A Hunger Like No Other (14 page)

*  *  *

Once Lachlain had stopped groping her under the table and the food arrived, he started his slow, sensuous love affair with his meal. He clearly relished every bite, so much that it almost made her want to eat as well instead of only pretending to.

At the end, Emma had to admit that their dinner filled
with shifting plates and food flying—from Emma's clumsy silverware activity—wasn't
unpleasant
.

After the waiter cleared their plates, Emma saw the woman at the table next to them excuse herself after her meal. That's what human women did. When finished eating, they drew their purses into their laps and patted them, then went to the bathroom to reapply lipstick and check their teeth. As long as she was pretending . . .

But Emma didn't have a purse. Her purse had been ruined when she'd been thrown to the muddy ground by this Lykae across from her. She frowned, but still moved to stand. “I'm going to the ladies' room,” she murmured.

“No.” He reached for her legs, which made her jerk them back under the table.

“Pardon?”

“Why would you do that? I know you doona have those needs.”

She sputtered with embarrassment. “Y-you don't know anything about me! And I'd like to keep it that way.”

He leaned back, hands behind his head, expression casual, as if they weren't discussing something so personal. “Do you? Have those needs?”

Her face flamed. She didn't. And as far as she knew, other vampires didn't either. Valkyrie didn't, because they didn't, well,
eat
.

“Your blushing answered me. So you doona.” Did
nothing
embarrass him?

She was alarmed to see he was getting that analytical look, the one that made her feel like an insect pinned by the wings beneath a microscope.

“How else are you different from human females? I know your tears are pink. Do you sweat?”

Of course she could. “Not for ninety minutes a week, as my country's surgeon general recommends.” Good, she'd lost him. But not for long . . . .

“Is it pink as well?”

“No! The tears are an anomaly. Okay? I am just like other women but for those things you crudely pointed out.”

“No, you're no'. I watch the advertisements on the television. During the day, they're all about women. You doona shave, but your skin is smooth where they are. I went through your belongings and found that you doona carry the supplies with you as they do.”

Her eyes widened as it hit her—what he meant. She stiffened, about to leap from the booth, when he stretched his leg out and dropped his heavy boot beside her, trapping her.

“There were rumors that vampire females grew infertile. Once a vampire male finds his Bride he does no' stray, so your species was depopulating. Is that no' why Demestriu tried to kill all of the females within the Horde?”

She'd never known this. She lowered her gaze, staring at the table as it appeared to wobble. The waiter had made a valiant effort to tidy up after her, but there were still crumbs. Crumbs from her. Because she was a freak who couldn't handle silverware and apparently couldn't have children either.

She'd never had a monthly cycle because she was infertile?

“Is that true?” he repeated.

She murmured, “Who knows what Demestriu was thinking?”

His voice less stern, he said, “So you are no' wholly like them.”

“I guess not.” She pushed her shoulders back. “But I still have a hairstyle I want to check and tales of a date gone bad
that I want to recount, so I
will
be going to the restroom now.”

“Come directly back to me.” He bit out the order.

She dared a glare at him, then hurried away.

The restaurant shared its facilities with the bar, so she had to wind around men loitering throughout. It was like a video game maze fraught with opponents—any of whom could be vampires—but a time-out from humiliation seemed worth the risk.

Inside the sanctuary of the ladies' room, she crossed to the wall of sinks to wash her hands. She stared into the mirror, shocked anew at how pale she'd grown. Her cheekbones were sharp in her face from the weight she'd so rapidly lost. She was simply too young and too weak in general not to suffer immediate consequences from thirst. Hell, she was a walking homage to vulnerability.

She'd known she was weak. Had accepted it. And she'd accepted the fact that she couldn't even defend herself with a weapon. She could scarcely wield a sword, her archery was laughable—as evidenced by everyone laughing at her when she practiced—and her fighting? Well, she didn't exactly have the madskills going on.

Yet she hadn't known she could never have children . . . .

When Emma returned, and Lachlain stood and helped her to her seat, she noticed that while she'd been gone, he'd dug his claws into the table. Nothing like the hotel, merely five precise, deep indentations haloing the visible heat from his palm that was just receding.

He sank into the booth once more, his brows drawn as though deep in thought. He looked like he was about to say something, then seemed to think better of it. She'd be damned if she'd fill this groaning silence.

When her attention remained on the marks, he placed his hand atop them. He clearly didn't like that she stared, no doubt thinking she harkened back to the days—or, rather, this evening—of his destruction.

She wondered what had happened to make him do this. He'd probably spotted that club-kid girl with the sheer blouse and visible nipple piercings and felt the call of the wild.

Or was it possible that he regretted his humiliating questions? So much that he would react by absently digging into the table? She shook her head.

He wouldn't regret humiliating her—not when he so obviously enjoyed it.

*  *  *

“What do we know?” Annika asked. She took a deep breath, wincing as her healing ribs screamed in protest, and glanced over the Valkyrie who were present. Lucia, Regin, Kaderin, and others, waiting to act, waiting for the direction Annika would have to give.

Nïx was conspicuously absent, having likely wandered onto the neighbor's property again. Regin was on the computer, accessing the coven's database, researching Ivo and any other vampire sightings. Her brilliant face illuminated the shatterproof screen more than it did her.

“Hmm. That would be only two measly things for certain,” said Regin. “Ivo the Cruel is seeking someone among all the Valkyrie. And he still hasn't found
her,
whoever she is, because the encounters haven't stopped. Our sisters in the New Zealand coven write that they're ‘chockablock' with vampires. What does chockablock mean? No. Really.”

Annika ignored the last. She was still furious with Regin for abetting Emma. Because of her, Emma was now running
around Europe with a—what had Regin called him?—a
hottie
. On top of this, Regin had had the nerve to accuse Annika of “smothering.” It wasn't as if Annika didn't want Em to meet a man, but she was still so young and they knew nothing about this male other than the fact that he was strong enough to take down a vampire. Regin had actually thought to make Annika feel better by saying, “Dude, I could tell—Emma wants him in the worst way . . . .” Annika inwardly shook herself, focusing on the situation at hand. “We have to determine Ivo's purpose.”

Kaderin said, “Myst just escaped his dungeon five years ago. He could want her back.”

“All this to recapture her?” Annika asked. Myst the Coveted, considered the most beautiful Valkyrie, had been under his power. She'd escaped when the vampire rebels took his castle. That situation always enraged Annika.
Indiscretions
between Myst and Wroth, a rebel general, had occurred.

Until two days ago, Annika had believed Myst had put that vampire and the entire disgusting situation behind her. Yet everyone had heard Myst's heart speed up at the mere mention of vampires in the New World. She'd checked her flame-red hair again and again before joining a group setting out
to hunt them
.

No, Myst hadn't moved on from the general. Had Ivo been unable to forget his stunning captive?

“Could be Emma,” Regin offered.

Annika shot her a sharp glare. “He doesn't even know of her existence.”

“That we are aware of.”

Annika pinched her forehead. “Where the hell is Nïx?” This wasn't a time for conjecture—they needed Nïx's foresight.
“Check Emma's credit card again. Any new purchases?”

Regin logged into the coven's card accounts, and within minutes she had Emma's statement pulled up. “These records are lagging over a day behind. But there were some clothing purchases—how much trouble can she be in if she's clothes shopping? And here's a
restaurant
bill from the Crillon. Tightwad better be paying her back.”

“What would Ivo want with Emma anyway?” Lucia asked. As she did whenever she mulled possibilities, she plucked at the string on her bow. “She may be the last female vampire, but she's not full-blooded.”

“If we think logically, the odds point to Myst,” Kaderin said.

Annika had to agree. Considering Myst's heart-stopping beauty, how could Ivo not want her back?

“And one other thing that tips the scales in Myst's favor?” Kaderin added. “She hasn't returned from her hunt and she hasn't called.”

Settled then. For now. “Try to keep tabs on Emma's movements. We'll begin searching for Myst.”

Regin peered around her at all the damage in the manor. “Should I renew the inscription with the witches?”

“Mystical protection can be cracked, as we well know. Only one guardianship is foolproof.” Annika exhaled wearily. “We will bring in the ancient scourge.” And be forced to pay the wraiths in the currency they desired.

Regin sighed. “Well, damn, and here I was getting attached to my hair.”

G
loaming arrived in the countryside of southern Scotland, casting a last light over their inn. As Emma slept, Lachlain sat in bed next to her, drinking yet another cup of coffee.

The majority of his day had been full, by design, so he wouldn't sleep. Now he relaxed next to her, clad in nothing but comfortable
jeans
that came broken-in like boots might be. He read one of the few contemporary novels from the inn's library and half-listened to the news. He might even have been content—if he had taken her last night. And if he was confident he was about to again.

There'd been no chance of that, even if she hadn't been shaking with emotion the entire drive after his blunt questioning debacle at the restaurant. He'd thought he could anger her into a response, get her nettled as she'd been just that evening over the state of the room. Instead, she'd tilted her head and given him an expression so stark it had torn at him.

By the time they'd reached the inn last night, Emma had been out of her head with fatigue and hadn't even protested when he'd stripped her to her underwear and put them in the bath. Of course, he'd found himself fighting unbearable lust once again. Yet instead of punishing her for it, when
she'd gone soft in his arms he'd petted her once more, staring at the ceiling in confusion.

After the bath, he'd dried her, dressed her in one of her gowns—the chit hadn't asked for his shirt again—then placed her in bed. She'd looked up at him solemnly and voiced her concern that he might “wig out” again. When he'd assured her he wouldn't sleep, she'd regarded the floor with longing, actually reaching down to touch it, then passed out.

Now he glanced at the folds in the curtains, and saw no light beneath each one. The last two nights she'd woken precisely at sundown. There was no yawning or shaking off sleep—she'd simply opened her eyes, rising in a floating way, instantly awake as if she'd been brought back to life. Lachlain had to admit he found this foreign trait . . . eerie. Of course, he'd never seen this before—in the past, any vampire asleep in his presence never woke again.

At any moment now, her eyes would open, and he put aside the book to watch.

The sun set. Minutes passed. She still didn't rise.

“Get up,” he said, shaking her shoulder. When she didn't respond, he shook her harder. They needed to get on the road. He thought they could make Kinevane tonight and he was anxious to see his home.

She burrowed down farther in the covers. “Let . . . me . . . sleep.”

“If you doona get out of bed, I'm going to rip off your clothes and join you there.”

When there was no reaction even to that, he grew alarmed and felt her forehead—her skin was like ice.

He drew her up and her head lolled. “What's wrong with you? Tell me!”

“Leave me alone. Need another hour.”

He laid her back down. “If you're sick, you need to drink.”

After a moment, she cracked open her eyes.