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

he’d had the foresight to send the other clan folk with her.  Isabel would know what to do, he only wished he could warn her of the depths to which McDougal had sunk, hoped she knew how much he loved her, prayed her father would protect both of them, and that McDougal would get his comeuppance in time.    
    The Vampire came in close to finish him, as he’d known it would.  He may not know Vampires, but he knew men, and he knew arrogance. This creature could not simply kill him quickly and walk away, it needed its victims to know that they were dying and that it had caused their deaths and their pain.  The monster had ripped a dagger from one of hired men and held it loosely in one hand.  It leaned down and threaded its other hand into Fergus’s hair, tugging his head back to grin maniacally into Fergus’s face.  Its breath was rancid and smelled of the grave.
    “Think of the fun I will have with your wife and daughter once I’m done with you,” the Vampire snarled.  “I can find them you know,” it grinned again, flaring its nostrils. “I can scent them.  I’m like a hound, only a thousand times better.  I’ll have much more fun with them before I kill them though.”  Then its hand flashed forward, burying the dagger deep in Fergus’s chest, thrusting upward and towards his heart.  It wasn’t fear of death that flooded Fergus, but mindless rage.  A fury that stiffened his spine, tightened his muscles and forced his body to produce just one more spurt of adrenalin. 
    He lunged forward, catching the Vampire with his shoulder and throwing it to the ground beneath him.  He clamped down on the creature’s throat with his teeth, the last weapon left to him, as he heard the shouts of alarm from the startled onlookers.  Cool, iron-tasting liquid burst across Fergus’s face, obscuring the vision in one eye and filling his mouth.  The Vampire howled in surprise and pain, clamouring to push Fergus away.  The Scotsman, no longer feeling anything but fury and desperation, tore the dagger from his own flesh and turned the blade towards the Vampire beneath him, driving the sharpened steel into the creature’s ravaged neck, feeling as the dagger hit bone and cleaved into the creature’s spine.  And then he knew no more. 
     
    The Beast awoke.  Every sense on alert, hearing perfect, scent superior.  Hungry.  Only one need drove him, echoed through his mind, consumed his senses.  Feed.  He had to feed.  His senses immediately located something warm and appealing.  Live prey, exactly what he needed.  The Beast smiled, finally opening his eyes. 
    The prey fought and screamed, calling a name, imploring, shouting.  Fear-tinged adrenalin laced the air, exciting him further.  His prey bucked against him as he held it just long enough to savour its scent, and then he sank his teeth into the warm, enticing flesh, felt the ambrosial taste of blood spill into his mouth.  He drank; drank deep and long, frantic to quench the torturous ache in his body and mind. 
    Much too soon the blood ran out, his sucking mouth could pull no more sustenance from his prey.  His appetite nowhere near sated, he dropped the husk of his first meal and drew in a breath.  Ahh, more prey approached.  This time smaller, but even more appetising. His hunger was still a burning agony.  A small voice called out and a door opened.  He pounced before the tiny prey could comprehend the danger.  A small shriek echoed around the room, and then a high pitched voice began crying one word over and over again.  Something about that word pulled at him, a shadowy memory trying to surface, a thought desperately trying to break free, to show him something important.  But the hunger was overpowering, there was nothing as important as the hunger.  
    With a snarl he lowered his head to the hard, quick pulse, throbbing in the squirming prey’s neck.  With a satisfied groan he sank his fangs into that vein, the pain of the hunger