“Yes,” affirmed Sylvain.
“So, what happened to you and your sister?” Marie, ever-inquisitive and tactless, inquired.
Sylvain’s perfectly full lips turned downwards, “That’s another story and a personal one. However, the fae’s two fractions were divided, because they just couldn’t co-exist. The Seelie are fastidious about the code we live by - one of honor, love, beauty, and responsibility. The Unseelie have no code, little honor. It seemed better to part ways. So, my sister rules the Unseelie in another realm and I rule the fae in our original realm and on earth.”
Sophie could detect Sylvain’s discomfort. It was a change from his usual charming and humorous demeanor. The others were readying to probe into the nature of his relationship with his sister, but sensing that that was all Sylvain was going to share with them on the topic, Sophie changed the subject. “The trickster…” she probed, “What is it? Are there more?”
Sylvain shot her a look of gratified relief. “Tricksters operate alone,” Sylvain stated. “So, if you’ve killed it, then that should take care of the problem. How did you kill it, Sophie?”
“The fail-safe way,” replied Sophie.
“Good,” nodded Sylvain, “de-capitation is the one thing that kills us all.” He gave her a quick once-over. She looked tired, not just physically, as she was bound to be after battling a trickster, but emotionally worn out, too.
“You used your empath skills to figure it out?” he asked. Sophie’s head bobbed in agreement, as she sipped from her mug.
Sylvain got up and obtained bags of blood from their dedicated ‘blood fridge’. Marie got up to help, but he waved her back. “I’ll get this. Before we chat, you’ll drink. No offense ladies, you are your usual beautiful selves, but the energy in this room is on low. Sophie, you in particular feel drained tonight. Mentally and emotionally beating a trickster can do that to the best of us.”
He placed a tray of mugs filled with blood he’d warmed in the microwave on the table and ordered them to drink up, acknowledging the nod of thanks from Conall with one of his own. The witch prince had felt the low energy levels too. “Now, drink while I arrange for the place to be cleaned up,” Sylvain encouraged. He took a mobile out of his pants pocket and began texting out a message.
Anais waved a hand, dismissively, “No need. We’ve already taken care of it.”
Sylvain nodded his thanks, “I’ll send a crew over then to scan for the type of magick used by the trickster. That’ll give us a clue as to who else might be involved and hopefully give me a start on investigating how the Unseelie was roped into serving another magickal being. The Unseelie are arrogant…” At the lifted brows, he grinned. “Yes, they’re more arrogant than the Seelie.” They all grinned with him as they drank. They all might be powerful, supernatural beings, but the trust and friendship they'd forged allowed for the removal of pretense and hot-headedness. “As I was saying, the Unseelie are not the type to beholden themselves to others. That someone was able to get a trickster to do so is a puzzle.” He sent the text to his fae army to scope out the scene, and then waited for them to finish their drinks. Sylvain watched the Coffin Girls’ eyes turn scarlet with satisfaction while they drank their blood cups. And damn! Sophie was looking at him like a big, fat steak. He wasn’t even sure that she knew she was doing it. Of the girls, she was always the least receptive to his flirting. But for a look like that he would gladly let her take a bite anyway on his anatomy. Unspoken lust lingered between them as their gazes locked. Sylvain felt pulled towards her, towards those eyes, and wished that he could see them turn scarlet for him as he held her beneath him and moved her to climax. He felt himself harden and swallowed. Reaching for the bourbon that flanked the carafe, he poured himself a finger, then two, and gulped the whiskey down.
“Fed,” Marie plunked her empty glass on the table, “now spill. Tricksters…” she probed, waving her hands for him to continue.
Thankful for the distraction from his less than honorable thoughts of Sophie, he delved into it. “Tricksters hold the power to mentally and emotionally manipulate others into believing the illusions they create. They pull snippets of memory from you and craft illusions from that. They thrive on creating chaos. It is what they draw power from. Unfortunately, they have a tendency to go too far in their games. They are fae, but they are Unseelie fae, which means that they have a tendency towards malevolence.”
“So, this thing is evil and belongs to your sister?” V sought clarification and then continued her question with, “This ying-yang business is not very clear, is it?”
“No, it’s not” Sylvain shook his head. “And no, they’re not, again inherently, evil—just mean. It is the core of their nature to be malicious, to draw all creatures, especially humans, to their deaths. The trickster sensed your powers so it used them first to confuse you. She then presented you with what you loved or treasured.” Sylvain’s face took on an impish expression, “As I was one of the illusions, I’m glad to see I count amongst your loved ones.”
Rose cuffed the back of his head, which he rubbed while maintaining the pleased smirk. “Okay, back to the explanation. Tricksters win when you fall for their tricks. It sounds like each of you has enough faith in us,” he waved a hand at himself and Conall, “that you could identify the illusions as false. Had you not, I fear, you wouldn’t be here. Tricksters see it as their warped moral obligation to test your faith, be it religion or relationships.”
Sophie interjected, “So, if the parents of the frightened kids had sent them back to their beds, the illusionary boogie man would’ve scared them to death?”
“Not necessarily,” replied Sylvain. “Maybe just alter their beliefs enough that they felt that they can’t be safe in their homes, and therefore, also influencing their future psychological well-being. Like the party-goers, they’ve been taught a lesson by having to spend some time in jail. The man who saw blood dripping throughout his home must have had a crisis in his faith and believed in the evil he was seeing over the good of his religion so now he’s in a mental asylum. The woman who had little faith in her husband’s fidelity and believed that he was a changeling has suffered the consequences too.”
“And our test was not about how we felt about you,” Sophie said contemplatively, looking at Sylvain and Conall, “but about our alliance with you—our belief that we are each in this together.”
“Yes,” Sylvain nodded in agreement.
“Why does this sound a lot like the Goddess?” asked Marie.
“Because the Goddess is using us to restore balance. That is our mission,” reminded Conall. “The trickster would not be in cahoots with the Goddess though. But, it is another reminder of our need to restore balance.”
“Conall is more right than he is aware of,” Sylvain stated, catching Conall’s cocky smile. He shook his head, “Or rather,” he amended, “Conall is right this time.”
“Boys,” Anais warned. They accordingly shut up and resorted to manly, competitive glares instead.
“I’ll show you what ‘not a boy’ is later,” Conall whispered the promise in Anais’ ear, momentarily forgetting the hypersensitive hearing of the supes surrounding them. Anais rolled her eyes and swatted his arm to the chuckles of the rest of them.
“The opposite of a trickster is a Seelie seraph,” Sylvain continued. “Think of them as the angel on one shoulder and the trickster as the devil on the other. With the politics I referred to, the Unseelie have not been active and my Seelie have become a bit indolent,” he shrugged nonchalantly although his expression was anything but. “If the Seelie counterpart had been active, the incidences might not have taken place. But, because the trickster had full reign, it did. I’ll speak to my people and I’ll make my sister aware of the situation—have her pull in the reigns.”
Sophie sensed resignation coming from Sylvain and would bet that it took a lot of humble pie for him to seek out his sister. They obviously had not spoken in a while, and in fae terms, that could mean centuries or eve
n millennia.
“That’ll sort it out?” Conall asked.
“It will,” affirmed Sylvain, no longer impish and every inch the monarch.
Chapter 3
Sophie was in a dark room. A grovel filled with the stench of urine, and the reek smell of unwashed bodies. Bodies. They were all around her. The blank-eyed corpses of young girls and women. They wore the mark that damned them all - the mark of a witch. The screams preceding death travelled from outside, reverberating off the walls of the dark, dank hole that was filled with the deceased and condemned. The silence following their demise was interrupted by the hypocrisy of prayers. The persecutors of the witches implored their God for the salvation of a damned soul. Sophie shuddered. To her, the owner of that soul had done nothing to warrant that cruel judgment, but use her God-given gift to help others.
Rage and agony evoked a sheen of sweat, a tell-tale sign of life. It was an indication of life that she couldn’t afford. The dead did not perspire. Their hearts did not thump. So, she willed herself to still, only pulling in oxygen through her teeth. Surrounded by the sight and stench of decomposing humans, the air tested her resolve to keep from retching.
She’d escaped the horrific persecution her maman had just endured by pretending to be dead - a fake death aided by the spell her maman had performed on her. She’d argued with her maman, declaring that death with her maman would be more honorable than life without her. And, that an existence without her would be too bleak to endure. It was her maman’s hopes and tears for her that had eventually convinced her. Her maman had sat her down and told her of the dreams she'd had for Sophie. They were dreams filled with a husband, children, and love.
But, the time they’d spent arguing had left them with little time to perform the magick, and they’d finished casting the spell only moments before the guards arrived. As Sophie felt herself become immobile, her heart rate decrease and her flesh grow the cold of the dead, she watched through unmoving eyes as her maman was forced to her death with as much dignity as possible, clutched between a small army of guards. Sophie knew that her maman’s courage had been for her benefit. She caught the slight movement of her maman’s lips, “I love you ma petite chérie, be strong,” just before she'd turned, with grave acceptance, towards those who would lead her to her execution.
It was the inevitable physical pain her maman experienced as rock crushed her against rock, melding bone and flesh into a grotesque mess that had nudged Sophie out of the spell she'd been under. She knew from the emotional connection they'd shared, the one of blood-bonded empaths that her maman had died instantly, and she'd thanked whomever there was to thank for that small mercy.
She dug deep, tried to find the strength her mother had asked of her, but could not stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks. She looked at the bodies surrounding her again and wondered if they’d dispose of her maman’s body in another way or if she’d soon be joined by her maman’s mangled form. She knew that they took the dead once a week to a body dump just outside of the village. There, the dead were unceremoniously dumped into a mass grave without consecration or heartfelt farewells. She’d promised her mother she’d use that as an opportunity to escape and to do that she needed to stay here with the dead as companions for the next few days—no sound, no food, no water, and no comfort for the loss of her maman—just her promise to have the will to survive.
The sounds of the guards nearing, as they joked with each other, ridiculing her mother and the other sentenced witches pierced her thoughts and angered her heart. They were coming to fetch her. Mania and madness mingled within her. She acknowledged that the guards scared her to death. The cold, merciless irony of that thought led to hysterical laughter as Sophie sobbed and laughed through her grief. The guards be damned.
“Mon Dieu!” Sophie sat straight up in bed, drenched in sweat by the vivid horror of the nightmare. Sophie looked around her, the fugue of the nightmare slowly dissipating. Rubbing her eyes like a sleepy child, she got out of bed and made her way to the window. Dawn was just breaking over the canopy provided by the ancient oaks, casting slivers of light onto the alley that made its way up to the plantation house. From her vantage point, she observed the majesty, the stillness of the vista offered by the view through her window. The green lawn flowed from the mansion and joined the alley of ancient oaks that led towards the brown waters of the wide, tumultuous Mississippi. This ancient grace that evoked such an undeniable sense of tranquility was deceptive. The oaks, river, grounds, and house had seen centuries of passionate loves and gruesome wars. To an empath such as she, that meant that traces of violent emotions often hit her unexpectedly in places she sought solace. More recently, the tranquility of Papillion Plantation belied the traumatic changes that had affected the inhabitants of the house. Even so, this contrariness, this ability to withstand was what made it their home.
She looked around her room, its familiar comfort macerating, encouraging it to chip away at the remnants of her nightmare. The room was a warm, rose-tinged haven with flecks of spring green, brass, and gold. A room fit for a princess. When she’d decorated the room, she’d gone through the steps of choosing fabrics, colors, and accessories in the way her mother had taught her. When the decorating was done, she was faced with the surprising realization that she had recreated her childhood room from her family’s châteaux in France. The trick her subconscious had played on her had not freaked her out. Instead, it gave her a sense of comfort and the hope that her mother’s hand had guided her to this point in her life, and that somehow her mother was still watching over her.
Moving towards the hidden fridge, she removed a bag of blood and went through her morning feeding ritual of warming it up in the microwave in the en-suite kitchenette. The blood always made her feel better. As it nourished the vampire magick, it gave her a sense of power, enough power to momentarily bury the past and live each day as well as she could. Feeling replenished, Sophie sent out energy feelers and found her sisters, the Coffin Girls, stirring. Their leader, Anais, was enjoying a morning wake-up call with the witch prince, Conall. Not wanting to intrude further, Sophie withdrew, shaking her head in wonder at their insatiable appetite for each other. Sophie couldn’t so much as hear Marie’s grumblings, but feel them and so could she sense V’s determination to ensure a successful day ahead and Rose’s slight anxiety about her new, more complex role in their wedding planning business. Whilst her empath abilities helped her establish the household’s emotional status quo, her vampire hearing picked up Miss Suzette’s calm, steady heartbeat as she bustled around the kitchen. Miss Suzette poured love into the food she prepared for them. Deciding that some of that love was the right medicine to kick-start the day, she turned from the window and got into the shower, to wash away the night’s torment.
xxx
“There you are boo,” Miss Suzette hollered as Sophie entered the enormous plantation kitchen. She tugged at the contentment that filled the room and allowed it to seep into her. Miss Suzette moved around the room at a speed uncharacteristic of her age or ample girth, depositing steaming hot dishes of delectableness on the huge farm-style oak table that dominated half the room. The other half was a homely, yet stylish mix of old and new as antiques mingled comfortably with modern appliances to create an ambience befitting of the hearth of the home and the woman who commanded it.
“Morning, Miss Suzette. Can I help with anything?” Sophie responded.
“No, cher, you just sit yourself down. You look like you’re going to flop over any second. Are you okay? I know you’re a witch-vampire and that y’all can’t really get sick, but you sure look it.” Miss Suzette sent off the flood of words as she set a huge loaf of fresh, steaming, hot bread on the table, and then came over to Sophie to touch her palm to her forehead.
“Nope,” Miss Suzette shook her head, baffled, “still as cold as a vampire.”
“I’m fine, Miss Suzette,” Sophie replied, focusing on first lathering the bread with butter, and then fruit compote. She could
n’t meet Miss Suzette’s eyes, because she would see the lie. The trick didn’t work, as was evident by the disbelieving harrumph Miss Suzette let out. Thankfully, though, she didn’t probe further and left her alone with her breakfast as she continued to bustle around the kitchen.
Miss Suzette was obviously miffed at her as she worked in uncharacteristic silence. Sophie finally broke the ice by asking, “Where are the others?”
Miss Suzette arched a brow and gave a look--more like a mama than the voodoo priestess, she was. “Now you want to talk? You’ll ask me a pointless question instead of telling me what’s really on your mind.”
Sophie opened her mouth, but the apology was dismissively brushed away when Miss Suzette gruffly continued, “V’s gone to Raulf to discuss their trip to Europe to look for more witches to rescue and Marie left early for the house in the Quarter, in order to prepare for the wedding dinner tonight. You just missed them both. Rose is about somewhere and Anais and Conall will be down after they finish up what they’re doing.”
At Sophie’s blush, Miss Suzette guffawed, making her generous girth vibrate. “Sophie, if an old vampire like you can blush at what they be doing up there, then we need to get you a man and right soon.”
Supernatural Seduction (Book 2 of the Coffin Girls Series) Page 3
