Gods and Trickery: A Reverse Harem Fantasy (Unfortunate Magic Book 3)

by Candace Wondrak

  This…chase was rather fun.

  Lena did not want to listen to Zyssept speak. The way his voice seeped into her head, curling around her every thought—it was irritating and annoying. She didn’t care if she liked the smooth timbre of his voice. She did not want to be affected by it, by him, or by anything he did. She wanted nothing to do with him.

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  That’s what she would tell herself, as much as it took, for as long as it took. Lena would not let Zyssept win. And, by the gods, she would never call him Zys. She just wouldn’t do it. It felt silly.

  When she made a left turn down the next hall, Zyssept set an arm on her shoulders, pulling her in the opposite direction. “Not so fast, Lena. You are getting ahead of yourself, I think.”

  She disentangled herself from him, walking beside him but at more than an arm’s reach so he could not touch her. His touch was…cool, his fingertips soft. Such things were details Lena never desired to know, but here she was, forever stuck with the knowledge.

  To get her mind off the strange things his touch on her shoulder had elicited, Lena remarked, “Where are your claws? Surely you must have them. I’ve felt them in my dreams.” And of course there was the illustrated picture in the history text in the College’s library, where Zyssept was shown as half man, half beast. Like a dragon-man.

  If she’d known then the dragon-man had a voice like honey, skin like porcelain, and eyes the color of silver, she could’ve prepared herself better.

  “Would you like to arrange a time to see my claws?” Zyssept asked. “I fear they are something I only show those closest to me, and you’ve been nothing but rude.”

  “Rude to you?” She was aghast. “Well excuse me, Sir Death. I haven’t exactly dealt with gods before, so I’m learning as I go.” Now Lena was miffed, though she shouldn’t be. “And who are you to talk? You’ve been downright menacing.”

  Zyssept nodded once. “I will not deny it, and again, I will apologize for my earlier behavior. Being still a mortal, you don’t understand how…strange it is, how different it is. You have worries I do not, you…you mortals feel things easily. They are more difficult for me. I only want—”

  “Yes,” she cut in as they rounded a corner. To their right, a great wide balcony sat, archways leading out to a patio overlooking the castle’s vast, colorful gardens. Lena had never ventured to this part of the castle before. It was a pretty but simple hall. “We all know what you want, namely me.”

  “Perhaps I’ll show you my claws on our wedding night.”

  Lena nearly tripped. “What? How could you—where did you get the idea I’m going to choose you?” The balls he must’ve had…no, no. She most certainly should not be putting balls in the same sentence as Zyssept. Bad thoughts were sure to follow.

  “Why are you so certain you won’t choose me?” Zyssept asked, sounding far too innocent. Like he was asking about the weather and not a decision that would affect her for eternity. It was a little more important than he played it out to be.

  “I…because I—I won’t!”

  “That was not an answer to the question.”

  “I don’t give a shit if it’s not an answer. I don’t have to dignify anything you say with a response.”

  Zyssept gave her a pointed look. “And yet here you are, quite chatty.”

  “I am not…” Lena felt a thousand things then—annoyed. Aggravated. Incensed. She shot daggers with her eyes, glaring at him as hard as she could, giving him a look that was as evil as she could muster.

  The damned man didn’t even flinch. His lips might’ve actually quirked into a teeny, tiny smile, as if he found her antics amusing. Amusing was the last thing Lena was going for, the very last. Zyssept was so…utterly…exasperating. Exasperating and entitled. He probably didn’t think she’d ever choose anything or anyone other than him, because who would choose a mortal life over godhood?

  Someone who didn’t want godhood, that’s who.

  “I hate you,” she muttered under her breath. And in that moment, it was true. She hated Zyssept, hated he thought she’d be with him, that he could win her over, hated he’d somehow gotten the others on his side. She hated the way her hands grew sweaty when she looked into those silver orbs, how she fought an exhale of a breathy sigh each time he spoke. Lena hated every single thing.

  Before she could dart away, Zyssept had slipped his arm through hers, moving her closer as they walked. Her hand rested on his forearm, and he set his other right atop it so that she could not pull away. “I cannot blame you,” he murmured, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it. It sent a ripple of confusing emotions through her. “If you truly feel such hatred toward me, I will never be able to change it.” His silver eyes lingered on her face, dropping to…her lips?

  No, no. Her mind was in the gutter because she felt his hand on hers. Zyssept was most certainly not staring there, was he?

  “But,” he added, “I can hear your heartbeat. I can see the way your pupils dilate. Things which would go unseen by other humans, I notice.”

  “What…what are you getting at?” Gods, she could barely recognize her own voice. It was light and airy, feminine to the extreme. She sounded like a girl talking to her crush—and that was so not how it was.

  Zyssept smiled then. A true smile, a wide smile that spread across his usually emotionless face, lighting up his peculiar gaze. It was not a cold smile, not a calculated one; it was genuine and real and so very attractive. “I know when you are lying,” he whispered. “Even if you don’t yet realize it yourself. Your mind may not know…but your body does.”

  Her body? She didn’t…

  “I cannot wait for the day when your mind and your body are, how do I say…on the same page?” Zyssept spoke the final few words questioningly, as if he wasn’t totally certain how the expression went. It would’ve made her laugh, if she wasn’t already startled by his accusation.

  Lena wasn’t lying to him. Her body was only responding to his in this way because he was a handsome man. It wasn’t something she could control, and it most definitely did not mean she wanted him. She’d rather chew metal than be with him.

  “I know you have your chosen lovers,” Zyssept whispered as they rounded another hall. The castle was endless in its halls and wings. Why were they taking the longest possible way to the throne room? Why— “But wait until you are loved by a god.”

  A furious blush crept up her cheeks, something that hadn’t appeared since before she’d risen Vale and Tamlen, before she’d given herself to them. Lena would always blush when Ingrid spoke of her sexual escapades, especially when her friend would go into every single intimate detail—and Ingrid would laugh at her for it. She should not blush here, now, not with him, and she should not be wondering just what he meant by it.

  But she did.

  Lena was lost in thoughts as she wondered about a god’s stamina, whether each touch would ignite a similar feeling to the sensation the mere touch of his palm on her hand did.

  Bad, bad Lena.

  Whatever willpower she had, whatever staunch claim she’d made about resisting Zyssept…it grew weaker, becoming more difficult to resist him. The son of a bitch was winning. Damn him.

  The carpet rolled before the throne was lined with nobility, all looking smug that they were invited, all equally as stuffy and self-righteous as the next. Their faces blurred into each other’s, their wives all the same: pretty, dolled up, wearing dresses that were too frilly and too stiff. None of them had red hair or red eyes, and Cailan knew the instant he introduced his soon-to-be bride and their future queen, they would instantly fear her and simultaneously wonder if he was insane.

  He was done playing by the rules. Cailan would have what he wanted.

  The throne. Lena. All the power in the kingdom. No one would ever be able to hurt him—or his wife—again.

  Deep down, beyond the spirit of Hunger dwelling inside of him, stirred him to act when otherwise he would not, that’s what all t
his was about. Cailan had grown up a prince, but never respected by his father. Philip had always shouted at him, but he’d never once took a hand to him until after his mother passed. Once mother was dead, Philip lost it, and Cailan was no one to stop him, just a child who wanted to make his father proud.

  Now that father was dead, and his crown rested atop Cailan’s yellow head.

  He’d just sat on the throne, taking his time to gaze at the nobility gathered before him. Growing up, Cailan often said he did not want to be king, that his father could live forever and keep the title, the crown, and the cushioned and bejeweled throne. But things changed. Cailan grew up, into a man, and he finally had enough of the abuse. Killing Philip had been a spur of the moment reaction, but did he regret it? He most certainly did not.

  Never would he regret ending such a miserable, despicable tyrant.

  Cailan desired to bring Rivaini forward, to elevate the kingdom on the world stage. Rivaini used to be the largest, most expansive kingdom on the eastern seaboard, but now it was much smaller, less prosperous, mostly due to his father’s hoarding of wealth. Yes, the royal treasury needed to be stocked in case of emergencies, but the kingdom itself needed gold to strengthen its armies.

  Sumer might not have its own College, but the empire was constantly knocking on their back door, threatening to invade. Empress Namyra—how Cailan hated her name—was a bitch of unmatched proportions. He’d read the reports Philip had on the empire, knew Namyra had started the practice of rune-giving years ago. It was an expensive process, one whose details were still unknown to Cailan and his spies in the court, but if there was one thing the empire was good for, it was wealth. How many soldiers of theirs had the anti-magical runes?

  Truly, it was all the more reason for Cailan to invest more gold into Rivaini’s armies. It was more than clear they would not be able to rely on the College’s mages, should Sumer ever attempt to wage war.

  But Cailan should not be thinking of this right now. He should sit straight and bask in the moment, for as soon as the seneschal brought Lena, he would stand and announce his intent to wed her. There would either be roaring fury and disagreement from the present nobles, or there would be stunned silence. He couldn’t wait to find out which one.

  He also couldn’t wait until his wedding night. Cailan was a man, after all, and Lena was a beautiful woman. Her innocence was strong, and though he’d tried to go further with her than a few kisses and caresses here and there, she’d been firm each time. She wanted to wait to give herself to him on the night of their union in the eyes of the gods. It was something she’d dreamt of as a little girl, something her parents instilled in her before she was brought to College. He’d at one point brought up the fact that she’d killed her own parents, much like he’d killed Philip, but she waved him off.

  Cailan supposed he could respect her decision, and it did give him something to look forward to, besides the shocked look on everyone’s faces when he declared a mage woman would be his bride, not one of their noble and frumpy daughters.

  They would make the perfect pair. They would rule Rivaini with strong hands and be wild lovers in bed. They would be the couple who the bards would write sonnets of, who the scholars would write entire books on. Their rule, the changes they would enact, would be eternal. Truly, he could not wait.

  As if on cue, Henrik and Lena appeared at the end of the hall. Lena was beauty incarnate, the most stunning woman he’d ever seen in a dress so extravagant, so silky and blue. It was a gown made for a queen. The enchanted necklace hung around her throat, not detracting from her beauty one bit. Sapphires and rubies and diamonds were inlaid in the shimmering metal. Her red, fiery hair was pinned up, a few stray curls loose and tumbling over her shoulders.

  But it was not her supreme, goddess-like looks drawing Cailan’s eyes—it was her stance. Lena’s arm was hooked in Henrik’s, and he had a hand delicately resting on hers. They stared at each other in a way that made Cailan feel…jealous?

  While Cailan wondered what strange things he felt, whatever passed between Henrik and Lena vanished, and she turned to him with a hesitant smile. Though she was over one hundred feet away, the mere gesture made him feel less anxious. He’d hate to have to put Henrik to death for falling in love with his future wife.

  It was…foolish, really. Henrik was an old man who hated mages. There was no possible way he’d ever fall for Lena, even with how beautiful she was. And as for her—Cailan knew she only had eyes for him.

  Cailan felt a boyish grin growing on his face, and he did nothing to stop it. Standing, he spoke loudly, his voice booming across the throne room, “Lords and Ladies.” The moment he spoke, the nobility hushed themselves from the chatter. “Friends,” he said, though most weren’t even acquaintances. But if there was one thing nobles liked, it was their ego stroked. “I did not only invite you here to witness my coronation.”

  His hand swept to the side, where the castle’s priest stood, wearing robes of grey, still clutching the pillow the crown had rested upon before he’d placed it on Cailan’s head after reciting the vows. Cailan wasn’t one for religion, but most of this kingdom still was. It was yet another thing he had in common with Lena. Being a College student, she never had much time to devote to them.

  “I also brought you here so you may bear witness to my announcement,” Cailan continued. “I have found a bride, and we will wed in one month’s time.” Murmurings rushed through the crowds, and he knew each of them were hoping—nay, praying their daughters would miraculously be chosen. Philip had arranged for many a meeting with a few of them, but none had caught Cailan’s eye.

  Such ladies were frumpy and boring. All they liked to discuss was the weather and other useless drivel. They hardly touched food while in his presence—which he supposed they owed to their upbringing—but truly, it wasn’t about that. Cailan and Lena were alike, their pasts similar. Both had killed, and neither of them was afraid to admit it.

  Lena was made for him.

  Swinging his outstretched arm, Cailan moved his hand toward Lena, who had already stepped away from Henrik. Henrik, he noticed, still stared heavily at her with…silver eyes? No, no. Brown eyes. How stupid. No one had silver eyes.

  “Lady Celena Locke, the new High Enchanter of the College of Magi,” Cailan declared, quite proudly, too. The High Enchanter part, he’d kind of sprung on her, but it made sense. The College was still missing its highest mage, the mage who answered the King’s calls and did as he or she was asked. Lena, as the queen, would make the perfect high enchanter.

  Lena took it in stride, just as he knew she would. Her feet were steady as they drew her along the red and gold carpet, through the hordes of shocked nobles, eventually reaching Cailan’s still outstretched hand, sliding her gloved hand into his. She was slow to stand beside him and face the crowd.

  Less than fifty nobles, but still probably a crowd for her. It was something she’d have to get used to, for oftentimes, fifty was a small number when royal parties and balls were concerned.

  One of the men in the front of the hall, one of the lords closest to the throne spat on the carpet. “A mage queen? I would never respect such a choice, not when King Philip told me you would wed my daughter, Alessia—”

  “My father is no longer king, I am,” Cailan growled, the gold crown heavy on his head. “And you have just disrespected your future queen. Let us hope she is more forgiving than I, for I would have you tossed into the dungeon for such words.” With a flick of his finger, guards pushed through the crowd, arranging themselves around the lord. He still held onto Lena’s hand with his other, and he gave her a squeeze. “What would you have me do with him?” These nobles must see their union was not something that could be stopped.

  It was inevitable, and if they had to rule with an iron fist, they would.

  “I would have you toss him out,” Lena spoke.

  “Very well,” Cailan said, gesturing to the guards, who grabbed the flailing arms of the outspoken lord. “Take him out, bu
t first, take his shoes. And don’t let him linger—make him walk.”

  With a nod and a bow, the guards went to do as they were told, dragging the lord behind them. He was, of course, trying to take back his words, but it was far too late. Cailan would make sure these nobles knew his decision was not to be trifled with, and he would stand by his lovely mage queen.

  The noble’s wife simply held her eyes shut for a while, but she did not go after her husband. Leaving now would cement their place against both Cailan’s and Lena’s rule, neither of which would be a good thing.

  Once the hall had died down, the nobles quieted, a woman spoke up, though she was much more hesitant and more respectful—she gave a short curtsey to Cailan and, presumably, Lena. “I do not mean my concern as disrespect, my King, but was it not the mages who caused the undead to rise not so long ago?”

  Another lord spoke up, nodding swiftly, “Yes, my gates had to stay locked for days. We lost two of our hunting dogs—”

  “It was not the mages,” Cailan said. “It was one mage, and he has been taken care of.” He glanced to Lena, who met his eyes with ones of fire. “Celena is the youngest mage to ever pass the enchanter’s exam, with no preparation. She is both powerful and just, and Rivaini will do well to have her as queen.”

  “And what if other mages were involved?” Another noble asked, adjusting his ridiculously feathered hat.

  For the next hour or so, Cailan had to answer each and every question the nobles thought to ask. It was tiring work, convincing them Lena did not have him under a spell, that she would never cast anything under the roof of the castle, but at least no others were as downright awful as the first. No more spitting, though he was sure some of them were choosing to keep it to themselves, not wanting to be thrown out as well.

  Lena did her best to remain smiling, even under the scrutiny. He could tell she wished the event to be over, and once or twice her stomach rumbled. Once she had even muttered, “I’m starving.”

  Cailan had told her that it would all be over soon. They could retire to their private dining room and let the pieces fall where they may. He knew it’d be tough making Rivaini realize a mage queen was a good thing, but he would put in the work. He’d do it for her.