Lothaire

With her first sight of Stefanovich, Ivana had lost her heart, following him back to Helvita, leaving behind her own mist, her family, her future throne.

“I will find it,” she averred now. “If it kills me, I shall deliver Lothaire to the Realm of Blood and Mist, a land where civilized immortals rule.”

“Civilized?” Stefanovich laughed, and the courtiers followed suit. “Those fiends are more brutal than I!”

“Ignorant male! You have no idea of what you speak! You can’t comprehend our ways—I know this, for I tried to teach you.”

“Teach me?” He slammed his meaty fist on the table. “Your arrogance will be your ruin, Ivana! Always you believe you are better than I!”

“Because—I—am!”

At that, the courtiers went silent.

Between gritted teeth, Stefanovich commanded, “Take back your careless words, or at sunset I’ll throw you and your bastard out into the cold.”

Lothaire swallowed, thinking of the fire in his room, his beloved puzzles atop his desk, his toys scattered over warm fur rugs on the floor. Life at Helvita could be miserable, but ’twas the only life he’d ever known.

Apologize, Mother, he silently willed her.

Instead, she squared her shoulders. “Choose, Stefanovich. The fetid human or me.”

“Beg my pardon and seek amends with my new mistress.”

“Beg?” Ivana scoffed. “Never. I am a princess of the Daci!”

“And I am a king!”

“Leave Ivana be, Brother,” Fyodor murmured. “This grows tedious.”

“She must learn her place.” To Ivana, he ordered, “Beseech Olya’s forgiveness!”

When the mortal cast Ivana a victorious sneer, Lothaire knew he and his mother were doomed.

ONE MONTH LATER . . .

“Stoke that hatred, Son. Make it burn like a forge.”

“Yes, Mother,” Lothaire grated, his breaths fogging as they trudged through knee-high snowdrifts.

“ ’Tis the only thing that will keep us warm.” Ivana’s eyes gleamed with resentment, as they had ever since Stefanovich ordered them to leave Helvita.

On that night, Lothaire had heard the smallest hitch in Ivana’s breath, had seen a flare of surprise. She’d known she’d made a mistake.

But she’d been too proud to remedy it, to bow down to a human.

Not even for me.

All the court had gathered at the castle’s entrance to watch Lothaire and the haughty Ivana cast out with only the garments on their backs.

To die in the cold. They would have perished long since had Fyodor not slipped Lothaire coin.

Lothaire’s puppy had followed him, wide-eyed and tripping over its own paws, panicked to catch up with him. While Lothaire stared in disbelief, Stefanovich had seized the dog by its scruff, snapping its back.

To the sound of the court vampires’ laughter, the king had tossed the dying creature at Lothaire’s feet. “Only one of our pets will perish on this day.”

Lothaire’s eyes had watered, but Ivana had hissed at him, “No tears, Lothaire! You draw on your hatred for him. Never forget this night’s betrayal!” To Stefanovich, she’d yelled, “You will realize what you had too late. . . .”

Now she absently muttered, “By the time we reach Dacia, I’ll have made your soul as bitter as the chill trying to kill us.”

“How much longer will it be?” His feet were numb, his belly empty.

“I do not know. I can only follow my longing for such a home as Dacia.”

As she’d told Lothaire, her father, King Serghei, ruled over that realm, a land of plenty and peace. ’Twas enclosed in stone, hidden within the very heart of a mountain range.

Inside a soaring cavern a thousand times larger than Helvita stood a majestic black castle, circled by dazzling fountains of blood. The king’s subjects filled their pails each morning.

Lothaire could scarcely imagine such a place.

“After all our wanderings, I feel we are close, Son.”

That first night, as they’d wended through the terrifying Bloodroot Forest that surrounded Helvita, she’d feared Lothaire wouldn’t make it through the freezing night. Again and again, she’d tried to teleport them to Dacia, only to be returned to the same spot.

He’d survived; she’d exhausted herself.

Now she was too weak to trace, so they plodded toward another village, one that might provide a barn to shelter them from the coming day’s sunlight.

Unfortunately, each village teemed with filthy mortals. They always gazed at Ivana’s beauty and the foreign cut of her clothing with awe—then suspicion. Lothaire received his share of attention for his piercing ice-blue eyes and the white-blond hair forever spilling out from under his cap.

In turn, Ivana ridiculed their unwashed, louse-ridden bodies and simplistic language. Her loathing for mortals continued to grow, fueling his own.

Each night before dawn, she would leave Lothaire hidden while she hunted. Sometimes she’d return with her cheeks flushed from blood, and triumph in her eyes. A slice of her wrist would fill a cup for him as well.

Other times, she would be wan and sullen, cursing Stefanovich’s betrayal, lamenting their plight. One sunrise, as he’d drifted off to sleep, he’d heard her mumble, “Now we sleep with livestock, and I must drink from the flesh. . . .”

Ivana slowed, jerking her head around.

“Are they following us, Mother?” Humans from the last town had been more hostile than in any other, trailing after them, even into the wilderness.

“I don’t believe so. The snow covers our tracks so quickly.” She trudged on, saying, “It’s time for your lessons.”

During each night’s journey, she instructed him on everything from how to survive among humans—“drink from them only if starving, and never to the death”—to Dacian etiquette: “outbursts of emotion are considered the height of rudeness, so naturally I offended my share.”

And always she extracted vows for the future, as if she thought she’d soon die?

“What must you do when you are grown, my prince?”

“Avenge this treachery against us. I will destroy Stefanovich and take his throne.”

“When?”

“Before he finds his Bride.”

“Why?”

Lothaire dutifully answered, “Once his fated female bloods him, he’ll become more powerful, even more difficult to kill. And he will father a legitimate heir on her. The Vampire Horde will never follow Stefanovich’s bastard while his true successor lives.”

“You must be utterly certain that the Horde will swear fealty to you. If your effort to claim the crown is unsuccessful, they will annihilate you. Wait until you are at your most powerful.”

“Will I have to go red-eyed to fight him?”

She stopped, tilting her head. “What do you know of such matters?”

“When a vampire kills his prey as he drinks, he becomes more powerful, but blood stains his eyes.”

“Yes, because he drinks to the quick, to the pit of the soul. It brings strength—but also bloodlust. Stefanovich has become one of the Fallen.” She added vaguely, “And it will be all the more torturous. For him, in particular.”

“Why?”

She gave Lothaire an appraising look, as if deciding something about him. “Think not of these things,” she eventually said, making her tone light. “Never kill as you drink, and you will never have to worry about them.”

“Then how will I . . .” He blushed with shame. “How will I ever be strong enough to slay Stefanovich?”