No Rest for the Wicked (4 page)

the way she reacted, with her eyelids fluttering closed as she moaned, she needed it as

well.

“I didn’t believe it was true,” he groaned.

Her head thrashed, the blond silk of her hair filling him with her scent.

“Katja.” He thrust harder and she writhed wildly beneath him. “You’re mine.”

“Yes, yes... you’re making me... come.” She arched her back, crying out. He wrapped his

arms tightly around her torso, trapping her against his body as he bucked furiously against

her.

He groaned toward the ceiling, neck tensed, as his seed began to pump from him. With

each shot, he gave a brutal yell. She was still coming, her claws sunk into his back.

He gave one last violent shudder, then collapsed on her, stunned to silence by the pleasure.

His breaths, so new and astounding to him, were ragged.

But when he realized what he’d just done to her, he flushed, humiliated, pushing up from

her and averting his eyes.

Bride or not, she was a stranger to him, but he’d shamed himself like a green lad in front

of her. Much worse, he’d used all the strength in his body to hold her down and shove

against her. How could he not have hurt her? How could he not have bruised her perfect

skin? He dreaded meeting her eyes. To see that betrayed look...

Yet then, she tugged him back down and turned her head slightly, seeming to nuzzle the

side of his neck. She began rubbing her face against his, almost like a cat. Though she had

the strangest manner of showing it, he knew she was indeed giving him affection.

Affection. Another ecstasy for him. He hadn’t been touched in so long.

He rested on his elbows as she gazed up at him with her eyes soft, flickering between

silver and dark hazel, her expression satisfied. Holding her face with both of his shaking

hands, he brushed kisses over her eyelids, her nose. She was the loveliest creature he had

ever imagined—and the most passionate—and she was his.

His voice hoarse, he said, “I have not told you my name. I am Sebastian Wroth.”

Still seeming entranced, she murmured, “Bastian,” making him want to squeeze her.

He grinned down at her. “Only my family used to call me that. It pleases me that you

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) would.”

“Uh-hmm.” She scratched his neck in languid circles.

Excitement was still drumming in him. The idea of learning everything about her filled him

with anticipation, but first he had to know—“Did I... did I... hurt you?”

“I’ll be sore.” Her lips curled, then she rubbed her face against him once more, this time as

if grateful. “But only in the most delicious places.”

His cock was still semi-hard in the wet heat of his jeans, and the way she purred that one

simple word, delicious, made it swell once more. He didn’t understand how she could

simply shrug off being hurt, but there was no way he’d act on the need welling once more.

He fought to ignore how good she felt beneath him.

He brushed back her hair, revealing her pointed ears. The tiny fangs, the claws, the eyes...

“Katja, what are... ” He cleared his throat. “What are you?”

Her brows drew together. “I’m a—” She tensed in an instant. Her eyes cleared

completely, as though she’d just woken up. All the supple muscles of her body that had

gone soft and pliant after her orgasm now grew rigid.

With a sharp inhalation, she kicked him off her—hard—sending him to the opposite wall,

then shot to her feet. “Ah, gods, what have I done?” she whispered, bringing a tremulous

hand to her forehead. Her face was cold, but her eyes burned wild as she backed away.

He stood, hands in front of him so as not to startle her.

But then she roughly ran her sleeve over her mouth, infuriating him. He recognized her

disgust, recognized the sentiment.

He’d shared it about himself ever since he’d been turned.

“We’re going to forget this happened, vampire.” She couldn’t believe she’d just felt

gratitude toward him. Because he’d given her relief from desire? What the hell had

happened? Reality was seeping in, and with it came shame so hot it stung her.

“How can I possibly forget this?”

Maybe a capricious power had played with her, forcing her to do things she would never

do. Or had she caught a spell? She had to leave at once. “Vow not to tell anyone, and I’ll

let you live for now.”

“Let me live—?”

He didn’t finish the sentence, because in the space of three words, she’d collected her

sword, then shot behind him to tuck it menacingly between his legs. She’d moved so

quickly she was a blur.

“Yes, let you live,” she hissed at his ear.

“You are unused to this.” He traced across the room and stood, arms out, a hand on each

side of the doorway. “As am I. We will find our way with this together. But you are my

Bride.”

She closed her eyes, struggling for calm. “You’re not my husband. And never will be.”

“This can’t be random, Kaderin.”

Enough. As she started for the door, she could sense apprehension building in him. They

both knew the sun would protect her. All she had to do was get past him—

Suddenly, she doubled over as sorrow for Dasha and Rika ripped through her like barbed

wire dragged through her veins.

“Kaderin?” He strode toward her. “Are you hurt?”

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) Gulping air, she shoved her hand out to stop him before he reached her, and forced herself

to stand. All Valkyrie were related, but she and her two sisters had been born together.

Triplets. Inseparable for one thousand years, until two had died in battle. Because of

Kaderin’s weakness...

“Kaderin, just wait—”

She charged for the door, but he traced back to it and held his ground. She feinted left and

ducked right, moving so fast she knew he couldn’t make out her form. As he blinked, she

swooped around him, bringing the sword handle crashing back into his chest, deciding at

the last minute not to crack his sternum.

He gave a bellow of fury when she barreled past him. She darted down a rotting landing,

toward the three sets of winding stairs, running through massive cobwebs so thick he must

have traced through them for centuries.

Half staggering, half tracing, he was right behind her as she bounded down the stairs. But

she pushed a hand on the railing and vaulted over to the next flight of stairs, then once

again to the ground floor.

With a hoarse yell, he leapt down behind her, lunging for her. At the last second, she

shimmied out of his grasp, reaching the heavy front doors. She burst through them,

wrenching them off their rusted hinges and sending splinters arcing into the air.

Even outside under the morning sun’s protective watch, she didn’t slow. She raced down

the valley toward the village—ragged breaths, leaves crackling beneath her boots, the

warmth of the light. Don’t look back.

Tears blurred her vision as she fought not to sob. The sorrow ached as unbearably as it

had when she’d collected and buried the... pieces of her sisters. She ran away as if to

forget that last night, as if to leave that memory back at that desolate castle. Don’t look

back...

After the burial, she’d torn at her hair and clawed at her skin, alternately shrieking with

fury and grief and yearning for the oblivion of death herself. Exhaustion finally rendered

her unconscious, and in that heavy sleep, an unknown power had communicated with her

as a voice in her mind, promising surcease from the pain yet deadening all of her emotions.

Then, as now, the pain was unbearable. Just as she had before, she prayed for mercy.

But none came. Had Kaderin been forsaken? Had she angered the mysterious power?

Don’t look back. But she did.

The vampire had followed her.

4

Val Hall Manor, New Orleans ,

Home of the tenth of the twelve Valkyrie covens

S ometimes Nikolai Wroth really hated his in-laws.

He exhaled wearily as he accompanied his Bride, Myst the Coveted, to the expansive front

porch of her former home. They’d just made it to the front steps when the first shriek

sounded.

He wasn’t surprised, having already learned that his mere vampiric presence would be

enough to provoke this nest of Valkyrie.

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) Though he was a Forbearer, he was often hated as much as Horde vampires—natural-born

vampires, a faction that had warred with the Valkyrie since the first days of the Lore. In

addition to killing his Bride’s kind, Horde vampires often imprisoned them and fed nightly

on their exquisite blood.

He understood their hatred of the Horde, and as a Forbearer, he shared it, having battled

against them since he’d become a vampire. But this mattered little.

Another scream, and then more followed. Nikolai still was unused to his in-laws’ shrieks.

They liked to scream. Yet even if they had been silent, he would know their rage over his

sensed presence, because the Valkyrie produced lightning with emotion, and right now the

yard was like a minefield of exploding bolts.

The many copper rods planted all around the grounds couldn’t contain such an onslaught.

The ancient oaks surrounding the manor were lashed with ribbons of lightning and gave up

their smoke, thicker than the fog.

Did anything smell as odd as burning moss?

He shook his head to the sky but didn’t see the stars above him. No, his view was blocked

by the wraiths the Valkyrie had paid to circle and guard the manor. The ghostly fiends

howled their amusement down at him.

Nikolai had no patience for them. A month ago, when he’d tried to trace into Val Hall to

win Myst back, they’d caught him and thrown him so far he’d entered another parish.

Nothing could penetrate their guard.

With the wraiths, the lightning, the shrieks, and the smoke, it was no wonder other Lore

creatures feared Val Hall almost as much as they feared the Valkyrie themselves. The fact

that his beautiful wife had hailed from this place of madness always astounded him.

Tonight she had coaxed him to trace them here to ask Nïx—the oldest Valkyrie and a

soothsayer—to help them find his two younger brothers. He secretly thought this a fool’s

errand. Nïx, or Nucking Futs Nïx as the coven called her, was rarely lucid and had a

diabolical sense of humor. And Myst had been warned that Nïx was “in a pissy mood” this

evening.

In fact, all the Valkyrie he’d met were... eccentric. Even his wife, Myst, thought in ways

he didn’t understand. And if Nïx was unmatched in Valkyrie madness... ?

But he had to try. He couldn’t go on any longer wondering if Sebastian and Conrad were

alive or dead. The last time he had seen his two youngest brothers, they were just about to

leave Blachmount as newly turned vampires. They were both weakened and had gone half

mad at the turning. Although three hundred years had passed, Nikolai did not delude

himself into thinking that they had forgiven his offenses against them.

He and Myst gained entrance past the wraiths the only way possible. She offered a lock of

her hair as toll, and one swooped down for it. In exchange for the wraiths’ unfailing guard,

the Valkyrie proffered their hair, which the wraiths wove into a braid. Once the braid

attained a certain length, they could bend all living Valkyrie to their will for a short

interval.

Once inside the darkened manor, they passed the ultramodern movie viewing room. The

Valkyrie were obsessed with movies, indeed with anything modern and ever-changing,

whether it was technology, slang, fashion, or video games.

A number had grudgingly accepted him now that he and Myst were married and because

he’d helped save the life of Emmaline, a member of their coven. He’d even garnered

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) permission—through blackmail—to enter their home at will, becoming the only vampire

alive who’d seen the inside of this legendary place.

From the viewing room, they crossed to the stairs and up to the second landing. Myst had

explained that Val Hall was like a violent Lore version of a sorority house, complete with

catfights and clothing thefts. At least twenty Valkyrie lived here at any given time.

She stopped at a door with a sign painted to read “Nïxie’s Lair, Forget the Dog, Beware

of Nïx.” Myst listened at the door, then knocked.

“Who is it?” came a muffled reply.

“Aren’t you supposed to know that?” Myst asked, turning the knob when the door was

unlocked.

They entered the room and found it darkened as well, lit only by a computer screen. Nïx

stood, her expression inscrutable as she swiftly braided her long black hair. She had on

jeans and a small T-shirt that read “I play with my prey.”

Inside were a massive TV, hundreds of shades of nail polish, and a pinup poster of a man

identified as “Jeff Probst” and labeled “The Thinking Woman’s Sex Symbol.” On the floor

lay piles of shredded books, crashed paper airplanes, and what looked like the remains of a

grandfather clock that had been torn apart in a frenzy.

Myst wasted no time. “We’re searching for his brothers, Nïx, and we need your help.”