A Hunger Like No Other

Regin tilted her head in Lachlain's direction. 'He stole a daughter from her foster mother and kept her from the protection of our family.'

'Turnabout's a bitch,' Kaderin added, dropping down to collect fangs from the severed heads as trophies.

'They fucking have her!' He punched the wall. 'How can you be so calm?'

'I can't feel raw emotion, and they won't indulge in the luxury of feeling sorrow,' Kaderin explained. 'Sorrow weakens the entire collective. It will weaken Emma herself. And we won't borrow trouble.'

Lachlain shook with rage, about to turn, about to kill them all—

Suddenly, some hideous noise erupted. Kaderin put her bloody fangs away and dug in her pocket, pulling out a phone. 'Crazy Frog,' she hissed as she flipped it open. 'Regin, you are a fiend.'

Regin shrugged as Lachlain grappled with confusion. Nïx yawned loudly, muttering, 'This is a rerun.'

'No,' Kaderin said into the phone. 'She went voluntarily with the vampires.' She related this information as if she were reciting a weather report, even over the growing shrieks Lachlain heard from the phone.

Lachlain's hand shot out, yanking the phone away from her. At least someone reacted as they should.

Annika. 'What's happened to her?' she screamed in fury. 'Dog, you will beg for death!'

'Why would she go with them?' he bellowed back. 'Goddamn it, tell me how to get to her!'

As Annika screeched on the phone, Kaderin gave him a thumbs-up sign and mouthed, 'Keep it.' Then, as he and Cass gaped, the four Valkyrie turned for their car and strolled from the castle as if they'd come over to drop off a basket of scones. He loped after them.

The bow shot up once more.

'Shoot him if he follows,' Nïx ordered.

'Shoot me full of them, then,' he grated.

Nïx turned to him. 'We don't know anything to help you, and I think you're about to need your strength, huh?' To the three others, she said, 'I told you, we are not bringing her back on this trip.'

And then they were gone.

'Where the fuck did that vampire take her?' he snapped into the phone.

'I—don't—know!'

'Your Valkyrie let them into our home—'

'That's not Emma's home. This is her home!'

'No, no longer. I vow to you, witch, that when I find her, I'll never let her near you again.'

'You will find her, won't you? You're a hunter who'll be after your most prized possession. I could ask for no better.' She sounded calm now, even serene. He could hear her sneering. 'Yes, you go find her, and then I'll tell you what. When you bring her here safe and sound, I'll scratch my new pet behind his ears instead of peeling him.'

'What are you speaking of, woman?'

Her voice was pure evil. 'Your brother's neck is beneath my boot right now. Garreth for Emma.'

The line went dead.

31

Emma felt like an offering on a dark altar.

The vampire had traced her into a dim corridor just outside a heavy wooden door. He unlocked the door and opened it, then shoved her into a room with such force that she tripped to the cold stone floor. Lightheaded from his tracing, she'd lain where she'd fallen—at the foot of a towering arched window reaching at least twenty feet high. Its glass was stained obsidian, with gold inlays gracefully twisted into symbols of the black arts.

The vampire had abandoned her with only the warning, 'Do not try to escape. No one traces into or out of his rooms but him,' then he locked the door once more.

She shivered, dragging her eyes from the window, and rose dizzily to her knees to examine the room. A study, a working one—with papers atop the desk—though it was dank and redolent of the scent of old blood.

Screams sounded from somewhere in the bowels of the castle, and she shot to her feet, turning in wary circles. What in the hell had she done?

Before regret could overwhelm her, memories of the fire returned. The scene was as clear as if she'd been there.

Lachlain's lungs had filled with fire, and he'd reacted more violently to that than even the skin burning from his legs as the fire grew. He'd never given them the pleasure of hearing him roar with pain. Not the first time he died, or the second, or any other time over the next fifteen decades when he'd burned and woken into a fresh hell. His hatred was the only thing that kept him remotely sane, and he'd clung to it.

He clung to it when the fires abated. He clung to it when he realized his leg alone kept him from her, and when he forced himself to snap the bone, and then when he…let the beast rise up so he could…

She hung her head and retched. He'd clung to it until he'd found her—the one he'd sensed on the surface, the one who was supposed to save him…

Then he'd fought it for their sake.

She wondered how he hadn't killed her, how he hadn't given in to the confusion and hate that mixed with his need to claim her and find oblivion. How had he not taken her savagely when his skin still burned?

He hadn't wanted her to know about his torture, and she understood why. She'd known she would have to tell him about the dream memories, but what could she say about this? That she had an apocalyptic case of TMI? That she finally knew the nature of his torture, and she was certain it was the worst any being had ever been subjected to?

How to tell him that her father had done it to him?

Malevolent, filthy parasites that belong in hell.

She almost threw up, but choked it back. She didn't think Lachlain could hate her for this, but it would burn, seethe like a tiny drop of acid on the skin. Always wearing away. Her father had destroyed almost his entire family, a family that he'd clearly loved.

Now that she knew everything Lachlain had been through, knew his thoughts, his vows for retribution, hot shame suffused her for fighting him about his revenge.

Especially now that she was about to take it from him forever.

Her resolve was, well, resolved. As she lay on Kinevane's cool floor amid all that carnage, her mind had raced. Her bitter shame had been beaten down by the notorious Valkyrie pride and sense of honor that had finally roiled within her. Unworthy. Frightened. Weak. Emma the Meek. No longer.

Because—and here was the baffling thing—now that her emotions had stabilized and she could think more clearly, she would still do the same thing.

It frightened her how determined she was about this. Yes, the old Emma still lurked in the background of her mind, squeaking about how stupid this was: Hey, how do you like my new meat pants? Now, where is that tiger cage?

True, it was foolhardy.

But the new Emma knew she wasn't too stupid to live; she was too ashamed to care. She needed to do this to make things right with her coven and with Lachlain.

Lachlain. The bighearted king she had fallen helplessly for. And for him, she'd fight relentlessly.

Her father, her burden. She'd come to slay Demestriu.

For the hellish hour it took Harmann to drive him to the private airport, Lachlain fought to keep from turning,