Demon Bewitched Read online

  Dahlia’s gaze was focused on the floor, however, her body practically vibrating with intensity. “Our control is slipping.”

  Cressida scowled. “Our control will hold long enough for us to cull three demons from the herd. Three is all I need,” Three demons, one witch, one mortal. No more…no less.

  They’d planned it out with exacting detail, after all. She, Marcus, and Fraya, the most powerful of the lawgivers. With her gentle eyes and patient hands, Fraya had guided Cressida on her path from the moment she’d entered the coven as a very young girl. She also was the witch who’d first explained to Cressida the steps required to defeat Ahriman.

  Those steps were mapped out plainly in the sacred grimoire, but they were both unacceptable and outdated. Together with her lawgiver mentor and fated mate, Cressida had found a better way.

  The ancient passages stated that the high priestess of the Scepter Coven must accept a demon consort of highest power to give her the strength to defeat Ahriman.

  A demon. As a wedded consort. The very thought was ridiculous.

  Demons were the loathsome side product of the conflicting energies between the God and Goddess, energies that had resulted in the creation of the world. No demon would ever be a mortal’s equal—let alone be considered a suitable partner to a consecrated witch. And yet, that was what was written in the grimoire. Unfortunately, the ancient ways still held sway in the Scepter Coven, and as the coven’s newest high priestess, Cressida was bound to follow them.

  So, fine. She wouldn’t take on one demon, then. She’d take on three.

  Three demons who, together, would be stronger than she was—but who, singly, the coven could control. Cressida would take all three of them as her wedded consorts to satisfy the grimoire’s requirements, draw on their strength as the ancient laws demanded, and then send them back across the veil to the Goddess’s final judgment.

  Though witches didn’t usually kill demons outright, it wasn’t enough, in this case, to merely return these demons to their lairs after their usefulness was over. Cressida needed to ensure that no one ever knew what happened here—and especially that no one ever knew a witch had agreed to take a demon as her wedded husband.

  But wedded husband did not mean bedded husband. Cressida would not be sleeping with any of her consorts. None except Marcus, anyway. Assuming he ever agreed to do so.

  Her lip curled in self-disgust. He’d denied her again that very day. It seemed that Marcus was more than willing to rule by her side, but he didn’t love her, didn’t want her. Hell, he apparently found her so physically loathsome, he couldn’t bear to sleep with her even though he knew doing so would heighten her abilities…and despite the fact that everyone in the coven assumed they’d already taken care of such matters.

  She wasn’t going to tell the coven any differently either. She’d have to level up on her own, is all. Besides, most of the coven also assumed that the high priestess would have sexual relations with her demon consorts, simply because the sacred grimoire hinted at such an abomination. She didn’t mind such assumptions if they got her people to fight with all their strength when they summoned Ahriman to battle in a few short days at the full moon. But those assumptions did not equate to actual stated law.

  Cressida should know—she’d pored over the dusty tome for months, carefully copying the ancient dictates onto sheaves of fresh paper, the better to study the terms to understand any hidden loopholes or caveats. The grimoire was a minefield of twisting language, but she’d consulted both the lawgivers and the elders of the coven separately on the issue, and the results had been the same. She was within her rights to take on multiple consorts, be they demon, ordinary human, or witch. The demonic power must merely outweigh the abilities of any of her other consorts.

  And it would outweigh those abilities, in its fashion. While two demons might not, three demons would easily overmatch a single ordinary magician or a single witch, even one as strong as herself or Marcus. But that demonic power would be split three ways. If Cressida knew anything about demons, they didn’t play well together. If the demons remained separate, independent of each other, the combined strength of Marcus and a human magician under her thrall would defeat them. If the demons joined forces, of course…

  She pursed her lips tight. The demons wouldn’t join forces. She, Marcus, and the coven leadership would make sure of that.

  But there were other issues to resolve as well. The grimoire hadn’t said why a demon’s influence was needed to destroy the ancient evil of Ahriman, only that it was. She suspected it was due to the tenet that it took a demon to kill a demon, but that was a rule born in the primordial quagmire of history. Witches had spent the intervening millennia getting stronger, smarter, and far less awed by the natural order of evil. She didn’t need a demon to get the job done. She’d be able to handle Ahriman herself, once he came to her.

  And he would come to her, as soon as she’d fulfilled the requirements of the sacred grimoire and taken a demon as a consort. Ahriman was bound by the same ancient laws as the Scepter Coven. If Cressida fulfilled her part of the bargain and girded herself with another demon’s strength, Ahriman would be forced to show himself the moment she and her coven summoned him. It didn’t matter how strong he was; he was still a demon, and she was a witch.

  “Who are the best candidates?” she asked as she and Marcus stepped forward, drawing even with Dahlia and Elysium Gray. Together, they scanned the room.

  “That one is the strongest,” Marcus said immediately, pointing at a leering oaf of a demon surrounded by a half-dozen initiates who could smell his otherness, though they didn’t realize the danger they were in.

  “No. That one is strongest,” Dahlia murmured in contention, and Cressida turned to follow her gaze.

  Marcus made a scoffing noise. “That’s a human.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Cressida countered, her eyes narrowing. The apparent man standing at the elaborate south bar of Storm Court looked a little lost, but there was no denying the power in him. Many would assume that power was because of his mighty build. He towered over the humans around him, a veritable mountain of a man with a face of heartbreaking beauty that looked as if it’d been carved from marble. His glamour was powerful…but it was glamour. He was a demon of incredible strength. Which could only mean…

  She winced. Had she set her lure so effectively that she’d trapped a Syx?

  If so, was there any chance she’d attracted more than one of them? That…would be bad. She didn’t want the Syx meddling in her business.

  “Cressida!”

  Dahlia’s shout was her only warning. A darkness so foul that even the clueless initiates staggered beneath it suddenly tore through the room, coalescing into a being of pure malevolence. Another demon! Only this one was far, far worse than anything she’d ever seen.

  “Hold!” Cressida commanded, her voice rising enough that every witch in the room felt it. Her coven instantly took their positions to obey.

  Cressida raced off the dais and into the crowd, making it halfway across the floor before she collided with another figure coming from the opposite direction.

  “Pardon me, pardon me, demon patrol coming through.” The lean, sleekly muscled man physically lifted her and thrust her to the side with a strength she wouldn’t have thought possible.

  Cressida staggered back, and he barreled past her toward the demonic entity that was already swallowing initiates whole, draining them of their life essence like squeezing oranges. Could this new demon possibly be Ahriman?

  “Who?” The man suddenly braked and wheeled back toward her as if she’d spoken aloud, staring at her for a moment like she was crazy. “Are you nuts? You cannot tell me you idiots summoned that asshat—no, I won’t believe it.”

  Then he was gone again, and Cressida was left racing after him, her witch-spelled speed allowing her to catch up with him—to his clear surprise—so that they both hit the force field of demonic power at the same time
—

  The attacking demon wasn’t Ahriman. She’d studied the ancient scripts enough to recognize the black beast’s signature, and this wasn’t him. It could easily have been his lieutenant, though, given the hoary filth of age and rage caking the demon’s glamour, visible to anyone with the eyes to see. The demon turned and saw the man racing toward him, his eyes wide with surprise, recognition, and…could that be fear?

  Once again, it was Cressida’s turn to be surprised. For the creature to recognize the man hurling himself forward could mean only one thing. He wasn’t a man at all. She, high priestess of the Scepter Coven, had been as duped by his glamour as if she was the lowest acolyte. Like the colossus Dahlia had spied in the crowd, this was another member of the Syx.

  The demon enforcer howled a string of ancient, outraged epithets, confirming her suspicion, and launched himself at the creature, at the same time that the towering Greek god from the bar knocked free of the crowd and attacked the demon from the opposite angle.

  Their combined strength was great—enormous—and the larger of the two had the advantage of surprise, barreling into the demon from behind and taking him to the floor. The impact of the two entities striking the hardwood sent a galvanizing jolt through the rest of the room, one the demons in attendance knew all too well.

  Dinnertime.

  “No!” she gasped. The nearer of the Syx, the smaller one, turned to her with blazing eyes.

  “What the hell have you brought here?” His voice wasn’t racked with fear, exactly, but his censure was plain.

  “You dare speak to me that way,” Cressida retorted. Then she felt rather than saw the rush of ice that swept up on her from behind, as the Syx’s face blanked with shock.

  “Duck!” he yelled.

  Chapter Two

  “What the actual fuck!” Stefan roared as three new ice demons as ancient as the first asshat they’d taken to the floor formed in the hole behind the witch queen. Together, the new demons sent out a blast of frozen energy that Stefan barely contained. Whatever summons she’d used to pull these guys out of the deep freeze of the abyss, an area most demons never even heard about, much less were damned to, it was definitely effective. Gregori had already disappeared with the first demon, who was apparently trying to audition for the role of fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse. These three new demons seemed even older.

  “Cressida.” The name floated into the atmosphere of the club, running over and around and along the thrumming music, and Stefan scowled at the young witch opposite him. She was pretty, he supposed, but right now, that wasn’t his primary concern. No, really. It wasn’t.

  “You did this?” he demanded. His breath fogged into the frigid air as he turned on his heel with the witch at his side, keeping the demons in view. After he’d absorbed their first attack, they seemed to be reconsidering their strategy, huffing and blowing like bulls about to take down the toreador. And here he was, fresh out of red capes.

  “It’s my right to summon demons,” she said, with a coolness that had nothing to do with the freezer burn these demons were causing, and he shot her another glance. Still tiny, still fierce, still pointless. “You came, after all.”

  “I came because there was trouble,” Stefan countered, and her scoffing laugh pricked his irritation.

  “No trouble, demon,” she said, twisting that last word until it sounded like filth in her mouth. “You came because I had the power to call you, the power that has belonged to any witch since the ancient Goddess defied the order that your creator bestowed upon this world.”

  “He’s your creator too, sweetheart.” Stefan bit down hard on his tongue. He didn’t have time to argue chicken-and-egg theology. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go clean up the mess you made.”

  Rather than give her the opportunity to cause even more problems, Stefan shoved the witch to the side with enough force that she went sprawling. Technically, as a member of the Syx, he was forbidden to harm any of God’s children. Harming God’s children was what had landed him in this predicament in the first place. But witches were, arguably, a little different. They followed a unique path to get to their truth, one that wouldn’t find them fans in any traditional church or synagogue, and that path meant that Stefan had the right to keep them out of his way when he needed to, as long as he ultimately did them no harm.

  It was a fuzzy distinction, but it gave him the opening he needed.

  He blasted into the three ice demons in the room with a rage they weren’t expecting—because no one expected it, not from him. His arms and hands glowing with righteous fury, he pounded the creatures into the ground in rapid succession, but no sooner did one fall than another one staggered back up. Gregori was nowhere in sight, and Stefan was beginning to feel the strain when a movement behind one of the demons caught his eye.

  It was…it was a human. A dude human, holding what looked like the mother of all crosses, a big shiny silver one with a pointed base. Before Stefan could shout out a warning that humans couldn’t hurt demons, and definitely not ice demons, the man shrieked something in ancient Latin and plunged the cross into the back of the first primeval fiend Stefan had knocked silly.

  A geyser of black goop shot skyward, making the nearest dancers shriek in a paroxysm of excitement and bloodlust. As the demon staggered forward, Stefan didn’t take the time to argue. The man wrenched the cross-spike ice pick free and turned toward the second powerful demon, while Stefan banished the first one back beyond the veil, then drop-kicked the third as well. By the time he got to the second one, it’d turned on the man—some sort of priest? Exorcist?—and had leapt on him like an icicle of fury. The man shouted more Latin at his attacker, but it was a little harder to understand this time given the talons stuck in his neck. Stefan took advantage of the ice demon’s distraction and yanked it free of his victim, then beat the crap out of it until there was little left other than black goop-filled ice cubes.

  “Thanks,” the man gasped from the floor, his face and body covered in black hoarfrost. Stefan reached for him, his touch instantly sealing up the man’s wound. “Jim Granger.”

  “Nice spike.”

  “I try.” Granger grinned as he stood, giving Stefan his first good look at him. The human was tall and sturdy without an ounce of fat, his heavily muscled upper body covered in a tan work shirt tucked into utilitarian-looking jeans. He wore thick brown work boots on his feet, which he stamped to shake off the black ice. His cloud-gray eyes danced as Stefan studied him, lighting up a weathered face framed by salt-and-pepper hair long enough to curl over his collar. “Started out as an exorcist in the Catholic church, but fell away about five years ago and decided to go freelance.”

  Stefan raised his brows. “Freelance?”

  “Yup.” Another grin. “Business has been booming.”

  “Why are you here? You’re not a witch, wannabe or otherwise, and you’re definitely not a demon.”

  “I—I get dreams, I guess you’d say. Sort of a sixth sense. Gives me the heads-up on what’s going down, in a manner of speaking. I find if I can end up at the right place at the right time, I can sometimes help out. I don’t get paid for these improv hits, usually, but…” He shrugged. “It’s good advertising.”

  “I bet.” Stefan looked around. The demons on the floor continued milling through the crowd, some of them breaking out in minor skirmishes, but now that he knew what to look for, he could see the net of power that was keeping them trapped. Keeping them trapped and dampening their strength enough they could feel it. They weren’t going after any humans, though, so he didn’t expect any more trouble from them. The humans, for their part, were back to dancing, clearly buying that all the “fake” black blood was yet another perk of their VIP witch party experience. Gotta love humans. “What’d your dreams say about the clusterfuck going on here today?”

  “That’s the weird part,” the man said, looking credibly perplexed. “I didn’t have a dream about this. I simply got a powerful urge to
check the place out, so I left my hotel and came over.”

  “With a spiked cross?”

  Granger grinned. “Never leave home without it. Anyway, once I showed up here, I realized I knew a lot of guys in the room. Hanging out the way I do on the fringes of the psychic community, you start to recognize faces. But you’ve got maybe twelve straight-up magicians in this room, guys you normally don’t get within a hundred feet of each other without them strutting around like peacocks. But here, they’re mostly getting drunk and thinking about getting laid, if their body language is any indication.”

  “Body language, huh?” Stefan asked, giving Granger the side-eye. “You sure that dreams are your only psychic ability? There’re a lot of power surges been going around.”

  Granger’s face creased, a speculative gleam in his eye. “Funny you should mention that—”

  He broke off as he suddenly jerked, swiveling around toward the front of the room. “What the hell?” he muttered, before lapsing into a low, melodic prayer, but Stefan could feel the spell of compulsion too. Jim Granger was getting dragged toward the collection of witches on the dais as if he were a wayward steer lassoed by a cowboy, and all the Latin lessons in the world weren’t helping him.

  A second later, Stefan felt a similar tug of energy, also yanking him toward the front of the room. A quick survey of the dance floor showed two other demons—definitely demons, and pretty damned strong ones at that, pun definitely intended—getting the same treatment. What the hell?

  He was in no mood to play some witch’s party game, and the immediate demon threat looked pretty well done for the night. The coven had obviously regained control of their pentagram. Plus, Gregori hadn’t come back, and Stefan wasn’t about to party without his tribe. He closed his eyes, poofed out of existence, and—

  “No.”

  Stefan sucked in a burst of frigid air, then tried to move—and couldn’t. He was trapped in stasis in the formless gray space between Storm Court and his home base back on the Vegas Strip. He wasn’t alone either. The neon white figure of Michael the Archangel stood beside him, a speculative look on his face.