Lothaire (19 page)

“Some foes would take your life. Most would
keep
you. An anatomically incorrect sea god would love nothing more than to
plumb your depths
and steal your virginity. My vampire enemies would keep you alive for food, piercing you nightly for decades. Demons would consign you to their notorious harems, where you’d be whored out for all the many creatures who’d pay handsomely for a chance to humiliate Lothaire’s Bride. You’d learn to polish demon horns in the most degrading ways.”

She swallowed. “Harems and whoring and horns, then?”

“Suddenly the fate I have planned for you doesn’t seem so egregious?”

She returned to the settee, sitting less stiffly than before. “Just to be clear. My fate, as you intend it, goes like this: In one to thirty days, you’ll
send my soul packing—to wherever souls go—and my family will never be harmed by you.”

“Approximately,” he replied, using one of his favorite go-to words. The girl would assume he addressed the number of days. Actually, he spoke of the “soul packing” portion. Her soul would be extinguished—

“By approximately, do you mean the one to thirty, or the rest of it?”

Little witch. “The question you should’ve asked is why the days are so variable.”

“Lothaire. Why are the days so variable?”

“I’ve told you I need a special ring to make Saroya a vampire. The same ring will free your soul from your body.”
Not a lie
. “It might take me weeks to locate it.”

“I see. Not that I’m complaining, but if you’re supposed to be searching for something, then why were you trying to sleep tonight? Isn’t this pretty much your nine-to-five? Shouldn’t you be out tracing the pavement even now?”

She made him sound
lazy
.

No one worked harder than he did on his seven little tasks:
find the ring, dispose of the human’s soul, turn Saroya into a vampire, kill La Dorada, claim the Horde crown, find Serghei to burn him alive, conquer the Daci.

He took no pleasure from life, enjoyed no amusements. Everything served his Endgame.

Wearied just to think of all that work, he leaned back in his chair. And again, he got the feeling that she was studying him. “Sleep and work are one and the same now.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When I drink blood straight from the vein, I can harvest my victim’s memories. I see his recollections in my dreams, reliving them when I sleep. I feel the bite of cold on his skin, the pain of his injuries, even his death at my hands. Recently, I drank from a man who knows where the ring is. Now I have only to get at that memory, but it’s easier said than done. I have to wade through a lot of them.”

She ran her fingertips over the graze on her neck. “Will you dream
mine
?”

“Likely. Cannot
wait
for fond remembrances of squirrel stew around the trailer hearth.”

She parted her lips, no doubt to deliver a cutting retort, then stifled it. “How do you know what’s a regular dream and what’s from someone else’s life?”

“I don’t dream anything but memories, and only theirs.”

“No wonder you’re crazy. But I affect your sanity, don’t I?”

“Saroya affects my sanity. You’re merely a placeholder.”

“So if the ring equals my death, then every time you sleep means I’m closer to dying?”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, but yes.”

Finally she gazed away, saying quietly, “Would you give me advance notice?”

“No. No more than you would those deer you hunted.”

“They were animals!”

“Are you much more?” he asked in a thoughtful tone. “And what would you do with your advance notice?”

“I’d want to write to my family.”

“Ah, Ellie Ann’s last letters. How touching. But there’s no room in the Lore for sentimentality.” When he folded his arms over his chest, she seemed to be making a mental note of it.

He’d actually felt a jot sentimental earlier when he’d realized that Chase might die—and with him, Lothaire’s sole hope of a vampire line.
Am I to leave nothing of myself behind?

Long ago, Lothaire had created vampires on occasion, but they always predeceased him. He’d lost his taste for it.

Everyone died before him.
And now am I to be maudlin, feeling my age?

Elizabeth asked, “Have you ever done
anything
for another without expecting something in return?”

“I’ll cast my mind back. Further . . . further . . . Ah, yes. During the
Iron Age, I came upon a dying mortal warrior on a battlefield. He wanted me to get a message to his wife and children. I was in a whimsical mood. ‘Give her the message yourself,’ I told him, and turned him into a vampire. When he reunited with her, she ran to him, tears of joy streaming down her face, their children trailing her. As their offspring rejoiced, he swung her up in his arms, squeezing her to his chest. Such a poignant moment, such emotion—until she popped like a grape.”

Elizabeth was aghast.

“Vampires and humans do not mix. You’re too frail. If I lost control and laid hands on your body . . .
pop
.”

She fell silent.

Why would I kill to know what she’s thinking right now?

Probably because I enjoy killing.

In a clear bid to change the subject, she asked, “Do your targets always fall into your clutches?”

“Ninety-six-point-four percent of the time, yes.”

She pursed her lips. “How . . . boring.”

“What did you say?”

“Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the surprise?”

“Life isn’t fun.”

“Not for most, I suppose.” She leaned back on the settee, tucking her legs under her. “But if I was rich like you, I’d have fun.”

“If you weren’t woefully poor, you’d know that money doesn’t buy happiness.”

“Spoken like a man who’s always had cash.”

“What would you do if you were me? To have fun?”

“I’d spend money on my family. And I’d travel.” She gazed at the ceiling, as if imagining all the places she would go. “I’d see all the Greats: the Great Wall of China, the Great Pyramids, the Great Barrier Reef. Hell, I’d visit the coast for the first time ever.”

She’d never been outside of Appalachia, had never seen an ocean, a beach. He could scarcely imagine that. She had no idea what sea air smelled like, no idea what waves lapping at her feet felt like. How would she react?

Probably not as he would expect her to. “I’ve seen the world, Elizabeth, several times over. It’s overrated. I’ve no family I’ll acknowledge.”

“So now you read your book for enjoyment?” She skimmed the design of the settee’s fabric, red nails trailing lightly. “What’s the last entry in your ledger?”

“It will be a mortal named Declan Chase. If he lives. He’s the one who possesses memories of the ring.”

“
If
he lives. Did you hurt him?” she asked. Had she stifled a yawn?

“Not I. A demon gutted him with a sword yesterday. But I gave him my blood to make him immortal.”

“Isn’t that a really big deal? Since mortals
beg
you to do it and all. I believe you said it was priceless?” She rested her head on the arm of the settee.

“I wanted a tie with him very much. Though I acted as if put out to tender my blood.”

Lothaire recalled the subterfuge, a simple but elegant plot, and then the culmination—Chase unconscious, his mouth pried open as he was forced to accept a vampire’s blood.

Even though the Blademan would consider it a defilement, a poison in his veins. . . .

“Now I can locate him anywhere in the world, at any time,” Lothaire continued. “Can read his mind if he’s nearby. Yes, mortal, under the right circumstances I can read minds. Yet another way that I’m superior to you.”

She’ll gasp with astonishment, raising her hand to her temple, fearing that I’m reading her mind right now. . . .

Silence. He glanced over at her; his hands clenched into shaking fists.

Elizabeth was sound asleep.

He’d finally opened up and actually talked with someone—had shown her his fucking book—and she’d fallen asleep? Had he
bored
her?

Súka!
He was tempted to trace her into the middle of a ghoul cage fight, see if that would wake her up!

He loomed over her, staring down, confounded by this mortal’s behavior.

And why he could never predict it.

Over the pounding of his heart, he heard Elizabeth’s even breaths. In sleep, she looked soft, even younger. So beautiful, but profoundly lacking in potential.

She seemed intelligent enough—
except when challenging me
—yet other than her looks, there was nothing noteworthy about her, no accomplishments she could boast of.

She’d been athletically inclined with all her wilderness expeditions and such, but she wasn’t a distinguished athlete. She played no instrument, and she spoke only one language—poorly.

If not for Saroya, Elizabeth would have lived a wasted existence, just like her loathsome mother. Thrift-store clothes and cheap perfume in a dingy, leaking trailer.

At least now Elizabeth served a higher purpose.

As her breaths deepened, her lips parted and her heartbeat grew lulling. Like a metronome . . . like the waves she’d never see.

So young, this mortal.
Gazing at her now, he could almost forget how much he detested humans.

Almost.

His thoughts were interrupted by his sudden yawn. Watching her sleep had calmed him. His Bride—or at least her body—
could
soothe him.
A tool I can use?

After unfastening his sword, he kicked off his boots, drew off his shirt.
Now I sleep.
Now the memories would come.

As he traced to his bed, he thought,
Your days are numbered, young Elizabeth.

 15

E
llie woke to a groan. A
male’s
groan.

She cracked open her eyes, found herself curled up on the couch in the vampire’s bedroom. She groggily reached over and turned on a nearby lamp, lighting the area enough for her to see Lothaire.

He lay asleep in his bed.

She rose and crossed to him, curious to see if she’d find him so handsome now that she was rested—and not acutely traumatized.

At his bedside, Ellie exhaled in resignation. How could he be so damaged mentally—and morally—and yet so stunning on the outside?

Clad only in dark jeans that hung low on his hips, he reclined on his front, the side of his head resting on his forearm. His longish blond hair was tousled, those unnerving eyes concealed.

His face was hauntingly flawless, with his proud, patrician nose and broad cheekbones. Even the stubble covering his bold jawline was enticing to her. Her fingers itched to trace his lips, to determine if they were as firm as they looked. She’d never really noticed men’s lips before, but his were sexy.

Now that his wounds had healed, the smooth skin of his back seemed to demand her touch. Those brawny shoulders . . .

He groaned again, his brows drawing together sharply.
Dreaming?

If he truly experienced the memories of all his victims—thousands of years’ worth—how could he
not
be going insane?

Surely he wouldn’t be dreaming of that ring already. Maybe he was seeing
her
memories?

She’d never done anything she’d be too ashamed of him discovering, but she didn’t want him to
feel
exactly how much she loved her family—or to know how dire their straits currently were.

The last time she’d spoken with her mother, there’d been mutterings about the Peirce men returning to the mines. Mama had said, “Over my dead body, Ellie,” then had grown embarrassed by her comment to her death-row daughter. . . .

When Lothaire turned on his back, Ellie’s mouth went dry. His torso was hard as stone, with cut abs and pecs. Darker blond hair, almost golden in color, dashed the center of his chest, and a fine line of gold trailed down to his navel and lower.

Her starving senses drank him in, almost blunting her hatred for him. Dear God, the vampire was so . . .
beautiful.

Masculine perfection. Especially with his eyes closed.
I could look at him all day.

No!
Rubber band snap.
He was a
murderer
who wanted to do her in. He was partly responsible for her imprisonment.

She’d best not have any confusing attraction to him. In fact, she briefly considered opening the curtains to the morning sun, but decided against it. He was too fast, would just trace from the light.

Instead, Ellie dragged herself away, planning to shower, get dressed, and mentally prepare for her next go-round with him.

Inside her room, she locked the adjoining door between their suites from her side—as if that’d do anything to keep him out. Then she drew back the curtains to her balcony. Her lips parted.

Late afternoon? Exhausted or not, she couldn’t believe she’d slept so long. In prison, she’d awakened at 6 a.m. on the dot for her entire sentence.