Lothaire

clothe, and adorn her with jewels. Now she must fend for herself.

After applying her own cosmetics, she picked through the paltry number of garments allotted her, choosing a slinky black skirt, stilettos, and a metallic halter.

Satisfied with the results, she strode to his room, finding Lothaire at his desk, staring absently at a puzzle in his hands. Deep in thought? About what had just occurred with Elizabeth?

All around the room was crushed debris. Had he experienced one of the rages he’d spoken of? This doesn’t bode well. Perhaps that was why he’d used the human—to vent his rancor.

He raised his head, casting her a sneer. Before she’d said a word, the look faded. “Ah, Saroya has deigned to rise for me.”

“Why didn’t you mistake me for Elizabeth?” She and the mortal weren’t merely twins, they shared a body.

Ignoring her question, he asked, “When did you wake?”

“In time to find your . . . leavings on my belly. Elizabeth let me rise just to enjoy that.”

He gave a half-laugh. “You deserve nothing less. I waited for you last night, but you refused to join me.”

“And is that what you had in store for me?”

“Depends on how good you are. I don’t come like a fountain for just anyone.”

The gall! “Then she must have been quite talented.”

“Surprisingly so.”

She might have felt vulnerable that Elizabeth had pleasured him so well, but she was Saroya, goddess of blood and divine death. Besides, Lothaire was bound to her.

He could no more forsake her than the sun could keep from dawning.

“Perhaps I would have treated my Bride differently,” he said. “In any case, it should have been you bringing me pleasure.”

Saroya examined her nails. It would never be her. She’d avoided surrendering to a male for twenty millennia.

Only Lothaire would believe he’d be the one to master me. She raised her gaze to him.

The Enemy of Old would do well not to persist in that belief after she was turned. Otherwise, she’d delight in his last pitiful thought: I believed she wanted me.

* * *

Lothaire had expected Elizabeth to come marching into his room, upbraiding him about his exit and stinging comments.

Was I even looking forward to it?

Instead, Saroya faced him once more.

He was still furious with the goddess for not showing—but he was even more so at Elizabeth for being so inconceivably sexy.

The way she’d licked his fangs . . . her throaty moans . . .

Her passion aroused him like nothing else he could remember. Far from being disgusted by his seed marking her, she’d seemed excited by it. “Look what I made you do,” she’d teased, nigh beguiling him.

Don’t think of her. Your Bride stands before you.

The one who hadn’t risen for him. “Tell me why you didn’t meet me as promised.”

“Elizabeth didn’t let me rise.”

Pretty little liar. Again, where was the loyalty, the trust? “If so, then she’ll be punished. Severely. Though I do wonder how she prevented you from it—while she slept.”

If Saroya hadn’t risen, then perhaps she’d been afraid to. The goddess of blood afraid to face me? Impossible.

“Are you any closer to the ring?” She changed the subject, and he let her, deciding to drop this, to get past his resentment.

Ivana had told him that he’d be a good and true mate to his Bride.

No matter why Saroya had denied him, Lothaire would begin afresh with her.

“No, I’m no closer in my search,” he said. “But I might see my target’s memories the next time I dream. If not, I plan to capture his Valkyrie female to force his cooperation.” If Declan Chase lived. Lothaire would find out this eve. “As you know, there’s no greater leverage than a loved one.”

Of course, Lothaire might kill Chase’s female the first time she mouthed off to him. Regin the Radiant could try a fey monk’s patience.

“Your plans are sound. And Dorada?”

“My oracle searches for her. So far she has not strayed near you.”

He noted her evident relief, but didn’t remark on it. “Now that I have you here, you can spend the night with me. Sit.” He pointed to the settee.

When she crossed the room to follow his order, he traced to his closet to politely don a shirt, as a good male might.

She called out, “How did you know it was I instead of the mortal?”

Lothaire’s hands stilled on a button. He’d known because Elizabeth was . . . prettier.

He’d kid himself no longer—the two females were not one and the same. The goddess caked her face with makeup, covering those charming freckles on her nose. And she walked stiffly, not with that sensual roll of her hips.

Elizabeth’s eyes were brighter. She smiled on occasion.

No, no. Saroya looked and walked differently because she was a goddess. She would comport herself as one. Not commonly like Elizabeth.

When he returned, Lothaire answered, “Surely, I would know my own Bride.” He sat in the desk chair; Saroya perched on the very end of the settee, as far from him as possible. Even Elizabeth hadn’t done that, and she feared him. No matter. “Speak with me, Saroya.”

“About what?”

“Whatever is on your mind.” Earlier, he’d sat with the mortal, matching wits with her. For a time, their bandying had distracted him from other concerns. Could he expect the same from Saroya?

“Very well. I want servants.”

“I can trust no one but Hag.”

“Then give her to me. Make her my servant.”

“I doubt that would work out as you intend. Some immortals do not make good slaves. Alas, she’s one among them. Besides, I need her talents as an oracle.”

“This disappoints me deeply, Lothaire.”

“It is temporary. We make sacrifices now to be rewarded later.” Silence followed. “And is there nothing else on your mind?” That sounded harsher than he’d meant it to.

“My thoughts are consumed with the ring.”

Another bout of silence.

As a male whose existence had almost always been solitary, Lothaire wasn’t used to casting about for things to discuss. “What’s your favorite memory, Saroya?” As good a question as any, he supposed.

“Why would you ask this?”

“Just humor me.”

She gazed at her nails. “Once, for amusement, I chose a pair of my vampire acolytes, a male and his Bride, and threatened the lives of their two offspring. Of course, the parents would do anything to save them. So I made the father vow to the Lore that he would eat his female, bite by bite— starting from the toes.” Saroya sighed. “Afterward, he tried everything to get out of his vow, to circumvent it. At the very least to ease her suffering. But his vow compelled him, and her pesky regeneration ensured that this went on for decades. In fact, he was still at it when I was cursed.”

Those unbreakable pledges to the Lore . . . Immortals depended on them, even as they dreaded ever being trapped by one.