If his schemes had any chance of succeeding, he’d need to do two things.
First, Arman would have to guard his emotions with care––not that Toran would be a problem. Outside of his inability to sense even a modicum of what others were feeling, his nephew was loyal and trusting to a fault; he’d never suspect a thing. Toran’s second-in-command, however, was another matter entirely. If Merus sensed what Arman was up to, he’d be finished.
Second, he’d need to protect Toran’s despicable creature from harm, at least in the short-term. For Toran to do what he needed to do to take the crown, Arman needed the faine alive, plain and simple. Driven by their seething hatred, he knew the Elden's base impulse would be to finish off what they had started centuries ago, prophecy or no. To appease the Elden's need for blood, Arman would need to offer up something to keep them in his corner––and away from the faine.
What that something was, he wasn’t sure.
But he did know that if he could do these two things, then…
“Arman!”
At Sarai’s shout, he glanced up from his musings.
“What?”
“As I was saying,” she huffed, “why don’t we just get rid of the faine? We could easily blame her death on the rebels, preferably on Kellen directly.” Though they shared a sire, Sarai’s half-brother Kellen was a whore’s get––half human at that. Despite his lowest of low heritage, Kellen was impossibly proud. Arman thought Sarai had every right to hate him. “I’d give anything to see the Tenn take that bastard’s head.”
At that, Arman almost laughed out loud. Of course. Kellen was the most wanted man in the kingdom. Seemingly unstoppable, he’d been picking off Elden, one by one, for years. To keep the Elden in line, all Arman had to do was promise to deliver Kellen’s traitorous––preferably severed––head on a platter.
In short, he’d use him as bait.
“If she is killed outright,” Sarai continued cluelessly on, “then I will not be put at risk.”
“If she is killed outright,” Arman countered quickly as the most important piece of his plan fell right into place, “you will not be able to bear his son.” He took in a steadying breath. “If she is killed outright,” he continued, “you will not be able to take your place as queen… as you so richly deserve.”
“I’m not risking my life,” Sarai hissed, “to bear the Tenn a bunch of brats so he can take what my father has worked so hard to steal.”
“Come, come Sarai,” Arman admonished, knowing just how to push this particular female’s buttons. “You are just as invested in this faine business as I am. And, as smart as you are, I know you’ll not be content being the Tenn’s bride-to-be forever, always on the outside, not even partaking at the fridge of power.” Arman paused with a dramatic flair. “You deserve so much more, my love.”
That got her attention.
“I do deserve more,” she sniffed.
He bit back a smile.
Arman knew a female like Sarai craved only one thing: power. Sure, her father provided for her well. She had riches beyond her wildest dreams. The most expensive jewels, the best clothes, a steady stream of willing males in her bed.
But Sarai also knew that if things stayed as they were, she’d never grace the throne as queen. She was but a worthless female, pure-blooded rarity though she be. The only way she’d have what she craved would be to bed the Tenn and bear his sons.
Or, in this case, his son.
“My dear,” said Arman, “you forget the prophecy says my nephew must sire multiple sons to bring about the salvation of Venn Dom. And, if you remember,” he continued with a forced ease, “there has never been an instance of a multiple birth in the history of our people.” Pausing, he let that little fact sink in. “Therefore, it seems to me, we must simply make sure Toran has but one shot at you, so to speak, no?”
That really got her attention.
“You have a plan?”
“Of course I have a plan.”
To strike a deathblow to the prophecy, all Arman had to do was ensure that Toran made his way to his marriage bed––a single coupling that would change the world.
Then, with the promise of Toran's first––and only––son from his own lover’s womb, Arman himself would assume power over Venn Dom––the true realm of the Vimor daemons. Baltia, that trouble-filled annex teeming with Other, would well be worth the sacrifice––just as Sarai and her babe would be.
Once Toran was forced to cooperate, of course.
And, unbeknownst to everyone but himself, Arman possessed the knowledge of how to bend the Tenn to his will.
Exceedingly pleased with himself, he pressed himself against Sarai’s welcoming body. Toran would come to him soon, he was sure of it, and he’d be ready. He’d do whatever it took to see his nephew installed as king.
For one night, at least.
“Trust that I will take care of everything,” Arman whispered at her ear. “And, when the time is right, you will spread your legs so that we may take my nephew’s crown.” Arman ran his gnarled hands up Sarai’s bodice. “It is our destiny, my sweet.” Cupping her breasts, he gave a little squeeze.
Though I am ancient, he thought, my cock still works. Sarai was a comely creature, no matter how loathsome she was.
He enjoyed having her, at times, in his bed.
Now, near drunk on dreams of power and heady anticipation, he figured that this was one of those times.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the three full days since Toran had brought her to his bed, the faine had not stirred.
He was beyond pretending he wasn’t near sick with worry. Since returning from Vegas with her things, his attitude had quickly veered from cavalier to outright panicked.
She lay silent and unmoving, her skin ashen and sallow in the muted firelight. Only the rhythmic rise and fall of her breast proved she still lived.
Earlier that night, unsettled and anxious, Toran had reluctantly left her side to seek guidance from his uncle. The elder daemon remembered well the times before the Cleansing. Throughout Toran's long life as heir-in-waiting, his uncle had counseled him well.
No matter his cousin Merus’s feelings, Toran respected Arman, trusted him.
He hadn’t liked what he had been told.
You must touch her.
Grinding his teeth, his feverish thoughts raced between helpless frustration and fist-through-the-wall resentment. For the sake of the gods, he was ready to get on with his life after so many years of waiting.
His accusing eyes shifted over to her sleeping form.
At least she breathes.
A low growl tore from his throat, the tightness in his chest growing nigh unbearable. Rising from his chair, his long strides ate up the distance between the bed and fireplace that lined the keep’s inner wall. Back and forth he paced, praying for clearness of purpose.
The faine is key.
This he knew.
With the faine rightfully installed as servant to his household, Toran could finally live the life he had been destined from birth to live. A destiny thrown off course by betrayal, death, destruction.
With the last living faine bent to his will––the faine meant only for him––Toran could finally reclaim his crown and unite his kingdom.
Another thing was certain.
The faine was worthless to him in her current state. For his future to finally unfold, he would have to do his duty.
He must touch her.
As dawn threatened to break through the hazy darkness, Toran gazed down at her unconscious form, truly looking at the female for the first time.
Thick dark lashes lay against pale, smooth skin. She had a delicately elfin face framed with long and lush honey-brown hair. Peering closely, he noticed barely-there freckles dusted across sun-kissed cheekbones. Her heart-shaped lips were relaxed in a perfect pout.
Even in a state of weakness, the faine was breathtakingly beautiful.
He stared at her for a long moment, willing his
now racing heart to quiet.
Rubbing his hands together as if to warm them, Toran blew out a quick breath.
Decision made, he sat at the edge of the bed. His weight dipped the mattress, tipping her body closer. As their hips touched, an unfamiliar zing rocketed through his body.
The faine stirred.
Toran swallowed hard, past the throbbing heartbeat lodged in his throat, his mouth dry as cotton. He shook his head clear, intent on maintaining a clinical focus on what he had to do.
Using thumb and forefinger, he carefully slipped the silken sheet down her torso to rest at the jut of her narrow hips. High, firm breasts swelled perfectly against the cups of her tightly fitted bra.
Taking in her diminutive form, he shuddered as he blinked back a nightmare.
She is small, too small, to bear my strength.
But no, he was quick to reason, the faine were deceptively strong.
She was born to take my touch.
Summoning his resolve, Toran reached out. For a long moment, his hand hovered over her body, his fingers flexing just inches above her milky, soft-looking skin.
Taking in a steadying breath, he touched the female, his tawny hand standing in stark contrast to the paleness of her skin.
His venna stirred.
With a curse, he forced his now-shaking hand to remain on her torso. He flexed his mind, his will winning the battle against the potent force that pulsed within him with heated, and insistent, interest.
Toran was determined that he alone would decide how and when this faine would take his venna.
Certain he had regained iron-tight control, Toran trailed his fingertips against the exposed skin of her belly, marveling again at how small she was. From thumb to pinky, his hand spanned the near entirety of her narrow hips. His breath quickened as he pushed the sheet down just a little more to reveal the tops of her thighs, the scrap of black bottoms she wore molded tight against her mound.
His cock pulsed.
With a curse, he yanked his hand away.
Eyes to the ceiling, he prayed for the strength to just get up and leave the room.
He found himself helpless to move.
As if drawn by a magnet, his gaze shifted back down to take in the sight of the faine’s slight body, barely clothed and open to him.
He frowned.
Bending forward, Toran peered closely at the skin he had just been touching.
Pinkish red lines appeared like gouge marks along the path of his gentle caress.
Yet, instead of leaving pain in its wake, it seemed as if his touch was bringing her back to life.
Toran watched in awe as the faine’s color deepened into a flushed and healthy pink. Her breasts, already high and plump atop her chest, swelled with strengthened breath.
Gods in heaven, he thought, she’s magnificent.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On a splintered ‘el somewhere deep in the Bermuda Triangle, Mandy sat on a barstool at Pirate Jack’s. A total Strong dive, the entire back half of the establishment was blown out, the salty waves eating away at the metal carcass of the ship that made up its walls.
A sun witch, Mandy liked it here almost as much as she liked the bright heat of the Vegas desert. Swelteringly breezy, dry and scorching, a weak arctic haze, it didn’t matter… the sun was the sun. But, as was her way, Mandy figured the more rays the merrier. And, when she really needed to think, she sought out soothingly sunny environs… and a cold one.
With the hot Caribbean sun just over her shoulder, she was light years away from the dreariness of the daemon highlands. Yet, that’s where her thoughts were planted.
It had been three whole days since that ass had taken her friend. Since then, Mandy had been consumed with figuring out a way to rescue Liv from his daemon clutches. She had cycled through countless spells, searching for something that might do the trick.
Though she knew her jaunt onto the daemon plane had more to do with the daemon's fuck-up than anything she herself had done, Mandy wasn’t overly worried about getting back in. She had recognized her asshole brother’s sold-to-the-highest-bidder’s magic a mile away. Besides, she had always had a knack for landing in all kinds of trouble. It was what happened after she found that trouble that was the problem.
Now, she was stuck consoling herself with beer, struggling to come to terms with the fact that there was little she could do to save her friend. She sucked as a witch, plain and simple. No matter how hard she tried, her powers had always been an intermittent hot mess of a crapshoot, always more bark than bite.
“You want another?” Mandy looked up to see the man himself, Pirate Jack, eying her, literally, with his one eye.
She hiked her shoulders in ambivalent assent before gratefully palming the cold mug PJ slid across the bar. After taking a sip, she dove back into her thoughts.
She could go back in, proverbial guns blazing. But that would be no more than a death wish. The daemon prick was the real deal, the strongest of the Strong. So full of piss and venna, he could fry her dead in seconds. She was lucky he hadn’t already done so the moment she infiltrated his little daemon lair.
She shuddered in the heat.
Poor Liv… What the hell did he want with her? Surely he hadn’t meant what had so easily sprung to her, admittedly, totally-in-the-gutter mind.
Surely not, Mandy reasoned.
He wouldn’t dare.
A big body dropped in the chair beside her. Not in the mood to deal with any kind of bullshit, Mandy had half a spell conjured up as she turned to…
Shit. The daemon.
The yummy blonde one, not the psycho dark one.
But maybe this one was psycho, too.
Who the hell could tell with daemons?
She dropped her hand.
“What are you doing here?” Mandy asked, barely swallowing down the squeak in her throat. “Are you taking a break from your booming business, you know, harassing innocent girls?”
“Innocent girls?”
Mandy so wanted to smack that smirk off his ridiculously dreamy face. Instead, she sucked back a swallow of beer. “You know what I mean, jerk,” she said. “And no one said you could sit there.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” He glanced around the near-empty bar. “Is this seat taken?”
Save PJ and a couple of werewolves off playing pool, the joint was empty.
“Ass.”
He ignored her.
“Hey PJ,” he called, “can I get a whiskey neat?”
“Sure thing, Merus-man.”
“Is that your name?” she asked. “Merus-man?”
“Just Merus.”
“Just Merus? Just Merus what? Surely you’ve got yourself a special daemon name.” Mandy rolled her eyes. “All of you do.”
“I do.” He said with a nod.
“So what is it?”
He took a sip of whiskey.
“It’s Merus.” He smacked his lips. “The Lesser.”
She couldn’t help herself; she snorted beer right up her nose. Swiping up a napkin, Mandy pressed it to her mouth, trying not to choke on booze and laughter. “The Lesser?” she asked when she managed to recover. “Is there something you need to tell me?” Her eyes dropped to his lap. Raising them back up, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You don’t happen to drive, say, a monster truck, do you?”
“Well, I’ve never heard it called a monster truck.” He leaned in close, his tone matching hers.
She resisted the urge to fan herself, his all-consuming proximity a near-narcotic rush to her senses. He smelled of sunshine, whiskey, and trouble.
Three of her most favorite things.
But he certainly didn’t need to know any of that.
“When you think about it, though,” she said instead, “it’s not much to live up to. So you’ve got that going for you.” His robin’s egg blue eyes were locked on her mouth as she licked beer foam off her lips. “With your charm, I suppose it’s good to set expectations low… right up fro
nt.”
*****
She amused him greatly, this witch, all mouthy and slightly drunk, sitting in a barely-there red bikini in the middle of nowhere. A flowery wrap tied haphazardly at her hip did nothing to hide her perfectly toned and shapely legs.
Not that he was complaining.
Merus pushed a piece of paper across the bar.
“Here.”
“What’s this? Your number?” She scrunched her forehead. “That’s pretty presumptuous of you, considering I hate you.”
He couldn’t help himself. He laughed out loud.
“It’s your friend’s new number,” he said.
“Whose?” She snatched it up. “Liv’s?”
“Who else’s?”
“Why are you giving me this?” she asked.
“I figured you’d want to talk with her.” There was no way in Hell he’d admit that hand-delivering the number was also the best excuse he could come up with to see his witch again.
His witch?
“She’s okay from pulsing?”
“She’s fine,” Merus lied. Reaching out, he attempted to twine a fiery red lock of hair around a forefinger.
She swatted his hand away.
“You get good cell phone coverage in Daemonland?”
“Indeed, we do,” he answered. “Our ‘el is not completely sealed. Though you are quite aware of that, aren’t you?”
“It’s a leaky sieve.” She shrugged and then immediately changed gears. “So, is your dick of a boss going to give my friend back anytime soon? Or, am I going to have to storm the castle?”
“Dammit, Mandy. I told you… no storming the castle.” Merus pointed a finger in her face. She snapped at it with her teeth. Exasperated yet still amused, he reached for his glass and raised it to his lips. He pulled it away to say, “Let’s just give them some time together to, you know, work some things out, okay?”
“Let’s? As in ‘let us’?” she asked. “As in somehow you and I should unite together in agreement here?” She tossed a heavy lock of hair behind a freckled shoulder. “I don’t think so, daemon. And, what do you mean ‘let them work some things out’? What things?”
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