Hitting the side of his leg in frustration, Ean answered, “I want to go with you. It should be my life at risk.”
Adal nodded, understanding. “Tegwen will go on without a commander and guards. It will not fair so well without a king. You know as well as I that Prince Ladon is not fit to take the throne in your absence. He cannot even bring himself to come back to this realm. Who knows what condition Wolfe is in, should he be freed.”
“He will be freed,” Ean said, confidently, though he did not feel so certain.
“Aye, when he is freed,” Adal amended. By the look in the commander’s eyes, he did not feel the confidence of his words either.
Two other elves were with them. Levin would stay with Ean in the forest as guard for he had the best hearing and was light of foot when it came to running. Brodor the Bravehearted, an old, wise warrior who had been in more battles than any elf Ean knew, would venture into the Fire Palace with Adal. They all knew the risks of such an undertaking. Death was almost certain, detection and imprisonment even more so. But now that he found a way in, how could Ean not take it?
“The wizard assured me this would work.” Ean reached into his tunic, pulling out a bound leather satchel. Though small, it was filled with great magic.
“Are you sure he can be trusted? Only a dark wizard could find his way in.” Adal hesitated before taking the magic.
“Because only a dark wizard could get in, is why we must deal with a dark wizard. Lucky for us, Geraint Aldred’s interests lie with our own.” Ean glanced at Brodor, who listened without appearing to. His long beard distinguished him from the other elfin guard. He did not take to fashion, having lived for so long the man did not give credence to such things. “He and his order of wizards are upset with the Unblessed King for rearranging the realm at will and interfering with their balance. Dark or light, all wizards want balance. Their magic depends upon it. They see our freeing Wolfe as a chance to strike back at Merrick who has been searching as ardently as I for a way to free our brother.”
“If death comes this hour, it is as good a time as any other,” Brodor said gruffly, slipping his sword into a lambskin sheath. The dark brown of his clothing blended with the surrounding forest, making him nigh impossible to see from a distance. “I am ready.”
Levin looked as if he wanted to say something equally as brave, but swallowed his words in the presence of the greater warrior. He merely nodded, turning his attention to the quiver of arrows he carried.
Lucien’s eyes lit with a combination of pleasure and arousal. His own shaft was hard from watching the erotically brutal show taking place in his hall. He’d summonsed two altars to appear on his main hall floor, a hard bed in view of all who watched. But the Demon King wasn’t the only one whose desires were awakened.
Six mortal high priests chanted their dark and droning tones, adding atmospheric music as they set the thrusting pace of the daimons with the rise and fall of their voices. Beneath the red and black robes, their members were thick with sexual excitement. A few of the men had brought handmaids with them, pretty human slaves they forced beneath their robes to suck their shafts between warm lips. Only the women’s toes poked out. The great folds of material hid the rest of their naked bodies. Others stroked themselves, jealously watching the two daimons with their faery brides, eager for a chance to be called forth for a chance to claim the delicate beings when the daimons had planted their seeds. Whichever of them were chosen to take the pregnant women back would be able to seek their pleasure in them however they liked. Not that the faeries would mind, their own echoes of soulless pleasure carried over the chants.
Not to be outdone, six dark priestesses lifted their voices, urging the couples on. Their hips thrust in time, as they searched the crowd of demons who’d come to bear witness. One even stared at Lucien, her dark eyes begging him to call to her, to use her, to let her use him. She had a beautiful mouth and Lucien thought of letting her step forward to his throne. Thoughts of the nymph kept him from doing so.
Lucien tapped his fingers, letting his nails fall in rhythm against the arm of his throne. A great heat came from the center fire pit, illuminating the altars. Lucien slowly let his eyes roam past them to the hideous faces of his demon subjects. Some had gnarled bodies, ravaged by time and hate. Others were like corpses, their rotting flesh peeled off their bones. Even a clan of hairy lycanthropes had come from their home in the forest, fangs bared, to watch.
The darkness he saw in his subjects fueled him. These demons were the purest breeds, spawned from devil pacts and torn from between the thighs of their mothers as creatures of darkness. Never having known a soul, they were not torn in their purpose, did not feel regret or guilt. And there was no hiding what they were, not like half demons or the possessed that appeared like another race only to hide the truth inside where none could see. That was one of the reasons they would all sire or carry children to create his demon army of half-breeds, born without souls but able to hide their evil within innocent faces.
Thinking of such deceit, he detected Anja in the prisons, pouting that she was not allowed to come up and watch. He’d grown tired of her insolence over Mia and banished her down into the pits. Lucien almost felt sorry for the prisoners he kept there as the soothsayer took her pouting rage out on them.
Then, in the center taking their claim of the faeries, were the daimons—demons with flesh as red as blood and eyes as black as night. Justly feared, the daimons possessed the greatest power, the utmost hate and a brazen appetite for destruction. They were unstoppable once they set to a course, so long as they had the means to fulfill it. Their only weakness was that they were trapped in the evil fires of his palace. They could not live in the immortal realm for long before being called back and, like Lucien, they could never travel to the mortal world—none of the pure demons could unless they attached themselves to the soul of a mortal. The daimon couldn’t attach to a soul, for to touch a soul would be to kill it instantly
The only one not finding pleasure in the entertainment was Sir Nicholas, whose vacant eyes stared on as calm as watching a butterfly attack and as unmoved as a boulder. He was truly dead, his body moving without much purpose, his mind shut off to all but what he was ordered to do. Seeing a priestess eyeing Nicholas, Lucien knew the man had caught her eye and would be ordered to do much once the daimons finished.
The chanting crescendoed into a scream of moans and release. Already Lucien could tell the daimons’ seed had taken hold in the faeries’ wombs, even before their lovers pulled their hard, bruising lengths from within the delicate bodies.
Almost instantly, an orgy of flesh ensued. A priestess grabbed Sir Nicholas, tugging him with her to the floor. The man didn’t fight her. A lycan woman grabbed a priest, clawing his handmaid away from him before riding him to the floor. The stunned woman only had a moment to catch her breath before the lycan’s brother claimed her for his own. She screamed, but her fear only added flames to the raging sexual fire in the hall.
Lucien didn’t stay to watch as he surged through the hall in a streak of flames, leaving the orgy behind him. Abovestairs, waiting for him in his bed, was Mia. So long he’d been without her, as she stayed locked in his prison and then to have to wait as he took care of the duties of his kingdom. The faeries’ souls still empowered him, even as the carnal performance in his hall flamed his lusts.
As he moved, the scorched bricks of the hall righted themselves, becoming brighter. The worn tapestries fluttered, ridding themselves of ash and dust, the threads winding over the holes to repair old wounds, until they hung in black glory once more. Crumbled statues rolled to sudden demon grace, the figures flawlessly mended. Today was a good day for the Demon King. His subjects were pleased and busy. Mia was back in his bed. Souls fed his dark power with a rush of energy. And King Ean’s men were approaching his castle in an effort to free Prince Wolfe, unaware that he orchestrated everything the loyal high wizard, Geraint Aldred, told them.
He solidified from the flames,
pushing the demon back into his flesh. The demon in him liked to play, but Lucien knew Mia preferred the man. As he stepped into the bedchamber, he could not pull the flames from within his dark eyes. Fire grew in his palms a roaring ball he drew together out of old habit, rolling and bouncing it in his palm.
His palace continued to right itself, the stone walls healing, the long sheer material cleaning themselves into inky perfection as they fluttered from the ceiling in long columns. The strips drew to the side, forming a path from the door to the bed. Within the fireplace, the flames died from orange to blue, darkening the chamber while still giving it light. The basins, candles and torches did the same, darkening in smokeless perfection. He pulled the fireball he carried into his fist, smiting it. When he opened his hand, a little puff of smoke was all that was left.
As the palace change grew forward toward the bed, creeping up the sides to where Mia rested, he watched as his will caused the material of her tattered gown to change. The bodice blackened from grayed white, tightening around her breasts. Unlike outfits he’d given her in the past, this one was soft, covering her completely. A deep V formed over her chest, held up by narrow straps. Dirt and grime, ash and coal, all disappeared, leaving her flesh pale and clean. Bruises on her ankles and wrists healed, dried blood disappeared.
As the gown formed, its skirt flowed down over her legs like a mortal woman’s, only more beautiful. Lighter gray showed along the split front, forming to her still legs. The gray spread upward over the bodice, sewing itself in thin winding patterns. Her head was turned, but as her hair lifted, curling around the crown of her head, her sleep-tinted cheeks were revealed, as was the long line of her perfect neck. The pulse beating in her throat captured his notice. Dark kohl drew along her eyes, matching the color spreading over her lush mouth. Her lips parted in breath.
The boots disappeared from his feet, leaving them bare like he preferred, and his own long tunic changed to match hers. He blocked the sounds of the hall below, not wanting to hear the demons, not now, not when he was with her.
The walls began to crystallize, sparkling like tiny diamonds in the stone. Lucien didn’t touch her, as he took the spell off her, letting her awaken. Fire streamed along his fingertips, winding down over her. He could feel her as the flame trails moved, but it wasn’t as intimate as physical touch, flesh to flesh.
Lashes fluttered, sweeping up. Lucien waited, letting the fire skim up her body like a soaring falcon. It caressed her cheek, turning her face toward him. Blinking once, violet eyes met his. Thin black threads marred their perfection, only to be hidden in the round orbs as they cleared.
For the briefest of moments, he caught his reflection in her gaze. A hint of ash still marred him around his eyes, darkening the skin around the black orbs. His hair hung down around his face, long, straight black locks that reached his waist. She blinked and the image was gone as a hint of tears watered her eyes.
“Mia,” he whispered, unable to say aught but that one word as he waited for her to speak.
“Do not call me that,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Mia was a happy, carefree nymph who knew naught of sin. I am not Mia. I am something else.”
Lucien should have been heartened by her words, but he couldn’t be. He sensed a part of her had died while down in his dungeons. He did it to her, sent her there, kept her there, and yet he wished there could have been another way. “What should I call you then, sinful nymph? Mianthros?”
“Mia is Mianthros. My mother blessed me with that name. As I told you when I first came here, you do not get to use it.”
“Then what?” Lucien retracted the flames into his hand, but didn’t move otherwise.
“You decide. You decide everything else for me. You even ordered I not be harmed. Anja would not have left me untouched had you not told her to. I would thank you, but I know enough of you to understand, if you did tell her to leave me be, you had your dark reason for doing so. It was not because you cared what happened. You do not care about anything. You cannot.”
“How harsh you judge.” He didn’t like what he felt as she said the words. His first reaction was to lash out, but he held back. This wasn’t the reaction he’d expected from her, though he wasn’t exactly sure what it was he did expect. Gratitude for freeing her, mayhap? Or anger that he left her down there so long? Whatever it was, this quiet deadness inside her wasn’t it. He wanted the fire back in her eyes. He wanted the resistance.
“Offense does not suit you, Lucien. Stop pretending to care.” She took a deep breath. “Mia’s dead. I don’t know what I am, but it’s not her. You win, Lucien. I’m done fighting.”
“Are you pouting?” He forced a cruel, short laugh, trying to rile her spirits. “Oh, nymph, do you mourn your William so much? You should have left with him. Do not blame me because you did not fight for your freedom.”
She gave a weak laugh. “I should have known you saw that.”
“I see everything.” His mind turned to outside his castle. King Ean’s men were close. He left the way unguarded. Let them slip inside his palace.
“What point is there in running?” Her gaze was steady on his. “You would have summonsed me back. You possess my soul, remember?”
“And you bartered it to me freely, if you will remember.” His eyes flamed in irritation. This was not how he expected her to awaken. His body tight, he wanted to throw himself on top of her—punish her, torture her, feel her.
“You were supposed to kill me, Lucien. I bartered my soul and you were to take all of it from me, but instead you took half and left me with feeling. Had I known that is what you planned, I would have killed myself instead. I would kill myself still, but for the fact you’d bring me back.”
Angry, he shot forward. His fingers digging into the soft bed he’d created for her, holding her down by her hair as his hands rested on the sides of her head. Violet eyes stared up at him, unafraid, unemotional. His knees pressed along the outside of her thighs, trapping her legs with the gown he’d given her. Curling his lips, he glared, wanting her fear, needing it.
“Go ahead.” She laughed, the sound on the brink of insanity. She didn’t fight him, not with her body, not with her eyes. “End me. End this game. Do it.”
His breath left him in a long, ugly hiss. “A new game, is it? And what rules apply this time, my mistress?”
“I never asked to be your mistress, Lucien.”
“I did not wait for you to give your permission.”
“There is no game. I am done. You have used me up.” She tried to look away, but his hold on her hair kept her head where it was. “End it, Lucien. It’s over between us. I am done. Or give me a knife so that I may end myself.”
Lucien pulled back, his legs straddling her thighs. Lifting his hand beside his head, flames erupted to form Lady Juliana’s jeweled dagger. Mia flinched, but didn’t move to stop him. With one thrust he could stab down, ending the beat of her heart like she pleaded with him to do. The small thread of fear in her was overwhelmed by the hope. She wanted him to do it, wanted to be murdered. Her arms stirred, sliding up along the bed so her body formed into a cross. She closed her eyes, nodding for him to do it.
“The Blessed King’s men enter the palace to free Prince Wolfe from my dungeon,” he whispered. Her eyes opened. Lucien gave a small smile.
Ah, there is the fire. Not quite as dead as you would have it, sweet nymph.
“King Ean himself waits in the forest. He thinks I can’t detect him, but you see, I knew he would come. It was my wizard who told him how to free Wolfe. He walks into a trap.” Lucien’s eyes filled completely black, purposefully piquing her interest in his words. She trembled and turned her head sharply away. “I’m going to kill him. I’m going to end the Blessed King. Even now the lycanthropes feast in my hall, awaiting my command. They’re going to hunt him down and kill him. The Blessed throne will be empty. Wolfe will not survive the escape, Merrick has a throne and Ladon is unfit to rule.”
“I do not care to hear t
his.” The words were calm, but they were also a lie.
“Nay?” Lucien chuckled. “Should I kill you then?”
She nodded and her muscles tightened, not so confident as before.
He began to stab down. Mia gasped, closing her eyes tight. Lucien stopped, the blade tip against the exposed valley of her breasts. A single drop of blood formed when she took a deep breath, her skin pressing up toward the blade. Slowly her eyes opened, glancing first at the stayed knife and then to him. Lucien pulled it back, swinging the dagger in his hand to offer her the hilt. “Actually, methinks I would rather see you do it.”
Her hand shook as she took the hilt, angling it so she could stab inward at her chest. Lucien circled his hips and reached to the skirt along her waist. Pulling it, he willed the material to glide beneath his knees. She glanced down, as if surprised by the act.
“What do you care?” he whispered. “You have already decided to be dead. I only wish to feel the death throes while inside you.” His clothing disappeared, leaving him naked as he bunched the skirt at her waist. He would call her bluff. “Which would you prefer? The demon or the man?”
“They are the same, Lucien. Two faces for the same being. All demon.”
Lucien knew that wasn’t true, even if she did believe it. But why correct her mistake? She would believe what she wanted to. Letting the fire enter his gaze, the control he had over the beast slipped. Ashen flesh grew around the dark pits of his eyes. Fangs and claws stretched out, pointing, eager for blood. “Then I won’t bother to hide the beast.”
Arousal towered the mass between his thighs. Desire hummed, his blood impassioned with the need to feel her again. Too long it had been since he’d taken her and the urgency was only fueled by the demon orgy he’d witnessed in the hall, the faery souls he’d dined on. Almost roughly he lifted his knees and pushed her thighs open.
Stone Queen Page 10
