Lothaire (Immortals After Dark #12)(43)

Would the vampire be up yet? Would they have another conversation—

or confrontation? She wondered if the fluttery feeling in her belly was hunger. Or nerves.

She quickly braided the crown of her hair, leaving the rest to curl past her shoulders. After debating makeup, she opted for a light sheen of lip gloss— A thunderous bellow sounded from his room. Followed by another, and another. Louder, louder . . .

Then quiet.





16


When Lothaire awakened, he lay in a bank of snow. Though it was surely still day in New York, the moon’s yellow light streamed down over him.

Sleep-tracing. Again. Where the hell am I now? Was it to happen every time he slept?

He darted his gaze around, recognizing his whereabouts—because it was a property he returned to often, one he now owned.

The field where his mother had died.

How distinctly he recalled Ivana’s death and the night that followed. On a still eve just like this one, he’d finally been able to rise from his snowy cocoon. . . .

The sun had barely set when he began clawing himself out of the snow. The humans had long since gone, but Lothaire had been forced to wait in agony for twilight.

At last he broke through the outer layer of ice and ran in search of his mother . . . hoping against hope. Then he spied all that was left of the proud Ivana—black ash against glaringly white snow.

With a choked yell, he reached for her remains, but a slight breeze soughed, scattering her ashes across the field.

“No, no, Mother!” Crying, frantic to touch even a fragment of her, he lunged for them—

And he traced instead, brushing his fingertips over disintegrating ash.

The first time he’d ever been able to teleport. Shock welled. Hours earlier, that skill would have prevented Ivana’s sacrifice.

He sank to his knees, filled with a bitter hatred for himself. I failed her. Tears fell—until he perceived a presence.

The Daci, all around him, cloaked in mist.

His mother had told him that her family might come for him once the humans were gone. Indeed, they had.

“Lothaire,” they whispered like the wind.

He shot to his feet, jerking around in circles. “Show yourselves!” He turned the hatred he’d felt for himself outward. He heard his mother’s voice in his mind: “Rely on cold reason.” But he couldn’t.

Fury burned inside him just as the sun had burned her.

“You filthy cowards! Where were you last night? Where is Serghei?” he screamed till spittle sprayed from his lips, freezing there. “Let me see your faces!”

“Lothaire . . .”

He traced forward, flying into the mist with his fangs bared. Couldn’t see them. Eyes wide, he realized they were the mist—and within it, so was he. “You let her burn!” he yelled, throat gone raw. “Fight me!”

From all around, he heard their broken murmurs: “. . . her curse . . .” “. . . he traces within the mist . . .” “. . . Horde blood . . .” “. . . lacking . . .” “. . . rage . . .”

“Yes, I’ve Horde blood! The better to destroy you with—”

They merely traced away, dissipating.

The night was still, utter silence. Utter aloneness. . . .

Over the centuries, Lothaire had returned here time and again, desperately seeking his mother’s people, seeking Serghei.

But never had he sleep-traced this kind of distance. The snow bit into his bare feet, a chill breeze leaching the warmth from his uncovered torso.

Despise this place. Lothaire could still remember the smell of Ivana’s flesh burning on that freezing dawn.

Because her father, Serghei, the king of the Daci, had forsaken her.

The grandfather Lothaire had never—in his endless life—been able to find.

When young, Lothaire hadn’t comprehended the pain his mother had felt. Since then he’d known torture many times, had felt his own skin seared away in the sun.

Now he understood what Serghei had subjected Ivana to. I can still feel her brittle ashes against my fingertips. . . .

At the memory, rage seethed inside Lothaire, as fresh as that eve. Shouldn’t it have dimmed?

He felt crazed, wanting to rip apart an enemy until steaming blood sprayed like rain and painted the snow. “Face me, Serghei!” he bellowed. “You f*cking coward!”

For an instant, he thought he sensed their presence. Or was it only a lingering remnant from his dream? “Face me!” No one met him; no one answered his challenge. “Goddamn you all, fight me!”

This might be the moment when I topple off the razor’s edge, irretrievably mad.

Another bellow erupted from his chest. Crave blood, carnage . . . bones shattering . . .

The rush when flesh gave way to his fangs.

Atop a razor, staring down at the abyss. And the abyss stares back.

Just when he realized he was about to lose this battle, he pictured his Bride’s skin yielding, giving up that crimson wine of hers. Sink your fangs into her, plunge them deep. . . .

His eyes widened. She’s alone. Unguarded.

In less than an instant, he’d returned to the apartment. Needing to protect her. Needing her. He would bury his face in her hair and inhale her intoxicating scent, could imagine it so clearly.

He found Elizabeth standing out on her balcony under the cover of sun.