by Eve Langlais
He yelled without a sound. He exploded but stayed intact.
The power burned through him, burned away all pretense, all the dark corners. Even the bespelled ones.
Everything burned away, all the cobwebs hiding his secrets.
He remembered it all. His mother. The fighting. Even attacking his wife.
“How is it you manage to always forgive me?” he said.
In that moment of closeness, she didn’t have to ask what he meant. “I love you.”
A simple reply. The only one.
“I would do anything for you.” The fierce words spat from him.
“I know. And speaking of doing, we have to get ready.”
“Ready for what?” he asked, glancing at the clock. Two o’clock, and he’d guess it was the afternoon given the light streaming through the cracks in the curtains.
“Ready for the party, silly. Remember, Mother told us about it.”
Already Friday? He groaned. “Do I have to?”
“Yes. But don’t worry, I’ll make it worth your while.”
More like made him forget with more hot sex. Her oral talents in the shower didn’t just blow his mind. The drying off after also proved tons of fun—to the point he almost forgot.
It was Isobel who reminded him to get ready as she poured herself out of bed, naked limbs stretching, the smile she bestowed on him the kind only shared between lovers.
“Where are you going?” Because, despite all the action, he could go for another round.
“Mother’s plane is running late, so I promised I’d keep an eye on the preparations and staff.”
“I have a staff that could use your attention, too.” Because when it came to Isobel, he never got enough.
“Maybe later,” she replied with a wink. He watched as she dressed and left the room. He moved almost immediately after.
It’s time. He’d been fucking with Isobel when he pretended he’d forgotten about the party. He remembered. Remembered everything.
Something had happened during sex when he accessed his magic. Isobel had acted as an amplifier. And, somehow, the intensity of the magic destroyed all the spells on him. More than one, he might add.
Spells to hide him. Spells to make him forget—forget the dark chasm where he’d been born. The soft whispers of his mother as she kissed him once before sending him away. The screaming pain as he was torn with great sacrifice from the blood of his followers in his mother’s prison. Then hidden. Hidden from everyone so that he might grow to manhood. Spelled to keep his magic subdued.
All manner of magical manipulation to get him to reach this point in his destiny.
All gone now. I am now 100 percent me. And then some.
Chris also had abilities he’d not had before, skills that he’d once had a hard time accessing. Not anymore.
Magic coursed through his veins. Power tickled his fingertips. It took but a thought to make it take shape.
He lifted his hand and looked at it. A ball of dancing fire sat on his palm. Concentrating on it changed its color. He could also expand its size.
That might come in handy, and just in time, too. He had a feeling he might need magic soon. Anticipation imbuing the very air around him spoke of important things about to happen.
For once, he would be ready.
An hour later, when Isobel returned to the room, her eyes widened upon seeing him. “Don’t you look dashing,” she remarked, taking in his suit. “But the party isn’t for another two hours.”
“I’m running early.” A jab at his father, who took signs of promptness as a personal insult.
“Where did you get the threads?” she asked, stripping from her casual wear, her lithe frame hidden at moments by the golden cascade of her hair. She’d chosen to let it grow, and with a little magical help, it now hit the top of her buttocks. As if sensing the direction of his stare, she bent over, the perfect globes just asking for a bite.
“Your mother had one of the staff bring it. Said it belonged to your father when he was younger.”
Which was kind of morbid, but something like a well-made suit never went out of style. At least according to Marya. He’d grumbled when his mother-in-law had left orders for a tailor to waylay him and insisted on having it sized for him.
His excuse of, “I’m sure I’ve got something kind of clean kicking around I can wear,” not quite cutting it.
He’d put up a valiant verbal fight but, in the end, had allowed himself to be dressed in an Armani suit.
Looked damned good, too. And it was about time because here was the thing: people had a point when they claimed that to be a leader, you should look like one.
Folks wouldn’t want to follow a simple guy in threadbare jeans and rude-gesture T-shirts. How could he expect people to give him armies if he didn’t look the part?
“Looking for an army now?” Isobel noted.
He blinked. “Did I say that out loud?”
“Yes, along with some look-like-a-leader thing. Which, by the way, you do. Look. Leaderish that is. Does that mean you know who my mother has invited to this soiree?”
“Nope, but given she’s got an army of staff marching around snapping salutes, I’d say they are important.” Which piqued his interest. Especially once he saw the cases of wine being unpacked.
“Well, whatever the reason for the suit, you look delicious. As in, find-me-later delectable. I won’t wear panties.” Wink.
Talk about an instant boner. “I am available now.”
“But I’m not,” she said with a laugh as she danced out of his reach. “Time to make myself presentable.”
More like make herself look dangerous. His surely weren’t the only eyeballs that practically fell out of his head when Isobel deigned to descend the stairs as the first of the guests arrived.
Chris had always known she was beautiful. Elegant. Perfect.
But the woman descending the steps…she was temptation itself. She wore a black dress, form-fitting, hugging her every curve, the front a loose swatch of fabric that hung in a cowl that showcased the edges of her breasts. The material skimmed over her hips and fell in a slim sheath, but when she walked, the thigh-high slit showed off her trim leg.
Damn.
Someone throw a blanket on her because he didn’t want to share.
The good news? I don’t have to. Because she was his wife. He took pride in the fact that people coveted her. Let them gaze upon what they couldn’t have. Let them envy him.
Chris met her at the bottom of the stairs and held out his hand. When she slid hers into his, a shiver went through him, the kind he always enjoyed every time they touched. A missing link now making a return since it had disappeared after the wedding.
Interesting.
Also of interest, the way everyone watched and whispered. He held in a smile as he heard the words “regal,” “nothing like his father,” “…hear we’re having raspberry mousse for dessert.” Mmm. His favorite.
They spent only a short moment nodding their heads at people, offering quiet smiles before heading into the dining area, the names of those he met a jumble in his head.
The dining room chosen for the event wasn’t the intimate one. They were in a massive space, lavishly decorated in pink and gold paper that screamed “old money.” The fifty-person table made of stone, massive. The army to serve them the five courses, plentiful.
The wine, so delicious. And he needed that libation when he saw the layers of cutlery. Why couldn’t they just put out one fork, one knife, and one spoon?
Isobel leaned close and murmured, “Start on the outside, work your way in.”
“Even though I’m left-handed?”
“Just do what I do.”
Who would have thought he’d wish someone had taught him table etiquette? Then again, he’d never imagined sitting down at such a fancy dinner with people dressed in tuxedos and expensive gowns. The jewelry alone probably totaled millions. Maybe even billions.
It might have made a lesser man
feel inadequate. Good thing Chris knew he was more important than all of them.
The first pledge to join his legion—which almost caused him to choke on the fine wine—came before the first course and by an elderly gent seated across from Chris. Some royal or whatnot from Europe.
The old fellow, his sparse hair combed over a bald spot, leaned forward, his expression earnest. “Promise me a spot in the inner ring when you ascend to power.”
As a person who liked to announce shocking things to people for shits and giggles, Chris took this offer with aplomb. “The inner ring is for my most devoted. Why should I give it to you? How many legions do you offer to the cause?”
“My country will loan all its troops for a spot in the first ring.”
“Which is how many exactly?”
A sizeable number was mentioned, and Chris did his best not to blink, especially since this was his first offer of support. Never mind that he still didn’t know what he’d do with them. “It’s adequate. I suppose.”
But the elderly royal wasn’t done. “I also have a daughter—”
Isobel leaned into him, her body tense, her voice quite icy. “Perhaps you didn’t read the announcement in the paper.” A two-page spread in most major news outlets worldwide. “He’s married. To me.”
“Really? I hadn’t heard.”
Lie. But Chris didn’t mention it because he would wager that Isobel already knew.
“You don’t want me as your enemy,” his wife replied icily.
The cold words warmed his blood. What a truly formidable woman he’d married, and to think, he’d met her by chance in a cemetery. Together, they were almost invincible.
“Awfully sorry for the mistake.” The old guy backpedaled.
His wife responded with a pert, “My husband will mull over your offer. We wouldn’t want to be hasty.”
Hasty about what? Chris finally had someone who wanted to help him. He just didn’t know why. Why would that guy pledge his aid out of the blue?
He tried to hiss a question to his wife. “What the fuck—”
She clutched his thigh, dug in her nails, and murmured, “Later.”
Later needed to hurry its ass up.
The courses passed with interesting conversation, especially considering the guests all appeared human. But they spoke of the next blood moon, of combing the populace for the right kind of genes, of buying planeloads of weapons.
And everyone treated him with deference. As in they called him fucking “sir.” A first for him, and after the initial shock, he quite enjoyed it.
The second offer came at the dessert table teeming with decadent sweets. Chris stood eyeing the promised mousse but then hesitating because there was also some crème brûlée on the table, the caramel topping on it crunchy.
Hard decisions that were interrupted by, “Greetings, Son of Perdition.”
He turned to see a woman in her sixties to seventies, short, gray-haired, and wearing more jewels than an Egyptian pharaoh.
“Hey.” Suave, because nothing said taking over the world more than a one-syllable reply.
“I know we are supposed to route our offers through your intermediary; however, I want you to know that my company can arm your legions.”
“With?” he asked.
“Anything you like. Guns, knives, flamethrowers, grenades.”
Toys! He almost clapped his hands in delight. He negotiated instead. “That’s cool.” Like him. He shrugged. “And what do you want in return? A condo on the Styx? A townhouse in the inner ring?”
To his surprise, she shook her head. “No need for reward. I offer everything I have to the next King of Hell. The Atheos stand ready to serve.” She lifted her long gown enough to give him a peek at her ankles, which were trim in defiance of her age, but of more interest was the tattoo there. A burning pentagram with a triple six in the center. His symbol.
How cool. And she wasn’t the only one wearing it he soon realized.
As a child, when he was the focus of a cult that had worshipped the Antichrist, he’d often seen the symbol, but he’d never realized it extended outside that smallish group.
Once he began looking around, he noticed many in attendance wearing it on ankles, and the insides of wrists. One man had it behind his ear, and it only showed when he turned a certain way and his hair parted. Others wore pins shaped in his mark.
It did a lot for a man’s ego to realize the cult he’d thought lost, extended around the world.
He accepted two more offers of aid before he managed to head back to Isobel bearing two dessert plates. He set them down, and she remarked, “I already got a treat.”
He tossed her a droll smile. “Hate to break it to you, but these are for me.”
“I know. Which is why this is so much fun.” She took her finger and jabbed it down into the hard surface of the crème brûlée, cracking it. Then she licked it, her lithe, pink tongue reminding him of her oral expertise, and all was forgiven.
“Do that again,” he encouraged, sliding his mousse over.
“Perv,” she said with affection.
In between bites, he decided to tell Isobel about his conversation with the old lady. “Just had something weird happen while I was getting dessert.”
“Weirder than this dinner? I thought I’d met all of Mother’s friends, but I don’t know a face in this bunch.”
“You wouldn’t unless your mother was an Atheos.”
“What’s an atheos?”
“It’s Latin for atheist, and it’s what those who belong to the cult of the Antichrist call themselves.”
“I thought they were called Satanists.”
He shook his head. “No. Those are the people who worship my dad. The Atheos worship no god.”
“But you’re the son of one.”
“Not really. Most people don’t consider Lucifer a god. He is the Devil. Totally different thing.”
“Potato, po-tah-toe,” she said.
“Hey, you asked.”
“What are your minions saying that’s got you perplexed?”
Chris leaned close enough to murmur against her lobe. “Can you explain why someone would say I had an intermediary?”
“What?” Isobel paused with a spoonful of chocolate cake inches from her mouth.
“Intermediary. As in someone taking offers to add soldiers to my legion.”
“You don’t say.” Isobel’s head turned, and he caught her staring at her mother. Marya, who’d arrived shortly after the soiree began, looked quite resplendent, a true dame of the ball. The diamonds at her ears, neck, and on her fingers sparkled, sharp as the smile tugging her lips.
“You don’t think…” He didn’t even bother finishing the thought. His mother-in-law surely wasn’t interested in helping him build an army. Was she?
“I do think,” she said grimly. “And I want to know why.” Isobel rose, only to have Chris yank her down.
“Don’t leave.” Panic fluttered in his chest. An urge to comb his hair hit him hard. A teeth check wouldn’t be amiss either.
“What’s wrong?” his wife asked.
How could she ask? Did she not sense the coming apocalypse?
“Don’t you see her?” Dressed in a long, burgundy velvet gown, the neckline high, the sleeves long, the shape of it flaring and ruffled.
“See who?”
Ominous music began to play—Ligeti’s Requiem—just in time to greet the arrival of… “My mother.”
14
His mother was here?
“Where?” Isobel glanced over to where Chris stared and noticed just a bunch of people. Humans as far as she could tell, all sporting the same tattoo, wearing the same manic expressions. Despite the different clothes, and being from varying parts of the world, it wasn’t hard to guess that they were part of a club. The I-worship-the-Antichrist club.
Since I married him, does that mean I need a tattoo, as well?
“She’s over there,” Chris hissed. “In the burgundy dress.”
“That’s your mom?” Skepticism laced her words. The woman of whom he spoke looked quite prim and proper. Her hands were folded over her stomach as she stood demurely, not making any kind of waves. She didn’t have a crown of thorns or a slave on a leash. No ominous cloud surrounded her.
Kind of disappointing.
“It’s her. We need to leave. Now.”
She put her hand on his arm to stop him from rising. “Don’t be so melodramatic. She’s obviously here for a reason.”
“Death and annihilation.”
“Or maybe she thought it would be a nice public setting for her to truly meet her son for the first time.” Isobel fed him a calming line while mentally freaking out. His mom is here. Her mother-in-law, a possible goddess just returned from another dimension. An unknown force who’d tried to keep them apart. Because she hates me. What if she’d shown up to rectify his marriage?
Would Chris turn into a mama’s boy and ditch her?
Over my dead body. She stood.
“Where are you going?” he hissed. “I thought you said we weren’t going to run.”
“We’re not. I’m going to say hello. You coming?”
He stared at her, the struggle in him visible. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not really. She’s obviously here for a reason.”
“Did you miss the part where I said she probably wants to kill us all?”
“Dressed like that? Doubtful. Let’s go say hi.”
He frowned, but behind it, she could see the longing. This was his mother. The woman who’d spent considerable energy trying to communicate with Chris while imprisoned. He owed it to himself to at least meet her.
“What if she bites?” he said, still hesitating.
“Bite her back.” She grabbed him by the hand and tugged him to his feet. Keeping her eye on the prize, and a hand latched on to Chris, she edged her way to the other end of the dining hall, past bodies who’d stopped to chat, dodging plates and glasses held aloft.
They rounded the corner of the table and a clear space. Isobel got to see her mother-in-law up close. The black eyes. As in no whites whatsoever. Must make it hard to blend in with the general populace.
