Munro (Immortals After Dark #18) by Kresley Cole

            Kristoff looked shocked by this admission.

            The queen’s eyes glinted.

            Lothaire appeared to wake up. “So cry me a river about your brother’s single vivisection. Also, understand me: I can trash-talk Nïx—she is my oldest friend—but no one else had better do so in my presence.” His red gaze gleamed with menace.

            At the sight, Munro’s beast fought to rise, his fangs lengthening.

            Lothaire gave a laugh. “Loa described you as one of the most reasonable of your kind; that sounds about right.”

            Munro just stopped himself from snapping his fangs. Somehow, he stifled his beast again. How many more times would he be able to seize control?

            Lothaire gave him a studying glance, then turned his attention to Kereny. “That pesky Order is a tedious subject for conversation. Those mortals have no style, no verve. Not like your circus.”

            “So,” Kereny said, “you checked up on me as well?”

            Lothaire’s lips quirked. “Mortal, I knew you back in the day.”





FORTY-EIGHT





            Ren frowned. “I don’t think I would forget you.” Lothaire was the most intimidating—and eerily beautiful—being she’d ever seen.

            Munro was gorgeous, but one never had to wonder if he was even real.

            The king’s bearing made her feel like a mouse dangled before a coiled serpent. His expression said, I might strike at any moment, with no provocation, solely because I can.

            It reminded her of the Forbearer king’s harnessed aggression. Whereas Stelian nonchalantly took sips from a flask, the blond male all but vibrated. Again, she wondered why the Forbearer king was attending the Dacian one.

            “I searched for this realm for ages,” Lothaire told her, “so I often traveled through the Cursed Forest, but I didn’t call on you. I wouldn’t have wanted to interrupt the work of the Transylvanian Blade Huntress. You and your circus amused me to watch. How humiliating it must have been for my foes to cower before a human girl.”

            A chill whispered across her nape. He’d been in those woods, and she’d never known.

            “When mortals fight immortals, an early death is inevitable,” he said. “So it was a puzzle to me why humans would place themselves in jeopardy.”

            “The alternative—contagious ghouls or newlings overrunning us—wasn’t any more appealing.”

            “Ah, yes. Newlings. I watched your circus engage a pack of them. It proved to be your last battle.”

            Munro straightened. “You were there?”

            How surreal, Ren thought. This red-eyed vampire had witnessed her death. One of them, at least.

            Lothaire nodded. “I wanted to see how those inventive traps and human weapons fared against wild, brutal strength.” He told Ren, “You and your hunters cut through a number of them with your grenades and guns. You caught even more of them in a great flaming trench that was delightful to watch. The scent of roasted Lykae reminded me of the good old days of the Horde-Wolf wars.” He sighed. “Mmmm, roasted Lykae. So piquant. But a little gamey—”

            “Just tell us what happened,” Munro grated. “How many attacked?”

            “Nearly a dozen, if I recall correctly, and I always do.”

            Not thirty. Munro found Ren’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

            “I thought the circus was going to rout them without a single loss of life on your side. Yet then a giant newling bolted from the woods and evaded your defenses.”

            “The ogre,” Ren murmured. When all eyes turned to her, she explained, “I experienced an alternate version of the battle, and that’s what I called him.”

            Lothaire smirked. “My ogre associates would shudder to be confused with a Lykae.”

            Before Munro could react, Ren said, “In my version, a man fought beside me. A Brit.”

            Lothaire thought back. “Yes. You two seemed cozy. Must’ve been . . . lovers?”