Lothaire iad-12

by Kresley Cole

  “Still better than a demon.”

  “Saroya’s not a demon,” he grated. “I wouldn’t have one of them either.”

  “Oh, that’s right, she’s a goddess. And you’re a vampire. I suppose pookas are real, too. And shapeshifters?” Then her eyes widened. “Is Mothman real?”

  In the Virginias, everyone had heard of that demonic winged being, with its red orbs for eyes. There continued to be sketchy sightings of it flying in the gloom and coal dust.

  The sheriff who’d taken Ellie down had joked to others that there might have been a Mothman sighting the night of her arrest, an amusing encounter atop isolated Peirce Mountain.

  “Everything you’ve ever dreamed is real,” Lothaire said. “Every creature thought to be myth. We call our world the Lore. And for the record, Mothman’s a fuckwit.”

  Her lips parted at that. “How come your kind don’t come out to humans?”

  “We are punished when we needlessly reveal ourselves as immortals.”

  “So all these ‘myths’ are out secretly combing the streets?”

  “And running governments, starring in films, infiltrating human monarchies. Your species is notoriously dim and unobservant compared to Loreans, so we roam freely over the earth, gods walking among your kind.”

  A horrific thought struck her. “If you drank my blood, will that make me a vampire too?” Say no, say no, say no.

  He exhaled. “If only it were so simple.”

  “Oh, thank God!”

  The vampire didn’t like that at all. Tension thrummed off him. He pressed the tip of the knife he held against the pad of his right thumb, twirling until blood began to drip.

  Silence reigned. “Lothaire?”

  He didn’t answer. Drip, drip . . .

  She fidgeted with her napkin. The unfamiliar quiet ratcheted up her nervousness.

  Prison had been a continual assault on the ears. During the day, inmates banged on the bars, guards stomping up and down steel steps. It sounded like a messy utensil drawer opened and slammed shut repeatedly.

  At night, eerie moans of both pleasure and pain echoed down the ward. Screams rang out. The serial killer across the corridor from her had loved to hiss at her in the dark. . . .

  Finally Lothaire grated, “I’ve had mortals beg me to change them. Most humans would give anything to become immortal. It’s considered a priceless gift.”

  She gazed anywhere but at his new injury. “I would never want that.”

  “Never to sicken, never to grow old?”

  Ellie had an innate talent for empathy, for putting herself in others’ shoes. Now she imagined what it’d be like to live for thousands of years, as Lothaire apparently had.

  How could he savor each day of his life when the supply of them was unlimited? How could he ever experience wonder or excitement? “All I can think is that it’d be wearying.”

  Had a shadow passed over his expression?

  “So if I’m not already changed into a vampire,” Ellie said, “and it’s not so simple to do, how will you and Saroya get together?”

  “I seek a ring. It has the power to transform her into a vampire.”

  “Made a vampire? In my body? If she’s a goddess, why’s she been digging into me like a tick?”

  He merely stared at her with those creepy eyes, twirling that knife as his blood began to pool on the surface of the table.

  Though he terrified her, Ellie pressed on. “Why would she be inside of me, the checkout girl? Why should I believe she’s . . . divine?”

  “Understand me, girl. I don’t lie. Ever. She was cursed to a human form.”

  “Who cursed her? Why put her in me?”

  Seeing he had no intention of answering her, she said, “Look, you guys are getting my body out of this deal. I’m getting nothing. You said you liked a good bargain? You should recognize that this isn’t exactly a fair exchange. Would it kill you to tell me why she needs my body?”

  His eyes got a faraway look and deepened in color, telling her his mind was drifting. Dissociation?

  She’d seen the same look earlier today as he’d paced. It occurred to her then that this vampire was not just evil.

  The Enemy of Old might be clinically insane.

  * * *

  “Another goddess cursed her to a mortal’s form,” Lothaire finally said, struggling to rein back the madness. Focus. “I do not know why you were chosen.”

  “Which goddess?”

  Saroya had a twin, Lamia. Each sister derived her strength from life—Lamia from creating it and safeguarding it, Saroya from harvesting it and consuming souls.

  When Saroya had made a bid for more power, killing indiscriminately and upsetting the balance, Lamia had joined forces with other gods and cursed Saroya to experience death over and over as a human. “The curse of mortality,” he muttered. “Could there be anything worse?” He glanced down, surprised to find himself boring a knife tip into his own thumb.

  “Lothaire, why was she cursed?” Elizabeth continued heedlessly.

  He licked his dripping new wound. “Because she is just like me.” A being insatiable for power. “She saw a play for more, and she took it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Do pizdy. Don’t fucking care.” He was getting sick of others acting as if he’d just uttered nonsense. He killed most who cast him that sharp questioning look.

  But he couldn’t harm the human before him, the female with her steady gray eyes taking his measure. He stared into them for long moments, surprised to find himself feeling more grounded.

  “How could a girl from the backwoods ever get caught up in something so . . . unlikely?”

  Without breaking eye contact, he leaned back in his chair. “I asked myself that continually from the time I first saw you. After all, in the beginning, I had no idea you were anything more than a mere human, had no idea how I could possibly be connected to you.”

  Why was he conversing so readily with her? Perhaps because he knew she would take his secrets to the grave? And soon?

  For whatever reason, the words seemed pulled from him.

  “Imagine my abject disappointment in you, female. Lothaire the Enemy of Old—the most feared vampire alive, the son of one king and grandson of another—paired with a mortal? Much less a mortal of no distinction. I’m given to understand that your people are worse than peasants.”

  Instead of indignation, curiosity lit her face. “Wait. I came first? You didn’t find me because of her? Hey, are you saying you’re a prince?”

  “Yes, peasants,” he repeated slowly. “The lowliest of the low among humans.” Then he enunciated, “Exceedingly backward and vulgar hillbillies.”

  “Been called worse, mister.” At his raised brows, she exhaled impatiently. “Bootlegger, moonshiner, Elly May Clampett, mountain mama, redneck, backwoods Bessie, hick, trailer trash, yokel, and, more recently, death-row con.”

  “No references to mining? I’m disappointed.”

  Sadness flashed in her expressive eyes. “My father died in a mine collapse. Ever since then, none of my kin will work underground.”

  “Naturally the big bad coal company was at fault?”

  “I’m sure there are nice, safe coal companies out there; Va-Co isn’t one of them. Mining’s over for us.”

  “And so you remain appallingly poor.”

  “S’pose so. The bottom line is that insults only hurt when they come from someone I respect.”

  “Then no one’s taught you to respect your betters?”

  “You think you’re better than me because you’re a prince?” Had she sounded disbelieving?

  “I’m a displaced king of two vampire factions. Now I work to reclaim my thrones.” Why am I telling her this? He didn’t give a damn if she respected him. “As for the other, I think I’m better than you because you are demonstrably my inferior in every way. Intelligence, wealth, looks, bloodline, should I continue?”

  She waved that away. “How’d you find me? You’r
e obviously rich—oh, and royalty—why would you be in one of the poorest areas in America?”

  He parted his lips to tell her to shut hers, but she dutifully took another bite of salmon, actually swallowing it. “My Bride’s arrival had been foretold. An oracle predicted where and when she would be. But not what.” The same oracle who assisted him now, a fey he called Hag.

  He glanced at Elizabeth’s plate. She took another bite.

  “I found you when you were fourteen, but you didn’t trigger my blooding.” He’d assumed that she was too young. “I decided then that I’d never return, would walk as the dead before being forever tied to such a base creature as you.” No matter that she’d promised to be physically lovely.

  “Then why did you return?”

  “Pure curiosity.” It might have been pure, but it had plagued him, and he’d returned to her thrice more.

  When she was fifteen, a budding woman, he’d found her swimming one night with a boy, eagerly exploring kissing with him. At seventeen, she’d been on the verge of stunning, with her sun-kissed skin, wide clear eyes, and striking features, yet still too lowly to tempt him.

  Until a year later . . . “Just when I vowed to spurn you forever, I found you in the woods at a makeshift altar, surrounded by bodies.”

  Elizabeth’s expression grew stark. “Not me. It was Saroya.”

  “Yes, Saroya,” he breathed. Covered in gore from head to toe, bold and lethal, she’d blooded him at once.

  Now he stared past Elizabeth, relishing the memory of that night. . . .

  Between unpracticed breaths, he demanded, “Who are you?” He knew that the mortal’s consciousness had disappeared, sensed the absence of Elizabeth.

  Before him was another entity.

  “I am Saroya, vampire.” Her very accent had changed. “Your goddess, trapped in mortality.”

  All vampires knew that Saroya had been tricked from her lofty plane, cursed by her sister to live within random humans, one after another, repeatedly experiencing her own death through them.

  If Lothaire had felt any doubt about her identity, she’d erased it by speaking to him in Russian, her accent regal. There was no way for an ignorant eighteen-year-old peasant to know his tongue.

  And besides, Lothaire deserved a goddess. He knew fate wouldn’t have paired him with lowly Elizabeth Peirce!

  For millennia he’d sought to rule the Vampire Horde. How could they deny his claim with Saroya, the protectress of vampires, as his queen?

  “Have I blooded you?” she asked with silky menace.

  “Yes. I’m Lothaire, your male—”

  “I have no male and accept no master,” she snapped. “I am a goddess!”

  “That’s a shame,” he replied smoothly, ignoring his new heartbeats and the unbearable stiffening of his shaft, denying the frenzy to claim her, to sink his fangs deep into her flesh. “Because had you been mine, I would have found a way to extinguish that human’s soul, then make your body immortal.”

  “Lothaire?” She narrowed her eyes. “An ancient one with great power, descended from two royal lines. Even I have heard of you.”

  “And soon I intend to seize my kingdoms. I will have my immortal queen by my side.”

  She stepped closer. “You could make me undying in this body?”

  “In time, I would find a way. Nothing could stop me.”

  “Yet you would desire to mate with me now? To complete the blooding.”

  Each vampire had to experience his first release while touching his Bride’s body. Most vampires simply mated their females, but Lothaire knew he couldn’t. Tracing within inches of her, he cupped her nape with a shaking hand. “The only thing greater than my need is my strength. Your mortal form is too fragile for me to claim. But I must finish this.”

  “Then I will not yield this body until you destroy Elizabeth’s soul and make me whole. For now, you may take your physical release in some way. . . .”

  “Lothaire?” Elizabeth interrupted his thoughts.

  Reminded of that interlude with Saroya, he cast the girl a look of renewed hatred. That night he and the goddess had talked till dawn, discussing their aims. Again and again, he’d discovered how well she fit him.

  Saroya was his match in all ways—a queen even Ivana would bow down to.

  Blyad’! How could his Bride expect him to use Elizabeth? Maybe Saroya didn’t see the dichotomy between the two females, but it was plain to Lothaire.

  It would be like taking an entirely different woman.

  Once Saroya understood their circumstances better, she would not be so keen for Lothaire to enjoy another. He imagined how he’d feel if the situation were reversed.

  Homicidal.

  Though he’d scorned Elizabeth in her teens, even he had been misguidedly protective of her. When he’d seen her kissing that male, Lothaire had tossed his truck into a valley. The male had run out of the water to investigate, so Lothaire had dropped him down as well. . . .

  Maybe Saroya feels no jealousy because she feels nothing for you, a part of his mind whispered.

  Yes, Lothaire prided himself on predicting others’ actions; did he truly anticipate Saroya rising for him tomorrow night?

  Though he could hardly believe it, the goddess remained unconvinced of his charms. An absurdity, he knew, but who could fathom the minds of females?

  Lothaire resolved to spoil her further and demonstrate to her his prowess in bed—to ensure she needed him for other things.

  He exhaled. It’d been so long since he’d had sex that he might not have retained any prowess. He smirked, thinking, Maybe I should practice on Elizabeth.

  A sudden jolt of lust took him like a punch, wiping away his smirk. He sliced his gaze to her. Studying gray eyes met his.

  The idea was sound.

  Or maybe I’m grasping at straws, rationalizing why I want to touch a human.

  No, his Bride’s shared body was confusing his suffering mind. That was the only reason he’d desire her.

  Unless I’m more like my father than I care to admit?

  11

  “ I have work to do,” the vampire said as he traced Ellie back to her bedroom, leaving her wobbling on her feet. Would she ever get used to teleporting? “You’ll stay in here until I return for you.”

  “Work? Getting back your thrones?”

  “Do you always ask so many questions?”

  “Do you always answer so few of them?” she countered, earning another scowl. “Just tell me this. If Saroya is so all-fired important to you, then why’d you leave her in prison?”

  “I was assured you’d be physically safe there.”

  “And mentally?”

  “I couldn’t care less. I’m only concerned with your body.”

  Typical male. “What did I need to be protected from?”

  “I’m the Enemy of Old. There are many who would harm Saroya to strike back at me.”

  “Harm her. In my body.”

  He grasped her jaw, his skin surprisingly warm. “As I’ve told you—you’re protected here, girl. The only one you need fear is me.”

  Which meant this was the last place she needed to be. Ellie could pick a lock, but what about busting out of an invisible jail? If there were mystical locks, were there mystical picks? “What about my belongings? Toothbrush, underwear, et cetera?”

  “Anything you need is in the bathroom. Any clothing”—he opened a door in the hallway—“is in here.” He’d revealed a closet as big as her old trailer.

  Her thoughts blanked when she entered. Dresses, coats, purses, slacks—everywhere. There must be several dozen pairs of shoes, even more sweaters and blouses.

  Eyes wide, she spun in place. “These are the finest clothes I’ve ever seen!”

  Lothaire leaned his shoulder against the doorway. “They would be. Appalachian couture is reputedly lacking.”

  She knew he was pointedly insulting her but chose to act as if he were jesting. She’d fought toe-to-toe with him and lost. Now she’d try
another tack.

  Mama had always said, “You get more with honey than you do with vinegar. And when you run out of both, you reach for the buckshot.”

  Ellie had concluded she might’ve reached for the buckshot pretty early.

  Now she said, “Appalachian and couture? Put a quarter in the oxymoron jar.” She meandered toward the back, browsing rack after rack.

  At home, she’d had few clothes—a couple pairs of worn jeans, some cutoffs for summer, a few T-shirts, guide gear. Then in prison, four alternating uniforms.

  This selection was overwhelming. “Did you get all this for Saroya?”

  He seemed more relaxed than he’d been in the dining room, maybe gazing at her with a bit less hostility. “I did.”

  Ellie tried to imagine the reaction of a goddess. “She must’ve gone nuts.”

  “She desired every last garment and bauble,” he said, his Russian accent thick.

  “And you just bought all of it for her?” Ellie snapped her fingers. “Just like that?”

  “Of course. She’s my woman.”

  “She must love you very much.”

  He said nothing, just crossed his muscular arms over his chest.

  “Does she?”

  “I’ve told you, she’s my fated Bride.”

  If he’d been telling the truth about never telling lies—which might be a lie?—then Ellie might view his answer as a deflection. “Do you love Saroya?”

  “When mortals ask me incessant questions, I customarily snatch out their tongues and watch them bleed to death.”

  Instead of being horrified, she thought, Definite deflection! Trouble in paradise?

  Making her tone casual, she said, “Good to know about the tongues.” Her red-tipped fingers trailed lovingly over the buttery leather of a coat. “Can I try this on?”

  When he shrugged, she slipped into the coat, eyes going heavy-lidded as she hugged it close to her. “Lothaire, I couldn’t have even imagined things like this.”

  “Again, I will accept only the best.”

  Like a goddess for a Bride, instead of a mortal? A deity, instead of a peasant girl he’d found so lacking that he’d watched her for years, disappointed by fate’s choice for him?

  And all the while she’d never known that a vampire had kept her in his sights.