,” he cried. “ ’Cause dyin’ ye are, and that’s fer sure.”
Grimm’s smile contained such sinister promise that the meat butcher flattened himself up against the wall of the inn like lichen seeking a deep, shady crevice between the stones. “There’s a knife in yer belly, man,” the meat butcher hissed, eyeing the protruding hilt of the knife to reassure himself it was, indeed, lodged in his assailant’s gut.
Breathing evenly, Grimm grasped the hilt with one hand and removed the blade, calmly placing it beneath the butcher’s quivering jowls.
“You’re going to get the lad the food he came for. Then you will apologize,” Grimm said mildly, his eyes glittering.
“To ’ell with ye,” the butcher sputtered. “Any minute now ye’ll be falling on yer face.”
Grimm leveled the blade below the butcher’s ear, flush across his jugular. “Doona count on it.”
“Ye should be dead, man. There’s a hole in yer belly!”
“Grimm.” Quinn’s voice cut through the night air.
Pressing gently, with the care of a lover, Grimm pierced the skin on the butcher’s neck.
“Grimm,” Quinn repeated softly.
“Gawd, man! Get him offa me!” the butcher cried frantically. “He’s deranged! His bleedin’ eyes are like—”
“Shut up, you imbecile,” Quinn said in a modulated, conciliatory tone. He knew from experience that harshly uttered words could escalate the state of Berserkergang. Quinn circled the pair cautiously. Grimm had frozen with the blade locked to the man’s throat. The ragged lad huddled at their feet, gazing up with wide eyes.
“He be Berserk,” the lad whispered reverently. “By Odin, look at his eyes.”
“He be crazed,” the butcher whimpered, looking at Quinn. “Do something!”
“I am doing something,” Quinn said quietly. “Make no loud noises, and for Christ’s sake, don’t move.” Quinn stepped closer to Grimm, making certain his friend could see him.
“The whelp’s just a homeless ne’er-do-well. ’Tis not the thing to be killing an honest man for,” the butcher whined. “How was I supposed to know he was a fardlin’ Berserker?”
“It shouldn’t have made any difference whether he was or not. A man shouldn’t behave honorably only when there’s someone bigger and tougher around to force him,” Quinn said, disgusted. “Grimm, do you want to kill this man or feed the boy?” Quinn spoke gently, close to his friend’s ear. Grimm’s eyes were incandescent in the dim light, and Quinn knew he was deep into the bloodlust that accompanied Berserkergang. “You only want to feed the boy, don’t you? All you want to do is to feed the boy and keep him from harm, remember? Grimm—Gavrael—listen to me. Look at me!”