Wicked Magic (7 Wicked Tales Featuring Witches, Demons, Vampires, Fae, and More)

by Deanna Chase

  Daman barked out a laugh. “With the witch in my home? That will be a challenge.”

  The cuelebre slithered around so its head was directly in front of Daman’s. “Yesss. It will be.”

  No false reassurances there. Daman flexed his hands, open, closed, open, closed. The flames of anger inside him were simmering down into embers and leaving a tingling tension in their wake. Nervousness fought with temper.

  “If she is lying…and I fall for it…” He shook his head. “I do not think my humanity would ever recover.”

  “And if ssshe isss not lying, and you let her leave. Will your humanity sssurvive that?”

  Daman fell silent. Every nerve ending in his body tingled with awareness as if seeking some sign of the witch, some sign of her encroaching magic. Corrine was here, she was coming. This was the day he’d dreamed of, and yet now that it was here, he dreaded it with an all consuming, sickening anticipation.

  Maribel’s presence changed things. She loved Corrine, believed Corrine loved her back. More importantly than that, he was starting to let himself believe Maribel might lo—might care about him as well. If he exacted his revenge on Corrine, if he used force to make the witch lift her curse, Maribel would never forgive him. Perhaps the most shocking part of it all was that Daman found himself conflicted about what he wanted more. An end to his curse…or Maribel.

  “Maribel wantsss to get to know you. It isss why ssshe wantsss ssso badly to break your curssse. You have made it clear to her that what you are now isss not the truth of you. If you are kind to her sssissster, it will go a long way to ssshowing both of you who you are, curssse or no curssse.” The cuelebre slithered around Daman’s neck like a living, writhing boa. “If it isss in her sssissster’s power to undo your curssse, Maribel isss your bessst chanccce of getting her to do ssso,” it added.

  “And if she still refuses, I have other options.” Unless you want to keep Maribel.

  “It isss often bessst to talk firssst and ussse violenccce later,” the cuelebre agreed. “Often the reverssse order isss not practical.”

  Daman leaned away from the cuelebre, barely resisting the urge to grab it by its tail and fling it away from him. It had been a long time since he’d had company—having company quite so close was…stifling.

  “I sent away people I cared for, people I respected because I couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t hurt them,” Daman said, almost to himself. “And now I’m going to try and keep my temper with the person I hate most in this world.”

  “It will be interesssting.”

  Daman snorted. Several long moments ticked by.

  “I suppose putting it off won’t do me any good,” he said aloud, whether for himself or the cuelebre, he wasn’t sure.

  “No good,” the cuelebre agreed.

  Daman didn’t move. “If the witch cannot, or will not, lift the curse, I might still have Maribel. If I keep my temper.”

  “A dissstinct possssssibility.” The cuelebre flew into the air, hovering like a ribbon tossed to the sky. “If you can keep your temper.”

  “All right then.” Daman cleared his throat and rolled his neck, the popping tendons audible evidence of how much tension he carried there. After eyeing the destroyed room one last time, he sighed and headed for the treasure room. The enchanted wardrobe would supply him with something appropriate.

  Like bespelled armor.

  Entering the treasure room was akin to stepping into the past. For a moment, Daman froze in the doorway, his mind flying back to the day Maribel had arrived. If he fixed his gaze on the middle of the room, he could see her standing with her father, both of them forgetting the chest of riches immediately as they begged one last time for their freedom. Daman’s heart ached and he rubbed his chest absentmindedly as if he could soothe the pain there. If he’d known then what he knew now…if he’d known then how deeply Maribel would affect him…

  Focus! This is a very poor time to let your concentration waver.

  Stiffening his spine, he glided to the wardrobe and flung open the doors. As always, the wardrobe knew what was needed. A row of armor met his assessing look, a neat assortment of metal, leather, and hide. Daman considered each one, finally deciding on a chestplate forged from delicate chainmail. The metal links were formed of braided metal, copper, gold, silver, and iron. The working was so fine, it moved and bent as easily and cleanly as cloth and would allow Daman protection without inhibiting any of the acrobatic movements his serpentine body was capable of. The mix of metals would also afford him the largest range of protections against various types of magic the witch may have at her disposal.

  As he settled the chainmail shirt over his torso, he glanced at the second half of the row of armor. There were pieces there that would fit part of his lower body, complete the ensemble so it more closely resembled an attempt at clothing himself as opposed to dressing for battle. After all, the chainmail was so fine, it could have been mistaken for cloth from a distance. And it was attractive enough that he could pass it off to Maribel as wanting to look his best, an outward reflection of his good intentions.

  But he didn’t want to put on armor over his lower half. Not only did he not need the protection there—his scales provided more than enough natural armor—he also wanted to show the witch that he was not ashamed of what he was. He wanted her to lift the curse, yes, but that was only because he wanted to be returned to what he was, what he was supposed to be. There was nothing wrong with this form, nothing he had to hide.

  Besides, let the witch look on what she’s done. Let her remember.

  “Sssubtle.”

  Daman twitched, startled by the sudden presence of the cuelebre on top of the wardrobe. The serpent was shaking its arrow-shaped head.

  “You are dressssssing for battle.”

  “I am dressing for company,” Daman said evenly.

  The cuelebre snorted. “You may fool yourssself, but you will fool no one elssse.”

  “Shall I go naked, then?” Daman asked testily.

  “That could be interesssting asss well.”

  “Well, then perhaps you’d like to suggest something.” Daman slammed the doors to the wardrobe closed, rattling the furniture so it rocked under the cuelebre. “Go ahead, open the doors. It will reveal whatever style of clothing you think is appropriate.”

  The cuelebre’s tongue flicked out. “You’re ssstalling.”

  He wanted to argue. Oh, gods, he wanted to argue.

  Seconds ticked by, then minutes. Daman stared at the cuelebre, unable to look away, unable to let this moment end for fear of what the next moment would bring.

  “I will be here,” the cuelebre said quietly. “I will not leave.”

  Daman opened his mouth to make a snide remark about the desirability of the cuelebre’s company, but then he closed it. He nodded once, slowly, in acknowledgement.

  With a deeper breath than he’d taken in a long time, Daman left the room. His chest tightened with every step closer he came to the foyer, his nerves winding tighter with every inch. He tried to focus on Maribel, tried to focus on his breathing, tried to focus on anything but the witch waiting for him, the witch who had destroyed his life with a single moment of unbridled fury.

  Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been in a hurry for this meeting. He arrived in the main foyer as Maribel was leading her sister inside.

  Corrine.

  The witch stood beside Maribel dressed in a gown that would have been suited more to the royal court than any other home within a hundred miles. The green satin was trimmed with velvet and silk, the corset hugging her torso and flaring at her hips to give her a perfect hourglass shape. The sleeves ended in deep points that fell to mid thigh on her—a ridiculous impracticality for anyone who actually had to work for a living. Which Corrine didn’t. Her face was carefully blank, brown eyes revealing nothing of her thoughts.

  Daman’s mind superimposed the past over the present. The ghost of Corrine flew into his arms like a wild arrow, brown hair so
dark it was nearly black flying behind her like a flag. She’d hit his chest with the force of a gale wind, the blood on her arms smearing over his shirt as she sobbed, begging him to take her in.

  “My father lost his fortune… He is so angry all the time… He beats me… I am a slave in my own home.”

  Her voice echoed around him. He blinked, skin tingling under his armor with the memory of Corrine’s body in his arms, the scent of tears and blood filling the air. He could still remember the way she’d pressed her soft body against his human form, the way she’d snuggled against him as if she were some kind of animal scent-marking him, claiming him as her own. He had never been a man to take advantage of a woman in distress, and he’d been a perfect gentleman, comforting Corrine and giving her privacy to bathe and change. It was only after she’d stood before him dressed in clean clothes and having scrubbed the dried blood from her body that he’d realized the blood hadn’t been hers.

  “Daman?”

  Daman startled, realizing that Maribel was speaking to him. There was concern in her eyes, the blue orbs shining with unspoken questions. He had a moment of warmth that she should care about the turmoil raging inside of him. He started to reassure her that he was fine, but then Maribel stepped forward and to the side, putting herself between him and Corrine.

  His burgeoning smile died on his lips. Her concern was not for him. It was for the witch who stood silently behind her.

  “Maribel, perhaps this was not a wise idea.” Corrine took a step back, shoulders hunching as if anticipating a strike. “He does not want me here.”

  “No,” Maribel said slowly, firmly. “No, it’s all right. Isn’t it, Daman?”

  Oh, I want her here. Daman pushed away the thought and the vicious inclinations that accompanied it. He bared his teeth in what he hoped would pass for a smile.

  “Of course, you are welcome here.”

  Daman forced himself to bow, keeping his eyes on his new guest. “Welcome to my home.” He nearly choked on the last words, but if Maribel noticed, she didn’t say anything. Instead, she beamed at him and then Corrine. Her expression for her sister said, “See? I told you it would be all right.”

  So optimistic.

  “It’s so kind of you to have me here after how terribly our meeting went last time,” Corrine said haltingly, prompted by something in Maribel’s face. Her eyes dropped to the floor as if she were having a hard time meeting his eyes. “Maribel has told me how kind you’ve been to her. It’s clear that you…care for her. She’s helped me realize that perhaps the last time we met… Maybe I overreacted.”

  Daman bit back the response that leapt to his lips, managing at the last minute to twist them into a brief nod of acceptance. The tension in his shoulders threatened to tear the muscles from his bones and leave him gasping in agony on the floor, but he swallowed it back, fought to keep it from his face under the weight of Maribel’s watchful eyes. He was still struggling to hold himself together when Corrine continued.

  “I’m going to try to undo what I did.” She brushed at some dirt on her dress, caressing the soft fabric. “My magic isn’t as strong as I’d like, and I’m still learning, but…” She squared her shoulders and faced him like a soldier preparing for battle. “I will try my best.”

  Try? Try? Daman held his breath, desperate to keep any words or sounds from escaping his mouth. I cannot do this, I cannot do this, what in the name of the gods led me to believe I could do this?

  “Daman, I’ve been telling Corrine about how good you’ve been to me.” Maribel took Corrine’s arm in hers, linking them together, but her gaze stayed focused on Daman’s face. “I’ve explained to her that no matter what happens, I’ll be staying here. With you.”

  Daman’s mouth fell open. For a moment, he was a fish out of water, lips parting and closing helplessly as his brain tried to process what was happening. Maribel hid her mouth behind her hand, her eyes shining with amusement.

  Finally, he managed to get a hold of himself. He was smiling, responding to Maribel’s merriment with his own, feeling lighter than he had in a hundred years. The feeling was so new, so unexpected. He grabbed onto it, held on for dear life. He faced Corrine and his smile grew wider.

  The witch looked as though she’d swallowed a bug. She wasn’t glaring at him, or scowling, nothing so obvious as that, but her face had a distinct green tint to it that suggested she wasn’t feeling quite as good as she had prior to Maribel’s announcement. There was a tightness around her eyes that hadn’t been there, a brittleness to her posture.

  It was wonderful.

  “It is my sincerest hope that tonight we can lay all misunderstandings to rest,” Daman said graciously. He bowed easily, the tension having flown from his shoulders to leave his body supple and energized once again. “I would be very grateful if you could…undo the spell you laid on me the last time we met.” He looked at Maribel. “But if you cannot, I will bear you no ill will. Your curse has inadvertently given me more than I could have ever hoped for.”

  He might have been laying it on too thick, but he doubted anyone could blame him. It wasn’t as if Corrine didn’t deserve it. Maribel’s cheeks grew a most becoming shade of pink. Maribel deserved it too.

  “I’ll try,” Corrine said, her voice sharp.

  Maribel glanced at her and for a moment Daman thought she might say something. He found himself childishly eager to hear Maribel chastise the witch in the way her body language had chastised Daman when she’d put herself between him and Corrine. Corrine’s stomach grumbled, breaking the silence.

  “Oh, you must be hungry,” Maribel exclaimed. The frown that had been tugging at her mouth a second ago vanished as she put an arm on her sister’s shoulder. “I’ll fix you some food. Do you want to come with me to the kitchen?”

  Corrine kept her eyes on Daman, brown orbs darkening to the color of frozen earth. “I’ll stay here and look through my spellbook. I think Daman has waited long enough.”

  Daman studied Corrine, wary of the strange light in her eyes. There was something in those eyes, something reflected in her voice, that had the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

  “Daman?”

  Maribel’s voice held a hint of concern and it was enough to snap Daman out of his daze. He smiled at Maribel, though this time it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “Of course, of course.” He swept an arm in front of him and addressed Corrine. “If you would come with me into the sitting room, I’m sure you would be more comfortable.”

  Was it his imagination, or did Corrine give his armor a deliberate once over?

  “Thank you.” Corrine hugged her sister, holding Daman’s gaze over Maribel’s shoulder as she did so. “I’m so happy for you.”

  That set off warning bells. Daman’s tail slid back and forth, tension returning to his muscles with the enthusiasm of an old friend. The witch was being far too kind. It would be one thing for her to try and help him, to leave her sister here if that’s what Maribel wished. But there was no way she was happy about it.

  Daman’s stomach rolled. If Maribel’s smile grew any wider, it would split her face. She did everything short of clapping her hands as Daman escorted Corrine into the other room. When she discovered Corrine’s true nature, it would crush her.

  If she discovers it.

  Daman remained standing as Corrine settled herself into a broad-backed armchair beside the hearth. There was no fire, the days had grown warm enough that the house held a comfortable amount of heat without it. Corrine took great care tucking her skirt about her, behaving as though she were about to have her portrait painted instead of preparing for spellwork. Part of Daman expected her to drop the act immediately, to whirl on him and tell him how despicable he was and how she would worsen her curse if he didn’t send her sister home immediately. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she tried to blackmail him, tried again to get him to give over his estate to her or else she would poison Maribel against him.

  “I got the spell from
here,” Corrine said briskly, drawing a book out of her bag.

  The cover of the book was heavy, some sort of thick hide, and too worn for Daman to make out the title. He uncoiled his lower half, rising to see if he could peer into the depths of the bag the book had come from. Corrine quickly closed it, stopping Daman from gleaning any clues to the rest of the bag’s contents.

  Suspicion tightened his nerves and Daman moved behind a chair, gripping the back of it to keep his claws busy. Corrine opened the book and scanned its contents, one finger steadily trailing down the parchment. Her brow furrowed in thought as she perused the pages, deftly turning page after page. Suddenly, she gripped the book tighter. The pulse in her throat sped up. Daman found himself gripping the back of the chair he stood behind, leaning forward as excitement flickered inside him as well. His tongue tasted the air in front of him as if he could scent what she’d found.

  “What?” he demanded, unable to help himself. He winced at the furrows he’d torn in the chair’s material, the stuffing peeking out in silent accusation of his destruction.

  Suddenly, Corrine’s face fell. “A dead end.” She leaned back in her chair, letting the book fall closed in her lap with a depressing and final thump. “There are pages missing.”

  Pages… The wood frame of the chair cracked as Daman’s grip closed. His claws burrowed into the wood—the only thing keeping them from the witch’s neck. “What game are you playing?” His voice was hot and rough, a sound dragged over burning coals.

  Corrine kept her gaze on the book, refusing to meet his eyes. “This book belonged to a goblin. A girl not far from my own age who was studying with Mother Briar.”

  Daman went still, even his breath coming to a dead stop. Jeanne.

  Jeanne was a goblin changeling who’d had the misfortune to be left at the tender mercy of Mother Briar. Unlike the sidhe, goblins didn’t give one whit for what happened to their children after they left them and took home chubby pink human babes in their stead. The old witch had abused the poor goblin child with no fear of consequences, treating Jeanne worse than a slave, worse than an animal. The injuries he’d found on the goblin still haunted Daman’s nightmares.