Free A Short Trip To Hell: Hellcat Series Origins Volume 1 by Sharon Hannaford

SO THIS IS HELL
    Fergus
    (Early 18th century, Scottish Highlands)
     
     
     
    They came at night, as Fergus had known they would.  They came in great numbers, as he’d thought they would.  McDougal, coward that he was, didn’t come himself, as Fergus had suspected.  But they brought one thing he hadn’t counted on; one thing he couldn’t even have imagined.  One too fast, too strong, too indestructible.  One who bared fangs and laughed darkly.  One that looked like a man; of slight build, a little too thin, with a pasty complexion, an untidy beard and long hair.  One that spoke like a man, with a supercilious sneer and an accent he’d never heard before. One that even bled like a man when you were fast enough to cut it.  But one that wasn’t a man.  Not a man at all, but a legend, a folk tale, a monster to scare children into their beds. 
    A Vampire.
    The men, not even McDougal’s clan but hired mercenaries, toyed with him, jeering scornfully as they set upon him all at once.  And so he fought in the silver-white light of the full moon, in his courtyard, not prepared to allow their filth to defile his residence.  He spun and parried, struck and defended, his great sword glinting as it sliced through the crisp night air, cutting and blocking.  Within minutes several of the men lay dead or wounded, the others backing down, beginning to doubt that their pay was worth their lives. 
    And then the Vampire stepped from the shadows, nonchalantly knocking several of the men aside with a twitch of its arm.  It yanked a sword from one of the fallen, and began circling Fergus with knowing eyes and a hideous grin.
    “Scotsman, you fight well,” it said.  While its accent was thick its English was perfect.  “You won’t beat me, but even a small challenge will be a welcome distraction.”  With a lightning fast feint and a casual flick of the sword it broke through Fergus’s defences and sliced a bloody wound across the Scotsman’s right bicep.  Fergus didn’t feel the laceration, only the simmering anger.  It beggared belief that McDougal, a man almost family, would send one such as this against him, to exact revenge.  The animosity had been simmering for months, and the past few weeks had ignited into outright war over the disputed territory.  The tit for tat had escalated until only a fight to the death would satisfy, but McDougal had taken it too far by sending this supernatural assassin instead of coming himself.  He was a disgrace to name and to Scotland.  The outrage spurred Fergus on. 
    He’d heard the legends, not even a monster like this could survive without a head.  He’d take that head if it was the last thing he did.  And so he watched as the creature circled and feinted, taking its measure, looking for weaknesses.  And then he truly began to fight, knowing it was to the death, and determined to see McDougal rot in Hell for his transgressions.
     
    It could have been hours later that his knees met the hard-packed ground, the squat buildings of his deserted estate blurring before his eyes as the remaining mercenaries hollered and jeered like cavorting demons.  His right arm hung limply at his side, a hundred wounds, some shallow, some deep, scored his body. Blood seeped into his kilt, sticking the coarse fabric to his skin and sweat trickled to join the red rivulets trailing down his face, chest and back.  With his head dropping in defeat, he watched the dark puddle slowly spreading into the grass beneath him, creeping towards the great sword which he longer had the strength to wield.
    “Enough,” the vampire said, though Fergus had since long tired of hearing its voice.  “This has been entertaining but I must get back to my employer, collect my payment and take my leave.” 
    Fergus drew a ragged, soul-deep breath, knowing it to be his last, grateful only that his family; his beautiful, strong-willed, sharp-tongued Isabel and his sweet, sweet Emelia were safe, and that