Lothaire

20

They’re up to something.

Lothaire returned to Hag’s home seconds later to catch them sharing a confidence, a look of relief. . . .

He’d made himself invisible, but he merely found the fey stirring her pot while Elizabeth continued to drum her nails on the counter.

With narrowed eyes, Lothaire returned to his task. Yes, up to something. But he didn’t have the time—or the clarity—to delve.

Over the last few hours, he’d covered miles, racing outward from Riora’s empty temple through an ancient forest.

Since he could only trace to places he’d previously been or places he could see, he had difficulty covering large amounts of ground. It was almost as easy to run, following the trails animals made as they fled his presence. Even other predators fear me. . . .

Though this task could help him complete his Endgame, he found his thoughts drifting to Elizabeth yet again, this time to the look of longing on her face as she’d stared at the sea.

His satisfaction over that had proved curiously less than he’d expected.

Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? Or how she’d melted for him earlier at the apartment?

Because even I look like an option.

He’d never had trouble with females before. Now two had come into his life, as if solely to plague him.

One didn’t seem to desire him; the other did, but only because she’d been deprived of any male. That mouth of yourn feels so good. . . .

What would he do if Saroya still hadn’t risen by tonight? Betray his Bride?

Lothaire’s need to be faithful wasn’t for sentimental reasons, but for logical ones. He’d studied the truly great kings and queens in the Lore, and historically, royal couples who amassed power together did not sleep with others.

The males didn’t take concubines. The females didn’t secretly slip into others’ beds.

The pair presented a united front to the world, with no cracks in their foundation for enemies to worm their way into. Each demonstrated utter loyalty—only to the other.

Lothaire couldn’t argue with facts.

He’d expected this unity with Saroya, had planned for it. But technically, Elizabeth and Saroya were one and the same. If his Bride didn’t see the difference, then perhaps he shouldn’t scruple over it. He could enjoy Elizabeth and still be faithful—

He tensed, catching the shifter pack’s scent. He tracked it to a den entrance, then plunged inside.

Into the earth. Stay focused. Five ash vines. In. Out.

He followed a tunnel to a vaultlike cavern—their central gathering place, with offshoot passageways in all directions. Around a fire, bedding covered the ground, and stone benches lined the walls.

Roots dangled from the ceiling like grasping fingers. The earth grinding over me . . .

Block out that memory. Or stare into the abyss. Block it out. Focus!

He scented mortals somewhere deeper in the cavern. Their slaves.

The shifters began to emerge from other tunnels. Dozens surrounded him, all in their human forms, but tensed with aggression.

The largest one, the alpha, said, “A vampire dares to enter our territory, trespassing near our women?”

“There is little daring to it.” Only a madman would enter a shifters’ den? Lothaire was beset with boredom. How many packs had he faced and slaughtered? Incalculable. “I seek ash vines. Give them to me, and I’ll spare you all.”

“Who the hell are you?” the alpha demanded.

“I’m the Enemy of Old.”

Alpha’s eyes went wide. “You killed my father and three older brothers.”

Lothaire drawled, “Never heard that before.” Apparently, he’d killed so many family members that he must have significantly affected the Lore’s population. Doing my part for the environment.

A burly no-necked male said, “The leech targeted an alpha’s line? Now he’s going to die.”

Broken record.

“Let’s leave him be,” a more cowardly—or wise—shifter advised. Others murmured in agreement.

“Are you all crazy?” Alpha glowered. “There’s thirty of us. One of him.”

Out of the corner of his mouth, the coward insisted, “But . . . but it’s the Enemy of Old.” Then to Lothaire, he said, “We’re out of the vines, and our supplier won’t have them for weeks. I vow it to the Lore.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Alpha ordered.

No vines. Lothaire should trace away, not risking his bloodlust, ensuring he didn’t drink any of these animals in the heat of the fight—

“Look at that,” No-neck said, “he’s going to trace away, run back to his king. Oh, wait—your king got killed, just last spring. Assassinated in his own castle.”

The king Lothaire had served. The king he’d failed.

The death I both mourned—and celebrated.

A quiet rage simmered inside Lothaire. His mind grew tunnel-visioned. Everything around him slowed until even their racing heartbeats sounded ponderous, like clocks ticking in oil.

The alpha will slash with the claws of his dominant left hand. I’ll slice off his arm with my right, use my left to sever his jugular. Coward will hesitantly attack from behind. A kick backward will connect with his chest and crush his rib cage. No-neck will snatch up a stone bench, swinging while I punch through his chest and remove his heart.

The rest will react uncontrollably, shifting and attacking as a pack.

“You’ve erred for ill.” Lothaire bared his fangs. “Now you all get to die.”