A Hunger Like No Other (10 page)

Every minute closer to dawn found her more tense. She'd always been so cautious before. This trip to Europe had been her first real independence and only allowed because her aunts had provided so many safeguards. Yet Emma had managed to run out of blood, get kidnapped, and be forced out into the world with no precaution against the sun other than a
car trunk,
heading for who knew where . . . .

And still all this might be safer than
not
going with him. Something had been back at the hotel—possibly vampires.

Just after they'd gotten into the car, she'd thought about telling him that her life might be in danger. Two reasons prevented her. For one, she didn't think she could stand it if
he shrugged and gave her an “I should care about this why?” look. And secondly, she'd have to explain what she was.

The Valkyrie were enemies of the Lykae as well, and she'd be damned if she allowed herself to be used as ammunition against her family. In fact, she didn't want Lachlain to discover anything about her to use against her. Luckily, she didn't think she'd revealed any weaknesses in her conversation with Regin—weaknesses like her critical need for blood. She could just imagine him saying, “I could find you some blood”—he would clap and rub his hands together—“right after shower time!” Besides, she could make it the three days it would take to get to Scotland. Surely.

She closed her eyes briefly.
But the hunger
 . . . She'd
never
been tempted to drink from another, but with no alternative in sight, even Lachlain was starting to look good. She knew exactly where she would tap that neck. She would dig her claws into his back to hold on to him for a little reverse-mainline . . . .

“You drive well.”

She coughed, startled, wondering if he'd caught her staring and rubbing her tongue against her fang. Then she frowned at his comment. “Um, how would you know?”

“You seem confident enough. Enough to take your eyes from your path.”

Busted
 . . . “For your information, I'm not a particularly good driver.” Her friends complained of her indecisiveness and her habit of letting everyone in front of her to the point of standstill.

“If you're no' a particularly good driver, then what
do
you do well?”

She gazed down the highway for many moments, contemplating an answer. Being good at something was relative,
wasn't it? She liked to sing, but her voice couldn't compare to the pipes on a siren. She played piano, but twelve-fingered demons schooled her. She said honestly, “I'd be lying if I said I did anything particularly well.”

“And you canna lie.”

“No, I can't.” She hated that. Why couldn't vampires have evolved until they could lie without pain? Humans had. Now they merely flushed and felt uncomfortable.

A few more go-rounds with the moon roof control followed. Then he drew some slips of paper from his jacket pocket. “Who is Regin? And Lucia, and Nïx?”

She glanced over, her jaw dropping. “You collected my private messages from the front desk?”

“And your
dry-cleaned
clothing,” he replied in a bored tone. “Which sounds like an oxymoron to me.”

“Of course you did,” she said sharply. “Why wouldn't you?”
Privacy? You have none,
he'd sneered. He'd eavesdropped on her speaking with Regin—as though it were his right.

“Who are they?” he demanded again. “They all order you to call except for this one message from Nïx. It makes no sense.”

Nïx was her befuddled aunt, the oldest of all Valkyrie—or the proto-Valkyrie, as she liked to be called. She had supermodel good looks but saw the future more clearly than she did the present. Emma could only imagine what Nucking Futs Nïx had said. “Let me see it.” She snatched the missive, placing it flat against the steering wheel, then took a quick glance at the road before reading:

Knock, knock . . .

—Who's there?

Emma . . .

—Emma who? Emma who? Emma who? Emma who?

Nïx had told Emma before she'd left for Europe that on this trip she would “do that which you were born to do.”

Apparently, Emma was born to get kidnapped by a deranged Lykae. Her fate sucked.

This message was Nïx's way of reminding Emma of her prediction. She alone knew how badly Emma wanted to earn a real identity, to have a page in the Valkyrie's revered Book of Warriors.

“What does it mean?” he asked when she wadded it up and dropped it at her feet.

Emma was furious he'd seen that message, furious he'd seen anything that might give him insight into her life. The way Lachlain observed and learned, he'd have Emma pinned before they made the Chunnel.

“Lucia calls you ‘Em.' Is that your nickname with your family?”

That was it. Enough. Too much delving, too many questions. “Listen, uh, Mr. Lachlain. I got myself into a . . . situation. With you. And to get out of it, I have agreed to drive you to Scotland.” Hunger was making her irritable. Irritability was making her heedless of consequences, and that occasionally passed for bravery. “I have
not
agreed to be your friend, or . . . or share your bed, or reward your invasion of my privacy with more information about myself.”

“I will answer questions if you will.”

“I don't have questions for you. Do I know why you were
locked away
—and, hello, vague much?—for fifteen decades? No, and honestly, I don't want to know. Where you appeared from last night? Don't wanna know.”

“You're no' curious why all this has happened?”

“I will try to forget ‘all this' when I leave you in Scotland, so why would I want to know more? My m.o. has always been to keep my head low and not ask too many questions. It's served me well so far.”

“So you expect us to sit in this closed compartment the entire way in silence.”

“Of course not.”

She clicked on the radio.

*  *  *

Lachlain finally gave up fighting not to stare and openly studied her, finding it disturbingly pleasing. He told himself it was only because he lacked something else to occupy his mind. He'd run out of reading material and was only half listening to this radio.

The music was just as bizarre and inexplicable as everything else in this time, but he'd found a few songs that irritated him less than the others. When he'd voiced the ones he preferred, she'd appeared shocked, then mumbled, “Werewolves like the blues. Who knew?”

She must have felt his gaze because she peeked over at him with that shy look, nibbling her lip before glancing away. He scowled to find that one look from this vampire made his heart speed up, like those laughable humans' had.

Recalling the way the men reacted to her and knowing how rare she was among vampires, Lachlain realized that she must be wed. He'd been uncaring before. He'd said, “His loss,” in reference to any husband, and he'd meant it, because a marriage wouldn't have stopped him. But now he wondered if she loved another.

In the Lykae world, if she was his mate, then he was hers as well. But she wasn't Lykae. It was possible that she
could hate him forever—that he would have to keep her imprisoned forever—especially after he meted out his revenge.

He planned to exterminate every one of those leeches, which meant the people who'd given her life.

Again he questioned fate, questioned his instincts. There was no way they could be together.

Even as he thought this, his hand itched to touch her hair. Even as he thought this, he wondered what her smile would be like. He was like a randy lad, ogling her thighs encased in tight trews, eyes slowly following the raised clothing seam that ran between her legs.

He shifted positions again. He'd never been this desperate to tup. What he wouldn't give to toss her on the back bench in this car and take her thoroughly with his mouth, readying her, then pin her knees to her shoulders to receive him. Damn it, it was what he was supposed to do.

Thinking of taking her, he was reminded of last night when he'd touched her inside. He shook his head, remembering her tightness. She had been long without a man. He would split her in two at the first full moon. If he wasn't regularly fucking her before then . . . .

She hissed in a breath when an oncoming car's light beam was stronger than the one before it. She rubbed her eyes, then blinked them several times.

She looked tired and he wondered if she was hungry, but doubted it. The vampires he'd tortured could go weeks without blood, feeding only so often—like a snake.

But to be certain, he asked, “Are you hungry?” When she didn't answer, he said, “Are you or are you no'?”

“It's none of your concern.”

Unfortunately, it was. Providing for her needs was his
duty. And what if she
needed
to kill? For Lachlain's kind, finding one's mate was an imperative. For the ghouls, propagating by contagion was an imperative. Would her vampire nature crave killing so badly that she wouldn't be able to control it? And what would he do? Facilitate her? Protect her while she dragged down some unsuspecting human? Another . . .
man
?

Christ, he couldn't do this. “How do you drink?”

She mumbled, “Liquid goes into my mouth, whereby I swallow it.”

“When was the last time?” he snapped.

As though he'd dragged the answer from her, she sighed, “Monday, if you must know,” then peeked over, clearly noting his reaction.

“Just Monday you did it?” His voice conveyed a disgust that he didn't bother to hide.

She frowned at him, but then another bright light caught her eyes. She winced and the vehicle swerved before she righted it. “I need to concentrate on staying on the road.”

If she didn't want to discuss it, he wouldn't press. Not tonight.

Having escaped the congestion of the Paris streets, they'd picked up speed on the smooth autoway, and as Lachlain watched the fields pass, the feeling was akin to running. The pure enjoyment of the experience dimmed the rage that always simmered deep inside him. He would be able to run soon. Because he was free and healing.

He deserved just one night of this, one night without having to think about blood and aggression and death. He wondered if that was even possible with a vampire seated next to him.

A vampire disguised as an angel.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to demand the answers he dreaded knowing.

Val Hall Manor

Just outside of New Orleans

“Is Myst back?” Annika shrieked as she ran through the doorway. “Or Daniela?” She clutched the thick door, sagging against it as she scanned the darkness outside. The light of the gas lamps made the oaks quaver in shadow. She turned to find Regin and Lucia in the great room just off the entry hall, painting each other's toenails while watching
Survivor
. “Have they returned?”

Regin arched an eyebrow. “We thought they were with you.”

“Nïx?”

“Hibernating in her room.”

“Nïx! Get down here!” Annika screamed to her sister as she slammed the door and bolted it behind her.

To Regin and Lucia, she said, “Is Emma back yet?” She put her hands to her knees, still gasping for breath.

They shared a glance. “She's, uh, she's not coming back right now.”

“What?”
Annika shrieked, even though at this moment she was grateful Emma wasn't here.

“She met some hottie over there—”

Annika held up her hand. “Got to get out of here.”

Lucia frowned. “I don't understand ‘got to.' Sounds like you want us to leave?”

“There's a plane about to crash, isn't there?” Regin asked,
her confusion genuine, her amber eyes curious. “That is
so
gonna hurt.”

Lucia's brows knit. “I might run from a crashing plane—”

“Go . . . something's coming . . .” They didn't understand—the idea of fleeing so foreign.
“Now
 . . .” She'd sprinted all the way from the city.

“We're safest here,” Regin argued, her attention back to her toenails. “The inscription will keep anyone out.” She looked up sharply, and then a sheepish smile spread over her features. “But, I, uh, I might not have renewed the inscription spell with the witches.”

Lucia said, “I thought we were on auto-renewal. They charge our credit—”

“By Freya, I mean now!” Annika yelled, finally able to stand upright.

Taking their half-mother's name in vain? Eyes wide, the two scrambled up, lunging for their weapons—

The front door burst in.

A
horned
vampire stood in the doorway, eyes red and scanning Regin's and Lucia's faces intently. This was the one Annika had been unable to defeat. Only her knowledge of the maze of streets downtown had saved her. Now it was in their home.

“What is
that
, Annika?” Regin asked as she slipped a dagger from her arm sheath. “A turned
demon
?”

“Not possible,” Lucia said. “That's supposed to be a true myth.”

“Has to be.” Annika had barely fought him off, and she killed vampires routinely. “Never seen one so powerful.” The only reason she'd come back was to see if any of the older Valkyrie were here. The older ones could vanquish him. Regin and Lucia were among the youngest.

“Is he one of Ivo's minions?”

“Yes. Saw Ivo giving orders to this one. They're searching for someone—”

Two more vampires traced behind him just as Lucia readied the bow that was like an extension of her.

“Just go,” Annika hissed. “Both of you—”

Ivo appeared directly after, his red eyes ablaze, his head completely shaven. All the runnels and reliefs of his scalp stood out as distinctly as his facial features.