by Jenn Stark
“Report,” the archangel said. “Why is the witch child summoning multiple demons to mate with her? That’s not what the grimoire demands.”
“Doing what?” Stefan burst into laughter, cutting his surprised guffaw short when Michael didn’t join in. Then again, Michael was kind of a dick when it came to having a good time. But seriously, God’s No. 1 wingman needed his halo checked if he thought that was what was going on back in Storm Court. “You got everything wrong about the scene, Captain America,” Stefan continued. “One, the witch is all grown up. Not a kid, not even by mortal standards. Second—”
“Hold,” Michael interrupted, lifting a hand. Stefan felt the pressure of one of the Lord’s most powerful archangels in a way Michael didn’t usually impose. Clearly, he was upset. “She’s reached her majority?”
“If you mean is she an adult, then yeah. I mean, she weighs maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, but she’s definitely hit puberty. I’m a demon, and we know these things.”
That jab caused Michael’s lip to curl in disdain, which made Stefan unaccountably happy.
“She’s also not swiping right on anyone in the horde,” Stefan continued. “She was afraid of a particular demon showing up, if her thoughts were any indication. Ahriman—like that dickhead is even real.”
“The assault on the Serbian coven proved he is.”
“Well, the demons who took out those witches were hollering his name, yeah. But he wasn’t there, no matter how many of his minions showed up to party. And for the record, we could’ve dispatched that ravening horde way before they did all that damage if you’d pulled us all in at once to fight them from the go. Those guys were seriously out of their heads.”
“Three of you should have been sufficient.”
“Well, we clearly weren’t.”
Michael stared at him stonily, and Stefan sighed. The archangel hated to be wrong, and, no matter who was to blame…too many humans had died. Seventy-five of God’s children, in all—adults, elders, and children too. Most of them massacred in cold blood before the Syx were even summoned, because the coven had been too proud to call for help.
Stefan grimaced. Pride. It had been his downfall, all those millennia ago. And it had been the witches’ weakness here.
He shook off the hollow ache of his frustration, and refocused on Michael. “Anyway, Ahriman was definitely not boogying on the dance floor at Storm Court, though it was a virtual roll call of a goodly chunk of the demonic asshole pantheon. Gregori and I took care of the top guns, and there was a human guy who held his own with us—didn’t suck at all, in point of fact. I don’t suppose you sent him?”
“Name?”
“Jim Granger.”
Something shifted in Michael’s expression, a look of ineffable sorrow, gone as quickly as it appeared. “I didn’t send him. But he came in with these others, you say? These demons?”
“He did. And if you want to give me the rest of the Syx, we can send all those bad boys home to Daddy right now. But one against fifty-seven isn’t good odds, even for me.”
“The other demons, how are they behaving? Normally? Attacking?”
Stefan made a face. “You really think I would’ve bailed if they were attacking, fifty-seven to one or not? No. They’re chillin’ and killin’, playing along with the witch’s protective net. She pulled a couple of ’em out of the crowd, along with Jimbo. She tried her little voodoo on me too, and that was my ticket to ride.”
“So the queen of the Scepter Coven is calling a demon to mate with her,” Michael said again, his voice low and filled with quiet wonder. “Multiple demons, it would appear. She believes she is ready to confront Ahriman.”
Stefan shook his head. “Focus, my man. Ahriman doesn’t exist. Maybe you aren’t up on your horde trivia, but he’s like Santa Claus for demon kind. A story to keep newb demons in line.” Even as he spoke, though, Stefan hesitated. There were those old-ass ice demons who’d appeared on the dance floor, creatures so ancient, he didn’t know their names. Their energy harkened back to the time before light itself, when God had stirred the primeval magic of the universe to form His earliest creations, twisting and weaving and improving upon His spectacular designs.
Rumor held that it was from that same energy that Ahriman was formed, a creature of such unending evil that God Himself chose to let the darkness made flesh remain extant rather than crush his life essence, to remind Him of the lengths to which He should not go again.
But whether or not Ahriman was a fairy tale, Michael had the Storm Court sitch all wrong. “And again, the witch isn’t looking for a demon hookup. Believe me, I’d have noticed that. So unless you want to give me reinforcements, there’s no reason for me to stick around there.”
“No,” Michael said, his words absolute. “The high priestess has begun fulfilling the ancient requirements to confront Ahriman. She believes he has attacked the Serbian witches, and since she leads the Scepter Coven, it’s her right and obligation to defeat Ahriman before he strikes again. To do that, however, she must wed a demon. So you need to go to her and pledge your service.”
“I what? You’re insane if—whoa, whoa, whoa, check it.” Stefan took an involuntary step back as he stared at Michael. The archangel’s face had gone completely blank, his eyes rolling up until all that was visible was their whites. He was communing with something, Stefan thought, and Stefan didn’t want to know what it was.
“She is choosing her consorts, who must…must be…hmm.” Michael’s voice sounded hollow and timeless. “Two demons, she chooses. A human. A witch. She searches for a third member of the horde. You. But she’s not finding you.”
“Because I left,” Stefan put in helpfully.
“You cannot. You must return to serve as her consort.”
“Her what?”
“It is your path,” Michael intoned, and a moment later, he was back to his usual irritating self. He stared at Stefan implacably. “She is your redemption, Nur-ayya Dadanum.”
Stefan stiffened. No one had called him by that name—no one—in more than six thousand years. For Michael to be pulling it out here and attaching the word redemption to it meant he was not messing around.
Michael kept going too. “Accept, and you will be forgiven of your sin—”
That did it. Fury snapped through Stefan, quick and hot. “Forgiven? Don’t even try that bullshit with me,” he growled. “There was never any sin for me to be forgiven of. You know that as well as I do.”
“A child of God died because of your carelessness,” Michael countered, his voice flat as he regarded Stefan with his starkly pale eyes.
“No, she died because she took her own life. Which was her God-given choice. Me rejecting her might’ve made me an asshole, but her death was not my fault.”
“Then why are you still damned?”
“Because somebody up there hates me!” Stefan roared, his cry far too loud for the spectral space.
“Wrong, Nur-ayya Dadanum,” Michael retorted. “Wrong again, just as you have been wrong since the moment your wings were torn from you and you were cast into the abyss. But now—now—despite your stubbornness, despite your implacable pride, you will have your chance at redemption. Succeed, and you and the Syx will be one step closer toward eternal freedom. Reject this path, and none of you will be redeemed.”
Redeemed.
Stefan wanted to scream, to rage, but the fire within him died abruptly, leaving him empty. Hollow. He blew out a long breath, his shoulders slumping. He would never be redeemed, he knew. He would never be forgiven. But his fellow demons of the Syx deserved better. For them…for the demons who were his only friends…he would endure. He must endure.
He sighed. “Well, when you put it like that—”
In the blink of an eye, Stefan was back on the dance floor at Storm Court, caught in the witch queen’s spell.
Chapter Three
“He’s a Syx,” Dahlia hissed.
“I know wha
t he is,” Cressida snapped back, her hands low and outstretched at her waist, drawing the demons closer. Not even Dahlia understood the full nature of Cressida’s, Marcus’s, and Fraya’s revised plan, but a Syx would fit in with it perfectly. Cressida would have preferred the first one she’d seen—big, gorgeous, and glowering, the kind of guy who looked like he could squash his enemies like a bug. But he hadn’t returned after he’d disappeared the first time, while the second Syx had.
She turned her attention to the Syx, who remained caught in her thrall no matter how impressive he clearly thought he was. Tall—though most demons were tall in their glamour—he topped out at around six foot four, and he was sleekly built, unlike the other Syx he fought with. He had a shock of jet-black hair that contrasted with his cool, fair skin, and his eyes were so dark, they were nearly black, revealing the faintest flare of fiery red glowing whenever he focused. His face was hauntingly beautiful too, with sculpted, high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and that defiant, smirking mouth…
Stop thinking about his mouth.
Cressida refocused on the demon’s less intimate details. Definitely strong, even powerful, his body was remarkably compact compared to his fellow enforcer’s giantlike build. The kind of guy who would bend long before he broke. The kind of guy that any intelligent woman would want in her bed.
Not helping.
Cressida frowned, disloyalty tugging at her. She shouldn’t be thinking about bedding anyone other than Marcus, she knew. He was her promised mate and the witch who would help her defeat Ahriman once and for all.
Only—oh, that’s right: Marcus had rejected her. Rejected! When he knew full well that Cressida’s powers would never fully blossom while she remained a virgin—yet another ridiculous dictate of the sacred grimoire, but one that had been proven again and again.
No one knew the truth, of course—and no one could know. Cressida’s position as high priestess was tenuous enough. Fraya had made it clear that any hint at all of Marcus’s “hesitation,” as she’d called it, would reflect poorly on Cressida, no matter how strong she already was. Witches liked their traditions, none more so than the Scepter Coven. And after everything the head lawgiver had done for Cressida—rescuing her from destitution after the death of her parents, raising her within the coven, teaching her the sacred arts, and finally sponsoring her unstintingly when it came time for her to be consecrated as a full witch—Cressida couldn’t …wouldn’t let her down.
Besides, it had been a foregone conclusion that she would have consummated her relationship with Marcus the same day she’d risen to her new role of high priestess—but he’d denied her. That day and every day after, up until this morning. He still planned to rule by her side, he assured her, still planned to help her defeat Ahriman, still planned to wed her in accordance with the sacred grimoire—to stand first as part of this trumped-up retinue and then as her sole consort. But…their relationship stopped there.
Which left Cressida stuck between a witch and a hard place.
And staring at a demon so overtly sexual he made her toes curl.
Cressida watched Stefan as he strolled forward. Unlike the other demons, he seemed to know he was being compelled, but he was covering it well. His smile was easy, almost amused, and his body was loose, his saunter both cocky and relaxed. She got the feeling that cocky and relaxed was the Syx’s general state. It’d be easy to convince the coven he was the right demon for the job—as a Syx, his power was undisputed, and he wore his sensuality like a second skin. No one would question that choice, except perhaps Marcus, and he didn’t get a vote.
As for the other consorts…
She turned her attention to the two demons, who were already sniffing at each other with curiosity, clearly sensing the compulsion on the others but not themselves. As the Syx approached them, they turned and bared their teeth.
“Relax, brothers,” the Syx announced, sotto voce. “None of us are going to get eaten tonight.” He slowly and deliberately shifted his gaze until he met hers. “Not unless we’re very, very lucky, anyway.”
Cressida’s eyes flared wide at the obvious inference. Did he somehow know what was going on here? That couldn’t be possible. Her summons to the demons had been beyond generic, and there was nothing in her compulsion spell that even hinted at her plan. Nevertheless, the Syx’s grin only deepened as he stepped past the confused demons and collared the human ex-priest. Dahlia had been responsible for that choice, but Cressida didn’t mind. The human was the least of her troubles. He was perhaps forty years old, but clearly a magician of significant strength, and that was the only necessary requirement. Once again, despite their honorary role as her consorts, she wasn’t going to have sex with any member of her retinue. She merely needed to tap their strength—in a decidedly nonsexual way. Marcus would be the only consort to share her bed.
Or at least, that’d been the plan.
Cressida glanced to where the strongest male witch of the Scepter Coven stood on the dais, well back from Elysium, Dahlia, and Cressida. His power was contributing to the strength of the coven’s pentagram, but it was time to remove the other demons from their midst. She waited to catch his eye, to nod that they could let the other demons go—but he wouldn’t look at her. Instead, he stared at the two demons he’d selected from the throng, pride and domination rolling off him like a thick tide.
Cressida frowned. Why was he so proud?
“These are your choices?” Elysium Gray demanded, and once more, Cressida refocused. Three demons, a human frozen in wonder, and her fated co-ruler. It was exactly what she needed, but that didn’t make her feel any better. She wanted this business over with.
“They’re my preliminary choices,” she hedged. “Should they fail in their duties, I will seek others.”
“As you say, we don’t have that kind of time,” Elysium countered. “We must prepare for Ahriman with all haste. If you cannot best the ancient demon with the consorts you’ve chosen, we should choose others. As soon as the ritual is complete, he’ll come to us. We need to be prepared.”
“We will be prepared,” Cressida said. “I’ve studied the requirements more closely than you have. I know what’s expected of me, and when. We can begin this night, but not until we clear this hall.”
“Agreed.” Dahlia’s voice was clear and strong beside her, and Cressida sensed her captain was also tracking Marcus’s reactions across the dais. “We need to focus on clearing the hall.”
“No.” To Cressida’s surprise, it was Marcus who spoke. He stepped forward, one hand extended to indicate he was keeping his focus on the pentagram restraining the demons. “Elder Gray is right. You must ensure your selections are to your satisfaction without delay, High Priestess Cressida. We may not have an opportunity this clear again, and if the demons talk…”
Elysium blew out a harsh breath. “If the demons talk, there’s no question Ahriman will know what we intend.”
“There’s no question of that regardless,” Cressida snapped. “Do you really think he’s not aware that the Scepter Coven is rising to take him on?”
No one responded to that for a long moment, and then a totally different voice rang out, carrying easily above the pounding music.
“Not to interrupt your powwow, princess, but your little pentagram of doom is starting to lose some of its mojo. Whatever it is you think you need to do, you’d best go ahead and do it before the horde starts the mother of all food fights.”
It was the Syx who spoke, of course, and Dahlia muttered something derisive beneath her breath as Cressida’s glare switched to him, then sheared away just as quickly. The Syx was watching her with open curiosity in his gaze, and, if anything, the intensity of his sexual interest was increasing, not decreasing. Probably not surprising given her spell of compulsion, but—
“Do it,” Dahlia said, her voice holding a warning tone for the first time. Cressida could hear the concern beneath her sharp words. Dahlia also didn’t know if the pentagram would hol
d. They’d never attempted to restrain so many demons in such a small space before, certainly not for any period of time.
In the end, it was Dahlia’s concern, not Marcus’s, that made Cressida move. Stepping forward to the pair of demons who stood to the left of the human, she forced herself to lock eyes with the first one Marcus had selected. This was a heavy, swarthy creature with a prominent jaw and dark, angry eyes. And his magic was undeniably strong.
Cressida hesitated. He was very strong, actually. Too much so? Could she take him as a witch not fully ascended to her own powers?
She could, she decided. She must.
“I’m Cressida Frain of the Scepter Coven, first among all witches,” she said. “You will be my consort. Tell me your name.”
At first, the demon stared at her, clearly taken aback, whether by her words or by the compulsion those words carried with them, Cressida didn’t know. It didn’t take long for the creature to jump to his own conclusions, though. He grinned at her with pure carnal delight, his heavy lips stretching wide to bare surprisingly white teeth. Then again, Cressida knew she shouldn’t be surprised. She and Marcus had crafted the compulsion spell quite deliberately to ensure that she wasn’t paired with any of the more repugnant members of the horde. A demon’s glamour was his own construct, and the more attractive the glamour, generally speaking, the more civilized the demon. Sexual partners or not, there would be no ugly demons in the high priestess’s retinue.
“I am called Boltar,” this one announced in gravelly tones. “I am the strongest demon on this floor.”
The snort that sounded far to the left of Boltar, on the other side of the human, was by now so familiar to Cressida that she didn’t need to turn her head. She merely nodded to Boltar. He was certainly strong. He also reeked of less pure evil than she would’ve expected for someone who simmered with such obvious power. She wondered if she would need to learn his story before one of the other demons destroyed him. She hoped not. She didn’t have time for any more drama than that which Ahriman would provide.