Crowned by Fire

by Nenia Campbell

  When this investigation was closed the shifter would have nowhere to go. Her family would disappear, faded into the backdrop like ghosts. She would be like a stray without a collar, left to wander unclaimed. All the better for him to do the claiming.

  He hadn't been exaggerating when he scorned Cassandra's comparatively humble dwelling. His father's estates, and the staff of 150, give or take, were as resplendent as a palace. There were so many rooms. Hundreds, easily. How simple would it be to hide her there, when he knew the secret passages and their corresponding doors as well as he knew the back of his hand?

  Royce made a point of keeping shape-shifters in his employ—supposedly as a gesture of goodwill, but mostly to remind them of their place. The downtrodden, the destitute; the vermin he hired had no other options, which left Royce free to mistreat them as he saw fit, knowing that they wouldn't be free to leave.

  Catherine Pierce would fit right in among them; in a servant's uniform, she could move unnoticed. A bit of light housework during the day, then warming his bed at night. Every prince needed a consort, and the forbidden fruit tasted that much sweeter. He doubted she would receive such a favorable offer elsewhere.

  And then there was the matter of her untapped power. He had been mulling over her heritage, her abilities. What would happen if she ever got with a witch's child? Black beasts were so rare, killed upon discovery before they could breed. If they could. Some hybrids were infertile, but Finn suspected that was not the case with black beasts.

  What would the offspring of a black beast and a Triad witch look like?

  All this time he had been speaking to her softly, as one would calm a startled horse. He was unzipping her jeans, and the anticipation of fucking—fucking her—had made his throat thick and his brain hazy. He hadn't even realized that he'd spoken his thoughts aloud until he felt her flinch.

  “What did you say?”

  Hell. He ran his hand along her belly on the pretense of calming her, but also so he could be ready to hold her down if need be. “It was nothing,” he soothed. “Don't talk.”

  “You son of a bitch.” She pushed at him. “You want to use me as a breeding mare for some sick experiment?”

  He waved that aside, even as an image of her belly, tight and rounded with child, popped into his head. “No.”

  “That's what it sounded like.”

  “It could be an unintended consequence,” he admitted.

  “Death could be an unintended consequence. That doesn't meant I consider it a viable option for me.” Her eyes burned, only half-human. “I've heard the rumors about what you do, your highness. What you did. Do you know how many members of my kind you've killed?”

  Hundreds. Perhaps thousands if counting the kills he was responsible for indirectly. But they had been wild, savage shape-shifters. Out of control. More beast than human. Not like her. Finn did not think she would be happy to hear this, though.

  “Thank you for reminding me why I don't want to fuck you. Not only are you a whorish murderer and a traitor to your own people—” she gave him a look that scalded like acid “—you're also a terrible person. Any pup of yours would be similarly cursed, I'm sure.”

  He grabbed for her, but holding onto her when she did not want to be held was like trying to contain running water in a vise; it could not be done. He managed to close his fingers around one of her wrists, and since the hand he grabbed her with was the hand with the silver ring, it took the power out of her struggles.

  And then she kneed him in the stomach. He suspected she had been aiming for his balls, but she had missed. A happy occurrence for the both of them, because the blood curse was already taking root, sending shoots of agony blooming through her body.

  Good. He released her arm, grabbing her leg instead, intent on getting her back under him. But the denim was in the way—silver worked most effectively on bare skin—and she leaned up, snatching the knife from his belt too quickly for him to stop her.

  “Let go,” she said breathlessly. “Let go of me, you bastard.”

  Finn didn't let go. “The signs were there all along. It is not my fault you elected to ignore them.” He looked into her flushed, angry face. “Knowing what you know now, do you honestly believe threatening me is wise? What you are doing is high treason.”

  “And if I tell people what you are, and what you plan, your title is forfeit, if not your life, which renders that all moot.”

  “Assuming I decide to let you live.” Finn saw her flinch, almost imperceptibly. “What do your fellow beasts say about making threats toward your betters?”

  “You're not my better.”

  “Aren't I? We both know you can't kill me, not without ending your own life as well.” He ran his hand up her leg. “Do you think I wouldn't silence you?” He met her eyes and allowed himself a smile. “Because I would.”

  There was a long, drawn out pause. Around the hilt, her fingers were white. “So that's your game,” she said quietly. “That's how it's going to be. Blackmailing me into sleeping with you. I'm so overcome with sexual passion now.”

  “Give me the knife,” he commanded.

  She tightened her grip on the blade. “Tell me why you're toying with me like this.”

  “You wanted to play.” She flinched when his fingers touched her still-bared breast. “So we played.”

  Glaring at him, she pulled the camisole back in place. “What the hell do you want from me? To humiliate me? To make an example of me? What?”

  She looked like she might cry now. And part of him wanted her to. He could do it, he knew he could. With force, with power, with the bright gleam of silver. If she did not bend, she would break. Shape-shifters were far from invulnerable. He had broken them before. They needed freedom the way they needed food and air. A few weeks spent in chains shattered their minds.

  “What the fuck do you want?” Any louder, and her voice would have been a scream. Finn started to sit up, then stilled as the blade dug into the hollow of his throat. “You don't need to move to answer.”

  Under other circumstances, her stalwart nature might have amused him. But he was not used to being refused and she had made a habit of it. “You know what I want.”

  “Yes, you want an obedient little pet. One that will come when you call.”

  He expelled an angry breath. “No, I do not want a 'pet.'”

  “You want to stamp out the parts of me you don't like. Take away my freedom. Leave just enough ferocity to make me entertaining for you, a washed-out imitation of the real thing. A fucking pet.”

  Was that what he wanted?

  Yes—and no. He wanted to capture her, yes, to make her his, but he wanted to do it publicly, so everyone would know. He was tired of all this sneaking around; it was exciting at first, but now it was a pain—sex should not require military-level subterfuge.

  He wanted Others to see the strong, savage woman on his arm and know that, like a falcon with her master, she returned willingly to the gauntlet every time.

  And, even though it had started as a whim, he was genuinely curious to see if he could get her with child. Not now, but soon. Whatever creature formed from their union would be powerful. Powerful enough to start a war—or end one.

  Aloud, he said, “You want to be free. You also want to be mine. You can't be both.”

  “I don't want to be yours,” she said immediately. “You're a bastard.”

  “Then why are you still here?” he asked softly.

  There was a long silence broken only by their breathing: his slow and heavy, hers fast and light. Why are you still here?

  Because part of her, obviously, didn't want to leave.

  Finn let his lips curl into a smile and leaned back, putting some distance between his neck and the blade. Now that he was certain he was going to get his way, he was able to affect near-genuine complacency.

  “You're part witch, Catherine.” She winced when he said her name, and he resolved to do that more often. Such a simple means of putting her in her place
. “No shape-shifter could take you now, and the only one who would is dead.”

  She looked away from him, blinking as though trying to hold back tears. “Don't you dare,” she said hoarsely. “You're not worthy of speaking his name.”

  In all honesty, he couldn't even remember what the male shifter's name was. But that was beside the point.

  “The magic around you burns brighter every day. They'd smell it, the taint of their enemies, and ask you questions. Questions you wouldn't be able to answer. Not without putting yourself at risk. And any witch worth his salt would quickly know you for what you are and kill you. Quickly, if you were lucky. But you're not very lucky, are you?”

  She could be tortured. Experimented on. Dissected, or vivisected. Autopsied.

  There was also the possibility that she'd fall into the hands of a witch for whom the idea of a powerful army was enough to overcome the taboo. He or she might force her to breed for the rest of her life, which would be cut painfully short by captivity.

  Silence again, only this time her breathing was considerably faster.

  Finn stared at her breasts, thinking. Then he said, evenly, “You have ten seconds to take that dagger from my throat and decide whether you want to stay or go. If you want to stay, you'll give me the blade and beg me very, very hard, not to kick you out. On your knees. If you want to go, you may do so freely—but I won't be taking you back.”

  She leaned in, lips slightly parted, and he stopped breathing. Something hot and wet hit him in the face. Spit. The bitch had spat in his face. “Fuck you, Your Highness.”

  She plunged the knife between his legs, pinning him to the bed by the seat of his pants. Then she slid off him and headed for the door that separated their rooms.

  It slammed shut behind her.

  Fool.

  She should have left the moment the witch had made his intentions plain.

  Fucking fool.

  He wanted to rob her of the wildness that was as much a part of her as her beating heart—and from the sheer callousness of his words, the witch might well decide to divest her of that, too, and simply rip it out, bloodied and still beating. Bastard would probably even convince himself that he was doing her a favor by it.

  Because he didn't want a lover. He didn't even want a consort. No, the witch wanted a beautiful, exotic creature. Something domestic and tamed. A puppet. A servant. A slave.

  It shouldn't have come as such a shock. She knew what he was capable of, because he had not attempted to hide his cruelty from her in the past. It shouldn't have hurt as much as it did. So why did she feel so sick in the heart?

  Catherine collapsed on her bed. And then she was crying, with her face buried in her arms. Crying because that was such a terrible choice he'd offered, with so little thought. Nobody should have to choose between a cold heart and a dead heart.

  What he was offering, a life of servitude, would kill her—slowly, it would kill her.

  One way or another, he was going to be her death. He was an arbiter of Council law, and he had said so himself that, if pushed, he would not hesitate to betray her for crimes of the blood committed decades before she had ever been born.

  Who was the witch in her family tree? Who signed her death warrant with her birth?

  Why had her mother never warned her—her, or Lucas, who seemed to have the same affliction, considering his prophetic dreams. If they both had witch blood, why weren't they told? Was it just assumed that the problem would fade with age?

  Catherine wanted to scream with frustration.

  She didn't even have the pleasure of hearing the truth from her family. No, she'd had to hear it all from the Crown Prince, the king's own personal fucking bounty hunter.

  It was starting to make sense—the high price the Slayers had out on his head, his sense of entitlement, the obsequious respect Others were quick to show him.

  How had she not managed to assemble the facts until now? She wanted to kick herself for her stupidity. Because she had heard the stories about the Crown Prince, oh, yes; he wasn't just ruthless. As far as shape-shifters were concerned, he was evil, too. He had murdered hundreds of her kind as if they were livestock in an abattoir.

  And she had kissed him.

  The door creaked open and Catherine tensed, digging her fingers into the sheets hard enough to leave holes, but it was only Cassandra.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes,” she snapped, wanting the seer to go away.

  “I thought I heard shouting. I know how nasty Phineas can be. He—”

  Catherine hastily swiped away her tears and turned her face away. “It's nothing.” The nightstand was growing blurry again. “Give me five minutes,” she muttered.

  Cassandra was at her side in an instant. “What did he do to you?”

  “I said it was nothing,” she snarled.

  Cassandra stared at her, not frightened, exactly, but wary. It was an odd way to react to an angry shape-shifter, making Catherine wonder fleetingly whether she had ever encountered one before. Then the witch's half-sister was patting her back.

  The iron in her spine melted and she want limp, as though against her will. It just felt so good to be touched—firmly, but not so firmly that she couldn't shove the other girl away if she chose. Because that was what it all came down to in the end: choice.

  Freedom.

  Catherine drew in a deep breath, and then paused, confused. The male musk she had detected earlier was coming from Cassandra. She didn't just smell male, she was male.

  Catherine blinked dazedly, thrown. Could Cassandra be biologically male? She didn't look masculine at all, but it explained the scent around the house, and also Cassandra's confusion when Catherine had thoughtlessly asked whether she had a brother.

  And then Cassandra took hold of Catherine's hand and she tensed, remembering what had happened earlier. She had seen death. “Don't,” she pleaded, but all that happened was a brief, uncomfortable buzz of sensation, like a static shock.

  “I look into your future,” said Cassandra, “and all I can see is pain.”

  Catherine closed her eyes. Great, she thought. Real fucking reassuring.

  “Don't let it turn you cruel—or worse, let it turn you numb.” Cassandra pulled away. “Apathy is worse than cruelty. One person may perform an unforgivable act, but the five hundred silent spectators who watch him commit it are no less to blame. It's a poison, and it's seeping into the world, infecting one heart at a time. Don't ever grow immune to another's suffering.”

  “I won't,” said Catherine, not sure if she meant it. Sometimes it was easier not to know, not to ask. But Cassandra's words had had their effect, she was starting to feel calmer—until something hit her in the back. It was her shirt.

  “You left that on my floor,” said the witch—the prince—from his post in the bathroom doorway. He was still shirtless, and his coppery hair was mussed. Catherine's breath hitched. Her fingers dug into her palms, leaving tender crescents.

  What is he doing?

  He glanced at Cassandra, as if only just realizing she was there. As if he weren't putting on this show for her benefit with the intention to humiliate.

  “I'll be taking dinner in my room tonight,” he said. “Leave the tray outside the door.”

  “What did you do?” Cassandra snapped, looking furious—furious, and a little afraid.

  “Ask her.” He glanced at the two of them a final time, shook his head, and left.

  Catherine wrung her shirt in her hands. It was good the witch had said those things; he had saved her from making a terrible mistake.

  “Do you want a different room?” Cassandra asked. “We have lots of rooms.”

  “No.” Catherine punched her arms through the plaid shirtsleeves. That would be weak. Letting him win. She would not let him know that he'd gotten to her. She would not let him know just how much he frightened her.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” Catherine closed her eyes. “Thank you.
” The effort of being polite rendered her lips stiff and immobile. “Right now, I just need to be alone.”

  “All right. There's about twenty minutes until dinner,” said Cassandra. “I'll come back in nineteen.” She offered a tentative smile before letting the door click shut behind her.

  Catherine leaned back against the bed, touching her lower lip with two fingers. She half-expected to see fine crystals of frost melting on her fingertips. Never in her life had she felt so impossibly cold.

  Cassandra followed through on her promise and came to collect her nineteen minutes later. They walked past the impressive chandelier, down the stairs, through the living room, into an elaborately decorated dining room. The table was set for four, which made Catherine flick an eye towards the main hall. Was the witch joining them after all?

  The door on the other side of the room opened, and a man entered the room, pushing in a wheelchair-bound older woman. Catherine let out her breath. So this was the fourth guest. “This is my grandmother,” said Cassandra, as if reading her mind—and given her abilities, that was not an entirely outlandish possibility. “Minerva Tyler.”

  Minerva was rail-thin, with skin as withered as a peach-pit. Even her wrinkles had wrinkles. Apricot tufts of hair sprouted on her head, framing gray eyes that sharpened a little when they landed on Catherine.

  “Who is this?” Her entire face strained with the effort of speaking. “Friend of yours?”

  The man pushing her—presumably Cassandra's father—gave Catherine a sharp, appraising glance. “I'd be interested in knowing that myself, Cassandra.”

  Catherine hesitated, glancing at Cassandra. Mistaking her look for helplessness, the seer said, “Catherine's another victim of Council whim, Dad.”

  “I see.”

  He did? That was a clear infraction of the First and the Third rules, then.

  When he looked at his daughter, Mr. Tyler's face softened as much as granite could soften. “Call me in advance next time so I can make proper arrangements.”

  Cassandra inclined her head. “Yes, Dad.”

  He made a vague gesture. “Where is…?”

  “In his room.”