The Magic Queen (Dark Queens Book 4)

by Jovee Winters

  It wasn’t often he interacted with the gods of other realms, though he knew Aphrodite well as she was his female counterpart. He didn’t hate Aphrodite, though she often teased that he did, merely because he never threw himself at her feet.

  Considering he himself was a god of lust, her charms were nothing to him, likewise the charms of the females from his land. He’d sampled and tasted his way through them all and then some. More often than not, his cock didn’t even bother to rise without the use of magick for such pedestrian fare anymore.

  In truth, Freyr had agreed to come for one basic and very simple reason. He was bored. His sister, Freya, thought him a fool to leave his fjord for the unknown lands and customs of these strange peoples, but the way he figured it, if he didn’t like it, he could always whisk himself home.

  Aphrodite and Calypso might be gods, but so was he. There were always ways to get around a god’s enchantments, such as turning on the charm. Speaking of turning on the charm...

  He leaned back on his hands as the woman dropped to her knees and yanked on something. Her actions caused her nice, plump arse to wiggle enticingly at him. Wetting his lips, he smirked and decided he’d had more than enough of his one-week dry spell. She was here. He was here. The time was ripe for a little seduction.

  “Damn you, filthy little bugger. I’ll rip you out by the balls if I must, but you will obey me!” She yanked harder, almost falling over.

  She was a foul-mouthed thing, wasn’t she? He chuckled softly. That was okay; he’d always been rather fond of the bad ones.

  “Mmm,” he murmured, mouth curving into a large grin.

  Her movements stilled, her spine stiffened, and she glanced over her shoulder at him with a look of incredulity on her pretty face.

  “Excuse me?” she said huffily then blew a tendril of long brown hair out of her eyes.

  “Would that I could paint.”

  “What?” she snapped, clearly cross with him, which, oddly enough, caused him to chuckle again.

  At this point in the seduction, women were generally tripping over themselves to get their hands on him. Was it possible that, in all of the cosmos, there was actually a female who wouldn’t fall immediately in love with him? Not even Hel herself could resist him, and that was saying something when one stopped to consider she was about as sweet and docile as a gray wolf at feeding time.

  Deciding that maybe the time wasn’t yet as ripe as he’d imagined, he stood and swaggered toward her without talking because refusing to talk while approaching someone increased the air of mystery. If there was one thing Freyr was well versed in, it was the art of seduction. All women were the same. They might share different personality traits here and there, but strip them down to the core, and there was one basic affliction they all suffered from: Love or rather, the need to for it.

  They wanted to feel loved, feel like their partner was devoted to them, like he, or she, might hang the moon for them. Et cetera. Et cetera. It wasn’t that Freyr was absolutely opposed to love. He wasn’t. He merely thought the premise to be more myth than reality.

  There was lust. Desire. Need.

  Those things, he’d experienced aplenty. There’d been a few females in his day who’d sworn it was love. He’d merely smile, stick his cock in them, and make them forget such foolish notions.

  Freyr was not and would never be a one-woman kind of man. But he could play along for a little longer, he supposed. The woman’s defiance of the goddesses had amused him, and her obvious disdain for him intrigued him. This foul-mouthed female might not know it yet, but when he did finally make his move, she’d fall into his arms most willingly.

  “Do you plan to stare me to death or say something, you good-for-nothing waste of—”

  Chucking drily, he gently but commandingly pushed her to the side and kneeling, he took the root in his fist and yanked it up with one mighty heave. Too bad. He’d rather enjoyed watching her tight arse wiggle for him. But there was something to be said for playing the gallant knight too.

  “Is this what you were after?” He eyed the dangling, dirty, star-shaped root dubiously.

  Standing, she slapped her hands across the back of her legs, cleaning off the dust. And without even so much as a “thank you,” snatched it away.

  “Didn’t need your help.” She sniffed.

  “Didn’t say you did.” He grinned, which caused her to twirl on him, her face an unreadable mask. Normally, Freyr could figure out who a person was within moments of meeting her. The only thing he knew about this one was she had a temper worse than a shrew’s and a dirty tongue he desperately wanted wrapped around his cock.

  No, he’d never claimed to be profound.

  “Grr.” She stomped her foot, hugged the root to her shapely breast, and flounced away.

  There wasn’t really away out here. There were no trees to be had, not even shrubbery. What few twigs she’d managed to secure had come from the funnel they’d been transported through. All there was, was sky, grass, and weeds.

  Cupping his mouth, he called to her back. “You know you can’t escape me, love, much as you might try.”

  That evil eye was back on him, and it was ridiculous that this mere slip of a woman entertained him so by barely doing anything. But she did. He found himself smiling more than he had in weeks.

  Lifting up the long hem of her moss-green skirt, she stuck out her shapely ankle. He perused it, grinning with the thought that maybe all the thorns and prickly demeanor had been little more than bluster. His blood rushed through his veins as she slid her hand down her thigh, giving him a come hither look. Licking his front teeth, he decided to wait a second, make her anticipate and heighten her eagerness. Freyr had known he’d eventually wear her—

  But then that hand slipped to the inside of her thigh where a leather strap was tied to it, and with a jerk, she pulled out a wicked-looking knife. His brows rose, and this time, she smirked. Eyeing him with a look that said clearly she knew exactly where his thoughts had been, she snorted and began peeling the root with said knife.

  He chuckled. “Touché, love.”

  Pointing the knife his way, she sneered, “I’m no one’s love, least of all yours.”

  Freyr held up his hands. “Ignore my idioms. They mean nothing. So if not love, what should I call you?” No need to tell her that he had no plans of stopping, especially not when every time he did it, blood rushed up her swan’s neck and turned it a pretty shade of pearl pink. Mostly, he was just curious who exactly was this woman the goddesses decided was his type.

  To be honest, when Aphrodite approached him, Freyr had sensed an air of desperation about her. Something in her entreaty led him to believe he had not been their first choice for this foul-mouthed wench. But maybe they it’d all been in his head because there was something about this crazy female that both repulsed and mesmerized him. She was a mystery he was growing increasingly curious about.

  For several long minutes, she said nothing and only occasionally tossed him a sidelong glance.

  She tested him. The woman was smart.

  Maybe she figured that if she kept her silence, he’d grow bored. And normally, that’s exactly what he’d have done. But he liked her look, and until he got into her panties, he’d keep up his seduction tactics, confident in the fact that once he tasted of the honey between her thighs, his attraction would fizzle out as it always did. She’d be just another lay, exactly like all the rest of them.

  Freyr had decided long ago that what he enjoyed more than the sex was the chase. There’d only ever been one who’d taken him on a merry chase and given him good sex. Not great sex. There was a difference. And she’d died long ago.

  Root peeled, she tossed the bulb over her shoulder.

  Pursing his lips, he shook his head. The woman boggled his mind. “Why did I go through all the effort of showing off for you, for you to only toss away my gift, woman?”

  Rather than snap at him, as he’d expected, she laughed. The sound so shocked him that all he cou
ld do was stare at her in awed silence. Her entire face had transformed. The shrew was gorgeous even when scowling, but there was an almost magical, ethereal quality to her that made him incapable of looking away, a softening to her features and form that made her seem far less attainable than the prickly pear aspect had.

  The idea so startled him that he frowned. No one was unattainable to him.

  Never knowing the way she’d just tilted his world on its axis, she said in her musical cadence, “The root is of no importance, male. The magick’s in the skin.” Dropping to her knees, she gathered the skins still coated in layers of dust into a tight pile.

  Curious despite himself, Freyr walked toward her watching studiously. Her movements were nimble and dexterous as she tugged on the pendant around her neck and tipped it forward. A glowing purple powder filled her palm.

  “Crushed dragon scale tossed onto a bed of peridragon thorn shavings. Extremely flammable and able to burn steadily for hours,” she said absently, like a teacher instructing her student. Tossing the powder onto the pile, she scooted quickly back, jumping away from the raging glow of amethyst flame that soared into the sky. The heat that rolled off it was intense and very much appreciated in the growing chilliness of the night.

  He’d seen magick aplenty among his own people and so wasn’t all that impressed. But he sort of was because hers was purple.

  “You’ve provided us fire, love.”

  She hissed, and he chuckled.

  “Wish me to cease with the pet names? Give me your real one. Otherwise, I’m liable to keep—”

  Slapping her hands onto her hips, she stared at him unflinchingly. “Baba Yaga.”

  Now that name did make his heart stutter. There were few witches in all the realms as powerful as this one claimed to be. Looking at her with new eyes, he murmured, “Baba—”

  “Yaga! Yes,” she snapped, giving him a defiant look that made him realize she truly could be none other. “Changed your mind yet, male?” She lifted an arch brow, and his flesh tingled,

  He paused introspectively. Hmm, he’d never experienced flesh tingling before. Interesting. It’d felt...good. He’d need to study that sensation further. Planting a hand to his chest, he bowed deeply and intoned, “Freyr. Though you may call me Frey.”

  If he’d expected a dawning light of recognition to rush through the bright greens of her eyes, he’d have been sorely disappointed. Her look was as blasé now as it’d been previously.

  “Awesome.” Her pretty lips thinned.

  His nostrils flared, and laughter caught on the back of his tongue. “Do I detect a note of sarcasm?”

  “So they send me the god of fellatio. Who the hell do those women think I am?”

  Blasting out a laugh, he wrapped his arm around his stomach and thundered his hilarity to the winds. “Did you really just call me that?”

  It was the way she’d said it that had undone him.

  Baba watched him dispassionately, but there a definite note of humor danced through her eyes.

  “And don’t think I don’t know who you are, old witch.”

  “Notorious, am I?”

  Allowing his gaze to travel suggestively up and down her body, he smirked when her fists curled—unaffected, his arse—and he snorted. “Even among my own people, we’ve heard of the iron-toothed one, though I confess, you look nothing like the tales.”

  Twisting her lips, she returned to studying the ground, stooping to pick up rocks as large of her palm and tossed them around the fire. “Oh, I did. Stringy hair. Loose skin. Moles.”

  With each word, his nose curled with disgust. Gods, that was unattractive.

  “Liver spots. Rheumy eyes. A rather camel-like hump on my back.” She pointed over her shoulder. “Oh, yes, I’m rather vile in my other form.”

  She sounded proud of it. He lifted a brow. “So the old crone changed her skin just for me. I suppose I should be flattered.”

  “Please.” She tossed another rock at the fire.

  He realized she was creating a ring with them to shelter the flame and not to let it spread. His brain told him the sexy woman before him was probably a mirage, but she was one sexy mirage. He could do worse. Picking up some rocks, he helped her to finish the circle.

  “So then why are you so changed, love?”

  Her lips thinned, and his twitched.

  “I mean, Baba.”

  She rolled her eyes but answered him anyway. “I’m slave to the thrice moon. The crone is merely only one of my forms.”

  Surprised that she’d actually deigned to answer him, he nodded.

  “I know what that is. The maiden. The mother. The crone. But I thought you had sisters.” If he wasn’t mistaken, and he never was, she seemed impressed.

  But she shook her head. “The tales are greatly exaggerated. The truth is, I’m three forms in one, but I suppose it’s easier for those not in the know to assume I’m three separate people since my looks differ greatly from moon to moon.”

  “Which form do you prefer most?”

  Normally, he’d not care about the answer, but he found himself enjoying their little tête-à-tête, and truth be told, he was curious now that he’d asked it. He studied her.

  “What?” she snapped when he said nothing. Her fingers flitted along the square neckline of her peasant’s gown.

  The nervous gesture tugged a smile to his lips. “Will you not answer my question, love?”

  Her look was droll. “Since you cannot seem to comprehend anything I say to you anyway, no, I won’t. Why don’t you tell me what you think I prefer?”

  A teasing light touched her features, and he nodded. “Challenge accepted.”

  Studying her intently, he pieced together what few details he could from his short time knowing her. One. She wasn’t all that vain. She had the body of a nubile goddess but hardly flaunted it. Her dress was little more than rags sewn together. Some of the fabric was even threadbare in spots. Two. She’d dug her hands into dirt and had never once complained of grime beneath her fingernails. Three. She liked to laugh, though he was sure she did not know it yet. Four. Being a crone—while one was able to get away with a multitude of sins because most people would assume any vitriol that poured from such an ancient mouth was simply the ramblings of a touched mind—was no fun. The body would ache. The joints would hurt. He knew because he too had an ancient form. Five. The maiden would often be overlooked as silly and flighty, too young to understand the truths of the world.

  He smirked, and she arched a brow.

  “Well?”

  “The mother,” he said without missing a beat. “She is your preferred form.”

  He wanted to crow with satisfaction when a look of befuddled shock flitted so quickly across her face that he knew the emotion to be truthful. She quickly schooled her features back to calm, but he’d already witnessed the betrayal of her practiced façade.

  “Hm,” was all she said.

  Puffing out his chest proudly, he quickly picked up the final few rocks to finish off the task. He dusted off his hands and waited for her thanks.

  She looked at the rocks, at him, at the rocks, and then said, “I hope you don’t expect praise for that.” Without another word, she sat down cross-legged in front of the fire, rucking her skirts up around her knees, and stared directly into the flames. Two sensations filled him. One, she’d not applauded his paltry efforts. Two, she really did have nice knees.

  More and more intrigued, he walked over to her, sat at a close but far enough distance so as not to get punched for his impudence, and glanced at her.

  She waited at least a minute before looking over at him. “Let’s get three things straight right now, Fellatio. One. It’s never going to happen. Two. I’m not here to make friends—”

  He cleared his throat, rather liking her pet name for him, but unwilling to admit it.

  “Or become sex buddies. Whatever.”

  He snorted.

  “And three.” She inhaled deeply. “You need to move.”<
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  Laughing, he shook his head. “I’m not here to make waves, love.”

  She growled but didn’t punch him. She might not want to admit this, but she wouldn’t dare. He was more than just a god of sex. There was one small, but crucial part of his godhood she didn’t seem to understand. Perhaps it should have offended his godly hubris that she didn’t seem to know as much about him as he did about her, but the woman was entertaining as hell, and no matter how cranky he knew he should be, he simply wasn’t.

  He scooted a little to the left. “Good?”

  He’d basically only moved an inch. She sighed and hung her head, which caused her hair to curtain her face, and shook it. “Whatever.”

  “I’m wearing you down. Admit it. You love me,” he teased.

  Her green eyes reflected the amethyst of the flames as she stared back at him. “Don’t imagine that I don’t know who you are, Freyr. I make it a habit to know all there is to know about you gods.”

  “Indeed? Do tell, love.” He leaned back on his hands.

  Pinching the bridge of her nose, she looked as though she’d rather suck on a lemon than be forced to interact with him. The woman was hard on a man’s ego.

  Blowing out a raspberry, she said, “You’re the god who can be hated by none, which is why, no doubt, I cannot seem to turn you into a slug though I desperately wish to.”

  He chuckled deeply. “Good to know. You may continue.”

  She shook her head. “You exasperate me.”

  “So I’ve heard time and again. But please, this is fun. Do proceed, love.”

  “Argh!” Her hand moved so quickly he didn’t see it coming, but she did punch him. On the arm. And really, it’d been little more than a love tap. He’d become a masochist in his old age, he decided because he was having much too much fun vexing the little tigress.

  Leaning into her until their shoulders brushed he whispered into her ear. “Baba Yaga, you may not know this yet, but I’m a god and powerful as you are. You could never turn me into a slug.”