To Enthrall the Demon Lord

by Nadine Mutas

  “That sums it up nicely.”

  Lightheadedness seized her, white spots dancing before her eyes. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Not in this bed.” He tugged on her hair.

  She glared at him, then rubbed a hand over her face. “Holy hell. What—what is there—is there any way to…”

  “Stop it? No.”

  “Please, please.” She massaged her temples. “I can’t take that much optimism.”

  The corners of his mouth kicked up. “There is one thing that needs to be done if mankind is to stand any kind of a chance in the future.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well,” he said with a shrug, “maybe two things. The first being that your witch friends need to stop killing each other.”

  “You mean the conflict with Juneau?”

  He nodded. “The witches cannot afford to be divided, not in the face of what is coming. Especially since their powers will grow weaker, too.”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “Witches draw on the magic which has been worked into the layers of this world to add to their innate power.”

  “So?”

  His dark green eyes glittered. “Who gives them the access to tap into those layers?”

  She gasped. “No.”

  “Yes.” His smirk really shouldn’t have been that sexy, not with the seriousness of this topic. “The Powers That Be granted witches the ability to supplement their magic so they could protect humans. Unlike the beasts, the otherworld creatures populating the world could not be forced into sleep. They were too many, so the Powers That Be had to find another way to keep humans from being overrun by stronger species. They chose witches, and imbued them with the ability to draw magic from the world so they’d be able to keep the otherworld creatures in check.”

  Her stomach was filled with dread. “And now the witches will lose that extra power and won’t be able to protect humans anymore—let alone fight off ancient beasts and gods.”

  “There is…a way to prevent that.”

  She stared at him. “Spill.”

  “The access to the layers of the world is a god-granted power. The witches received it in return for a pledge of allegiance to the Powers That Be, a promise to do their bidding, to protect the humans.” His shrug was all fluid strength and sinuous power. “They could change their allegiance.”

  Again, she could do little more than stare in bafflement. “You. You’re saying the witches could pledge allegiance to you, and you could give them those extra powers.”

  “Simply put, yes.”

  Her laugh was dry and humorless. “They’ll never agree to that.”

  “They may change their minds when they find their powers waning.”

  After an entire night and the following day spent cocooned in his private lair, where he and Maeve had tangled over and over in sexual bliss and soul-crushing intimacy, Arawn finally admitted it might be time to return to the surface. For now.

  They stopped in his non-secret quarters in the underground lair to shower and grab some clothes, since both of theirs were incinerated in the blast in the cabin when he restored her memories. He’d kept Maeve clad in shadows on the way up, going in his wolf form himself, and she now donned a pair of his flowing shifter pants and a casual shirt of his, while he dressed in his usual attire of formal pants and shirt.

  As Maeve pulled the drawstring on the pants extra tight to fit her small waist—the legs already stuffed into her socks—he told her the part he’d neglected to mention.

  “The spell binding your beast has disintegrated.”

  She jerked her head up, amber-gray eyes wide. “What?”

  “It broke down during the explosion in your cabin.”

  Frowning, she rubbed at her breastbone. “Why…hasn’t the beast come out yet?”

  He walked over to her, traced her lips with his thumb, every male instinct of his preening at the fact she was wearing his clothes…covered with his scent. “Because I told it not to.”

  “You horse-whispered my beast?”

  He chuckled, nipped at her ear. “I convinced it to heed your call alone. It will only come forth if you wish it.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it again. Her copper brows drew together, and she bit her lip. “What would happen if I called it?”

  “From what I could tell, its essence is completely fused with yours, which means you are one and the same. When you are you”—he stroked a finger down the neckline of the shirt, to the dip between her breasts, and smiled at her shiver—“the beast is dormant in your core. When the beast takes over, you will be hidden inside its form.”

  “I’ll…shapeshift?”

  He inclined his head. “Would you like to try?”

  She froze, her face blanching. “Now?”

  “I will be here to keep it contained should you lose control.”

  A moment ticked by as she held his gaze, her still-wet hair dripping water on the stone floor. “Okay.”

  He nodded. “Go inside you and call it forth.”

  She closed her eyes, her attention turning inward. Her face scrunched up in concentration.

  Nothing happened.

  “Is there something special I should say?”

  He crossed his arms. “Not that I am aware of.”

  “So why is it not working?” She opened her eyes, smoke-licked fire with a hint of age.

  “That,” he said, studying her closely, “is a good question.”

  “Can you…check?”

  Nodding, he dove into her mind, and deeper, into her core. Flames in velvet darkness, and the shadow of a mighty beast lurking in stygian mist—and it didn’t move when he called it.

  Leaving her mind again, he shook his head. “It is there, though it does not appear inclined to come out.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, so now it’s suddenly sulking?” A soft noise of frustration. “I swear, if I didn’t know it was a dragon, I’d say it has to be some sort of cat.”

  With a chuckle, he kissed her, and nodded toward the door. “You can try again later. Right now, there are some things I need take care of.”

  Being close to twenty-four hours incommunicado when one had a dominion to run did cause some tasks to pile up. Not that he regretted even a second of his time spent alone with Maeve.

  “Of course.” She nodded—and took his hand as they walked out of his quarters.

  He paused, looked down at their linked fingers, then at her face aglow with an emotion so deep, it was purest pleasure-pain in his heart.

  She laughed. “You look like no one’s ever held hands with you before.”

  He just stared.

  “Oh.” Her face fell. “I’m the first woman to ever hold hands with you?”

  Frowning at her, he pondered the strange feeling in his chest.

  With a soft gasp, she let go of his hand. “I’m sorry. That’s probably totally inappropriate for the Demon Lord to walk around like—”

  He snatched her hand back and grabbed it tight as he drew her forward into a walk again. She stumbled to keep up.

  “Let them see your claim,” was all he said.

  She squeezed his hand, her eyes shimmering wet while her mouth curved up in a trembling smile.

  Wherever they passed, his people would stare, wide-eyed, some even open-mouthed, some forgetting to bow and greet him. It didn’t faze him. On the contrary, he walked taller knowing they saw the female he’d chosen to be at his side. After all, it was time they knew their queen.

  He contacted Lucía and Kelior on the way, ordered them to come and be with Maeve for the night. The griffin was apparently out hunting, which meant Arawn insisted on two guards for her.

  When they met near the scorched remains of the cabin, Lucía’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at the sight of them holding hands. Kelior appeared close to fainting.

  Arawn sent both of them a dark look. “Is there something you would like to say?”

  Lucía pressed her lip
s into a tight line that looked suspiciously like a suppressed grin, shook her head frantically and made a sound—half hum, half squeak—that was likely intended to mean no.

  “No, my lord,” Kelior said, and bowed at the waist.

  “Good,” Arawn purred. He bent down to place an openly possessive kiss on Maeve’s mouth, and murmured, “I will find you later.”

  Swaying a bit from the force of his kiss, Maeve squeezed his hand before letting it go. “See you.”

  With a nod at the other two, he turned and strolled into the night, grinning at Lucía’s choked-off squeal.

  He’d barely walked five minutes when a boom shook the earth, like a distant explosion of epic proportions. Shedding his clothes, he swung himself into the air in his eagle form, shot up above the treetops to scan the horizon. His focus snagged on the faraway silhouette of Mount Hood—which was lit with glowing red, a plume of smoke rising up from the peak.

  That same instant, a shock wave of magic slammed into him, hurled him back a mile before he could catch himself. That power…age-old and feral and hot.

  Not even hesitating a second, he raced toward the erupting volcano on wings of otherworldly speed.

  Toward the beast that just awakened.

  Chapter 35

  Tallak resisted the urge to crack a kink in his neck as he made his way to the imposing gate of the Laroche residence. Witches truly lived in exaggerated style, didn’t they? He’d thought the Murray mansion an example of pomposity, but Juneau’s house trumped even that.

  A high-curving gate of black wrought iron in a fence of the same material barricaded a property that had to be several acres. The long driveway meandered toward a villa of castle-like grandeur, lined by expertly trimmed bushes in geometrical shapes.

  He curled his lip before he remembered Lydia wouldn’t show such disdain. She’d always admired the Laroche property, secretly longed for the power and wealth of the larger family.

  He pressed the bell button and waited. When a buzz came over the speaker and a female voice demanded to know who he was, he rasped, “It’s me…Lydia. Let me in.”

  “L-Lydia? Novak?”

  “Yes. Please let me in.”

  “Hold on.”

  He waited some more, and a few seconds later a woman came running toward the gate. Lydia’s memories identified her as Carissa Hart, so he smiled and tried to look like someone who’d just escaped a prison cell.

  Oh, wait—he didn’t even have to act for that one.

  “Hi, Carissa.”

  The Elder witch’s face was a study in shock. “Oh, my gods, Lydia. It’s really you. How…?”

  “I’ll explain inside. Please, just let me in.”

  Carissa nodded. “Of course.”

  She opened the gate, and stepped back, waiting for Lydia/Tallak to walk over the line of the wards. A smart test to see if he was even able to cross the magical protection.

  He stepped over the perimeter without batting an eye, the wards recognizing his aura as Lydia’s.

  Carissa let out a breath and threw her arms around him. “I’m so glad you’re back. When Juneau said Merle rejected her offer of a prisoner exchange, we all feared the worst.”

  Tallak raised a brow, the move invisible to Carissa, who was still hugging him. Merle rejected the prisoner exchange? Nice way to spin it.

  “Well,” Tallak said, “I managed to get out just after that.” He pulled back, and they walked toward the house. “I still don’t quite believe it myself, but…Hanna Roth helped me.”

  Carissa gasped at the mention of the other Elder witch. “Why?”

  “She said she’s indebted to Aveline for making it possible for Sarai to escape. If Aveline hadn’t”—he added a pause and a hitch in his breath to satisfyingly convey Lydia’s grief—“made the sacrifice, Sarai would not have gotten out…and she’d never have been able to take that cure.”

  He balled his hands to fists and gritted his teeth. “Aveline should have gotten that potion to turn her back.” Staying in character was so important for a convincing performance…

  “I know.” A sympathetic glance from Carissa.

  Sniffling delicately, he continued, “Hanna said that by helping me escape, she’d paid her family’s debt to me. I’m glad I’m out, but I know she didn’t do it for me. She only did it to soothe her own sick conscience.”

  Carissa scoffed. “Of course.” Opening the front door for him, she waved him inside. “Well, no matter, the important thing is you’re back with us.”

  Once inside, he was swarmed by several other witches, some of them Laroches, some from other families who apparently were camped out here. He repeated the same story to them, and they all gobbled it up like the finest dessert.

  “Where’s Juneau?” he finally asked, after stuffing his face with food and enduring endless questions.

  “She’s out.” Estelle, Juneau’s eldest daughter, leaned against the doorjamb to the royally overdecorated sitting room in which he currently held court. Her green eyes, same color as her mother’s, tracked his every move.

  He would have to watch out for that one.

  “Oh,” he said, and he didn’t even have to feign disappointment. If the head bitch was here, he could have simply killed her on the spot and taken her memories, and the whole thing could be wrapped up in a snap.

  He could also have easily taken out the entire group of witches assembled here to absorb their memories and powers, but he had to swear—on the life of Basil, dammit—that he wouldn’t kill witches unless he was forced to protect himself.

  Inwardly, he sneered at Merle and Hazel’s restraint. When you were at war, you took out as many of your enemies as possible. You didn’t try to dance around the inevitable by pretending to care. Kill or be killed.

  Since he couldn’t outright ask where they kept Rhun—that would be idiotically suspicious—and his roundabout, careful digging hadn’t brought any results, he snuck away at the first opportunity and descended into the basement. He could at least check the cells here to make sure they could rule out this location.

  The musty smell that clogged his nostrils the farther down he got nearly made him gag. Too many shitty memories associated with that odor, a quarter of a century spent shackled to a moldy stone floor. He breathed through his mouth as much as possible and silently walked from cell to cell, peering through the slits in the doors.

  Plenty of creatures languishing away here. Sorry bastards.

  But no sign of Rhun, the bluotezzer demon he’d seen the night he arrived on Hazel’s doorstep to claim Basil.

  “Looking for someone?” Estelle’s voice, floating down the corridor.

  He heard the threat behind her tone, and knew, within a split second, that she was onto him. Which was why he didn’t hesitate.

  He whirled around and hit her with a combination of witch magic and fae powers, the latter a lingering gift from when he recently butchered Rose’s captors. The mix of it threw Estelle off, and she choked as water filled her throat, unable to block his fae magic—which she hadn’t seen coming.

  She drowned in under a minute.

  Her body slumped to the floor with a wet thud while he absorbed her memories, her magic. As high as his adrenaline was, he didn’t feel the impact of the taking right away, was able to drag her body into an open cell and lay a glamour on her to make her look like Lydia.

  He closed the cell door, locked it, and with his heart still pumping fast, he texted the location of Rhun, which he’d gleaned from Estelle’s memories, to Merle. Next he took on Estelle’s shape—including her clothes—and faked her aura. He ran up the stairs to keep his blood rushing fast, slowed down only when he opened the door to the main floor.

  With a soft click, he closed it behind him. Walked toward the garage.

  “Hey.”

  He froze. Turned slowly.

  Thea, head of the Callahan family, stood in the doorway to the sitting room. “Where’s Lydia?”

  He gave her Estelle’s patented don’t yo
u worry smile. “She’s gone to lie down in the guest suite downstairs.”

  Lucky to know, courtesy of Estelle’s memories, that there wasn’t just an extensive dungeon in the basement, but also a finished lower level living area complete with spare rooms.

  “She’s so tired, the poor dear,” he added with an appropriately sympathetic grimace.

  Thea nodded. “I bet. Well, I’ll check on her in a bit.” And with that, she turned and walked back into the sitting room.

  Tallak didn’t dare breathe a sigh of relief, not when it might lower his adrenaline level enough that the pain of the memories might hit him.

  Instead he thought back to the moment he slaughtered the haughty royal fae in their throne room of gilded cruelty. The remembered sensations of their blood spraying around him, their screams and their pleas ringing in his ears as he took sweet, sweet revenge were enough to keep his heart pumping wildly while he walked to the garage.

  A twist of power, and he unlocked one of the cars, slid in, opened the garage door with another well-aimed flick of magic—the power of two witches, one of them an Elder, was currently at his beck-and-call, in addition the lingering magic of the fae he’d killed—and ten seconds later, he steered the car out into the driveway.

  His hands and arms began to shake as he turned onto the street, the adrenaline fading, and he made it one more minute at full speed, putting several blocks between the Laroche house and himself, before the pain slammed into him. Tires screeching, he managed to stop at the side of the road without crashing the car.

  While he endured the agony pouring through him like corrosive acid, a boom rocked the earth, the car, and a wave of teeth-rattling magic crashed over and through him. Pain clawing at his brain, he turned to look out over the twinkling sea of nightly Portland stretching out below the hills of the neighborhood, to the usually dark shape of Mount Hood in the distance—

  —now lit up in a blazing explosion.

  “I’m sorry, Merle,” Hazel said, her features gentle, “but this is in your own best interest.”

  Merle glared at her from inside the bedroom—which Hazel had magically sealed to keep Merle from leaving. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”