Dreams of a Dark Warrior

TWENTY-TWO

“Gods, Magister,” Lothaire said as soon as a cadre of guards left him in Chase’s office, “try to contain that.”

From behind his desk, the magister demanded, “Contain what?”

Lothaire’s cuffed hands fisted behind his back. “That frenzied energy rolling off you in waves.” It distracted him from his seething need to disembowel the man.

Chase had a look in his eyes, an almost demented light. The man was losing it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, vampire.” His visage was pale, his scars seeming more prominent.

Hate scars. I’m physically flawless—why can’t everyone be? Everywhere Lothaire went, people stopped and stared. Of course, then they usually ran. “You don’t? Ah, if only I could lie so easily.”

The magister didn’t address that, merely observed, “You appear … saner today.”

“Alas, you are remarkably less so.” Demented and not quite mortal. What was he? Lothaire had contemplated this for days. “It seems we are to meet in the middle.” I don’t have time to be maddened—because of you.

“But you’re not healing as I would have expected,” Chase observed.

The torture had left Lothaire wasted. “That’s because Magister Chase’s hospitality leaves much to be desired.” The Order provided no blood for vampires—Lothaire hadn’t fed in weeks. And without blood, he was barely regenerating.

Beneath his shirt, ash remained where his flesh should be. There were gaps in the skin that should be covering his ribs.

So hungry I can count my ribs. He almost laughed. Not so flawless at present. But Chase would carry his marks to the grave. I will heal once I feed.

If only Lothaire could take down Chase and drink him. His fangs throbbed at the thought, his gaze rapt on the man’s neck.

Chase noticed. “You sick son of a bitch. You think to take my blood?”

“When I truly want it, you’ll know. Because my fangs will be shoved deep in your neck.” Lothaire shrugged, turning to survey Chase’s office.

The only discernible hint of his personality was that there was no hint of his personality. Lothaire strode to one of the windows, gazing out over the rainy landscape. She was out there in the world. Both his doom and his salvation. He wondered how strong this glass was. Drink Chase, break the window. …

But he couldn’t leave this place without his ring. “What do you want, Magister?”

“You’re the oldest immortal here, and it’s said you know more secrets about the Lore than almost anyone.”

“True and true.” For eons, Lothaire had crept through the night to drink his enemies down. And with each drop of blood taken from the flesh, he’d harvested knowledge.

His victims were legion.

“Most important, you’re a natural-born vampire, so you can’t lie. And I need information.”

“Why should I assist you?”

“I’ll torture you otherwise,” Chase said so easily, still thinking himself the master of his domain and all within it. But not for long.

“Perhaps I’ll make you go through the motions,” Lothaire said. “I did relish your frustration when you couldn’t get me to talk last time.” Even when those lights had melted his flesh from his bones. …

“Then so be it.”

Foolish! the Endgame admonished. If you don’t survive the Gilded One, then your female will be in jeopardy. And to survive, Lothaire needed supplies from this magister. “I do wonder why you’ve not tried to bargain with me? Immortals enjoy a good bargain.” I know this well.

Lothaire’s nemesis Nïx might be the Ever-Knowing, but he was the Ever-Doing—forever collecting debts. Over the millennia, he had amassed an army’s worth of debtors.

And every move I make serves my Endgame, the ultimate prize.

“What do you want?” Chase asked.

“My ring.”

“Out of the question.”

“Keeping it here invites the wrath of an unimaginable power.” La Dorada, the Gilded One, a sorceress of pure evil. The waters recede more each day. …

Just before his capture, Lothaire had spent weeks traveling into the deepest part of the Amazon, following the Valkyrie archer Lucia and her werewolf lover as they sought Dorada’s hidden tomb. At the last instant, Lothaire had swooped in to steal that ring directly off Dorada’s mummified body, knowingly triggering the tomb’s floodgates and waking her from her slumber.

He smirked now. He’d left the Valkyrie and the wolf in the lurch to deal with the cataclysmic aftermath.

“An unimaginable power?” Chase exhaled impatiently. “I suppose I’ll just have to chance it. Unless you’re ready to tell me what the ring does.”

“No. I am not.” Lothaire’s smirk faded. Now I am left in the lurch, imprisoned here for Dorada to find, trapped without the ring.

She would bring her vicious guards here with her. “I will answer one of your questions—unrelated to me or my ring—if you have twenty pounds of sodium chloride placed in my cell.”

That earned a double take from the unbalanced magister. “You want … table salt? Why?”

“Why? I believe that is a question related to me.”

Chase glowered. “I can’t authorize your request.”

“You can authorize anything you want. Remember, everything goes through you. This is your realm. Call your hulking minion, and order him to stow salt in my cell. It’s that simple.”

“I give you my word it’ll be done.”

“But you don’t keep your word, Magister Chase. You promised the witch that she and her ward would be released if she brings you the demon Malkom Slaine. But we both know they won’t be freed, even if she succeeds. You would be stupid to do so.”

Chase didn’t even have the grace to flush. At length, he radioed Vincente. “I want twenty pounds of salt placed in Lothaire’s cell. You heard me. See it done.”

Lothaire inclined his head. “Ask your question.”

“Are there reincarnations? I need to know if reincarnates exist.” Chase very much wanted an answer to his question. And he very much wanted it to be no.

Curious. “Of course there are reincarnations.”

Chase sank back in his chair, his face paling even more.

“I even know a few. They owe me debts of honor.” But then, most of the key players in the Lore did. When their accounts come due, the world will quake. …

Lothaire studied Chase’s expression: consternated and alarmed, with a touch of belligerence. From the whispers in the ward, Lothaire had learned that Chase was particularly interested in Regin. Now a query about reincarnates?

“And with your question, Magister Chase, all becomes clear to me. The final piece of the puzzle. You are the legendary berserker who returns for Regin the Radiant.” He grinned, baring fangs. “How ironic to say this, but ne za chto—welcome. Welcome to the Lore. …”