Deep Kiss of Winter (21 page)

She'd never been happier.

“Out, Daniela,” he called, still pacing. “You've been in long enough.”

“If you don't come join me, a merman might get frisky with me!”

He stopped and canted his head, wondering if she was kidding, growing increasingly agitated.

“Oh, very well. I'll come in.” She wanted to walk some of the way back to the lodge anyway, and needed to budget time for snowball fights—she might let him win one tonight. She loved playing in the snow with him. When he had all his cold-weather gear on, they could roll around without having their skin touch.

As she swam in, she called, “Trace and get me a towel?”

Obviously reluctant to leave her for even seconds, he disappeared, returning moments later with one. He met her at the shore, wrapping her in it. As he rubbed her dry, her eyes closed with pleasure, reminded anew of their earlier encounter. For hours, she'd teased him with ice cubes, running them all
over his body, everywhere she wished she could lick him.

“You were kidding about the merman, right?” he said. “You'd never told me they existed.”

“I haven't gotten to merfolk yet.” Yes, Danii had relented, finally divulging the secrets of the Lore, once she'd sworn him to secrecy. She owed him her life and couldn't stand the thought of him out there engaging opponents that would try to kill him just for being a vampire—enemies with powers and weaknesses he wouldn't understand. “I've only covered the first two hundred or so beings, and there are more than can be catalogued. And that's just on this plane.”

She'd outlined many of the larger factions, from the demon kingdoms called demonarchies to the history of the noble fey. “They were feudal lords called Féodals,” she'd explained. “That's where they get the name. They hailed from the plane of Draiskulia, but once they came here, they became divided into different factions. Like the Icere.” And she'd related humorous trivia: “Some demons, like Desh, can be involuntarily summoned by previous bed partners. They call those summoners swimbos—a play on She Who Must Be Obeyed. . . .”

“Merfolk,” he repeated now, handing Danii her clothes. At times he seemed overwhelmed by all the Lorean histories and details. Admittedly, it was a lot to take in.

He'd probably learned the most via laptop, by following the web results and commentary on the Talisman's Hie, a sort of immortal
Amazing Race,
sponsored by Riora, the flighty Goddess of Impossibility. Entrants from all factions crossed the globe, competing for mystical prizes.

Through the results, he'd discovered that his brother Sebastian was indeed alive and well—because he was competing in it. “My brother's alive?” he'd said that day, shooting to his feet. Just before he'd swung Danii up in his arms, he'd abruptly dropped his outstretched hands, drawing back self-consciously. “Can you believe it? I have to let Nikolai . . .” He'd trailed off. “Why did you just go pale? Daniela, is Sebastian in danger?”

Regrettably, Sebastian was competing against Danii's half sister, Kaderin the Coldhearted, a vicious vampire assassin. “The rules state that the competitors can't kill each other until the final round,” she'd said, not wanting to extinguish his hopes, but Kaderin had never lost a Hie. And this time they played for Thrane's Key, which unlocked a door
to the past
. Since Kaderin felt responsible for the deaths of two of her full-blood sisters, she'd be a ruthless menace in order to win that key.

When Murdoch had asked Danii if she could find out anything about this—like exactly why Sebastian would enter—she'd left a message with Nïx. Yet though Nïx was the most powerful oracle in the Lore, she was also forgetful, capricious, and notoriously bad at returning calls . . . .

Danii finished tugging her skirt up her thighs, then she glanced up—to find Murdoch's fierce gaze rapt on her body.

He took her shoulders in his gloved hands, staring down at her with his obsidian eyes reflecting moonlight. The breeze blew that unruly lock over his forehead. “You couldn't be lovelier,” he rasped, the mere sound of his husky voice making her body go soft for him.

Her gaze dipped to his lips. The moment was ripe for a kiss. “Vampire, I would give anything to taste you right now.”
Anything
. Though this time together had been almost perfect, frustration simmered just below the surface. With each day, she wondered how much longer they could go without real touching.

His hands tightened on her shoulders. “As would I.”

She was fantasizing about wicked sex even more than she had
before
she'd met Murdoch. Danii envisioned suckling his thick length for hours. She imagined how it would feel plunging inside her.
What would it be like to have his scent all over me?

Would his kiss make her breathless and weak-kneed, her toes and her claws curling?

As his gaze flicked from her eyes to her mouth, he grated, “Almost don't want to know what you're thinking right now.” He broke away, turning from her with clenched fists—instead of claiming the kiss that should have been his due.

Yet another reminder that the broken doll was in no way fixed.

“We need to get back,” he said. “I should check in at Mount Oblak.”

“But you just went there two nights ago,” she
reminded him. “You said you weren't going to be needed there as much.” Now that there was no impending threat from the Horde.

In the past months, the vampire world had been rocked to its core. The Horde king Demestriu had been slain by Emmaline, Danii's lovable niece. Emma had discovered that he was her father, and then she'd somehow managed to defeat him in a fight to the death. Ivo, too, had been assassinated for seeking to wed Emma, the ‘halfling.' Apparently Lachlain MacRieve, her new Lykae protector, had taken exception to that, because he'd released his savage inner werewolf, slaughtering Ivo and the remaining
dempire
as well.

“Is there some new threat?” Danii asked. “Or has Lothaire returned?” Rumor held that the Enemy of Old hadn't even remained on this plane.

“No, nothing like that, just the usual aggressing bands,” Murdoch said. Without Demestriu to lead the Horde, their numbers had been divided into smaller, weaker factions, but they could still prove deadly. “It can't hurt to check in. I'm sure you want to carve, anyway.” Had his tone been a shade brusque?

Maybe she was carving too much, but getting each symbol perfect felt so crucial. Sometimes she worked till her fingers bled. If Murdoch was there, he'd take her hands in his big gloved ones and ice her wounds.

The first time he'd found her like this, he'd demanded, “Daniela, why do this to yourself?”

How to explain the compulsion?
The Call of the
Wild
meets
Holiday on Ice
? “I feel antsy and full until I carve. It's like an instinct, or maybe some kind of genetic memory, passed down by blood. Kind of like how you might get my memories if you ever drank from me.”

Always, Danii pondered the mystery of who would lead her back to Icergard, a puzzle as yet unsolved. Could her carvings be some kind of clue?

Reminded of that, she said, “Yes, maybe I could work a little.” Though she felt selfish on occasion, investigating her memories, this was her time. There was no one to keep secrets for or from, no one to
observe,
except her own determined expression in a mirrored glaze of ice.

The world was passing her by. One month, then another . . . .

“Very well.” He took her shoulders once more to trace her back to the lodge. Before he left again, he said, “I might see Nikolai tonight. Have you thought about my request?” Murdoch had announced a couple of weeks ago, “Myst has consented to marry my brother. I want us to visit them.” When Danii had hesitated, he'd said, “Just think about it.”

He continued pressuring her to go public with their relationship. Though she was tempted, always something made her reluctant to take the leap. Now she told him simply, “It's not time yet.”

“When will it be time?”

“You agreed to my condition. I'll tell you when I'm ready.”

He gave her a tight nod. “I'll return when I can,”
he said, brushing a kiss over her hair, but the tension between them was thick.

Danii sighed when he left. Murdoch had once admitted to her that he'd never cared about anything very much. And that, other than defending his country, he'd committed to nothing. She couldn't shake the feeling that he hadn't committed to them.

Though she wanted to trust him, he had been a player.
Once a rogue, always a rogue, right?
Especially since she was unable to fulfill not just one, but two of his most basic needs.

Sometimes, even though he knew how badly his bite would hurt, he still stared at her neck. Each time she got an unpleasant feverish tremor, like she supposed others might have chills . . . .

Yes, the world was passing her by—but the pressures were escalating. Each denial made them hunger for each other even more.

They knew pleasure, but were never completely sated, and the frustration built and built, like a volcano that vented steam but would inevitably erupt.

Jádian the Cold climbed the stairs past the guards he'd killed, stealing toward King Sigmund's tower chamber.

Though he found it distasteful to dispatch his own kind, Jádian had done it without mercy. He had to act quickly. The Valkyrie's time was nigh.

“Any word on where that little bitch is?” the king demanded as Jádian entered, not even glancing away from his glazed window. “I thought you were closing in on the Valkyrie.”

“Yes, I know precisely where she will be.” Eventually she would come to him. Each month, she neared, without even knowing it.

Sigmund whirled around. “Then why does she yet live?” he bellowed, slamming his staff into the floor, sending up shards of ice.

Jádian slowly unsheathed the fire blade that had slain Sigmund's queen, relishing the fear dawning in the king's eyes. Jádian had been awaiting this sight since Sigmund had stolen a throne that didn't belong to him, and plunged the Icere into a needless war with the fire demonarchy.

The war in which Jádian's own pregnant wife, Karilina, had perished. “Daniela lives, because it's your death that comes next.”

Like a shot, Jádian lunged for him, forcing a hand over Sigmund's mouth as he sank the blade into his heart—Jádian needed him quiet to savor the hiss of burning skin and the futile flailing of the king.

Blood sprayed, wetting Jádian's hair and face. When he yanked the knife free, Sigmund lived still, even as Jádian began slicing through the skin and bone of his neck.

By the time he had Sigmund's head, Jádian was covered in gore, but his heart was calm.

He turned to the south. Now,
now
was the Valkyrie's time.

•   •   •

If Daniela keeps up this carving
,
her hands will bleed
.

Did she not think about what the sight and scent of her blood did to him each time?

As Murdoch watched her, he wondered yet again what could force her to work like this. Her elven face was tense with focus, her blue-tinged lips pressed together.

Over the previous winter, she'd seemed to be rediscovering herself, exploring those elemental instincts she could scarcely explain to him—or to herself. Yet then had come the summer. What had started as a dark and cold paradise for them turned sunny and mild. Their contentment had melted away as surely as her ice.

For those months, there'd been continual sniping between them. Any accidental contact could set either of them off. But she'd refused to leave the lodge for a colder clime, as if those genetic memories of hers had ended in a cliffhanger and she wouldn't leave the book behind.

Now, fall was upon them at last.
But we still aren't like we used to be . . . .

Despite the strain between Murdoch and his Bride, things had begun to look up for the Wroth family.

Nikolai had wedded Myst, once she'd forgiven
him for using that enchanted chain against her. Nikolai had ultimately realized that he'd misunderstood Myst's memories, discovering that she'd been more Fury than femme fatale, using her wiles to seduce evildoers to their downfall. Then he'd had some apologizing to do.

Sebastian had somehow won both the Talisman's Hie
and
Kaderin, the deadly little assassin who'd actually been dispatched to execute him.

Though his brothers' Brides were half sisters, they were as different as day and night. One was a bold redhead, legendary for her beauty. The other was a golden-skinned killer with a predilection for stringing up vampire fangs as trophies.

Mine is an ethereal ice queen. Exquisite and always just out of reach . . . .

Murdoch and Nikolai had at last reconciled with Sebastian. Naturally, now that the three brothers were speaking again, their conversations turned to Conrad—how to locate him, where he'd last been seen. They'd all begun searching and had unearthed some leads, though they chose not to believe the rumors that Conrad was a Fallen, red-eyed assassin who drank all his victims.

They were close to finding him. Murdoch could
feel
it. Yes, things were finally looking up for the brothers.

But between him and Daniela . . . Even though they found ways to pleasure each other, Murdoch was continually tormented by how soft her skin looked. He'd never been one for open displays of affection, had never felt any sort of romantic
attachment before. Now he found himself checking impulse after impulse to simply stroke her cheek or run his palm down her arm.

And to kiss her—Christ, he wanted that so much.

She felt the yearning, too. He often found her dreamily gazing at his lips while running her fingertips over her own.