A Hunger Like No Other (34 page)

“If that's your only complaint . . . . Or are your memory dreams a problem? I'm assuming the ones you spoke of were Lachlain's memories.”

“Yeah, I can see things from his eyes, smell scents he smelled.” Just the thought of those memories made her mood turn serious. “In one dream, he was buying this gorgeous gold necklace, and when he picked it up, I felt the metal warming in my hands. I know, I know, it's crazy.”

“Are they all old memories? Or do you experience what he remembers about you?”

“They all seem connected to me somehow, and yes, I've heard him thinking to himself about me.”

“Nice things, I hope?”

“Very nice things. He . . . he thinks I'm
beautiful.”
In her dream just today came the memory of him watching her pad into the shower one night, his eyes glued to the ribbon swaying down from the string waist of her Strumpet & Pink thong. Back and forth.

She now knew he liked her elaborate lingerie, liked that
he alone knew what was beneath her clothing.
Back and forth went the ribbon. He growled so low she didn't hear him.

She has an arse men should write sonnets to . . . .

Her toes still curled to think of that one.

“How welcome that must be for someone so irrationally insecure as you.”

It was. “There's only one drawback—”

“Seeing him in the past with another woman?”

“Bingo. I think if I saw that, I'd lose it. I fear that I will see that.” To know his thoughts and his pleasure as he touched another?

“You know, I never see what I truly don't want to see.”

“Like the death of a Valkyrie.” Nïx had never been able to. She could predict much about their charges, could often see the Valkyrie's upcoming injuries, but never to the point of death. To Cara's great despair, Nïx couldn't see Furie's fate.

“Yes. It's likely that you will never see these things because your mind knows you might not recover from it.”

“I hope. Why do you think this is happening?”

“Why do you?”

“I, uh, well, the thing is that . . . I drank directly from him,” she finally confessed. “I fear it's related to that.”

“Emma, I've heard that all vampires can take memories from the blood, but only some can interpret them and
see
them. Looks like you just found a new talent.”

“Great. Why couldn't I be good at underwater origami or something?”

“Have you told Lachlain?”

“Not just yet. But I will,” Emma added in a rush. “It's not like I could
not
tell him, right?”

“Right. Now, on to a much, much more important subject . . . . Did you get the gold necklace you saw him buy?”

“I
think your queen misses her coven,” Harmann remarked when Emma had been at Kinevane for her second week.

“Aye, I gathered as much,” Lachlain said, glancing up from papers strewn all about his desk. Missing her family was a blight on her happiness, but one soon rectified. As would be her marked dread of meeting other Lykae. She'd told him she was “shooting one in three with Lykae” and “wouldn't take that to the track.” They were arriving in just three days. “But what makes you say that?”

“She dragged a maid into her drawing room to play video games. Then they painted each other's toenails. Blue.”

He leaned back. “How'd the girl react?”

“Scared at first, but growing more comfortable. They all are. She could actually win them over.” With a proud smile, he confided, “She calls me Manny.”

Lachlain grinned.

“She didn't even ask me to do impressions.” Harmann frowned to himself, and muttered, “They
always
ask me to do impressions.”

“Does she have everything she needs?” he asked, though he knew she was growing content. When happy, she'd sing softly, absently. Oftentimes, he heard her voice lilting up
from the “lunarium,” as she called it, while she tended her garden. He could almost wager she liked the jasmine better than the jewels.

“Oh, yes. She's, uh, quite the talented, efficient, and, dare I say,
aggressive
shopper.”

Lachlain had noticed her purchases himself and suspected he stood a little taller now that she was filling their home with things she liked or needed, making it her own. He found it deeply satisfying to see it taking shape. Did he even pretend to know why she needed hundreds of bottles of nail polish? No, but he liked that when he kissed her wee toes, he never knew what color they'd be.

For his part, Lachlain was healing, feeling stronger every day. His leg was nearly back to normal and his power was returning. His own sense of contentment—even in light of everything that had happened—was shockingly strong. And it was all because of her.

The only blight on
his
happiness was the fact that he would soon leave her, which was unbearable in itself, but now she'd begun insisting on going with him. She'd told him that she would go and fight by his side and “not let all this considerable badassness go to waste,” or she would return to her coven.

She refused to remain behind at Kinevane. He knew he could talk her from her ultimatum. Surely, she could be brought to see things logically. Yet every day as she got stronger, he was a bit less confident. If she remained resolved in this, his choices would be to give up his revenge or possibly lose her to her coven. Both were untenable, in his mind.

He and Harmann finished speaking of some other business details, and shortly after Harmann scuttled off again, Bowe rapped on the door.

“You know where the scotch is,” Lachlain said.

Bowe had apparently just come from the kitchen and was licking his thumb of something sweet-smelling on his way to the bar. When he poured one for his host, Lachlain emphatically shook his head.

Bowe shrugged and lifted his own. “To creatures that are
other.”

“They do make life interesting.” Lachlain realized Bowe was almost not in evident pain. “Are you relieved?”

“Aye. Spotted her tending her plants downstairs, and when I saw you'd claimed her, I was glad for you.” After a swig, Bowe observed, “You marked her a bit . . . hard, did you no'?”

Lachlain scowled.

“By the way, do you know what ‘heroin chic' is? She said I should be aware that it's
so
last year.” When Lachlain shrugged, baffled, Bowe turned serious. “The elders want to know what happened to you. Have been pestering me.”

“Aye, I understand. When they come here, I'll tell them everything. I need to anyway so we can begin this.”

“You think it wise to leave her so soon?”

“No' you, too,” he snapped.

“Just want it noted that leaving her behind is a risk I myself would no' take. And they've no' found Garreth anyway.”

Lachlain ran a hand over his face. “I want you to go to New Orleans. Find out what the hell is going on.”

“Have to check my schedule.” At Lachlain's look, he said, “All right. Leaving in the morning. Now, would you like to view the latest in vampire intelligence?” He tossed a file on the desk. “Courtesy of Uilleam and Munro, who look forward to seeing you soon.”

Uilleam and Munro were brothers and two of Lachlain's
oldest friends. He'd been pleased to hear they were doing well, though both still had not found their mates. Probably a good thing for Munro, since ages ago a clan seer had once predicted he would have a harridan for himself.

Lachlain scanned the file, astonished by the developments within the Horde in the last one hundred and fifty years.

Kristoff, a rebel vampire leader, had taken Mount Oblak castle, one of the five Horde strongholds. Lachlain had heard rumors of Kristoff, had heard he was Demestriu's nephew, and now members of the clan had uncovered the entire story.

Kristoff was the
rightful king
of the Horde. Just days after he'd been born, Demestriu had attempted to have him killed. Kristoff had been smuggled out of Helvita, then raised by human guardians. He'd lived among them for hundreds of years before he learned who he truly was. His first rebellion had been seventy years ago and had ended in failure.

“So the legend of the Forbearers is true?” Lachlain asked. They were not merely abstainers. The Forbearers were Kristoff's army, an army he'd been secretly
making
since antiquity.

“Aye, he's created them from humans, stalking battlefields for the bravest warriors who'd fallen, sometimes turning entire families of worthy brothers. Think of it, you're a human lying in the dark nearly slain—I'd consider that a bad day—and then a
vampire
appears, promising immortality. How many do you think really listen to the conditions of his dark offer—eternal life for eternal
fealty
?”

“What's his agenda?”

“No one in the Lore knows.”

“So we canna predict if Kristoff will be worse than even Demestriu.”

“Is it possible to be worse than Demestriu?”

Lachlain leaned back, mulling the possibilities. If this Kristoff had taken Oblak, then he'd want the royal seat of Helvita as well. It was possible that Kristoff could kill Demestriu for them.

Yet there was another twist. Oblak had been the hold of Ivo the Cruel, the second in command of the Horde. For centuries, he'd had his sights on Helvita and the crown, and he'd apparently survived the taking of his castle. He'd been eyeing Helvita when he had his own holding; now robbed of it, he must be aching for Helvita. Would he make a play for it, even knowing the Horde had never recognized a leader without royal blood?

Three unpredictable powers, three possibilities. Lachlain knew Ivo's vampires were stalking Valkyrie all over the world, obviously searching for one among them, but was Ivo doing Demestriu's bidding or acting alone? Would Kristoff take the offensive and seek out the target who was clearly so important to the Horde?

Though there was speculation, no one could say with certainty who this person was.

Lachlain feared he could. One or even more of these factions were searching for the last female vampire.

*  *  *

That night Emma lay under his arm as he slept. He held her like a vise, as if he dreamed she was leaving him. When, in fact, he was going to leave her. Uneasy, she ran one fang along his chest and lapped for comfort. He groaned softly.

After kissing the mark she'd just drawn from, she drifted into a fitful sleep full of dreams.

In one, she saw Lachlain's office from his eyes. Harmann stood at the door with a pensive expression, clipboard in hand.

Lachlain's voice rang in her head as though she were there. “There's no chance of it, Harmann. We will no' have bairns,” he said.

Expeditious Harmann had wanted to make preparations for the arrival of children, because as he'd said, “If you have vampire little ones, they will need special amenities. We can't begin preparing soon enough.” He appeared anxious, as though he was already behind.

Lachlain believed he and Emma would have had incredible children—
brilliant lasses with her beauty, and braw, wily lads with his temper.
He might have felt a whisper of regret, but then he pictured her upstairs sleeping in his bed. How she would sigh in contentment when he joined her, and how he could coax her to take blood from his neck in her sleep.

She'd never known this—why was he doing it?

She heard his thoughts:
Must make her stronger.

When he watched her sleeping, he often thought,
My heart lies vulnerable outside my chest.

Emma flinched with shame. Her weakness made him worry about her constantly, worry so much that it even made him ill sometimes. He was so strong, and she was a liability.

He hadn't told her he loved her, but his heart hurt—she felt it—with love for her, for
his Emmaline.

Children? He would give up
anything
for her.

Could he give up his revenge? If he did, he would become a shell of himself . . . .

The dream changed. Lachlain was in a dark, foul place
that smelled of smoke and sulfur; his body was a knot of agony that she felt. He tried to stare down the two vampires, with their red, glowing eyes before him, but he could scarcely see from his own battered eyes. The vampire with the shaved head was Ivo the Cruel. The blond, tall one she knew through Lachlain's hatred was . . .
Demestriu.

Emma's body tensed at the sight of him. Why did he seem familiar to her? Why did he stare into Lachlain's eyes as though he were seeing . . .
her
?

Then came the fire.