by Jenn Stark
Cressida recoiled as if she’d been struck. “That’s none of your concern. As you’ve made abundantly clear.” She tried to pull away from Marcus, but he held her tight.
“Just because I’m not willing to fuck you, doesn’t mean you should let someone else do it. You’re practically panting for him. It’s disgusting.”
“You dare to talk that way to me.” It was all Cressida could do not to spit with fury, but she felt more than one set of eyes on them.
Marcus seemed to know it too. His smirk grew even oilier. “I absolutely dare. I know you’re desperate for it, but it isn’t time for you to ascend to your full power, High Priestess. That’s why I’ve held off. You should defer to wiser minds.”
Fury lit along Cressida’s nerve endings, racing beneath the surface of her skin. He had no right to treat her like this—no right.
He kept going too. “You’re not a child anymore, Cressida, for all that you seem willing to act like one. But you must be more careful. The exorcist wouldn’t be so bold as to touch you without compulsion. He admires you. He’s even a little in awe of you, but he’s no threat. The demons Boltar and Zeneschiah would as soon maul you to death as look at you, but they’re safely held within the bounds of the pentagram. They’re a threat, but they’re a threat that can be managed. The Syx is an unknown quantity. It was a mistake to pull him into the net.”
“It was a mistake that has earned the blessing of the lawgivers and elders,” Cressida informed him sharply, but inside, her mind was awhirl. Marcus was a fine one to talk about threats. He had moved Stefan without Cressida’s tacit approval, and he’d bugged all four of her consorts, listening to their every word. Listening, but not specifically reporting to her, or even letting her know that it was his plan until she’d irritated him enough by staring at Stefan and Granger. What if Marcus himself was the threat, a threat that needed to be managed? She trusted him with her life, and she always had. But in the wake of this sudden, new heavy-handedness, could she still trust him with her freedom?
The answer to that seemed simple enough. No.
“I no longer know what you’re thinking, Cress.” At this new shift in Marcus’s voice, Cressida looked up to see her longtime comrade staring at her in the way that had started taking her breath away when she was sixteen and he was a newly minted spell caster, one of the earliest the coven had ever allowed. Now, suddenly, he didn’t look pale. He looked tired. Haunted even.
Despite her better instincts, Cressida’s heart quivered a bit, and her tension eased. Marcus was one of her oldest and truest friends, after all. One of her only friends in the coven, it seemed, beyond Dahlia. He wanted the best for her. He always had.
But she had become the high priestess of the Scepter Coven, and she couldn’t afford his jealousy to rule her. She couldn’t afford anyone to rule her. “We’ll drink from the cup this night, all six of us,” she said. “Then we can begin preparing for Ahriman.”
“You’ll remain careful around the demons?”
“Of course,” she said, her words immediate and absolute.
She could sense Marcus relaxing a fraction at her unqualified agreement, and that bothered her. Ever since he’d begun casting spells, he’d grown stronger and fiercer as a witch—attributes she admired, along with half the female population of the coven. But he’d also grown sharper. Harder. And there were the whispers that had started up a year earlier, knowing murmurs from the older witches with darker proclivities, questions about where Marcus’s true future lay. As his consort and the high priestess of the coven, Cressida could bend Marcus’s considerable energies to her will. But was she truly strong enough?
All of this would be easier if she’d just been allowed to reach her highest abilities—and yet, Marcus had warlock-blocked her from that. Granted, he wasn’t Cressida’s only option anymore, but sex with Marcus, someone she’d known practically all her life, had to be preferable than sex with…ah…
I’m a hands-on kind of guy.
Stefan’s words struck her out of the blue, at once nonchalant and pointed, and her mind instantly became a whirl of conflicting emotions.
“There’s much we can learn from the Syx,” Cressida said into the silence that suddenly stretched between her and Marcus, trying to refocus her thoughts. “We haven’t successfully summoned a demon of their company in all the centuries of our order. He can teach us about who ruled the demon realm in ancient times, and who rules there now.”
“He can,” Marcus agreed grudgingly. “But the cost of that conversation may prove to be too great.”
She flashed him a look she hoped contained one tenth the level of irritation she felt. Marcus seemed unmoved.
“You’re a delicate soul, Cressida, unused to the ways of the world, while the Syx has spent several dozen lifetimes perfecting the art of manipulating humans. Do you really believe you would be able to stand strong against him, should the worst happen and your wards fail?”
“My wards won’t fail, against him or Boltar and Zeneschiah,” Cressida said, hearing the truth in her own declaration. “And I will do what’s best for the coven both in the fight against Ahriman and for our continued strength.”
Another flurry of bells rang, and then Cressida did break away from Marcus.
The ritual of the cup was the first and most important requirement of the sacred grimoire. It allowed the coven to determine the starting point of Cressida’s marital activities, so long as she agreed with the designation.
The five members of her retinue joined her in the center of the room. Five coven representatives stood there, each with a cup. Head lawgiver Fraya stood forward with her chalice. “By the grace of the Goddess, our high priestess has chosen five consorts to secure the strength of the coven. With this ritual, we validate her consorts and help create the path to her happiness. Let us choose the first consort.”
She turned to the remaining representatives. The first coven appointee, a foot soldier on security detail, turned and gave her cup to Marcus practically before the head lawgiver had stopped speaking, and the coven burst into applause. A consort had been chosen.
Then the second coven member stood forward. It was the oldest of the lawgivers, and she moved forward without hesitation, stepping straight up to Stefan and handing him a cup. The response from the coven was more startled than celebratory this time, and whispers rustled across the group.
Dahlia was next, and Cressida found herself watching her far more nervously than she would’ve expected. Nerves that proved warranted, as her captain stepped up to Jim Granger and handed the startled ex-priest her cup. The two exchanged a long look, though as per protocol, Dahlia didn’t speak.
“I…ah, I don’t know what this means,” Cressida clearly heard the exorcist say before he was shushed to silence.
A second lawgiver strode forward and handed her cup to Marcus, her choice earning a sigh of relief from half the room. But only half, Cressida realized warily. There were now so many whispers that the room seemed flooded with them.
Finally, head lawgiver Fraya lifted her cup. She surveyed the consorts before her, human and demon alike. Then she made her choice. She handed her cup to Stefan.
Cressida stared, rooted in shock as her mentor turned to her. “High Priestess, we have arrived at two worthy consorts. It is up to you to choose the consort who will start your path to full marriage and happiness within the coven. Marcus Frost, spell caster of the Scepter Coven, or Stefan of the Syx, demon enforcer. Which do you choose, as leader of the coven?”
Cressida blinked, her mouth going dry. Marcus stared at her with self-important satisfaction, Granger with unabashed confusion, and Stefan with something approaching boredom in his eyes.
It was the boredom that got her in the end. Stefan didn’t know how this process worked, but he had to have his suspicions, even though those suspicions were probably dead wrong. Did he really care so little about her that he was willing to let her go through formal courtship procedures w
ith another man after announcing so boldly that he didn’t like to share? Had he meant what he’d said at all?
It didn’t matter, because she didn’t care. She didn’t need a bedmate, she needed answers, and of all the males before her, Stefan could give those answers to her.
“Though five are consorts of the high priestess, only one is chosen this night,” she announced, her voice high and clear. “I choose Stefan of the Syx.”
Chapter Ten
The rest of the night passed by in a blur for Stefan. After drinking the entire contents of both his ceremonial cups—which had to have been laced with some deeply narcotic technoceuticals for them to affect a freaking demon—he felt like the top of his head was going to come off. He must have been introduced to every single member of the coven, and danced with all of them as well, male and female alike. It didn’t seem to matter much to the members of the Scepter Coven, now that he was apparently first chosen. According to what he could pull out of the elderly lawgiver on that score, being first chosen wasn’t really all that impressive. It simply meant that he would be the first to undergo a series of courtship rituals with the high priestess, none of which involved actually having sex. Which seemed to be a highly inefficient process as far as he was concerned.
Even more interestingly, Marcus Frost was treating the turn of events as if Cressida was about to be handed over to a group of bikers on fight night. From the moment of her announcement, he’d cornered Cressida no fewer than four times, growing angrier with each altercation. Stefan could tell because Marcus’s movements and expression grew more controlled, not less, every time he spoke with Cressida. Having seen firsthand Marcus’s icy stare, Stefan suspected the man did his worst when he didn’t have to flicker an eyelash.
At last the evening came to a close, and a cadre of initiates appeared around him in a circle of smiling faces. “It’s time,” they murmured, their high, light voices sounding eerie in the—
Stefan knew nothing more as he slumped to the ground.
He came to what seemed like only a moment later, but he was no longer in the ballroom. Instead, he’d been returned to Cressida’s parlor, propped up in a large wingback chair.
To his surprise, however, it wasn’t Cressida opposite him. It was the ancient lawgiver, the same lawgiver who’d first given him a cup.
“Don’t tell me you’re our chaperone,” Stefan asked, struggling to sit up straighter in the chair. His body still didn’t seem to be working right, but he wasn’t going to slump in front of this witch.
The elderly lawgiver’s brows lifted. “Cressida is being prepared to meet you. I expect you to comport yourself with the highest dignity you can muster, whatever that actually means for a demon.”
Stefan grimaced, resisting the urge to cradle his pounding head in his hands. “Yo, you were the one who gave me the cup of hook-up back there.”
Amusement flashed across the woman’s face, quickly replaced by stoic seriousness. “This room has been carefully warded against your strength, Syx. That, combined with the elixir you’ve consumed, is what’s causing you discomfort. I warn you not to test its bonds. What Cressida does with you is her choice and her choice alone.”
“You know, this isn’t how I envisioned marriage going at all.”
“You would do best to remember that you’re the consort of a witch, and you are, at your core, a demon. Witches have controlled demons since the dawn of time.”
“Well, witches have summoned demons and drawn a pretty star around them, you mean, and demons have gone along with it because they like pretty stars.” Stefan flashed her a dangerous look. “There’s a difference.”
The elderly woman’s gaze narrowed on him. “Cressida Frain chose you,” she said. “Why?”
“My body’s to die for, my demon-fu is strong, and I make a mean crème brûlée,” Stefan said without hesitation. “The real question you need to ask yourself is—why’d she choose a nutcase like Marcus? Or if she didn’t—who chose him for her?”
The old woman’s hard gray eyes sharpened, even as a voice sounded from the far door.
“Lawgiver,” came the soft murmur. Stefan tried to keep himself from looking, but when he saw the change in the lawgiver’s expression, he couldn’t help himself. He turned in time to see a young woman bowing out of the way, clearing the path for Cressida to step forward.
She…she took his breath away. Perfectly poised in a long, intricately embroidered sky-blue robe, she gazed at him with just enough trepidation in her composed expression it made his heart tug hard. Her gown was belted at the waist with a corset that could have doubled as Kevlar, and Cressida’s riot of thick red hair was tortured up in a mass of ringlets and complicated braids.
With her flashing green eyes, haughty brows, and stern, repressed pout to her mouth, she looked like the Mother Superior of Do Not Touch—which was too bad, because all he wanted to do was touch her. He longed to thread his fingers through her hair, undoing every carefully pinned lock. His body reacted so forcefully, he was surprised he didn’t jolt out of his chair, or use his powers of illusion to turn this room into an exquisitely outfitted sex palace where time would stop and only the two of them would continue until he had mapped every inch of her skin and committed it to his eternal memory.
She was his. Totally his.
She just didn’t know it yet.
“I leave you to your conversation,” the ancient lawgiver said, standing and brushing nonexistent lint from her robes, as if leaving a high priestess alone with a slavering demon was the most natural thing in the world to do.
He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but he didn’t have enough control on his reactions not to betray the desperate need surging within him. Cressida walked the lawgiver and her aide to the door. After they exited, she locked it tight, then turned back to him and lifted her hands to her hair, pulling out maybe three pins. He gaped as the beautiful mass of her hair tumbled over her shoulders, but before he could speak, Cressida dropped her hands to the neckline of her robe, pulling what looked like delicate twin cords—and the gown collapsed around her ankles.
Stefan’s eyes nearly crossed.
As a demon, both during his tenure as a Syx and before it, he’d given pleasure to thousands of mortal women at their tacit and incontrovertible request. He’d seen the female form in all its permutations, from lush and full to lean and athletic to frail and delicate. Never before this moment had he witnessed a woman at once lush, strong, and exceptionally compact all at the same time. Cressida Frain stood in front of him with her hair flowing over her shoulders, clad in a simple shift that reached her knees. It would have been the most modest of adornments—except it was sheer. As in see-through.
She stepped out of her ornate gown and left it in a heap on the floor, strolling back to him as Stefan stared at her. “Ah…princess?”
She settled herself on the couch, then smiled at him. He didn’t miss the triumph in her expression, and his curiosity leapt. Did the lawgiver or her aide—or anyone in the coven, for that matter—know she’d planned this little surprise for him? And how far did she intend to go with it?
“Do you know what’s required of you here?” she asked him in her haughtiest tones. “Did the lawgiver explain your obligations?”
“The lawgiver didn’t give me bupkus. She certainly didn’t tell me you—”
Stefan broke off abruptly as Cressida raised her hand. She gestured to the torque around his neck, then laid her finger against her lips. Stefan’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. The torque was bugged? Of course it was, if Marcus the sniveling weenie was behind it. Stefan waved his fingers in front of his eyes, and Cressida shook her head, smiling broadly.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” she asked, reaching up to push her hair behind her shoulders. “We have so much to discuss.”
Stefan found himself staring at her breasts as they strained against the sheer fabric. She was totally doing this to him on purpose, but w
hy? What could be the possible value in goading a demon past his limit—let alone goading her chosen betrothed as well, who was surely listening in?
“I’m good,” he said, clearing his throat as Cressida nodded. She dropped one hand, then the other to her lap, her fingers playing with the hem of her garment. Then starting to inch it up.
“So what’s the point of this little soiree, princess?” Stefan asked. “Assuming I’m not supposed to simply nail you to the wall.”
Her gaze shot to his, suddenly panicked, and Stefan leaned forward. Two could play the game of tease with a blind voyeur, but Cressida was insane if she didn’t realize he could make her squirm far more easily than she could do the same to him. “No? No nookie tonight? That’s a pity. So, spill. What do you want me for?”
As he spoke, Stefan reached out easily and drew his finger down the neckline of Cressida’s shift. Then, just as nonchalantly, he dropped his hand and tweaked the peaked bud of her nipple. Cressida’s eyes snapped wide, her mouth falling open, but she didn’t allow herself the shocked intake of breath. Because Marcus would be able to hear that and might take matters into his own hands. Might even burst in on them, and that would be a pity. Especially since Stefan was rather enjoying the soft brush of his fingers over the tip of Cressida’s breast, back and forth, back and forth. “Well?” he prompted.
“Information,” Cressida said, and though her pupils were dilated and her hands clenched into fists, she spoke with a credibly calm tone. “By drinking from the cup, you are bound to me. You must do exactly what I say and answer any question I put to you.”
“I like the sound of that,” Stefan said, moving his hand to her other breast and palming its weight. For such a fit woman with a small frame, her breasts seemed to swell perfectly to fill the curve of his hand. He squeezed gently and continued. “And since you seem far more interested in what I have to say versus how I can make you feel, why don’t you get to it?”
She laid out her requests in tight, brief sentences, her tone growing sharper as he brushed her hands away from her legs, giving him a tantalizing glimpse at what lay beneath the sheer mesh of her shift.
