Lothaire

5

Lothaire could see the defeat in her bearing.

At last the mortal had accepted her situation, accepted that he had all the leverage he needed to force her cooperation. Now he merely had to await Saroya. “Allow her to rise, Elizabeth.”

“She’s not trying to anymore. I can’t prod her to it.”

“But she was trying before? To escape the execution.” When she didn’t deny it, Lothaire imagined Saroya trapped, clawing to rise, to defend herself. . . .

Gods, he hated this girl—and he couldn’t kill her! He paced once more, grappling to control his rage while ignoring his weariness and the twinges from his rapidly healing wounds.

When was the last time he’d really slept? Days ago? Weeks since he’d rested for more than an hour at a time?

Need to sleep, to dream. The memories come in dreams. He needed to begin his work, his seven little tasks—

“If you can cast out my soul,” Elizabeth said, “then why do you need her to rise? And why’d you put me on ice for five years?”

He slowed, gazing past her. “I didn’t possess the means then.”

“But you do now?”

Not yet. After years of deceiving, slaying, and manipulating, Lothaire had seized the Ring of Sums, a talisman of great power—a wish giver. Only to have it stolen from him during his recent capture.

Mortals from the Order had attacked with their charge throwers, draining his strength, forcing him to kneel . . . the blood blinding his eyes and pooling around his knees.

He’d never forget the deafening scrape of the ring across the floor as their leader, a soldier named Declan Chase, had snared it.

“Do you have the means now?” the girl asked again.

Somewhere in the tangle of his mind Lothaire knew the ring’s location. He just had to access that information. “I’ve budgeted anywhere from one night to a month until your end.” Time enough to wade through the millions and millions of stolen memories.

Like his father before him, Lothaire was a cosaş, a memory harvester. A blessing for some vampires, a curse for one of the Fallen.

Damn his uncle for tempting him with the power all those centuries ago. . . .

“You must drink to the quick to be strong enough to destroy my brother,” Fyodor had told him when they’d been reunited once more.

“My eyes are red, are they not?” Lothaire had said. “I’ve been a scourge upon humans.”

“Or you can drink immortals to the quick and steal their strength, even their powers. Join with me, Lothaire.”

“Ivana warned against this.”

Fyodor had smiled thinly. “Your fair mother probably assumed you would have long since slain Stefanovich by now. . . .”

Impatient for power, Lothaire had begun targeting immortals. Yet their souls were much more decayed than humans’. And they had exponentially more memories. Ruinous to a cosaş.

His uncle had promised and delivered strength beyond measure, but had downplayed the side effect.

Insanity. Memories forever tolled. Lothaire balanced on the edge of a razor.

Though Fyodor, also a cosaş, had lost his mind long before his death last year, Lothaire had somehow pulled back, limiting his kills and memory harvests, scrabbling his way back to reason. All to serve my Endgame. . . .

He peered over at the mortal sitting on the couch. How long had he been pacing, his thoughts drifting? Her expression had turned from defeated to devious as she eyed the fireplace tools.

In another situation, he might have admired her tenacity. Now he snapped, “You must want them dead.”

She jerked her gaze straight ahead.

With a scowl, he continued pacing, pondering his reaction to her earlier. He couldn’t remember his body responding that wildly during his one night with Saroya.

For years, he’d remained apart from her easily, once he’d taken his initial release with her in the woods.

Now lust seethed inside him. Ignore it, Saroya will rise soon enough. And when she did, he’d touch her, taste her. Explore her new curves.

“Whoa! Your eyes are getting even . . . weirder.”

Behold madness in a vampire. Everyone in the Lore knew Lothaire was on the brink; no one knew how close he was.

Most of the time, he had difficulty discerning his victims’ memories from his own. When he slept, he uncontrollably traced to strange locales, as if sleepwalking. With increasing frequency, he’d been overwhelmed by rages.

One beckoned even now. “I want Saroya to rise,” he told the human.

“Can’t you take her from me instead? Maybe put her in the body of a red-eyed female demon—”

“She’s no more a demon than I am! Saroya the Soul Reaper is the goddess of death and blood, the Vampire Horde’s ancient deity.”

“V-vampires?” Elizabeth whispered as she unsteadily stood. “Are you . . . you’re not a vampire?”

He bared his fangs.

“You . . . you drink from people? Bite them?”

He enunciated, “Delightedly.” Though not without express purpose, not any longer. His last prey had been calculated—Declan Chase, his jailer. The man would know where the Ring of Sums had been taken. Lothaire needed only to sleep to experience Chase’s memories in dreams. . . .

Elizabeth put her hands to her knees, panting her breaths. “No sun. That’s why the curtains are drawn so tight. A vampire. Sweet Jesus preserve me.” Blood began trickling from the needle puncture on one inner arm.

His gaze locked on it, hunger racking him. He’d been injured repeatedly. Surely that was the only reason why he wanted so badly to sample her.

Not because the scent of her blood was exquisite . . . making his cock swell in his pants and his fangs sharpen. He ran his tongue over one, savoring the spike of his own blood.

Elizabeth cried, “Look at you!”

He hadn’t allowed himself a taste of her before. Her blood would serve no purpose, might put him over the edge. But gods, its call was irresistible.

“You’re not gonna bite me! Come near me with those fangs of yourn, and I’m gonna knock ’em out—”

He was behind her in an instant, one arm looped around her waist. With his free hand, he fisted the length of her shining hair and yanked her head to the side. Her pulse fluttered before his eyes.

How many times had he hungered for flesh but denied himself?

Yet never had his fangs throbbed like this, dripping to penetrate her. . . .

“Don’t touch me!” She thrashed, digging her nails into his arm, but he enjoyed his enemies’ struggles. Always had.

He raked a fang down the golden skin of her neck, cutting a shallow length, blood gently pooling.

Voice gone hoarse, he said, “I’ll like it more if you fight. You’ll like it more if you don’t.”

Scores of women—and men—had enjoyed his bloodtaking. It made them hunger, made them cling to him as if they wanted to sacrifice themselves on his fangs.

Mortals seemed particularly susceptible. Many came in his arms.

Would Elizabeth? The idea made him harden even more. He dipped his head, mouth closing over the fine wound. When his tongue touched a drop of blood, his body jerked as if lightning-struck.

A searing current seemed to electrify every vein in his body. . . .

Delectable.

“Wh-what are you doing to me?”

He licked the seam again and again, wanting to roar when she began trembling, her resistance easing.

She leaned into him, her back pressed against his aching shaft. When he snatched her tighter still and ground it against her, she moaned.

Yes, mortals liked his bloodtaking, but she was shaking with need.

“Oh! Ohhhh, no. . . . Oh, please!” Her voice was throaty, her breaths shallow.

Yet just when he’d widened his jaw to pierce her neck for more, she began fighting again. “No, not now!”

Lothaire tore his mouth away, saw her face go even paler.

She swayed on her feet. “Not now. . . .”

Saroya was rising! “Don’t fight her, girl!” he commanded, yanking Elizabeth upright.

“No, no, no—” Her lids slid shut.

He caught her against him, turning her in his arms. “Saroya, return to me.”

After a long moment, her eyes opened, narrowed; then her palm shot up to crack across his cheek. “How dare you leave me to rot in prison, you filth! I’ll play with your spleen before the night is through.”

“Saroya,” he grated, barely keeping his rage in check. Inhale, exhale. “Ah, my flower. I’ve missed you too.”