Lothaire

Since she’d arrived her attitude left much to be desired. Even now she glared at him before leaving the room.

Once he and the five royals were alone, Lothaire took his time studying them. All were unmated.

Trehan was blooded, but had no Bride to show for it. Mirceo was the youngest of the males, only thirty, and would soon freeze into his immortality, losing all sexual ability. His heartbeat was erratic—and slowing.

His sister, Kosmina, was too immature to even contemplate a male of her own.

Lothaire had no idea whether Viktor’s or Stelian’s heart beat. They both used an old spell to cloak it. Which Lothaire found intriguing.

Viktor would probably have no time to rut anyway, since all he did was fight. I’ve met ghouls who were more peaceable.

And of the sixth royal, the hidden one they didn’t think he knew about? My investigation continues. . . .

With a bored air, Lothaire turned to Stelian. “None of my subjects asked a boon of their king?”

The big vampire shook his head. “They fairly much live in fear of you.”

“Whyever is that?” he asked blandly.

Grinning, Mirceo asked, “How are you finding your accommodations, Uncle?” He was the head of the castle guard. He liked Lothaire, found him amusing because he was unpredictable.

As I once found Elizabeth.

“They’re adequate,” Lothaire answered, not a lie, though his sitting room was the size of a ballroom. If he weren’t a puzzle master, he could get lost in his labyrinthine new castle. “Why, Mirceo, I don’t believe your heart has beat much since you’ve come in.” Not more than one thundering spurt. “And you no longer need to breathe?”

The young vampire stifled his stricken expression. “Unfortunately, this is true, Uncle.” He acted stoic about it, but in secret, he was out each night frantically screwing anything that moved, as randy as Lothaire had been in the same situation ages ago.

Just last night, Mirceo had been happily tonguing a female’s breasts while a male suckled him—until poor Mirceo had . . . lost enthusiasm.

“Fear not,” Lothaire said, “you probably won’t even notice that it seems like everyone else in the world but you is constantly fucking like animals.”

With one comment, Lothaire could make both Mirceo and his prudish sister deeply uncomfortable. Like bowling a spare.

Stelian quickly changed the subject. “You’ve been traveling a great deal.” As the oldest of the royals, he was the Gatekeeper, the most powerful position after king. Stelian was the one who decided who would enter or leave Dacia, and he alone taught his people how to use the mist to go out undetected.

He’d seemed surprised—and disgruntled—that Lothaire had learned to control it so easily.

But Stelian was quick to add that only he knew all the esoteric powers of the mist.

Give me time.

Nevertheless, the Gatekeeper must have been doing a damned fine job if even the Book of Lore hadn’t tagged Dacia. From his spying, Lothaire knew that Stelian was easygoing—until someone tried to leave without authorization.

Then? Even Lothaire had raised a brow at his chilling response.

“I do travel much,” Lothaire agreed. To shore up his sanity even more, he often returned to his apartment and took Elizabeth’s scent into him, burying his face in her silk nightgowns, her pillow.

Though it wasn’t the same as touching her, her scent—coupled with their blood tie—was enough to get him through most nights.

He wondered what the Daci would think of their new king if they found out he carried his Bride’s lingerie in his pocket at all times.

But then, what maddened vampire king didn’t carry his queen’s lingerie in his pocket?

“The capital is boring,” he told Stelian. It was—even though other species were welcomed here. Provided they never left.

Which meant there were nymphs to take care of randy young vampires like Mirceo.

“You do remain within the mist when you go abroad?” Stelian asked. “Unseen by all?”

“How else would I be able to return?” Lothaire-speak. He’d ordered Hag to devise a beacon for him alone— because sometimes Lothaire liked to be seen.

Part of him wanted to outlaw the mist completely, to make his subjects announce themselves to the world. Otherwise, Lothaire was just the king of a realm that no one knew existed.

In other words, he was the tree in the forest that silently fell—when no one was around to be crushed.

But the cocooning mist did protect the Daci from invasion and plague. Plus, with every excursion, they were basically all out spying, which he wholeheartedly endorsed. . . .

His impetuous cousin Viktor said, “I understand that you observed our soldiers sparring. What did you think of them?” He was a general, and justifiably proud of his battalions.

The army was honed, disciplined, and masterful with swords. In fact, the Daci were obsessed with all medieval arms—maces, throwing daggers, whips, battle-axes.

As soon as a Dacian wielded a weapon, a coldblooded single- mindedness suffused him. Already ruled by logic, he became even more focused, able to predict his opponent’s moves.

Much as I do.

“The soldiers were a shade too worried about martial honor,” Lothaire answered. All that skill and might— and yet they waged no wars but among themselves? “Not to worry, Viktor. I’ll see to that. In any case, they will serve me well enough in my war against the Horde. Unless you’re concerned about the defense of my hidden kingdom.”

Viktor tensed, clenching his fists beneath the table. Blooded or no, he had a brash, querulous nature that ensured he was a loner among the reserved and logical Daci.

And Lothaire’s fair “niece”?

Though Kosmina was twenty, she’d been sheltered by the overprotective male royals to a damaging degree.

Apparently, Lothaire’s naked male body had been the first she’d ever seen.

Pity, Mina, that you’ll forever find all others lacking in comparison to Uncle Lothaire.

Yet though she was so ignorant of sex and sin as to be childlike, Kosmina was a killing machine, a mistress at arms with blazing reflexes.

Half simpering schoolgirl, half lethal assassin.

Lothaire had noticed that her ears were pointed, compliments of some fey ancestor—who’d also gifted her with that uncanny speed. He asked her now, “And what is your function? Or do you exist only to be coddled?”

Face hot, she stuttered, “I-I . . .”

Lothaire talked over her, saying, “I understand you have never ventured outside of Dacia, wouldn’t know an automobile if it hit you in the face, which it might—if you’re not, say, familiar with fucking cars.”

Her eyes went wide.

He should send her forth from Dacia, dispatching her to investigate a particularly rambunctious covey of nymphs in Louisiana. “Kosmina, you are distantly related to a female called Ivana the Bold. Act like it.”

Covering her mouth with her hand, she traced away.

Lastly, he turned to his cousin Trehan, an assassin in charge of an elite band of killers. He was the most dignified of all the cousins, the most “Dacian” of them, and so the least amusing to spy on. He often stared off into nothing, doubtless thinking about whatever Bride had blooded him, then left him.

Lothaire steepled his fingers. “Ah, Trehan, only a female could make you look like that.”