Lothaire

Lothaire Daciano, now the rightful heir.”

“But they’re thought not to exist.”

“Of course they exist. Immortals can be just as bad as humans, thinking that if they can’t see something, it must not be.”

“Your interest lies in the Horde and the Dacian thrones?” When he inclined his head, she said, “If you’re so powerful, your subjects must be hankering for you to be their king.”

He made a scoffing sound. “I intend to subjugate one kingdom and lay waste to the other.”

“And then what?”

His blond brows knit. “What do you mean?”

“Laying waste, subjugation? There’s got to be a reason for doing these things.”

“Pure gratification.”

“How long will that last? A hundred years? A thousand? Surely you have an ultimate goal?”

He rose, abruptly enraged, all towering intimidation. “I have an Endgame!”

Round the bend. He muttered to himself in Russian, then jerked his head sharply in that way insane people did—as if he’d just seen or experienced something no one else had.

“This ‘endgame’ is your end goal?” she asked. “Okay, then what is it?”

His gaze drifted as he paced. “Seven little tasks.”

“Tell me.”

Sounding as if he recited a list, he said, “Find ring. Dispose of Elizabeth’s soul. Turn Saroya. Kill Dorada. Take over Horde. Find and kill Serghei. Conquer Daci.”

Dispose of my soul. How easily he said that! And who was Serghei? “Vampire, I hate to tell you this, but those tasks are not an end goal.”

He swung around to face her. “Hold your tongue, little mortal! Or I’ll have it from you.”

She fell silent, on edge as he paced/traced.

Long moments later, he snapped, “What the hell were you talking about?”

“An ultimate goal should be the result, not the process of reaching it.”

“Perhaps I take pleasure in the process itself.”

Ellie said, “Then the ultimate goal is pleasure. The tasks are still the process.”

“My ultimate goal is service to a blood vendetta. I work for that alone, have for millennia.”

In a small voice, she pointed out, “Still a process.”

“Ahhh!” he roared, punching the wall yet again. “Shut the fuck up!”

In as casual a tone as she could fake, she said, “Most people have goals of a fulfilling family life and a rewarding career, with happiness and pleasure resulting.”

“And what do you know of happiness?” He calmed, seeming intensely interested in this subject.

“I experienced it for most of my life. And I appreciate it all the more after my recent miseries.”

“How could you have been happy in that trailer, forced to hunt for food, having so few possessions?”

She blinked. He wasn’t insulting her? Lothaire was genuinely curious about this. “I cherished the good times spent with those I love, and I quickly worked past the bad times. What’s done is done. I never dwell on the past.”

“That’s simplistic.”

“It’s not a complicated thing,” she countered.

“It’s an abstract one.”

“And yet it can be learned. You can teach yourself to be happy. You said your killing skills were well-honed. What if you put all that effort into finding happiness?”

“Then I wouldn’t have survived all these years.”

“Maybe you can find it sharing interests with Saroya.”

“Leave her out of this.”

“She’s kind of instrumental. What does she enjoy doing?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Saroya hunts, just as you used to do.”

“She does not hunt like I did.” The idea made her want to punch a wall! “Did you see me leaving deer carcasses all over the mountain to rot? For no reason? There is no comparison. I would never be wasteful and disrespectful of life like that.”

“Touchy subject? Have I found a chink in your armor?”

“Any comparison to her riles me up. We are nothing alike.”

“True, you are—”

“Oh, just save it,” she interrupted. “I already know I’m her inferior in every way, blah, blah, blah.”

He quirked a brow, then continued, “As for sharing interests, Saroya and I will rule together, protecting and educating our offspring.”

My offspring! “I can only imagine what a goddess of death would teach her kids.”

“You won’t sow dissension. Your ploy is transparent.”

“It’s only a ploy if I’m being dishonest. Otherwise, it’s an observation. And I truly do wonder about Saroya’s parenting skills, not to mention yours.”

He frowned, his demeanor turning contemplative.

“Lothaire, have you never thought what it’d be like to be a father?”

“It would be a risk—although few would dare harm Saroya’s offspring. Certainly no vampire enemies of mine would. . . .” He crossed to the balcony and gazed out. As a breeze sifted through his hair, his shoulders tensed. “A mist rises,” he said in an odd tone.

She was getting nowhere with him. “Am I done entertaining you, vampire? I’m tired. This inferior mortal needs to rest.”

He turned back to her. “You’ll sleep in here.” At her disbelieving look, he said, “I don’t exaggerate the threat to you. I’d hoped to have separate rooms—not because I wished to afford you privacy, but because I didn’t want to look at you. Unfortunately, we do not have that luxury.”

“Fine.” She rose, retrieved a pillow and a blanket from her room, then returned to the settee.

“Do not touch me when I sleep,” Lothaire said. “Do not get near me.” When he held her gaze, she suddenly recalled the haunting bellows echoing from his room the last time he’d slept. “No matter what occurs.”

26

Where am I now? Lothaire woke in the snow once more, this time during the day. The filtered sunlight on his bare chest was like a leather strop slowly rubbing it raw.

Shading his eyes, he peered around, his heart beginning to thunder in his ears. Ah, gods, no . . .

He knelt in the middle of a forest. All around him stood trees that wept blood. Morning sun streamed between the gnarled trunks, over the seeping bark.

Again, he’d returned to a place from his past—the Bloodroot Forest flanking Castle Helvita.

I grew up within those walls. Later I knew torture in these woods.

The constant grinding pressure of dirt over him, as if the earth had fed on him, digesting him like a meal . . .

He hadn’t returned here since King Demestriu had died. Now, with no king in residence, loyalist vampires held the seat, waiting for an heir with two qualifications: he had to hold the Thirst sacred, and he had to be a legitimate royal.

Led by a soldier called Tymur the Allegiant, they’d rejected all contenders.

Tymur would assassinate Lothaire on sight.