A Hunger Like No Other (37 page)

“We canna. I dinna want to tell you this, but they have goddamned
wraiths
guarding them.”

Garreth, last of his blood family, behind the guard of an ancient scourge, in the hands of an insane, vicious being.

And . . . Emma had left him.

Purposely left him. Made the conscious effort to forsake him, and crawled to a vampire's fucking outstretched hand to do it.

Haze.

No, need to fight it.
Again and again he struggled to
examine everything he knew about her, looking for a clue as to why she would do this.

Seventy years old. College. She'd been hunted by the vampires. It was her they wanted all along. For what purpose? Which faction? Annika's her foster mother. Emma's blood mother was of Lydian descent, she said. Helen. That's where she got her looks from.

As they neared the airport, the sun rose. Lachlain roared with frustration, hating it, wanting never to see it rise again. She was out there without him to protect her, could be staked to a field at this moment. His palms were bloodied from his claws digging into them, his arm wound unchecked.

Think!
Replay anything he'd learned about her.
Seventy years old. College . . . .

He frowned. He'd met Lydian women before. They had pale skin like Emma's, but dark, dark hair and eyes. Emma was fair-haired, her eyes blue.

Then her father would be as well—

Lachlain froze. No.

Not possible.

“What if he's my father?”
Emma had asked.

And Lachlain had answered . . . he'd answered that Demestriu's issue would be
malevolent, filthy parasites.

No.

Even if his mind could assimilate that she was the daughter of Demestriu, Lachlain couldn't accept that she was in his power right now, could have been pushed there by his careless words.

Pushed to go to Helvita, to Demestriu, who would tear his own daughter limb from limb while she begged for death, and never blink his red eyes.

If Lachlain didn't reach her quickly . . . Now he had to not merely find Helvita, but find it fast. He'd hunted and
tracked through that region of Russia with no success. He might have gotten close to it last time, just before he'd been discovered and beaten bloody by a dozen tracing vampires.

He would fly to Russia and get that close again—

The memory arose of her beneath him just yesterday when her head had thrashed on her pillow, sending him awash in the exquisite scent of her hair. He would never forget her scent, had taken it into him forever from the first night he recognized her. The memory came as a reminder for him to
use
it.

He could find her. He had before. Put him anywhere in her vicinity, and he could track her straight to Helvita.

She was meant to be found by him.

*  *  *

A deep voice in the shadows said, “So let's see what my general's been after.”

Her eyes followed the direction of the sound. She knew she'd been alone as of a second ago, yet now she spied him sitting behind his large desk even before he lit a lamp. The light glinted off red eyes.

Tension seemed to radiate from him, and he stared at her as if seeing a ghost.

She'd been forced to wait alone here in this eerie castle, with the screams from below erupting every so often, until hours after sunup. In that time, she'd gone through a type of catharsis, her thoughts calming, her resolve sharpening till crystalline. She felt the way she imagined her aunts did before a great battle. Now she waited patiently to end this one way or another, and knew only one of them would leave this room alive.

Demestriu summoned a guard. “Do not let Ivo in when he returns,” he commanded the vampire. “Not for any reason.
Do not speak of finding her. If you do, I'll keep you years without viscera.”

Well. She'd grown up hearing the threats so popular among the Lore—the ones that began with
if this action does or doesn't occur,
and ended with
then you'll suffer this consequence
—but this guy was good.

Demestriu traced to the door to bolt it behind the guard.

So . . . no one can trace in or out, and now no one can walk out either?

When Demestriu returned to his seat, any surprise he might have shown was gone. He studied her with dispassion. “Your face is exactly like your mother's.”

“Thank you. My aunts have often said so.”

“I knew Ivo was up to something. Knew he searched and that he'd lost dozens of our soldiers—three in Scotland alone. So I thought to take from him whatever he'd gotten close to. I didn't expect him to be after my daughter.”

“What's this guy want with me?” she asked, though she had a pretty good idea—now that she'd realized her freaking
pedigree.

“Ivo's spent centuries plotting, eyeing my crown. But he knows that the one thing the Horde holds sacred is its bloodlines. He knows he can't rule without a royal tie, and he just happened to find one. In my daughter.”

“So he thought he would just kill you off and force me to marry him?”

“Precisely.” A considering pause, then he asked, “Why have you never sought me out before this?”

“I just learned you were my father about eight hours ago.”

Some emotion flickered in his eyes, but was so fleeting she thought she'd imagined it. “Your mother . . . didn't tell you?”

“I never knew her. She died right after I was born.”

“So soon?” he asked in a low voice, as if to himself.

“I was searching for information about my father—you—in Paris,” she said, irrationally trying to make him feel better.

“I lived there with your mother. Above the catacombs.”

Any impulse to kindness vanished at the mention of the catacombs from which Lachlain had clawed his way free.

“Look at your eyes fire silver, just like hers.” His red gaze flickered over her appraisingly for the first time.

Uncomfortable silence. She glanced around, struggling to remember the training Annika and Regin had forced on her. Beating up Cassandra was one thing, but this was a monster before her.

She frowned.
If he's a monster, then I'm a monster, too.

Hey, I don't have to live.
She'd known only one of them was leaving this room. Now she knew that was at the most.

Weapons on the walls. Crossed swords hanging upside down. The ones in the sheaths were actually more susceptible to rust. Rust meant weakness.
Gotta get the one without the sheath.

“Sit.” When she reluctantly did so, he held up a pitcher of blood. “Drink?”

She shook her head. “Trying to watch my points.”

He gave her a disgusted look. “You speak like a human.”

“If I had a dollar . . .” she sighed.

“Perhaps you just drank from the Lykae you'd been with?”

Even if she could, she saw no reason to deny it, and put her shoulders back. “I did.”

He raised his eyebrows and regarded her with new interest. “Even I refused to take from an immortal like him.”

“Why?” she asked, leaning forward, curiosity ruling her now. “That was the one instruction my mother gave my
aunts when she sent me to them—that I never drink straight from a source.”

He stared into his goblet of blood. “When you drink someone to death, you take everything from them—down to the bottom of their soul. Do it enough, and soon the pit of a soul can be quite literal. You can taste it. Your heart turns black and your eyes redden with rage. It's a poison, and we crave it.”

“But drinking from a source and killing are two different things. Why wouldn't I be warned instead not to kill?” This was so surreal. They were sharing a conversation, asking and answering questions even with the grueling tension between them, like Dr. Lecter and Clarice in that jail scene.
Courteous and responding to courtesy
 . . . “And why do I get these memories?”

“
You
have that dark talent?” He gave a short laugh that had no humor. “I've suspected it's passed down through the bloodline. I think that's what made our line kings in the first chaos of the Lore. I have it. Kristoff has it. And has given it to every human he's turned,” he added with a sneer. “But you inherited it from me?” He raised his eyebrows, as if still not quite believing her. “Your mother must have feared you would. Drinking beings to death makes you mad. Drinking and seizing their memories makes you mad—and powerful.”

She shrugged, not feeling
mad.
Yes, she'd almost crumbled a castle in her sleep, but . . . “I don't feel that way. Will something more happen to me?”

He looked aghast.
“The memories aren't enough?”
he said, then composed himself. “To take their blood, their life, and all that they have experienced—that is what makes a true vampire. I used to seek out immortals for their knowledge and power, but I also suffered the shadows of their minds.
For you to drink one with so many memories . . . you play with fire.”

“You have
no
idea how right you are about that.”

He frowned, thought for a moment, then said, “Did I put the Lykae in the catacombs?”

“He escaped,” she said smugly.

“Ah, but now you remember his torment?”

She nodded slowly. One of them was about to die. Was she prolonging the conversation to learn answers to questions that had plagued her? Or to live a little longer? Why was he complying?

“Imagine ten thousand memories like that clotting your mind. Imagine experiencing your victim's death. The moments leading up to it when
you
stalk him, when he explains away a sound, saying the breeze was stirring. When he calls himself a fool because the hair on the back of his neck stands up.” He gazed past her. “Some fight against believing to the end. Others look on my face and
know
what has them.”

She shivered. “You suffer from that?”

“I do.” He drummed his fingers on the desk, and a ring caught her attention. The crest with two wolves.

“That's Lachlain's ring.” Stolen from his dead father's hand.
My father killed his.

He studied it, red eyes vacant. “I suppose it is.”

He was insane. And she knew he would talk to her like this for as long as she wanted, because she sensed that he was . . . lonely. And because he believed these were the last hours of her life. “Given the history between the Valkyrie and the Horde, how did you and Helen get together?”

His gaunt face taking on a faraway expression, he began casually, “I had her neck in my hands, about to twist her head from her body.”

“How . . . romantic.”
One to tell the grandkids.

He ignored her. “Yet something stayed me. I released her, but studied her in the following months trying to discover what had made me hesitate. In time, I realized that she was my Bride. When I seized her and took her from her home, she said she saw something good in me and agreed to stay. She was right for a while, but in the end she paid with her life.”

“How? How did she die?”

“I'd heard from sorrow. Over me. That's why I was surprised she succumbed so quickly.”

“I don't understand.”

“Your mother tried to get me to stop drinking blood not just from a living source but altogether. She even convinced me to eat like a human, joining me to make it easier although she had no need for sustenance. And then came news of you, just as I was about to lose my crown from Kristoff's first rebellion. In the battle, I reverted to my old ways. I kept my crown, but lost everything I'd gained with her. I'd succumbed again. After taking one look at my eyes, Helen fled me.”

“Did you ever wonder about me?” she asked, sounding too much like she cared.

“I heard tales that you were weak and unskilled, having received the worst traits of both species. I would never have returned for you even if I thought you would survive long enough to freeze into your immortality. No, this was solely Ivo.”

She gave a theatrical wince. “Yeouch.” But it did actually sting a bit, a sting that was escalating toward spectacularly pissed off. “Talk about a deadbeat dad—oh, now, that was just
awful—”
She fell silent as he rose, silhouetted by the
stained glass, his hair as gold as the rich inlays. He awed her. Here was her father, and he was terrifying.

He sighed, looking her over, not as though seeing a ghost or a novelty, but like he leisurely mulled an easy kill. “Little Emmaline, coming here is the last mistake you will ever make. You should have known that vampires can always cut away anything that stands between them and their prize—anything else becomes secondary. My prize is keeping my crown. You are a weakness that Ivo, or any of the others, could exploit. So you just became
incidental.”

Hit the girl where it hurts.
“When a leech like you won't have me . . . I've really got nothing left to lose.” She stood and brushed her hands on her jeans. “Works out for me, anyway. I've come here to kill you.”

“Have you, now?” He shouldn't look
that
amused.

His chilling smile was the last thing she saw before he disappeared, tracing. She leapt for the unsheathed sword on the wall, hearing him behind her in an instant. She dropped down, snaring the sword, but he was tracing all around her.

She attempted it herself . . . unable . . . wasting precious seconds. Then turned to what she did best—fleeing—using her agility to dodge him.

“You certainly are spry,” he said, appearing in front of her. Her sword shot out like a blur, but he easily dodged it. When she struck again, he plucked the raised sword from her, tossing it clattering to the ground.