Lothaire

16

When Lothaire awakened, he lay in a bank of snow. Though it was surely still day in New York, the moon’s yellow light streamed down over him.

Sleep-tracing. Again. Where the hell am I now? Was it to happen every time he slept?

He darted his gaze around, recognizing his whereabouts—because it was a property he returned to often, one he now owned.

The field where his mother had died.

How distinctly he recalled Ivana’s death and the night that followed. On a still eve just like this one, he’d finally been able to rise from his snowy cocoon. . . .

The sun had barely set when he began clawing himself out of the snow. The humans had long since gone, but Lothaire had been forced to wait in agony for twilight.

At last he broke through the outer layer of ice and ran in search of his mother . . . hoping against hope. Then he spied all that was left of the proud Ivana—black ash against glaringly white snow.

With a choked yell, he reached for her remains, but a slight breeze soughed, scattering her ashes across the field.

“No, no, Mother!” Crying, frantic to touch even a fragment of her, he lunged for them—

And he traced instead, brushing his fingertips over disintegrating ash.

The first time he’d ever been able to teleport. Shock welled. Hours earlier, that skill would have prevented Ivana’s sacrifice.

He sank to his knees, filled with a bitter hatred for himself. I failed her. Tears fell—until he perceived a presence.

The Daci, all around him, cloaked in mist.

His mother had told him that her family might come for him once the humans were gone. Indeed, they had.

“Lothaire,” they whispered like the wind.

He shot to his feet, jerking around in circles. “Show yourselves!” He turned the hatred he’d felt for himself outward. He heard his mother’s voice in his mind: “Rely on cold reason.” But he couldn’t.

Fury burned inside him just as the sun had burned her.

“You filthy cowards! Where were you last night? Where is Serghei?” he screamed till spittle sprayed from his lips, freezing there. “Let me see your faces!”

“Lothaire . . .”

He traced forward, flying into the mist with his fangs bared. Couldn’t see them. Eyes wide, he realized they were the mist—and within it, so was he. “You let her burn!” he yelled, throat gone raw. “Fight me!”

From all around, he heard their broken murmurs: “. . . her curse . . .” “. . . he traces within the mist . . .” “. . . Horde blood . . .” “. . . lacking . . .” “. . . rage . . .”

“Yes, I’ve Horde blood! The better to destroy you with—”

They merely traced away, dissipating.

The night was still, utter silence. Utter aloneness. . . .

Over the centuries, Lothaire had returned here time and again, desperately seeking his mother’s people, seeking Serghei.

But never had he sleep-traced this kind of distance. The snow bit into his bare feet, a chill breeze leaching the warmth from his uncovered torso.

Despise this place. Lothaire could still remember the smell of Ivana’s flesh burning on that freezing dawn.

Because her father, Serghei, the king of the Daci, had forsaken her.

The grandfather Lothaire had never—in his endless life—been able to find.

When young, Lothaire hadn’t comprehended the pain his mother had felt. Since then he’d known torture many times, had felt his own skin seared away in the sun.

Now he understood what Serghei had subjected Ivana to. I can still feel her brittle ashes against my fingertips. . . .

At the memory, rage seethed inside Lothaire, as fresh as that eve. Shouldn’t it have dimmed?

He felt crazed, wanting to rip apart an enemy until steaming blood sprayed like rain and painted the snow. “Face me, Serghei!” he bellowed. “You fucking coward!”

For an instant, he thought he sensed their presence. Or was it only a lingering remnant from his dream? “Face me!” No one met him; no one answered his challenge. “Goddamn you all, fight me!”

This might be the moment when I topple off the razor’s edge, irretrievably mad.

Another bellow erupted from his chest. Crave blood, carnage . . . bones shattering . . .

The rush when flesh gave way to his fangs.

Atop a razor, staring down at the abyss. And the abyss stares back.

Just when he realized he was about to lose this battle, he pictured his Bride’s skin yielding, giving up that crimson wine of hers. Sink your fangs into her, plunge them deep. . . .

His eyes widened. She’s alone. Unguarded.

In less than an instant, he’d returned to the apartment. Needing to protect her. Needing her. He would bury his face in her hair and inhale her intoxicating scent, could imagine it so clearly.

He found Elizabeth standing out on her balcony under the cover of sun.

Not her, not her. Saroya only. He grated, “Let Saroya rise.”

She turned. “You’re back— Oh, my God, your eyes.”

“Let her rise!” Abyss.

“She’s not trying to.”

He threw back his head and yelled.

“Lothaire?” He heard the mortal swallow in fear, and yet she eased closer to him, hands out in front of her. “Wh-what’s happened to you? Is that snow on your jeans?”

He narrowed his gaze on her, willing her, Yes, come to me. She took a step closer to the shadows, then another. Her hands trembled. Want them on me. Come and touch me, female.

Touch me, and I might last another night.

The vampire’s eyes were more frightening than Ellie had ever seen them. They were filled with both rage—and anguish. Red forked out over the whites, giving him an even more sinister look.

Yet they were spellbinding to her.

His bared chest heaved with breaths, his hands clenched into fists, the promise of violence in every rippling muscle and whipcord tendon. His fangs glinted as if razor-sharp.

And still she found herself crossing to him, wanting to smooth his windblown hair off his brow, needing to feel his flawless skin.

When she joined him in the room, something began happening that Ellie didn’t understand. He positioned himself closer to her, closer, with a silky, predatory grace.

It dawned on her; he didn’t want to frighten away his prey. She shivered, commanding herself not to bolt.

Because she sensed that might . . . excite him.

Soon they were so close she had to crane her head up to meet his gaze. Her lips parted at the blatant need she saw there.

But what does he need? What does he want?

Why did she feel like she’d die if she didn’t know what his pale skin felt like?

“Elizabeth,” he bit out, his voice raw, his expression crazed.

Maybe she could touch him, could satisfy her curiosity, and he wouldn’t even remember. “Can I . . . can I touch you?”

He shuddered, then hissed, “Yes. Touch. Me.”

To test the waters, she brushed a straight length of hair from his face. When he merely moved closer to her, she tentatively laid her palms on his chest, against his freezing skin. Where had he traced to? What snowy land?

He flinched, even as his muscles leapt to her touch. “Elizabeth,” he rasped brokenly, “you scald me.” She was about to drop her hands when he ordered, “More.”

“O-okay.” She fanned her fingers over his chest, inching her hands out until they lay over his rigid pecs, his flat nipples.

She didn’t understand this man, this evil vampire with his anguished eyes. He still hadn’t placed his hands on her. Because he feared to? “If I lose control . . .” he’d warned her.

But she sensed that she calmed him, that she affected him physically—and mentally.

Sure enough, his agitation began to ease, his lids going heavy.

Ellie was just as affected. She grew enthralled with the ridges flexing beneath her fingertips, begging to be explored.

When she sifted her nails through the golden hair on his chest, his hooded eyes closed.

“Is this better?” Her voice was embarrassingly throaty. But she’d been aching for contact for half a decade—how could she not appreciate a man like him?

All tousled hair and bulging muscles.

Seeming to wake, he gave her a hate-filled look. He swiped her hands away with a muttered curse, then strode toward the kitchen.

Since he didn’t trace, she figured he wanted her to follow him.

She stared with reluctant awe at the sculpted planes of his back, the way they tapered down to those narrow hips. . . .

Even his walk is sexy. Lothaire walked like she imagined a powerful king would.

In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator, leaning on the door as he withdrew a pitcher of blood. It looked like a cream pourer in his big hands.

He turned up the carafe, gulping its contents while Ellie sank into a chair, staring in fascination.

She saw him glance at her out of the corner of his eye, knew he noted her breaths shallowing, her cheeks flushing.

Now that she’d touched him, she was even more attracted to him. Flying-into-a-lightbulb attracted.

Maybe he was a tad less intimidating without his fancy tailored clothing and expensive boots? And his chugging out of a pitcher at the fridge was so normal, so masculine, she couldn’t help but respond.

Even when a line of blood ran from the corner of his lips.

Vampire. Blood. Still, she couldn’t look away. How can this sight be wetting my whistle?

When he finished, he ran his forearm over his mouth, over the stubble on his chin. “Look your fill? Grope your fill? Don’t worry, I’m accustomed to women of all species lusting after me.”

She felt a flush of embarrassment, but curbed it. Ellie had an expiration date on her life that was closing in fast; she couldn’t waste a minute being embarrassed over anything.

And she resolved not to beat herself up because she was attracted to a deadly, vampiric maniac that she yearned to kill.

Ellie tilted her head in a considering manner, saying honestly, “Well, at least you’re pretty on the outside.” At his expression, she said, “Oh, come on. In all of your endless life, no one’s ever insinuated that you’re ugly on the inside?”

Those weaker than Lothaire didn’t make a habit of insulting him. Of course, she wanted to die. “You won’t provoke me into killing you,” he said, adding, “this evening. But court my wrath, and I’ll punish you in other ways.”

His wrath was at the ready, his mood foul. Though he’d slept for hours, the only memories he’d dreamed—or experienced firsthand—were his own, something that hadn’t happened in ages.

Which meant he’d reaped no new information about the ring’s whereabouts.

If he couldn’t access Declan Chase’s memories, he’d be forced to set off searching for the ring all over again.

When he’d first taken his uncle’s advice and drunk “live” immortal blood from the flesh, Lothaire had accepted the risk: madness.

But he’d convinced himself that his mind was too strong to be overly afflicted. Perhaps he’d grow more fiendish, his conscience further eroded.

He’d never expected the sleep-tracing and the rages, the times when he couldn’t hear an enemy sneaking up on him because of the thundering of his heart.

He’d never expected to lose his strategic abilities. In the past, he’d easily contrived multiperson, decades-long plots, foreseeing each player’s move as if they were chessboard pawns.

Now mere puzzle solutions eluded him. He could rarely sleep. When he did, he couldn’t filter through his dreams to get to the information he needed.

Also strange? He hadn’t experienced Elizabeth’s memories at all. She was his latest take, so why hadn’t he seen hers?

The only good that had come from his rest was that his injuries had healed completely. At his age, he could go weeks between feedings, but regeneration had left him starved.

He poured more of the cool blood into a glass—glug, glug. He would leisurely drink it in front of the mortal, just to fuck with her.

But she didn’t comment on his breakfast, only said, “I didn’t find anything in here that I’d care to eat.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll feed my new pet.”

“Pet?” Her eyes glittered. “I never knew I could hate someone as deeply as I do you.”

“I often help others discover the outer limits of their hatred. It’s a talent of mine.” Musing on his own perplexing situation, he said, “It must confuse you to desire a male you despise.”

“No, I figured out what’s happening.”

“I’m unwillingly intrigued. Tell me what your little mortal brain fie-gered out,” he said, imitating her drawl.

She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve always liked men. Before prison I had boyfriends enough, went parking every weekend.”

Jealousy flared inside him, though he’d be damned if he knew why. Elizabeth wasn’t his.

As if remembering a former boyfriend, she gazed past Lothaire. Her eyes gone languid, she twirled a lock of hair, running it over her plump bottom lip.

That hair. Those lips—

“Miss me some parking,” she absently murmured, a blush spreading along her high cheekbones. “Hot, hectic . . . parking.” Just when he was about to smash something, she met his gaze. “In the last five years, I’ve seen a total of nine men. Think about that for a second. Then you’ll understand how even you can look good.”

“Even I?” His tone was scoffing. “My natural attributes would have nothing to do with that?” He gestured at himself, indicating his faultless physique.

He’d grown to be perfectly wrought.

Exactly as promised.

But, by all the gods, what will it take to keep my own promises?

“Lothaire, just because I’m sexually desperate doesn’t make you a peach.”

Sexually desperate? His mind flashed to that time he’d seen her in the water eagerly kissing that boy, her fingers biting into his shoulders as her mouth had moved on his. The male’s expression had been one of wonderment before his eyes had slid closed, lust overwhelming him. . . .

Red covered Lothaire’s vision. Elizabeth had writhed against the boy, as if unable to get close enough to him—

Lothaire hurled his glass across the kitchen, blood and shards exploding against the wall. He traced before her, clutching her upper arms to yank her out of her seat.

Her heartbeat raced, her eyes widening with delightful fear. . . .