The Warlord Wants Forever

from a generous window—that would be shuttered in the few hours till dawn. When he turned to them, his gaunt face looked weary.

Wroth suspected it had been difficult killing other natural born vampires, his own kindred, no matter how crazed they'd become, and no matter that they followed his uncle Demestriu, who'd stolen his crown centuries ago. Wroth had no such compunctions. He was weary but only from injury and his sword arm being overworked as he hacked through them.

'Were any of the records salvageable?' Wroth asked with little hope. If the vampires of this castle had spent as much energy fighting as burning, they might have kept Oblak. To his disgust, they'd fled. He didn't understand it. When defending your home, you defend to the death.

He had.

Kristoff answered, 'None.'

Without the records, their own ignorance would kill them. Kristoff, the rightful king, had been raised by humans far from Demestriu's reach. For centuries, he had lived among them, hiding his true nature yet learning little of the Lore. His army consisted of human warriors he'd turned as they died on the battlefield, so they knew nothing. Before Wroth had seen Kristoff standing over him like an angel of death, offering eternal life for eternal fealty, Wroth had thought vampires were mere myths.

The rules of this new world were complex and often counterintuitive, and their order knew little more than conjecture and what had been learned by painful trial over centuries. They were trapped in a kind of twilight—not human and yet universally shunned by all the factions of the Lore. Those beings hid in the shadows, fleeing from whatever land Kristoff's army occupied, working together to always be one step ahead. Wroth's human experience said they should have been able to get information by now, but the reality was that this was a different plane altogether. The same effort that went into hiding the Lore from humans for ages went into keeping Kristoff's soldiers in the dark as well.

'Any sign of Conrad or Sebastian?' Kristoff asked.

Wroth shook his head. He hadn't seen his brothers since shortly after they'd been turned, but he'd heard they'd been in a skirmish with natural born vampires. Though he and Murdoch hadn't expected to find their brothers here, they had hoped the two might be in the dungeons of the castle they'd strategically needed to take.

'Perhaps the next Horde stronghold.'

Wroth nodded, though he doubted it. He sensed his youngest brother Bastian was dead and suspected the mind of the next oldest, Conrad, was unreachable even if he could be found. The two had not appreciated the eternal life their older brothers had forced on them.

Murdoch examined a gouge in his arm, seeming unconcerned with this blow, but then he generally seemed unconcerned about everything. Though they shared similar looks, he and Wroth couldn't be more different in personality. Wroth believed in Kristoff's cause, seeing many parallels to his own past, and wanted to continue to fight. Murdoch didn't particularly care. Wroth suspected his brother fought only as a favor to him—or because they had nothing else now.

'Wroth found a being in the dungeon,' Murdoch said. 'She seems to have extensive knowledge of the Lore.'

'What kind of being?'

Wroth answered, 'I have no idea. She appears fey, delicate, with sharply pointed ears. But she has these small fangs and her fingernails were more like…claws. She's not vampire.'

Kristoff frowned at that. 'Perhaps she's born of more than one species?'

'Perhaps.' More speculation. Wroth was sick of it. He wanted to know the rules of the game so he could dominate it.

'Find out everything you can from her.'

'She won't talk. I've interrogated enough to know she'll hint but never truly divulge. And she hates vampires.'

Kristoff pinched his forehead. 'Then tomorrow night if we haven't gotten information from the rest of the prisoners, we treat her as the Horde she hates would. Torture her for the information if you can't get it any other way.'

Wroth nodded, but the idea sat ill with him. As a human he'd been merciless to his enemies, but he'd never tortured a woman. She wasn't truly a woman, he reminded himself. She was a female among the Lore, and their army's survival could depend on the knowledge she held.

Perhaps he'd never tortured a woman because he'd never needed to.

The creature had been right, Wroth thought as a guard showed him to his new chambers. He was going to call her up to him.

To do what with her, he didn't know.

Chapter Two

'Did you miss me? Because I missed you,' she said when the guard escorted her inside his bedroom. Out of habit, he stood when a lady entered, and she flashed him a brilliant smile. 'A gentleman warrior. Who cleans up very well.' She fanned herself with her hand. 'I think I'm in love.'

He didn't answer, and she didn't seem to mind as she casually scanned the room. 'Retro Dracula. Not necessarily what I would have done, but then I'm not married to sun-proof shutters like you might be…' She shrugged, then headed for the bathroom. 'Taking a shower if you don't mind,' she said airily over her shoulder, making him raise his brows.

At the doorway, she unbuttoned her tight blouse and shrugged from it, leaving only a transparent black bra. She turned to him, revealing her scarcely covered breasts, he knew, just so he could see the creamy flesh spilling from the lace when she bent over to remove her boots. What he didn't know was why.

Was she truly mad? Most people who were mad didn't think they were, but she seemed to be proud of it. He was usually quick to determine people's motives. Yes, she wanted her freedom, but for some reason he knew she wouldn't sleep with him to receive it.

If he had to guess, he would say that she simply didn't see stripping in front of him and making herself completely at home in a stranger's bedroom as odd. In fact, he suspected she didn't see them as strangers at all.

As he stood, concealing his surprise, she untied the fastening of her silky skirt at her hip, and it too fell to the ground.

A fine gold chain around her tiny waist caught his attention. It was unusual, the design appearing very old, but it glinted like new when she moved. Once he could take his eyes from it, he found her in only that wispy bra and scanty, black underwear so intricate he was shocked anew. They were like a work of art—or a like a ribbon decorating one.

She gave him a teasing smile. 'Vampire like?' she purred, unclasping the front of her bra to toss it with her other clothes. He scowled because he did like. Very much. He ran a hand over his mouth, wondering if her high, plump breasts could be any more beautiful. She had coral pink nipples that he could spend hours tonguing and alabaster flesh he wanted to cup and palm. He began to speak, then had to cough in his fist to continue. 'You'll strip in front of a vampire when you don't even know his name?'

She gasped with mock horror and covered her breasts with her hands. 'You're right! So what's your name?'

'My answer will be as forthcoming as yours. What do you want it to be?'

She smiled at that but then replied to the question, 'Some kind of name that fits a battle-scarred, overgrown vampire warlord.'

Battle-scarred? Overgrown? He wondered why in the hell he cared how she saw him. She was divinely wrought, but mad. He'd take his scars with his sanity. 'Nikolai Wroth,' he grated.

For the briefest second he thought he saw recognition flicker. But then she eyed him archly and breathed, 'Oh, you are good. Wroth, the old word for rage? That's a bingo idea for a name.' Her