A Hunger Like No Other

32

Alone in a great Russian forest, Lachlain stood where it had all begun fifteen decades ago. He and Harmann had landed just hours before, then set out in a truck over the rough terrain to find the location of Lachlain's capture. When the roads became impassable, Lachlain had left Harmann behind. Both of them knew that once Lachlain scented Emma, Harmann could never keep up with him.

Even after so much time, Lachlain had been drawn to the spot unerringly. But now as he circled the clearing, desperate for a hint of her, he feared his judgment had been wrong. No one had ever located Helvita. And Lachlain had been unable to save his own brother in these very woods.

His decision to take this course could end her lif—

Wait… She was here.

The first night he found her, he'd gone to his knees to scent her again. Now he raced over miles of terrain, sword sheathed at his back, heart pounding. He rushed up a steep hill, then stared out from the height.

Helvita lay just beyond him. Desolate, sinister.

Under the watch of the sun, Lachlain took a direct path there. He swiftly scaled a sheer wall, then stalked along the broken-down battlements, moving freely along the empty walk. He entertained no feeling of accomplishment for having located it at last. This was merely a first step.

He froze when he heard her voice like a faint echo, but couldn't pinpoint the source inside, couldn't make out the words. The sheer immensity of the castle was staggering, and she was in the bowels of this foul place.

He couldn't understand what had made her come here, what would drive her to do something this mad.

Had she dreamed of Demestriu? Had she had a premonition in a dream that violent night? He fought to stay cold about this, but his mate was in this hell facing the most evil—and powerful—being ever to walk the earth. She was so gentle. Was she afraid…?

No—he couldn't think like that. He'd found her, knew she was still alive. He could save her—if he was lucid, weighing, determining possibilities.

There was a reason the vampires always won. And Bowe had been wrong about it. It wasn't because they could trace. The vampires always won because the Lykae couldn't rein in their beasts…or because they so readily surrendered to them.

Emma shot backward over his desk, just missing his outstretched claws, staring in disbelief as he slashed the massive desk in two as if ripping a piece of paper.

The wood groaned as it parted, then thudded to the ground.

He appeared behind her before she'd even comprehended that he'd traced. She lunged away, but he clawed down her side, gaining a hold on her, piercing her skin. He propped her up in front of him as easily as if she were a rag doll. The torn skin of her leg and side funneled blood from her as he placed his forearms at her neck.

To take my head.

'Good-bye, Emmaline.'

He's shielding me.

She drew in a breath and screamed. The thick black glass above shattered like an explosion. Sunlight fired in. He went motionless as if stunned that he was immersed in light. She hunched into him, using his body as cover. When he tried to escape, she fought to keep him there, but even as he began to burn he was too strong. He traced them into the shadows.

To where the sword was.

She dropped down, snatched the sword, and sprang up behind him. She plunged it into his torso, nearly gagging as she carved through bone, then forced herself to twist it inside him as she'd been taught.

He fell. She yanked the sword clear, leapt over him for another blow, and found him staring up at her with utter shock.

He struggled to one knee, which scared the hell out of her, so she rammed the sword back in, through his heart, as hard as she could. The force sent him reeling to his back and planted him on the stone floor.

Pinned through the heart, he lay writhing. He wouldn't die like this. She knew she had to take off his head as well. She limped to the other sword, shaking as she drew it down, still disbelieving what had just happened, what was about to happen. When she returned, her face scrunched up. Blackened blood pooled all around him. She'd have to step through it.

His face was changing, softening, becoming less macabre. The tight planes and shadows dissipated.

He opened his eyes…and they were blue as the sky.

'Release me.'

'Yeah, right.'

'No…mean for you…to kill me.'

'Why?' she cried. 'Why would you say that?'

'Hunger at bay. Memories at bay. No memories of their horror of…me.'

Pounding on the door.

He bellowed, 'Leave us be.' Then to her, he lowered his voice to say, 'Sever head. Waist. Legs. Or I can still rise… Furie's mistake.'

Furie? 'Did you kill her?' she shrieked.

'No, tortured. She wasn't supposed to endure this long…'

'Where is she?'

'Never knew. Lothaire saw to it. Head, waist, legs.'

'I can't think!' She paced. By Freya, Furie did live.

'Emmaline, do it!'

'Listen, I'm doing the best I can!' He wasn't supposed to go all Darth Vader, not supposed to direct her how to really, really kill him. The head was one thing, but the waist and the legs? Had he truly become that powerful? 'And your impatience is not helping the situation!'

'Your mother died of sorrow…because we couldn't make it stop. You can end this.'

With a deep breath, she stood over him, choking up on the handle. Yes, like baseball. Never played baseball, freak. Oh, yeah. Kaderin always holds her swords loosely, wrists fluid. I am so not Kaderin. Think like the vampires. What is standing between you and the one you love and your family? Three clean chops. Just three swings.

The more beseeching he appeared, the harder this became. His eyes were clear, his face rid of the twisting menace from before. He didn't look evil now. Just a creature in pain. She dropped to her knees beside him, heedless of the blood. 'What about some kind of, like, rehabilitation—'

'Do it, daughter.' He snapped his teeth at her, sending her scrambling back. More pounding on the door. 'They can't trace into my lair, but they can break down that door…And when they do, they will catch you and hold you for food…until you die of sorrow. Or Ivo will make you kill and turn you.'

Oh, hell, no.

'I will feed and…heal. Turn again and never stop until I've killed…the Lykae. Slaughtered his…clan.'

That's my clan, too. The door was bowing now, wood splintering. The Instinct whispered, Protect it.

'I'm really sorry to have to do this.'

A shadow of a smile, then he grimaced in pain. 'Emma the Unlikely…the killer of kings.'

She raised the sword and took aim, tears pouring from her as quickly as the blood from her leg wound.

'Wait! Emmaline, the head first…if you please.'

'Oh, my duh.' She gave him a sheepish, watery grin. 'Good-bye…Father.'

'Proud.'

He shut his eyes and she swung. She got through enough to knock him out, but sadly, this sword blew—so dull she had to hack three more times at his neck to sever it. Then his waist took forever. She was streaked with blood before she even reached his legs.

The Mob was dead-on to call this stuff wet-works.

Just as she finished with the last of him, the door burst open. She hissed.

Ivo. She remembered him from Lachlain's memories. She lifted her sword again. Hey, as long as she was in