by Kresley Cole
The winds began to howl, sheeting the rain sideways, dispersing the scent. Still he ran, his thoughts growing as tangled as the underbrush. Find Dorada. Slay her. Then nothing will distract me from the ring.
He’d considered forgiving the Blademan’s debt in exchange for Webb’s location. After all, Chase surely hated Webb; the commander had gone behind his back and had Regin “studied.”
But Lothaire knew the Blademan would tell him nothing. He despised Lothaire even more than he did the man who’d ordered his female cut open—while she was conscious.
Navigating a dense stand of cypress, Lothaire ducked under a limb, startling a pack of crocodilae shifters and the nymphs who slummed with them.
The beings beheld him, screamed with fear, then scattered in all directions.
He didn’t spare them even a hiss. That scent . . . why couldn’t he run it to ground . . . ?
No, there’d be no negotiating with the Blademan; tapping into Chase’s memories was Lothaire’s only hope of reclaiming his ring. Yet instead of dreaming them, he’d continued to experience his own.
His last? Lothaire had relived the night he’d finally captured Stefanovich for Fyodor, ages after Lothaire’s torture had ended.
In a mindless rage, Lothaire tortured Stefanovich for hours—days—reveling in his father’s pleas for mercy. Once Fyodor gave the order, Lothaire raised his sword for the deathblow, steadying enough to comprehend that the king’s heart was beating. “Blyad’! He’s been blooded, Uncle.”
Fyodor looked aghast. “Then he might have sired a secret heir.” He pressed his own sword edge against Stefanovich’s throat, beginning to slice it back and forth. “Where is your Bride?”
“Dying,” Stefanovich grated with difficulty; he was scarcely alive himself. “Like the others.”
Female vampires had been afflicted in number by some kind of plague. King Stefanovich considered this such an embarrassing sign of weakness—immortals succumbing to sickness!—that he’d kept the tragedy secret, disseminating wild rumors. . . .
“And where is your heir?” Lothaire asked, preparing for another round of torture.
“Where you’ll never find him, bastard.”
But Lothaire had.
Moving like a shadow, silent as death, he loomed over a cradle. A fair-haired infant gazed up at him, grasping his finger with a tiny hand. . . .
Why see this scene again? What was his consciousness telling him?
When dawn neared, he eased his unrelenting pace, lurching to a stop. Sweat poured down his back and face to mingle with the rain.
He cast an accusing look at the lightening sky. Lothaire had uncovered no signs of Dorada. That heavy presence had faded to nothing.
Yet another wasted night. Will this be the one when my mind fails me for good? He squeezed his head in his hands.
Though he’d given only passing thought to his crowns, his apprehension for Elizabeth was ceaseless, grinding him down, as the earth had once done centuries before.
Want her so much! What the hell am I going to do?
Eventually, he would find the ring. Then three scenarios would open up before him.
He could wish to go back in time, erasing his vows completely. While there, he’d cast out Saroya, then take time to court Elizabeth, treating her like a queen.
Or he could wish to go back, yet be denied—the vows themselves might prevent him from using the ring in that fashion. He’d made an oath to do everything in his power to transform Saroya into an immortal and to extinguish Elizabeth.
Which meant that any attempt to do otherwise would be met with opposition.
If all else failed, he could leave Elizabeth in Hag’s care, then burn himself to ash in the sun.
To seek my own death, after surviving so long . . . ?
But attempting suicide would also break his oaths to Saroya. Would it even be possible to withstand the compulsion—and pain—long enough to die for Elizabeth?
All three scenarios would mean he had indeed retrieved the talisman that could destroy his Bride.
The risk . . .
He could tell no one about his predicament, could ask for no help, without breaking his pact with the goddess.
He couldn’t even warn Elizabeth to leave him. Not that it would matter. The ring would work no matter how near or far she was.
In a deadly maze of his own making, he could determine no escape.
Undone by my own arrogance, by my insatiable need for vengeance. Will my flaws literally be fatal ones?
All those blood vows he’d collected could do nothing to help him shirk his own. His hope—or his Bride’s doom—lay with the ring.
Just as he tensed to trace back to Elizabeth for the day, to lose himself in her body and scent, he heard a Valkyrie shriek carry over the dwindling patter of rain.
Could it be Nïx’s? As treacherous as she was, she did always seem to understand him. Perhaps she would grant him one boon; he deserved no less from her.
His embattled mind on the verge of breaking, he decided to swallow his pride and call on the one person who might discern his bind.
He traced to Val Hall, standing in the fog, awaiting.
Moments later, Nïx strolled out onto the front porch, proffering a lock of black hair to the circling wraiths.
The hair was their negotiated toll. Lothaire knew that when the Scourge collected enough to make a braid of a certain length, they could bend all Valkyries to their will for a time.
The mighty Valkyries would be enslaved. He could hardly wait.
Nïx sauntered toward him in the drizzle, her demeanor nonchalant. In the past, she’d told him he defied her foresight.
Fitting, since she defied his insight.
But now he was betting on her ability to all but read his mind—basically having the powers of a goddess.
Yet she carried a fucking bat on her shoulder? Her pink T-shirt read: Why can’t we be friends?
Subtle, Nïx. Real subtle.
She stopped mere feet before him. They stood wordlessly, appraising each other.
Her long sable hair was damp and wind-tossed, her wide-set golden eyes inscrutable. Her flowing skirt was tattered at the hem.
Just weeks ago, he’d seen her on the prison island; since then, she appeared thinner, fatigued. She’d always been petite, but now she seemed smaller.
Even so, she was blessed in form, as fine physically as she was damaged mentally.
She tilted her head then, as if she could spy inside his own.
He silently urged her to see—to know—what he needed so desperately. Help me from this bind. With difficulty, he bit out, “Nïx, I must have Elizabeth.” He could say no more, could explain nothing. Even that statement tested the boundaries of his vow; simply remaining in Nïx’s presence drained his strength.
She smiled, her gaze vacant. “Black king seeks white queen’s aid, then?” Lightning flashed above, harshly illuminating her face. Her comely features sharpened, her visage foreboding as she whispered, “Lothaire, you’ve been mistaken about something. The abyss doesn’t stare back. It winks.”
Then she turned on her heel and left him.
Disbelief. She was past the wraiths before he found his voice. “You fucking bitch!” he bellowed, while thinking, I am lost. . . .
That day as he slept, with Elizabeth clasped in his arms, Lothaire dreamed of the ring.
45
Chase’s memories of the ring’s location had been chaotic and confused. Which meant Lothaire had been right at home with them, using them to trace directly to Webb’s hideout in the Canadian Rockies.
Never would have guessed Canada.
Earlier, when Lothaire had awakened, he’d acted as if nothing was amiss, dropping Elizabeth at Hag’s.
Though once he’d started kissing Elizabeth good-bye, he’d found it hard to stop.
Now he surveyed the front of a nondescript ranch—one surrounded by some of the most high-tech security on earth.
And more, Chase had be
en familiar with every safeguard, which meant Lothaire was, too. He circumvented them all, easily breaching the structure’s defenses.
Making himself incorporeal, Lothaire half-traced down dimly lit halls. Invisible to mortal eyes, he entered Webb’s private quarters. The man’s safe would be behind a wall within these chambers, the ring inside.
He found Webb seated at his desk, in the middle of a phone call, his shoulder muscles bunched with tension. Lothaire could hear both sides of the conversation.
Webb was speaking with the Blademan, Declan Chase.
Interesting.
“I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you called,” Webb said.
“I’ve no wish to resume communication with you,” Chase said in his thick Irish accent. “But to repay you for saving my life, I’ve decided to give you a warning.”
“About what?”
“The Enemy of Old drank my blood on the island. He has my memories, which means he’ll eventually dream of your ranch’s location, your security, everything. He’ll be coming for you. And the ring.”
Already here. Lothaire just stifled a laugh. Time is of the essence, Chase.
“He won’t have the combination, and there are countermeasures in place,” the commander said. “But I’ll move out at once, hiding it from him this very night.” A weighty pause. “Unless you want to do it. Come back into the fold, Declan. We need your strength. There’s still work to be done to stop the tide of immortals from taking over the earth. From enslaving us.”
As if we’d want you.
“My connection to the Order is terminated,” Chase said. “Just keep the ring out of that vampire’s hands. Amazingly, I trust Lothaire with it even less than I do you.”
Words hurt, Chase.
“You’re truly going to ally with miscreats?” Webb demanded. “Have you forgotten that those abominations tortured and killed your parents? Tortured and nearly killed you? I saved you from them!”
“I am one of those miscreats, Webb. A born berserker.”
Shaking off the Order’s brainwashing, are we, Blademan?
Though Webb’s face was flushed with rage, his tone remained fatherly, concerned. “Son, your mind’s unclear. That female has swayed you.”
“I’m not your son,” Chase snapped. “And that female is going to be my wife. Better Regin sway me than you.”
Debatable.
“I reported to the Order that you died on the island,” Webb said. “And I’ll stick to that, but only if you stand down against our mission.”
Chase replied, “You told me I was either on your side or theirs. You were right. Harm any among my allies, and I’ll retaliate.” Click.
The Blademan rises a notch in my estimation.
As soon as the call ended, Lothaire said, “Ah, was that Chase warning you against me? Shame. If only he’d done so sooner.”
The commander whirled around, firing a charge thrower at him.
Lothaire laughed as the electrical stream passed through his torso. “Half-tracing, Webb. You can’t touch me. But I can touch you.” He briefly materialized to knock the gun from Webb’s hand, breaking the mortal’s arm with a satisfying crack.
Webb yelled with pain, his other hand darting for a button under his desk.
“Ah-ah, don’t touch that alarm.” Lothaire secured the man’s hand in his own fist. Giving the lightest squeeze, he shattered Webb’s bones like a crushed walnut.
As the man bit out a scream, Lothaire smiled down, knowing how terrifying he looked—the face of death. “Now you have two choices, human. If you tell me the combination to your safe and reveal what countermeasures are in place, I might spare your life. Or I can torture you for the information, then drink your memories so I can find and punish your family as well. You have one hidden somewhere, don’t you?”
“Never. Never will I tell you!”
“Very well. I’ll enjoy it more if you struggle. . . .”
Ultimately, he tortured Webb until the man begged to divulge all. After a while, Lothaire let him.
“And one last question,” Lothaire said, rising above the man’s mutilated body. “Who gave the Order my name? Who put me on Chase’s capture list?”
Blood bubbled from Webb’s lips as he laughed brokenly. “Vampire . . . deep down . . . you know.”
At that, Lothaire’s composure faltered. He’d had a suspicion, of course, but it couldn’t be correct. “Not possible.”
Between choking coughs, Webb grated, “You know . . . who gave you to us.”
He had to be lying. Only one way to find out for certain.
Lothaire’s gaze dropped to the man’s neck. Would this be the victim that sent him into the abyss? Could he stop short of drinking Webb to the quick?
Must risk it. “I’m going to drain you now.” Lothaire hauled the man to his feet. “Do resist. It adds something.” Then he pierced Webb’s jugular, grimacing at the blood.
The commander tasted like sewage compared to Elizabeth. But the impending kill teased Lothaire, beckoned him to suck harder as Webb’s flailing body grew lighter and lighter from blood loss.
When the man fell limp, Lothaire dropped him, staggering back. What’s in his blood?
A narcotic haze shrouded him. Raw, potent. Lothaire was high from it, too high to ponder why. He slid his back down a wall, closing his eyes against the spinning room.
As Webb took his last rattling breath, images began to stream through Lothaire’s mind at light speed. He fell into a quasi-sleep, immersed in the man’s twisted memories.
What felt like hours passed before Lothaire could seize on the memory he sought. . . .
The commander hadn’t lied about Lothaire’s betrayer.
Bile rose in Lothaire’s throat, a spike of pure hatred reviving him. He slitted open his eyes. Everyone he’d ever trusted had died—or betrayed him.
Elizabeth can still do one. Or both.
Forever betrayed. Stefanovich, Serghei, Fyodor, Saroya, even the one being Lothaire had called friend. . . .
But not Elizabeth. Never her.
He lumbered to his feet, kicked Webb’s lifeless body—good riddance, prick—then started for the safe.
Now to disable all the safeguards. Press a button there, enter a false code, turn the lever once. Enter the real code.
Puzzle moves. If Lothaire didn’t have so much on the line, he might have enjoyed this.
With a hiss, the safe door opened. There. A black velvet pouch.
He slipped the ring from it. As he donned the plain gold band, he felt an unfathomable power radiating from it.
Wasting not one second, Lothaire twisted the ring, making his wish. Go back in time to undo my vows to Saroya the Soul Reaper.
Nothing. Lothaire felt no surge of power as he had in the past with other lesser talismans.
Maybe the ring forbade time-travel. He amended his wish: Erase my vows to Saroya.
Again, nothing. Dear gods, the ring had denied him; the vows remained sacrosanct. The pull to destroy his Bride grew overwhelming.
Death was the only move left on the chessboard. Elizabeth’s or his own?
He gazed out the study window. The sun was rising, rays of light erupting over distant mountains.
Like clutching fingers. His instinct was to go to ground, to evade their grasp.
Could he sacrifice himself for Elizabeth? Part of him could scarcely believe that Lothaire—the black-hearted Enemy of Old—was even contemplating this! To spare her, would he render himself to ash?
As Ivana had all those years ago to protect him . . .
He told himself he was considering this only because Elizabeth’s death would alter him. How could any vampire go on living without his Bride? He tried to convince himself that his heart held no sway in this decision.
But it did. Little mortal, you’ve changed everything. . . .
Before Ivana had gone to meet her death, Lothaire had asked her, “How can you do this?” At last he understood her answer.
Because anything that is worthy in me began with Elizabeth.
He rubbed his hand over his chest, startled by the ache he felt there. I wish I could have seen her one last time. . . .
Shoulders back, he traced outside to meet dawn, challenging an enemy he’d eluded all his life.
An enemy he now prayed would defeat him.
46
“ It’s happening,” Ellie admitted to Balery as she sipped a Coke. “I’m falling in love with him.”
She and the fey were on the deck watching the sunset as Ellie anxiously awaited Lothaire. He’d been missing all day.
As he’d set off, Ellie had again told him she wouldn’t worry. So much for that.
Earlier Thad had visited. For hours, he and Balery had tried to distract her, but her sense of dread had grown steadily throughout the day.
At four in the afternoon, she’d demanded that Balery roll her bones. Whatever the fey had seen had leached her face of color, had wrested one gasped word: “ . . . burning.”
Yet once she’d collected herself, Balery had pasted on a fake smile and deemed that roll a “dud.” No matter how much Ellie wheedled, she’d refused to offer more on the subject.
Now Balery said, “I could tell, just by the way you look at him. Have you told him?”
Ellie muttered, “Not yet.” Holding on to a thread of her formerly stubborn self, she’d backed herself out of her vows. Never falling in love with Lothaire had turned into not telling him I love him first. . . .
“Elizabeth,” Balery began in a pained tone, “there’s something you need to know about Saroya and—”
Lothaire appeared; Ellie’s jaw dropped.
He was burned in deep patches, his muscles bulging, sweat and blood seeping from his charred skin.
Before either Hag or Ellie could manage a word, he’d snatched Ellie’s arm, tracing her to their bedroom at the apartment.
“Lothaire, my God! What has happened to you?” What did Balery witness?
His irises were a deeper red than Ellie had ever seen them, the color bleeding across the whites of his eyes. “Look what I’ve retrieved, Lizvetta.” He pinched a simple gold band with two white-knuckled fingers, his expression a mix of insanity and agony.