Lothaire (Immortals After Dark, #12)

by Kresley Cole

What fresh humiliation does this day bring?” Ivana the Bold asked her son, Lothaire, as guards escorted them to the vampire known as Stefanovich—the king of the Vampire Horde. And Lothaire’s father.

Lothaire had overheard her complaining to his uncle Fyodor about the king’s “tirades and dalliances, his increasingly bizarre behavior.” She’d softly confessed, “I threw away my love on your brother, am naught but an ill-treated mistress in this realm, though I was heir to the throne in Dacia.”

“I was meant for better than this.”

“And you, my prince, were as well.” She called him “prince,” but Lothaire wasn’t one. At least, not in this kingdom. He was merely Stefanovich’s bastard, one in a long line of them.

Occasionally, young vampires ate food of the earth, consuming it in addition to blood. Perhaps another of Stefanovich’s bastards had come to Helvita to live amongst them? Lothaire’s heart leapt. I could befriend him, could have a companion. As the king’s bastard, he’d had no friends; his mother was everything to him.

“I will, to spare you.” As ever, he would do whatever he could to protect her, no matter how weak he knew himself to be.

Stefanovich seized Lothaire’s thin arm, squeezing. “Too frail, I see.” Lothaire was desperate to grow bigger, to be as formidable as his warrior father, if for no reason other than to protect his mother. Not that Princess Ivana needed another’s protection.

Ivana had explained to Lothaire why the kingdom of Dacia had remained secret for so long. The mysterious Daci traveled in a cloaking mist. If one abandoned the mist, the Dacian could never trace home on his own, and his memories of its location would fade.

On that night, Lothaire had heard the smallest hitch in Ivana’s breath, had seen a flare of surprise. She’d known she’d made a mistake. But she’d been too proud to remedy it, to bow down to a human. Not even for me.

“By the time we reach Dacia, I’ll have made your soul as bitter as the chill trying to kill us.”

Ivana ridiculed their unwashed, louse-ridden bodies and simplistic language. Her loathing for mortals continued to grow, fueling his own.

And always she extracted vows for the future, as if she thought she’d soon die? “What must you do when you are grown, my prince?” “Avenge this treachery against us. I will destroy Stefanovich and take his throne.” “When?” “Before he finds his Bride.”

“And what will you do when you possess the throne of the Horde?” “Unite with your father, aligning the Daci and the Horde under one family crest.”

“Serghei is the only one you can trust. Not my brothers or sisters with their scheming and plots. Solely my father. And of course you can trust your Bride. But what of everyone else?” “I’m to use and discard them, caring about none, for they matter naught.”

“Whom will you trust?” “None but your father and my queen.” More tears dropped. “No, your queen alone, Lothaire. Serghei and the Daci forsook us this day.”

When they capture me, the need to protect me will rise up within you. You must ignore it and remain here. Ignore your instinct and rely on cold reason. As I failed to do with Stefanovich. As I failed to do a thousand times. Vow this!”

“I want you never, never to be brought this low again.” Over his frantic protests, she began to bury him in the snow. “Become the king you were born to be.” “Mother, please! H-how can you do this?” “Because you are my son. My heart. I will do whatever it takes to protect you.”

“Lothaire, anything that was worthy in me began with you.”

As she burned, she yelled in Dacian, “Never forget, my prince! Avenge me!”

“My sanity will fail me long before my will does. Luckily, the only thing more interesting than a madman is a relentless one.” —LOTHAIRE KONSTANTIN DACIANO, THE ENEMY OF OLD

“Me, a steel magnolia? Steel, my ass! [Laughing, then abruptly serious.] Try titanium.” —ELIZABETH “ELLIE” PEIRCE, EXPERT IN BOYS, REVERSE PSYCHOLOGY, AND LAW-ENFORCEMENT EVASION

“The difference between you and me is that my actions have no consequences for me. That is what makes me a god.” —SAROYA THE SOUL REAPER, DEITY OF BLOOD, SACRED PRO...

So you thought to exorcise me?”

“I don’t know what is worse. The fact that you thought I was a demon . . .”

. . or that you believed you could separate me from my human host.” Nothing short of death could remove Saroya.

Centuries ago, when she’d been a death goddess, she would have swooped down and sunk her fangs into the human’s jugular, sucking until he was naught but a husk and devouring his soul; now she was cursed to possess one powerless mortal after another, experiencing her own death again and again. Her latest possession? Elizabeth Peirce, a nineteen-year-old girl, as lovely as she was poor.

“I have vanquished your daughter’s spirit, woman. She will never return,” Saroya lied, knowing that Elizabeth would soon find a way to rise from unconsciousness to the fore, regaining control of her body. Of all the mortals Saroya had possessed, Elizabeth was the prettiest, the youngest—and the strongest. Saroya had difficulty rising to take control unless the girl was asleep or weakened in some way.

In the end, Saroya would defeat her. She had wisdom from times past and present, hallowed gifts—and an ally. Lothaire the Enemy of Old. He was a notoriously evil vampire, millennia in age, and the son of a king. A year ago, his oracle had directed him to her. Though Saroya and Lothaire had spent only one night together in the nearby woods, he’d pledged himself to save her from her wretched existence.

He might not have the ability to return Saroya to her goddess state. But somehow he would extinguish Elizabeth’s soul from her body, then transform Saroya into an immortal vampire—circumventing the curse.

Saroya knew Lothaire would be hunting ceaselessly for answers. Be...

“If a vampire can be measured by the caliber of his foes, goddess, then consider me fearsome. If by the number? Then I’ve no equal.”

Ellie scratched at her chest, her skin seeming to crawl from the being within. Hate it so much, hate it, hate it, HATE it. Though she never knew its thoughts, right now she could nearly feel it gloating.

Bullets went flying. She felt none of them; a towering man had appeared out of thin air, standing between her and the officers. With a furious growl, he shoved her to the ground, knocking the gun from her hands as he took the bullets in his back. She stared up in disbelief. His irises were . . . red. At least five shots hit him, but his monstrous gaze never wavered from her eyes.

your human prison, you’ll be hidden from my kind, which means you’ll be relatively safe while I continue my search. I will return for you in two years. Or so.” He gave her a harsh shake. “But if you try to harm yourself—and therefore my female—again, I will punish you beyond imagining. Do you understand me?”

But there’d never been a drop of human blood spilled by her hand until a yearlong killing spree. Saroya had been busier than Ellie had ever dreamed.

Saroya had risen only twice in the last five years, both times in the first few months. Ellie’s blackouts had resulted in the permanent disfigurement of two fellow inmates. All done with her bare hands.

She probably should’ve been less rigid and unbending in general. Unbending. But that was the Peirce in her; Ellie would get her way in the end. Best step aside.

Realization took hold. He had come. Lothaire the Enemy of Old had returned for her. Just as he’d promised. . . .

He’d fed yesterday and was strong from it. At least, his body was. His mind, however . .

When blood splattered over his face, Lothaire’s fangs sharpened for flesh, his thoughts blanking. Madness. Licking at my heels. Even now with so much at stake. Too many victims, too many memories. Forever tolling.

After living thousands of years, Lothaire was very rarely surprised; her actions had surprised the hell out of him. Running into a hail of bullets was one thing, tirelessly plotting a years-long suicide quite another. He couldn’t decide if she was fatally flawed with willfulness or crazed.

Lothaire was known throughout the Lore for collecting blood debts from immortals in dire straits, bargaining with them to make deals with the devil. Though he was proud of his overflowing ledger of entries, hoarding them, he’d already burned two because of Elizabeth.

And that was the extent of Lothaire’s plan today: technopath cuts power while vampire massacres his way to female. Laughably simple for a born strategist.

He’d put Elizabeth from his mind, assured she’d be relatively safe. After all, he didn’t care about her mind, only about her body, the temple that housed his Bride. My mate. The female meant only for him. And what a glorious, bloodthirsty female she was. . . .

Then, for the first time in five years, Lothaire’s gaze fell upon Elizabeth. The last time he’d beheld her, she’d lain in the snow, her unusual gray eyes peering up at him with delightful fear.

As he ripped free the electrodes covering Elizabeth, he grated, “You’ve been a bad little mortal.”

His strength was monstrous, just like everything about him.

She should be cowering from him. Instead, she felt a blistering rage boiling up inside of her. Ellie had thought she’d finally be free, that she’d at last defeat Saroya. She’d been two minutes away from death, ready for it. But this devil had thwarted her yet again.

She was out of breath, desperate to hurt him, to punish him.

She no longer felt like a . . . person. I’m not a person, I’m Virginia DOC Inmate #8793347. I’m Saroya’s host. Because of him.