by Bec McMaster
"He seemed quite charming to me. Playing word games, of course, but a great many of my father's allies did that."
"He was practically salivating over you," Sebastian snarled.
A little thrill went through her. She'd interpreted his displeasure as something else, but was he actually jealous?
Her first instinct was to reassure him, but the words caught in her throat. And Cleo realized she didn't want to reassure him. It might be petty, but he was the one who said this marriage needed to remain one of convenience. "He can salivate all he likes. I find men often do. It doesn't mean he's going to lay one pretty little finger upon me."
"You don't—"
"Oh, no, please," she interrupted, "continue with your lecture about how foolish I must be to dance with the man in a crowded place, when I knew you and the others were within calling distance—"
"Why didn't you call then?"
Cleo paused. There were a half dozen excuses she could have offered, all to do with the Wand, and their mission, and her intentions to take a reading of the man, but she'd never liked subterfuge, not even in her own thoughts. "Did you know, I've never had a man dance with me? Not beyond my dancing tutors, or perhaps my father dancing with me once or twice, when I was a little girl. I've never been kissed, or courted, or anything else."
"You wished to dance with him?"
I wanted to dance with you, but you won't even touch me. She steeled herself and tipped her chin up. "Yes."
She'd rarely seen Sebastian ruffled. He'd dealt with his mother with cold fury, and it had taken her days of watching him to even realize his careful, controlled actions were intended to protect his inner thoughts and emotions from the world. But the muscle in his jaw flexed now, and he visibly swallowed before he glanced down at her. "I see."
No, you don't. Her lips pressed together firmly. "It was just a dance. Just one dance. And it's never going to happen again, so I don't particularly wish to speak about it anymore."
"As you wish."
"Let's focus on the Wand." At least they had a common mission in mind.
Sebastian offered her his arm, and the gesture was unusual enough she took it. His forearm flexed beneath her touch, but his gaze roved the area. She couldn’t tell whether he was reading Remington’s wariness, or whether he saw something else. But the three men might as well be lions prowling a dangerous new territory, prepared to fight at a moment’s notice.
"I came here with my mother to hand over the wand," he murmured. "But it’s different, seeing it now I can cut through illusions. This entire garden is full of a web of spell work. I can’t quite see what it all hides, but there’s something at work here. Something powerful."
"It’s not just an illusion," Remington said curtly, as they climbed the steps to the manor. "It’s an enticement. Allure. Or a lure, you could say. Malachi’s no longer entirely human."
"So you keep saying," Sebastian muttered.
If a man like Remington Cross was nervous, then she was too. Premonition itched along her nerves like a trail of ants over her skin. "Something’s going to happen. I’m just not entirely certain what."
She’d know if they were walking into danger, wouldn’t she?
Sebastian gave her a sidelong glance. "Let me know if that itch gets stronger."
And if they couldn’t speak? If she was somehow unable to warn him? "Perhaps tonight would be a good time to lower the shields on the bond? You would know the instant I would."
The forearm beneath her touch flexed, and he bent his head toward her. A long tense moment of hesitation stretched out, where she was certain he’d deny her, and then he nodded. "Agreed."
There was no warning. The bond was a distant, burning knot in the back of her mind one second, with her husband very firmly walled off behind it. The next… it was as if the bond suddenly slammed into place.
There were suddenly two of them in her head, tangled and meshed against each other. Thoughts whirled, some too fast to catch. But her sheer amazement radiated through the psychic link, returned with equal shock by him.
This was the first time he’d truly opened himself to her since the bond was formed.
She’d lost the sensation of it not long after she bonded him, and he discovered how to wall himself away, but it was only now that—compared to the loss of her Visions—she realized what else she had lost. It was like discovering an amputated limb had returned. A sense of wholeness.
Loneliness swept away.
Two hearts beat as one.
And she could feel him; his body, his mind, his thoughts…. An intimacy nothing else could compare to.
The world somehow faded around them. Oh, she was aware of it in some peripheral way, but it felt as though Sebastian was such a vibrant force of nature against her senses that the rest of the world simply mattered less.
Cleo managed to gain control of herself, realizing she was leaning against him heavily, her breast brushing against his arm.
"It’s heady, isn’t it?" Sebastian murmured. "I can feel your—"
"—every emotion," she whispered, trying not to delve too deeply.
It wasn’t emotion he’d been about to comment upon. Cleo flushed, and looked up, falling into the depths of those silver eyes. He’d never once made any sort of innuendo, or attempt at seduction. Indeed, apart from that one kiss she’d pressed upon him the very first time they’d met, and the awkwardness of the night they’d shared a bed, there’d been little sign of his feelings for her, both emotional and physical.
And she wanted him to kiss her. So much so it was an almost physical ache deep inside her.
"Focus," Bishop warned. "We’re almost there."
And somehow Sebastian drew back from her, just enough for them both to catch their breaths.
A dark-skinned woman dressed in a scarlet corset embroidered with what appeared to be tiny diamonds strode toward them, her skirts falling away from her knees and draping lower in back. She wore stockings the same color as her skin, with embroidered flowers upon them—or were they tattoos?—and a pair of heeled shoes that elongated her legs. Cleo almost choked.
"Don’t look her in the eyes," Remington warned. "She’s not entirely human either."
"What precisely does that mean?" Bishop muttered. "What exactly is this Malachi? And his servant?"
"Corrupted by the Shadow Dimensions," Remington replied.
"Corrupted?" the woman called in a melodious voice, as she paused in front of them. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"
"Are we friends, Odette?" Remington drawled.
Odette was beautiful, her hair braided at the temples, with a halo of tight curls surrounding her face. She stalked a slow circle around Remington, inspecting him from head to toe. "Perhaps not." The smile on her face never died. "He’s gone to refresh himself. He's been waiting for you to visit."
"He knew we were coming?" Bishop asked.
A quick flick of Remington’s dark eyes. "He’s been waiting for me for decades. Malachi likes to play at cat-and-mouse, and so far I’ve declined to entertain his notions."
"Tsk, tsk," Odette said, sliding her hands up under Remington's coat. "Poor Mal will be ever so disappointed to hear you disparage him so…."
Remington caught her wrists, just as her hands slid down his waistcoat en route to his belt. "He knows any friendship we once felt died centuries ago."
Centuries? Cleo blinked.
"What does he mean by that?" The words might have almost come from her husband’s mouth, but she knew they didn’t.
Just as he knew she’d heard them. "I don't know," she said down the link. "But he's been very careful about not going into too much detail about what these people are."
"I noticed that too."
Odette gave another mocking little smile, and pushed away from Remington. "This way then. We don't conduct business out in the open, where the guests might hear."
"Guests?" Remington mused. "Is that what we're calling them these days?"
"Dinner seems
a rather rude word."
Sebastian set his hand on Cleo's spine as he directed her into the parlor. Inside, the press of the allure wasn't quite as strong, but the exoticism of the place made her gaze wander. Intricate rugs lay all over the floor, and there were few chairs, merely large cushions scattered on the rugs. Sweet-smelling smoke lingered in the air. Some sort of glass device with a pipe extending from the end dwelled in the corner.
"A hookah," Sebastian said psychically.
Malachi awaited them, dragging his cravat from his throat and casting it aside. "A drink?"
"This isn't a social visit," Remington replied.
"Of course not." Malachi helped himself to the brandy, and then turned to face them. "So what is the purpose of this visit? It's not to reminisce about old times." His gaze settled on Cleo mockingly. "And it's not to bring me a gift for old times’ sake. Hmm... is it possible you want something from me?"
"You have something we need," Bishop said darkly. "Something that doesn't belong to you."
"Everything on this property belongs to me," Malachi replied darkly.
"Not this," Bishop disagreed.
Verity touched his arm in silent warning.
"Oh, now I know what you want. Did your precious Order misplace something important?" Malachi sipped at his brandy, laughing under his breath. "Something a new friend gave me for safekeeping?"
"Morgana isn't your friend," Sebastian said. "You'd be a fool to think that."
"I'd be a fool to think anyone was my friend. So I don't." Malachi's eyes lingered on him. Recognition suddenly dawned. "Now I remember you. You were there when she offered me the Wand. Where's your collar, boy?"
"Long gone," Sebastian said coldly. "Along with my allegiances."
Malachi settled in one of the chairs, hooking his ankle up on his opposite knee. "Interesting," he mused. "I need the Wand."
"For what?" Remington cocked a brow. "Are you planning on conjuring a demon? I thought you’d learned your lesson."
"The Wand can command a Greater Demon from the Shadow Dimensions. So what do you need it for?"
"I don’t," Remington replied. Their shadows loomed long against the walls, and there was a somewhat feral line to them, though both men played at repose. Remington gestured to their little party. "My friends do, however, and I’m inclined to help them."
Malachi cocked his head. "Does it have anything to do with the tremors moving through London at this moment?"
"The demon, you mean?" Remington remained nonchalant. "Let us not mince words."
"Did you bring a demon here?"
"I did not," Remington replied quietly. "One of us, at least, has learned their lesson."
This was going nowhere. Cleo stepped forward. "It doesn't matter who summoned the demon. The fact is, it's here now, and it's taken over the body of a powerful sorcerer. The demon intends to destroy London, and I have it on very good authority that we have less than two weeks before this destruction begins. Surely you can't want to see London suffer. There shall be no more parties, no more dancing... and whatever else it is that you do here. Even on the outskirts of London, you'll be affected."
Thick lashes obscured his eyes. Malachi considered his brandy. "And what if one is kin to demons?" He looked up emotionlessly, and his sudden smile held a certain sort of bitterness. "Perhaps I'll enjoy this new era."
"Please," Cleo whispered, going to her knees before him.
"Are you trying to appeal to my conscience, my dear? A wasted attempt, for I don't have one. Your good friend, Remington here, will tell you that."
She deliberately thought of the girl in the glass coffin, and the tender way Malachi kept the candles around her lit, so she wouldn't be in the dark. "I think you do. Though you might tread a dark path, not everything is lost."
Curiosity stirred in his gaze. "You never told me your name."
"Cleo Montcalm. Formerly Sinclair."
"Sinclair...."
"Lord Tremayne was my father."
Those emotionless eyes drew their own conclusions. "You're asking me to give up a very powerful object that was gifted to me, out of the goodness of my heart, which is decidedly not pure." He shook his head. "I don't know what to make of you. Good lord, you almost inspire a man to be better. But then one remembers what one is, and the idea of corrupting you is almost more tempting. Who would win? The innocent heart at my feet, or the devil before you?" He captured her chin with striking speed, bringing their faces closer together. His lashes fluttered over those pale cheeks, his expression languid. "I can see the temptation of the dark within you. You are not pure, not completely. There's a heart of darkness within you that hungers to be released...."
"Cleo," Bishop murmured, and she sensed him moving closer.
She reached up and cupped Malachi's face with her palm, seeing the young woman in her tomb again, the little room with all its candles... and something else.
"What happens when she wakes up?" Cleo whispered, low enough so the others couldn't hear. "What will she see when she looks at you? This man who plays his wicked games to amuse himself, or someone who has a good heart? What do you want her to see?"
Malachi cupped her palm against his cheek, but out of a sense of preservation, she thought, and not anything else. "She will see what she always saw: a wicked, wicked man."
"You could change that."
The sudden devastation in his expression struck her. Then it was gone and Malachi pushed to his feet, heading for the brandy again. He shot her a stark, angry look, but as she stood up, she knew she'd troubled him.
"I am not a generous man. I don't simply give anything away." He poured another brandy, eyeing them all dangerously. "I’ll give up the Wand, but there is a price to be paid: one night in my and Odette's bed, with one member of your party. And that is not up for negotiation." He waved a languid finger. "Your choice, of course."
And his gaze settled eerily upon her.
* * *
Sebastian froze as the words echoed around the room.
"Any member?" Remington countered, sounding unsurprised.
"You know my predilections," Malachi replied smoothly, and it was all Sebastian could do not to plant his fist in the bastard’s face.
As if hearing him, Malachi pushed away from the golden throne, sauntering down the dais toward him. "Perhaps this one?" His gaze shifted with predatory intensity toward Cleo. "Or perhaps—"
"If you complete that sentence," Sebastian said, moving with quiet, eerie grace toward him, "you’ll regret it."
Silence fell.
"Don't," Cleo warned him, but he didn't dare look at her. The instant where she'd touched Malachi's face disturbed him, for he hadn't heard what she'd whispered to the man, but it had struck a chord.
Malachi circled him tightly, those predatory eyes seeming to see right through him. "Ah," he said softly, almost mockingly. "The lady has given you her heart—"
A flinch went through Cleo, and Sebastian stiffened.
"—but you have not given her yours," Malachi whispered. "What a tempting, tempting proposition." He turned abruptly, moving with a sinuous grace as he captured Cleo's hand. "Could I make her forget you?"
"How low the mighty have stooped," Remington pronounced.
"To the very depths," Malachi sneered, but he never took his gaze off Sebastian.
Sebastian hovered on the balls of his feet. Remington had warned them all not to threaten Gray. Power whispered through him. Emotion thrived, hot and rich and biting, until he wanted to lash out.
"He's trying to bait you," Cleo whispered, with some exacerbation. "I almost had him. Don't ruin this."
"If he bloody touches you again...."
"You will do nothing," she growled. "Trust me."
"I can almost taste your hunger." Malachi lifted Cleo's hand to his lips, and it took every ounce of will power for Sebastian not to smash him into the nearest wall. "A virgin. How utterly delightful."
Sebastian shifted on his feet, and those green eyes slid to him a
s if daring him to object.
Remington stiffened, as if prepared to leap forward, and even Bishop was shaking his head in a desperate, don’t do it.
“Untouched,” Malachi taunted. “A perfect rose about to bloom, but you’ve neglected her. And a neglected blossom is so, so easy to steal…."
Malachi pressed his mouth to the inside of Cleo's wrist in a mocking caress, and she gasped, before she suddenly locked him out.
What the hell? There was a wall between her emotions and his. Sebastian pressed against it, but her eyes glazed, her pretty lips parted, and she almost collapsed to her knees. Trust me, she'd said, but it was taking everything in him not to react. "What did you do to her?"
Tension simmered within him. Cleo was breathing hard, her body tight with tension, but he'd felt what went through her when Malachi touched her. Pleasure. Need. Desperate longing.... And then she'd slammed shut the gates on her end of the bond, locking Sebastian out for the first time, and by all the demons in the Shadow Dimensions, he wanted to know what was going on in her head right now.
Was she attracted to the bastard?
Mother of night, did he even have the right to demand to know if she was?
Cleo drew her hand back against her chest as if burned, a flush of heat spilling through her cheeks. There was something in her eyes—sadness perhaps—as she caught and held Malachi's dangerous gaze. "I think perhaps you would know what it feels like to give your heart to someone, only to watch her turn to another."
Malachi looked down sharply. "I have no heart."
"That's what you'd like us all to think," Cleo whispered, "especially Remington. But I saw what will become of her."
She might as well have struck Malachi.
"One member of your party will share my bed," Malachi snarled, meeting Cleo's gaze with glittering eyes, "or I'll keep the fucking Wand and burn it."
"You will hand over the Wand directly, and allow the rest of us to leave without hindrance immediately, if we meet these conditions?" Remington asked.
Both Sebastian and Bishop gaped at him.
"Are you insane?" Sebastian snapped.
Bishop’s face paled, but his eyes grew a little sleepy.
