Demon from the Dark (Immortals After Dark #10)(4)

Kallen rasped, “There is no reason to go on.”

“There is always a reason.” How many times had Malkom had to convince himself of this? “If for nothing else, you can seek vengeance.” He himself would not rest until retribution was meted.

He would slaughter the sorcerer who’d muttered his curses in the background, the guards who’d held them down, and the bloodthirsty Viceroy whose sick will had set them all into motion.

Then he would return to destroy Ronath.

Those who betrayed Malkom did it only once.

When all was done, he would find a way to erase every vampire trait from himself, to rid his veins of the Viceroy’s blood and return to what he’d been.

Or he’d greet the sun. Malkom frowned. Would that kill a Scarb??

“Live for vengeance?” Kallen said. “Tell me, will that be enough?”

How to answer that question when Malkom’s own dreams appeared so ridiculous now?

He’d wanted a home that no one could ever force him to leave. He’d wanted as much food and water as he could ever enjoy. But more than anything, he’d secretly longed to be respected like Kallen—a noble like him—gifted with a blood far better than his own.

Malkom’s only fortune was that no one else had ever discovered how much he yearned to be highborn. “Then live for your fated female,” he urged Kallen. “She will accept you. She must.”

“Is that what you seek, Malkom? Your fated one?”

“I’ve no such expectations.” What use had he for a woman of his own? He’d needed no offspring for a noble line or sons to work the water mines with him.

“No? Then why have you never taken a demoness from the camps?”

Malkom’s gaze flicked away. Never had he known a female. Those who followed the army could be had for a price, but Malkom had never used one. No matter how urgent his need, no matter how badly his curiosity burned, he physically couldn’t.

They smelled of other males, reminding him of his childhood. Nothing extinguished his lusts like the scent of seed.

So he’d put females from his mind. As a boy, he disciplined himself not to dream about food. He’d applied that same discipline to keep from fantasizing about intercourse.

At length, Malkom answered, “Because war has become everything for me—”

The Viceroy traced into their cell, his eyes lit with pleasure. “Remade in my image,” he said. The vampire wasn’t shocked the ritual had worked—he was brimming with pride. So how many had they created here? “And this is just the beginning. Do you feel the Thirst? It’s sacred to us, as death is.” His gaze fell first on Kallen, then on Malkom. “Only the one who kills—or answers the Thirst—will ever leave this cell alive.”

Just as Malkom tensed to attack, the Viceroy disappeared.

Once their situation sank in and he’d found his voice, Malkom said, “We will not fight each other.” They both knew that when he said fight, he meant drink or kill. “I will not fight my brother.” But if anyone was freed, it should be Kallen. He’s all that is good.

“Nor I,” Kallen vowed.

“We will not,” Malkom repeated, wondering if he sought to convince Kallen—or himself.

Three weeks later . . .

Malkom weakly stood before the bars, expending precious energy just to remain on his feet, yet unable to lie down as though defeated.

Day after day had passed with no food, water, or—dark gods help them—blood. His thirst intensified hourly, his fangs throbbing until he’d silently wept. He’d caught himself staring at Kallen’s neck, the skin there taunting him.

At times, Malkom had flushed to find Kallen’s gaze on his own neck.

Never had he hungered like this. Last night, Malkom had waited until Kallen fitfully dozed. Then he’d sunk his aching fangs into his own arm, sucking, disgusted by how rich he’d found the taste. How delicious, how blistering the pleasure . . .

Endless days passed as their bodies withered but would not die. With no industry to be had, no battles to be fought, Malkom was beset by memories cloying in his mind. For someone who held survival paramount, he’d begun to have doubts. How important was living?

Living means more betrayal.

His first betrayal had been dealt by his own mother. At six years of age, he’d complained of hunger so acute he’d nearly blacked out. She’d railed that he was never satisfied, then sold him to a vampire who would feed him all he wanted if he was an “obedient and affectionate” boy.

His second betrayal? That same vampire had cast him out at fourteen, deeming Malkom too old to stir his lusts.

Back to the gutter, back to hunger. But against all odds, Malkom had grown increasingly strong, until he’d finally been ready to exact revenge on the master. Malkom had always been observant, and he’d noted every protection guarding that vampire’s home. He’d found it easy to steal back inside, take out the guards, and murder the master who’d tormented his youth and twisted him as a man.

And it’d felt so good, so glorious, to kill one of their kind, he’d hunted another, and another.

Soon, word of his deeds had reached Kallen’s ears. The prince had invited him to his stronghold, then spent months convincing Malkom to join their rebellion, even to lead it.

Eventually Malkom had been acknowledged in the street, asked to dinner by Kallen, paid in riches and fine clothing—merely for risking a life Malkom had cared naught about. For so long, shame had been his companion, but at last he’d dragged himself from the gutter.