by Kresley Cole
Missing? Unless I want them found.
--"Heard he drains 'em so savagely . . . nothing's left of their throats."
So I'm not fastidious.
--"I heard he eats them."
Distorted rumors. Or is that one true?
Tales of his insanity spreading once more. I've never missed a target--how insane can I be? He answers himself: Very fucking much so.
Memories clot his mind. His victims' memories taken from their blood toll inside him, their number always growing. Don't know what's real; can't determine what's illusion. Most of the time, he can scarcely understand his own thoughts. A grenade with the pin pulled, they say. Only a matter of time.
They're right.
Stay sane . . . act normal. Glass in hand, he chuckles softly on his way to a shadowy table in the back. Normal? He's a goddamned vampire in a bar filled with shifters, demons, and the sharp-eared fey. Christmas lights are strung up in the back--through the eye sockets of human skulls that frame a mirror. In the corner, a demoness lazily strokes her lover's horns, visibly arousing the male. At the bar, a massive werewolf bares his fangs as he tosses a small redhead behind him.
Can't decide if you should attack, Lykae? That's right. I don't smell of blood. A trick I learned.
The couple leaves, the redhead all but carried out by the Lykae. As they exit, she peers over her shoulder, her eyes like mirrors. Then gone. Out into the night where they belong.
Sit. Back against the wall. He adjusts the sunglasses that shade his red eyes, dirty red eyes. As he scans the room, he resists the urge to rub his palm over the back of his neck. Watched by someone unseen?
But then I always feel like that.
He swoops up his drink, narrowing his eyes at his steady hand. My mind's decayed; my sword hand's still steady. A ruinous combination. He takes a deep swallow. The drink. The whiskey dulls the need to lash out. Not that it has disappeared.
Small things enrage him. An off look. Nearing too quickly. Failing to give him a wide enough berth. His fangs sharpen at the slightest provocation. As though a living thing hungers inside me. Ravenous for blood and a throat to tear. Each time he acts on the rage, others' memories blight more of his own.
He still has enough sanity to stalk his targets--his brothers. He will mete retribution to Nikolai and Murdoch Wroth for doing the unspeakable to him. Sebastian, the third brother, was a victim like him, but must be slain--simply because of what he is.
And my time grows nigh. Like an animal, he recognizes this. He's found the three in this mysterious place of swamps and haze and music and has seen them with their wives. He might have felt envy that his brothers laugh with them. That they touch them possessively, with wonder in their clear eyes. But hatred drowns out any confusing jealousy. Murdoch and Nikolai have no right to a future.
Offspring will follow. He'll kill their females as well. Destroy them. Destroy myself.
Endtime. His brows draw together. A whisper of regret. The thing he regrets most. He tries to remember what he covets so dearly. Another's memories bombard him, exploding in his mind. His hand shoots up to clasp his forehead--
Nikolai enters the bar, Murdoch behind him. Their expressions are grave.
They've come to kill me. As he expected. He thought he could draw them out by returning here again and again. He lowers his hand, and his lips ease back from his fangs. The bar empties in a rush.
Then . . . stillness. His brothers stare as if seeing a ghost. Insects clamor outside. Rain draws near and steeps the air. Just as lightning strikes in the distance, Sebastian enters, crossing to stand beside the other two. So he's allied with them? That he hadn't expected.
He removes his sunglasses, revealing his red eyes. The eldest, Nikolai, seems to stifle a wince at the sight, but shakes it off and advances. The three seem surprised that he'll stay to fight them, that he hasn't traced away. They are strong and skilled, yet they don't recognize the power he wields, the thing he's become. He can slaughter them all without blinking, and he'll savor it.
They walk to their doom. Can't keep them waiting.
He lunges from his seat and clears the table, knocking Sebastian unconscious with a blow that cracks his skull and sends him flying into the back wall. Before the other two can raise a hand in defense, he snatches them by their throats--one in each hand as they grapple to free themselves. "Three hundred years of this," he hisses. Their struggles do nothing; their stunned expressions satisfy. Squeezing . . . clenching--
Wood creaks behind him. He shoves back and hurtles his brothers at a new enemy. Too late; that Lykae's returned and slashes out with flared claws, ripping through his torso. Blood gushes.
He roars with fury and charges the werewolf, dodging claws and teeth with uncanny speed to barrel him to the ground. Just as his hands are about to meet around the Lykae's corded neck, the beast claps something to his right wrist.
A manacle? Clenching harder, he grates out a rasping laugh. "You don't think that will hold me?" Bones begin to pop beneath his palms. The kill is near, and he wants to yell with pleasure.
The werewolf cuffs his left wrist.
What is this? The metal won't bend. Won't break. They goddamned mean to take me alive? He leaps to his feet, tensing to trace. Nothing. Sebastian on the floor, pouring blood from his temple, has him by the ankles.
He kicks Sebastian, connecting squarely with his brother's chest. Ribs crack. He whirls around--in time to catch the bar rail the Lykae swings at his face.
He staggers but remains on his feet.
"What the fuck is he?" the Lykae bellows, swinging the rail again with all his might.
The brutal hit takes him across his neck. A split second of faltering. Enough for his brothers to tackle him.
He thrashes and bites, snapping his fangs. Can't break free . . . can't . . . They attach the manacles at his wrist to another chain. He kicks viciously, choking with rage when they trap his legs as well. He strains against his bonds with all his strength. The metal cleaves his skin to the bone. Nothing.
Caught. He roars, spitting blood at them, dimly hearing them speak.
"I hope you came up with a good place to put him," Sebastian says between rasping breaths.
Nikolai grates, "A long abandoned manor--place called Elancourt."
Chills seize him even through his fury. He can never go to this Elancourt. He doesn't understand why, just knows he can't--knows this with a savage certainty.
If they take him there, they won't take him alive. . . .
BOOKS BY KRESLEY COLE
The Immortals After Dark Series The Warlord Wants Forever A Hunger Like No Other
No Rest for the Wicked
Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night Dark Needs at Night's Edge Dark Desires After Dusk
Kiss of a Demon King
Deep Kiss of Winter
Pleasure of a Dark Prince Demon from the Dark
Dreams of a Dark Warrior
Lothaire
The Sutherland Series
The Captain of All Pleasures The Price of Pleasure
The MacCarrick Brothers Series If You Dare
If You Desire
If You Deceive
The Arcana Chronicles
Poison Princess
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Pocket Star Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coi
ncidental.
Copyright (c) 2007 by Kresley Cole All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
First Pocket Books paperback edition November 2007
POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Cover illustration by Vince Natelie ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-4703-7
ISBN-10: 1-4165-4703-7
ISBN-13: 978-1-41657150-6 (eBook)
