Dark and Deadly: Eight Bad Boys of Paranormal Romance
Page 25
When he could bear to meet Alaric’s eyes, Conlan flinched at the depth of the sorrow and fury there.
“Never once. Never the slightest resonance of your existence.” Alaric said, gripping the jade handle of his dagger. He held it out to Conlan, blade down. “If you doubt my loyalty, cousin, end my life now. I deserve it for my failure.”
Conlan noted the reference to their family connection in the cynical corner of his mind that calculated the niceties of Atlantean politics. Alaric never spoke a single word that didn’t carry at least two meanings. Often polemic, at times pedagogical. Never purposeless.
Conlan accepted the dagger and turned it over in his hands, then flipped it back to its owner. “If you failed in your appointed role, Priest, Poseidon’s justice would be the one kicking your ass. You’ve no need of mine.”
Alaric shook his black hair behind his shoulders, eyes narrowing at the emphasis on his title. Then he nodded once and slid the dagger into its emerald-jeweled sheath. “As you say. We face other problems, Prince. You have finally returned, only hours after the vehicle of your ascension is lost.”
“Tell me,” Conlan said, fury scalding the shreds of his self-control.
“Reisen. He killed two of my acolytes,” Alaric spat the words out, clenching his fists. “Conlan, he took it. He took the Trident. He’s gone above. If the undead get their hands on it . . .”
Alaric’s words trailed off. Both of them knew the cost of misused power. Poseidon’s former High Priest lay rotting in the black abyss of the temple oubliette for overstepping his powers.
Poseidon served deadly reminders to those who betrayed him.
Conlan inhaled sharply, the hairs on his arms standing up in response to the nearly-invisible currents of elemental energy Alaric crackled through the room. For his power to leak out like that, the priest must be damn near the edge of his self-control. Or else seven years had seen one hell of a surge in his power.
Conlan didn’t know which option should concern him more.
Their friendship had weathered the strain of the demands of politics and power. Conlan trusted Alaric with his life. Didn’t he?
It was enough to split a man’s skull open.
Clenching the sheets in his fists, he fought for composure. For some semblance of royal countenance to overlay the ragged insanity threatening to eat through his mind.
Through his gut.
To his soul.
His heart was long since gone. Shattered at the end of a whip, while forced to hear silken words whispering of the atrocities they’d heaped upon his lady mother.
Anubisa and her apostates of Algolagnia. They’d murdered his mother an inch at a time, and they’d enjoyed it. Worse, they’d gotten off on it. A deep shudder wracked through him, remembering how Anubisa had pleasured herself to orgasm in front of him while she told him stories of torturing his parents.
Again and again and again.
Anubisa was going to die.
They were all going to die.
“Conlan?” Alaric’s voice almost physically wrenched him out of his memories of death and blood. Alaric. He’d said hours later . . .
“Hours? And here I am,” Conlan said, remembering. “She let me go. She knew, Alaric. She knew.”
His final day. His final hour.
“Oh, princeling, you have brought me such pleasure,” she murmured in his ear. Then she slid down his naked body and delicately licked at the sweat, the blood, and the other, thicker fluids that pooled to drip down his thighs. “But I think you must needs return to your people. You have a delightful surprise waiting for you. And, in your current state, you’re no longer any fun.”
Standing up, she’d waved one of her attendants over. “Twelve of my personal guard. Twelve, you understand? Don’t be fooled by this temporary weakness. The brat prince of Atlantis has . . . hidden strengths.” She’d run a finger down his cock, laughing as he’d tried to flinch away from her.
Then she’d flicked her gaze back to her attendant. “Throw him out.”
Still naked, long, curling hair matted with his blood, she’d stalked toward the doorway of the cell that had served as his prison for seven years. Then she’d stopped and looked back at him over her shoulder. “Your bloodline amuses me, princeling. Tell your brother that I come for him next.”
He’d cursed, then, finding his voice again. Called her names that he hadn’t even known he knew. Until her guards came, and one of them demonstrated that he’d taken offense by way of a club to Conlan’s head.
He shook off the image in his head. He was free of Anubisa’s hell.
He would never be free of the memories.
He might never be entirely sane again.
But he was Conlan of Atlantis, and he had returned. His people wanted a king, not a broken failure of a prince.
Glancing across at Alaric, he saw the concern reflected on the priest’s face. Maybe even Alaric wanted a king, too.
Enough of the self-indulgence of dreams of vengeance – and on to the reality.
“We’re not boys causing mischief at the running of the bulls festival any more, are we?” Conlan said, a shadow of remembered freedom crossing his mind. A time before the demands of being his father’s son. Before the demands on Alaric as Poseidon’s anointed.
Alaric tilted his head, expression wary, and then he slowly shook his head. “Not for many long years, Conlan.”
“Too long,” Conlan replied. “Far too long.” He swung his legs off the healing table and rose to stand.
“Childhood may be outgrown, but loyalty never will be. You are my prince, but – more than that – you are my friend. Never doubt it,” Alaric said.
Conlan read the truth in Alaric’s eyes and felt better for it. He held out his hand and they clasped arms, an unspoken renewal of friendship that maybe both of them needed.
Then he stretched, pleased to find his body in working order again. He’d need every ounce of energy. “So both my ascension and my matrimonial obligations to a long-dead virgin are delayed,” he said drily. “I find myself unable to summon much concern about the latter.”
“Not dead. Merely sleeping, awaiting your need. It is your destiny.” Alaric reminded him.
As if he needed reminding. As if he hadn’t had that particular duty drummed into his head for hundreds of years. Love didn’t figure into the breeding patterns of the Warriors of Poseidon; most especially not into those of royalty.
He scowled at the whimsy. Love. A myth to coddle children, at best. “I’m out of here. I’m going after that bastard Reisen. I will retrieve the Trident, Priest. And justice will be meted out to the House of Mycenaeus.”
Alaric grinned at him, giving Conlan a glimpse of the boy he’d once been. “We leave now. Ven is preparing for the journey. So much for the welcome home processional.”
Conlan tried to return the smile, but his mouth had lost its memory of how to smile, after so many years of grimacing in agony. Years of howling out his rage and despair.
Alaric raised one eyebrow, his mouth flattening into a grim line. “That’s an . . . interesting . . . expression. You’ll have to tell me one day exactly what they did to you.”
“No,” Conlan answered. “I won’t.”
Atlantis Rising
The USA Today bestselling first book in the Warriors of Poseidon series! High Prince Conlan and Riley meet and Atlantis will never be the same.
Eleven thousand years ago, before the seas swallowed the Atlanteans, Poseidon assigned a few chosen warriors to act as sentinels for humans in the new world. There was only one rule--desiring them was forbidden. But rules were made to be broken . . .
Riley Dawson is more than a dedicated Virginia Beach social worker. She's blessed with a mind link that only Atlanteans have been able to access for thousands of years.
Conlan, the high prince of Atlantis, has surfaced on a mission to retrieve Poseidon's stolen Trident. Yet something else has possessed Conlan: the intimate emotions and desires of a human.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alyssa Day is the pen name (and dark and tortured alter ego) of RITA award-winning and RWA honor roll member author Alesia Holliday. As Alyssa, she writes the New York Times best-selling Warriors of Poseidon paranormal series & League of the Black Swan paranormal romance/urban fantasy series. As Alesia, she writes comedies that make readers snort things out of their noses, and is the author of the award-winning memoir about military families during war-time deployments: EMAIL TO THE FRONT. As Lucy Connors, she writes gritty contemporary romance novels for teens (www.lucyconnors.com). She’s a diehard Buckeye who graduated summa cum laude from Capital University Law School and practiced as a trial lawyer in multi-million dollar litigation for several years before coming to her senses and letting the voices in her head loose on paper. She lives somewhere near an ocean with her Navy Guy husband, two kids, and any number of rescue dogs. Please visit Alyssa at her website, follow her on Twitter (she’s very chatty there!), or friend her on Facebook (warning: dog photos regularly appear).
BOOKS BY ALYSSA DAY
The Warriors of Poseidon series
Atlantis Rising
Atlantis Awakening
Atlantis Unleashed
Atlantis Unmasked
Atlantis Redeemed
Atlantis Betrayed
Vampire in Atlantis
Heart of Atlantis
Bewitch
by Felicity Heaton
A vampire with a past stained with blood and a soul tainted with darkness, he is perfect in his self-control, never surrendering to his darkest desires. Now a beautiful witch in the shadowy fae underworld threatens to reawaken long denied hungers and tempts him with carnal pleasure.
Payne despises the incubus side of his mixed genes and refuses to give it free rein, but when the wickedly sexy Elissa offers him a possible way to help a friend, he finds it difficult to resist paying the price, even if it will be his undoing—one night of passion at her command.
Elissa is a witch down on her luck until Payne comes crashing into her life. The dangerously handsome male is the key to fulfilling a promise she made, but he is also forbidden, and surrendering to the wildfire passion he stirs within her means risking ruin and death.
When one incredible night of fulfilling their deepest fantasies leads to more than just a pathway to keeping a promise and saving a friend, will they be able to overcome the barriers that stand between them and forever?
Table of Contents for BEWITCH
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Unleash - Preview Chapter
About the Author
Books by Felicity Heaton
CHAPTER 1
This was the last place on earth that Payne wanted to be.
The heavy iron gate squeaked as it closed behind him. Slippery, damp stone steps led downwards into the gloom. Payne allowed his eyes to change to reveal his vampire nature, his irises burning red and his pupils turning elliptical, and the tunnel brightened enough for him to make out the arching roof cut into the rock. Noises came from ahead. He followed the steps in a sweeping curve, his footfalls echoing around him. His breaths formed as white fog in the moist air before dissipating. A golden glow crept into view further down the tunnel and a gust of drier air washed over him, carrying a myriad of scents. Herbs. Spices. Dead things. Blood. Other disgusting fetid smells joined them as he continued to descend and he wished that vampires didn’t feel the need to breathe.
The steps ended and he followed the uneven earth floor. The tunnel grew larger until it opened onto a high plateau at the start of a cavern. His eyes switched back to their normal grey and the world dulled to a more manageable level of brightness. Enormous rust-coloured stalactites hung from the ceiling arching above him, as though the cave had grown fangs, rows of them, all sharp and wicked in the golden glow rising up from below. Their menacing shadows stretched long across the roof, adding to the sense of danger that he liked. He could live in a place like this. A vampire liked mystery. It was perfect for his kind.
Or it would be if it weren’t for the thousands of fae that bustled in the small underground town spread out below him.
Stone buildings covered the huge base of the cavern, a hotchpotch collection of square flat-roofed structures of different heights. Some were two storeys but most of them were a single level, with large windows and tattered canopies reaching out from them into the narrow streets, each a different jewel-tone colour. Some of the ones directly below him bore crests or fae words he didn’t understand. Alleys wound between the stores and homes in stilted lines that reminded Payne of veins. His stomach growled a reminder that he hadn’t eaten in days, not since he had started out from Vampirerotique on this ridiculous mission.
Scents rose from copper stills, thatched baskets, vials and terracotta or stone jars that stood on display outside the stores on his left, and a wooden arch at the start of one of the streets declared it was the witches’ district. Fae and other creatures crammed the streets, passing from store to store. There had to be close to five thousand fae and other creatures in the area.
Payne studied them, an increasing sense of dread churning in his stomach.
Witches didn’t like vampires. His kind had almost driven them to extinction many centuries ago and they hadn’t forgiven them for it.
Still, he had to go down there. He had made a promise and he intended to keep it. He smiled to himself as he thought about the succubus who needed his help. She had chosen to call herself Chica. Andreu, her lover and one of the vampires who worked at the erotic London theatre with Payne, had explained that it was a pet name that he had called her a few times. Payne couldn’t blame her for keeping her real name secret. He knew firsthand the danger of giving your true name to someone.
Chica needed a way to break the spell that bound her to the theatre, Vampirerotique, stopping her from ever leaving its walls. They had tried everything over the past few weeks and none of it had worked. Antoine, the vampire in charge of the theatre, was at the end of his tether and the dark aristocrat didn’t need this extra burden on his shoulders. He had enough to deal with. Callum had brought a very heavily pregnant Kristina to the theatre, moving the werewolf into his apartment there, and then Snow had taken a turn for the worse three weeks ago, shortly after Javier and Lilah had married at Vampirerotique.
Payne smirked. It hadn’t quite been the wedding that Javier had envisioned for his lovely bride, but Lilah had wanted everyone there, including Snow and Antoine, and Andreu. Andreu, Javier’s younger brother, hadn’t wanted to leave Chica alone at the theatre with Snow and Antoine in order to travel to Spain, so Javier had brought his whole family to the theatre to wed his bride on the stage. It had been tasteful enough. They had since left to hold the traditional celebrations in northern Spain at the family’s mansion there.
Chica had been miserable then because Andreu had again refused to leave her and she felt it was her fault that he was missing his brother’s wedding celebrations. Andreu had done his best to reassure her and Payne had reiterated his promise to help her and free her of the binding spell. He’d had more luck in his latest search for a way of undoing it, managing to find three potential leads, all of them in the fae world.
One of those leads had landed him in trouble.
One had refused to speak to a half-breed. That had pissed Payne off no end. He had told the shapeshifter that he was a vampire but the male had focused on the incubus side of his genes. Payne had felt like killing
him but had let it go. Dead or alive, the man wouldn’t have been any help.
The final lead had brought him here, to a whole fae town hidden beneath the grounds of an elegant palatial mansion in the English countryside. Fae lived in the mansion too, the elite of the light side of that world. Everyone down here were merchants, plying their wares to make ends meet, or workers and travellers. Payne had thought witches had higher standards but there were probably hundreds if not thousands of them here, trading with other creatures, selling spells, ointments and god only knew what else.
A group of three young females reached the top of the stone steps to his left and passed him, dressed in the traditional garb of witches, long black featureless dresses that swamped their bodies and concealed their curves. They tittered amongst themselves, their eyes on him, blushes heating their cheeks. His incubus side rose to the fore and he shot them a smile, earning giggles and a few sultry smiles in return. The incubus in him loved every second, lapping up their desire, draining it from the air around him.
Payne tamped it down and his vampire side took control again. The witches’ looks turned dark and he knew they had seen the red in his eyes. Strange how they would toy with an incubus, one who wanted them purely for sexual gratification, but they would scowl at a vampire. His incubus nature was more likely to kill them.
He took the steps on the left down to the cavern floor, his eyes on the town, studying it. There were larger buildings near the edges of the town. Banners hung on their walls. He recognised a few. Not just covens. There was a shapeshifter pride. A wolf pack. Ogres too. There was even a succubus clan. He didn’t need to recognise the banner on that particular building to know what type of creature lived within its dark red walls. There was a steady stream of men coming and going, and some succubi were hanging out of the open windows, calling to them and teasing them with flashes of flesh. The fae equivalent of a bordello.