Demon from the Dark (Immortals After Dark #10)(65)

Now Lothaire asked, “What did you dream of this time?”

Malkom paced in front of the glass, fully healed now and even more desperate to contend with that vampire, any vampire. Desperate for freedom.

Lothaire sighed. “And still you want to kill me? When I know what you are—and where you can find more of your kind?”

More of his kind? Exactly how many were made? “What do you want with me, leech?” Malkom’s words came haltingly, but he’d nearly recovered his understanding of this language. As Carrow’s memories had begun to accumulate with his own, they’d acted like a puzzle key in his mind.

“You call me leech, when you’ve just woken from a blood-borne dream? You’re as much a vampire as I.”

“I am no vampire,” he grated, even as his mind flashed to that searing image of the witch’s breast pierced by his fangs. The crimson drops . . . “I’ve spent my life ending things like you.”

“Your old life, perhaps. But this is a new existence for you. And you need information to survive.”

“Information only you can give me?” Malkom sneered.

“Precisely. In exchange for your allegiance once we escape.”

“Allegiance? The last vampire who sought my loyalty fared ill,” Malkom said.

“What did you do to him?”

“He lived to see his blood and most of his flesh painting the walls.” The Viceroy had pleaded to die, beseeching Malkom with bloody tears. “Watch that you do not end up like him.”

“You’re only impressing me. And whetting my appetite.”

“I swear allegiance to no one.”

“That’s your first mistake in our world, Scarb?.”

Malkom clenched his fists at that word. “You act as if freedom is nigh.”

“Perhaps yours. You see, I took something from someone very powerful. Once the waters recede, she’s going to come for it. She will unleash hell—since I cannot.”

Whatever that meant.

“Now that you’re healed, the mortals will begin studying you,” Lothaire said. “Whenever you leave your cell, there’s a chance for escape. Of course, there’s a certainty of pain.”

Malkom worked to block him out, wondering why he’d ever answered the vampire in the first place.

Because he intrigued me with his knowledge of what I am.

“Perhaps if you broke free, you could be reunited with your pretty witch?”

At that, Malkom lunged to the glass. “What do you know of her? Where is she?”

“Carrow Graie is close.”

“Where? Damn you, tell me how to get to her!”

“The guards approach. They’re going to take either you or me.”

If Malkom could leave this cell, would he see her? Since he was able to speak so much more freely, he needed to communicate with her. To tell her that he thought she was more of a whore than his own mother. To inform her that he was going to enslave her, put her in chains, and f*ck her tender body raw.

At the thought, he grew hard as stone.

Now he felt relief that he hadn’t taken her before. If he’d claimed her that last day, his seed could have been quickening inside her right now. Trapped in this cell, he would have no control over the offspring she carried.

The idea of her growing big with his babe . . .

He slammed his fist into the wall, hating her anew for how badly he still wanted that.

Suddenly he smelled the fog with which they sedated him, spreading through the air.

“Looks like it’s to be you, Scarb?.”

Finally Malkom might determine why they’d gone to such pains to capture him. And he could begin his search for Carrow.

“Watch out for Chase, the one with the gloves,” Lothaire advised. “He is much faster than he appears.”

By the time the mortal guards entered to shackle his hands behind his back, Malkom could scarcely lift his head or shuffle his feet. But he wouldn’t have fought them anyway. He wanted out of this place.

Down the corridor they led him. He hazily observed more immortals, species after species—

From the corner of his eye, he spied pale skin and jet-black hair.

He swung his head around. The witch. She is here. A prisoner like him, standing motionless in the center of a cell.

Though weakened, he thrashed against his bonds. Taking the mortals by surprise, he lurched for the glass that separated her from him.

For a split second, they stared at each other. Even after everything, he desired her, craved her to a blistering degree. “You lied to me! Betrayed me.”

Her face lost even more color, and she stepped closer. “Malkom, please—”

“I will come for you!” he bellowed, fighting the mortals. “Make you pay!” He heard a shot and tensed too late. A dart filled him with poison.

He collapsed to his back, keeping her in his sights even as his vision grew dim . . . .

When Malkom awakened, he was strapped to a metal table. The dried blood had been cleaned from his body, and he’d been clad in new clothes, a soldier’s trews and shirt like the ones he’d worn before.

Strangers—enemies—had undressed him while he was unconscious. Another indignity the witch would pay for. He strained against his bonds, but they were unbreakable.

A door slid open and the tall man who’d observed Malkom’s capture entered the room. Hair hung over his face, seemingly by design. He was dressed all in black—and he wore gloves. Chase.