No Witch Way Out (Maeren Series Book 2)

by Mercedes Jade

  Unfortunately, she really wasn’t rock-headed.

  The fifth day blended into the sixth, with every inch of open space left, soon covered by protective and offensive glyphs.

  The spell Elizabeth had placed in the library portal was the only thing that enlivened the long hours, firing almost hourly to let her know the various magics travelling through the portal.

  It had been strangely dormant until yesterday, so Elizabeth had figured they had mistaken the library portal as being actively used.

  It led to dragons and that was unlikely anything that most demons wanted anything to do with on purpose.

  The source sending vampires and demons to the human realm had to be using another portal.

  Why anyone was travelling in the library portal, all of a sudden, was a mystery.

  She wasn’t going to be solving any mysteries while painting by the numbers in the dojo.

  “I’m bored,” Elizabeth complained to her her mother.

  Honestly, it was a surprise she had even lasted this long. Her glow was so bad that Jill had tried to cover her with a wool blanket to block the light at night, so the rest of them could sleep.

  Magic was itching to get outside to play. Elizabeth desperately needed to hunt.

  Her mother had been so right to make her pick up her stakes the first night back from Maeren. She needed the activity to burn her energy.

  Sitting here and feeling the library portal go viral was making her antsy to do something.

  “Prison break?” Jill asked.

  “But winter is coming,” their mother reminded them.

  Victoria just looked at all of them like they were nuts.

  “She should go out tonight and patrol,” Kim said. Their mother had been teaching her slayer lingo. “It would be good to check our borders.”

  “I suppose it would be okay,” her mother agreed. “You will have to cover up, and I expect you to stick to single vampires only and no demons.”

  “Yes, Mom,” Elizabeth agreed. “I’ll be in by curfew.”

  “Can you pick up some chocolate eclairs?” Jill asked, looking up from the sword she was oiling.

  “I’m hunting, not grocery shopping.”

  “How about the little marshmallows with rainbow colours and gummy bears?” Victoria added to the requests.

  “I’ve got a twenty in my purse,” Jill offered.

  Great, now she was getting an allowance. Never-mind that they wanted her to blow it all on junk food.

  Perhaps she wasn’t the only one that should try to get back into the swing of things.

  If Jill wanted her weekly eclair, she could go to work and buy it herself from the hospital cafe. She knew the volunteer that did the baking and was always able to beg the biggest eclairs from her.

  “Didn’t you have a shift booked for tonight?” Elizabeth asked Jill.

  “Well, yes, but I asked Jenny to switch with me this weekend for obvious reasons,” Jill said. “Jenny did want to go see the newest Star Wars movie and told me I’d owe her double for covering. If I call now, she can still make the 9 o'clock show.”

  Jill looked pleadingly at their mother.

  “Okay, you can both go to work,” their mother agreed. “Pack extra stakes, and Elizabeth, bring Victoria with you.”

  “Thanks. You’re the best,” Elizabeth said, giving her mother a quick hug. “Let’s get ready,” she told Victoria.

  “Can we borrow the car?” Jill asked, already wiping the oil off of the sword she was cleaning, so she could get ready, too.

  “I will drop everyone off and pick you up,” their mother said, tempering their excitement. “Kim and I may need the car to get some groceries. I believe you girls have eaten everything in the house, except for the last few cups of rice.”

  Kim should have had the least problems with driving a car, due to her weak magic soul, but she couldn’t shake her Maerenian ways to embrace technology. She biked to school and everywhere else, until snow made the roads impassable, and then she carpooled with the various members of her book club and the other teachers.

  The kind of groceries they needed to feed their coven of witches wasn’t going to fit on the back of a bicycle.

  “Okay,” Jill agreed with a little sulk.

  “If you hurry, I’ll drop everyone off at the mall first. Jill’s shift is still a few hours away and she can take the bus to the hospital from there,” their mother offered.

  Now, Elizabeth wanted her allowance. She turned to ask her mother, but Kim surprised them all by giving them a hundred dollars each, which she insisted was payment for the incredible warding they had done for her.

  “Hurry up and get dressed,” Kim urged them, not letting anyone hand her back their pay. “I expect you girls to have fun and not say a word about evil, blood sucking males for a few hours. Just let yourselves be normal.”

  It was possibly the nicest thing Kim could wish for them to enjoy: being ordinary.

  If I could Turn Back Time

  Maeren

  Daemon

  “She’s trying to kill me.”

  The male lying surrounded by silks, pillows, and a thick, goose duvet, only looked to be in danger of dying from an overabundance of luxury.

  If kindness could kill, then the gentle witch spooning broth and patiently catching most of the spillage from his sputtering lips, as he fought her attempt to feed him, was a prime suspect for a murderess.

  Too bad, Daemon had handpicked her from his feeders for her lack of guile and poor magic, not a drop of earth power in her body to poison his father, again.

  Even crazy with hallucinations and weakened by the stomach aspects of his illness, the king could hold her off with the tiniest spark of his fire.

  Daemon dismissed her with a shake of his head.

  “Well, off with her head then,” Daemon sent privately to his father.

  “You’re not giving the orders around here, boy. I want my wife brought here, now,” his father demanded.

  He tried to sit up higher, but the pillows had been doing most of the propping of his father’s atrophied muscles. He only slipped further back.

  The dismissed witch put the soup and spoon down on the bedside table, and turned around to help the king.

  “Leave us,” Daemon thundered at her.

  This time, she obeyed. She was fleet of foot, despite her scant magic.

  “Where’s my supper?” his father shouted.

  Daemon shut the thick double doors behind the witch he’d sent fleeing.

  It was going to be another long night. Most of what his father said was easily dismissed as delusional, but he didn’t want anyone overhearing his father discussing his presumed dead mother.

  The Blue Queen.

  Rumours about her fate usually tended towards a merciful death.

  What witch would want to live apart from her only child, in a soulless state, without magic?

  Most would plead for an end to their lives than face that torment, or so the gossips’ cruel tongues would wag, until it was their neck held at knifepoint.

  So easy to say you would rather die than live undignified.

  Daemon rarely found anyone would take that final step towards death. The ones that did either possessed more demons or less strength than his mother.

  “Get your mother to make me a honeyed ale,” his father hollered.

  His father either whispered, so quietly that Daemon had to listen to his thoughts to understand, or screamed at the top of his lungs, so Daemon had to use an air barrier around the room, when he was like this.

  “Tell your mother none of those fancy herbs she’s always reading about in the library, just a good, stout ale with some sweetness to take this tickle out of my throat.”

  Beer would only compound the problem. His father’s frail body was unlikely to tolerate more than a swallow or two. If he brought it back up with the little bit of soup the witch had managed to get into him, then he would only weaken further.

  “The herbs are for y
our health. You have a wee bit more than a tickle,” Daemon told his father.

  “Balderdash! I don’t need your coddling, boy.”

  Daemon turned from the door with a sigh.

  His lightning followed the feel of the little witch helper as she made her way to his room, as he had ordered.

  She slept on his bed, as the supposed newest addition to his primary harem, started unofficially for Elizabeth, and still limited to just one, now that Elizabeth had left.

  He didn’t sleep in his room any longer.

  There wasn’t a need to drink from the feeder, now that she was caring for his father. He told her to save her strength to deal with his father’s needs.

  It wasn’t much of a sacrifice, even though she was a fire witch. The lack of fire witches, overall, left even the royal harems with a surfeit of mediocre feeders who would never have been admitted, otherwise.

  Quantity had to make up for quality, and lately, Daemon had been glutting himself on the other feeders.

  “Do you want more broth?” Daemon asked his father, hopeful to get him to finish it off.

  There was a bit of congealing fat on the top of the rich broth, cooling quickly, without the fire witch to keep it pleasantly hot, while feeding his father.

  Daemon stirred the spoon into the golden fluid and heated it with a tap of his fingers, on the side of the bowl.

  “Did you bring bread? My stomach’s near cramping ‘round my liver looking for something to eat,” his father said, blinking rheumy eyes that were clouded by the years of poisonings.

  The king refused all the healers, full of suspicion that most blamed on his anger over the failed healing of Daemon’s mother.

  The mistrust was actually more recent.

  His father still had episodes of lucidity, but fewer now, and all the more obvious when they happened. His father was aware of what was being done to him.

  The culprit was less evident, or Daemon would have ended this years ago.

  Breaking off a piece of his father’s favourite bread, he soaked it, and fed him with his fingers, keeping the pieces small enough that they hardly needed chewing.

  The nursery pap made for an acceptable meal for an infant or invalid, but his father barely tolerated being offered such simple fare. Usually he only relented when he was alone with Daemon.

  Daemon fed his father piece after piece, slowly, and with persistence, when his father would rather just rest, until there was only a crust and a few spoonfuls of broth left.

  “William asked to assess you again. He’s worried this last attempt will leave your bile imbalanced. He wants to bleed you for a new potion,” Daemon explained.

  His father chewed the last bit of crust and tried to swallow.

  Grabbing the glass of water at his father’s bedside, Daemon offered him a sip to ease him as he fought to swallow his mouthful of food.

  It took almost a minute to finish swallowing the water, but when his father was finally ready to talk, he looked clearer headed after being properly fed.

  “No bleeding,” his father answered.

  He never let William bleed him. He believed it as outdated as the leeches and medieval practices that humans had used before modern medicine.

  William had tried to explain to their father that earth magic could be personalized by the use of blood. William had even hinted that he, himself, had some of the capabilities of a blood witch.

  It had been brave of William to even mention blood witches after what happened to Daemon’s mother. William had been getting ballsier of late. Perhaps he was finally growing into the confidence needed to wield his powers more fully.

  “Will you let William examine you again, at least?” Daemon asked.

  “I’ve been poked and prodded enough. Just bring me a couple of fire witches. My vigour will come back,” his father said.

  It may have sounded distasteful to prostitute a couple of witches to his ageing father’s bloodlust, but the reality was made more palatable with Daemon’s lightning magic.

  In truth, his father was not as past his prime as he appeared to the rest of the court. The lazy king with a paunch was better than the thin, but still handsome, male.

  Daemon didn’t need rumours of his father wasting away to encourage his poisoner. It was only in the last year that reality was catching up with illusion.

  His father’s eyes held the greatest evidence of his battle with poison. His face was still unlined, except for the thinner skin around his lids, where he had squinted many times against the sun. He’d preferred outdoor pursuits in his youth.

  Although his muscles had weakened, he didn’t have any fat to hide them, so it was easy to imagine his trim form, if he recovered and was able to work himself, once more.

  Daemon remembered when his father’s muscular arms had tossed him in the air to hear a child’s glee, catching him with easy strength.

  Now, Daemon had to hold his father’s arm to keep him from falling.

  Only a few early streaks of white at his father’s temples marred the dark-brown hair that was rich and thick, a source of pride to his father. He insisted on having his hair oiled and bound with leather cords at the back of his head in a long, straight ponytail that would fan out to nearly his waist when loose.

  Warriors had worn their hair longer and added beaded braids for every battle they fought, when his father was younger. Bald men were pitied, for they couldn’t show off their battle glory in the same way.

  His mother had washed and braided the king's hair every night before Daemon was born.

  The witches in the royal harem were more for show than true companions to the king.

  They had fallen for all of Daemon’s illusions, not seeing through the false appearance Daemon had created. They hadn’t really gotten to know his father, unfamiliar enough to not question the changes.

  Daemon had slowly aged his father, quicker than his time, so he appeared overweight enough to account for his stooped, slower walk. He had greyed his father’s hair, as well as shortened it, to make it more natural when the witches offered him an arm to help him up.

  The lords may complain that their king had gone soft, without a war to keep his edge.

  Daemon provided enough fear and motivation through his role as enforcer for them to keep their grumbles to themselves.

  The king was still respected, had earned the loyalty of the lords and their fathers decades past. If the younger generation thought to question their king, then there were enough who remembered how strong the king had been to cuff sense into their foolish sons.

  “Let me get you a fresh robe and we’ll have a quick shave before we ring for some fiery beauties,” Daemon said, giving his father another sip of cool water.

  He left his father to fetch his preferred sandalwood soap and the soft, round brush used to foam the soap for a straight-razor shave.

  He also discreetly opened the bedroom door and whispered to the waiting guard to fetch Victor and Victoria’s mother, as well as another fire witch from his father’s harem.

  Both witches had been with his father for many years. They were trustworthy, but as important, neither of them spent much time with his father, so they easily accepted the court-altered appearance Daemon’s magic had created.

  The easier, the better, when he had burned so much magic on Dragomir to save Elizabeth.

  Daemon had just soaped his father’s face and picked up the razor, when his father suddenly grabbed his blade hand by the wrist.

  “I’m going to shave you for the ladies,” Daemon said, trying to ease his father’s iron grip off.

  He must be slipping back into his delusions again, seeing and hearing things, by the paranoid look on his face.

  “You have to leave,” his father urgently told him.

  “Perhaps we will let the ladies enjoy a scruffy look, a bit more cavalier,” Daemon said, deciding it would be unwise to try to shave his father when he was agitated.

  “Get out. Dae, you are in danger!” his father sent.


  Daemon locked his father’s room with an air barrier, all around.

  It had been months since he had last heard his father purposely think hard enough for his thoughts to reach his mind. Years, even, that he had last heard the nickname only his father used for him.

  “We are safe in here, Father. I’ve shielded the room. You can speak out loud,” Daemon said.

  “The witch has betrayed you,” his father explained, his voice already weaker than moments ago. He really needed to feed on rich blood.

  Daemon immediately thought about Elizabeth. He had told his father bits and pieces of their tumultuous relationship, even the parts that Elizabeth was still in the dark about, like where he had first seen her and how long he had been infatuated.

  When she had suddenly appeared in Maeren, at court no less, he had scrambled to find a way to bind her to him.

  His teenage crush had seemed like a dream come true, with her teasing eyes, her soft hands, and that bold mouth that had driven him mad with desire at the tasting ball, on the balcony.

  He didn’t know how he had managed not to claim all of her, restrained what his soul and body had wanted to take and mark as his, before any of the other males at court were tempted.

  He had still moved too fast, too much and too soon. She had run before he could slow things down long enough to explain himself.

  “She hasn’t betrayed me, father. It was a misunderstanding. As soon as you’re feeling better, I will go visit my mother and track down my runaway sweetheart. Dragomir will keep her safe until then, and she’s quite the powerful witch in her own right. Have I told you that she protects your ways and defends the humans and soulless witches from rogue vampires? She calls herself a slayer, and I’m sure she’s the match of any soldier in your army,” Daemon explained.

  Perhaps his father could be calmed with stories of when Daemon had first trailed the witches he had sensed in his mother’s human realm home.

  Souled and fully powered witches, who had carved a place for themselves in land as difficult as the Wastes to live upon.

  Elizabeth had been only eight years-old at the time, but she had been incredibly strong already. Her lightning touched his mental barrier as he had entered her passive range to peek at her through a window.