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Ellie would die on her terms—bleeding out in the snow, atop her beloved mountain.
Holy shit. This is chapter one.
He thought her lovely now, nearly irresistible, but he had no marked preference. More flesh meant more of what he already liked. And Saroya would be the one inhabiting the body for eternity.
“Everything you’ve ever dreamed is real,” Lothaire said. “Every creature thought to be myth. We call our world the Lore. And for the record, Mothman’s a fuckwit.”
His debtors always assumed he’d demand their firstborn. Like I’m fucking Rumpelstiltskin? What would Lothaire do with countless squalling babes? Raise them in a kennel?
But then, what maddened vampire king didn’t carry his queen’s lingerie in his pocket?
