Lothaire iad-12

by Kresley Cole

  “Lothaire, have you never thought what it’d be like to be a father?”

  “It would be a risk—although few would dare harm Saroya’s offspring. Certainly no vampire enemies of mine would. . . .” He crossed to the balcony and gazed out. As a breeze sifted through his hair, his shoulders tensed. “A mist rises,” he said in an odd tone.

  She was getting nowhere with him. “Am I done entertaining you, vampire? I’m tired. This inferior mortal needs to rest.”

  He turned back to her. “You’ll sleep in here.” At her disbelieving look, he said, “I don’t exaggerate the threat to you. I’d hoped to have separate rooms—not because I wished to afford you privacy, but because I didn’t want to look at you. Unfortunately, we do not have that luxury.”

  “Fine.” She rose, retrieved a pillow and a blanket from her room, then returned to the settee.

  “Do not touch me when I sleep,” Lothaire said. “Do not get near me.” When he held her gaze, she suddenly recalled the haunting bellows echoing from his room the last time he’d slept. “No matter what occurs.”

  26

  W here am I now? Lothaire woke in the snow once more, this time during the day. The filtered sunlight on his bare chest was like a leather strop slowly rubbing it raw.

  Shading his eyes, he peered around, his heart beginning to thunder in his ears. Ah, gods, no . . .

  He knelt in the middle of a forest. All around him stood trees that wept blood. Morning sun streamed between the gnarled trunks, over the seeping bark.

  Again, he’d returned to a place from his past—the Bloodroot Forest flanking Castle Helvita.

  I grew up within those walls. Later I knew torture in these woods.

  The constant grinding pressure of dirt over him, as if the earth had fed on him, digesting him like a meal . . .

  He hadn’t returned here since King Demestriu had died. Now, with no king in residence, loyalist vampires held the seat, waiting for an heir with two qualifications: he had to hold the Thirst sacred, and he had to be a legitimate royal.

  Led by a soldier called Tymur the Allegiant, they’d rejected all contenders.

  Tymur would assassinate Lothaire on sight.

  Why did I return to this place of treachery? Why was his subconscious focusing on this memory of his torture—

  Cold metal kissed his neck. A real sword? An imagined threat?

  He eased his head around to find two daytime sentries, a behorned demon and a Cerunno. They would’ve been ordered to take him prisoner, to be questioned.

  The demon could teleport a retreat; the Cerunno’s speed was legendary. Yet they remained.

  Then they have no idea who I am.

  The demon said, “Who dares to trespass on these hallowed grounds?”

  Lothaire bared his fangs. I will trace with a speed even they can’t follow, appearing behind the demon, whispering my name in his ear. He’ll quake with fear before I wrench his head from his neck. The Cerunno will flee—until I fling the demon’s sword, catching the creature in the spine. . . .

  “The Enemy of Old,” Lothaire whispered in the demon’s ear before gripping his horns and twisting. The head came loose in a rush of frayed tendons and crackling vertebrae. “And there’s little daring to it.” He gazed impassively at the sentry’s collapsed body.

  I was mistaken. There’d been no quake of fear; instead, the male had pissed himself upon hearing Lothaire’s name.

  The second guard had already begun its slithering retreat, racing across the snow, around the trees. Lothaire snatched up the demon’s sword and flung it at the Cerunno, hitting it in the back, crippling it.

  Thoughts already on other things, Lothaire traced to the being, stepping over its twitching serpentine tail to retrieve the sword.

  As he cleaved off the Cerunno’s head with one swing, Lothaire realized his damaged mind was trying to tell him something by sending him here. Yet he’d likely be dead before he could interpret it.

  He’d traced directly to his enemies without a weapon, only to wake disoriented in the sun. If the demon had merely swung first, I’d be dead.

  At least Lothaire hadn’t relived the torture he’d experienced here. He would surely fall into the abyss then.

  I’d want to be insane.

  Memories forever haunting him. But not a single new one of the ring. After several hours of sleep, he’d garnered no new leads.

  With both opponents eliminated, Lothaire tried not to notice that the tree trunks seemed to yawn closer to the corpses.

  The trees in this forest needed neither sun nor rain to live—like most everything else in this vampiric realm, they fed on blood.

  He blocked out the groan of a ravening trunk, the whistled hiss of a limb. . . .

  With a shudder, Lothaire traced back to the apartment. Though he still needed to sleep, to dream, he was concerned about the risk. Would he have to procure bindings that prevented tracing? Chain himself to his bed each time he slept?

  Back in the dimly lit room, Elizabeth was sleeping peacefully. She was warm, soft-looking, so far removed from the violence he’d just meted.

  As he stared at her, the skirmish began to blend into his memories, congealing with nearly a million nights’ worth of them—each one filled with torture, war, or death. Blood up to my ankles, and endless screams in my ears.

  Yes, Elizabeth was far removed, must always be so. . . .

  He dragged his gaze away from her, frowning down at a dripping sword he hadn’t remembered holding.

  Losing my mind. With a practiced move, he flicked the blade and blood went flying.

  Unsettled, he tossed the weapon away, then sat in his desk chair, lowering his head into his hands.

  Madness crept ever closer, the abyss awaiting. What am I going to do? For the first time in ages, he didn’t know. To be so close to his Endgame and cede control now?

  Never!

  He raised his gaze, narrowing it on his most complicated puzzle. Mind over mind?

  * * *

  A chill in the room.

  Ellie had awakened, wondering if a window had been left open.

  But the cold had come from Lothaire as he’d reappeared from some mysterious trip, with snow still caked around the legs of his pants and a bloody sword clutched in his fist.

  She’d kept her lids cracked, her breathing deep and even, watching him as he’d stared at her with an unreadable expression. Finally, he’d sunk down into his desk chair.

  Then he’d given one of those puzzles a challenging look, as if he would defeat it or die trying.

  Now she watched as he seemed to be making progress, placing a block here, turning the structure to insert a triangle.

  She was enthralled as his pale fingers worked. Though tipped with black claws, they were long and elegant. Like she imagined a surgeon’s would be.

  Yet Lothaire used his hands not to save, but to destroy.

  When those fingers abruptly ceased their work, tension radiated from him, escalating like a ticking bomb about to explode. His eyes fired red—

  With a bellow, he flung the puzzle across the room, so hard that pieces skidded along the floor and embedded into the far wall.

  God, he’s so strong. She held her breath. Apparently, one of the strongest.

  But this wasn’t enough destruction for the vampire. While she stared in astonishment, he crushed furniture, tossed lamps. He ran his forearm across his desk and swept all the puzzles to the floor.

  He stilled, his brows drawing together. Regret? He clearly couldn’t stand seeing his beloved puzzles in disarray. Heaving his breaths, his eyes glowing in the dark, he dropped to his knees.

  Maybe I should help him, to sway his affections. “What’s the matter, Lothaire?” she asked, gathering her courage to join him on the floor.

  “So simple before,” he said absently, studying a block from all angles. “Child’s play.”

  She knelt in front of him. “It’s okay. Shh, vampire,” she murmured as she began gathering similar pieces in
like piles, then placing them on the desk.

  He lifted his head to face her fully. His eyes were definitely out of focus. He seemed . . . vulnerable. Even with his fangs and black claws, his fiery irises. Even though he’d surely just ended a life minutes ago.

  “We will never live near the blood forest. The trees cry blood, drinking deep. Never near them again.” His words were the ramblings of a madman, his accent as marked as she’d ever heard it.

  Though she wanted to demand what that meant, she said, “Of course not. Why were you in the . . . forest?”

  “I trace when I sleep. Trace to enemies. How long will fate let me get away with that? How many times can I have a sword at my neck—before one cleaves true?”

  “Can’t you prevent the tracing?”

  “With chains. Hate being chained. Caught fast in anything.”

  “I do too.”

  “When I was a boy, I was caught in a net.” He gazed past her. “Couldn’t trace from it. The metal was cold and heavy on my skin. They dropped down to collect my head and fangs.”

  “Who?”

  “Look at the lordling leech in rags,” he sneered, imitating another’s accent. “He must be hungry.” A long exhalation. “I was spared. But to what end . . . ?”

  Without warning, he laid aside his puzzle and drew her into his arms, tracing them to the bed. He sat up against the wall, curling her in his lap, gazing down at her. “When I take the castle, I’ll chop them all down.”

  “Um, every last tree?”

  That seemed to mollify him some. “Yes, beauty, I knew you’d agree,” he answered, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead.

  The room darkened even more as rain began to fall outside, seeming to cocoon them from the world. Would he even remember this conversation? Maybe she could delve for information. “Lothaire, tell me of your blood vendetta. How do your seven tasks fit in?”

  “I’ll avenge my mother’s death.” He raised his gaze, seeming to stare at something Ellie couldn’t see. “She died for me; didn’t have to. Serghei could have saved her.”

  “And Serghei is . . . ?”

  “Her father. The one who allowed her to be raped by dozens, then burned to death.”

  Ellie just kept her jaw from dropping.

  In a distant tone, Lothaire murmured, “No boy should hear those things. The Daci forsook her, returning when she was no more than scattered ash. But I will make them pay.”

  He’d been nearby when his mother had been raped and murdered? Why had Ivana’s father done nothing to save his daughter, to spare his grandson?

  Doesn’t matter, Ellie. Lothaire’s past doesn’t concern you. No matter how tragic.

  “How does the ring come into play?” Ellie knew that Lothaire planned to use it to turn Saroya into a vampire—and get rid of me—but how did that serve his blood vendetta? Shouldn’t acquiring his female have been on a different task list? “What does the ring do?”

  “Almost anything one wishes. For a time,” he added cryptically. “It’s a powerful talisman, yet deceptively simple to use. Just twist it on one’s finger and make a wish. But not too many.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He didn’t answer, just stroked her hair.

  Realizing she wasn’t going to get more from him on this subject, she said, “I know you’ll find it soon.”

  He grinned down at her, revealing even, white teeth, his fangs not so intimidating in this twilight. Lothaire Daciano was stunning when he smiled. “I will. And then you’ll be my queen forever.”

  “Yes, forever, Lothaire.”

  He curled his finger under her chin, instead of pinching it. “You want to be with me.”

  This unexpected tenderness, coupled with his vulnerability, was making her chest ache.

  “Waited an eternity for you.” He ran his knuckles along her cheekbone, his expression one of longing. And she had the strangest urge to cry. “I didn’t know what you would look like. Imagined for centuries, searching faces.”

  “Are you happy with how I look?”

  Another roguish smile made her heart clench. “I could stare at Saroya for hours.”

  A compliment, Ellie supposed. She tilted her head at him. Lothaire appeared younger when he grinned. “How old were you when you turned immortal?”

  “I was thirty-three when my heart stopped beating.” He sighed. “Last time I took a maid.”

  As she’d thought. Thousands of years without a woman. “Are you truly evil, Lothaire?”

  “Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

  “Do you really mean to do me harm?”

  “When I find the ring, yes. To you, I’m nothing more than death,” he said, even as he gave her cheek another tender stroke.

  “Will it hurt when you cast out my soul?”

  “The ring might bring you pain. I don’t know.”

  Disturbingly vague. “You won’t show me any mercy?”

  “Mercy? My father begged me for it once. After I decapitated him, I fed his remains to the dogs.” Lothaire gave her a sinister smile, so different from his heartbreaking grin. This was more a baring of his fangs. “He hated dogs.”

  “You k-killed your own father?”

  He tensed around her. “Perhaps he oughtn’t to have buried me alive for six centuries.”

  “B-buried—”

  “Sent to my grave. Before I was dead.”

  Oh, dear God. Last night, she’d recognized that she was out of her depth with Lothaire. Now she realized she was out of her depth with this entire new world of his. A world filled with hate and torture and murder.

  No wonder he wanted Saroya.

  And still, she found herself reaching out to smooth her fingertips along his strong jaw. “I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered—”

  He snapped his head around and bit her forefinger.

  “Ow.” Like some rabid animal!

  When blood rose, he clasped her wrist and drew her hand to his mouth, closing his lips over her fingertip. As he began to suck, his lids grew heavy, then closed altogether. Those sculpted muscles relaxed all around her.

  And oh, she responded to his obvious pleasure. Watching his lips work made her melt. When his tongue twined around her fingertip, she felt a slow, wet ache build between her legs.

  Why hadn’t she let him suckle her breasts before? To have his hungry mouth working her stiffened nipples?

  Suddenly he released her, his expression intent. “Need you.”

  She swallowed, wondering what he would do now. “Lothaire?”

  “Do you want me to touch you?”

  Did she? Would he hurt her? If he could caress her as gently as he’d worked that puzzle . . .

  Before he’d thrown it in a rage.

  Ellie had planned to seduce him away from Saroya. Am I gonna give up after one failure?

  He cupped her breast with a hot palm, those elegant fingers tugging at her nipple through the silk. She gasped, her body gone boneless.

  “Answer me.” He dipped his mouth to her neck, teasing her with small grazes of one fang. “Yes or no, Elizabeth, before I stop pretending your answer matters.”

  When he began slipping her nightgown up her thighs, she shivered with need, lost. “Yes, yes. . . .”

  27

  The fog receded. Lothaire wasn’t dreaming.

  He had one of his hands on a tender breast, his other steadily inching Elizabeth’s lingerie up her taut thighs.

  How had he gotten into this position? He couldn’t remember. Why did he taste her delicious blood? Why couldn’t he recall—

  Wait. Had she been questioning him? As his mind began to clear, he realized the mortal had thought to take advantage of him. “You were digging for information?”

  She swallowed.

  “You little bitch!” He wanted to punish her—and he couldn’t. Blyad’! What would it take to secure the ring—and to finally be rid of her?

  Frustration bubbling up inside him, he rose and brusquely tossed her back onto
the bed, making her cry out.

  Yet as she scurried to right herself, her nightgown rode up and he caught the fleetest glimpse of her sex.

  Bare? At once, he traced to the bed, throwing her back down. “Have you a surprise for me? I’ll see it now—part your thighs.”

  “No!” She yanked down on her nightgown.

  He clamped his hands on her knees, spreading them, rucking up the gown.

  Face gone red, she fought, but he easily overpowered her, wedging his hips between her thighs. “I did things your way the last time. Now I’ll do them my . . .” His words trailed off at his first sight of her female flesh. Glistening lips opened like petals.

  A growl escaped him as his hand dipped to her.

  He didn’t want to want her. But the sight of her aroused sex and its luscious scent made him lust beyond control. When she needed release, he instinctively needed to sate her.

  His first feel of her . . . wet, hot to the touch, unimaginably soft. He gave a reverent groan.

  “Let me go!” She shoved at him.

  To take this prize away from him? “Mine, Elizabeth!” He cupped her possessively, giving her a harsh jostle. “This belongs to me. You don’t deny me what’s mine.”

  When her nails dug into his arm, he laughed cruelly. “Like the claws of a kitten.” Another jostle. “Understand me, woman, I own your body, will enjoy it for the rest of my life. Licking it, fucking it, all at my leisure.”

  She’d begun trembling with fear, gazing past him with bleak eyes. . . .

  Damn her, that won’t do.

  Yes, he hated her and enjoyed taunting her—especially since she’d questioned him. Yes, he was furious to have no new leads from his earlier slumber, and he wanted to take it out on her.

  But now he had an aching cockstand, which meant he craved the uninhibited sexuality she’d shown him. Want her wetter, want her abandoned.

  With effort, he calmed his tone. “Relax, pet,” he forced himself to say. “I won’t hurt you tonight.” Hmm, not a lie?

  Still tension thrummed off her.

  “You don’t trust me?”

  She shook her head, her flowing hair stark against the sheets.

  “I only want to finger you, just play. Watch me, then.” To illustrate, he leisurely rubbed his forefinger over her clitoris. Once, twice . . .