Lothaire

Why did I return to this place of treachery? Why was his subconscious focusing on this memory of his torture—

Cold metal kissed his neck. A real sword? An imagined threat?

He eased his head around to find two daytime sentries, a behorned demon and a Cerunno. They would’ve been ordered to take him prisoner, to be questioned.

The demon could teleport a retreat; the Cerunno’s speed was legendary. Yet they remained.

Then they have no idea who I am.

The demon said, “Who dares to trespass on these hallowed grounds?”

Lothaire bared his fangs. I will trace with a speed even they can’t follow, appearing behind the demon, whispering my name in his ear. He’ll quake with fear before I wrench his head from his neck. The Cerunno will flee—until I fling the demon’s sword, catching the creature in the spine. . . .

“The Enemy of Old,” Lothaire whispered in the demon’s ear before gripping his horns and twisting. The head came loose in a rush of frayed tendons and crackling vertebrae. “And there’s little daring to it.” He gazed impassively at the sentry’s collapsed body.

I was mistaken. There’d been no quake of fear; instead, the male had pissed himself upon hearing Lothaire’s name.

The second guard had already begun its slithering retreat, racing across the snow, around the trees. Lothaire snatched up the demon’s sword and flung it at the Cerunno, hitting it in the back, crippling it.

Thoughts already on other things, Lothaire traced to the being, stepping over its twitching serpentine tail to retrieve the sword.

As he cleaved off the Cerunno’s head with one swing, Lothaire realized his damaged mind was trying to tell him something by sending him here. Yet he’d likely be dead before he could interpret it.

He’d traced directly to his enemies without a weapon, only to wake disoriented in the sun. If the demon had merely swung first, I’d be dead.

At least Lothaire hadn’t relived the torture he’d experienced here. He would surely fall into the abyss then.

I’d want to be insane.

Memories forever haunting him. But not a single new one of the ring. After several hours of sleep, he’d garnered no new leads.

With both opponents eliminated, Lothaire tried not to notice that the tree trunks seemed to yawn closer to the corpses.

The trees in this forest needed neither sun nor rain to live—like most everything else in this vampiric realm, they fed on blood.

He blocked out the groan of a ravening trunk, the whistled hiss of a limb. . . .

With a shudder, Lothaire traced back to the apartment. Though he still needed to sleep, to dream, he was concerned about the risk. Would he have to procure bindings that prevented tracing? Chain himself to his bed each time he slept?

Back in the dimly lit room, Elizabeth was sleeping peacefully. She was warm, soft-looking, so far removed from the violence he’d just meted.

As he stared at her, the skirmish began to blend into his memories, congealing with nearly a million nights’ worth of them—each one filled with torture, war, or death. Blood up to my ankles, and endless screams in my ears.

Yes, Elizabeth was far removed, must always be so. . . .

He dragged his gaze away from her, frowning down at a dripping sword he hadn’t remembered holding.

Losing my mind. With a practiced move, he flicked the blade and blood went flying.

Unsettled, he tossed the weapon away, then sat in his desk chair, lowering his head into his hands.

Madness crept ever closer, the abyss awaiting. What am I going to do? For the first time in ages, he didn’t know. To be so close to his Endgame and cede control now?

Never!

He raised his gaze, narrowing it on his most complicated puzzle. Mind over mind?

* * *

A chill in the room.

Ellie had awakened, wondering if a window had been left open.

But the cold had come from Lothaire as he’d reappeared from some mysterious trip, with snow still caked around the legs of his pants and a bloody sword clutched in his fist.

She’d kept her lids cracked, her breathing deep and even, watching him as he’d stared at her with an unreadable expression. Finally, he’d sunk down into his desk chair.

Then he’d given one of those puzzles a challenging look, as if he would defeat it or die trying.

Now she watched as he seemed to be making progress, placing a block here, turning the structure to insert a triangle.

She was enthralled as his pale fingers worked. Though tipped with black claws, they were long and elegant. Like she imagined a surgeon’s would be.

Yet Lothaire used his hands not to save, but to destroy.

When those fingers abruptly ceased their work, tension radiated from him, escalating like a ticking bomb about to explode. His eyes fired red—

With a bellow, he flung the puzzle across the room, so hard that pieces skidded along the floor and embedded into the far wall.

God, he’s so strong. She held her breath. Apparently, one of the strongest.

But this wasn’t enough destruction for the vampire. While she stared in astonishment, he crushed furniture, tossed lamps. He ran his forearm across his desk and swept all the puzzles to the floor.

He stilled, his brows drawing together. Regret? He clearly couldn’t stand seeing his beloved puzzles in disarray. Heaving his breaths, his eyes glowing in the dark, he dropped to his knees.

Maybe I should help him, to sway his affections. “What’s the matter, Lothaire?” she asked, gathering her courage to join him on the floor.

“So simple before,” he said absently, studying a block from all angles. “Child’s play.”

She knelt in front of him. “It’s okay. Shh, vampire,” she murmured as she began gathering similar pieces in like piles, then placing them on the desk.

He lifted his head to face her fully. His eyes were definitely out of focus. He seemed . . . vulnerable. Even with his fangs and black claws, his fiery irises. Even though he’d surely just ended a life minutes ago.

“We will never live near the blood forest. The trees cry blood, drinking deep. Never near them again.” His words were the ramblings of a madman, his accent as marked as she’d ever heard it.

Though she wanted to demand what that meant, she said, “Of course not. Why were you in the . . . forest?”

“I trace when I sleep. Trace to enemies. How long will fate let me get away with that? How many times can I have a sword at my neck—before one cleaves true?”

“Can’t you prevent the tracing?”

“With chains. Hate being chained. Caught fast in anything.”

“I do too.”

“When I was a boy, I was caught in a net.” He gazed past her. “Couldn’t trace from it. The metal was cold and heavy on my skin. They dropped down to collect my head and fangs.”

“Who?”

“Look at the lordling leech in rags,” he sneered, imitating another’s accent. “He must be hungry.” A long exhalation. “I was spared. But to what end . . . ?”

Without warning, he laid aside his puzzle and drew her into his arms, tracing them to the bed. He sat up against the wall, curling her in his lap, gazing down at her. “When I take the castle, I’ll chop them all down.”