Centuries of brutal torture by the vampire horde have
turned Lachlan MacRieve into an uncontrollable animal. The
only person who can save him is his predestined mate; it's
her scent, her presence nearby, that gives Lachlan the will
to escape. But what he finds when he reaches her nearly
destroys him — Emmaline Troy is not a lykae like
himself. She's the one thing he hates above all others—a
vampire. Enraged, his only thought is to drag his reluctant
soul mate back to his Scottish castle.
What he discovers along the way is that Emma is no ordinary
vampire. Her mother was a legendary Valkyrie, part of an
extraordinary race of immortal women touched with special
powers. Emma has always considered her own special power to
be a highly developed ability to run from dangerous
situations — like getting kidnapped by an enormous, angry
werewolf. But Lachlan's violence is tempered by odd moments
of tenderness, and when his dark passions ignite her own,
she discovers a courage she never knew she possessed.
She'll need every scrap of that newfound bravery to sustain
her through the danger to come — because Lachlan isn't the
only supernatural badass who's been hunting Emma.
Kresley Cole's new vampire series is off to a pulse-
pounding start. While Lachlan is a memorable anti-hero —
there's a lot more to his character than simply being the
werewolf king — it's Emma who provides the true arc of the
story. Her journey from fear to empowerment is
simultaneously epic and intimate, full of humor and heart.
She's a heroine to be proud of.
Cole has another reason to hold her head high: It seems
everyone is taking a stab at the sexy paranormal sub-genre
these days, and a stultifying sameness leeches the life out
of most offerings. With A HUNGER LIKE NO OTHER, Cole proves
that a fresh take is still possible. Specifically, her
addition of the Valkyrie to the standard werewolf and
vampire gangs grounds the book firmly in a rich mythology,
and gives the author ample opportunities for new, exciting
characters. Cole doesn't disappoint — her Valkyrie women
are a fascinating bunch, and this reviewer anxiously awaits
the next book in the series.
A mythic warrior who’ll stop at nothing to possess
her...
After enduring years of torture from the vampire Horde,
Lachlain MacRieve, leader of the Lykae Clan, is enraged to
find the predestined mate he’s waited millennia for is a
vampire. Or partly one. This Emmaline is a small, ethereal
half Valkyrie/half vampire, who somehow begins to soothe
the fury burning within him.
A vampire captured by her wildest fantasy...
Sheltered Emmaline Troy finally sets out to uncover the
truth about her deceased parents—until a powerful Lykae
claims her as his mate and forces her back to his
ancestral Scottish castle. There, her fear of the Lykae—
and their notorious dark desires—ebb as he begins a slow,
wicked seduction to sate her own dark cravings.
An all consuming desire...
Yet when an ancient evil from her past resurfaces, will
their desire deepen into a love that can bring a proud
warrior to his knees and turn a gentle beauty into the
fighter she was born to be...?
Excerpt
Prologue
Sometimes the fire that licks the skin from his bones dies
down.
It is his fire. In a recess of his mind still capable of
rational thought, he believes this. His fire because he’s
fed it for centuries with his destroyed body and decaying
mind.
Long ago—and who knows how much time has toiled past—the
Vampire Horde trapped him in these catacombs deep beneath
Paris. He stands chained against a rock, pinned at two
places on each limb and once around his neck. Before him—
an opening into hell that spews fire.
Here he waits and suffers, offered to a column of fire
that may weaken but is never-ending—never-ending, just
like his life. His existence is to burn to death
repeatedly, only to have his dogged immortality revive him
again.
Detailed fantasies of retribution have gotten him this
far; nursing the rage in his heart is all he has.
Until her.
Over the centuries, he has sometimes heard uncanny new
things in the streets above, occasionally smelled Paris
changing seasons. But now he has scented her, his mate,
the one woman made for him alone.
The one woman he’d searched for without cease for a
thousand years—up until the day of his capture.
The flames have ebbed. At this moment, she lingers
somewhere above. It is enough. One arm strains against its
bonds until the thick metal cuts into his skin. Blood
drips, then pours. Every muscle in his weakened body works
in concert, striving to do what he’s never been able to
for an eternity before. For her, he can do this. He
must . . . . His yell turns to a choking cough as he rips
two bonds free.
He doesn’t have time to disbelieve what he’s accomplished.
She is so close, he can almost feel her. Need her. Another
arm wrenches free.
With both hands he clenches the metal biting into his
neck, vaguely remembering the day the thick, long pin was
hammered into place. He knows its two ends are embedded at
least three feet down. His strength is waning, but nothing
will stop him when she’s so close. In a rush of rock and
dust, the metal comes loose, the recoil making him fling
it across the cavernous space.
He yanks at the bond wrapped tight around his thigh. He
wrests it and the one at his ankle free, then begins on
the last two holding his other leg. Already envisioning
his escape, not even glancing down, he pulls. Nothing.
Brows drawn in confusion, he tries again. Straining,
groaning with desperation. Nothing.
Her scent is fading—there is no time. He pitilessly
regards his trapped leg. Imagining how he can bury himself
in her and forget the pain, he reaches above his knee with
shaking hands. Yearning for that oblivion within her, he
attempts to crack the bone. His weakness ensures that this
takes half a dozen tries.
His claws slice his skin and muscle, but the nerve running
the length of his femur is taut as a piano wire. When he
even nears it, unimaginable pain stabs up its length and
explodes in his upper body, making his vision go black.
Too weak. Bleeding too freely. The fire will build again
soon. The vampires return periodically. Will he lose her
just when he’s found her?
“Never,” he grates. He surrenders himself to the beast
inside him, the beast that will take its freedom with its
teeth, drink water from the gutters and scavenge refuse to
survive. He sees the frenzied amputation as though
watching a misery from a distance.
Crawling from his torture, abandoning his leg, he pulls
himself through the shadows of the dank catacombs until he
spies a passageway. Ever watchful for his enemies, he
creeps through the bones littering the floor to reach it.
He has no idea how far it is to escape, but he finds his
way—and the strength—by following her scent. He regrets
the pain he will give her. She will be so connected to
him, she’ll feel his suffering and horror as her own.
It can’t be helped. He is escaping. Doing his part. Can
she save him from his memories when his skin still burns?
He finally inches his way to the surface, then into a
darkened alley. But her scent has faltered.
Fate has given her to him when he needs her
most, and God help him—and this city—if he can’t find her.
His brutality had been legendary, and he will unleash it
without measure for her.
He fights to sit up against a wall. Clawing tracks into
the brick street, he struggles to calm his ragged breaths
so he can scent her once more.
Need her. Bury myself in her. Waited so long . . . .
Her scent is gone.
His eyes go wet and he shudders violently at
the loss. An anguished roar makes the city tremble.
-----------------------------------------------------------
---------------------
1
One week later . . .
On an island in the Seine, against the nighttime backdrop
of an ageless cathedral, the denizens of Paris came out to
play. Emmaline Troy wound around fire-eaters, pick-
pockets, and chanteurs de rue. She meandered through the
tribes of black-clad Goths who swarmed Notre Dame like it
was the Gothic mother ship calling them home. And still
she attracted attention.
The human males she passed turned their heads slowly to
regard her, frowns in place, sensing something, but
unsure. Probably some genetic memory from long ago that
signaled her as their wildest fantasy or their darkest
nightmare.
Emma was neither.
She was a co-ed—a recent Tulane grad—alone in Paris and
hungry. Weary from another failed search for blood, she
sank onto a rustic bench beneath a chestnut tree, eyes
riveted to a waitress drawing espresso at a café. If only
blood poured so easily, Emma thought. Yes, if it came warm
and rich from a bottomless tap, then her stomach wouldn’t
be clenched in hunger at the mere idea.
Starving in Paris. And friendless. Was there ever such a
predicament?
Couples strolling hand in hand along the gravel walk
seemed to mock her loneliness. Was it just her, or did
lovers look more adoringly at each other in this city?
Especially in the springtime. Die, bastards.
She sighed. It wasn’t their fault that they were bastards
who should die.
She’d been spurred to enter this fray by the prospect of
her echoing hotel room and the idea that she might find
another blood pusher in the City of Light. Her former
hookup had gone south—literally—fleeing Paris for Ibiza.
He’d given little explanation for abandoning his job,
saying only that with the “arrival of the risen king,”
some “serious epic shit” was brewing in “gay Paree.”
Whatever that meant.
As a vampire, she was a member of the Lore, that stratum
of beings who’d convinced humans they existed only in
imagination. Yet though the Lore was thick here, Emma had
been unable to replace her pusher. Any creatures she could
scout out to ask fled her solely because she was a
vampire. They scurried without knowing that she wasn’t
even a full-blooded one, nor that Emma was a wuss who’d
never bitten another living being. As her fierce adoptive
aunts loved to tell everyone, “Emma cries her pink tears
if she dusts a moth’s wings.”
Emma had accomplished nothing during this trip that she’d
insisted on taking. Her quest to uncover information about
her deceased parents—her Valkyrie mother and her unknown
vampire father—was a failure. A failure that would
culminate in a call to her aunts to get them to retrieve
her. Because she couldn’t feed herself. Pitiful. She
sighed. She’d be razzed about this for another seventy
years—
She heard a crash, and before she even had time to feel
bad for the waitress getting docked, another crash and
then another followed. She tilted her head in curiosity—
just as a table umbrella across the walk shot fifteen feet
up to be batted high in the sky, fluttering all the way to
the Seine. A cruise boat honked and Gallic curses erupted.
Half-lit by the walk’s torchlights, a towering man turned
over café tables, artists’ easels, and book stands selling
century-old pornography. Tourists screamed and fled in the
wake of destruction. Emma shot to her feet with a gasp,
looping her satchel over her shoulder.
He was cutting a path directly to her, his black trench
coat trailing behind him. His size and his unnaturally
fluid movements made her wonder if he could possibly be
human. His hair was thick and long, concealing half his
face, and several days’ growth of beard shadowed his jaw.
He pointed a shaking hand at her. “You,” he growled.
She jerked glances over both of her shoulders looking for
the unfortunate you he was addressing. Her. Holy shite,
this madman had settled on her.
He turned his palm up and beckoned her to come to him—as
if he was confident she would.
“Uh, I-I don’t know you,” she squeaked, trying to back up,
but her legs immediately met the bench.
He continued stalking her, ignoring the tables between
them, tossing them aside like toys instead of varying his
direct pursuit of her. Furious intent burned in his pale
blue eyes. She could sense his rage more sharply as he
neared, unsettling her, because her kind were considered
the predators in the night—never the prey. And because, at
heart, she was a coward.
“Come.” He bit out the word as though with difficulty and
motioned for her again.
Eyes wide, she shook her head, then leapt backward over
the bench, twisting in the air. She landed facing away
from him and began speeding down the quay. She was weak,
more than two days without blood, but terror made her
quick as she crossed the Archevêché Bridge to exit the
island.
Three . . . four blocks covered. She chanced a look behind
her. Didn’t see him. Had she lost him—? Sudden glaring
music from her purse made her cry out.
Who in the hell had programmed the Crazy Frog ring tone
into her cell phone? Her eyes narrowed. Aunt Regin. The
world’s most immature immortal, who looked like a siren
and behaved like a frat pledge.
Cell phones in their coven were for dire emergency only.
Ringers would disturb their hunting in the back alleys of
New Orleans, and even a vibration would be enough to
trigger a twitching ear in a low creature.
She flipped it open. Speak of the devil: Regin the Radiant.
“Little busy right now,” Emma snapped, taking another peek
over her shoulder.
“Drop your things. Don’t take time to pack. Annika wants
you at the executive airport immediately. You’re in
danger.”
“Duh.”
Click. That wasn’t a warning—that was narration.
She’d ask the details once she was on the plane. As if
she’d needed a reason to return home. Just the mention of
danger and she would scamper back to her coven, to her
Valkyrie aunts who would kill anything that threatened her
and keep malice at bay.
As she tried to remember her way to the airport where
she’d landed, the rain started to fall, warm and light at
first—April lovers still laughing as they ran under
awnings—but swiftly turning to pounding cold. She came to
a crowded avenue, feeling safer as she wound through
traffic. She dodged cars with their wipers and horns going
full-force. She didn’t see her pursuer.
With only the satchel slung around her neck, she traveled
quickly, miles passing beneath her feet before she spied
an open park and then the airfield just beyond it. She
could see the diffused air around the jet engines as they
warmed, could see the shades on every window already drawn
tight. Almost there.
Emma convinced herself she’d lost him, because she was
fast. She was also adept at convincing herself of things
that might not be—good at pretending. She could pretend
she took classes at night by choice, and that blushing
didn’t make her thirsty—
A vicious growl sounded. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t
turn back, just sprinted across the field. She felt claws
sink into her ankle a second before she was dragged to the
muddy ground and thrown onto her back. A hand covered her
mouth, though she’d been trained not to scream.
“Never run from one such as me.” Her attacker
didn’t sound human. “You will no’ get away. And we like
it.” His voice was guttural like a beast’s, breaking, yet
his accent was … Scottish?
As she peered up at him through the rain, he examined her
with eyes that were golden in color one moment, then
flickering that eerie blue the next. No, not human.
Up close, she could see his features were even, masculine.
A strong chin and jaw complemented the chiseled planes. He
was beautiful, so much so that she thought he had to be a
fallen angel. Possible. How could she rule out anything?
The hand that had been covering her mouth
roughly grasped her chin. He narrowed his eyes, focusing
on her lips—on her barely noticeable fangs. “No,” he
choked out. “No’ possible. . . .” He yanked her head side
to side, running his face down her neck, smelling her,
then growled in fury, “Goddamn you.”
When his eyes turned blue sharply, she cried out, her
breath seeming to leave her
body.
“Can you trace?” he grated as though speech was
difficult. “Answer me!”
She shook her head, uncomprehending. Tracing was how
vampires teleported,
disappearing and reappearing in thin air. Then he knows
I’m a vampire?
“Can you?”
“N-no.” She’d never been strong or skilled
enough. “Please.” She blinked against the rain, pleading
with her eyes. “You have the wrong woman.”
“Think I’d know you. Make sure, if you
insist.” He raised a hand—to touch her? Strike her? She
fought, hissing desperately.
A callused palm grasped the back of her neck, his other
hand clenching her wrists as he bent down to her neck. Her
body jerked from the feel of his tongue against her skin.
His mouth was hot in the chill, wet air, making her
shudder until her muscles knotted. He groaned while
kissing her, his hand squeezing her wrists hard. Below her
skirt, drops of rain tracked down her thighs, shocking her
with cold.
“Don’t do this! Please . . .” When her last word ended
with a whimper, he seemed to come out of a trance, his
brows drawing together as his eyes met hers, but he didn’t
release her hands.
He flicked his claw down her blouse and sliced it and the
flimsy bra beneath open, then slowly brushed the halves
past her breasts. She struggled, but it was useless
against his strength. He studied her with a greedy gaze as
rain splattered down, stinging her naked breasts. She was
shivering uncontrollably.
His pain was so sharp it nauseated her. He could take her
or he could tear open her unprotected belly and kill
her . . . .
Instead he ripped open his own shirt, then placed his huge
palms against her back to draw her to his chest. He
groaned when their skin touched, and electricity seemed to
flash through her. Lightning split the sky.
He rumbled foreign words against her ear. She felt they
were … tender words—making her think she’d lost her mind.
She went limp, her arms hanging while he shuddered against
her, his lips so hot in the pouring rain as he ran them
down her neck, across her face, even brushing them over
her eyelids. There he knelt, clutching her; there she lay,
boneless and dazed, as she watched the lightning slash
above them.
His hand cradled the back of her head as he moved her to
face him.
He seemed torn as he watched her with some fierce emotion—
she’d never been looked at so … consumingly. Confusion
overwhelmed her. Would he attack or let her go? Let me go.…
A tear slipped down her face, warmth streaking down amidst
the drops of rain.
The look disappeared. “Blood for tears?” he
roared, clearly revolted by her pink tears. He turned away
as if he couldn’t stand to look upon her, then blindly
swatted at her shirt to close it. “Take me to your home,
vampire.”
“I-I don’t live here,” she said in a strangled
tone, staggered by what had just occurred, and by the fact
that he knew what she was.
“Take me to where you stay,” he ordered,
finally facing her as he stood before her.
“No,” she amazed herself by saying.
He, too, looked surprised. “Because you doona
want me to stop? Good. I’ll take you here on the grass on
your hands and knees”—he lifted her easily until she was
kneeling—“till well after the sun rises.”
He must have seen her resignation because he
hauled her to her feet and pushed at her to get her
moving. “Who stays with you?”
My husband, she wanted to snap. The linebacker who’s going
to kick your ass. Yet she couldn’t lie, even now, and
never would have had the nerve to provoke him anyway. “I
am alone.”
“Your man lets you travel by yourself?” he asked over the
downpour. His voice was beginning to sound human again.
When she didn’t answer, he said with a sneer, “You’ve a
careless male for yourself. His loss.”
She stumbled in a pothole and he gently steadied her, then
seemed angry with himself that he’d helped her. But when
he led them in front of a car a moment later, he threw her
out of the way, leaping back at the sound of the horn. He
swiped at the side of the car, claws crumpling the metal
like tinfoil, sending it skidding. When it finally
stopped, the engine block dropped to the street with a
thud. The driver threw open the door, dived for the
street, then darted away.
Mouth open in shock, she frantically scrambled backward,
realizing her captor looked as though he’d … never seen a
car.
He crossed to her, looming over her. In a low, deadly
tone, he grated, “I only hope you run from me again.”
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