Lothaire

11

“I have work to do,” the vampire said as he traced Ellie back to her bedroom, leaving her wobbling on her feet. Would she ever get used to teleporting? “You’ll stay in here until I return for you.”

“Work? Getting back your thrones?”

“Do you always ask so many questions?”

“Do you always answer so few of them?” she countered, earning another scowl. “Just tell me this. If Saroya is so all-fired important to you, then why’d you leave her in prison?”

“I was assured you’d be physically safe there.”

“And mentally?”

“I couldn’t care less. I’m only concerned with your body.”

Typical male. “What did I need to be protected from?”

“I’m the Enemy of Old. There are many who would harm Saroya to strike back at me.”

“Harm her. In my body.”

He grasped her jaw, his skin surprisingly warm. “As I’ve told you—you’re protected here, girl. The only one you need fear is me.”

Which meant this was the last place she needed to be. Ellie could pick a lock, but what about busting out of an invisible jail? If there were mystical locks, were there mystical picks? “What about my belongings? Toothbrush, underwear, et cetera?”

“Anything you need is in the bathroom. Any clothing”—he opened a door in the hallway—“is in here.” He’d revealed a closet as big as her old trailer.

Her thoughts blanked when she entered. Dresses, coats, purses, slacks—everywhere. There must be several dozen pairs of shoes, even more sweaters and blouses.

Eyes wide, she spun in place. “These are the finest clothes I’ve ever seen!”

Lothaire leaned his shoulder against the doorway. “They would be. Appalachian couture is reputedly lacking.”

She knew he was pointedly insulting her but chose to act as if he were jesting. She’d fought toe-to-toe with him and lost. Now she’d try another tack.

Mama had always said, “You get more with honey than you do with vinegar. And when you run out of both, you reach for the buckshot.”

Ellie had concluded she might’ve reached for the buckshot pretty early.

Now she said, “Appalachian and couture? Put a quarter in the oxymoron jar.” She meandered toward the back, browsing rack after rack.

At home, she’d had few clothes—a couple pairs of worn jeans, some cutoffs for summer, a few T-shirts, guide gear. Then in prison, four alternating uniforms.

This selection was overwhelming. “Did you get all this for Saroya?”

He seemed more relaxed than he’d been in the dining room, maybe gazing at her with a bit less hostility. “I did.”

Ellie tried to imagine the reaction of a goddess. “She must’ve gone nuts.”

“She desired every last garment and bauble,” he said, his Russian accent thick.

“And you just bought all of it for her?” Ellie snapped her fingers. “Just like that?”

“Of course. She’s my woman.”

“She must love you very much.”

He said nothing, just crossed his muscular arms over his chest.

“Does she?”

“I’ve told you, she’s my fated Bride.”

If he’d been telling the truth about never telling lies—which might be a lie?—then Ellie might view his answer as a deflection. “Do you love Saroya?”

“When mortals ask me incessant questions, I customarily snatch out their tongues and watch them bleed to death.”

Instead of being horrified, she thought, Definite deflection! Trouble in paradise?

Making her tone casual, she said, “Good to know about the tongues.” Her red-tipped fingers trailed lovingly over the buttery leather of a coat. “Can I try this on?”

When he shrugged, she slipped into the coat, eyes going heavy-lidded as she hugged it close to her. “Lothaire, I couldn’t have even imagined things like this.”

“Again, I will accept only the best.”

Like a goddess for a Bride, instead of a mortal? A deity, instead of a peasant girl he’d found so lacking that he’d watched her for years, disappointed by fate’s choice for him?

And all the while she’d never known that a vampire had kept her in his sights.

Seeming to make a decision, he strode to a polished dresser against the back wall. After pulling open a shallow drawer, he returned to his spot in the doorway without a word.

“What’s in there?” Jewels. Huge. Shiny. “Oh—my—God.” She gasped. “Can’t catch my breath.”

At once he traced beside her, grasping her upper arm, this time more gently.

“Obliged, Lothaire. The glittering about blinded me.” And she couldn’t help but think that just one of those stones would probably float her entire family for years. Might keep the coal company off their asses. . . .

“You react like this, even though you’ll never own any of it?”

In a defensive tone, she said, “They’re still pretty. I’m still happy to have seen them.” She pulled against his hold, but he turned her to him.

She stared up at him, wondering what it would be like to have a man buy her things like this. To have him want me so badly, he’d kill for me.

His brows drew together. She noticed they were darker than his hair, bold slashes across a chiseled face with skin as smooth and pale as marble.

As if unable to help himself, he threaded his fingers through her hair.

Normally, she loved to be petted like this, could be made docile as a kitten. But now a murderer was touching her. He let the strands sift through his splayed fingers, his gaze following the movement.

Stroking, stroking . . .

Surprisingly, some of her tension began to ease—

He dropped his hand. “I’ll leave you alone in your suite for some time. You will be alone,” he grated in an insistent tone. As if she were arguing that point with him.

He turned toward a side doorway to a chamber connected to hers. His? Well, how cozy.

“There is no escape, no telephone. Consider this room your new cell.”

She followed him. “Wait, what am I supposed to do?”

“Go to bed at dawn. Accustom your body to sleeping during the day.”

“And tomorrow? What then? You said I might have a month left to live. What do you expect me to do for that time?”

“Put on weight.” He slammed the door in her face.

Ellie glared at the panels of the solid door, her fists balling. “You asshole!” She yanked on the door handle. Locked!

She swept her gaze around the room. My new cell? No matter how open and airy it was, she remained trapped. She hated being confined!

Hurrying through the French doors to her balcony, she sucked in deep breaths of night air.

New York City lay before her, all bright lights and energy. How badly she wished to be down there! She imagined all the places to explore, all the new and interesting people she could meet.

But she’d never get the chance. Because there were mystical barriers. And goddesses and arrogant blood-drinkers.

She strode back inside, snatched up her dresser stool, and chucked it at the boundary. The stool bounced directly back inside, bounding toward her. She started laughing hysterically until it connected with her shin. That was going to leave a mark.

Ha-ha, Saroya. Black-and-blue’s your color. She was just about to run her face into the doorknob when she remembered she wasn’t to harm herself, else risk her family.

So she marched into the bathroom. Seeing herself in all this makeup with the Elvira-in-heat dress was like looking at Saroya. For the first time, Ellie was seeing what the goddess would prefer to look like.

She turned on the hot water to wash her face. “I hate you more than hell, Saroya.”

A psychologist could have a field day with this. Staring into the mirror with hate? Daily affirmations turned to daily accusations?

Damn it, I should be dead right now! But the bitch had thwarted her yet again. “You may have won this battle, Saroya, but I’ll win the war. I’ll destroy you, somehow.” Even as she said these bold words, Ellie wrestled with regret over her plight.

Part of her still wished for another chance, for the possibility to live. Why did she have to make this sacrifice? Why had it fallen to her?

But she’d long resigned herself to her fate.

Gathering water in her hands, she said, “Your big finish is rolling in like a thunderstorm. No stopping it.” She scrubbed her face harder than she ever had, ridding herself of Saroya’s war paint.

Another gander into the mirror. I’m back, she thought, even though the goddess’s presence lurked within, eating away at her like a cancer.

After drying her tender skin, Ellie returned to the closet. Combing through the choices, she threw on a pair of jeans and a simple navy blouse. Feeling more like Ellie, she left her feet bare.

Unable to stop herself, she sneaked another peek at those jewels. She recalled the way Lothaire had shown them to her. Without a word, without bragging.

Why had he cared if Ellie saw them? Had he anticipated her floored reaction? Figured she’d go crazy like Saroya?

Then she frowned. Lothaire had never said anything to indicate that he and Saroya liked each other, much less loved each other. He’d talked only of fate and bloodings.

Questions about him surfaced endlessly. Did he love the goddess? Why hadn’t he bedded his Bride? Were all vampires as ruthless as he was?

She wished she could analyze Lothaire at her leisure, maybe use her degree to benefit her.

One of the reasons she’d studied psychology was that she’d always found it easy to empathize with others. A handy tool for a counselor.

But psychology was the science of human behavior. He was in- human. . . .

She would just have to work harder to discover what made Lothaire tick, using any means necessary.

When she exited the closet, she remembered that earlier they’d walked out of the main doorway from her suite. They’d traced back inside. Unlike the door adjoining Lothaire’s room, it would be unlocked.

Wouldn’t even have to pick it.

Maybe when he left, she’d investigate this place. Did she dare disobey him? He’d probably never even know she’d sneaked out.

With that aim in mind, she knelt at the doorway crack to his bedroom, listening for him.

She heard the rustle of sheets, a stifled curse. He’d gone to bed? After telling her he had work to do? And wasn’t this kind of his workday?

Again she thought, Typical male.

Wait. Had he just . . . groaned?

I’m never going to sleep with this erection.

Though Lothaire was exhausted, it throbbed for relief, impossible to ignore. He couldn’t turn on his front without grinding his shaft into the mattress, couldn’t turn on his back without his hands descending to masturbate his length.

But he’d be damned if he spilled alone when he was in possession of his Bride.

His eyes narrowed when the mortal knelt at their shared doorway. Finished shrieking and throwing things, Elizabeth? He could hear her light breaths panting at the crack under the door.

She spied on him? Lothaire was a master at spying, enjoyed few things more.

Over his long lifetime, he’d watched countless beings having sex, was an unabashed voyeur. And he’d noted that every time a couple neared release, they reached a point of no return when all sense and inhibitions were lost, a point past which nothing could pull them apart.

Lothaire himself had never been unaware of what he was doing, nor unable to stop himself.

Now he feared that if he neared climax tonight, he’d cross a line, tossing Elizabeth into his bed. He’d strip her naked and bury his cock and fangs so deep in her, he wouldn’t know where she ended and he began. . . .

No. I will not lower myself to a mortal.

Lothaire could wait for Saroya to rise tomorrow night. He would wait, he swore to himself, even as his mind whispered, She’s not going to.

But how to sleep? He switched on the metronome beside his bed. Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . Soothing, but not nearly enough to combat the persistent ache in his balls.

Maybe he should drug himself as his former jailer customarily did—Declan Chase, an Irish soldier of the Order, known as the Blademan.

Lothaire sat up, clasping his forehead. Had his escape from the Order’s island prison been only yesterday? It felt like weeks had passed.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, Chase had been mortally wounded. Lothaire had given the Blademan his blood in exchange for Lothaire’s own freedom—anything to reach Saroya before the execution.

Yet another bargain. Attempt to turn Chase into a vampire; save Saroya.

Centuries had passed since Lothaire had last made a vampire. Perhaps I’m a sire once more? But the blood was no guarantee. Did Chase even live yet?

My enemy. And potentially my spawn. He frowned, unsure how he felt about that. Especially since Chase had tortured Lothaire during his imprisonment.

Though the Blademan had himself been brutally tortured as a lad—and therefore knew what the hell he was about—Lothaire had merely laughed at the pain. Even when his skin was burned to ash.

Chase hadn’t understood; no misery could compare to hiding in the snow while listening as one’s mother was savagely raped and burned alive. No cruelty could compare to what Stefanovich had done to Lothaire years later.

The earth grinding over me, roots threading my body.

Block that memory out! Or stare down into the abyss. . . .

No matter what happened between Lothaire and Chase, they were connected now, had exchanged blood between them. Which meant that Lothaire could reach into Chase’s mind with his own, could investigate his memories.

Perhaps I don’t need to sleep. He only had to get close enough to Chase.

The Blademan’s woman was a Valkyrie. She would have taken him back to Val Hall, the Louisiana estate where her coven resided—with its never-ending fog, lightning flashes, and ungodly Valkyrie shrieks.

A place Lothaire knew well. He was one of only a handful of vampires who’d seen the inside and still lived.

He could go there now, seeking Chase.

Yet if Lothaire had these plans, then others might as well. Immortals from all over the Lore would want a piece of Declan Chase, the bogeyman who’d crept through the night, abducting scores of them and their loved ones for ghastly experiments.

But I get him first.

Especially since Lothaire would get to him first. . . .