Lothaire

Why see this scene again? What was his consciousness telling him?

When dawn neared, he eased his unrelenting pace, lurching to a stop. Sweat poured down his back and face to mingle with the rain.

He cast an accusing look at the lightening sky. Lothaire had uncovered no signs of Dorada. That heavy presence had faded to nothing.

Yet another wasted night. Will this be the one when my mind fails me for good? He squeezed his head in his hands.

Though he’d given only passing thought to his crowns, his apprehension for Elizabeth was ceaseless, grinding him down, as the earth had once done centuries before.

Want her so much! What the hell am I going to do?

Eventually, he would find the ring. Then three scenarios would open up before him.

He could wish to go back in time, erasing his vows completely. While there, he’d cast out Saroya, then take time to court Elizabeth, treating her like a queen.

Or he could wish to go back, yet be denied—the vows themselves might prevent him from using the ring in that fashion. He’d made an oath to do everything in his power to transform Saroya into an immortal and to extinguish Elizabeth.

Which meant that any attempt to do otherwise would be met with opposition.

If all else failed, he could leave Elizabeth in Hag’s care, then burn himself to ash in the sun.

To seek my own death, after surviving so long . . . ?

But attempting suicide would also break his oaths to Saroya. Would it even be possible to withstand the compulsion—and pain—long enough to die for Elizabeth?

All three scenarios would mean he had indeed retrieved the talisman that could destroy his Bride.

The risk . . .

He could tell no one about his predicament, could ask for no help, without breaking his pact with the goddess.

He couldn’t even warn Elizabeth to leave him. Not that it would matter. The ring would work no matter how near or far she was.

In a deadly maze of his own making, he could determine no escape.

Undone by my own arrogance, by my insatiable need for vengeance. Will my flaws literally be fatal ones?

All those blood vows he’d collected could do nothing to help him shirk his own. His hope—or his Bride’s doom—lay with the ring.

Just as he tensed to trace back to Elizabeth for the day, to lose himself in her body and scent, he heard a Valkyrie shriek carry over the dwindling patter of rain.

Could it be Nïx’s? As treacherous as she was, she did always seem to understand him. Perhaps she would grant him one boon; he deserved no less from her.

His embattled mind on the verge of breaking, he decided to swallow his pride and call on the one person who might discern his bind.

He traced to Val Hall, standing in the fog, awaiting.

Moments later, Nïx strolled out onto the front porch, proffering a lock of black hair to the circling wraiths.

The hair was their negotiated toll. Lothaire knew that when the Scourge collected enough to make a braid of a certain length, they could bend all Valkyries to their will for a time.

The mighty Valkyries would be enslaved. He could hardly wait.

Nïx sauntered toward him in the drizzle, her demeanor nonchalant. In the past, she’d told him he defied her foresight.

Fitting, since she defied his insight.

But now he was betting on her ability to all but read his mind—basically having the powers of a goddess.

Yet she carried a fucking bat on her shoulder? Her pink T-shirt read: Why can’t we be friends?

Subtle, Nïx. Real subtle.

She stopped mere feet before him. They stood wordlessly, appraising each other.

Her long sable hair was damp and wind-tossed, her wide-set golden eyes inscrutable. Her flowing skirt was tattered at the hem.

Just weeks ago, he’d seen her on the prison island; since then, she appeared thinner, fatigued. She’d always been petite, but now she seemed smaller.

Even so, she was blessed in form, as fine physically as she was damaged mentally.

She tilted her head then, as if she could spy inside his own.

He silently urged her to see—to know—what he needed so desperately. Help me from this bind. With difficulty, he bit out, “Nïx, I must have Elizabeth.” He could say no more, could explain nothing. Even that statement tested the boundaries of his vow; simply remaining in Nïx’s presence drained his strength.

She smiled, her gaze vacant. “Black king seeks white queen’s aid, then?” Lightning flashed above, harshly illuminating her face. Her comely features sharpened, her visage foreboding as she whispered, “Lothaire, you’ve been mistaken about something. The abyss doesn’t stare back. It winks.”

Then she turned on her heel and left him.

Disbelief. She was past the wraiths before he found his voice. “You fucking bitch!” he bellowed, while thinking, I am lost. . . .

That day as he slept, with Elizabeth clasped in his arms, Lothaire dreamed of the ring.

45

Chase’s memories of the ring’s location had been chaotic and confused. Which meant Lothaire had been right at home with them, using them to trace directly to Webb’s hideout in the Canadian Rockies.

Never would have guessed Canada.

Earlier, when Lothaire had awakened, he’d acted as if nothing was amiss, dropping Elizabeth at Hag’s.

Though once he’d started kissing Elizabeth good-bye, he’d found it hard to stop.

Now he surveyed the front of a nondescript ranch—one surrounded by some of the most high-tech security on earth.

And more, Chase had been familiar with every safeguard, which meant Lothaire was, too. He circumvented them all, easily breaching the structure’s defenses.

Making himself incorporeal, Lothaire half-traced down dimly lit halls. Invisible to mortal eyes, he entered Webb’s private quarters. The man’s safe would be behind a wall within these chambers, the ring inside.

He found Webb seated at his desk, in the middle of a phone call, his shoulder muscles bunched with tension. Lothaire could hear both sides of the conversation.

Webb was speaking with the Blademan, Declan Chase.

Interesting.

“I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you called,” Webb said.

“I’ve no wish to resume communication with you,” Chase said in his thick Irish accent. “But to repay you for saving my life, I’ve decided to give you a warning.”

“About what?”

“The Enemy of Old drank my blood on the island. He has my memories, which means he’ll eventually dream of your ranch’s location, your security, everything. He’ll be coming for you. And the ring.”

Already here. Lothaire just stifled a laugh. Time is of the essence, Chase.