“I know one of the first steps is cutting off an immortal’s head. And that it works on other species besides demons.”
Other species? Earlier she’d asked him a seemingly random question about a werewolf who had been in his ledger book, a male of the royal bloodline who had been executed an age ago.
Sometimes his debtors died. There was a churn rate. Not my debtors, Lothaire reminded himself. Dorada controls the old ledger.
Had Nïx been asking about that male because he’d resurrected as a vampire/Lykae scârbă? Anticipation coursed through Lothaire.
At the end of the corridor was a cell unlike all the others. The door was solid metal, with no slot for feeding. From within, Lothaire heard a thundering heart and rapid, wet exhalations. The scent of blood and hostility reached him.
Undaunted, Nïx murmured another spell. As if from a giant puzzle box, a series of locks clanked, unbolting.
Lothaire held his breath as the door slowly opened, hinges grinding. What would they find inside?
Chained to the floor in the center of the cell was a massive Lykae with a bit between his razor-sharp fangs. His beast was risen, more monstrous than any Lothaire had encountered in all of his years. But his eyes shocked Lothaire the most. Gone was the Lykae blue, replaced by the color of bloodlust and madness.
Crimson.
As recognition took hold, Lothaire murmured in disbelief, “The Lykae’s Prince Heath . . . lives.”