Immortals After Dark 12 - Lothaire

was trapped fast, couldn’t move any part of his body. Not even to open his jaw or part whatever was left of his lips.
    How long since his father had punished him thus?
    One parent had buried him to save his life, the other to torment him—
    Movement from above?
    He could sense vibrations. Sometimes Stefanovich would slit a mortal’s throat over this grave, soaking the dirt with blood—so close Lothaire could smell it, but it never reached him.
    Always out of reach. Losing his sanity, surrendering it hour by unending hour. The surface always out of reach—
    Did he hear spades rending the earth above?
    No, no one is digging. How many times had he imagined just such a scenario?
    Who would dig for him, who the hell would care enough to? His friends, family? Lothaire had none he could count on.
    At every second, his torment reminded him that no one in this entire world gave a damn that he suffered.
    Yet then he felt some of the pressure above him ease. Could that be tension on the manacle around his neck?
    Like a shot, he was hauled upward, the roots violently ripped out of his body, stripping scabbed flesh from him.
    On the surface at last? Too bright, too bright! After darkness for so long, even the starry black night pained his sight. He tried to hiss, tried to cover his decayed eyes with what was left of his arm.
    “Ah, Lothaire!”
    Fyodor? My uncle?
    “I have been searching for you.”
    Saved. My uncle is come to save me. If Lothaire had possessed any blood to spare, tears would have tracked down his face. I did have someone out there, someone loyal to me.
    “Six centuries I’ve searched.”
    Six hundred years! In the ground that long? I never imagined. . . .
    “And now, Nephew, I’ll free you from your bonds. On two conditions.”
    Conditions? Lothaire wanted to rasp, “Anything! Will do anything!” but his lips and tongue had been eaten away. He would bargain for damnation—it could not be worse than his current plight.
    “Otherwise, I will plant you directly back into the ground, never to return.”
    Uncle, how can you say that to me? The betrayal . . .
    “My brother did you ill these centuries, Lothaire. But you should not have faced Stefanovich until you were stronger. I will help you heal from this, will teach you how to become powerful enough to defeat him. All I ask for in return is your fealty—and his head. I am Stefanovich’s royal heir. The Horde will accept me because he has no legitimate son. I will find a way to leave you the throne if I die.”
    He frees me only to hunt his brother, loosing me from my cage like a creature from hell.
    Fyodor gave Lothaire blood to heal, pouring it into his crusted mouth, just enough that he could speak once more.
    “Do you vow your allegiance to me, your future king, until the day I die?” Fyodor said.
    Though Lothaire wanted to howl with fury, to tell his uncle to do his worst, he couldn’t. “I-I vow it”—gasping, vomiting dirt and new blood—“t-to the Lore.” I will never forget this betrayal, Uncle, never.
    “Then welcome back to life, Lothaire, to a new beginning.”
    Against the blinding white starlight, Lothaire had squinted past Fyodor and seen the one he’d once called friend, secretly watching from the woods. . . .

    Shaking off the remnants of the dream, Lothaire clawed at his bare chest, sinking to his knees within the Bloodroot Forest once more. As he bellowed to the night sky, moisture tracked from his eyes.
    I can’t keep living like this. The abyss stared back. Finally, I topple over the edge.
    He knelt before the towering tree he’d grown, gazing up in horror at the bark, the weeping blood.
    My blood. He fucking wanted to plunge into the abyss!
    Sanity wrought only pain. He gave a crazed laugh, relieved as he felt himself falling . . . falling—
    “L-Lothaire,” he heard Elizabeth weakly call for him. Was he dreaming her memories?
    He scented her fear, shot to his feet.
    No, no, she cannot be here. This wasn’t real.
    “P-please . . .” she cried.
    He whirled around but didn’t believe his eyes. She was on her hands and knees in a snowdrift, crawling toward him.
    Elizabeth was here. Her lips were pale, her expression stricken. “T-too cold.”
    Madness must wait. “Lizvetta!” he yelled, tensing to trace—
    Enemies appeared beside her. A sword at her throat stopped him cold. Tymur the Allegiant’s sword.
    Tymur’s gang of demons, Cerunnos, and vampires surrounded them.
    To take her from me. All bent on