A Hunger Like No Other (5 page)

She finally understood the appeal of this. And knowing what she did now, she wondered how anyone could
not
want a bedmate. He was answering so many questions she'd had, proving so many of her secret dreams.

And yet he could readily kill her.

At first, he'd squeezed her to his chest so hard it was everything she could do not to cry out. She didn't think he held her so tightly to hurt her—he could have just hit her if that was his intention—so she was confused by his obvious need to clasp her to him.

Now he slept at last, his breaths growing even and slow. She called up her meager reserve of courage, and little by little, over what seemed to be an hour, she eased his arms open.

If only she could trace, she could escape so easily—but then she never would have been taken by him in the first place. Annika had taught Emma about tracing, the Horde's means of travel. She'd warned that vampires could teleport to any place they'd been to previously. The stronger ones could even teleport others, and only a fierce struggle might prevent it. Annika had wanted Emma to learn how. Emma had tried her hardest, failed, and been discouraged. She'd stopped paying attention . . . .

When Emma was finally able to duck from under his arms, she rose in cautious degrees. Free of the bed, she glanced back at him, and again was struck by how handsome he was. She was saddened that he had to be like this. Saddened that she couldn't learn more about herself—and even about him.

Just as she turned, his big hands snared her around the waist. He flung her back into the bed, then joined her once more.

He's playing with me.

“You canna escape me.” He pressed her back, then levered himself up beside her. “You only provoke my anger.” Even as his eyes flickered, they appeared unseeing. He behaved as if he was still dreaming, like a sleepwalker.

“I-I don't want to anger you,” she said with a shaky breath. “I just want to go—”

“Do you know how many vampires I've killed?” he murmured, either ignoring or not hearing her words.

“No,” she whispered. She wondered if he truly saw her.

“I've killed thousands. I hunted them for sport, stalking their lairs.” He ran the back of his dark claw across her neck. “And with one swipe of my claws I severed their heads—before they even woke.” His lips brushed over her neck where he'd trailed his claw, making her shudder. “I could kill you as easily as taking a breath.” His voice was a low rumble like a lover's might be, gentling her, so inconsistent with his cruel words and actions.

“Are you going to k-kill me?”

He smoothed a strand of hair from her lip. “I have no' decided. I've never hesitated a second before you.” He was shaking from holding his position above her. “When I wake from this haze—when this madness clears, if I still believe you are what you are . . . who knows?”

“What I am?”

He took her by the wrist and forced her hand to his naked shaft. “You feel me hard. Know that the only reason I'm no' inside you right now is because I'm weak. No' because of any concern for you.”

Briefly closing her eyes with embarrassment, she tugged at her hand until he finally let it go. “You would hurt me that way?”

“Without a second thought.” His lips curled. His gaze seemed intent on her face, but his eyes were still vacant. “And that's just the beginning of the things I'll do to you, vampire.”

T
he next morning Lachlain lay beside her, sleep barely shaken off, as content as he'd been in hundreds of years.

Of course, he'd been in hell for nearly two hundred of those, and now he was clean and fed, and toward morning he'd slept like the dead with none of the grueling nightmares of the last week.

She'd lain tense and still for most of the night. It was as if she suspected any movement on her part might make him want to come again. She'd have been right. Courtesy of her soft hand, he'd ejaculated hard, shockingly so. She'd eased the heavy ache in his ballocks, but he'd still wanted to be inside her.

All night he'd squeezed her to him. He couldn't seem to stop himself. He'd never slept the night with a female before—that experience was reserved for a mate—but apparently he liked it. A lot. He recalled speaking to her, but not what he'd said. He remembered her reaction, though. She'd looked hopeless, as if she'd finally realized her situation.

She'd attempted escape one last time, and again he'd enjoyed letting her think she was about to succeed before he dragged her back and tucked her into his side. She went limp, then passed out. He didn't know if she'd fainted or not. Didn't particularly care.

He supposed it could be worse. If he was going to possess a vampire, she might as well be a beautiful one. She was a hated foe, a
blood drinker,
but beautiful. He wondered if he could put meat on her bones. Was that possible for a vampire? Drowsily, he reached forward to touch her hair. Last night when it had dried, he'd found it curled wildly and was a lighter blond than he'd thought it. Now he marveled at the glossy locks shining in the sun. Lovely, even for a vampire—

Sun.

Mother of Christ.
He leapt from the bed, yanking the curtains closed, then rushed back to her, turning her in his arms.

She was scarcely breathing, unable to speak, pink tears of blood tracking from her dazed eyes. Her skin burned as though with fever. He rushed her into the bath, fiddling with the unfamiliar dial until the water streamed out icy cold, then put them both under it. After several minutes, she coughed, breathed deep, then went limp again. He gathered her closer to his chest with the crook of his arm, then frowned. He didn't care if she'd burned.
He
had burned. Because of her kindred. He merely wanted to keep her alive until he determined with certainty that she wasn't his mate.

The evidence that she wasn't kept mounting. If she had truly been his, he never would have thought,
Now you know how it feels.
Not when his life's purpose had always been to find her so he could protect her and keep her from harm. He was sick—his mind was playing tricks on him. It had to be . . . .

He kept them in the water until she cooled, then plucked the sodden silk from her body to dry her tender skin. Before he returned her to the bed, he dressed the vampire in another gown—this one an even deeper red. As if he needed to be reminded of what she was.

He drew on his own battered clothes, then prowled the
suite, wondering what in the hell he was going to do with her. It wasn't long before her breathing returned to normal, her cheeks pinkening again. Typical vampire resilience. He'd always cursed it, and hated her anew for demonstrating it.

With disgust, he turned from her, his gaze landing on the television set. He studied it, trying to determine how to turn it on. He shook his head at the simplicity of modern devices and cleverly deduced how by selecting a button labeled “on.”

Over the past week, it had seemed to him that every inhabitant of every residence on the outskirts of Paris had convened in front of one of these boxes at the close of each day. With his keen sight and hearing, Lachlain had been able to watch from outside. He would drag stolen food up a tree, then lean back to be stunned by the different information inherent in each one. And now he had his own to listen to. After a few moments of button pressing, he managed to discover a static place that only reported news, and it was in English—her language, and one of his, though he was more than a century out of date with it.

As he rummaged through her things, he listened to the unfamiliar speech patterns and the new vocabulary, learning them quickly. Lykae had that talent—the ability to blend, to pick up new languages, dialects, and current words. It was a survival mechanism. The Instinct commanded,
Blend. Learn everything. No detail to be missed. Or die.

He studied her belongings. Back to the silk drawer, of course. The underclothing of this time was smaller and therefore preferable to yore. He imagined her in each elaborate scrap of silk, imagined biting them off her, though a couple of pieces baffled him. When he realized where the string was supposed to go and pictured her thus, he groaned, nearly coming in his trews.

Then to the closet to examine her strange clothes, so many of them red in color, so many of them lacking in coverage. The vampire would not be leaving this room in some of them.

He emptied the satchel she'd had with her last night onto the floor, noticing the leather was ruined. In the wet pile was a silver contraption with numbers like the numbers on the—he frowned—
telephone.
He shook it, and when water sloshed out, he tossed it over his shoulder.

A smaller leather case contained a hardened card that was a “Louisiana Driver's License.”

Vampires in Louisiana? Unheard of.

The card had her name as Emmaline Troy. He paused for a moment, thinking back to all the years he'd prayed for just a name, a mere hint of how to find his mate. He frowned, trying to recall if he'd told the vampire his own name the crazed night before . . . .

Her height was listed as five foot four, her weight as one hundred and five pounds—not even sopping wet could she achieve that—and her eyes as blue. Blue was too tame a word for their color.

There was a small likeness of her smiling shyly with her hair braided to cover her ears. The likeness itself was amazing, but puzzling. It was like a daguerreotype, but this one had
color.
He had so bloody much to learn.

Her birth date was listed as 1982, which he knew was false. Physiologically she wasn't older than her early twenties, frozen forever when she was strongest and most able to survive the future, but chronologically, she would be older. Most vampires had come into existence centuries ago.

And why in the hell would the leeches be in Louisiana? Had they taken over more than just Europe? And if so, what had happened to his clan?

The thought of his clan made him glance up at the vampire, sleeping still as a corpse. If she was supposed to be his mate, she would be his queen and would rule over Lachlain's kind. Impossible. The clan would rip her to shreds at the first opportunity. The Lykae and vampires were natural-born enemies—had been since the first nebulous chaos of the Lore.

Blood adversaries. That's why he was impatiently returning his attention to her things—to study an enemy. Not because he was itching with curiosity about the female.

He opened a thin blue passport book and found another likeness with another smile that looked coaxed, then a “medic alert” card listing her medical condition as “sun allergy and extreme photosensitivity.”

As he pondered whether the card was a jest, he pulled out a “credit card.” He'd seen advertisements for those on the television—he'd probably learned as much from the advertisements as he did from the grim person who sat and divulged news—and he knew they purchased everything.

Lachlain needed everything. He was starting his life over, but his most pressing needs were clothing and transportation away from here. As weak as he was, he didn't want to remain in a place where the vampires knew she stayed. And until he could sort through everything, he would be forced to take the creature with him. He supposed he needed to figure out a way to keep it alive during their travels.

All those years spent devising ways to kill them, and now he had to figure out how to protect one?

Knowing she would most likely sleep until sunset—and couldn't escape during the day in any case—he left her to make his way downstairs.

The questioning glances he was sure to receive would be met with an arrogant glare. If he showed his ignorance of
the times, he would cover it with a gaze so direct that most people would think they'd misunderstood him. Humans always cowered under that look.

Audacity made kings. And it was time to reclaim his crown.

*  *  *

Though he continually found his thoughts returning to his new prize, Lachlain was able to garner much information during his foray. The first lesson he learned was that whatever kind of card she owned—this black “American Express”—denoted extreme wealth. Not surprising, since the vampires had always been rich.

The second? A concierge in a lavish hotel like this could make your life very easy—if he thought you were a rich, but occasionally confused, eccentric. Who'd had his luggage stolen. Though initially, there had been some hesitation on the man's part. He'd asked if “Mr. Troy” could provide any identification whatsoever.

Lachlain had inched forward in his seat, staring him down for long moments, his expression balanced between anger at the question and embarrassment for the man for asking.
“No.
” The answer was casually threatening, succinct, subject-ending.

The man had jumped at the word as he might at an unexpected gun report. Then he'd swallowed and hesitated no more, even at the most bizarre demands. He hadn't even raised an eyebrow when Lachlain wanted sunset and sunrise charts—or when he wanted to study them as he devoured a twenty-ounce steak.