by Linsey Hall
Her heart pounded in her ears as anticipation fought with her anger.
Bastard.
She shouldn’t want to see him after all these years, but she did. Her hurt over the past had faded some. What was left had turned to anger, which she stoked. She couldn’t bear to relive that crushing pain. So she’d focus on anger.
But she couldn’t help the anticipation.
She sucked in a deep breath and stepped through the doorway. The room within was dark, the only light coming from the large fireplace that was blocked by a man sitting at a desk. She could only make out his silhouette.
She ignored her pounding heart and took in her surroundings, searching for additional trouble. The room was round, the ceiling soaring high above. She must be in one of the towers. Books lined the walls, stretching up five stories to the domed ceiling. A wide walkway spiraled up the sides of the round room, making it easy to access all the books. Kitty pressed up against her legs, trembling slightly.
Satisfied no other lurked in the shadows, she looked at the man at the desk. Shadows concealed his face, but not the outline of his form. Despite the dark, she could make out the breadth of his shoulders and the fall of his dark hair.
Her heart threatened to break her ribs and a chill broke out on her skin.
Malcolm. Desire that she’d thought long dead rushed through her. Her breath came short. She hadn’t even really seen him yet and she still wanted him. They’d only ever kissed, but memories of his skilled lips bombarded her.
He remained sitting, his feet propped on the gleaming wooden desk. A crystal tumbler of whisky sat in front of him. Firelight set the amber liquid aglow. Her insides tightened as her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she could take him in better.
The man—it really was Malcolm—lazily spun her Demon Blade in one big hand.
“This what you came here for?” His voice was as deep and rich as the darkest chocolate. No sweetness. Just a hint of the bitterness that followed a bite of the rich substance.
Fear suddenly shivered down her spine. She was a powerful Bruxa—powerful enough that she had no need for modesty—but she was also a smart one. And she was right to be afraid.
This wasn’t the Malcolm she remembered. Of course it wasn’t. He was now one of the most powerful beings in all of the Mythean world. A warlock. Destruction and power personified. All bought by becoming an Oath Breaker and throwing her away.
The reminder sent anger through her again. A reminder of what she was fighting for. What she’d always been fighting for. Her village. And for the first time since her line had taken up the role of Protector, they were at risk.
Because of this man.
“Yeah, that’s what I came here for.” Her voice could have cut stone. “Now give it back.”
He surged fluidly to his feet, his shoulders blocking out the light of the fire. For such a large man, he was incredibly graceful. He approached her, his gait smooth and long, and she stifled a gasp at his size.
Had she forgotten? Or had he grown? He was at least six and a half feet tall, his shoulders broad and his waist narrow. His sweater and pants were dark and expensive looking. He stopped just inches from her, looming over her.
His scent, rich with spice and darkness, wrapped enticingly around her. He bent his head, seeming to enclose her in an invisible embrace. His dark hair fell around his face. This close, she could make out the masculine beauty of his features. Dark brows and golden eyes, full lips that twisted with a bit of cruelty.
Otherworldly. She trembled as desire surged to the fore again. She might be mad at him. Afraid of him.
But she still wanted him.
“You don’t care at all why I took it?”
Again, the rich timbre of his voice sent a shiver across her skin. Only this time, it wasn’t entirely due to fear. It was there, of course, making her skin prickle coldly. But a surge of heat came with it. Desire fueled by fear. He was dangerous.
He raised a hand as if he would touch her. Anticipation streaked through her. Do it.
Hot anger welled within her. At him and herself. He thought he could touch her? And she would let him?
She pressed her hand against his hard chest, sending a bolt of heat meant to burn and punish.
The corner of his mouth kicked up in a dark smile and he pressed his palm over hers, absorbing what she gave him without reacting at all.
Her jaw slackened. It should have hurt like hell. Made him jump back at the very least, if not fall to the ground.
But his golden eyes flared with desire and his full lips kicked up at the corners.
He liked it.
What the hell?
Malcolm absorbed the heat of her touch, relishing the burn. It wasn’t that he liked it, necessarily. But he liked that it made him feel something. And that it came from her.
Sofia’s skin was smooth and soft, her hand so tiny beneath his. She made him feel like a great, hulking beast. Which he was. As part wulver, the wolf was inside him. And the things that beast wanted to do to her…
Suitable for one such as him. But another voice in his head suggested that those things ought not be done to one as beautiful and delicate as she. That part of his mind was quiet enough to ignore.
He wanted her too bloody much. He’d wanted her for centuries—a gnawing, aching need that only got worse as the years passed.
Finally, after centuries without her, he’d caved. Power could keep him warm for only so long. He’d taken the dagger to help his brother, the one person that Malcolm had managed to maintain a semblance of a relationship with after becoming a warlock. Felix had needed the demon blade to save his mate. Afterward Malcolm had decided to keep it for himself.
So that he could have her.
And she’d come to him as he’d expected. As he’d forced her to.
She jerked her palm free. He almost reached out to snatch it back, but he clenched his fist. She still had him by the balls after all this time, but there was no way in hell he’d let her know it.
“I don’t care why you took it. I don’t have time to care,” she said. Her sultry voice, laced with the hint of Brazilian accent, wrapped around him. Her dark eyes flashed with rage and her normally full lips pressed into a thin line.
She was so lovely. Golden skin and the elegant features of her Brazilian and Portuguese ancestors. Still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and he hadn’t been able to forget her.
“That dagger is this year’s tribute to the High Witches,” she said. “I need it back. Now.”
He knew. He’d known when he’d taken it that she needed it to protect her village. In exchange for not destroying her village, the High Witches demanded that she find and bring them a treasure of their choosing.
“Are you late in offering it?” he asked, though he also knew that answer. He’d been keeping an eye on her for centuries. Every year, on October the twenty-eighth, she made the offering. Today was that day.
He’d been waiting for her.
“I am.” Fear flashed in her dark eyes. He didn’t like it. He especially didn’t like that it dampened the desire he could sense in her. “And you’re going to come with me to make the offering. To explain why it’s late. And to take the hit if necessary.”
“Am I?”
“You are.” Her voice was hard, its normally husky tone replaced with steel. “Your theft made me break the terms. That’s punishable by death. And if one of us has to die for this, it’ll be you.”
A growl rose in his throat at the idea of the High Witches daring to threaten either of them. “Why would I do that?”
Her hand flashed up and lightning streaked from her palm, hitting him square in the chest. He grunted in pain, smelled singed flesh, and then grabbed her wrist tight enough to make her stop. The little witch had put more into this second strike.
“You can’t threaten me. You’re quick, but not nearly as powerful as I.” He rubbed his thumb over the smooth skin at the base of her slender wrist.
Her
features hardened. “I know that all too well.”
He didn’t want to talk about their past, so he made his offer. “I’ll help you, in exchange for a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“Any sort of my choosing.”
Wariness lit her eyes.
“Your alternative is death and the destruction of your village.” It’d been so long since he’d negotiated with a woman, since he’d had more contact with one than a quick fuck, that he knew he was rusty. He should feel like a bastard for putting her in this position—for manipulating her like this—but his conscience was long dead.
“Is this why you took the dagger? For this favor?”
“No. But it’s a nice side effect.”
She scowled. Desire surged through him. He wanted to yank her to him and kiss her, to feel her soft lips. His hands trembled with the need.
“What’s your answer?” he asked, his voice gruff. “Death or a favor?”
Once, he’d have vowed that the favor would be better than death. And it would be—that was certain. But as an Oath Breaker, he could vow nothing or fate and magic would conspire to see it broken. He could tell her how delicious the favor he begged of her would be for both of them, but he could not promise.
He’d learned to be noncommittal. To nod to indicate agreement and to suggest that it would all go as planned—but never to promise.
Indecision flashed in her gaze as she bit her full lip. At the sight, his shaft pulsed. Desire coiled low, a deep, familiar want that was specific to her. There was something stronger about this need. Surreal. Anytime he’d seen her over the last four hundred years, he’d felt it. Only this time, he was touching the soft skin of her wrist. He was only inches from her full lips.
He could have her. If…
“You’re running out of time. You’re already late.” He added fuel to her fear with no remorse. He’d make her agree. “I’m stronger than the High Witches, but only as individuals. Together, they are too strong, even for me. If we’re too late, any leniency will be gone.”
And they’d need that leniency. This was a risk, even for him. His magic—and brute strength—could defeat a few of the High Witches when they combined their strength. But not all. Not when they were together, as they would be when the tribute was presented. They were the most powerful coven in the world, fueled by a dark magic that took its power not only from the aether, as all Mytheans did, but from destruction as well.
“Fine. A favor. Any favor.”
“Excellent.” He rubbed his thumb against the tender skin of her wrist. “We’ll go now. We’ll aetherwalk, I presume?” Teleporting via the ephemeral substance that connected earth and the afterworlds was a skill that they both possessed, but as he didn’t know where the High Witches lived, she’d have to take them both.
She nodded.
“Then lead the way.”
She closed her eyes and the aether pulled at them.
CHAPTER TWO
Sofia opened her eyes at the edge of the dark forest. Enormous, leafless trees reached for the dark sky, their branches angry claws that threatened to sweep her up. She shuddered.
Kitty hissed. She hated this place.
The entrance point to the High Witches’ afterworld was freaking creepy. It was always night, the sky black and ominous. A sickly orange moon illuminated the haunted forest ahead of her and reflected off the eyes of black owls who sat in the trees, watching.
“Are we in an afterworld?” Malcolm’s rough murmur drifted over her. His accent was the same as she remembered—that of a refined English gentleman. But he wasn’t one.
The owls shifted nervously at the sound of Malcolm’s voice. As if they sensed his power. She glanced toward him. His dark sweater and trousers blended well with the forest, but it was his golden eyes and almost cruel handsomeness that most suited this place.
No, he wasn’t the man she remembered. But she wanted him all the same. The desire thrummed within her like a living thing, unwilling to be stifled by her anger or fear. Not even by the memory of their past. He’d made her feel like her heart had been torn out of her chest, but the worst of her pain was buried by the years.
One by one, the owls began to take off, their wings beating the air, as if they feared remaining in his presence. Magical beings were good at sensing a threat. She was no exception. The way that Malcolm blended so well with this evil place made her heart race. Combined with his height and the muscled power of his body—not to mention the immense magic that radiated from him—she couldn’t help but take a step backward.
If he noticed, he said nothing.
“Yes,” she said. “The High Witches are too conspicuous to live on earth. They destroyed the souls who lived on this afterworld long ago and took it for themselves.”
She’d been raised on the terrifying stories of the High Witches’ attack on this afterworld. The nightmarish tales spun by her mother for as long as she could remember kept her fearful and in line. If the High Witches could destroy all the souls who’d come here after death—Sofia had no idea what religion had created this afterworld—then they would have no trouble destroying her village.
“Where are they?” Malcolm asked.
“We’re at the edge of the haunted forest. Their stronghold is on the other side. This is the only place I’m allowed to aetherwalk to.”
“Why the hell don’t they just let you enter through the garden?”
“They like to play with me.”
He scowled. There was something odd in his gaze. Concern? Had he not realized how dangerous her role was? What she risked to save her village?
Welcome to my life, jerk.
She turned back to the forest, swallowing hard. Part of the game was that they filled the forest with nightmares. Or perhaps the forest did that itself. She’d never known if this afterworld had been a heaven or a hell, but if she had to put money on it, she’d say hell. Though mortals weren’t aware of the fact that the heavens and hells of their religions existed, Mytheans were. Some could even travel to them.
Sofia reached out a hand for Kitty, who had turned into smoke and now hovered at her side. Nothing could touch Kitty in that form. Sofia wished she could do the same.
“We’d better get started.” She set off toward the forest, wincing at the eerie sponginess of the ground. Once, it had wept blood. After that, she’d stopped looking down.
Malcolm joined her as she picked her way between the trees. Something slithered in the distance. She drew her wand from the aether and gripped it tight.
“What have you been doing these past centuries?” Malcolm’s voice broke the silence.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Pass the time.”
“I’m not here to entertain you. That time has passed.”
“You were never merely entertainment to me.”
“Whatever.” She couldn’t even look at him. His voice sounded too good. Smooth and dark. And she still liked it. Fates, she hated her weakness. She’d held her anger close for centuries. It had protected her. It would protect her now. She focused on the forest ahead, choosing the path that stayed farther from the trees lest they reach out and grab her.
“I want to know about you because I’m interested.”
Hot rage flared within her. “After all these years? You gave up your right to know when you chose magic over me.”
“It was necessary,” Malcolm said.
Sofia looked at his face then. Really looked, for the first time since she’d seen him last. They didn’t really have the time to argue, but she couldn’t help herself. So little of the young man she’d known remained. This Malcolm was harsher. Darker. Nearly unrecognizable.
“No it wasn’t. You simply wanted the power more than you wanted me.” Despite the years that had passed, the words made her throat tighten, and tears threatened. She swallowed hard and forced them away.
“I wanted both.”
“Not possible.” She turned her attention back to the fo
rest path and began walking again. This was her least favorite part. Tree roots climbed out of the ground, eerily white. They looked almost like bones.
She quickened her pace, trying to ignore him. He was a shadow at her side, so big and present that it was damn near impossible. When a tree root ripped out of the ground and lashed at her, she barely managed to lunge aside. She fell to the dirt on her knees, cursing. This is what she got for letting her guard down.
Malcolm threw out a hand and sent a blast of flame at the root. It turned to ash instantly.
“Why didn’t you use your magic?” he asked.
“The High Witches block it. I’m powerless here.” She glanced at him. He towered over her, his hand still outstretched and glowing. He looked like a wild god, tall and strong, his dark hair flowing back from the masculine beauty of his face and golden eyes. He was part wulver. That strength and wildness was so clear when she saw him like this. It made her want him, and she hated herself for it.
He lowered his hand to help her to her feet. She ignored it and stood on her own, then set off along the path again. Tree roots stretched up to grab at her, but Malcolm stopped them every time. Normally, she’d be exhausted and dirty by the time she reached the edge of the forest. The High Witches liked to see her bedraggled and miserable from clawing her way through. Each year, a new set of obstacles blocked her path.
But apparently Malcolm’s magic wasn’t affected by this place. Either because of his strength or because the High Witches didn’t know to expect him and therefore had not crafted a block for his magic.
Either way, she tried not to appreciate how much easier it was to make her way through the forest with him at her side.
“Is that it?” Malcolm asked after a while.
She glanced up. The High Witches’ enormous stronghold loomed on the horizon, standing guard over the dark moors that surrounded it. It looked like the worst haunted house a mortal could dream up, only ten times as big. Lightning cracked overhead, making the window glass flash like winking eyes.
