by Jenn Stark
Stefan hissed as the picture unfolded in his mind. Turn after turn, the head lawgiver secured advanced training, spell casting, gifts, money, for Cressida and, to a lesser extent, Marcus, by putting forth a single vow that both her young charges heard, over and over again. The young, gifted witch would defeat Ahriman. It was simple and clear, and the coven took it as a proclamation. Fraya was either intensely confident or staggeringly foolish, so caught up in her blind ambition that she believed more of what her young charge was capable of than was reasonable. Stefan was betting she was merely a fool, but even the rashest fool could gain a following, and the head lawgiver definitely had that following. So did Marcus. But Cressida…
Alone. Cut off. A solo practitioner in the midst of what was supposed to be a sisterhood, with no one but Fraya, Marcus, and Dahlia to support her…why?
Anger simmered through Stefan’s body. Cressida was being set up for brilliant success or soul-crushing failure. And the horde, who were not known for their sentimentality, had evidently picked up on the energies brewing here. Or, more likely, someone inside the coven had tipped them off. Neither Marcus or Fraya would put the coven at such outright risk, but did Cressida have enemies she wasn’t aware of?
Either way, an entire delegation of them was currently waiting outside Cressida’s door, slavering to keep the witches in their place. It wouldn’t do for the covens to start controlling demons outright, after all. They could band together. They could enlist the aid of the Syx or humans like Jim Granger or the Dawn Children and present a serious threat against demon kind, the likes of which the horde had never seen. After all these millennia of an accepted world order…Cressida was changing the rules.
He was totally down with that. But there was a hesitation, a clear and present self-doubt that had been deeply instilled in Cressida, wrapped up in her misguided sense of deep subjugation to the lawgiver who’d saved her as a child, to the coven that she’d been set up to save from her earliest days. Once again, the trauma of being a human nearly staggered Stefan. Cressida’s entire life had been justified by beliefs, emotions, betrayals, and associations too twisted for his demon soul to unravel. He couldn’t heal anyone from the inside out…so he’d start from the outside in.
Rightly or wrongly, the coven had set up Cressida as a demon-killing witch queen ready to take out the biggest, baddest demon of them all.
It was time she started looking the part.
Chapter Eighteen
Cressida blinked in a daze as Stefan lifted his mouth away from hers. She’d never revealed so much of herself in a single kiss, and she wasn’t at all sure how she felt about it. She struggled to remember why she’d given that gift in the first place.
Stefan didn’t take long to remind her. “Your memories suck,” he said, grinning down at her.
“So you—wait. What are we doing back here?” He’d reached for her hand and was pulling her farther down the narrow alley between two posh buildings. There was no trash lining the narrow roadway, and it didn’t reek of urine—much—but it seemed one dumpster away from being a rendezvous point for a drug deal.
“I’m a demon and you’re a witch,” Stefan scoffed. “You’re really that worried about what New York can put up against us? At least the normal side of New York?”
When they reached the back of the building, the space opened up into a sort of box canyon for delivery trucks, with enough space that a moderate-size vehicle could back up to the various docks to unload its wares. One such truck was tucked into what looked like an abandoned loading bay. The rest were empty and locked tight.
Stefan stood back, scanning the buildings, and Cressida narrowed her eyes, trying to see what he saw. Jewelers, clothiers, perfumeries—all the best for New York’s finest. Some of these vendors had been in these buildings for decades, some were barely staking their first claim to the prized territory. This far away from the thumping energy of the horde, the more effervescent electricity of the city swept to the fore again, humming and buzzing. It was no accident that so many of the world’s richest and most famous gathered in New York City, no surprise that it was the home of irrepressible audacity in the creative arts and of relentless innovation in the financial sectors. The city was filled to the brim with Connecteds, or with people who fed off the energy of the Connecteds, and it had been since its founding.
“Here, I think,” Stefan said, making his choice. He tugged her forward again, toward a small dock at the end of the row. It would take a reasonable-sized truck some maneuvering to get into place here—and the store probably wouldn’t take deliveries at all unless they came in the dead of night. It’d be too difficult to get in and out otherwise.
The bay was currently locked tight, but not completely abandoned.
“Cameras,” Cressida warned as Stefan stopped in front of the bay. The lip of it was about five feet off the ground. Great for backing a truck into, less useful for a human hopping up to the platform. A narrow door was fixed into the side of the wall beside the larger bay, with a set of plain concrete steps leading up to it. The door looked rarely used, the space around the stairs spotless. Wherever the good workers of this establishment took their smoke breaks, it wasn’t here. Probably because of all the neighbors nearby. This was New York. There were always appearances to be maintained.
Stefan peered at the tiny official-looking camera at the dock. It was clearly activated, swiveling as it followed them across the front of the bay to the stairs. Stefan seemed to think so too, as he gave the fish-eye lens a cheerful wave. “Shouldn’t be too long now.”
He was right. The door at the top of the stairs opened less than two minutes later, and a slender young man of about twenty-five gazed solemnly down at them with an air of…what? Cressida had expected bemusement, even resignation, if not outright annoyance. She was surprised that anyone came to the door in the first place. But the young man’s manner was too amped, too excited. He was trying to maintain his air of decorum, but beneath…
She glanced at Stefan. He grinned up at the man, and for a long moment, no one spoke. Or at least they didn’t speak out loud. Who understood the ways of a demon?
“Of course,” the young man said, though Stefan hadn’t said a word. “Do the others know?”
“They will when they see me. Probably best for that to be in person. Not everyone is as sensitive as you.”
“Then come with me.” The man seemed to warm up further with the flattery, then he stepped back and motioned Stefan and Cressida inside. The door opened onto a sizable loading bay that held dozens of empty racks pushed up against the wall, but no merchandise. The racks tipped Cressida off to the idea that this was probably a clothier of some sort, but clearly not one that would leave its precious wares out in the open to get sullied by delivery truck exhaust.
The young man moved forward, quickly leading them out of the delivery area and into another small corridor, this one much more nicely detailed. It seemed to be a row of offices, and he hesitated briefly at one of them. Stefan shook his head.
“We’ll do our business in the front of the store. We’ll need room to move around.”
“Of course,” the young man murmured, as if this were the most normal request in the world for a demon to make, and Cressida pursed her lips. She didn’t get the feeling that Stefan frequented the tonier shops of New York City, even if, as a demon, he wouldn’t be turned away anywhere. Demons who walked the earth never lacked for resources, each according to their unique vices. But though Stefan walked with the air of a man used to wearing the finest clothes, those clothes were glamour. They didn’t cost anything because they were made of magic.
She wasn’t made of magic, however, and when she walked into the main showroom of the couture clothier, she struggled not to gasp.
There were no customers in the shop, only a half-dozen shopkeepers, who gazed at her and Stefan, transfixed. The clothes on display were attractive in an elegant, understated way, gracing mannequins whose elegant poses seemed e
erily serene. Jewels gleamed from one case, watches from another, and—inscrutably—small tables were set up around the room, creating almost an intimate bistro feel. What was this place?
“Welcome, welcome.” A new man moved smoothly up to them, first shaking Stefan’s hand, then Cressida’s. He lingered over her, his penetrating gaze sweeping her from head to foot, making her feel self-conscious. She was dressed in her usual utilitarian clothes, of course, and she hadn’t paid any attention to her hair. Plus, the New York wind had been especially stiff outside. What must she look like?
The man smiled at her warmly, as if he could read her thoughts. “We are delighted to be of service to you, High Priestess Cressida,” he said, transferring his attention to Stefan. “How can we help?”
“You work with Connecteds,” Stefan stated baldly. The man merely raised his brows.
“Every shop worth its salt along this row works with Connecteds, and several more in the area,” he informed them calmly. “Of course, not every Connected can afford our unique mix of accoutrements, but we pride ourselves on catering to a specialized clientele.” His gaze shifted back to Cressida. “I will say, we were unaware that the new high priestess of the Scepter Coven had returned to New York City. If we had known, we would have extended an invitation to visit us earlier.”
Cressida frowned, shooting a quick glance to Stefan. None of the proprietors of the shops along this avenue had ever extended so much as a hand wave in her general direction. Why would they?
She thought back to Elysium Gray and her unfailingly elegant attire. “Did you work with the former high priestess?” she asked, unable to quell her curiosity.
“Alas, no,” the man said without rancor. “Mistress Gray was rather fond of Chanel, and we found the brand had become far too diluted to be of interest to us anymore. She also was older and preferred a classic silhouette. I suspect for your needs, you would do well with a slightly more contemporary look.”
“Well, thank you. Perhaps I’ll have the opportunity to check out your offerings some other time. Right now, we’re a little busy.”
“Not too busy for this.” Stefan pulled out a chair at one of the tiny tables and poured himself into it. Immediately, a staffer appeared at his side with a glass of champagne on a salver. The young man placed the flute on the table in front of Stefan, then whisked away as quickly and quietly as he had come.
She quirked a glance at Stefan. “You just pointed out that there’s an entire mosh pit of demons at my doorstep. Do I really have time to go shopping?”
“You definitely don’t,” Stefan agreed. “Which is why you buy from this shop going forward. It will save you all kinds of time.” He turned to the shopkeeper. “She needs everything, and she hates to try things on. You have a seamstress?”
“Of course,” the shopkeeper said.
Cressida didn’t miss the way the shopkeeper’s brows arched, the only indication he was apparently willing to give at the news that he now clothed the high priestess of the Scepter Coven. He lifted a hand, and a young woman came forward, as neat and trim as if she’d come from central casting, complete with a small cloth measuring tape clutched between two carefully manicured fingers.
Cressida scowled first at the woman, then back to Stefan. “Seriously, I don’t think I have time for this,” she said again.
“You have time to change the way you think about yourself, and more importantly, to change the way others think about you. You have the capacity in almost every environment to do this simply with your mind, but you choose not to. Whether it’s a conscious choice or the results of conditioning that you’re not even aware of, I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t care.”
“The coven didn’t choose me to lead them because of my fashion sense.”
“And thank the Almighty for that,” Stefan said drily. “But more to the point, they didn’t choose you at all. You chose yourself, or that head lawgiver did.”
Irritation knifed through her. “It was my choice to ascend. It was my place. No other witch is willing to take this challenge. I am.”
“A conversation for another time.” He shrugged.
But Cressida wasn’t having any of that. They were outside the walls of the coven. There was no Marcus here, no cameras, no surveillance. “If you’ve got something to say, demon, you’d best say it now.”
“Fair enough.” Stefan leaned back in his chair, sipping his champagne. The shopkeeper and the seamstress stared at them both, absolutely mute. Cressida was relatively sure that Stefan would wipe their memories when all this was done, but that wasn’t her primary concern right now. Her concern was the look of utter speculation on Stefan’s face.
“I see in front of me a woman of modest accomplishment.”
“Don’t flatter me,” Cressida cracked, but Stefan kept going.
“Perhaps above-average ambition, moderate charisma, probably more grit than most. Where you’re really rolling a twenty, though, is in potential. Untapped potential. By its very nature, untapped potential means potential that nobody has yet seen. So explain to me more clearly how a woman who’s done nothing special except gain the seal of approval of a coven’s head lawgiver is now in the position to take on the biggest bad of all time?”
Cressida stiffened in indignation. “I accepted the challenge.”
“And again, you mean to tell me that no other witch in this generation or, hell, any generation before you in recent history has had the sac to take on your mythical nemesis? Because I call bullshit on that.”
“I…” Cressida hesitated, confronting for the first time the reality of what Stefan was saying. Though the answers bubbling to her lips were real and absolute, she caught the inherent illusion in them. No one had stepped forward, as far as she knew, but she’d never thought to ask why. Maybe there had been no need, with Ahriman remaining in the shadows. A dire threat that had only materialized now. Or maybe…
It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. “Well, I’m what you’ve got now, like it or not.”
“And believe me, I like it,” Stefan said. “Deep inside, you’ve got what it takes to lead, no doubt about it. But the woman who walks out of this shop tonight needs to be fundamentally different from the woman who walked in here. Especially with so many demons hanging around, waiting for your autograph. Because if there’s one thing you need to know about the horde, we place a lot of stock in appearances. So if you look the part of a baller, we’re going to treat you like a baller. If you don’t, we’ll just as soon walk all over you to get to whoever’s really in charge. ”
“Are you kidding me?” Cressida stared at him. “You think I can just put on a pretty pair of shoes and all my problems will be solved?”
“Dude, it’s not like you’re the first one. Hello, Cinderella? Dorothy? Puss in Boots?”
“You’re insane,” she said, shaking her head. “Out of all the demons in the world, I had to find the one who was insane.”
“Go get measured for superhero boots. You’re going to need them. We’ll have everything ready for you when you get back.”
Bemused, Cressida followed the young woman to a discreet door tucked in behind elegant clothing displays. That door opened onto a corridor, which led to several dressing rooms off to either side. The last one was the largest, with mirrors along one wall, tufted couches, and standing racks for clothing.
Cressida stared, completely at a loss. “I have no idea where to begin here,” she finally admitted. “I don’t pay any attention to clothes.”
Another voice sounded at the doorway. “Music to my ears. But you gotta wear something, I guess.”
Cressida turned abruptly. The woman who joined them was someone Cressida had never seen before—and she certainly didn’t look all that impressive at first glance. Slender and compact, her hair pulled back into a functional ponytail, she was pretty enough, in a streetwise sort of way. Her gray eyes swept the room as Cressida stared at her, lingering on all the dresses and hooks, and s
he drove her fists deeper into the pockets of her battered hoodie. She wore black pants and boots as well, and…well, she looked like a criminal.
She also smelled faintly of charred skin…and a second later, Cressida was nearly flattened by the wave of power that flowed in her wake. She staggered back a step, gasping.
“Who are you?” Cressida demanded. The woman looked familiar—but she definitely hadn’t met her before. Which meant she must have seen her face in one of the security reports that Dahlia faithfully provided her each week. She wasn’t another witch, though the power within her was strong enough to set all of Cressida’s chakras spinning. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, the long answer to that we probably don’t have time for, but the short answer is—Stefan asked me to stop by. We go back a bit.” She grinned, looking around the room, rocking back on the heels of her scuffed boots. “You don’t want me on clothing detail, though. I totally suck at that, and you guys caught me at the office, where nobody generally sees me if I don’t want them to. But the name’s Sara Wilde, and—”
“Sara Wilde?” It all came together in a jolt for Cressida with a stomach-roiling jolt. Sara Wilde—or Justice Wilde, as she was now more formally known, was one of the most powerful Connecteds currently walking the earth, and she’d recently ascended to the council of a mysterious group of demigods who were amassing untold power. After the horde problem was fixed…the covens were eventually going to need to address the Council. But they were years away from that. “What are you doing here?”
“Relax, I’m not paying a house call as Justice.” Justice Wilde shook her head. “Like I said, I was working late. When Stefan sent up a call about you playing with fire, I got curious. So I thought I’d drop in.”
Cressida’s hands began to tingle with heat, and she hurriedly put them behind her back, even as Justice Wilde regarded her with keen interest. She didn’t know much about this woman or her abilities, but…there had been something about her wielding fire in one of the reports. “Stefan brought you?”
