A Hunger Like No Other

them that quickly because he would ask her for definitions every few pages. Acronyms seemed to stump him, and though she'd nailed NASA and DEA and PDA, she came up short on MP3.

After he'd read the magazines cover to cover, he took up the car manual and the questions resumed. As if she could define 'a transmission.'

Even with her limited assistance, she could feel him learning, could perceive how intelligent he was. And his questions indicated that he was deducing much, reasoning out his own answers as he soaked up knowledge in a way she'd never imagined was possible.

The rental car's copy of French traffic rules followed the manual, but he skimmed it, then tossed it away as if unimpressed. At her look, he explained, 'Some things doona change. You still put on the parking brake on a hill, horse carriage or no.'

His arrogance, his easy dismissal of things he should be awed by, rankled. A car would terrify her if she'd never been in one until she was an adult. Not Lachlain. On the road, he was too pleased with himself. Too comfortable in the leather seats, too curious about his window and air controls, flicking them on and off, up and down, and mauling the German technology with his huge paws. If he'd been locked away for so long, then shouldn't he be discombobulated?

Shouldn't he still be shaken? She believed nothing could shake his colossal arrogance—

Great, he's found the control for the moon roof. Her patience was ragged. Open… close. Open…close. Open…

Every minute closer to dawn found her more tense. She'd always been so cautious before. This trip to Europe had been her first real independence and only allowed because her aunts had provided so many safeguards. Yet Emma had managed to run out of blood, get kidnapped, and be forced out into the world with no precaution against the sun other than a car trunk, heading for who knew where…

And still all this might be safer than not going with him. Something had been back at the hotel—possibly vampires.

Just after they'd gotten into the car, she'd thought about telling him that her life might be in danger. Two reasons prevented her. For one, she didn't think she could stand it if he shrugged and gave her an 'I should care about this why?' look. And secondly, she'd have to explain what she was.

The Valkyrie were enemies of the Lykae as well, and she'd be damned if she allowed herself to be used as ammunition against her family. In fact, she didn't want Lachlain to discover anything about her to use against her. Luckily, she didn't think she'd revealed any weaknesses in her conversation with Regin—weaknesses like her critical need for blood. She could just imagine him saying, 'I could find you some blood'—he would clap and rub his hands together—'right after shower time!' Besides, she could make it the three days it would take to get to Scotland. Surely.

She closed her eyes briefly. But the hunger…She'd never been tempted to drink from another, but with no alternative in sight, even Lachlain was starting to look good. She knew exactly where she would tap that neck. She would dig her claws into his back to hold on to him for a little reverse-mainline…

'You drive well.'

She coughed, startled, wondering if he'd caught her staring and rubbing her tongue against her fang. Then she frowned at his comment. 'Um, how would you know?'

'You seem confident enough. Enough to take your eyes from your path.'

Busted…'For your information, I'm not a particularly good driver.' Her friends complained of her indecisiveness and her habit of letting everyone in front of her to the point of standstill.

'If you're no' a particularly good driver, then what do you do well?'

She gazed down the highway for many moments, contemplating an answer. Being good at something was relative, wasn't it? She liked to sing, but her voice couldn't compare to the pipes on a siren. She played piano, but twelve-fingered demons schooled her. She said honestly, 'I'd be lying if I said I did anything particularly well.'

'And you canna lie.'

'No, I can't.' She hated that. Why couldn't vampires have evolved until they could lie without pain? Humans had. Now they merely flushed and felt uncomfortable.

A few more go-rounds with the moon roof control followed. Then he drew some slips of paper from his jacket pocket. 'Who is Regin? And Lucia, and Nïx?'

She glanced over, her jaw dropping. 'You collected my private messages from the front desk?'

'And your dry-cleaned clothing,' he replied in a bored tone. 'Which sounds like an oxymoron to me.'

'Of course you did,' she said sharply. 'Why wouldn't you?' Privacy? You have none, he'd sneered. He'd eavesdropped on her speaking with Regin—as though it were his right.

'Who are they?' he demanded again. 'They all order you to call except for this one message from Nïx. It makes no sense.'

Nïx was her befuddled aunt, the oldest of all Valkyrie—or the proto-Valkyrie, as she liked to be called. She had supermodel good looks but saw the future more clearly than she did the present. Emma could only imagine what Nucking Futs Nïx had said. 'Let me see it.' She snatched the missive, placing it flat against the steering wheel, then took a quick glance at the road before reading:

Knock, knock…

—Who's there?

Emma…

—Emma who? Emma who? Emma who? Emma who?

Nïx had told Emma before she'd left for Europe that on this trip she would 'do that which you were born to do.'

Apparently, Emma was born to get kidnapped by a deranged Lykae. Her fate sucked.

This message was Nïx's way of reminding Emma of her prediction. She alone knew how badly Emma wanted to earn a real identity, to have a page in the Valkyrie's revered Book of Warriors.

'What does it mean?' he asked when she wadded it up and dropped it at her feet.

Emma was furious he'd seen that message, furious he'd seen anything that might give him insight into her life. The way Lachlain observed and learned, he'd have Emma pinned before they made the Chunnel.

'Lucia calls you 'Em.' Is that your nickname with your family?'

That was it. Enough. Too much delving, too many questions. 'Listen, uh, Mr. Lachlain. I got myself into a… situation. With you. And to get out of it, I have agreed to drive you to Scotland.' Hunger was making her irritable. Irritability was making her heedless of consequences, and that occasionally passed for bravery. 'I have not agreed to be your friend, or…or share your bed, or reward your invasion of my privacy with more information about myself.'

'I will answer questions if you will.'

'I don't have questions for you. Do I know why you were locked away—and, hello, vague much?—for fifteen decades? No, and honestly, I don't want to know. Where you appeared from last night? Don't wanna know.'

'You're no' curious why all this has happened?'

'I will try to forget 'all this' when I leave you in Scotland, so why would I want to know more? My m.o. has always been to keep my head low and not ask too many questions. It's served me well so far.'

'So you expect us to sit in this closed compartment the entire way in silence.'

'Of course not.'

She clicked on the radio.

Lachlain finally gave up fighting not to stare and openly studied her, finding it disturbingly pleasing. He told himself it was only because he lacked something else to occupy his mind. He'd run out of reading material and was only half listening to this radio.

The music was just as bizarre and inexplicable as everything else in this time, but he'd found a few songs that irritated him less than the others. When he'd voiced the ones he preferred, she'd appeared shocked, then mumbled, 'Werewolves like the blues. Who knew?'

She must have felt his gaze because she peeked over at him with that shy look, nibbling her lip before