"...marry you," she ended in a wail.
Jock expected her epiphany to be different, for her to be awed that she would be a savior of this plane of existence. Instead, she was crying her eyes out because she was destined to marry him. He knew that she didn't think of him as a maiden's desire, but did she have to weep as if she were to mate with a valveck troll?
"It must be impossible," she said through hiccupping sobs, "for a Darkling prince to strip a princess of the Whitelings of her powers within the millennium's Twelve Turns of the Dark Moon."
"What?"
"Otherwise, she wouldn't be a witch and the handfast couldn't take place. Don't you see? If a warlock prince could ... it defeats the whole purpose..."
"...The whole purpose of Wiccan Lore."
"Right. Prince-Expert-On-Wiccan-Lore."
"Huh. I didn't think ... uh, see ... it that way."
"Ob-vi-ous-ly," she said with a curl of her lip. "What's more, the sex, the intensity of the lovemaking, must encourage the handfast, if there's an attempt to strip powers during the Twelve Turns."
"It all fits together. You've got to admire..."
"Admire! Easy for you to say. You lose nothing."
Her fresh bout of angry tears cut Jock up inside. He didn't want his truemate to be unhappy or come to him with a broken spirit. In quintessential male fashion, he fell back on platitudes.
"Lania, don't cry. It won't be so bad."
"Don't tell me not to cry."
"It'll work out. The handfast will be a formality ... a marriage of convenience ... in name only. You can go your own way... I won't interfere."
"What?" she asked.
"You can live wherever you want."
"What!"
"The baby too," the Darkling prince continued as if she had not spoken. He saw his dreams of a true marriage dissolving before his eyes. He busied himself by folding the bed sheets, restoring the troth offering to its box. "After we're married, do anything you want."
"Is this another hobgoblin game?" the princess asked.
"However, I insist on seeing my son."
At that, Lania knew that Jock was serious. The prince loved his unborn child. Of that, she had no doubt. She studied his closed, set face as he struggled with the buckle of his belt. His hands trembled. She couldn't believe it, but his hands trembled.
She rose from the bed to stand straight and still, prepared to bask in her victory. She had won! What had she won? "Why are you doing this?" she asked.
"My choices are limited right now."
"And spellcasting. Can I spellcast in your realm?"
"Since you won't be living here, it's not really an issue, is it?"
"So that's it."
"Yeah. That's it. Let's get it over with."
He adjusted the altar sacraments-the handfast bell clanging ominously-in preparation for the ceremony.
She jerked on his Goth shirt. The garment floated around her knees. She marched over to him. One of her hands snatched the dented candlestick. The other hand reared back.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
He fingered his cheek where her palm had landed with stinging accuracy.
"What was that for?"
"You kidnap me, hold me captive, get me pregnant, and then discard me. Tell me to leave like a quick toss from a one-night-stand. Do you know who I am? I am Lania, the reigning Princess of the High Coven of the Whitelings. You get me pregnant against my will, you marry me, and you like it."
"I didn't say... I'll never understand you."
"Fine," she snapped.
"Fine," he snapped back.
"So we'll get married."
"Right."
"And you'll like it."
"And I'll like it." The warlock prince was shouting.
"You're damn skippy you will." The witch princess was shouting too.
"...Because I love you."
They were standing toe-to-toe, nose-to-nose, glaring at each other through eyes that were spitting flames.
"What did you say?" she asked, unable to believe her ears.
"I said that I love you, you termagant."
"Oh! Well, I love you more, you half-wit."
"Fine."
"Fine."
"Here's my troth offering," the Darkling prince said.
"Thank you," the Whiteling princess replied.
"You're welcome," the prince said, determined to get the last word.
They stood silent. The storm diminished, fading to a mild roar.
"Now make love to me," Lania said, "before I cream all over your shirt."
"Like hell you will, Lady. That cream belongs all over my prick."
They grabbed for each other at the same time, two pairs of hands wildly questing for naked flesh. They bore each other back to the bed, landing there with a loud plop. They twisted and turned until she was under him.
He climbed her, nudging her open, making a place for himself. Although it was foreplay, the imitation of his favorite sexual position set a burning under his skin, and he was awed, again, at how quick and how fast she could blow off the top of his head.
"This time, we do it right, take it slow," he said.
"Yeah. Slow," she said.
She was willing to agree to anything as long as he didn't stop. She bit her lip, burrowing her face into his shoulder when he whispered the low, sexy words of love.
"I'm going come in you deep," he said darkly. "Bury myself. Pump into you so hard that you'll scream and keeping screaming, but I won't stop until I drench you."
His promises excited her as much as they excited him. She felt him between their bodies, growing larger, the fat head of his cock swelling over the top of his jeans.
His mouth traveled from her ear to the sloping hollow between her breasts. He pressed kisses there and then took her mounds into his mouth, suckling each in turn. He continued to his journey until his tongue was lapping at the soft, curling hair at the base of her hips.
She opened her eyes to the vision of his dark, close-cropped head buried between her legs. His tongue was busy there, bringing forth her essence. He let it seep around his lips to gather at the corners of his mouth. He stuck out his tongue, rimming his upper lip, and dug again into her. When he rooted her deep, she shot up in the air and clasped him tight, her fingers raking across his back.
"Don't stop," she howled, not knowing if it was a command to him or to the orgasm rippling over her.
She stormed through her climax with thuds to his back, and he answered her persistent call. He positioned at her opening and stabbed upward. Her walls constricted and sucked him in. She adjusted herself, angling for deep, long thrusts. Her movements unmanned him and his hot sperm flowed free to coat her womb. With his body tensing for the final strokes, he ground out his completion in one long, slow grind.
The aftermath was soft, melting kisses.
"I love you," she vowed.
"I love you," he vowed too.
"Let's handfast now, get saving the world part over with," Jock said with a grin. "I want you all to myself. You, the baby, and me."
He kissed her brow. Over the top of her hair, now slick and ash-white with sweat, he saw the castle wall in front of him flicker and change until it was no longer solid. It became every color of the spectrum, swirling immaterial, only to take the shape of a portal, but no ordinary portal. This portal churned with a vortex tunnel, a tunnel leading to another plane of existence-a tunnel leading to the Netherworld, to the realm of Malki the Doom Herald.
"The hell and the devil, now what?" Jock said.
"Is this possible? It can't be happening."
"Get out of the way!"
At the snap of his fingers, the warlock prince was in full battle mode, the blade of his broadsword gleaming in the candlelight. He gave his war cry, the base, glottal watchword of the mighty Darkling race, and charged into the vortex to battle the doom herald who had been summoned to bring forth the end of this plane of existence.
The warlock prince went on th
e attack, but he was forced to retreat when Malki slashed and pushed him back with a swat of its great wing. Jock recouped and issued several sharp jabs to the herald's gargoyle face. The doom herald bellowed and took flight. As the herald soared past, through the tunnel, the prince leaped onto its horny rump. It whipped him off, slamming him hard with a switch of its spiked tail.
Fighting for breath, the prince dashed to the entrance, arriving bare seconds in time. At the portal entrance, he managed to beat Malki back until the herald seized him in its enormous claws, lifting him off the tunnel surface. The claws pierced deep and the prince's blood flowed. Helpless in the overpowering grip, too close to swing his broadsword, the prince struggled to free himself. He gasped and cringed in pain when Malki sunk its fangs into his shoulder.
On this side of the portal, Lania stood transfixed as the events unfolded before her eyes, her horrified gaze only broken at Sklar's gleeful laughter.
"You changeling bitch!" Lania said. "You made this happen."
"You're so right. You and the warlock were so concerned about the handfast, I guess you forgot that Malki is a herald. He can be summoned ... if you know how."
"Are you crazy?" Lania asked. Her eyes were white slits of light.
"I don't think so."
"Do you know what will happen if Jock can't stop it, if that creature reaches us."
"I've got a pretty good idea," Sklar said with extra-heavy sarcasm.
"You want the world to end?"
"Who cares about this miserable place? There are a million planes of existence."
At that, the changeling pushed past Lania, racing headlong into the vortex.
In the whirling tunnel, Jock fought to break Malki's grip. He struck out, issuing chops to the herald's neck and throat. The doom herald flinched under the blows, briefly slackening its grip. Jock wiggled clear. Gaining momentum, the prince bounced off the tunnel surface to end his flip with a wide swing of his broadsword. Although his execution was flawless, the blade barely penetrated the herald's reptilian underbelly.
In the battle of these two supernaturals, the Darkling prince was surviving. Nothing more. A seasoned warrior, the paladin of this plane of existence, he knew when his number was up. He knew that he would eventually tire. He knew that he would eventually misstep when the blood and sweat clouded his vision. He would slay the herald and save the world-yes-but the battle would end in his death. With a pang of regret, he thought of all that he would miss: his son's birth, his son's first steps, his son's first words ... Lania's love.
At the entrance of the tunnel, Sklar lurked. In her hands, she held a vial, open and ready. She bided her time until she smelled blood, the rich oxygenized blood of a warlock prince about to lose his life. That was her chance and she seized it. She joined the fray. At the same time, Malki ripped the broadsword from Jock's hands and drove him to his knees.
Lania screamed as she imagined Jock's agony.
Bloodied and helpless, Jock withered before her eyes.
Sklar had tossed the contents of the vial, dousing Jock with holy water.
"Ancient ones, I beseech you..." The princess began the magick words.
Always black, never white.
Always twin, alike, alike.
She fought through the pain, the blinding, crippling pain.
Mirror image, mirror twin.
Neither family, neither kin.
The warlock prince nodded, uniting his hoarse voice with her straining one. It was their final test, the hardest one, not of love, not even of faith, but of trust, for he was granting her the right to spellcast in his realm.
Together they recited the last refrain.
Blend together, lacking sun
Shadow to substance, one to one.
"Noooooo!" Sklar howled seeing all of her mischief turn to dust.
The spellcast was successful. Jock was a specter, a shadow form. It was the edge that he needed to renew the battle against Malki. Sklar knew it, sensed it, that the battle tide had turned. Intent on escape, the changeling fled the tunnel.
Lania snapped her fingers, affecting Jock's favorite warlock-warrior technique. In her outstretched hand, a dagger, shiny and bright, materialized.
"I could get into this Darkling stuff," she said, smiling as she met the changeling at the tunnel entrance. "But first, I have to deal with you."
"Don't..." Sklar said. "I didn't mean any harm."
"Funny," Lania replied. "Changelings never do."
Lania flipped the dagger until the blade pointed outwards. She stalked forward, her purpose unmistakable in every step. The blade was inches from Sklar's neck when the changeling yelped and transmuted to her original form. Lania chuckled at the sight of the wolf dog loping from the bedchamber, tail tucked firmly between her legs.
Turning quickly, Lania set up the altar sacraments: the ornate bell, the sacred book, and the slightly dented candlestick.
"Jock! Now!" she yelled.
The warlock prince broke off battle and bolted down the tunnel. Once he had leaped through the vortex, he grabbed Lania's hand. Together, with hands clasped, they raced to the altar stone.
"I take thee," the Darkling prince said.
"I take thee," the Whiteling princess said.
They spoke at once, the three, simple words of the handfast, the words that were destined to avert the apocalypse. They heard one last bellow from Malki before the vortex closed upon him, trapping him eternally-until the Twelve Turns of the Dark Moon at the beginning of the next millennium.
Chapter 12
Nine months later, the Steele-Mills castle was a realm of magick and mystery, of sorcery and witchcraft. And, love! Nothing symbolized that love more than "bath time" when the haughty prince and princess left the pressures of protocol and ceremony behind to engage in the mundane task of bathing their son.
Recently, Prince Montgomery Darkling had discovered his toes. At the sight of them, he gurgled and grinned and kicked, especially when soapy water splashed everywhere, soaking him, the floor, and his doting parents.
"Let's have another, right away," Jock said, in his boldest bedchamber drawl.
"You must be kidding," Lania scowled, rolling her eyes.
"Nope."
"No way. I need time."
"Time? For what?"
"To recoup. A new baby is exhausting."
"Recoup? It's not as if you did anything. I did all the work."
At the fire in her eyes, the warlock prince smiled. He would love teasing his princess to the end of his days.
"I still remember how to dreamcast," he said. "Let's see..."
He never finished, for, with a snap of her fingers, Lania had their son dried, dressed, and snug in his cradle, and Jock in bed and on his back. Before Jock could protest her copycat of his technique, her hands were already at the fly of his jeans and her tongue was already flaming the fires that were never quite extinguished.
She mounted him, easing herself down, all the way down, until she swallowed him. She began the rock, the tiny strokes that she knew would blow his mind.
"Lady," he groaned, when he could groan at all, "you've got me spellbound."
Book Two:
Love on the Top Rope
Chapter 1
"But I don't know anything about newspaper reporting," Anne Seymour said as she brushed away centuries of dust from the statuette of Ramesses II.
"It's not really reporting. Just go to the press conference for Valkon of Aesir. Please, Anne. You got to help me. I'm in a real jam."
How many times had Anne heard her sister say that? How many times had she bailed her out? She had lost count. Once again, Angel needed her help.
"I'm in the middle of a difficult Coptic translation, and the Egyptian Museum sent over additional mummies for radiocarbon. I don't have time to play reporter."
"You have to. I didn't want to tell you, but I'm on probation. If I don't cover this story, I'm toast."
Anne put aside the statuette, pausing to look around her labor
atory. It was quiet and peaceful there, surrounded by the artifacts of the past. In the quietness of her lab, with its protection from the commonness of urban life, she could lose herself in solitude. Now, her irresponsible twin sister demanded that she enter the turmoil of modern life in Philadelphia.
"What is it, exactly, that I have to do?" Anne asked.
"It's simple. I promise. Show up at the sports dome for the press conference. There will be loads of reporters there. You don't even need to ask questions. Hold up a recorder and blend in..."
"Hmm," Anne said, carefully nonjudgmental. From experience, she knew that Angel would promise anything and rarely follow through.
"...just in case my boss, the king of the jerks, checks up on me."
"When is this press conference?" Anne calculated the time that she would be away from the joy of her life.
"At seven, tonight," her sister mumbled, pausing. "Now, Annie, don't scold! Don't say no. Are you there? You haven't gotten lost in one of your dusty catacombs, have you?"
"I'm here," Anne said, looking, with loving eyes, at the life-size replica of the mausoleum for Ramesses II. It was reproduced in stunning detail. She had received her doctorate for her work as well as for her theory that the pharaoh's sons and high priests were entombed nearby.
"Angel, I'd do anything for you, but I can't tonight..."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know about your big presentation, but covering for me won't interfere with that."
"But..."
"You'll have time for the press conference. Your presentation is at eight, right? No problemo. Get to the sports dome at seven, out by eight. It'll work."
Perhaps, it would work for Angel who always did everything at breakneck speed. Anne, however, was different: cautious, careful, considering.
The older of the Seymour twins, Anne had never refused her sister. Tonight would not be the first time, regardless of the inconvenience. Better to give in, for once Angel dug in...
"Stop by my apartment around seven," her sister said, knowing that she had won. "You'll need to change your clothes. I can't have my twin posing as me in those dowdy suits you wear."
"But..."
Romantic Days, Romantic Nights Page 7
