A Hunger Like No Other (38 page)

Emma's gut clenched with the stark realization of what was happening.

He was
toying
with her.

A
lone in a great Russian forest, Lachlain stood where it had all begun fifteen decades ago. He and Harmann had landed just hours before, then set out in a truck over the rough terrain to find the location of Lachlain's capture. When the roads became impassable, Lachlain had left Harmann behind. Both of them knew that once Lachlain scented Emma, Harmann could never keep up with him.

Even after so much time, Lachlain had been drawn to the spot unerringly. But now as he circled the clearing, desperate for a hint of her, he feared his judgment had been wrong. No one had ever located Helvita. And Lachlain had been unable to save his own brother in these very woods.

His decision to take this course could end her life—

Wait . . . .
She was here
.

The first night he found her, he'd gone to his knees to scent her again. Now he raced over miles of terrain, sword sheathed at his back, heart pounding. He rushed up a steep hill, then stared out from the height.

Helvita lay just beyond him. Desolate, sinister.

Under the watch of the sun, Lachlain took a direct path there. He swiftly scaled a sheer wall, then stalked along the
broken-down battlements, moving freely along the empty walk. He entertained no feeling of accomplishment for having located it at last. This was merely a first step.

He froze when he heard her voice like a faint echo, but couldn't pinpoint the source inside, couldn't make out the words. The sheer immensity of the castle was staggering, and she was in the bowels of this foul place.

He couldn't understand what had made her come here, what would drive her to do something this mad.

Had she dreamed of Demestriu? Had she had a premonition in a dream that violent night? He fought to stay cold about this, but his mate was in this hell facing the most evil—and powerful—being ever to walk the earth. She was so gentle. Was she
afraid . . .
?

No
—he couldn't think like that. He'd found her, knew she was still alive. He could save her—if he was lucid, weighing, determining
possibilities.

There was a reason the vampires always won. And Bowe had been wrong about it. It wasn't because they could trace. The vampires always won because the Lykae couldn't rein in their beasts . . . or because they so readily surrendered to them.

*  *  *

Emma shot backward over his desk, just missing his outstretched claws, staring in disbelief as he slashed the massive desk in two as if ripping a piece of paper.

The wood groaned as it parted, then thudded to the ground.

He appeared behind her before she'd even comprehended that he'd traced. She lunged away, but he clawed down her side, gaining a hold on her, piercing her skin. He propped her up in front of him as easily as if she were a rag
doll. The torn skin of her leg and side funneled blood from her as he placed his forearms at her neck.

To take my head.

“Good-bye, Emmaline.”

He's shielding me.

She drew in a breath and screamed. The thick black glass above shattered like an explosion. Sunlight fired in. He went motionless as if stunned that he was immersed in light. She hunched into him, using his body as cover. When he tried to escape, she fought to keep him there, but even as he began to burn he was too strong. He traced them into the shadows.

To where the sword was.

She dropped down, snatched the sword, and sprang up behind him. She plunged it into his torso, nearly gagging as she carved through bone, then forced herself to twist it inside him as she'd been taught.

He fell. She yanked the sword clear, leapt over him for another blow, and found him staring up at her with utter shock.

He struggled to one knee, which scared the hell out of her, so she rammed the sword back in, through his heart, as hard as she could. The force sent him reeling to his back and planted him on the stone floor.

Pinned through the heart, he lay writhing. He wouldn't die like this. She knew she had to take off his head as well. She limped to the other sword, shaking as she drew it down, still disbelieving what had just happened, what was
about
to happen. When she returned, her face scrunched up. Blackened blood pooled all around him. She'd have to
step
through it.

His face was changing, softening, becoming less macabre. The tight planes and shadows dissipated.

He opened his eyes . . . and they were blue as the sky.

“Release me.”

“Yeah, right.”

“No . . . mean for you . . . to kill me.”

“Why?” she cried. “Why would you say that?”

“Hunger at bay. Memories at bay. No memories of their horror of . . .
me.”

Pounding on the door.

He bellowed, “Leave us be.” Then to her, he lowered his voice to say, “Sever head. Waist. Legs. Or I can still rise . . . . Furie's mistake.”

Furie?
“Did you kill her?” she shrieked.

“No, tortured. She wasn't supposed to endure this long . . . .”

“Where is she?”

“Never knew. Lothaire saw to it. Head, waist, legs.”

“I can't think!” She paced. By Freya, Furie did live.

“Emmaline, do it!”

“Listen, I'm doing the best I can!” He wasn't supposed to go all Darth Vader, not supposed to
direct
her how to
really, really
kill him. The head was one thing, but the waist and the legs? Had he truly become that powerful? “And your impatience is not helping the situation!”

“Your mother died of sorrow . . . because we couldn't make it stop. You can end this.”

With a deep breath, she stood over him, choking up on the handle. Yes, like baseball.
Never played baseball, freak. Oh, yeah. Kaderin always holds her swords loosely, wrists fluid. I am
so
not Kaderin. Think like the vampires. What is standing between you and the one you love and your family? Three clean chops. Just three swings.

The more beseeching he appeared, the harder this became.
His eyes were clear, his face rid of the twisting menace from before. He didn't look evil now. Just a creature in pain. She dropped to her knees beside him, heedless of the blood. “What about some kind of, like, rehabilitation—”

“Do it, daughter.”
He snapped his teeth at her, sending her scrambling back. More pounding on the door. “They can't trace into my lair, but they can break down that door . . . And when they do, they will catch you and hold you for food . . . until you die of sorrow. Or Ivo will make you kill and turn you.”

Oh, hell, no.

“I will feed and . . . heal. Turn again and never stop until I've killed . . . the Lykae. Slaughtered his . . . clan.”

That's my clan, too.
The door was bowing now, wood splintering. The Instinct whispered,
Protect it.

“I'm really sorry to have to do this.”

A shadow of a smile, then he grimaced in pain. “Emma the Unlikely . . . the killer of kings.”

She raised the sword and took aim, tears pouring from her as quickly as the blood from her leg wound.

“Wait! Emmaline, the head first . . . if you please.”

“Oh, my duh.” She gave him a sheepish, watery grin. “Good-bye . . . Father.”

“Proud.”

He shut his eyes and she swung. She got through enough to knock him out, but sadly, this sword blew—so dull she had to hack three more times at his neck to sever it. Then his waist took forever. She was streaked with blood before she even reached his legs.

The Mob was dead-on to call this stuff wet-works.

Just as she finished with the last of him, the door burst open. She hissed.

Ivo. She remembered him from Lachlain's memories. She lifted her sword again. Hey, as long as she was in the neighborhood . . .

Why was he looking at her that way, red eyes glued to her? As though he
adored
her for her kill. It was chilling. He asked in an unsteady tone,
“Are you truly Emmaline?”

When more vampires crowded the door behind him, she realized one assassination might be enough for the day. She ripped Lachlain's ring from Demestriu's finger, then put her shoulders back. Myst always said, “It's not
if
you castrate an entire Roman legion, it's if they
believe
you did. Perception is everything.”

In a voice ringing with strength she didn't have, she said, “I am Emma.”
Own it, own it.
“The king killer.”

“I knew you would be like this.” He crossed toward her. “I knew it.”

She raised her sword that totally sucked as if it were Excalibur. “No closer, Ivo.”

“I've searched for you, Emmaline. Searched for years, ever since I heard rumors of your existence. I want you to be my queen.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” she said, wiping her face on her sleeve. There were two options. Into their hands, or out the window into the sun. “But I've already accepted a position elsewhere.”

Maybe she could trace—hadn't been able to during the fight, but damn it, she'd done it once. She could disappear before she even hit the ground outside. In theory. But she was weak from Demestriu's attack. Couldn't go to Lachlain. Blood running freely.
You only went a few feet last time—not around the world . . . .

One for two in terms of tracing. Didn't know if she could.
About to bet the farm . . . . But when they charged, she hissed weakly and jumped.

Flying! Tracing! No . . .

Landing on her ass in a bush. Spitting leaves in the sun. She leapt up, running for cover. She closed her eyes to the pain and thought of the bayou . . . . Still thinking. Bayou! Coolness. Wet.

Her skin caught fire.

*  *  *

One of his eardrums had ruptured from her scream even as he fought to follow the sound. Then, in a last echo through the castle, it was gone. His heart had seemed to stop with it, but he'd sprinted on in the same direction, following the winding stairs. Lachlain remembered that Demestriu's rooms were located high in the castle, and he charged ever upward.

Now he heard only his own ragged breaths. He tried to scent her, but the odor of copious amounts of blood drowned all other smells.

At the landing of the top floor, he slowed to stalk in the shadows. The kill was imminent. He was almost at the door. He would save her, take her from this place—

He scarcely comprehended the sight. Demestriu lay butchered.

He saw Ivo lunge, reaching into a shaft of
sunlight
as though he'd dropped a treasure from the window. “No!” Ivo bellowed. “Not into the sun!” He leapt back out of the light. “Traced away!” He visibly sagged with relief as he rubbed his skin, then his blinded eyes.

Ivo turned to his two henchmen. “She lives. Now, get the video! I want to find out everything about her.”

Lachlain was stunned. She couldn't have jumped into the sun . . . .

He charged into the room, diving for the window, but saw only the empty field. She had truly disappeared. His mind was in turmoil. Had she killed Demestriu? Had she traced to safety? To Kinevane?

Behind him, Lachlain heard a sword being drawn.

“Back from the dead?” Ivo asked pleasantly.

Lachlain turned in time to see Ivo glance at the door to the adjoining room, through which the others had apparently exited. To get a
video?
Lachlain had learned there were surveillance cameras that were capable of secretly filming. “You spy on your king?”

“Of course. Why ignore the benefits of the modern age?”

“But now you're alone.” Lachlain bared his fangs with pleasure. “You've got to fight me on your own. No' with the help of a dozen. Unless you want to trace from me?”

Lachlain burned to rush home, but Ivo, he realized, posed a considerable threat to Emma. She might not have needed Lachlain to kill Demestriu—
she
apparently had done that—and there was no need for rescue. But seeing the fanatical look in Ivo's eyes, Lachlain knew he would never stop sending out his minions to hunt her.

Ivo raked his gaze over Lachlain's injured arm, appraising his opponent. “No, I'll stay and fight for this one,” he said. “I heard you think she's yours.”

“There's no doubt of it.”

“She assassinated my nemesis when no one else could, and is the key to my crown.” Ivo's voice was low, thrumming as though in wonder. “That means she belongs to
me
. I will find her. I don't care what it takes, I will find her again—”

“No' while I live.” He gripped his sword hilt in his left hand and charged, striking at Ivo's head. Ivo blocked and their swords crossed, ringing.