Wicked Magic

by Cheyenne McCray

  The demon crumbled into the sewage.

  While battling the Fomorii, Keir heard shots and more screams from the Basilisk. When he turned his attention back to it, Jake was closer, firing bullets into the Basilisk’s skull.

  Rhiannon hurled one spellfire ball after another into the Basilisk’s face until its tough hide was charred, almost peeling from its body.

  Holding the hilt of his sword with both hands, Keir swung and sliced through the burning hide of the Basilisk.

  Its head tumbled into the sewage at their feet. Its headless body weaved from side to side then slammed into the wastewater before its body melted from existence like those of the Fomorii.

  Sewage splashed up in the air, coating Keir and no doubt the other members of his team.

  His sword at the ready, he whirled to face a new opponent—only to find none. The Fomorii were gone.

  Keir had nothing to clean his weapons on, so he sheathed his bloody sword and dagger. His breathing was even despite the battle and the burn on his neck. He felt like he could take on a dozen more Fomorii.

  Nothing like a good fight.

  With satisfaction, he slapped Jake on the back, as he did with his comrades. When he came to Rhiannon they both looked at each other. She was just as drenched as he and they both smelled of the sewer, but she was still beautiful.

  At the same time he wanted to yell at her for following them into battle, pride warmed his chest at how well she had handled herself.

  “You did well,” he said in the tone of a captain addressing his legion.

  The witch folded her arms across her chest. “Duh.”

  Chapter 8

  Ceithlenn’s fury was a palpable thing. Darkwolf leaned casually against the penthouse’s wet bar. He felt anything but casual. Tension crawled along his forearms to his shoulders and his neck.

  He gripped his glass of whiskey—straight up—and brought it to his mouth. He tossed back the amber liquid, letting the slow burn of the alcohol travel from his throat to his belly. He’d never been one for drinking until this bitch came into his life.

  The Fomorii Queen, Junga, had morphed from her demon form into her Elizabeth body. Darkwolf sensed her own rage at having lost some of her Fomorii foot soldiers to the witches and D’Danann tonight. One of the demons had witnessed the carnage—the creature happened to have been in one of the tunnels when the attack had occurred, but out of sight. The demon had scurried away to inform its superiors of the carnage.

  Ceithlenn had almost roasted it on the spot. “Are you sure you were not followed?” she had demanded.

  The demon had scraped the floor with its hideous face as it prostrated, shaking in obvious terror. “No one followed me,” it said. “Of that I am certain.”

  “Fuck!” Ceithlenn had shouted, and Darkwolf could hear Sara’s voice ring out with Ceithlenn’s. “Thanks to their deaths, tomorrow eleven prominent men and women will have gone ‘missing’ and we have lost those important contacts. And one of my Basilisks,” she hissed.

  Ceithlenn-Sara sent the Fomorii back to the sewers to inform one of the legion leaders to select several demons that would need to take on human shapes and come to the penthouse. They then would have to be assimilated into positions of power within the city to replace the other contacts.

  Now she raged in the penthouse’s living room, her hair alternating between punk red to flames. “I want far more Fomorii to infiltrate the government,” Ceithlenn said, “especially law enforcement. I need to know if we are discovered in any way. Including the lair where we keep our army.”

  Her hair flamed higher. “I will seek revenge on those who have dared to destroy what is mine.”

  She whipped her gaze to Darkwolf and Junga. At the look in her shifting eyes, Darkwolf almost choked on his last swallow of whiskey. He set the glass down on the wet bar but never took his stare from the goddess’s. She might be more powerful than him—an understatement—but he refused to let her intimidate him. He wouldn’t bow down to her unless she forced him to with her magic.

  Even though Elizabeth-Junga also served the goddess’s husband, Balor, Darkwolf sensed the same resentment in the Fomorii Queen that he felt against Ceithlenn. Elizabeth-Junga’s anger rose up from her like waves that she barely kept from unleashing at the goddess. Although they hadn’t had any opportunity to discuss it, he knew the Fomorii Queen would gladly kill Ceithlenn, just as he wanted to.

  Unfortunately, when he and Junga had attempted to free Balor at the gate to Underworld, they’d let loose this bitch goddess, Ceithlenn, instead. Balor had made promises to Darkwolf and the Fomorii. Power, wealth, but power most of all. With Ceithlenn, they only had torment.

  “I have plans for you two,” Ceithlenn said in a low, ominous voice. “But not yet. Not yet.”

  At that, Darkwolf’s heart beat a little faster. What the hell did she mean?

  Ceithlenn clenched and unclenched her fists, her long dark nails digging into her flesh so hard that Darkwolf saw the half-moon indentations her nails left.

  She turned her back to them and faced the window. Would she die if he took a blade to her and rammed it between her ribs? What if he drove a silver stake through her heart? Sometimes she looked like a vampire. Maybe she would die like one.

  Ceithlenn whipped around and looked at Darkwolf again. His gut clenched as he wondered if she had heard his thoughts. But he had learned to erect such powerful mental walls he doubted it.

  Her gaze rested on the stone eye that hung from the chain around his neck.

  Stabbing pain almost drove Darkwolf to his knees as Balor’s essence flooded him. The stone eye glowed a brilliant red. Every time Ceithlenn called to Balor through the eye, the pain grew greater in Darkwolf’s head, and the eye became even brighter.

  He would take the damned thing off, but when he had attempted to, the chain and eye became supernaturally heavy. His one hope was that Balor would return and give Darkwolf the power that he had always craved—and that had been promised to him.

  Ceithlenn-Sara reached Darkwolf, brought her hand to the eye, and caressed it. The pain in Darkwolf’s head was so great he almost couldn’t see. It was all he could do to keep his face a blank mask and not let Ceithlenn witness the crushing pain he experienced every time Balor took control.

  “What shall I do, love?” she asked the stone eye as she continued to caress it. She clasped her fingers around the eye and the red light pulsed through her fingers. She lowered her lids as if in a trance.

  When she opened her eyes, she released the stone eye to rest against Darkwolf’s chest again. The pulsing red dimmed and the pain in his head began to recede. He almost gave a groan of relief, but managed to keep it in check.

  Ceithlenn looked at Elizabeth-Junga as she stepped away from Darkwolf. “Prepare your warriors so they will be ready to attack when I am.”

  Darkwolf studied Elizabeth as she kept her own face a mask of indifference and gave a bow from her shoulders to the goddess. Her eyes, though … her eyes still had that fire they always had, before Ceithlenn’s arrival. He actually missed the times when he and Junga would spar when she was in Elizabeth’s form. And then he would fuck Elizabeth, dominate her, let her know who was the real master.

  Now who was master?

  “Yes, Ceithlenn,” Elizabeth-Junga said as she rose up from her slight bow. “The Fomorii will be prepared.”

  The goddess waved her hand toward the door. “Go then. Wait for my command.”

  Darkwolf recognized the tightness in Elizabeth’s jaw as she turned away and strode to the front door. No doubt unconsciously, her ass swayed beneath the short skirt. As Elizabeth, she had long, striking legs, beautiful features, and luxurious black hair.

  When she was in demon form—he hated the thought of what she looked like. A horrible blue demon with arms as long as an ape’s and needle-like teeth and the stench of the Fomorii.

  He’d always managed to mentally keep the two beings separate. When he fucked her, he was fucking Elizabeth.
/>   Only now he was being screwed by a goddess-bitch, and he was the one being dominated.

  Ceithlenn captured his chin in her hand and forced him to look at her. The sight of her ever-shifting eye colors never ceased to set him on edge.

  She released his chin and planted both hands on her hips. “I want to know which D’Danann and witches are responsible for the attack, and I want to know now.”

  Darkwolf clenched his teeth as he inclined his head. “I’ll scry in my cauldron and come back to you with the information.”

  Ceithlenn narrowed her gaze. “See that you do so—at once.”

  He inclined his head again. “Of course.” Your fucking goddessness.

  Chapter 9

  Rhiannon waved dust from her face as she stepped on the stairs leading into the apartment building’s basement. Spirit delicately bounded down the stairs while Rhiannon followed the prints he left behind in the dust. When she reached the concrete floor she propped her hands on her hips and surveyed the room.

  It was a mess, but it had possibilities. A good solid cleaning and the area could be used as another place for the D’Danann to sleep.

  She rolled her shoulders to relieve the ache in her upper back. It was the morning after the fight with the Fomorii. She’d had a hard time falling asleep last night—after a very long, hot shower to wash off all that gross sewage. Even now she still had too much adrenaline rushing through her veins.

  And thoughts of Keir and his kiss before they’d gone on their mission weren’t helping matters.

  The memories of the Shadows trying to escape from her again was like a punch in the gut, and she held her hand to her belly. They seemed to be getting stronger. What was wrong? Did it have something to do with Ceithlenn?

  She held her hand tighter against her belly as if that would help get the queasiness under control. At the same time she did her best to turn her thoughts elsewhere.

  This morning she had showered again and doused herself in her favorite citrus body splash. As always she dressed as colorfully as she could. She wore a turquoise blouse and hot pink skirt and sandals. After breakfast in Enchantments’ café, Rhiannon decided to check out the apartment building’s basement. So much had gone on the past couple of days, the witches hadn’t had a chance to do anything with the place.

  A quick scan of the basement revealed rotting wooden shelves that held empty jars and rusted thin cans. Crates were stacked haphazardly around the cellar, along with numerous other items. A ratty mattress was propped up against one wall next to old garden tools.

  Yup, the basement had possibilities. She’d get every available hand to help and they’d make this room livable in no time.

  Spirit gave a loud meow, and Rhiannon startled when the cat chased a mouse across the concrete floor.

  “Okay, so you’re going to be doing your share, too,” Rhiannon said with a shake of her head.

  Heavy footsteps pounded on the wooden stairs. She cut her gaze to the old staircase to see Keir coming toward her.

  Rhiannon’s heart rate picked up, but she took a deep breath and forced herself to maintain her calm. He was just a man, and when it came to women, men only thought with their little head.

  She glared at Keir and pointed her finger at an old wooden crate. A stream of magic shot from her. The crate flared then crumbled into a pile of cold ashes. “Just in case you need a reminder,” she said.

  He reached her and gave her a deep, penetrating stare. She swore the man never smiled. He was so intense about everything. “I want you,” he said in his deep Irish brogue.

  Rhiannon’s hair brushed her chin as she pushed it behind her ear. She hoped he didn’t notice her slight tremor. “When are you going to get it through your thick head that I don’t want you?” Bless it. Her voice trembled, too.

  He brought his hand to her hair and caught a lock of it between his thumb and forefinger. His callused palm brushed her cheek as he let the strands slide through his fingers.

  Rhiannon raised her hand to push his away, but he captured her wrist and drew her toward him. She gasped when she fell against his broad chest.

  He smelled of tea tree oil, marigold, comfrey, and magic that had been used over the purple slashes he’d gotten in last night’s battle. Because he was Fae, and the Fomorii tipped their claws with iron, it was likely those slash marks would never fully heal.

  Cassia had probably doctored him up when they returned. As arrogant as Keir had been with Rhiannon from the moment they’d met, she sure wasn’t going to stick around to watch or help. He could bandage himself up for all she cared. It hadn’t been like he was mortally wounded.

  But right now he held her so close she almost whimpered at the delicious feel of his body against hers. Her heart stuttered. She placed her palms against his chest and pushed, at the same time tilting her head. She’d let him have it with one of her cutting remarks for pulling her up against him like this.

  He gripped the back of her head in one of his hands and his mouth came down on her fast and sudden. She struggled in his tight embrace while he kissed her with as much passion and intensity as he had after she returned from the congressman’s office.

  Goddess, his mouth, his lips. It didn’t matter how hard he was kissing her, how hard he was holding her—it was one of the most incredible kisses she’d ever had in her life.

  She stopped fighting and started responding. Her head was spinning, her mind and body spiraling out of control.

  It was an unearthly, almost Otherworldly kiss.

  She slipped her palms up his chest, tangling her fingers into his long hair that was slightly damp, probably from showering. He growled and at the same time she moaned. She couldn’t help it. The sound of desire just slipped out.

  His stubble chafed her skin as he kissed her harder, impossibly more urgent. His tongue did magic with hers and he tasted so good. Of something primal and wild … of Keir.

  Shocking her with his boldness, he slid one of his hands up her bare thigh and under the short skirt. When his fingers moved inside her panties he slipped them into her wet folds, causing her to moan into his mouth at the exquisite sensation of his rough fingers against her clit. Moisture lubricated his hand as he thrust two fingers deep inside her core.

  It was only then that he relinquished his hold on her mouth, but she kept her arms wrapped around his neck, afraid her knees would buckle. All she could do was moan. No words would come to her as he pumped his fingers in and out of her. He brought his other hand from her hair and moved it to squeeze one of her nipples.

  “You are wet for me, little one,” he said in a low rumble, his rich Irish accent sending more thrills through her body. “I could fuck you right now.”

  She couldn’t answer, couldn’t say anything. All she could do was feel. Before she knew it, he popped off the top two buttons of her blouse and they clattered on the concrete flooring.

  He yanked down her bra and freed both of her breasts. When he ducked his head to lightly bite one of her nipples before sucking it, she nearly screamed at the incredible feeling of his hot mouth taking her.

  At the same time, he continued to pound in and out of her core, her hips moving in rhythm with his hand. She came closer and closer to reaching an orgasm that would put all other orgasms to shame. With a groan, she tilted her head back, letting go, enjoying the sensations. She was almost there … almost there …

  “Keir!” A tiny feminine voice sliced a path through Rhiannon’s awareness.

  Rhiannon gasped, bringing her hands from around Keir’s neck to try to cover her breasts. He slipped his fingers out of her folds and shielded her body with his. He backed up just enough to allow her to stuff her breasts back into her bra.

  Anger replaced passion when she realized she couldn’t button up her shirt, thanks to Keir popping off a couple of them.

  “Galia!” Keir roared as he turned, keeping Rhiannon behind him.

  Galia?

  Rhiannon tried to move, but Keir’s arm blocked her from coming
forward. The best she could do was peer around one of his broad shoulders.

  To see a dainty, naked blond Faerie.

  A very pissed-off-looking Faerie.

  Arms crossed over her tiny breasts, she tapped her little foot in the air as if she were doing it on a hardwood floor, sending poofs of pink dust along with the smell of lilacs into the air.

  “What are you doing with this—this human, Keir?” the little Faerie called Galia said as she hovered in front of him.

  Rhiannon raised her eyebrows. If she wasn’t mistaken, the tiny twit was jealous. She frowned. Maybe Galia could grow into a full-size Fae and she and Keir had a thing going? At that thought, Rhiannon’s cheeks heated. The ass wouldn’t have been after her if he had another woman—Faerie, whatever—would he? Two-timing them both?

  Been there. Done that. Had the scars on her heart to prove it.

  Keir cut into her thoughts. “Go to our room before I send you back to Otherworld,” he commanded.

  Rhiannon blinked. Our room?

  She tried to back away from Keir, but he had a hold on one of her wrists. Maybe a good blast of spellfire to his ass was in order.

  The Faerie’s angry expression vanished. She bit her lower lip and Rhiannon swore she saw tiny tears glistening in her eyes.

  “Please don’t send me back.” Galia wrung her hands and her hovering became more erratic. She looked at Rhiannon and raised her little chin. “But what are you doing with a human ?” she said, as though being human was lower than being a Fomorii.

  Keir released Rhiannon’s wrist and scrubbed one of his hands over his face. “Damnation, Galia. You do not belong here. I should have sent you home as soon as I found you in my haversack.”

  The memory of the small oof sound came back to Rhiannon when she thought about Keir slinging his pack into a corner when he’d first arrived. So this Faerie was a little stowaway, was she?