Lothaire

Though driven, Ellie wasn’t without regrets. She wished she could have used her hard-won psychology degree, had a career, made friends with women who weren’t murderers.

She regretted never having a family of her own. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so careful not to wind up a teen mother like her mama and grandma.

Hell, maybe Ellie should’ve given it up to one of those eager boys she’d gone parking with. She probably should’ve been less rigid and unbending in general.

Unbending. But that was the Peirce in her; Ellie would get her way in the end. Best step aside.

Another glance at the clock. Two minutes till—

The lights flickered, ratcheting up her anxiety. Another power surge a moment later had the witnesses muttering nervously.

With the third flicker, Ellie froze with dread even as the EKG went crazy. Nothing can stop this! Heart rate 150, 170, 190 . . .

Darkness. The EKG went blank with a last jagged spike.

No windows in the death ward. Pitch blackness. The witnesses were banging on the door, clamoring for an evacuation.

“What’s happening?” Ellie cried. For some reason, no generator fired up, no backup lights to cast a glow.

Lying in the dark, strapped to a gurney.

In the distance, a scream rang out.

About to hyperventilate, she twisted against her restraints, cursing her bonds. “What’s going on out there?”

An agonized yell sounded, but she refused the thought that surfaced. A jarring clap of gunfire fueled her fears. Some man bellowed, “I can’t see him! Where the hell did he go—” then came a bloodcurdling scream. Another man begged, “Please! Nooo! Ah, God, I have a fami—” Gurgling sounds followed.

Realization took hold.

He had come. Lothaire the Enemy of Old had returned for her.

Just as he’d promised. . . .

3

“That little súka,” Lothaire sneered as a guard’s neck snapped in his fist. Elizabeth was about to be executed—voluntarily—for a trifling number of murders.

In mere moments.

The guard’s partner fired wildly in the dark; bullets plugged Lothaire’s skin, but he hardly noticed them.

He’d fed yesterday and was strong from it. At least, his body was. His mind, however . . .

With a yell, he lunged forward to slash his claws across the shooter’s throat. When blood splattered over his face, Lothaire’s fangs sharpened for flesh, his thoughts blanking.

Madness. Licking at my heels.

Even now with so much at stake. Too many victims, too many memories. Forever tolling.

No, focus on the Endgame! Get to her, save your female.

His foes had prevented him from reaching her sooner. If I’m too late . . .

He charged forward through lightless corridors, easily seeing in the dark, but the place was a maze of hallways and minuscule rooms.

Blyad’! He couldn’t scent her over the odor of ammonia. Another hallway came into view, more labeled chambers: family rooms, visitation rooms, cells.

No time. He’d warned Elizabeth not to hurt his female. Yet she’d opted to have herself condemned, directing her public defender to file no appeals, to broker no pleas.

After living thousands of years, Lothaire was very rarely surprised; her actions had surprised the hell out of him. Running into a hail of bullets was one thing, tirelessly plotting a years-long suicide quite another.

He couldn’t decide if she was fatally flawed with willfulness or crazed.

In any case, she was proving to be a thorn in his side, costing him in untold ways. Lothaire was known throughout the Lore for collecting blood debts from immortals in dire straits, bargaining with them to make deals with the devil. Though he was proud of his overflowing ledger of entries, hoarding them, he’d already burned two because of Elizabeth.

He’d forced a beholden oracle to keep tabs on her incarceration. And just minutes earlier, an indebted technopath had accompanied him here to cut all the facility’s power, including the backup generators, leaving no lights, no cameras.

Only utter confusion.

And that was the extent of Lothaire’s plan today: technopath cuts power while vampire massacres his way to female. Laughably simple for a born strategist.

As if to sacrifice themselves to the plan, two guards intercepted him in the corridor, shining their flashlights into his red eyes. During their stunned silence, Lothaire had time to anticipate their reactions.

The larger one to the right will fire first, three shots before he realizes I’ve plucked his spine from him. The one to the left will stutter an answer to my question, though he knows he’ll die directly after.

“Hands where we can see ’em!”

Lothaire attacked. First shot, second shot, third—

A tortured scream. The big one’s spineless body crumpled to the floor.

With one hand, Lothaire tossed away the length of bone. With the other, he lifted the remaining guard by the throat. “Which way to the execution chamber?”

Lothaire eased his grip just enough for the man to grit out, “R-right, then . . . then second left. All the way to the end. But p-please—”

Snap. By the time the guard’s body collapsed, Lothaire was already at his second left.

He’d put Elizabeth from his mind, assured she’d be relatively safe. After all, he didn’t care about her mind, only about her body, the temple that housed his Bride.

My mate. The female meant only for him. And what a glorious, bloodthirsty female she was. . . .

Did Saroya sense this execution? Was she desperately struggling to rise, to protect herself?

His black claws dug into his palms till blood flowed. Focus. Focus!

As he delved deeper into the building, Lothaire fought to distance his thoughts from his own recent imprisonment. The reason I’m late for my Bride’s execution.

Weeks ago, when he’d learned of this date, he’d been on the verge of rescuing Saroya. Then he himself had been captured by the Order, a mortal army.

He’d escaped them . . . but in time?

Beams from more flashlights shone ahead. Three guards in riot gear escorted out a handful of civilians.

“Is someone there?” one guard demanded.

Lothaire envisioned cutting a swath of blood and screams through the group. No, focus! Though pleasurable, it would be selfish.

To save time, Lothaire traced past them, disappearing and reappearing in an instant.

When he reached the viewing room, he teleported inside. Two young males had just burst through the door of the adjoining execution chamber to guard her, fumbling with Maglites and assault rifles.

Then, for the first time in five years, Lothaire’s gaze fell upon Elizabeth. The last time he’d beheld her, she’d lain in the snow, her unusual gray eyes peering up at him with delightful fear.

Now she lay restrained, dressed in a dingy orange uniform. Her long, coffee-colored hair was pulled back