Weeks since he’d rested for more than an hour at a time?
Need to sleep, to dream. The memories come in dreams. He needed to begin his work, his seven little tasks—
“If you can cast out my soul,” Elizabeth said, “then why do you need her to rise? And why’d you put me on ice for five years?”
He slowed, gazing past her. “I didn’t possess the means then.”
“But you do now?”
Not yet . After years of deceiving, slaying, and manipulating, Lothaire had seized the Ring of Sums , a talisman of great power—a wish giver. Only to have it stolen from him during his recent capture.
Mortals from the Order had attacked with their charge throwers, draining his strength, forcing him to kneel . . . the blood blinding his eyes and pooling around his knees.
He’d never forget the deafening scrape of the ring across the floor as their leader, a soldier named Declan Chase, had snared it.
“Do you have the means now?” the girl asked again.
Somewhere in the tangle of his mind Lothaire knew the ring’s location. He just had to access that information. “I’ve budgeted anywhere from one night to a month until your end.” Time enough to wade through the millions and millions of stolen memories.
Like his father before him, Lothaire was a cosaş , a memory harvester. A blessing for some vampires, a curse for one of the Fallen.
Damn his uncle for tempting him with the power all those centuries ago. . . .
“You must drink to the quick to be strong enough to destroy my brother,” Fyodor had told him when they’d been reunited once more.
“My eyes are red, are they not?” Lothaire had said. “I’ve been a scourge upon humans.”
“Or you can drink immortals to the quick and steal their strength, even their powers. Join with me, Lothaire.”
“Ivana warned against this.”
Fyodor had smiled thinly. “Your fair mother probably assumed you would have long since slain Stefanovich by now. . . .”
Impatient for power, Lothaire had begun targeting immortals. Yet their souls were much more decayed than humans’. And they had exponentially more memories. Ruinous to a cosaş.
His uncle had promised and delivered strength beyond measure, but had downplayed the side effect.
Insanity. Memories forever tolled. Lothaire balanced on the edge of a razor.
Though Fyodor, also a cosaş, had lost his mind long before his death last year, Lothaire had somehow pulled back, limiting his kills and memory harvests, scrabbling his way back to reason. All to serve my Endgame. . . .
He peered over at the mortal sitting on the couch. How long had he been pacing, his thoughts drifting? Her expression had turned from defeated to devious as she eyed the fireplace tools.
In another situation, he might have admired her tenacity. Now he snapped, “You must want them dead.”
She jerked her gaze straight ahead.
With a scowl, he continued pacing, pondering his reaction to her earlier. He couldn’t remember his body responding that wildly during his one night with Saroya.
For years, he’d remained apart from her easily, once he’d taken his initial release with her in the woods.
Now lust seethed inside him. Ignore it, Saroya will rise soon enough. And when she did, he’d touch her, taste her. Explore her new curves.
“Whoa! Your eyes are getting even . . . weirder.”
Behold madness in a vampire. Everyone in the Lore knew Lothaire was on the brink; no one knew how close he was.
Most of the time, he had difficulty discerning his victims’ memories from his own. When he slept, he uncontrollably traced to strange locales, as if sleepwalking. With increasing frequency, he’d been overwhelmed by rages.
One beckoned even now. “I want Saroya to rise,” he told the human.
“Can’t you take her from me instead? Maybe put her in the body of a red-eyed female demon—”
“She’s no more a demon than I am! Saroya the Soul Reaper is the goddess of death and blood, the Vampire Horde’s ancient
Need to sleep, to dream. The memories come in dreams. He needed to begin his work, his seven little tasks—
“If you can cast out my soul,” Elizabeth said, “then why do you need her to rise? And why’d you put me on ice for five years?”
He slowed, gazing past her. “I didn’t possess the means then.”
“But you do now?”
Not yet . After years of deceiving, slaying, and manipulating, Lothaire had seized the Ring of Sums , a talisman of great power—a wish giver. Only to have it stolen from him during his recent capture.
Mortals from the Order had attacked with their charge throwers, draining his strength, forcing him to kneel . . . the blood blinding his eyes and pooling around his knees.
He’d never forget the deafening scrape of the ring across the floor as their leader, a soldier named Declan Chase, had snared it.
“Do you have the means now?” the girl asked again.
Somewhere in the tangle of his mind Lothaire knew the ring’s location. He just had to access that information. “I’ve budgeted anywhere from one night to a month until your end.” Time enough to wade through the millions and millions of stolen memories.
Like his father before him, Lothaire was a cosaş , a memory harvester. A blessing for some vampires, a curse for one of the Fallen.
Damn his uncle for tempting him with the power all those centuries ago. . . .
“You must drink to the quick to be strong enough to destroy my brother,” Fyodor had told him when they’d been reunited once more.
“My eyes are red, are they not?” Lothaire had said. “I’ve been a scourge upon humans.”
“Or you can drink immortals to the quick and steal their strength, even their powers. Join with me, Lothaire.”
“Ivana warned against this.”
Fyodor had smiled thinly. “Your fair mother probably assumed you would have long since slain Stefanovich by now. . . .”
Impatient for power, Lothaire had begun targeting immortals. Yet their souls were much more decayed than humans’. And they had exponentially more memories. Ruinous to a cosaş.
His uncle had promised and delivered strength beyond measure, but had downplayed the side effect.
Insanity. Memories forever tolled. Lothaire balanced on the edge of a razor.
Though Fyodor, also a cosaş, had lost his mind long before his death last year, Lothaire had somehow pulled back, limiting his kills and memory harvests, scrabbling his way back to reason. All to serve my Endgame. . . .
He peered over at the mortal sitting on the couch. How long had he been pacing, his thoughts drifting? Her expression had turned from defeated to devious as she eyed the fireplace tools.
In another situation, he might have admired her tenacity. Now he snapped, “You must want them dead.”
She jerked her gaze straight ahead.
With a scowl, he continued pacing, pondering his reaction to her earlier. He couldn’t remember his body responding that wildly during his one night with Saroya.
For years, he’d remained apart from her easily, once he’d taken his initial release with her in the woods.
Now lust seethed inside him. Ignore it, Saroya will rise soon enough. And when she did, he’d touch her, taste her. Explore her new curves.
“Whoa! Your eyes are getting even . . . weirder.”
Behold madness in a vampire. Everyone in the Lore knew Lothaire was on the brink; no one knew how close he was.
Most of the time, he had difficulty discerning his victims’ memories from his own. When he slept, he uncontrollably traced to strange locales, as if sleepwalking. With increasing frequency, he’d been overwhelmed by rages.
One beckoned even now. “I want Saroya to rise,” he told the human.
“Can’t you take her from me instead? Maybe put her in the body of a red-eyed female demon—”
“She’s no more a demon than I am! Saroya the Soul Reaper is the goddess of death and blood, the Vampire Horde’s ancient
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