Kresley Cole - Lothaire

“Please hurry, sir,” she begged the elderly warden.

At that, a hum of murmurs broke out in the next room. The witnesses behind the tinted glass window didn’t know what to make of her behavior, didn’t know how to process such an unusual murderer.

She was young, had filed no appeals to her sentence, and by all accounts had never displayed violent behavior growing up.

There had been run-ins with the law. Some minor—getting caught parking with boys. Some not so minor—poaching on state lands and refusing to testify against family members or cooperate with law enforcement.

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.

“I’m ready.”

The warden frowned at her, and the two prison guards flanking him shuffled uncomfortably. Against all their best efforts—and Saroya’s—they’d ended up liking Ellie, admiring her quiet determination to educate herself, to earn a degree, though she had no future.

Ellie had always had a good sense of people, and she’d ended up liking the three back. “Thank you for everything.”

“Then God be with you, Ellie Peirce.” The warden turned toward the adjoining control room. As the guards followed him out, one briefly laid his gloved hand on her shoulder. The other gave her a quick nod, but she could tell he’d be affected by her passing.

The door shut behind them, a deafening final click. I’m alone now. She stared after them, comprehending that no one would be getting out of this room alive.

Alone. So scared.

I didn’t want to have to die. . . .

She gazed at her arms, strapped to the padded supports. Her wrists were taped, her palms up. The two IV lines were a dozen feet long, running from her inner arms to a pair of portholes in the wall behind her, continuing into the control room.

Half an hour ago, a nameless, faceless doctor had started a saline drip back there. At high noon, he would add a trio of chemicals, and moments later, the nightmare would be over forever.

Have to finish this. Almost there.

Funny what one would think about on the verge of death. How many people knew—to the minute—when they’d pass on?

She doubted anyone had ever gone to her own execution with such a feverish drive still spurring her, with a goal and an iron will bent on achieving it. Far from muting her determination, jail had only honed it, like adding layer after layer of plating to shore up a mountain train trestle.

I’m about to win. To beat her. 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.

Long dormant, the demon now stirred. Sensing its own doom? That’s right, you’re going down, bitch.

Only two things could save her life at this point.

An unexpected call from the governor.

Or Saroya’s powerful red-eyed mate.

Not a day went by that Ellie didn’t think of the fiend named Lothaire the Enemy of Old. She’d seen the male appear out of thin air and then vanish, had seen bullets annoy him. Members of her family, the sheriff, and those deputies had witnessed these things with her, no matter how many times that up-for-reelection sheriff told her they hadn’t. . . .

She craned her head back to look at the clock on the wall behind her. Three minutes till noon.

One hundred and eighty seconds until death slipped down the tubes.

Though driven, Ellie wasn’t without regrets. She wished she could have used her hard-won psychology degree, had a career, made friends with women who weren’t murderers.

She regretted never having a family of her own. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so careful not to wind up a teen mother like her mama and grandma.

Hell, maybe Ellie should’ve given it up to one of those eager boys she’d gone parking with. 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.

Another glance at the clock. Two minutes till—

The lights flickered, ratcheting up her anxiety. Another power surge a moment later had the witnesses muttering nervously.

With the third flicker, Ellie froze with dread even as the EKG went crazy. Nothing can stop this! Heart rate 150, 170, 190 . . .

Darkness. The EKG went blank with a last jagged spike.

No windows in the death ward. Pitch blackness. The witnesses were banging on the door, clamoring for an evacuation.

“What’s happening ?” Ellie cried. For some reason, no generator fired up, no backup lights to cast a glow.

Lying in the dark, strapped to a gurney.

In the distance, a scream rang out.

About to hyperventilate, she twisted against her restraints, cursing her bonds. “What’s going on out there?”

An agonized yell sounded, but she refused the thought that surfaced. A jarring clap of gunfire fueled her fears. Some man bellowed, “I can’t see him! Where the hell did he go—” then came a bloodcurdling scream. Another man begged, “Please! Nooo ! Ah, God, I have a fami—” Gurgling sounds followed.

Realization took hold.

He had come. Lothaire the Enemy of Old had returned for her.

Just as he’d promised. . . .

“ That little súka ,” Lothaire sneered as a guard’s neck snapped in his fist. Elizabeth was about to be executed—voluntarily—for a trifling number of murders.

In mere moments.

The guard’s partner fired wildly in the dark; bullets plugged Lothaire’s skin, but he hardly noticed them.

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

With a yell, he lunged forward to slash his claws across the shooter’s throat. 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.

No, focus on the Endgame! Get to her, save your female.

His foes had prevented him from reaching her sooner. If I’m too late . . .

He charged forward through lightless corridors, easily seeing in the dark, but the place was a maze of hallways and minuscule rooms.

Blyad’! He couldn’t scent her over the odor of ammonia. Another hallway came into view, more labeled chambers: family rooms, visitation rooms, cells.

No time. He’d warned Elizabeth not to hurt his female. Yet she’d opted to have herself condemned, directing her public defender to file no appeals, to broker no pleas.

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.

In any case, she was proving to be a thorn in his side, costing him in untold ways. 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.

He’d forced a beholden oracle to keep tabs on her incarceration. And just minutes earlier, an indebted technopath had accompanied him here to cut all the facility’s power, including the backup generators, leaving no lights, no cameras.