Blood Red Kiss

by Kresley Cole

  He shook his head at the insane, fey creature, then forced himself to walk on. But he thought he heard her whisper, “Call for me, General,” making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

  He followed his brother to Kristoff’s new suite. Their king was gazing out into the night from a generous window—one that would be shuttered at dawn. When he turned to them, his gaunt face looked weary.

  Kristoff was the sole natural-born vampire among them. Killing his own kind must have been difficult for him, no matter how crazed the Horde had become—and no matter that they followed his uncle Demestriu, who’d stolen his crown centuries ago.

  Nikolai had no such hesitation. He was weary, but only because hacking through the Horde had overworked his sword arm. “Were any of the records salvageable?” he asked with little hope.

  If the vampires of this castle had spent as much energy fighting as burning, they might have kept Oblak. To Wroth’s disgust, they’d fled. He didn’t understand it. When defending your home, you fought to the death.

  He had.

  Kristoff answered, “None.”

  The rules of this new world were complex and often counterintuitive. Without those records, their own ignorance would defeat them.

  Kristoff, the rightful Horde king, had been raised by humans far from Demestriu’s reach. For centuries he had lived among mortals, hiding his true nature and discovering little of the Lore. His army consisted of human warriors he’d turned as they died on the battlefield, so they knew nothing more than he did.

  Nikolai had thought vampires were mere myths until Kristoff had stood over him like an angel of death, offering eternal life in exchange for eternal fealty.

  The Forbearers were trapped in a kind of twilight—no longer human and yet universally shunned by all the factions of the Lore. Those beings hid in the shadows, fleeing from whatever land Kristoff’s army occupied, working together to be one step ahead.

  Loreans had kept themselves hidden from humanity for ages. That same effort went into keeping Kristoff’s soldiers in the dark.

  “Any sign of Conrad or Sebastian?” Kristoff asked.

  Nikolai shook his head. He hadn’t seen his two other brothers since shortly after they’d been turned. But natural-born vampires often clashed with turned humans, so he and Murdoch had distantly hoped the pair might be in the dungeon of this castle.

  “Perhaps the next Horde stronghold.”

  Nikolai nodded, though he doubted it. He feared his brother Bastian was dead and believed the mind of the youngest, Conrad, was unreachable even if he could be found. The two had not appreciated the eternal life Nikolai and Murdoch had forced on them.

  Murdoch seemed unconcerned that they hadn’t located their brothers, but then he generally seemed unconcerned about everything.

  Though they shared similar looks, he and Nikolai couldn’t have been more different in personality. Nikolai believed in Kristoff’s cause, seeing many parallels to his own past, and wanted to continue to fight. Murdoch didn’t particularly care. Nikolai suspected his brother fought only as a favor to him—or because they had nothing else now.

  “Nikolai found a being in the dungeon,” Murdoch said. “She seems to have extensive knowledge of the Lore.”

  “What kind of being?”

  Nikolai answered, “I have no idea. She appears fey, with pointed ears. But she also has small fangs, and her fingernails are more like . . . claws. She’s not a vampire.”

  Kristoff frowned at that. “Perhaps she’s born of more than one species?”

  “Possibly.” More speculation. Nikolai was sick of it. He wanted to know the rules of the game.

  So he could dominate it.

  “Find out everything you can from her.”

  “She won’t talk,” Nikolai said. “I’ve interrogated enough to predict that. And she hates vampires.”

  Kristoff’s eyes narrowed. “Then we’ll treat her as the Horde would. If we haven’t extracted information from the rest of the prisoners by tomorrow night, torture her for it.”

  Nikolai nodded, but the idea sat ill with him. As a human, he’d been merciless to his enemies, but he’d never tortured a woman.

  She isn’t truly a woman, he reminded himself. She was a Lore female, and their army’s survival could depend on the knowledge she held.

  Perhaps he’d never tortured a woman because he’d never needed to.

  As he made his way to his new chambers, Nikolai realized the creature had been right. He was going to call her up to him.

  To do what with her, he didn’t know.

  2

  Did you miss me? Because I missed you,” the female said when a guard escorted her inside his new bedroom and withdrew.

  Out of habit, Nikolai stood—his ingrained habit when a lady entered—and she flashed him a brilliant smile. “A gentleman warrior. Who cleans up very well.” She fanned herself with her hand. “I think I’m in love.”

  He didn’t answer, and she didn’t seem to mind as she surveyed the room. “Retro Nosferatu. Not what I would have done, but then I’m not married to sunproof shutters like you must be.” With a shrug, she headed for the bathroom. “Taking a shower,” she said airily over her shoulder.

  He raised his brows in surprise. Not knowing what else to do, he said, “Very well,” and sat once more.

  At the doorway, she removed her tight blouse, leaving only a lacy black bra. She turned to him, revealing her scantily clad breasts. When she bent to remove her boots, creamy flesh almost spilled free.

  Why give him this show? He was usually quick to determine people’s motives. Yes, she wanted her freedom, but he didn’t believe she’d sleep with him for it.

  Perhaps she was truly mad? Most maddened people didn’t think they were, but she seemed to be proud of it.

  Maybe she simply didn’t view stripping in front of him and making herself at home in a stranger’s bedroom as odd. In fact, he suspected she didn’t see them as strangers at all.

  She untied the fastening of her silky skirt, and it too fell to the ground, leaving her in only that bra and an intricate pair of wispy black underwear. They were like a work of art—or a ribbon decorating one.

  A fine gold chain around her tiny waist caught his attention. The unusual design appeared very old, but the metal gleamed like new when she moved.

  She gave him a teasing smile. “Vampire like?”

  He scowled because he did like. Very much.

  She unfastened the front of her bra. Would she remove—

  Off went her bra.

  He ran a hand over his mouth at the sight of those high, plump breasts. Could they be any more beautiful? He could spend hours tonguing those coral-pink nipples and fondling her pale flesh.

  He began to speak, then had to cough into his fist to continue. “You’ll strip in front of a vampire when you don’t even know his name?”

  She gasped with mock horror and covered her breasts with her hands. “You’re right! So what’s your name?”

  “My answer will be as forthcoming as yours. What do you want it to be?”

  She smiled at that, then replied, “Some kind of name befitting a battle-scarred, overgrown vampire warlord.”

  Battle-scarred? Overgrown? Why in the hell should he care how she saw him? She was divinely wrought, but mad. He’d take his scars with his sanity. “Nikolai Wroth,” he grated.

  For a second, he thought recognition flickered in her eyes.

  But then she breathed, “Oh, you are good. Wroth, the old word for rage? That’s a bingo idea for a warlord name.” Her hands dropped. “I’ll just call you by that.” She shook her head with a rueful smile, as if she couldn’t believe he was so clever.

  . . . as a hatter.

  Then she leaned back against the doorway, raising her arms above her head and grasping her elbows. Displaying her mouthwatering breasts and flashing a flirtatious smile that would’ve dropped most men to their knees, she asked in that whiskey voice, “Care to join me, Wroth?” She winked when she
said his name and rolled her hips.

  “No,” he bit out. He didn’t want her to know his body didn’t respond to hers. His mind did, his vague memories of being human did. But not his body.

  He was the walking dead. No respiration, no heartbeat, no sexual need—or ability. Not until he found his predestined Bride and she blooded him fully.

  With his blooding, something inside him—maybe even his soul—would recognize her as his, the woman he could love without measure (if one believed in love). And his body would wake for her.

  In the past, he’d yearned for his Bride because she would bring him power—he would become as strong as blooded vampires, his senses as acute as theirs—but he’d never missed sex before this.

  And Nikolai knew she was not his. This display should’ve blooded any vampire.

  She shrugged, the movement a sight to behold, then entered the bathroom. Ten minutes later, she emerged with a towel wrapped around her.

  He suspected she’d used his toothbrush, which charmed him for some reason.

  She traipsed to his closet and dropped the towel, leaving her with only her chain.

  At the sight of her exquisite ass, he swallowed. “Have you no modesty?” Never in his life had he encountered a female so quick to be naked. Of course, he’d never encountered a female who should so utterly be naked at any chance.

  “Not at my age,” she said. He frowned. She looked young, maybe early twenties.

  When she began exploring his recently unpacked clothing, he found his head tilting as she moved. The chain swayed at her waist, and her long, damp hair cascaded over her breasts. She turned, giving him a particularly rewarding glimpse.

  He stifled a groan. A true redhead. And he couldn’t have her. “How old are you?” he rasped.

  “Physiologically, I’m twenty-five. Chronologically, I’m . . . not.”

  “So you are an immortal?”

  An amused smile played about her lips. “I am.” She pulled on one of his shirts. It swallowed her, the collar baring one shoulder, the hem hitting her knees.

  “Why did you stop aging at twenty-five?”

  “When I was strongest. Not for the same reason you were frozen at”—she eyed him—“thirty-four?”

  “Thirty-five. And why do you think I stopped aging then?”

  She ignored him to continue digging. After a few moments, she plucked an antique bejeweled cross from his bag. She held the relic away from her, keeping her gaze from it. “You’re Catholic?”

  “Yes. It was a gift from my father.” To help keep him alive in wartime. Nikolai shook his head at the irony of just how well it had worked. “I thought I was the one who should be repelled by a cross.”

  “Only a turned human would say that. Besides, I’m in no way repelled. With jewels like that? If I look at it, I’ll want it.”

  “So you wouldn’t want it because you’re Catholic?”

  “My family was orthodox pagan. Can I have it? Can I, can I, Wroth?”

  “Put it back,” he said, fighting the unfamiliar urge to grin.

  With a pouty expression, she returned it, mumbling something about tightfisted vampires. Then she dipped her feet into his boots and turned to him with her hands on her hips.

  His lips almost curled at the sight of her, a mad pagan immortal trying on his boots.

  “What did your mother feed you?” she teased. “Renaissance anabolics?”

  His urge to smile faded. “My mother died young.”

  “So did mine.” He thought he heard her murmur, “The first time.”

  “And I was born after the Renaissance.”

  She withdrew her feet from his boots and sauntered past him. “But not by much.”

  “That’s true. And why do you think I stopped aging at thirty-five?” he asked again.

  She frowned as if she didn’t know where his question had come from, then said, “Because naughty Kristoff found you dying on a battlefield, decided you’d make a fine recruit, then made you drink his blood. Bit a wrist open, perhaps? Then with his vampiric hoodoo blood in your veins, he let you die. Unless he was in a hurry, in which case he would’ve killed you. A couple of nights later, you rose from the dead—probably with a frown on your face as you thought, Holy shit, it worked!”

  He ignored the last and asked, “How do you know the blood ritual?” He’d thought only vampires knew the true way to turn a human. In books, the change always came as a result of a vampire’s bite, when in fact a human had more chance of turning if he bit a vampire.

  “Like I said, I know everything.”

  Yes, but he was learning. She was an immortal who’d been frozen physiologically at twenty-five. If a pagan, she was at least several hundred years old. She knew of the blood ritual, and that Kristoff “recruited” his soldiers straight from the battlefield.

  She scooped up her clothes, marched to his door, and yanked it open, then snapped her fingers for a guard. Nikolai merely watched like a bystander.

  “Psst, minion. I need these laundered. Very little starch. Don’t just stand there gawking, or you’ll anger my good frenemy General Wroth. We’re like this.” She twined two fingers together.

  Once she’d foisted her laundry on the guard, she closed the door and dramatically leaned back against it—as if to say, You can’t get away from me now. Then she glided over to him.

  As a rule, he observed, he calculated, and he waited for his move, but he’d never enjoyed watching events unfurl this much. Unpredictable didn’t begin to describe—

  She clutched his shoulders and straddled him.

  Nothing between them but his pants and a few inches. He could feel her heat.

  She was definitely not his Bride or he would’ve ripped through his zipper to get inside her. His heart would’ve started to beat, his lungs drawing their first breath. In the space of one of those breaths, he would’ve been buried so deep in her tightness, wrenching her down on him. . . .

  “Now, Wroth, we need to work out some logistics. When I’m kept as a pet, my care is very involved.”

  His brows drew together. “I have no wish to keep you as a pet.”

  “You hold me prisoner. You think to order me. How does this differ?”

  “You’re not a pet,” he insisted. He couldn’t think—her eyes were mesmerizing, and her sex remained so close to his. That heat . . .

  She leaned in to murmur at his ear, “What if I want to be your pet? Would you like that, vampire?” She grasped his wrists and moved his arms to the chair’s armrests. She gave both of his hands a squeeze—to tell him she wanted them to stay there?

  He wasn’t about to move, couldn’t imagine what she’d do next.

  Her fingers brushed their way over his chest, unbuttoning his shirt. “If I was your pet, you could keep me for your pleasure, and I would serve you in every way you desire.” She pulled his shirt open, clearly admiring his chest. “Hard.” Her voice was breathy. “Scars.” She moistened her lips. “At sunrise, you would fall asleep still deep inside my body. I’d wake you at sunset with my lips wrapped around your shaft. You could break your fast with a drink—from one of my thighs.”

  God almighty.

  Her hand trailed down, her eyes raptly following the jagged scar that had been his deathblow. “I am here for the taking and ache for your touch.” Before he could grip her wrist, she’d reached down and cupped him.

  His lack of an erection didn’t seem to surprise her.

  Her seductive look vanished as she felt his cock. “Well, my word, Wroth.” She arched an eyebrow. “If you were hard, I wouldn’t know whether to be tantalized or terrified.”

  Then with blurring speed she was off him and on the bed, lying on her stomach, chin propped on her hands. She was unaffected by what had just occurred, while he was angered and . . . shamed. He wanted to show her hard.

  “How do you plan to keep me here during the day?” she asked. “An unblooded Forbearer shouldn’t be so difficult to vanquish.”

  Vanquished by her? Amusing.
“I’ll send you back to the cell. You want to be my pet? I’ll take you out of your cage and put you back in at my pleasure.”

  She blinked at him. “You don’t want to send me back. Who will entertain you? I can deal poker and make shadow animals.”

  He shook himself. This was just another instance of the Lore playing with them. She was not normal.

  If she could be unaffected, he could pretend it. “I want you to answer some questions. I need to know what you are and what your name is.”

  “I might tell you if you answer some of my own questions.”

  “Done,” he said quickly. “Ask.”

  “Were you afraid when Kristoff stood over you?”

  Strange question. “I was . . . tired.”

  “Most mortals would have been terrified to see the Gravewalker.”

  “Is that what he’s called?” Kristoff would find that amusing. At her nod, he said, “Well, I’d seen a lot by then.”

  “What’s his agenda? Does he want to replace Demestriu?”

  Nikolai hesitated, then answered honestly, hoping she would do the same. “He wants his crown back, but he doesn’t want to rule over any faction except our own.”

  “Uh-huh.” She raised an eyebrow as if she didn’t believe him, then asked, “That was your brother in the dungeon?”

  “Murdoch, yes.”

  “Turned vampires don’t usually have family.”

  “Murdoch died in the same battle. I’ve two other brothers turned later as well.”

  “You’re young. Yet you’re a general. How’d you swing that?”

  He was more than three hundred years old. Young compared to her? “I refused to accept the dark gift unless certain conditions were met.”

  Her eyes grew bright with new interest, and she patted the bed for him to come sit with her. He felt as if he was on the verge of learning something, so he complied, resting against the headboard to face her, stretching his legs out.

  He almost laughed. The first time he’d been in bed with a woman in centuries—and she was easily the most beautiful of any before—yet he could do nothing with her. He couldn’t even drink her, though his fangs ached to pierce the pale column of her neck. Thank God he’d fed before he’d sent for her.