Bittersweet Magic to-2

by Nina Croft

  It felt so good. And when his other hand slid inside the open bodice of her robe to cup her breast, it felt even better, and she still didn’t fight him off. His thumb rubbed over the stiffening peak, and she groaned into his mouth. She craved the feel of him against her bare skin. How long had it been since someone had held her, made love to her? Too long, and she arched her spine and pushed up against his hand.

  Her body was no longer under her control. In a brief moment of clarity, she realized it. Too long denied that most basic of needs, contact with another person, now it was clamoring for relief.

  “Slowly, sweetheart.”

  She didn’t want to go slowly. He made to pull away and her hands gripped into his hair and tried to hold him close.

  “Jonas is back.”

  It took a second for his words to register. For her to realize that the loud hammering wasn’t the pounding of her heart but someone knocking at the door.

  Oh, shit, this was so embarrassing. Piers would love this. She’d been practically begging for it. Given a little more time, she’d have tossed him across the table and taken him by force.

  But he didn’t look amused. He looked pensive, and she decided that was even worse. She didn’t want him thinking about her.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She gritted her teeth. “Yes.” Apart from the frustration clawing at her nerves, she was fine.

  He studied her a moment longer, then straightened. “Come in.”

  The door opened and Jonas entered carrying a bottle of scotch. Nothing had ever been so welcome. Then she peered past him—he wasn’t alone. Just what she needed—more people to witness her total humiliation. Could the night get any worse?

  …

  Her pale, creamy skin was flushed, her breathing heavy, and her arousal scented the air. She wanted him. Badly.

  Which was good, because she could have him. And hopefully soon.

  As he watched, she pulled herself under control, though not before shooting him a glance filled with resentment. She didn’t like the way he made her feel. Why was that? It was obvious they’d be good together. Once they’d sorted out just who and what she was.

  Could she really be more than five hundred years old? She appeared no more than twenty. And such a contradiction of sweetness and toughness. And she’d said she’d been tortured before. Where and who by? And why did he have the sudden urge to find whoever it was and rip him limb from limb?

  That was unexpected.

  And unwelcome.

  He wasn’t in the business of protecting people, however much he wanted to fuck them. At least the thought had a welcome effect on his libido—his cock had been rock hard since he’d kissed her, but now the sting of desire subsided.

  Tara entered the room behind Jonas and Christian, filling the space with her own exotic blend of sweet and bitter. “Tara, how lovely to see you. What the hell are you doing here?”

  She grinned. “Lovely to see you too.” She sounded just about as sincere as he had. He studied her for a minute, searching for outward signs of her demon-fae heritage, but she still looked exactly the same—maybe even prettier. Living with Christian obviously agreed with her. Who would have thought it?

  He had an inkling as to why Christian had brought her here today. To take care of the sisters perhaps, take them under her wing, protect them from his evil ways. Well, she could have Sister Maria, but Sister Rosa was his.

  “Hey,” he said to Sister Rosa. “What is your name?”

  “Rosamund Fairfax. Roz will do.”

  Tara crossed the room and put the glasses she was carrying down on the table before holding out her hand to Roz. “Hi, I’m Tara. Christian’s wife.”

  Roz grasped the hand almost gingerly and shook it.

  Piers took the bottle of scotch from Jonas and poured out four glasses. He hovered the bottle over the fifth glass, and glanced at Tara.

  Christian shuddered. “Don’t you dare.”

  A teasing look passed from Tara to Christian. “I thought you liked me to drink.”

  “Maybe when we’re alone and can lock all the doors, shutter the windows, lock away anything breakable…”

  Roz was glancing between them, her expression confused. Piers decided to take pity on her.

  “Tara is part demon,” he said.

  If anything, Roz’s frown deepened.

  “Don’t you know anything?” he asked.

  A scowl replaced the frown. “No,” she snapped. “So why don’t you tell me?”

  He shrugged. If she was more than five hundred years old as Jonas had hinted, where the hell had she been all that time that she understood so little of their world? “Demons tend to have a rather extreme reaction to alcohol—it makes them lose all their inhibitions. Demons can be quite restrained, but give them a drink and that restraint goes straight out the window—or wherever.”

  “All demons?” she asked.

  “Some more than others. The more powerful can control it and even the less powerful can learn—like people, I suppose. But Tara’s a little new to all this—”

  She was studying Tara now. “Why? Why is she new?”

  “Perhaps she’ll explain all that to you later, but for now, I think you’re supposed to be telling us something.”

  It was Roz’s turn to shrug. “There’s not a lot to tell.”

  “How about starting with who you are, what you are, what that thing on your arm means, and what the hell you were doing in a convent dressed like that when you’re no more of a nun than I am?”

  “She’s not?” Christian asked. He sounded surprised, so obviously Jonas hadn’t had time to fill him in.

  Roz pursed her lips. “I’d make a very good nun.”

  “The hell you would.” Piers moved around the table, sat in one of the chairs opposite, and gestured to the empty seats. “You may as well all get comfortable—I have a feeling this is going to take some time.” While Roz had agreed to cooperate, he had a feeling that getting information out of her was not going to be a quick or easy process. Even now, he could almost see her brain working. She caught his gaze, and her expression turned guileless. She must be an excellent actress to stay unnoticed for so long. He waited until everyone was seated. “Well?”

  Instead of answering, she swallowed her scotch in one gulp, reached across the table, and poured herself another glass. Finally, she took a deep breath.

  “I told you the truth—well, some of it. I don’t know what I am.” She stared at the point behind his shoulder for a minute, and he curbed his impatience. He had an idea that she hadn’t told this story to anyone, and that intrigued him.

  “A while back some people were going to kill me because of what they believed I was, so I made a deal with someone, and that someone saved me. But in exchange for saving me, I was indebted to him until I had done a certain number of tasks. Apparently the mark on my arm will vanish when I’ve completed them.”

  How could she manage to say so much and so little at the same time?

  “When was this?” he asked.

  She bit her lip. “About five hundred years ago—1495, to be precise. And I was to be burned as a witch. They killed my mother.”

  Even after all this time, he saw the pain flash across her face. But not only pain; there was rage there as well, and he’d guess it was the rage that had fueled her actions all those years ago. His little Roz was a maelstrom of emotions inside that serene exterior.

  “Was your mother a witch?” he asked, as much to get a reaction as anything else, but instead of her anger, she looked thoughtful.

  “At the time, I believed she was totally innocent—and really she was. She knew nothing. But she was a healer. People would come to her when all else failed, and she would help them. They repaid her by burning her alive. I listened to her screams.”

  Piers remembered back to the night they had arrived. The scar on the other sister’s back—the healing had been much more advanced that it should have been. “Are you a healer as well?”


  He thought she wouldn’t answer, and fear flashed across her face. She must have been warned not to talk of her powers, no doubt by whoever had saved her all those years ago. And she must have lived with that fear all these years, hiding what she was, blending in with the “normal people” but always on her guard. He saw resolve harden in her face. “Yes. But more than my mother. I can bring people back from the brink of death.”

  He was guessing her mother must have had a touch of fae blood, as Jonas did. But Roz had far more than a touch. “Did you know your father?” he asked.

  The anger flashed again. “I remember him vaguely. He was tall and blond, and my mother loved him madly. Then one day, when I was about six, he went away, and he never came back.” Her eyes hardened. “Bastard. He promised to return, and my mother spent her whole life waiting for him, swearing that one day he would come for us. Even when the witch-finder came at the end, even as they were torturing her, she held on to the hope that he would somehow save us. He never came.”

  “Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe something stopped him.” Tara spoke, and Piers glanced across at her. The little demon-fae was blinking back tears. She was such a softy—amazing, really, when you considered who and what her father was.

  “I believed he was dead,” Roz said. “I hoped he was dead.”

  Her tone was harsh, but Piers suspected she was very likely wrong. “I somehow doubt that he’s dead.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m guessing your father must have been pure-blooded fae. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be immortal.”

  Shock flared on her pretty face, her eyes stretching wide. “I’m immortal?”

  “Well, how the hell else did you think you’d lasted all this time?”

  She shook her head, clearly bewildered. “He told me…” She broke off and her expression hardened. “That fucking bastard. If I ever get near him again, I’m going to slice him into little pieces.”

  “He?”

  She clamped her lips together.

  “I think maybe the sigil prevents her from speaking his name,” Jonas said from across the table. “It’s a protection method.”

  “So what did he tell you? How did he explain the fact that you never died, never aged? How old were you when you made this deal?”

  “Seventeen.”

  So young. A child.

  “He told me that he’d extended my lifespan, that I would live as long as I was indebted and bore his mark, but once I was free, I would age as normal and die as normal.”

  “Can I see this mark?” Christian asked.

  Piers glanced across at Roz and raised an eyebrow. She shrugged, swallowed the rest of her scotch, and pushed herself to her feet.

  She loosened the front of the robe, flashing her underwear, then slipped it off one arm and turned sideways to Christian so he could see the mark.

  It was actually very beautiful: an intricate, almost Celtic design that wrapped around her upper arm. “Can you tell who put it there?” Piers asked Jonas.

  “I might be able to find out. We have some books in the library, which might help.”

  “Okay, but later.” He had a good idea anyway, considering which demon he already suspected was involved with the Key, but he’d keep that to himself until he decided what to do with the information. “For now, let’s get on with the story.”

  Roz tugged up her dress and sat down. This time Piers filled her glass. She peered at him suspiciously before muttering a thank you. Underneath the calm exterior, she actually looked a little shattered. Well, she had just discovered that she was immortal.

  “After my mother died, I knew they were coming for me. I stopped praying to God at that point and asked for help from another source.” She gave them an almost defiant look. “I prayed to Lucifer. And while I didn’t get the devil himself, I got the next best thing.”

  “And you made a deal?” Christian asked. His tone was expressionless, but she must have sensed some censure, real or imagined, because she turned to face him, her eyes narrowed.

  “I was seventeen, I’d just listened to my mother die screaming in agony, and they were about to do the same to me. So yes, I made a deal. I didn’t want to die screaming, but more—I wanted them to pay. Can you understand that?”

  “Yes,” Christian replied. “You could say I made a similar deal myself. You don’t think I was born like this?” He grinned with a flash of fang and some of the tension seeped from her.

  “I made a deal. I signed my life away until I had done thirteen tasks. In exchange, I got to live and I got revenge—he burned the village, killed them all, and afterward…”

  She broke off, and Piers had an inkling of what had happened afterward. He decided then and there that if he ever got the chance, he would help her slice her demon into little pieces. He kept his thoughts to himself; this was a demon, after all. You could hardly expect civilized behavior. Tara was not so reticent.

  “All demons are bastards,” she muttered.

  “What about the fae?” Roz asked, her tone curious.

  “They’re bastards as well. They just aren’t quite so obvious about it.”

  “Tara is also half-fae,” Piers put in. “She’s not too fond of her family”

  Roz studied her; Tara appeared human, but then so did she. “Oh. Well, I’ve always known I wasn’t particularly nice. Now at least I can blame it on my father.”

  “It doesn’t matter who your father is,” Tara said fiercely. “You’re you. Just because your father is evil doesn’t mean you have to be as well.”

  Well, Tara would have to think that, wouldn’t she—considering who her father was? “Go on,” Piers said. “What happened next?”

  “I just went on. The years passed, and I tried to blend in, moving on before it became obvious I wasn’t aging. It was hard at first, but grew simpler as the world got bigger and traveling farther and faster became easier. Every so often I’d have to do one of the tasks—”

  “What sort of tasks?” Jonas asked. “What is it you do?”

  “Mostly, I find things—I’m good at it. I’m a Seeker. That’s what he called me.”

  “No wonder he saved you, if he knew that. Very useful. But I’m betting there are other things you can do.”

  “Really?” Now, she looked intrigued.

  “You have at least half fae blood. But it’s not only that; it’s your human blood as well. We tend to think that humans have no magic, but it’s more truthful perhaps that it’s just been forgotten. When it’s combined with fae-blood, fae-magic, it can awaken.”

  “How would I find out?”

  Jonas rubbed his hands together. “There are tests we can do, things we can try—”

  “Things you can try later,” Piers suggested.

  “But—”

  “Jonas isn’t going anywhere,” he interrupted her. “You can spend as long as you like playing, but first, finish the story.”

  She pursed her lips, but then gave a casual shrug. “A few weeks ago, I was given my last task. The thirteenth. Complete that and I’d be free.”

  “And the task was?”

  “I had to find something hidden in the convent of the Little Sisters of Mercy. A Key, but I don’t know to what.” She paused and sipped her drink.

  Christian glanced at him, one eyebrow quirked. He reckoned Christian was having the same notion he was. Which demon knew where the Key had been hidden all these years? He pushed the thought aside as Roz continued. “So I got myself in there. I’ve become very good over the years at acquiring new identities, becoming different people. I became Sister Rosa, did a bit of creative stuff with their records, and I was in.”

  “Bet that was fun?”

  She tossed him a dark look. “It was hell. But I did it, and I was going to be free at last. Then on the last night, this creep, Jack, breaks in there, kills all the nuns, and steals my Key.”

  “So you had no clue what this Key did, what it could do? And you just planned on handing it over to some demon to use for w
ho knows what purposes?”

  At Christian’s words, she turned and glared. “Yes,” she hissed.

  “You could have gone to someone for help.”

  “Who? He told me that I was an abomination, that the Order of the Shadow Accords would kill me if they realized what I was. I know he lied about a lot of things, but did he lie about that?”

  Christian shifted uncomfortably. “Well…”

  “In part,” Piers said. “The Order probably wouldn’t touch you, but under the Accords, the fae have the right to kill any with mixed blood. They ignore the people like Jonas—they prefer to pretend they don’t exist, but someone with half fae blood…yeah, chances are the Walker might want you dead.”

  “Great,” she muttered. “Who’s this Walker guy?”

  “He’s an assassin. Nearly killed Tara, his own niece, a little while back. So I doubt he’d balk at killing you.” Piers grinned. “So, let’s not tell him.”

  “Good idea. Anyway, I needed my Key back, and you were my only lead. I thought you might take me to it, and so here I am.”

  Piers had the distinct impression that there was something, if not a few things, that she wasn’t telling them. But the story made sense. One thing he didn’t like was the coincidence in two people searching for this Key at the same time when it had been safely hidden for a thousand years. But maybe it wasn’t coincidence at all. He poured himself another drink and studied her. She was back to impassive, the emotion gone from her features. She appeared so young and innocent. It was hard to believe she was more than five hundred years old, had lived countless lives. She’d been under the protection of a demon all that time and yet still retained a sweetness that was palpable. Mind you, she could also drink like a fish and was as tough and fearless as anyone he’d ever met. He still couldn’t believe she’d been faking being under his control—though she hadn’t faked those orgasms or her near desperation earlier. She wanted him.

  “Do you sleep with this demon?” He wasn’t quite sure where the question had come from, but he leaned forward, waiting for the answer.