Demon Bewitched Page 8

  “True. We’ll—we’ll figure something out. Does Fraya know?”

  “She not only knows, she seems completely okay with it. Something else I can’t understand. Like, she acts as if Marcus’s delay is no big deal, like I’m some love-struck teenager desperate for validation, when she of all people should understand the importance of this.”

  “That’s…weird.”

  “I know!” Cressida gestured helplessly. “And now you know too. Tonight there’s the cup ceremony, where I have to convince the coven I’m meeting the dictates of the grimoire while trying not to throw up every time one of those demons gets near me.”

  Dahlia eyed her. “I don’t know, Stefan didn’t seem to make you throw up all that much.”

  Cressida felt her cheeks heat again. “That was…a momentary lapse. He’s still a demon.”

  “Yeah, but he’s a hot demon.” Dahlia grinned. “Which I guess makes sense.”

  “I’m getting a headache.” Cressida lifted her hands to her temples. “And I need to keep Marcus on a leash, apparently. Has he done anything to the ex-priest?”

  Now it was Dahlia’s turn to hesitate. “Ah…Jim Granger has also been moved to the upper floors.”

  “Why?” Cressida demanded. “I didn’t give that order either.”

  “You didn’t.” Dahlia had the grace to look abashed. “I did.”

  That caught Cressida up short, and her usually stoic captain rushed to close the sudden silence that stretched between them. “Jim Granger is a Connected of remarkable and untapped abilities, one of the few we’ve been able to study at any length. You saw the same thing I did when the filters were stripped away. He’s more powerful than easily three-fourths of our coven, and he’s wandering the world without affiliation. More to the point, he can kill demons.”

  “Not all demons, not all the time,” Cressida said, thinking of Stefan’s words. “He’s also not a witch nor likely to become one.”

  “But if men exist out there like him, and we can turn them to our service—then we should learn how to do that,” Dahlia insisted. “We summon demons because we can trust them to the extent that our compulsion is strong. But they’re not willing participants in those arrangements. Working more closely with Connecteds outside our coven may quickly become preferable to commandeering demons, especially given the overwhelming response to your last summons. Or, if working with such people proves untenable, they could at least be put to service as an extra security force, one that isn’t bound by the restrictions of our order.”

  “He’s only one man,” Cressida protested.

  “He’s the first man,” Dahlia countered. “We don’t know who else is out there like him.”

  “I get the feeling there aren’t a lot of men out there like him.” Cressida shook her head. “So where have you put him? Also near Marcus?”

  “No.” Dahlia’s chin came up. “In the west wing.”

  “Near you, in other words.”

  “Marcus will be distracted with Stefan, and I didn’t think it wise for two of your consorts to be so close to you without protection, particularly once the spell of bonding is underway.”

  Cressida fought not to grind her teeth. The sacred grimoire had been unreasonably specific about that protocol too. “Three, you mean. Marcus is also one of my consorts. Presumably, he’ll be caught in my thrall as well once that spell gets underway. So you’ll have three moony-eyed consorts roaming the upper halls, including the head of security, and you’re my sole line of defense?”

  “You won’t have any problem subduing Jim Granger,” Dahlia scoffed, but there was an edge to her voice that hadn’t been there before, and it was all Cressida could do not to burst out laughing.

  “Dahlia!” she accused. “You’ve got a crush on him!”

  “I do not have a crush on him,” Dahlia replied hotly. “I am your captain at arms. I won’t be taking a husband.”

  “You’re not interested in him as a husband, though, are you? You reacted to his psychic abilities, his big pointy spike, and the twinkle in his eyes. You saw him and you finagled him into the coven, and now he’s three doors down from your rooms.” Cressida grinned as Dahlia’s cheeks turned bright red. “What in the world are you going to do if he’s affected by the bonding ritual more than we expect him to be? It’s never been applied to a nonwitch.”

  “I’ll be delighted for him to be your consort,” Dahlia said staunchly. “That’s why I suggested him. He’s strong, and he can combat demons. He’ll protect you.”

  Cressida shook her head, utterly confused. “But that makes no sense.”

  “It’s also irrelevant,” Dahlia said. “There’s also the matter of the Syx. You’ve not asked about our intel on him.”

  “Fair enough.” Cressida put the question of the former exorcist to the side for the moment, though it bore careful thought. Why in the world would her captain—whom she’d known since they both were children—suggest a man to Cressida that she secretly wanted for herself? Who did that?

  She refocused, gesturing for Dahlia to continue. “So what do we know about Stefan of the Syx?”

  “Most of the information we have is on the Syx proper,” Dahlia admitted. “And it dates back further than the establishment of our own order. They respond to mortal summons—and are very rarely, if ever, called by witches, though it has happened in times of great need. Their tactics are brutal and quick, and then they’re gone again. They don’t linger.”

  “Hmmm. Stefan is definitely choosing to linger here.”

  “And he’s proven he can escape all but our most powerful and focused wards. Which means he wants to be here. We would do well to understand why. Another concerning detail you should know is this.”

  Dahlia reached for the tablet on the table, swiping the screen to life with a few quick, efficient finger jabs. She swiveled the tablet back to Cressida. On the screen was a video capture of the dance floor of Storm Court, cavorting dancers all around. In the center was a blur of indistinct shapes—the dark forms of Ahriman’s lieutenants, the brighter forms of Stefan and Cressida. “What am I looking at?” Cressida asked.

  “This was taken, obviously, midbattle with the ancient demons that entered the pentagram and were confronted by you and the Syx. This…” She swiped the image forward, “is immediately after.”

  Cressida’s brows went up. “No Stefan.”

  “Correct. Like the other large demon from his team, the one who looked like a statue from the original Parthenon, he winked out with the effort to remove the worst of the demons on the floor. Unlike his fellow team member, he didn’t stay gone. He returned in time to be a part of this.”

  She flipped to the next picture, showing Stefan with a decidedly curious expression on his face, standing shoulder to shoulder with Jim Granger. In the next shot, both males were closer to the dais, where Cressida waited, her hands lifted.

  “And your thoughts on this?” Cressida prompted Dahlia, though she knew what conclusions her captain would draw. She was drawing the same ones.

  “Stefan wasn’t trapped in your net, Cressida. He came back here by choice and willingly allowed himself to be caught. We’ve not contained him effectively since the moment he made that choice, though presumably Marcus is having better luck keeping him put. So that begs the question: why? Why did he come back to assist us?”

  “The archangel,” Cressida said thoughtfully.

  “The archangel,” Dahlia agreed grimly. “The one creature on heaven and Earth the Mother Goddess has decreed that no one may speak to, no one may approach, no one may draw the attention of. And we’ve not only drawn his attention, we’ve inspired him to send one of his most precious lieutenants to our aid. Why?”

  Cressida sighed. “I guess that’s something we need to find out.”

  A knock at the door recalled their attention. At Cressida’s command, it swung open. A young white-gowned initiate stood in the doorway, practically glowing with her budding power.
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  “It’s time, High Priestess,” she said breathlessly, reciting the summons as carefully outlined in the sacred grimoire. “Your consorts await you in the Grand Hall, ready to surrender all they are so that you can become all you must be.”

  Cressida grimaced. Put like that, she was forcefully reminded that she didn’t have much choice here. Ready or not, in command of her full abilities or not, she was about to be wedded to five different males, including three demons.

  “It’s time,” she agreed.

  Chapter Eight

  “Did you learn how to become such an asshat at some kind of boot camp program, or were you born that way?” Stefan asked, giving Marcus his best glower. The male witch had him in a thrall that wasn’t exactly painful but didn’t feel all that great either. Stefan was suspended up against the wall, hanging from restraints that Marcus had thoughtfully screwed into the studs. Ordinarily, not a bad thing, except that Stefan’s feet couldn’t quite reach the floor and the manacles were spelled with a deadening energy that would eventually sap his ability to maintain his glamour. He wasn’t about to drop his pants around this jackwit.

  “You should be silent,” Marcus observed, his tone speculative, and Stefan gritted his teeth. He knew that. He could feel the compulsion spell tweaking his vocal cords, but he never was good at playing by the rules.

  He was also getting bored with this game. Since Marcus had come to collect him from the delightful Cressida Frain’s rooms, the man had been acting decidedly off his nut. Stefan knew women, not men, so he couldn’t figure out what Marcus’s glitch was. He could simply be the jealous lover. Having stood next to Cressida on multiple occasions, Stefan could attest to how ravishing the redhead was, and how distracting. Marcus gave every indication that he was her betrothed, and so having a demon like Stefan sniffing around his main squeeze had to chafe. Even more than Stefan’s wrist manacles.

  At this point, however, Stefan had gone nearly thirty seconds without speaking, and that seemed like more than enough.

  “So how obnoxious is it knowing your honeypot is going to be shared with four other Pooh Bears?” he asked in his most casual, insolent voice. “Because I gotta say, I’m not sure how I’d take it.”

  Marcus narrowed his eyes at him, but though his manner betrayed his irritation, it wasn’t…it wasn’t the right kind of irritation, Stefan decided. Marcus was pissed at something, but he wasn’t jealous. “You know nothing of our ways, demon. You can’t presume to judge, given the filth you are.”

  “Well, I can, sort of. I’ve been around a hell of a lot longer than you have. Pardon the pun. This isn’t my first witch harem.”

  It was, of course, but the fact that Marcus hesitated gave Stefan a twinge of satisfaction. It was almost worth the spikes that suddenly burst from the manacles, piercing Stefan’s forearms. Not quite, but almost.

  “Pretty sure you’re not gonna want me to bleed all over your girl’s dress,” Stefan said, glaring at Marcus. This asshole was about to get dead, he decided. It would be super helpful if Marcus did something to justify his death, but it wasn’t entirely necessary. Stefan was bound by the charter of the Syx not to harm any humans, but for Marcus, he was pretty sure he was going to make an exception.

  “You’ll heal,” Marcus said crisply. “If it’s one thing that demons do well, it’s repair their own glamour. Even when their wretched forms beneath remain broken and defiled.” His lips twitched, and Stefan felt the first sliver of actual concern. Fear would be overstating it, but a nice healthy blob of unease was growing in his belly as Marcus’s grin stretched wider. The archangel hadn’t told him he’d be going up against some kind of sadist, but Stefan knew he shouldn’t be surprised. The male witch was the head of security for the oldest coven in witchdom. He probably had a long history summoning demons and making them suffer, and for every torture he didn’t know himself, there was probably a dusty old blood-spattered tome somewhere that could give him lots of ideas. Good to know.

  A sharp, eager rap at the front door of Stefan’s suite shattered the moment, though, and Marcus turned, gesturing sharply to one of his stone-faced goons. The goon turned and opened the door, and a bright-eyed blonde witchlet in a spotless white gown stepped into the room, her voice high and clear. “It’s time, Stefan of the Syx,” she sang out triumphantly. “Your high priestess will join you in the Grand—”

  The girl’s voice cut off and her eyes rounded as she took in the whole of the scene. Stefan, naked, scourged, drenched in sweat, and hanging from the wall. Marcus standing in his Sunday best, a defiant smirk on his face; goons one through three lined up and ready for goon duty, staring at the young witch as if she was their afternoon snack.

  “Captain Frost?” she asked uncertainly.

  Marcus murmured another few lines of incantation, and the manacles sprang free—the manacles, not the spikes. The sudden weight of Stefan’s body on the skewers caused them to tear a little more deeply into his demon form, and it was all he could do not to howl in legit distress as his body slid sharply to the floor.

  “The demon will follow with a retinue of soldiers to ensure he finds his way. I believe you have something to say to me as well?”

  The girl brightened again, glad to be returned to her exalted task. “It’s time, Marcus Frost,” she announced as Stefan straightened. “Your high priestess will join you in the Grand Hall, ready to accept all that you are, so she can become all she must be.”

  “No way,” Stefan protested, shaking out his hands. “You did not just say that.”

  “Keep a civil tongue in your head,” Marcus said casually, not turning to look at him. “Or I’ll happily cut it out.”

  “Yeah, I’d rethink that one, buddy,” Stefan shot back. “Unlike you, I know how to use this tongue in ways your high priestess is going to appreciate.”

  The young witch gasped, but before Marcus could snarl anything back at him, a loud gong sounded from somewhere deep in the building, the sound strong enough to send a tremor of energy through the floors and walls.

  “Please, sir,” the young girl said, her eyes on Marcus as she took a step back. “You should be first among all.”

  “I will be.” Marcus strode for the door, gesturing to his goons. “Get him ready.”

  Then he was out, the three remaining soldiers remaining as blank faced as ever.

  “Guys, as much as I’d normally look forward to the idea of you dressing me, I’ve got this,” Stefan said. All the magic wards in the room had lessened significantly in their severity the moment Marcus left the room, and it was the work of two seconds for Stefan to reach out and rifle through the thoughts of the guards. They also did him the favor of having their next task uppermost in their minds.

  Stefan glanced to the room he suspected was his bedroom. In there, he’d find whatever ceremonial getup was required for this little presentation that Cressida had lined up for him. Also in there was a jeweled torque the witches were supposed to affix around his neck, essentially rendering him a zombie. One thing about Marcus, he sure loved his toys.

  “You don’t really think I’m going to let you put that thing on me, do you?” he asked. The men attempted to move forward, and Stefan lifted a hand, effectively freezing them in place. Unlike Marcus, these witches were not spell casters by training, but instead foot soldiers chosen because of their willingness to follow orders. Stefan knew the type. They could be dangerous if not handled correctly.

  “The law is clear,” the center man said, a bright, eager, intense-eyed kid barely twenty-one years old. “All consorts wear the torque.”

  “Marcus didn’t.”

  “Marcus Frost is the head of coven security,” interjected the second man. They didn’t seem to realize they couldn’t move yet. Stefan got the feeling they spent a lot of their time standing at attention. “He cannot allow himself to be restrained in any way.”

  “Noted,” Stefan said with a grin. “So we’re going to play this my way. I’m dressing, I’m puttin
g on the torque with my own two hands, and you’re not touching it or me. Savvy?”

  He didn’t give them a chance to express any concerns with that plan. He moved quickly into the bedroom, stripping off his clothes and wiping away the worst of the blood. Marcus had been thorough, scourging Stefan to his knees with a barbed cat-o’-nine tails before fixing him to the wall. Stefan had sent an irritated query out to the archangel when the abuse had started, but he’d received no response. Typical.

  Now as he swiped away the blood, the skin that comprised his glamour quickly knit together and healed. By the time he reached the folded-up clothes on the bed, he was more or less back to his normal appearance. A sheen of sweat stood out on his skin, but there was nothing he could do about that. Healing himself was not always an easy task, and there’d been poison of a decidedly magical sort on those spikes as well as on the barbs of the whip that Marcus had used. The man wasn’t doing anything by half measures.

  The outfit that apparently had been chosen for the Bachelors Most Wanted looked like something Elvis might have worn, or at least one of the hundreds of Elvis impersonators that Stefan had seen since first coming to the Las Vegas Strip, the most recent headquarters for the Syx. Trying not to let his judgment slow him down, he slipped into the white trousers, skintight white shirt, and high-necked white cape. All he needed now was a pair of sunglasses and a microphone, and he could totally croon “Love Me Tender” at Cressida all night long.

  He considered the torque, bracing himself to pick it up—then paused in surprise.

  The torque was clearly an artifact of some power, but that power was not currently in effect. It was as if someone had forgotten to switch the thing on. Was that some kind of trap? Was Marcus deliberately trying to fool him into wearing the thing, only to strangle him with it?

  Either way, he didn’t have much choice. The torque was part of the costume, and the only part that wasn’t dead white. It gleamed a bright platinum, inset with precious stones. It was pretty enough, he decided. At least until someone pulled out a matching leash.