Romantic Days, Romantic Nights

by Lynn Jae Marsh

  "Shit-fix needed," the elderly warlock said, his southwestern twang pronounced. "It's the dupleki demon. He's upped his price."

  "Pay it. In gold," Jock commanded. "The greed of that race is infamous."

  "And the coven mothers are getting twitchy. The brood and I reckon, we..."

  "Let the beldams mental search until the end of time. They will never pierce the pentagram hex to invade my..." Jock broke off. "You didn't come here to tell me this."

  "No, Jock, I didn't. I have bad news." Houston looked away. "There was another lithosphere disturbance at the Everest site. TaPai was killed."

  Jock walked to the weapons cabinet. He fingered its carved wood. He rearranged the contents, moving the dagger, the broadsword, and his cherished morning star. TaPai had been young, full of promise, and his death was unnecessary.

  Jock's vision blurred. He closed the cabinet door with quiet care. He could have prevented TaPai's death. If he had not allowed Lania time, if he had forced her to handfast, the smiling apprentice with the almond eyes would still be alive.

  The Darkling prince knew what he had to do. He could show Lania no mercy.

  Chapter 8

  Lania had soaked away her anger in a long, hot bath. One look at the sunken tub, and she had stopped raining curses upon Jock's head. He claimed that this was her home. She had decided to treat it as such-at least for the time being.

  She noted that the bathroom, larger than most apartments, was a hedonist's dream, containing every amenity from walls adorned with crystal to floating water lilies. When she stepped into the perfumed water, the encircling mirrors misted. It was as if Jock was there, in the mist, and she struggled to shake off the dreamcast memories before they became a reality.

  Stripping open his shirt, he looked her over with raven-like intensity. He stood, waiting for her submission. But she did not quail before him, standing her ground, matching him look for look. He stalked her-a game of cat and mouse-until he leaped, swooping to capture her lips.

  He mounted her with one fluid movement. As he rocked back and forth, his movement caused the water to wave in an undulation of desire. With each motion, she squeezed around him, coiling her legs around his Herculean torso, sucking him in.

  He banged her like a sledgehammer, every plunge forcing her, ruthlessly, towards the abyss. She came and wanted to come again, wanted to pound out her release.

  He flipped her over, onto her belly, and came up behind her, bringing his loins against her, close. She felt him there, at her slit, demanding entry. His short hairs were coarse, driving her crazy by their roughness. His hand searched, pealing away the full, protective folds of her bud. He jerked hard on his rod, his hand moving up and down, manipulating himself like a virtuoso, then encased himself, laying himself against her cleft, letting the friction work its magick.

  She reached behind him, digging her sharp nails into his buttocks, urged on by a ripple of passion within her that threatened to shake the earth. Tension tightened her body until she thought that she would go mad without release. She warred against the conflicting desires, even as she felt her muscles clenched around him. She felt his hands slip under her belly to raise her, to angle her for each thrust, so high that her elbows just grazed the frothy water.

  The waves danced on the contours of his body when he rose from the bath like an arrogant Aquarius. He dashed the water from his hair, shaking his raven locks with a toss of his head. His now spent cock, nestled between his legs, swung like the pendulum of a clock.

  Later, much later, Lania bent forward with the lithe grace that only a princess can achieve. Having finished her nails, she was wiggling them dry. She didn't look up when the door opened and in the doorway stood Sklar, dripping in jewelry.

  Sklar entered. No, she made an entrance, striking a pose, like a glittering beauty queen at the end of the runway. She was draped in a blue evening gown, and she had secured her long hair with a golden clasp.

  Lania barely spared her a glance.

  "Nice shiner," the princess said.

  "Prepared for a night in," Sklar said, returning the dig. "No Prince Charming?"

  Lania snorted with impatience. She did not like games for she never had to play them. The Whitelings were a direct people, business minded, blunt to a fault. As their princess, she commanded their straightforward advice.

  "What do you want?" Lania asked.

  "To get my coat."

  Sklar reached into the wardrobe for a full-length sable. Pulling it on, she caressed the fur against her cheek.

  "Huh." Lania snorted, looking her over. "You look like you're about to bark."

  "I don't bark," the former wolf-dog snapped, with an angry lurch.

  "Fur on fur. Now that, my dear Sklar, is a fashion statement."

  "Call me Perséa. Lucky does."

  "I guess a man can call a woman anything when he keeps her on a leash."

  "I've been around a long time. I know things." Sklar walked forward, swaying.

  "That explains the wrinkles about the shiner."

  "You'll never come between Lucky and me. We're connected."

  "Yeah, well, some men will connect with any bitch in heat."

  "You'll handfast with him over my dead body."

  "Cut the drama. I'm not interested. I'd rather marry a slime demon."

  "We've shared things that you couldn't hope to understand."

  The changeling paused, studying Lania's face through narrowed eyes. Laughing softly, she continued. "Lucky is so good in bed."

  "Yeah. I know," Lania confirmed, her eyes twinkling.

  "He's so agile."

  "Did he tongue you too," Lania said, beginning to enjoy herself.

  "I thought that I would die."

  "Damn, that man's tongue gets around."

  "I can help you get out of here."

  "What and let you have all the tongue to yourself. No way."

  "That's what Lucky really wants. Only he is such a slave..." Sklar paused suggestively over the word, "...slave to duty."

  "Huh, it sounds like he just got lucky."

  Lania blew on her nails and smiled.

  Sklar moved closer, wrapping herself around the bedpost. She leaned her head against it, her black hair blending with the ebony wood.

  She could be Jock's twin, Lania thought. There was a sudden twisting at her heart.

  "I've got a secret," Sklar said, almost singsong.

  "Then don't tell me."

  Sklar was taken aback. "Why not?"

  "Because then it wouldn't be a secret."

  "That troth offering was used," the changeling continued as if she had not heard. "I guess Lucky felt the desire to try it out. You were too busy being the ice princess."

  "Great work, if you can get it."

  "We did it all over the place. Lucky didn't want to stop. And all the time that we did it, he was saying my name."

  "Spare me the details and get to the point, if there is one," Lania said.

  Like most changelings, Sklar didn't want to get to the point. She thrived on mischief. It was like manna to her. Getting to the point wasn't any fun. It was the journey, the devious, crooked journey that made her existence worthwhile. She had caused eons of misery to unsuspecting mortals and still wanted more. Even those supernaturals that knew her true calling, misunderstood her, considering her nothing more than an impish puck. They were wrong. She had tempted angels to damnation.

  Sklar saw before her a worthy opponent and a threat to her plans. Lania treated her with amused scorn, but the changeling sensed that the flippancy masked powers that had not yet been tapped. The ancient ones were wise to forbid spellcasting by the princess of the white witches in the castle realm of the warlock prince.

  "I have a plan," the changeling said, her voice dipping low.

  Against her better judgment, Lania's ears perked up.

  "Do I smell doggie poop?" the princess murmured, sniffing.

  "Huh?" Lania said, taking a quick look around.

  "As i
n, something is stinky in the realm of Jock."

  "Why won't you believe that I want to help you?"

  "Because I don't trust you..."

  "You can," Sklar assured her.

  "All those centuries of morphing makes you changeable."

  "I can help you and I will. There's no need for that silly ceremony."

  "What about Malki and the First Sign of the Alpha? What about all the people who could die? Wiccan Lore..." Lania stopped. She had almost quoted Wiccan Lore. "What's your plan?"

  "I can disrupt the pentagram."

  "Disrupt a pentagram hex! Yeah, right. And I have a crystal ball in Brooklyn that I want to sell you."

  "For a few seconds," Sklar said, nodding her head quickly. "Enough time for you to get out."

  "Why should I trust you?" Lania asked, pondering the possibilities.

  "Why not?"

  "Oh. Let's see. All those centuries of changeling mayhem and misery. There was that incident with the apple in the Garden of Eden, the Helen of Troy fiasco, the Tom Cruise-Nicole Kidman breakup."

  "You can trust me. We both want the same thing. You out of here. I've even brought car keys," Sklar said, dangling the keys, before placing them on the bed.

  Lania eyed the key ring, marked "Jock's car," but made no effort to pick it up. She almost laughed at the preposterousness of the ploy.

  "And I want you gone. Right now," Lania said.

  The princess uncoiled herself from the bed and walked with menace towards Sklar. The changeling retreated before her, hugging the wall until she reached the door and safety. There, she dropped all pretense. Her shoulders hunched; her canines grew, saliva glistening on them. Her nose swelled long and pointed, before she got control over her metamorphosis.

  "You foolish witch," Sklar spat. "I expected more from the princess of the Whitelings. You scream and shout and threaten terror, but what have you done? The Darkling warlock has used you, abused you, and made you love him for it."

  "Really," Lania said, standing toe-to-toe with the mutating changeling. "Try this for size. Rutterkin, thy is for the air. Come to me, my servant, through the elements to smite this pox-marked transmute..."

  The pain crippled Lania and she sagged to her knees.

  Sklar's lips curled into an evil smirk. She pronounced the most damning insult.

  "Faerie."

  Lania staggered to the bed, praying for the pain to ease. It was a long while before she was able to sit up. By then, the dark silence in the room was deafening, casting a pall over her thoughts.

  She knew that Sklar was right. She was foolish. How could she let the changeling bitch provoke her? Why had she taken the obvious bait when she knew it was futile?

  Made you love him for it.

  The changeling's words ripped into Lania's thoughts, forcing her to choke down a scream. She did not love Jock Steele. She loathed the very air that he drew into his warlock lungs.

  So why had she been rather fancying herself as the lady of the manor? She was sitting on his bed, in his bedchamber, surrounded by his possessions, polishing her nails, and having a grand old time.

  No. She would escape. She would leave this place and return to her realm. With the help of her sisters, she would wreak revenge. In her mind's eye, she saw Jock hanging from a gibbet, his trunk twitching in torment. She shut her eyes and swallowed hard, gripping the bedclothes tight against her mouth.

  How could this happen? How could she let this happen?

  She would not.

  Faerie, my ass!

  She would never be a trophy wife, a powerless consort to the prince of the Darklings. She threw back the covers and stood tall. She was a lady with a plan.

  Chapter 9

  The smoldering fire in the hearth crackled, the smoke blackening the already blackened bricks. Yet, despite the thickening smoke, Lania picked up another book and tossed it on the fire. In the past, precious moments, the stack beside her had dwindled low, with only a few volumes remaining. She picked up the largest, heaviest one. Its cloth cover was engraved in gold script and its onyx hatch lock glittered in the firelight.

  She hesitated, reading the title.

  It was the Book of Sacred Rules, the bible for warlocks. Moreover, it was the first edition and had been in Jock's family for countless generations. As the prince of the Darklings, his duty inviolate was to protect it from destruction.

  She threw the book into the flames and immediately regretted her action. She was burning the birthright of her unborn child, a part of the Darkling regalia that was passed down in an unbroken line from father to son at the age of ascension.

  At the entrance to his bedchamber, Jock paused to catch his breath. Although the First Sign of the Alpha-the beginning of the end-was intensifying, he had taken a moment to change into an oversized, snowy-white Goth shirt and snug-fitting black corduroy jeans. His bare feet and shower-slicked hair somehow made him appear sexier than if he had donned formal wedding attire. In his hands, he balanced the ornate bell and the slightly dented candlestick of the handfast ceremony. Taking another deep breath, he surged in.

  "Lady, no more time for delay. We must..."

  The bell and candlestick went flying in the winds.

  Grrrrr.

  Lania gave ground at the violence of the assault when the warlock prince soared to the fireplace, needing only a black cape to become a creature of the night. With the ancient pages curling in the flames, he snatched at the book.

  "I told you I'd do anything to get out of here," Lania said, backing away.

  Jock said nothing, crouching with a stillness that defied time. He counted to ten, hoping-praying-that he could curb his rage.

  One. Two. Three. I can't hurt her, don't want to. She's pregnant. She's the mother of my son. According to the sacred book, the very book that she burned, it is my absolute duty to protect her.

  "You have any idea," he began, stuttering in his anger. "This book is hallowed text, its historic significance is unparalleled, that's your son's birthright, for demon's sake..."

  "Let me go and end this."

  "Let you go?" he repeated, astonished.

  "I'm clearly an unworthy vessel and..."

  Jock stood and began The Stalk, the swaying stride of a warlock on the prowl.

  He panted with each step that he took.

  She tiptoed backwards, stumbling.

  He came on.

  She turned to run. She was quick. He was quicker.

  He seized her slender wrist and dragged her to the bedpost.

  "I thought you understood, that we had reached an accord," he said.

  "You're a Darkling. I'm a Whiteling. I despise everything you stand for."

  "I will not tolerate a disobedient wife."

  "It would never work. I'm into modern witchery: nature, symbolism, the equality of man and woman. You're into the dark magicks, the primal forces. Look at you, this place. Sklar."

  Her last statement brought him up short.

  "What does the changeling have to do with this?" he asked.

  "There's something between you and that ... that she-beast."

  "You do this?" He cast his hand towards the fireplace. "Because you're jealous? Sklar's nothing to me. To think that I considered granting you the right to spellcast here. Lady, you are unworthy of any consideration. You are unworthy. Period."

  He crushed her to the floor at the foot of the bed, her knees giving way under his merciless grip. When he let her go, she rolled over to look up at him.

  I can still push his buttons. He could still come to love me.

  From her position on the carpet, she saw him sit down on the bed. She thought that she was safe. For a moment, for only a moment. Then she looked at his scar, the deep, ruinous scar that slashed his temple. And she knew that she had unkenneled the demon within him.

  He swooped fast, so fast that she didn't see him move. One second, she was on the floor and the next she was on his lap, over his knee, and his hands were tugging up her robe.

&nbs
p; Her butt, plump and round-unblemished virgin skin-was exposed to his view. She knew what he intended and began to fight. He stopped her, easily, his large hand jammed in the pit of her back. Her struggles ineffectual, she could only crane her head over her shoulder. Her hair fell over her face. She tossed it back, waiting and watching, her eyes as big as saucers.

  He raised his left hand high.

  "You bastard! You wouldn't dare!" she shrieked.

  "I dare and more. I warned you what would happen if you didn't mold yourself into a proper Darkling consort."

  A warlock's wand, one with a silvery dragon hilt, materialized in his outstretched hand. He flipped the flashlight-like switch. It pulsed to life, lengthening like Luke Skywalker's light saber, only much more fearsome.

  He brought his hand down. The wand whipped through the air. Again and again and again. Until the ass of the princess, the haughty sovereign of the High Coven of Whitelings, was bright blush and smarting.

  Lania hid her face in the strong curve of his calf. She winced at every wicked crack, the sound rivaling the crashing thunder outside, but she bit her bottom lip tightly between her teeth. Vowing not to cry, not to weep, not to even moan, she endured the pain until his cruel arm stayed at last. He tossed the wand away and caught her up in an embrace that threatened to bruise her ribs.

  Holding her chest-to-chest, his movements jerky and ultra-controlled, he spoke quietly. "Lady, you will learn to obey me."

  His hold tightened for a moment, and she caught her breath at it. He slanted up her head, forcing her to look straight into his eyes--no, into his soul--before he punished her anew. His kiss gave her pleasure despite the pain, and she cursed that she was such a slave to her lust.

  He read the conflicting emotions in her face and laughed. He flung her from him, uncaring that she could barely stand without his supporting arms. He swept around on his heel.

  Though half-fainting, she saw him prepare the altar for the handfast ceremony.

  "You are wasting your time with that tripe," she said.

  He grabbed a fistful of her long, white hair, pulling her to the altar.

  "At another time, I would close your disrespectful mouth with a sigil. But right now, I need it working."