The Warlock King (The Kings)

by Heather Killough-Walden

  She swallowed hard and chanced a brave, slightly wild look into his eyes. His gaze caught hers and held it fast, strapping her down.

  A telling warmth began swirling in her stomach.

  “For what it’s worth,” she said, her voice cracking just a bit; she cleared her throat and went on, “there’s nothing innocent about chocolate.”

  Jason stared at her as if he were trying to decide whether to glare or grin. The emerald in his eyes glittered like real gemstone. Arresting.

  Chloe shrugged. “Chocolate….” She swallowed hard. “It’s wicked,” she explained. It was true. Chocolate was like black magic in the form of food. Akyri didn’t need to eat, but when you went around as perpetually hungry as Chloe had for the last several hundred years, you found other ways to feed that empty spot. It was a good thing Akyri didn’t get fat either.

  Jason pushed himself up against the wall until he was standing, and then brushed himself off. He straightened. With a quirk of his lips, he snapped his fingers, and his shoes were enveloped in a ring of light. That light raced up the length of his body, hugging him like a cocoon until it rose over his head like a halo and then vanished.

  Now the Warlock King was draped in a perfectly tailored black suit with a black silk tie and shining black dress shoes. His blonde wavy hair was smoothed, he was freshly shaven, and he smelled like soap and aftershave. With a smirk, he lowered his hands and slipped them into his pockets. An expensive watch gleamed on his left wrist.

  He looked like a million bucks.

  Chloe would have been a big fat liar on a cosmic level if she’d even attempted to deny how attracted she was to him in that moment. But she did at least manage to hide it. She raised a brow and asked nonchalantly, “Big date?” Smart-assness was not necessarily in her repertoire, but with Jason’s magic fueling her, she was finding she was capable of all sorts of things. And desires.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Jason replied. Then he smiled in a way that forced a new hot flush into her cheeks. She took a deep breath and demanded, “What?”

  “You’re coming with me,” said the debonair king in his expensive suit.

  Chloe blinked. “Come again?”

  His fiendish smile became a killer grin. He took his hand out of his pocket and snapped a second time. Chloe felt a rush of cool air swirl around her, like fairy’s breath or a menthol-laced breeze against naked skin. She looked down, noticed the same ring of light around her own feet, and watched with wide eyes as it climbed up her body.

  When it got to her chest, she closed her eyes, a little unwilling to see what it was going to leave behind once it was finished doing whatever it was doing.

  A few seconds later, the menthol breeze was gone.

  Chloe opened her eyes to the sound of a wolf whistle. “You clean up nice, Chloe Septeran,” came Jason’s smooth, deep voice.

  She looked down at herself. Shock went through her – partly because of what he’d chosen to dress her in, and partly because of how good she looked in it. “Holy shit.”

  Jason laughed. It was one of those genuine, deep chuckles laced with nothing but pure amusement or happiness, and it at once drew Chloe’s attention. She looked up at him, transfixed by the unexpected beauty of such a dark and dangerous warlock experiencing real joy.

  “You can dress her up,” he said through the remnants of his soft laughter.

  “Shut up,” she retorted, more than a little shaken.

  The red silk gown was form-fitting, floor-length, and bore a slit that ran the entire length of her left leg. It was killer. It also felt familiar. She could swear she’d read about someone dressed like this recently… in a romance novel with angels and vampires, in fact. Maybe it was one of Evie D’Angelo’s books.

  And her mind was drifting under the pressure.

  “Jason,” she said firmly, feeling strange addressing him so personally. “I’ve never worn clothes like this in my life. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Where do you think you’re taking me?”

  “To a meeting of the kings,” he said through his smile. Then his smile faded a little and his eyes strayed to the dress he’d just placed her in. His gaze grazed her shoulders, the long length of her arms, and the curve of her waist. The amusement leaked from his features to be replaced with a combination of very obvious mounting hunger and something akin to concern. “And the queens.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was just accepted. It was what was done, out of respect perhaps or as a way to show that each of them fully understood how important what they were doing was. This was a drawing together of the most mystical factions of the multiverse. At this table sat the heads of empires so otherworldly, they existed only in the dreams and fantasies of most mortals – and in the nightmares of others.

  So it was an unspoken rule and an unbreakable tradition that to these meetings, a king came dressed like a king. Men who brandished vorpal swords or sprouted wings or fangs or walked through palaces of ice in their own worlds stepped through the door of the meeting chamber draped in tailored suits, finest silks, and airs of calm that belied the turmoil inherent in running supernatural kingdoms.

  And now their queens would as well.

  Roman stood from where he always sat at the head of the table and nodded once in greeting as the Phantom King stepped through the door. Behind him, and held firmly by the hand, came his queen, Siobhan Ashdown.

  She came hesitantly, and by the look on her face, it was clear to Roman that she felt she should not be there.

  Thanatos appeared as he almost always did for the meetings, dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a dark gray tie. If one looked closely, they would notice the pattern on the tie changing every now and then – an unconscious reflection of the Phantom King’s nature, and the tattoos he was forced to cover.

  His queen was a vision in charcoal gray satin, her hair and skin possessing an airbrushed quality, as if she’d just stepped out of a 1940’s pinup poster. From the slightly jealous, incredibly protective expression on Thane’s face, it was clear he thought so too, and that he didn’t like the fact that he was the only one with a queen so far at the table.

  Where there had once been only 13 chairs, there were now 18. Three had been added for the found queens, one had been added for the Werewolf Overseer, and the last had been provided for Lalura Chantelle.

  The high witch was already in her chair in fact, which Roman now noticed had changed shape. It bore a remarkable resemblance to a goose’s behind. She sat reclined in the fluffy down receptacle, her head tucked onto her right shoulder, her eyes closed, a soft snoring sound emitting from between her slightly parted lips.

  Roman hid his smile. He was getting very good at it.

  Thane took his usual seat and Siobhan sat beside him. At once, the others at the table leaned in to speak with them both, offering reassurances and praise to her, and Roman was proud. They were trying to make her more comfortable. Perhaps they knew that their own queens would feel as she did. They were building bridges.

  One by one, the men arrived, all in fast, efficient magical fashion.

  This was a change of scenery for them. Since Roman was the one who called the meetings and he was an Offspring, a vampire, they were generally held in locations along the coast or beneath rainstorms or in tall, shaded woods.

  Vampires enjoyed cooler temperatures, fog, and water.

  This… was the desert.

  He’d never drawn them all together in such a location. But it had become patently clear that the more formidable of their enemies included vampires who apparently worked for a rogue master. Therefore, in order to lessen the chances of being attacked during this urgent and vital assembly, Roman had called it in the middle of West Texas, in a tiny town none of them had ever heard of but which bore an ironically perfect name: Wolfforth.

  From the looks on their faces as they appeared one after another, it felt off to them to not have to dodge ten thousand people in New York or San Francisco or London and instead keep
to the rare shadow under the sparse ranch-styled buildings plotted here and there in a very sleepy village-like town.

  That was a good sign. If it was surprising to them, then perhaps it would be surprising to their enemy – which meant they were less likely to consider it.

  Evie hadn’t yet arrived. She’d promised him she would come and only needed time to prepare, but Roman knew how she felt about attending a congregation of the 13. She’d only met a few of them to date, and they overwhelmed her. She was a sensitive soul; apparently that was something inherent in a queen. It seemed unfair in a way. Only fate would decide to take the kindest, most empathetic people of the world and task them with the most frightening responsibilities.

  Sounds about right, he thought grimly.

  Eventually, only the Warlock King, his soon-to-be-queen, and Evie had yet to arrive. Lalura had yet to even wake up.

  Roman half-listened as the kings conversed quietly amongst themselves, most of them speaking with Thanatos and his bride.

  The doorway shimmered a dark purple and black, and the room went quiet.

  Jason Alberich was an enigma to Roman. If appearances had ever been deceiving, Alberich was the instance. He’d started down the supernatural path as one thing – and become something much different later on. And he was still changing.

  Rumor had it this was the second time in almost as many days that the dark magic sovereign had paid a visit to the desert. The first time he’d had to come, it was in the line of duty as king of the Warlocks. If Alberich was irritated by the recurring locale, he hid it well behind his emerald city eyes.

  The Warlock King appeared as he always did for a meeting of the kings, meticulously dressed in a jet-black suit that fit him like a mantle. He calmly entered the room, briefly filled the doorframe with the impressive height and broad shoulders that had become expected of a king, and none-too-gently led someone in after him.

  The woman came into the room wrapped in wariness and hesitation – and brought an instant hush to the gathering. All that remained to be heard was the gentle snoring coming from Lalura.

  Women were better creatures than men. Roman would be the first to admit it. It wasn’t a concession, and it wasn’t an admittance of defeat, it was simple fact. Men were violent, arrogant, selfish, apathetic, and cruel. A king could be a real monster.

  The Warlock Queen however, was the second living proof to walk through the door that women embodied everything else. They were the yang, the balance, and the opposite. As Roman now realized that all of the queens would be, Chloe Septeran was a beautiful, innocent vessel for the hardships her king would unwittingly give to her. And as she moved into the room, she too won the admiration of every man at the table.

  Roman watched as Alberich led Chloe to her seat and surreptitiously met the gazes of each king one at a time. A wealth of unspoken warning was passed through the space over the table’s mahogany surface. Jason tucked in Chloe’s chair and gracefully took his own place beside her. The chatter resumed, a little quieter than before.

  All that was missing was Evie.

  I’m here.

  Roman turned to face the entrance once more.

  How do I look? she asked him, a shy smile on her lovely face. She managed to hide her fangs well. He, on the other hand, felt the pain of them lengthening from his gums at once.

  His all-pupil gaze slipped down the length of his beautiful wife, and he wondered how the hell he was going to find the strength to concentrate on the meeting at hand.

  *****

  Chloe’s stomach was a mess. The butterflies inside had turned to razor-winged little monsters, fed by Jason’s magic and the eyes of every terribly powerful man in the room.

  A part of her could not believe she was sitting there… wrapped up in a gorgeous gown like some sacrificial present for the very people she’d avoided for centuries.

  But the damage had already been done. She’d taken a warlock’s magic.

  It felt like sitting on top of a very big secret. She imagined it was how Clark Kent might have felt as he walked among the humans, looking on the outside like everyone else, but capable of destroying the lot of them on no more than a whim.

  Except he was a superhero, came a soft, friendly female voice in her head.

  Chloe glanced up from where she had been burning a hole in the table with her steadfast, nervous gaze. She locked eyes with the woman across from her, the woman she knew to be Siobhan Ashdown, the Phantom Queen.

  Siobhan smiled warmly at her. So he would have saved the lot of them, not destroyed them, she continued, speaking to her telepathically.

  Chloe’s first reaction was to wonder how Siobhan had managed to speak to her in such a manner, but then she remembered that Siobhan was a warlock herself, capable of all sorts of magic. Her second reaction was realizing that Siobhan was right. Chloe had been thinking some dark thoughts.

  Right, she replied, just saying the word in her mind and hoping that Siobhan would hear. Siobhan’s answering chuckle was enough to confirm that she had.

  It’s easy to let the magic inside of you bring out your inner beast, the gorgeous Phantom Queen told Chloe.

  You can believe her, came a third female voice.

  Chloe looked up the table, to the seat beside the Vampire King. It was occupied by Evelynne D’Angelo, his beautiful, intelligent queen. Evelynne, or “Evie,” as her friends called her, smiled as well, flashing just the tiniest hint of fang. She knows what she’s talking about, Evie finished.

  The rest of the table had gone quiet. Chloe realized this – and wondered just how many of the men around her… fey, dragon, shadow… were listening comfortably in on their unspoken conversation.

  “Let’s stop all the chatter and get this meeting started,” came the withered, scratchy voice of the old woman who had apparently been asleep until now. The massively wrinkled, stooped and tiny female straightened in her chair, which looked suspiciously like the tail end of some type of fowl, and leaned into the table, lacing her bony fingers together atop it.

  Something told Chloe that she had been a lot less unconscious than they’d all assumed.

  Lalura Chantelle, Chloe thought. That’s the high witch.

  The woman turned her ancient head with its strong chin, and pinned Chloe with the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

  “Welcome, Chloe of the Twenty-Eight,” she said. The corners of her thin mouth twitched with the hint of a smile.

  Chloe felt speechless. She nodded. They were right, she thought, unable in the overwhelming moment to control what went through her head. She really does look like a cross between a dwarf and an elf.

  The dwelf smiled, her impossibly blue eyes glittering brightly.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “So let me get this straight,” said the Goblin King from where he sat back in his seat, one strong arm draped over the back of his chair, the other laying easily on the table top. He wore gloves today, which made Jason wonder whether there were fresh scars on his hands. The Goblin King had a very dangerous, very trying job. “There is a rogue master vampire whose servant, who also happens to be your ex-fiancé, Roman, has a secret vendetta against you and your wife,” he began, his green eyes flashing. “Well, I guess not-so-secret if she’s your ex.”

  There was a band of soft chuckling around the table before the Goblin King, whose real name was not known by anyone, but who went by Damon Chroi continued. “That master vampire, who also happens to have an entire army of Offspring at his disposal, works for another big bad, who apparently is the brother and sworn enemy of the man who up until recently was the latest Hunter leader, Ramses.”

  “Yeah, that’s not confusing,” someone muttered.

  Damon went on. “Ramses is actually none other than the god Amon, also known as Amon Re, and his brother is trying to get all of the queens in order to use their combined power to do something even more evil, which none of us know about yet.”

  There was a brief silence before the kings and their bemused express
ions were met with a, “That about sums it up,” from Roman at the head of the table.

  Jason watched as the Goblin King, with his jet-black hair, light green eyes, beautiful face, and wicked scar smiled in his self-assured, shit-eating way. “Got it.”

  “Two questions for you gentlemen,” said Lalura, who had been listening intently.

  The table went rigidly quiet.

  “First, how do we now intend to locate all of the queens and protect them from Amon’s brother?” she asked.

  Jason glanced at Chloe, who looked as though she wanted to sink into her chair. She and the other two queens exchanged worried looks. No one said anything.

  “And second,” Lalura went on, “When are you going to ask me out, Damon Chroi, and stop playing with a girl’s heart?”

  Several sets of eyes shot wide, but Damon only smiled at her. “You’re too young for me, Chantelle. I’d be robbing the cradle.”

  “Oh I know I take good care of myself, but trust me, I’m older than I look.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” someone said.

  Lalura threw back her head and let out a cackling laugh. Jason rolled his eyes. Several people at the table exchanged long looks.

  Jason spoke up, “There’s also the matter of my double.”

  “Yes,” agreed Roman at once. “That is troubling. It means that either you were targeted specifically and somehow cloned – or each and every one of us has a doppelganger out there somewhere, capable of withstanding everything we can throw at them.”

  “Gabriel Phelan had the ability to take other human forms,” said Jesse from where he sat at the opposite end of the table from Roman. “It was bad enough that we didn’t know who we were really dealing with at any given time, and he didn’t absorb anyone’s abilities, only their appearance.” Jesse caught Jason’s eye as he said this. There was a lot of history in that memory.

  “Does that mean,” came Chloe’s soft suggestion, “that any of you could actually be your double rather than the real you?”