Kiss of a Demon King iad-7

by Kresley Cole

  Rydstrom had wondered, especially since he'd set­tled In New Orleans, staying for months in the same place. He liked his home there. It sufficed until he could reclaim his kingdom. Until he could take back Tornin-and scour it clean. His eyes briefly closed against the memories of what he'd seen last night. "Are you sleeping with Omort?"

  "I am not sleeping with him. I'm sleeping with no one. There's an heir to be had, and I'd rather no one question its parentage."

  She hadn't denied that she'd ever slept with Omort, but he sensed she hadn't. Or maybe he merely refused to believe it-because that would put her forever out of his future.

  "Why did you fight Hettiah?" he asked. Each word was coming more easily now.

  "She attacked me. She's been looking for a way to get revenge on me for centuries."

  "Why?"

  "Probably because I made a wreath out of her intes­tines in front of the entire court. And I've plucked out her organs a few times. And I might have kept them in jars on my bedside table."

  "You . . . you do not." And the vampire had said I was killing her?

  "Yes, indeed. I'm missing her appendix and spleen." She rose, crossing to the table where a plate of food was laid out. "And on that note, are you hungry?"

  He cast an irritated glance at the plate, filled with fruits and vegetables, with no meat to be found. "Now, sorceress, how do you expect me to heal . . . when you feed me twigs?"

  Over the last week, Sabine had yet to provide for him meat and demon brew-a potent fermented drink. The Sorceri drank sickeningly sweet wines and bran­dies, calling demon brew a crude concoction. He couldn't stomach their sugary creations.

  "I keep forgetting that my pet's a carnivore." She set the plate down. "Here, I'll make you more comfortable." With a wave of her hand, she suddenly made the cell appear to be his old room here.

  But this time, she added a sea storm outside. How would she know ... ? "You read my mind, didn't you?"

  "I did," she said, her tone absent, although her expression was one of interest.

  He'd suspected that she concealed her expressions. In the future, he wouldn't scrutinize her face, he would watch her hands, the tensing of her slim shoulders. "Do you often break your vows?"

  "Constantly." She nodded. "I'd go so far as to say uniformly."

  The fact that she'd broken her word to him was infu-riating-her lack of shame made it that much worse. "No reservations about being known as a liar?"

  "It's not my fault the truth and I are strangers-we were never properly introduced."

  "And what did you learn when you hacked into my head?"

  She seemed keyed up, listening for something from the outside. Again she didn't look anxious, but she paced. "You used to be lulled to sleep by the sea storms here, and have long missed your room in your tower. You have a contentious relationship with your brother that disturbs you greatly. You resent him for losing your kingdom."

  Everyone thought he blamed his brother Cadeon for losing his kingdom. He did partially-was he supposed to act pleased with him? But Cadeon also lied, cheated, and he warred for profit. His life had no meaning.

  And yours does . . . ?

  She continued, "You've two sisters, Mia and Zoe, who you barely speak to. They have their own lives, and you wonder if maybe you should have involved them more in your quest. You're ashamed because you found yourself envious of a friend of yours who'd finally found his mate. A Lykae. I think his name is Bowen MacRieve?"

  Rydstrom met her gaze, though he was discomfited by what she'd seen. Because he was envious, and he con­sidered that a weakness. A good man would be happy for a friend.

  But Rydstrom was one of the oldest in the Lore, and over the long years of his life, it seemed that one at a time, each of his comrades had found their females.

  All of them had experienced something he could only dream of... something so vital, they'd each begun to pity him for the lack.

  His mien was stoic, but she could tell he was unsettled by all that she'd discovered. "Anything else, sorceress?"

  "Lots and lots." The demon was a solitary male. He had friends but was too obsessed with his mission to enjoy them. He didn't approve of his disreputable brother or his brother's crew of mercenaries, so he didn't spend unnecessary time with them.

  Sabine had taken him from no lover.

  "Mainly," she said, "I saw that you are . . . lonely." And his loneliness had called to her-which mystified Sabine, only adding to her general state of vexation. Last night, when she'd imagined the pain Rydstrom would feel to have his arms hacked off, she'd been so consumed with something that she hadn't even heard Hettiah approaching to attack. Feelings made people stupid, vulnerable.

  And more, she'd been embarrassed by what Rydstrom had seen at court. She'd never forget the revolted look on his face when he'd surveyed what used to be his.

  For some reason, she didn't want him to think that just because she lived here, she was like them.

  Just because I don't flinch doesn't mean I'm blind.

  "You had no right to be in my head!" He twisted in the bed, his lips thinned in obvious pain. "And then you made me dream of..."

  "Dream of what, Rydstrom?" She'd missed it. "I bade you to dream of what you needed most. I'd meant heal­ing. Did your mind supply other particulars?"

  His expression grew closed. "It's none of your con-cern."

  She let that drop. For now. "I've also seen that you want to take me over to your side. That would be quite a coup. One thing though-I'm not likely to align myself against the most powerful sorcerer ever to live."

  "I saw your power. You're stronger than he is."

  "Don't play to my considerable vanity, demon." She examined her nails. "It will gain you nothing." "Ally with me and seek asylum within our army."

  "Asylum? Where? In your castle? Oh, I forgot, you haven't one. At least with Omort, I'm kept protected from your kind."

  "Become my kind, and no one will ever hurt you again."

  She sat at the foot of the bed. "That's the difference between me and you. I won't try to convert you. Do I like that you never lie and esteem things like valor? Of course not. But I don't try to rid you of those traits. Why does your kind forever seek to change ours?" That was'what she hated most about them-not their odd,

  counter-intuitive beliefs per se, but that they would force them on others.

  "Because we live more contented lives. We have loy­alty, fidelity, honor-"

  "All three are overrated. The only chance you have to demonstrate any of them is to deny yourself some-thing or someone that you desire."

  "Then in the same vein, what about your loyalty to Omort? Have you been tempted to align with his

  enemies?"

  "Never," she lied. She was constantly tempted to betray him. Even more so now that he was cracking under the pressure of the uprising rebels, the vampires waiting at the castle walls to strike at sundown, the taunting of a foolish Valkyrie.

  The idea of Sabine with a demon.... But in truth, Sabine could have been steadfast to Omort. She recalled when he'd first come to find her. He'd seemed gallant as he'd saved her and Lanthe from an attack by ignorant humans. When he'd brought them to live in a plane with no humans or Vrekeners, the sisters had finally felt safe, protected in Tornin. Until the first time Omort had laid his hand on

  Sabine's thigh.

  Of course, they hadn't believed he was their half brother simply because he'd said so. But they had known that their mother, Elisabet, had committed some sin that made the noble family of Deie Sorceri disown her. Some transgression had made her feel so unworthy that Sabine and Lanthe's worthless father had seemed a good catch.

  From Omort they'd learned that Elisabet had been the Vessel of her own time-and she'd given birth to an ultimate evil-him. . . .

  Rydstrom interrupted her thoughts. "Omort can't fight off" the alliance the Valkyrie Nïx is forming. Not

  alone."

  "Ah, yes, your Vertas. That's what Nïx called it."

 
; "You're talking to her?"

  "Corresponding more like. She's utterly unhinged, by the way. You'd trust a madwoman to lead your army?"

  "There's a method to her madness," he said dryly, but she caught the undertone of respect in his voice.

  Luckily, Sabine didn't want his respect, so she wasn't jealous of the Valkyrie. She could earn his respect any time she wanted-if she wanted.

  "Besides, Omort won't be alone, demon. You saw members of his army." Members that they would be los­ing if Omort didn't get control of himself soon. "This Accession should be a good one."

  "And it doesn't bother you that we'll be on opposing

  sides."

  "You act as though we haven't always been." "Maybe so, but we will not be any longer." "Then you'll have to join the Pravus, because I plan to be on the winning side." Yet for the first time, she won­dered. Omort was proving useless against the threats sur­rounding them. Without him at the helm, the army was rife with rumor and instability. Already covenants were breaking as smaller factions defected from the Pravus.

  This evening, with the coming dusk, Sabine and Lanthe would have to risk their lives in battle because

  he couldn't rise to the challenge. "Demon, you have to understand-Omort truly can't be killed. There's simply no way to defeat him."

  "What if there were?"

  "And still, you believe in Groot's sword." She gave him an indulgent expression. "It's a fable, Rydstrom. Even if it would work, and even if you were free, you'd never get close enough to Omort to use it."

  "It will work. Nïx has vowed that it will. She is never wrong."

  "She must be . . ." Sabine trailed off when a yell sounded from outside. Soon the din of bridled horses and marching soldiers followed.

  Sunset. The vampires were attacking. "I have to leave. I won't return for some time."

  "Why? Where are you going?"

  To try to shore up the cracks in my brother's sanity. And if unsuccessful. . . "To the battlefield."

  17

  O

  mort's still comatose?" Lanthe asked telepathically as she sidestepped a stray centaur arrow.

  Sabine swung her long sword at a vampire's neck- from behind-slicing clean through. "No, not comatose, just descending further into madness." She scooped her steel-toed boot under the vampire's severed head, punt­ing it away. "Omort's glassy-eyed, sweating, demanding sacrifices."

  Just hours ago Sabine had gone to his tower again- and she loathed going there-to implore him to deci­mate the converging army. She'd found him sitting on his bed, petted by the still-healing Hettiah, screaming for another sacrifice. "Something young!"

  "We can't win this without him," Lanthe said. "Even if we can only be seen by our trail of headless bodies." Invis­ibility had its merits.

  "You're right."

  The revenants were decent enough fighters, but they were mindless. Though the Libitinae prowled from the

  night sky, and were cunning killers, they played with

  their victims.

  The centaurs had their poisoned arrows, but they were at a disadvantage with tracing vampires because they were such big targets-multiple vampires would launch themselves onto a centaur's back, then haul him to the ground, draining him all the while.

  Lothaire's vampires were cutting a swath, yet there were only so many of them. Sabine spied him far across the battlefield, engaging others of his kind, slaughtering with a wild grin on his face, the first time she'd ever seen him smile. His hair was braided on the sides of his face, berserker style, the thick strands dark with blood.

  Sabine tilted her head. He was as tall as the demon, but not as muscular. Why am I thinking about the demon

  now?

  With an inward shake, Sabine thrust her sword at an unwitting vampire. Once she'd felled him, she watched Lanthe gut a leech, yanking her sword up through his

  body.

  Lanthe was normally so pensive and thoughtful, but in combat she was vicious. A dozen times already, Sabine had wanted to call out, "That's my little sister!"

  "Sabine!" Lanthe suddenly cried. "Why are vampires

  looking at us?"

  Sabine peered around them. She and Lanthe were ... visible? She flicked her hand to cast another illusion, to

  no avail.

  Only one person could extinguish her power like this. "Hettiah." She'd made them visible. "Can you do a portal?" Sabine asked as she and Lanthe put their backs

  together, circling, swords raised as they searched for escape.

  "Already tried and got nothing," Lanthe answered. They were surrounded, vampires edging closer and closer.

  "I think we're dead."

  "I think you're right."

  They were now both powerless, two little Sorceri females in the middle of the vampire Horde. Sabine scanned the distance for Lothaire but didn't see him-

  One leech dove for her with his fangs bared, grazing her skin until he hit her breast plate. She was able to duck under him and fell him with a backhanded hit. But more were advancing.

  Hundreds more.

  Strangely, at a time like this, Sabine found herself wondering how the demon would feel about her death. Would he mourn his female?

  Lanthe whispered out loud, "Abie?"

  Sabine heard her, even over the clamor of the battle-hooves thundering, bowstrings singing, swords clashing.

  Closer . . . What to say to her sister? How to protect her?

  The end was coming . . . vampires rushing for-ward . . . almost reaching them . . . until the attackers became ... ash.

  Their forward momentum sprayed the soot over the sisters' boots.

  Power sieved all around them. Sabine twisted toward the castle. Omort stood on the ramparts, with his

  mouth open, eyes maniacal, and palms raised. He had smote them all.

  Like all the warriors of the Pravus still standing, Sabine stared up at Omort in shock.

  Sudden silence reigned on the torn and bleeding battlefield. Wind blew her braids around her face, and she could hear nearby trees rustling in the breeze. Night birds sang in the distance.

  The ash scattered....

  Omort turned that murderous gaze on Hettiah. She fell to her knees, weeping.

  Lanthe stood by Sabine's side. "That's the being you want us to take on?"

  Sabine had told him she was going to the battlefield.

  He wanted to prevent her from riding out to meet those who would kill her. And to prevent her from slay­ing them-most likely his own people. He suspected that they'd learned of his capture and were rebelling.

  She is out there, unprotected. He wrenched his arms hard against his manacles in frustration, the healing muscles in his torso screaming in protest. Now that he was able to rise from the bed, they'd begun chaining his hands behind his back once more. Though the skin on his uncovered chest was newly mended, raised like a new scar, he still suffered pain whenever he stood or moved suddenly. He paced, willing her to return.

  I can change her. I can make her understand right from wrong. Once I escape . . .

  He was talking himself into the impossible, because he wanted his mate beyond reason. He recalled that

  dream of his. That perfect peace. He craved it like nothing before. He wanted the Sabine from their last night together, the woman who'd set his blood on lire.

  She's mine. For better or worse, she's my woman.

  Don't die . . . don't. . .

  When he caught her scent, his eyes briefly closed. Shortly after, she entered the cell, standing before him. She was out of breath, her breastplate rising and fall­ing. She wore a spiked headdress connected to a col­lar, metal hose, and full-length gloves with razor-sharp claws.

  Her eyes were dilated and blue, and she bled from the corner of her lips. She'd come to him straight from the fray? He narrowed his eyes. She's shaken. Rydstrom knew what a soldier who'd had a near miss looked like. And she's come to me.

  When blood trickled to her chin, she swiped her forearm over it.

&nb
sp; So beautiful. So deadly. Mine. In an instant, he grew hard for her. No! How can I want her when she's fresh from a battle-with my own people?

  Yet when she ran for him, nothing could have stopped him from lunging forward for her. Her hands shot up to cup his face as she stood on her toes to kiss him. Her lips were so soft, trembling beneath his.

  He'd been out of his mind with needing to see her safe again, and showed her how much with his kiss. Relief. He took her with his tongue, savagely slanting his lips over hers, until she was clutching his shoulders. With a groan, he finally broke away. "What happened tonight?"

  Panting, she said, "Close call." She drew one glove down her arm, then the next, tossing them away.

  "I feared you were going to die."

  She unlaced her breastplate at the sides. "At one point, I was sure of it," she said, dropping the piece to

  the ground.

  Just when he felt her hard nipples brush against him, her hand began traveling down his body.

  "Unchain me, Sabine." His cock was straining for

  her touch.

  "I can't."

  "Let me protect you."

  "Kiss first; talk later . .."

  He shuddered when she dipped into his pants and brushed her fingers over the slick head. She took him in hand, rubbing the pad of her thumb over the crown in mind-numbing circles.

  Over. He inhaled sharply, groaning against her lips as he set back into their kiss. He was going to have her one way or another.

  Their breaths grew ragged, frenzied. He was dimly aware of the illusions of fire spreading around the cell.

  With her free hand, she unzipped his pants, giving them a shove so they fell to his ankles.

  Then she tugged on his cock, leading him to the

  bed.

  Still kissing as if their lives depended on it, both of them went tripping toward the mattress. With his wrists bound, he couldn't catch himself. At the last minute, he twisted so that he didn't crash on top of her.

  Between kisses, they maneuvered until she was on her

  back beneath him. Ignoring the pain, he levered himself up onto his knees. Yet then frustration rose in him. He couldn't shove her skirt up, couldn't rip off her panties, couldn't pet her ... "Take off your skirt for me."