Every Witch Demon but Mine (Maeren Series Book 1)

by Mercedes Jade

  Her gaze shifted from the now bloodied fan to the dark, red fabric she had pinned to the back of her victim.

  It was just a flesh wound. He would live to badly flirt with another witch.

  “Ouch,” he exclaimed.

  “Elizabeth!” Jill said on a very girly gasp.

  She looked up and saw that Pimples was staring aghast at her, along with Jill.

  Drat! She’d staked someone else by accident.

  Nothing like announcing her secret occupation by stabbing one of the ball’s guests! Maybe she had taken things too far.

  She failed at this undercover crap.

  Hopefully, she could disguise her mistake as either clumsiness or eagerness, instead of a slip of her temper.

  “My apologies . . .” she said, trailing off for the owner of the back to supply his name.

  Let it not be prince somebody, she hoped.

  The back stiffened in front of her at her words. He seemed too rigid to be the forgiving type.

  She eyed her unintended victim more closely.

  His back was broad. Rich, red fabric from a silk shirt delineated strong, corded muscles, where the shirt was plastered to her victim. His flanks tapered into a waist that was lean and compact, not an ounce of wasteful flesh like the foppish males more common in the room.

  Nothing spared for anything but the killing power of a top predator, with muscles that rippled as he moved.

  Why, oh why, had her stake found him?

  There were dozens of weak, lily-livered gentlemen here she could have chosen.

  Pimples probably had never even picked up a weapon in his life.

  No, she poked the deadliest looking male in the room to play with her.

  He had been bloodied by only a grazing wound, just enough to rouse his dangerous attention. As he straightened fully, she got a better appreciation of his height, towering even over her giant sister.

  She still had her fan to rap him on the knuckles as her mother had recommended!

  Her heart sped up as she waited for him to face her. She wasn't sure if it was excitement or fear, probably both. She wasn't bored any longer.

  Who was he?

  Pimples suddenly fainted on the floor with a thud that broke the crowd’s shocked silence and drew attention away from her.

  The bloodletting must have been too much.

  Jill bent over the unconscious and harmless idiot that started all of this, with a half dozen other debutantes.

  Elizabeth was left alone to face the dangerous and wounded owner of the back.

  “Prince Daemon,” a male servant called the back.

  He turned. All the air was sucked out of the room.

  Why did it have to be him?

  Of course, it had to be him.

  Daemon still had boyish dimples. That and his dark eyes were all Elizabeth could find familiar from her glimpse at his features as a child in his mother’s memories.

  He was grown now. This was the riskiest male in the room for her to challenge.

  She had let the wrong ship crash against her rocky shores!

  He stood out easily, taller than almost every other male present. Dark eyes and a wicked smile greeted her gaze as she looked way up, without heels to boost her.

  At least, he was smiling instead of cursing her.

  His messy waves were carelessly tousled. The ebony hair brushed just past his collar.

  A little scruff on his chin reinforced his look of a debonair thief, which warned mothers to keep their daughters locked up.

  The smirk on his lips said he knew she was unguarded.

  The demon prince!

  She didn’t feel the revulsion she had expected, knowing his demonic heritage, even though it was stamped on too pale skin that faded his mother’s ethnicity by a lifetime of avoiding the sun.

  He looked every bit as formidable as rumoured: the king’s firstborn and the dark enforcer of Maeren’s laws.

  He waved the servant off that had called to him as he focused on her. He also waved away an offer of a handkerchief, a bit more impatiently.

  For her part, she didn’t really notice anyone but Daemon. His presence was all-consuming.

  “I’m fine. Just a little too much enthusiasm with your fan, my lady. What have they fed you? A bit of rum in the punch?” he asked.

  His voice was deep and complex. It rolled over her skin with a shiver. There seemed to be so much more to his meaning than just the words.

  He gave Elizabeth a little conspiratorial grin that reinforced that thought.

  “Hello,” he said more softly in that sexy baritone as she stood there, silently staring at him. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  Dance with the Devil

  Prince Daemon was talking to her. His words didn’t quite make sense. He must have meant he hadn’t seen her coming.

  Well, that made two of them.

  She still didn’t respond, quickly discarding the inadequate responses that raced through her head.

  Come here often?

  Do you want a drink?

  Am I supposed to curtsy?

  Why couldn’t her mother show up now and put her out of her misery?

  “Tipsy, sweetheart? It’s okay, just makes the blood sweeter to taste,” he told her with a wink as he stepped even closer.

  Nobody was allowed to come between them.

  She shot him the same glare that had held off the rest of the fops here.

  As if she wanted to tempt him. All her efforts tonight were wasted!

  Sweet blood? He wanted to taste her.

  He was going to taste her. Here, in front of all these people, he would pay her back for the wounding and claim his own blood from her.

  That couldn't happen! The demon prince had lightning for his primary magic.

  He could uncover her greatest secret with just a sip.

  He stalked her.

  She backed up. The reverse steps were slower than his prowling forward. Her long skirts tangled unfamiliarly around her legs.

  As quickly as the stabbing happened, time slowed down for her to notice all the details while he leisurely approached.

  It had to be the shock. Maybe it was still the punch.

  His eyes were piercing. Not black, she realized, tilting her head up to keep eye contact as he approached. A very dark hazel, golden brown with an edge of green. The kind of eyes that seemed to change colour the longer she looked into them.

  His dark lashes and brows were equally dramatic against his skin and made his eyes striking, drawing her to how they lit up with amusement as she held her bloodied fan out to ward him off.

  He had one of those swords at his hip like the rest of the males at the ball, only its pommel was plain and scarred. It was wrapped with serviceable leather that was overshadowed by the jewelled sheath.

  Most of the vampires here probably couldn’t draw a sword without tangling their lacy cuffs and fancy silks. She could feed them a little humble pie, one wooden sliver at a time with her fan stake.

  Prince Daemon had a reputation as an excellent swordsman.

  She imagined a pirate with a cutlass, come to claim his booty.

  He only smiled a little broader as she held her fan higher, compensating for his height as he kept approaching.

  His toothy grin said he’d snap her fan like the fabric-covered twig it was, and then he’d put his big, demon hands on her.

  She tried baring her teeth back at him.

  He merely arched one sardonic brow, silently reproving her little defiance.

  She refused to drop her stake hand even as he met the fan with his chest.

  The blunt end harmlessly pressed into his dress shirt. Blood red silk stretched over his broad shoulders and clung to his moulded muscle. He felt like a rock against the fan holding him back.

  The fitted shirt flattened down over a taut abdomen with washboard ridges the thin silk couldn’t hide. Gold and ruby buttons disappeared into tailored pants she really shouldn’t be examining so closely.
r />   She looked back up.

  He’d taken advantage of her distraction to move even closer, letting the fan bite into his chest to surround her with his body.

  All she could see was him. There was no ball, just his heat and power.

  His voice demanded surrender. “Yield!”

  Elizabeth refused.

  A little air gave her fan heft. She wasn’t willing to crank her head back to see his eyes. He wouldn’t get her to give him an inch, pushing back on her fan to the breaking point first.

  She breathed his unique scent as he surrounded her: wood-burning smoke like most fire lords, but with a hint of rain that saturated the ground.

  It reminded her of the aftermath of a violent thunderstorm, dangerous and capable of enormous destruction.

  He grabbed her wrist, thumbing with pressure just right to make her drop the fan into his waiting hand.

  She hissed at the fleeting discomfort, sharp and impossible to fight as her muscles did as he commanded.

  “Bastard,” she cussed at him.

  He tightened his grip. He was powerful.

  It wasn’t for his coiled strength under the soft, silk shirt that she felt a flicker of fear.

  Magic licked up her arm as he claimed her wrist that he was still holding.

  Most male fire elementals used this trick to impress, with status assigned to the colour of flame produced to circle the witch’s wrist like living jewelry.

  Oranges and reds were weaker than greens and blues. The hotter the white core, brighter without burning the witch, was a true demonstration of power.

  She had a blindingly white circlet of stars looped three times that felt as cool as spring’s rain against her skin.

  Her own magic leapt up in recognition of another’s lightning, with diamond sparks joining the stars.

  She ripped her wrist from his grip, ending the dangerous display.

  “Go suck yourself,” she told him with another hiss of pain, this time self-induced.

  His magic had been bright enough to hide anything but a lightning strike in the middle of the room, but she didn’t want to chance him instinctively figuring her out.

  He looked angry.

  Getting stabbed he laughed off, but being denied seemed to jerk the right chain. His dark eyes promised vengeance.

  “What a delightful mouth,” he whispered to her.

  Her nerve endings came alive hearing that deep voice so close and intimate.

  He still hid her from the view of everyone else as he leaned over her. Further retreat wasn’t possible with the wall a few inches away and his body blocking the exits.

  “Too late to run,” he confirmed as her heart thumped warning.

  “Not here,” she whispered, trying to strike a compromise.

  “Excuse us,” he turned his head to call out to the crowd still pushing smelling salts and damp cloths at Pimples. “The lady would like some privacy. Virgin nerves, I’m afraid.”

  He chuckled.

  She would announce she was a vampire slut if she thought it mattered to him, but the virgin nerves were only an excuse. She wasn't getting away that easily.

  He had grabbed her wrist again with a grip that belied all humour.

  She threw Jill a desperate look as her sister finally came into view again.

  Thankfully, Jill had the sense to pay enough attention to notice Daemon dragging her off.

  Their mother was still missing.

  Jill summoned the spike from her bun.

  Elizabeth forgot all about her own peril. She boldly stepped in the opposite direction Daemon was tugging so she could reach her sister before Jill made an even bigger mistake tonight.

  Daemon must have been surprised because he stumbled along, chained by his own grip on her wrist.

  She had hoped Jill would get their mother's attention, not stake one of their possible suspects before they had judged him for assassination.

  Elizabeth quickly grabbed her fan back from Daemon.

  She handed it over to Jill with a flourish, letting the fan open fully to display the single white stick left and covering the spike in Jill's hands.

  “Go ahead and use it,” Elizabeth told Jill. “It’s lucky.”

  Jill took the fan hiding her impromptu spike-stake.

  Elizabeth discreetly shook her head at her. It wasn’t the kind of help she needed.

  Much as she would like to put Daemon in his place, slaying before guilt was proven would make Elizabeth more of a monster than the vampires and demons she staked.

  “There’s still one stick left,” Elizabeth pointed out.

  “Are you sure you’re up to a tasting?” Jill asked.

  The question was impertinent at a tasting ball.

  Jill wasn’t dissuaded by the demon prince hovering over Elizabeth’s shoulder. Her sister had to know who it was that had Elizabeth in his grip.

  “I may have had too much to drink,” Elizabeth admitted, taking the possible out.

  She’d tried to slur her words, but it was hard when fear made her stone-cold sober.

  Her lightning would be discovered the moment Daemon tasted her blood.

  “I won’t take advantage of a lady,” Daemon said in a reassuring manner.

  She nearly sighed in relief upon hearing what sounded like a rejection, but then, he wrapped those big, warm hands on her shoulders and tugged her back into his embrace.

  Her relief would be short-lived. Struggling would make him close the trap sooner.

  Jill looked like she was going to panic, so Elizabeth tried to appear calm.

  “We’ll go to the balcony for some fresh air to revive your constitution,” Daemon offered.

  His hold on her said it wasn’t optional. At least, he’d respected her wish to not do this in front of everyone.

  “I’ll just be a few minutes,” Elizabeth said to Jill, laying down her terms. “If you could ask Mother to get me some tea, I’m sure it will help, too,” she added, telling Daemon that she would be missed if he tried to throw her body over the balcony.

  The same might not be said of him. He was not a favourite at court, unlike his younger brothers.

  A demon, this prince’s size, could probably even survive the fall from a balcony.

  “A few minutes should be plenty of time,” Daemon practically purred into her ear with satisfaction at getting his way. As if there had been a choice. “The air is quite bracing outside.”

  She waved ‘bye’ to Jill and turned in his embrace, slipping her hand over one of his to pull him away.

  Jill was distracted by Pimples as he woke up, struggling to sit amongst the crowds of unhelpful, fluttering hands reaching out to him.

  Elizabeth’s heart thumped harder with each step she took forward. Her feet were heavy like she had encased them in lead instead of silk slippers.

  Daemon switched their grips halfway to the balcony, taking the lead. This time there was no magical chain of stars, only a firm grip and a hurried march to their destination.

  Her back found a wall out of sight with his help. It was a solid wall, on par with the chest crowding her and cutting off escape.

  “Neck instead, sweetheart? Tell me how you want it,” Daemon coaxed.

  His midnight voice was much too close for comfort.

  Well, well, the pirate had lied. He totally planned on tasting her. Was this called a ship boarding?

  “Do you need to stand so close?” she complained.

  Her tone was as snotty as the rest of the nobility they had left in the ballroom. You would think it had taken years of practice instead of a few weeks.

  Daemon pulled her hand, which he’d been manacling, over her head. He trapped it against the wall. He snagged her other hand to join the first, crossing her wrists, so he could keep her shackled with only one of his bigger hands.

  Obviously, the demon knew how to bind his victims with nothing but his own strength.

  How many of them had fought back?

  He would be in for a surprise if she h
ad one of her stakes.

  The stone wall behind her felt as rough as the calloused thumb he brushed against the sensitive skin of her trapped wrists.

  She looked up at him with big eyes, thoroughly caged by his body and helplessly bound by his grip, or at least, it appeared.

  Her lightning wanted to play.

  She could feel the magic under her skin, tingling where his thumb rubbed. Such a tiny spark of energy between them, but it could explode in a moment.

  “Is this close enough?” he asked her, purposefully misconstruing her question.

  “To take advantage of a lady?” she asked, shaming him.

  It was a wasted effort.

  “You’re hardly tipsy, sweetheart,” he accused, bending down and sniffing at her mouth.

  She was going to protest, but then he might decide to taste her lips instead. She kept her mouth shut.

  “That’s a little sherry to flavour the punch, hardly the stuff that knocks the wind out of your sails,” he mocked.

  His ship talk reinforced her piratical image of him. All he needed were breeches and a bare chest. His bloody shirt wasn’t salvageable with the hole she put in it.

  She belonged on the cover of a trashy pirate romance too, with blonde locks and blue eyes like her sister, but wrapped in a curvier, petite package.

  Her upthrust breasts in the dress threatened to push free of the lace she had shoved in her décolletage as she tried to wiggle free of his grip on her bound wrists over her head.

  She was ready to be ravished.

  “This is not here,” he grumbled.

  He looked at her with impatience, interrupting her sexy fantasy as he reminded her of the simple request she had begged in the crowded ballroom.

  Apparently, his compliance was to be rewarded with her own.

  They were completely alone. The wall blocked everything but the faintest strains of music from the ballroom. He had shut the balcony door when they exited the room.

  A flutter started in the pit of her stomach as he surrounded her, his hard male muscles staking their dominant claim. The flutter travelled lower when he split her legs with one knee. Heat radiated through his breeches to warm her soft thighs, so dangerously exposed by the thin material of the dress.