“You’re alive!” Morana breathed.
“Yes, my queen. With Bluebell’s help.”
He didn’t risk looking at either woman but kept focused on Velimir. If he couldn’t save Morana or Blue, he was going to make damn sure Velimir did not survive either.
Velimir recovered, his open mouth snapping shut, rage drawing the skin tight over his cheekbones. “I cannot understand why you won’t just die.” Without warning, he let a fireball fly.
Diving out of its way, Sokach conjured his own, threw it. Velimir stumbled back a step with its impact and looked down with surprise at his body, checking for damage. “Tricky, Sokach. You’ve been busy while you’ve been playing dead.”
Sokach didn’t answer, refused to get distracted by the chatter.
All around him was chaos. Flames flew from every direction. Morana had already added several daemons to the ash pile and was under heavy fire from others. Icy lightening poured from her fingertips, caught hold of a bold soldier daring to make a run at her. He lit up like a neon sign, light zapping through his limbs to his feet and hands. In the next instant, he was gone.
She might very well make good on her promise to empty Velimir’s ranks.
Through the shouts and explosions, he heard Blue scream and risked a glance at her. Her chair lay on its side, her head tucked into her shoulders, her eyes squeezed closed tight. Vulnerable. If they were lucky, no one would remember the inconsequential human until the fight was done. But there were still rogue shots to worry about. If only he could protect her—
Sokach deflected a shot coming from a daemon to the left, sent it sailing at Velimir. It slammed into the knee of his brother’s bad leg.
With a howl, Velimir leveled the daemon with fire. “He’s mine,” he screamed for all to hear. “No one touches the Shadow, but me.”
Sokach decided to turn Velimir’s tactic against him. “The Shadow, Velimir?” he asked. “No longer “brother”?”
That earned him a sneer.
“We are not brothers.”
“Once, we were.”
“We have never been brothers.” Hate blazed in Velimir’s golden eyes. “You have always held yourself above me. The strongest. The elder. The last shadow.” With each insult, Velimir fired at him, rapid and angry. On he came, conjuring and throwing fire with dizzying speed, pushing Sokach back.
A small bud of panic flowered in Sokach’s belly. He managed to dodge and deflect most shots, but those that landed, burned, weakened him. He might not have enough strength to defeat his little brother. He reached behind him, checking for the athame tucked in his belt, the one he’d brought just in case. He’d made some tweaks to the sigil carved on it. The symbol should do more than the one he used on the assailant at his house. This one should bind all of Velimir’s powers, give Morana the opportunity to overpower him, kill him and take back what he’d stolen from her. Assuming he’d remembered the right symbol.
“What’s it like? Realizing you’re not the stronger one anymore?” Velimir asked as though reading his mind.
Over Velimir’s shoulder, Morana came into view. She was down to six enemies, but blood trickled down the side of her face and she clutched a burned mark on her side with one hand. Yet even so, she stood over Blue, protecting her. Sokach’s heart swelled. The two women he loved. The two he would die for. If he could just hold out a little longer.
“Why turn? Why now?” Sokach asked, half as a distraction, and half because he needed to understand how any of this could have happened.
“Centuries ago, I realized that we daemons were nothing but slaves to Morana. To you.”
Sokach side-stepped right. Velimir mirrored him, and they began a slow circling dance of death.
“Hardly.”
“Oh no? Then why were we kept weak?”
He needed to get in close with Velimir, get his hands on him. Hand-to-hand combat was not one of Velimir’s strengths. It took as much skill as it did power. Magic couldn’t help him with that. Then he might find an opening to use the athame. “You were as strong as she could—”
“Lies!” Velimir hissed. “We would never be more than sniveling servants. And I wanted more. Much more.”
When the next shot came at him, instead of avoiding it, Sokach met it with one of his own. The two collided with a sharp explosion. A wall of thick smoke billowed between them. He rushed the swirling white cloud, broke through it and drove his shoulder into Velimir’s middle, sending him flying several feet.
With a kip up, Velimir launched to standing, but before he could set himself, Sokach flew at him, delivering cross punches and upper cuts. Velimir’s face bloodied with each blow, spit and snot flying. He backed up, gave way before Sokach’s fury. Confidence grew in Sokach with each step his brother took backwards.
A roundhouse kick crumpled Velimir to the ground. While his little brother curled into a ball, Sokach paused, panting, drew the athame. Blade in hand, he moved in. Without warning, Velimir unfurled, threw a sparkling orb so powerful it glowed white. It caught Sokach in the chest. The impact knocked the athame from his hand, sent him flying backwards where he landed with a thud. His head cracked hard on the floor. The air fled his lungs with a swoosh. His fingers clawed the concrete as he fought for breath. He struggled to sitting.
On his feet, Velimir licked at the blood on his lips. He strode forward to finish the fight, his head lowered like a ram. He paused, bent to pick up the lost athame. Amidst the chaos raging around them, he paused to study it, running a finger over the symbol. Looking up, he pinned Sokach with an amused look. “Something from those glorious old days you drone on and on about?”
Sokach didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.
“I can only imagine what this would do to a daemon.” Velimir flipped the athame in the air, catching it by the blade. “Shall we see what it does to a shadow?” He moved his left foot forward, his body aligning with it, his right arm rising back to throw.
Sokach summoned his power, prepared to deflect the blade with a blast of magic.
Velimir stopped, smiled. “Or a goddess.” He whirled around, let the blade fly at Morana’s unsuspecting back.
“Morana!” Sokach yelled.
Time slowed down, the milliseconds grinding into seconds as though they strained against ropes holding them back. At Morana’s feet, Sokach saw Blue look up at his cry, spy the athame sailing, spinning end over end. Her wide, black eyes met his, and in that breath, a lifetime of love passed between them.
And he knew what she would do before she moved.
“No!” He screamed, the word bursting from his lungs.
Blue bolted up.
The blade buried itself in her chest. She stumbled back, bumped into Morana, crumpled to the ground.
The breath left Sokach. He tore his gaze away from her limp body to look at Velimir. Rage like he hadn’t known since the war flooded through him, summoning all his power to it, every last wisp of cold winter death that Morana had graced him with. He didn’t care if he survived, didn’t want to. Not without Blue.
He launched himself at Velimir, seized him about the throat, engulfed his little brother with his own lifeforce. Their magic collided. Velimir shuddered in the onslaught, went to his knees. Sokach drove his power like a fist through his brother’s chest, leaving a yawning hole where the heart should have been.
Velimir’s eyes went wide, his mouth gaped open with the surprised gasp of one who thought himself too smart, too quick, for Death to catch.
The explosion blew Sokach backwards.
He landed on his back as bits of shattered crate and flaming pallet dropped around him. He rolled up, looked around.
There was no sign of Velimir. Or of his remaining soldiers. Morana knelt on one knee beside Blue’s body.
Sokach half crawled, half scrambled to get to them. He collapsed to the ground, gathered Blue’s thin frame in his arms. Her beautiful ebony eyes fluttered open.
“Why?” he asked, caressing her face, thumbing away the thin t
rail of blood at the corner of her sweet mouth.
“She’s your maker. You need her—”
She coughed. Blood bubbled up in her mouth, cutting off her words.
“Bluebell!” Sokach cried, gave her a gentle shake.
Her eyes rolled back.
“No!” he said as though the word had the power to stop Death from taking her. “I love you!” He squeezed her close to his body.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to die, and she live out her mortal life in peace.
He felt a cool touch on his shoulder, looked up into the sorrowful eyes of Morana, his queen.
“Please,” he beseeched.
Chapter Twenty
Striding through th e dining area of the restaurant, Sokach did a last check. The tables each had their settings and centerpieces, and all their chairs pushed in. The painters had finished the sign in the window earlier in the day: The Sugar Bean Restaurant and Bakery, scripted in robin’s egg blue.
Everything was ready.
From the kitchen came the thump and thud of knife on cutting board. He walked to the door, pushed it open. He paused in the doorway, reveling in the joy that flooded through him at the sight before him, threatening to burst his heart.
A most beautiful vision. No. The most beautiful vision. The woman he loved, baking sweet temptations.
Bluebell stood with her back to him, rising up on her toes and putting her whole body into the chopping motion. He snuck up behind her, slid his hands under her arms and around her, nuzzled her graceful neck.
She paused her work to tilt her head, give him full access to her throat, a little purr easing out of her.
“What are you making,” he asked, lips murmuring the question against her skin.
“I thought I’d add a dark chocolate dusting to the torts. A little twist on Morana’s favorite.” With her free hand, she picked up a brown chunk and lifted the treat to his lips.
He took it and the tips of her fingers in his mouth, let his tongue twirl around them, an eye tooth to graze them. A reminder of earlier. A promise for later.
“You know,” she said, her voice singsong in its tone, an upturn of playful reproach. “When we first met, I didn’t think you liked sweets. You were always so serious, Mr. Strawberry.”
He chuckled at the name she used to tease him and went back to laying kisses on her neck. “I didn’t.”
She set the knife down with a harrumph, turned in his arms. Sliding her arms around his neck, she melded her body against his, kissed him with greedy hunger. “And now?” she asked when she pulled away, her black eyes glinting with mischief and invitation.
Desire sizzled through him. “Now?” He crushed her to him. “I’m addicted.” His mouth captured hers again. One hand slid up to worked free the top few buttons of her blouse, then his lips left hers to taste the exposed skin of her sleek shoulder.
“You’d better get to work. The food is not going to cook itself.”
He dismissed her admonishment with a grunt, the fingers of one hand walking their way to the hem of her skirt, his kisses following the trail of her open blouse.
She tapped at his shoulder, a half-hearted attempt to stop him. “You don’t want our opening night to be a bust, do you?”
“You forget,” he said. “Magic can do the work.”
“I thought you liked to do it yourself.” A little gasp escaped her. “With your own hands,” she breathed above him.
“In case you didn’t notice, I am working. With my hands.” He rose back up to kiss her, determined to silence her.
“Oh hell,” she said with a grown and stepped away from him. With a swish of her fingers, the room around them blurred. When it settled again, the kitchen had gone from a mess of half-made recipes to fully-prepared dishes.
She turned back to him, smug with accomplishment.
“That’s my girl,” he admired with a quick grin before he scooped her up and set her on the counter, settling into the cradle of her legs. “Now. Before our guests arrive, this shadow needs a little sugar.”
The Pastry Prince
Andi Lawrencovna
Prologue
The child sa t upon her bed, bedecked in a white flouncing nightshirt, reddish curls bound in a loose braid around her cherubic face, hands clasped before her heart, pleading with her mother. “Please, Momma, just one more story and then I promise to go to bed. Please tell it to me again. I love it so much.”
Her mother sighed and sat back upon the bedspread beside the girl, stroked her hand over the child’s blanket, and smiled, for she loved the story too. “Very well, but it’s the last time tonight, Amari.” She tried to sound stern, but her heart fluttered with the story and her daughter’s happy laughter ruined the effect of her frown. She grinned, “Once upon a time, a time not so long ago, there lived a …”
“Not this story again!”
“Pappi!”
The girl jumped from beneath the covers and threw herself into her father’s arms, the man catching her easily and spinning her in a circle as she giggled and hugged tight to his neck.
She wrapped her tiny body around his and held him as close as she could, snuggling her head into his neck as he carried her back to her bed, sat with her in his arms beside her mother, the woman’s eyes bright with love as she looked at her husband.
“I hate this story.”
“Liar.”
His lips widened in a smile.
“But it’s my favorite, Pappi! How you and Momma met. It’s just like a fairy tale!”
A fairy tale indeed, though his daughter likely would never know the full truth of the story.
He huffed a breath of mock-annoyance, and she hugged him tighter at the sound.
“Please!”
“I already said it was the last one, Rol.”
He shook his head, knowing he’d lost even before he’d entered his daughter’s room. “Can we at least rename the blasted tale? I’d rather be called the Gingerbread Man again!”
Amari scrambled from her father’s lap and back beneath the bedding, pulled the blankets up to her chin and tucked her head into the pillow, waiting for her mother to start the story again, face bright with anticipation.
Tasiya laughed and smiled at her husband. “But I so very much like my Pastry Prince.” She took Rollu’s hand in hers, and began: “Once upon a time, a time not so long ago, there lived a sad lonely baker, looking to find a new home…”
Chapter One
Rollu stared a t the room around him, at the bolts of fabric lining every available surface, scraps strewn over the floor, and fought back the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him.
The king himself had come to deliver the news.
News that the woman whose shop Rol kept in her absence would not be returning. News that the woman he loved, had sacrificed herself to save them all.
News he had been expecting since the moment Amarice left without a word of farewell except a cookie shared in his bakery all those months ago.
He’d nodded his head and bowed to his liege lord.
Locked the door when the king fare-welled him and turned back to the store. He’d been standing there in the center of the work room staring around him at the disorder for he didn’t know how long, wondering what to do now.
How could he stay here knowing that she would not come back?
He’d so desperately wished that she’d come back to him.
He’d have to tell his father.
He’d have to leave.
Rol bent and picked up a scrap of red velvet between his fingers, the trimmings from a dress or a cape, he couldn’t say, left from the morning earlier when the women who cut and fitted the cloth worked on the next court fashion piece.
She’d left the shop to him.
He didn’t want it.
It was eas y enough to pack his spare belongings. Only a few shirts, an extra pair of pants or two, the bag that had held all that he owned.
He was not a wealth
y man.
His father’s bakery did well, but what they had, they put to good use.
The bakery that was his birthright when his father was ready to retire.
In a city that reminded him only of his heartbreak.
He locked the door at his back when he left, placed the key in an envelope he wrote a single name on and placed beneath a flower pot. The seamstresses would know what to do with it. They were likely better heirs than he, the ones Amarice would have…
Don’t think about her.
Rol walked down the quiet street to his father’s house, the scent of sweet rolls and cinnamon wafting from the shop even though night was well on its way and it had been closed for hours.
He knocked on the door, knowing his father wouldn’t have locked the same, but not able to enter without the invitation, knowing this would be the last time he did for a long while.
Cinta’s smile faded quickly at his son’s expression, and Rol didn’t fight against the hug the old man offered in pulling him into the shop and sheltering him within the warm embrace of the cook house fire and the flour filled air.
Tears seeped from Rol’s eyes.
Men don’t cry…
They drink beer and eat cookies…
Except when he was a baker, and the thought of cookies and beer left a bitter taste in his mouth after his heartbreak.
“It will be all right, Son. It will be all right.”
It never would be again.
When morning cam e , Rol hefted his bag, and stepped into his father’s kitchen.
Cinta was already up, hard at work for the day ahead. There was to be a celebration for the birth of the king’s son and the entire city was to be invited. The bakers and the butchers and everyone who cooked had been asked to participate, paid a good sum for their wares in providing the feast for the kingdom.
It was to be a happy day, shadowed by the memory of loss.
Cinta looked up from his island, the heavy wood covered in flour as his old hands kneaded mounds of freshly made dough, the oven already hard at work with the first batches of sweet rolls rising in the fire. “You’re leaving then?”
Sinfully Delicious: Six Scintillating Stories of Sweets, Treats, and Happily Ever Afters Page 33
