by Kresley Cole
These thoughts left him when the head of his cock found her wetness.
She softly cried, “Murdoch . . .” Lightning fractured the night, the thunder booming all around them.
With a groan, he slowly rolled his hips up, pressing the crown inside her untried body . . . the tightness, the connection.
When she gasped in his ear and made little whimpers of pleasure, he ran his mouth against her neck, licking her sweet skin, knowing he’d take her blood this night.
He rode her harder, faster, shocked when she met his frantic thrusts with a hidden strength. She dug her heels in to lift her hips, seating him even deeper inside her.
She told him she was about to come, and he was desperate to feel it.
Her sheath began squeezing his throbbing cock, and the power of her orgasm sent his seed climbing. The pressure would soon make him mindless. His cock ached; his fangs ached. No amount of will could prevent him from bucking his hips to lose his semen . . . or from piercing her neck.
With a yell, he sank his fangs into her tender flesh. And it was like coming home.
“Murdoch!”
He felt her crying out as her blood filled his mouth, coursing through every cell in his body.
Connection.
As the overwhelming urge to come inside her grew, he slammed his body between her legs. Growling against her neck, he began to ejaculate, spending so hard he knew she felt it inside her. Still sucking her blood, he flooded her womb.
Once he was spent at last, he collapsed atop her, releasing his bite. Afterward, as their hearts pounded, he couldn’t seem to stop kissing her neck and murmuring praise in her ear. This new bond between them was like nothing he’d ever known.
Yet she began fading, disappearing from him.
“Murdoch, what’s happening?” The fear in her eyes was like the night before—stark, filling him with dread.
“No! Daniela, don’t go. . . .”
A strange voice in his mind whispered, “How badly do you want her? What would you sacrifice?”
He woke to his own yelling, tracing to his feet. With her number still in his hand, he snatched up the phone, staring at one, then the other as he caught his breath.
He shook his head hard. What the hell was this? Like a spell on him, making him behave in ways he normally wouldn’t.
Calm yourself. Think this through. You have bloodlust for her.
He couldn’t control it. He acknowledged that. Yet he kept remembering his brother’s contentment. Murdoch’s mind seized on the rightness of being with Daniela in his dream.
Think, just think. . . . As he debated, he stalled, tracing to the kitchen to drink blood, though he had no appetite, then showering. He took time selecting which clothes he’d wear for the night—in case he decided to meet her again.
In the end, Murdoch found it impossible not to call her. To hell with it.
He was strangely nervous as he picked up the phone. After all, he’d never contacted a woman for an assignation. They’d always come to him.
He’d have to smooth-talk Daniela, since he’d left it so badly today. That wouldn’t be a problem. He’d been called silver-tongued by more than one lover in the past.
Eight-six-seven-five-three-oh-nine—
“Kristoff wishes to see you,” a male said from behind him.
He hastily disconnected the call, then cast a scowl over his shoulder. Lukyan, a Russian Forbearer, leaned negligently against the doorframe.
Murdoch didn’t trust the former Cossack. Not bothering to hide his irritation, he said, “Can’t it wait?”
“It’s about your brother. You’re to go to Blachmount.”
“What about him?”
Lukyan’s expression was studiously blank. “He’s probably about to be executed.”
TWELVE
DANII HAD GOTTEN INTO VAL HALL UNDETECTED. Now I just have to get my things and get out.
Although a couple dozen Valkyrie lived here at any time, the manor was quiet this morning. Most were nocturnal, as was Danii usually—it was cooler that way.
Nïx, the one half sister she wanted to see, was nowhere to be found.
Upstairs, Danii passed the most shaded chamber in Val Hall, belonging to Emmaline, her beloved niece. But she knew Emma would be asleep as well. It was day, and Emma was vampire. Or half one. No one knew who her vampire father was, and that information wasn’t likely forthcoming, since her Valkyrie mother had died of sorrow decades ago.
Gentle Emma was the single vampire the Valkyrie accepted. Though a blood drinker, she was so timid that she made it easy to overlook the vampirism.
Emma was the exception; Murdoch was the rule. Just accept it. He almost bit you. . . .
Danii reached her room, which was basically a giant freezer, and pushed open the heavy insulated door. A blast of arctic air and the comforting drone of refrigeration met her.
She lived at Val Hall year-round. But in the summer, even the meat locker—as her sisters called her room—was barely adequate for her needs.
There simply was no call for hundred-degree days.
Closing the door behind her, she gazed around the spacious area. She’d decorated it with frost, glazing the walls with it. Icicles dripped from the blades of the ceiling fan. Valances of ice capped her windows.
She couldn’t say she loved it here, but she’d adapted to life with her coven. Others could tolerate hours in the snow, but would seek a hearth at the end of the day. Danii was the same way with heat, except she sought the comfort of her meat locker.
Her slushy waterbed was filled with saltwater, which lowered the freezing point to below thirty-two degrees. Above her bathtub was an ice maker, and beside it hung an Epsom salt dispenser. On occasion, she had to add salt to the water so that she didn’t freeze it.
Her ice-proofed computer was a military-spec laptop with a magnesium chassis and a sealed keyboard.
Yes, she’d adapted. And she’d felt some security living in such a warm climate. I thought I was safe from Sigmund here. It should’ve been the last place the Icere would look.
The attack was another reason Danii was avoiding her sisters. If she told them about last night, they would insist on her staying—and them fighting. But the Icere were an enemy the Valkyrie didn’t need.
And one they could never find to defeat.
When Danii had been a girl of seven, her mother Svana had journeyed to Icergard, the Icere castle, to reclaim her crown from the vicious Sigmund. Danii’s memories of this time were indistinct after the passage of so many years, but she remembered her mother saying, “If I don’t return to you here, you must promise me, love, never to follow me. Never, never go to Icergard.” She’d made Danii vow it.
Svana had never returned. Before she’d even made it to the castle, Sigmund had assassinated her—the mother who’d refused to linger endlessly in peace with her young daughter in the godplane of Valhalla.
Once Danii had grown old enough to leave Valhalla herself, he’d dispatched killers after her to prevent her from ever challenging his reign. As if she ever would.
Over the centuries, she’d considered breaking her vow to her mother, but only to gather her sisters and strike back at Sigmund, freeing herself from his threat. Yet even if the Valkyrie could find Icergard—rumored to be hidden within the Arctic Circle beneath a dome of ice—they could never attack the castle without getting slaughtered.
Sigmund was perfectly protected from the Valkyrie, inadvertently utilizing their greatest weakness as his defense.
Diamonds. Svana had told her they dotted the walls and perimeter fences. Though Danii was immune, most Valkyrie could be mesmerized by them.
With a sigh, she rose. She needed to pack, and then she needed to find Nïx to ask the half mad soothsayer about three things:
Myst.
Exactly what was supposed to have been fixed the night before.
And where Danii should flee before the next wave of Icere arrived.
There were eleven other Valkyrie
covens around the world that Danii could choose from.
The latitude of the Seattle coven had always intrigued her. And then there was the one in New Zealand. Fall approached down there.
Yet as ever, Danii hated to leave her own coven. Valkyrie visited others, but they always returned to their primary coven, like preferring an immediate family over an extended one.
Plus, the New Orleans Valkyrie had plagued the others with practical jokes, which might make it awkward for Danii to pop in.
She could just see herself telling the Seattle Valkyrie, “I had nothing to do with signing you up for the emu farming franchise. And I am sorry twenty of them were released in your pool house, startling your harem of cabana demons. See Nïx.”
Tonight, the wily soothsayer would likely be downtown in the Vieux Carré. So Danii would be trolling Bourbon Street yet again. Her only consolation was that she wouldn’t run into Murdoch.
He and his brother had only been in New Orleans to find Myst. Good riddance.
Damn it, why did never seeing him again matter to her?
Because he saved your life and surprised you repeatedly. And she’d enjoyed him, had liked what they’d done together. It was the first time she’d had an orgasm with someone else in the room. She grew aroused just recalling how he’d worked the seed free from his shaft. He’d been naked in bed with her, his mighty chest heaving, yelling out as he came.
And now he was free to use those sensual lips to kiss another woman, could use that magnificent body to pleasure others. She glanced at her claws. They’d straightened with aggression.
Stop thinking about him, she told herself firmly as she crossed to one of the windows, brushing away a layer of frost. As her gaze flickered over the lightning-scorched trees in the yard, a sense of melancholy fell over her. I don’t want to leave.
In the window glass, Danii spied her reflection. She was exhausted, which meant there was a reddish tinge to her lips and under her eyes, instead of the blue that should be there. Her face was pinched.
She looked miserable. Tally yet another reason why the vampire hadn’t wanted to have anything to do with her. Well, other than biting and possibly killing her.
She glared down at her pale, icy skin. Never to be touched. Never without pain. Danii was stuck in this body, stuck in this rut.
Most of her half sisters were fiercely independent—many were legendary warriors or love-’em-and-leave-’em jet-setters. Danii was just . . . Danii. And she could admit she’d longed for a male of her own, maybe to make a home with. A male who would always clasp her in his arms when she ran for him.
I’m the Valkyrie who most wants to be held—and I never can be. At the thought, she felt her bottom lip trembling. I’d rather not have had a glimpse of what I’ve been missing.
She dropped her head into her hands and wept, her freezing tears making her want to scream.
THIRTEEN
TONIGHT MURDOCH MIGHT BE FORCED TO KILL HIS KING.
He had sworn fealty to Kristoff and his Forbearer order, but he was loyal to Nikolai above all others.
After Lukyan left, Murdoch quickly stuffed Daniela’s note in his pocket—and donned his sword. He would strike down Kristoff in a heartbeat if his brother was in danger.
When he traced to the great room in Blachmount, Kristoff intoned, “Sit, Murdoch.”
Kristoff was at the head of the timeworn table, flanked by four Forbearer elders from Russia, some of the first ones he’d turned— his own countrymen.
Within their order was a tense alliance between the Russians and Estonians. Kristoff thought the realm of the Lore superseded human concerns and wars. But history was difficult for Murdoch to forget.
Russians had killed him and most of his family.
“I imagine Nikolai will be down shortly.” Kristoff was analyzing him. Would he hear Murdoch’s beating heart? And if he did, would he say anything about it?
The king often acted in ways that were incomprehensible to Murdoch. He’d demonstrated blistering wrath toward some subjects, and unexpected leniency to others.
Kristoff was a natural-born vampire, not a turned human, and was as shrewd as he was ruthless. As a boy, he’d had his crown stolen by his uncle, Demestriu, the current leader of the Horde. Kristoff had been smuggled out of the capital before Demestriu could assassinate him, then raised in hiding by humans.
Once Kristoff had grown old enough to seek his birthright, he’d had no army, so he’d started making one, siring troops of turned human warriors.
Murdoch sat down uneasily. “What are we doing here?”
“Questioning your brother,” Kristoff said. “About his crime.”
Striving to make his tone level, he asked, “What crime would that be?”
“One of the worst.”
The worst crimes in their order were treason and drinking living blood straight from the flesh.
There’d been no treason. Though Murdoch didn’t particularly care about Kristoff’s cause—he’d agreed to join the king’s army because he’d wanted to live—Nikolai had always fervently believed in what the Forbearers stood for.
And drinking living blood? When Murdoch had seen Nikolai earlier, he’d been content, but he’d still been pallid, still lean. His eyes had been closed, so Murdoch hadn’t been able to tell if they were red.
“My liege, you know Nikolai,” Murdoch said. “He’s a loyal soldier.” Besides, Nikolai would’ve told Murdoch if he’d planned anything.
“Exactly.”
Murdoch fell silent at that, knowing from experience that Kristoff would say no more. As a natural-born vampire, Kristoff was unable to lie, so instead he often ignored questions and answered others cryptically.
As they waited for Nikolai, Murdoch restlessly glanced around the decaying room. So many memories haunted this place. Here Nikolai had made the fateful decision to try to turn all of their dying family.
Murdoch remembered that time as if it were yesterday.
After he and Nikolai had risen from the dead, they’d traced home and had found their sisters and father dying of plague. Sebastian and Conrad had been stabbed through by Russian marauders and barely clung to life.
All in this room . . . How the girls had wept when they’d comprehended that they were dying. How filled with rage Sebastian and Conrad had been to be turned into vampires against their will—
Nikolai suddenly materialized. He was black-eyed with fury, his fangs dripping. He must have sensed intruders, and thought them a threat to Myst.
“Wroth, I pity the being who wishes to harm your Bride,” Kristoff said.
Murdoch nearly whistled out a breath at Nikolai’s appearance. His face had been beaten. His clothing was filthy, his shirt tattered and marked with blood.
Nikolai seemed to be grappling for control. “I would not wish to attend you in such a condition. I’ll go wash and change—”
“No, we know you are eager to get back to her for the remains of the night,” Kristoff said, then added in a proud tone, “Congratulations, Wroth. You’ve now been blooded and claimed your Bride.” He studied him. “Recently. Though it appears she didn’t acquiesce to you.”
Did Kristoff think Myst had fought Nikolai? What the hell had happened to his brother since earlier this day? If Nikolai had been content earlier, now he looked determined.
“I’d like to meet her,” Kristoff said.
“She is resting.”
Murdoch thought he heard her in the bath upstairs. Leisurely bathing? If they’d fought, then why was she not fleeing Nikolai?
Kristoff said, “I suppose she would be resting. In fact, we’d wonder if she weren’t.”
Two of the elders snickered until Nikolai shot them a quelling scowl.
Kristoff steepled his fingers. “And you drank her blood this night?”
Deny it, Nikolai.
“Did you take her flesh as you did so?”
No, steady Nikolai would never commit this crime, the one punishable by death. Should Kristoff decree
it, Nikolai would be chained in an open field until the sun burned him to ash.
When Nikolai’s eyes narrowed, Murdoch’s hand slipped to his sword hilt. Five against him and Nikolai. Likely the brothers wouldn’t make it out of Blachmount alive.
How fitting.
Nikolai’s shoulders went back. “I did.”
No, brother. . . . He hadn’t restrained himself. But why were his eyes clear?
Kristoff ordered, “Take off your shirt.”
Murdoch caught Nikolai’s glance, tensing to fight, but Kristoff said, “Stand down, Murdoch, no one’s dying tonight.”
A lashing then? Nikolai removed the shirt, too proud for his own good. His gaze darted to the stairs; even now he worried for his Bride.
“Toss it on the table.”
Frowning, Nikolai did. Murdoch caught the scent just as the other elders did. Kristoff had detected traces of Myst’s blood, and now they all did as well. Like the others, Murdoch’s hands went white on the table, but for a different reason.
Murdoch was reminded anew of Daniela’s blood—and of his dream, recalling how he’d pierced the supple flesh of her neck, sucking from her. . . . “And what was it like?” he absently asked, his voice hoarse.
Nikolai didn’t answer. Then Kristoff raised his brow in a wordless command.
After a hesitation, Nikolai grated, “There is no description strong enough.”
Murdoch barely suppressed a groan and was surprised that no one noticed the hectic drum of his heart.
“How did she feel about your bite?” Kristoff asked.
Again Nikolai was silent.
Kristoff’s stare was unflinching. “You resist answering your king on the heels of confessing to our most reviled crime?”
Nikolai resisted because he’d accepted Myst as his. As his family. Wroths protected their family’s honor.
Answer him, Nikolai—you can’t protect her if you’re dead.
Nikolai must have been thinking the same thing. Though distinctly unwilling, he bit out, “She found extreme pleasure from it.”
She’d liked being bitten?
