Washed, dressed, and feeling refreshed after the best night’s sleep she’d had in a while, Wynter headed downstairs and into the kitchen the next morning. She was immediately hit by the scents of eggs, toast, and fresh coffee.
Both Xavier and Anabel sat at the barn-wood dining table, digging into their food.
Delilah was leaning out of the window that overlooked the backyard. “Hattie,” she yelled, all accusatory. “You said you’d given up smoking.”
“I have!” Hattie claimed from outside.
“Woman, I can smell the weed.”
“That’s for the pain.”
“The pain of what?”
“Fucking cliffhangers.”
Huffing, Delilah straightened and shut the window. “Oh, morning, Priestess.”
“Stop that.” Wynter had no sooner taken a seat at the table than a mug of coffee and a plate of food was put in front of her. “Hmm, thanks. Where’d you get the eggs and stuff?”
“I woke up early and went on a mini grocery grab,” said Delilah.
Xavier bit into his cream cheese bagel, and his eyelids drooped. “Damn I need more of these in my life.”
Spooning her oatmeal, Anabel wrinkled her nose at him. “I have no idea how you can eat cream cheese. It’s just ew.”
A line formed between his brows. “You’re constantly testing your own potions—some of which smell like armpits—but you can’t handle cream cheese?”
He rolled his eyes. “You say that about everything you don’t like.”
Wynter frowned when Delilah joined them at the table with only a cup of tea. “You’re not eating?”
“Already ate,” replied Delilah. “I was hangry earlier, so I figured it’d be better for everyone if I filled my stomach there and then.”
Considering the woman would argue with you over absolutely anything when operating on an empty stomach, Wynter would have to agree with her.
As she dug into her breakfast, she looked around the kitchen and noticed that Delilah had also made time to unpack her cauldron, mortar, and pestle. Glass jars of herbs, ground roots, seeds, and powders were set near them. Her homemade medicinal tea mixtures were no doubt tucked in a cupboard somewhere, along with her bottles of this and that.
Wynter suspected that Delilah had hurried to set her own bits and bobs around the kitchen because she’d wanted to claim a small area before Anabel had the chance to do the same. The blonde’s cauldron, tools, and the typical ingredients she used for the potions were nowhere in sight, but they’d no doubt be neatly set at the other side of the kitchen before the day was over.
Delilah sipped her drink. “So, is anyone regretting that they’ve surrendered some rights to their soul? Please say no, because I really like this place. I don’t want to leave.”
Anabel shrugged one shoulder. “I haven’t had a freak-out yet, but it’ll eventually happen. Still, I won’t ask to leave.”
“Me neither,” said Xavier around a mouthful of bagel.
“I don’t like not being the only proud owner of my soul, but the situation isn’t bothering me half as much as I thought it would,” said Wynter. “Maybe it’s because I know it isn’t permanent and that I could reclaim those rights at any time.”
“Why do you think the Ancients insist on that particular price tag?” asked Xavier. “Do you think owning rights to souls increases their power, or do you think it’s a scare tactic meant to keep people in line?”
“No clue,” replied Wynter. “It might be a bit of both.”
“What do we think of Cain?” asked Delilah. “My opinion? He’s hot as fuck. Man, I’d like me some of that if he wasn’t one seriously scary dude. I was expecting ‘scary,’ after all Wynter told me about the Aeons and all the rumors we heard about the Ancients, but Cain still ruffled my fur.”
“My hackles rose just the same,” said Xavier.
Delilah slid her gaze to Wynter. “We gonna talk about how he eye-fucked you?”
Nope, not at all. Casually forking some scrambled eggs, Wynter said, “There was no eye-fucking.”
Xavier grinned. “Oh, there was. I’m not sure that’s a good thing, given he’s an Ancient, but you definitely had his attention. You once warned me that the Aeons were very removed and didn’t really see mortals. I didn’t get what you meant until we walked into that parlor yesterday. Cain’s the same.”
Pausing, Xavier gestured at himself, Anabel, and Delilah as he added, “He saw us, spoke to us, listened to us, but he didn’t focus on us anymore than he’d have focused on a speck of dust. We didn’t really register on his radar. You, however … you he saw.”
Unease settled in Wynter’s gut. Not merely because she had an Ancient’s attention, but because part of her stupidly liked it. Hey, she’d have to be dead not to be attracted to Cain. But he was everything she shouldn’t want in a guy—dark, dangerous, pitiless. Sadly, her hormones didn’t give a crap about that.
Anabel bit her lip. “Do you think he might have sensed that you’re not simply a witch?”
“If he did, he doesn’t know exactly what I am,” said Wynter. “He’d have turned me away if that were the case. Or killed me. Whichever.” She paused. “On a whole other note, we need to go job hunting.”
Delilah looked at the wall clock. “Yes, we do. And soon.”
Anabel cringed, her fingers flexing. “I-I don’t know if I can. There are so many people, and I haven’t been able to mentally map the place out yet. I want some time to settle in first.”
Wynter touched her arm. “That’s fine. You can watch over Hattie and keep her out of trouble.” She frowned at the sound of voices yelling outside.
Anabel froze, her eyes widening. “Who’s that?”
Wynter sighed. “Seems like our dear neighbors aren’t opposed to screaming at each other first thing in the morning.”
Delilah slipped off her chair and walked into the living room. “They also apparently aren’t opposed to having a standoff outside our front gate. They’ve noticed me watching them and don’t even care. Assholes.”
“I’d rather not make enemies of two lycan packs, so we’re going to have to handle this the smart way.” Wynter looked at Anabel. “Do you have enough ingredients to get working on some potions that might help?”
The blonde nodded. “I brought plenty in my bag.”
The back door opened with a creak, and Hattie padded inside. “What’s with the shouting?”
“Lycans are arguing outside,” Delilah explained, returning to the kitchen.
Hattie hmphed. “An old woman should be able to enjoy a joint in peace. The damn book wrecked me, ending on a cliffhanger like that. And the heroine forgave the hero far too easily, in my opinion. She should have made him plead for forgiveness. I like a good, long grovel.” She hefted herself onto a chair. “All my husbands groveled.”
Delilah shot her a look. “Was this before or during the slow, excruciating deaths they endured courtesy of the ‘special teas’ you gave them?”
“During, mostly,” Hattie replied.
Wynter smiled, shaking her head. It was hard to believe that the sweet, fragile-looking woman had ever harmed a single soul. “Well, let’s go job hunting.”
When she walked out of the house soon after, the lycans had stopped arguing but were standing in their own front yards exchanging snarls. Their predatory gazes shot to Wynter, Delilah, and Xavier—none of whom did anything more than spare them cursory glances. Wynter would deal with the lycans later. For now, she had more important shit to do.
She wished the others good luck on their job-hunting adventures and then made her way toward Cain’s Keep, enjoying the feel of the artificial sun’s warmth on her skin. She couldn’t see much of the Keep, thanks to the stone, fortified walls that surrounded both it and the bailey. Stark and imposing, the walls had integrated bastions and watch towers.
Plenty of people passed her; none so much as tipped their chin her way. They merely stared, openly curious. She didn’t get the sense that they were being rude. It was more like they were reserving judgment for the time being. Well, all right.
She walked through the arched opening in the stark walls and then found herself in the bailey. A courtyard lay in the center. Workshops, barns, and stables were on the right. Some sort of quarters were situated on the left, along with a brewery, a bakehouse, and—aha—the blacksmith’s shop.
Ahead of it all sat the Keep. Unlike the curtain wall, it was constructed of black, medieval stone. Tall and intimidating, it loomed above all. Stained-glass windows—some small and square, some narrow and rectangular—dotted the stone edifice. It might have looked grim and gothic if each stone didn’t shimmer with power.
The sight was as impressive as the dude who called it his home.
She wasn’t gonna think about him, though. Getting her mind back on track, she crossed to the blacksmith’s shop. It was small and hot, and the air was thick with the scents of molten iron and coal. Workbenches, forges, and other large equipment were scattered around. There were tools just … everywhere.
One side of the shop was wall-to-wall with weaponry—small, big, modern, medieval. Her mouth fell open. There was everything she could think of. Cutlasses, brass knuckles, claymores, long-swords, pickaxes, hatchets, crossbows, sledgehammers, javelins—it was all there.
God, she thought she might come.
Rafe would love the collection. He’d made her learn how to dodge and even snatch weapons before he’d ever allowed her to use one. As a child, she’d had to seize a dagger from him over and over and over in the space of an hour.
Studying the weapons in front of her, she didn’t notice any runes or flecks of power ground into the blades. None were enchanted, then. Something she could easily change.
“Who are you?” a gruff voice demanded.
She turned to see a stout male glaring at her like she’d pissed in his shoes. Well, this was off to a good start.
The monster inside her raised its head slightly and eyed him carefully. Like her, it sensed that he was a berserker—an elite preternatural warrior whose race was all but extinct. Still, her monster wasn’t intimidated; it settled back down, intending to merely observe.
“Wynter,” she finally replied. “I’m guessing you’re Grouch.” She held out her hand. He only sneered at it.
“What do you want, witch?”
She lowered her arm. “A job. Here.”
“Here?” He burst out laughing, scratching his belly. “If you tell me you’re a smithy, you’re nothing but a liar. You ain’t got the muscle for it.”
“I’m not a smithy, but I can improve your weapons. Make them … unique.”
A broad-shouldered female who bore a slight resemblance to him strolled into the shop. “Pop, Dina says she ain’t got … Who the fuck is this bitch?”
Oh, these two were simply charming.
He laughed again. “You won’t believe this, Annette. Winifred over here wants to work for us. Says she can improve our weaponry.”
The female let out a derisive snort. “We don’t need no witch working for us. There’s a strip club up on the surface. Why don’t you go see if they’re hiring?” With that, they both turned away, dismissing her. Annette headed to one of the workbenches while Grouch crossed to the forge.
Wynter sighed long and loud. “Hmm. Such a shame you want to lose custom. But hey, I get it if you’re overworked. It happens.”
Grouch’s head snapped up. “Lose custom? You threatening to hex my shop?”
She frowned. “Who said anything about hexing?”
He grabbed a sword hanging from a peg and advanced on her fast, pointing it at her chin. “Witch, you fucking dare—” He jerked back as she conjured her own sword and blocked his move. His face went slack as his eyes landed on her weapon. “What in the love of God?”
Annette sidled up to him, staring at the sword. “Is that … ?”
“Black glass? Yes.” Wynter angled it so that the light danced along its length. “There’s nothing delicate about it, though. It’s more durable than iron and sharper than any blade.”
Grouch licked his lips. “I’ll buy it from ya.”
“It’s not for sale,” said Wynter.
“What are those runes on it?” asked Annette.
Wynter gave her a hard smile. “Don’t you worry about those.” She ‘sent’ her sword back to its sheath in the cottage. “You two have a good day now.” She strode off. Fuck them. There were other blacksmith shops. She could try those. She would.
She did.
And each time, it went almost as badly as it did with Grouch. There was laughing and sneering and an outright refusal to hear what she meant by ‘improving’ their weapons.
Figuring any job would do, she sought out others and talked to several shop managers. All turned her away. And she concluded that there really were too many assholes in this world.
It wasn’t merely that they’d been rude. It was that they’d once been in her position. They’d once been newcomers here, looking for work. People had obviously taken a chance on them, and yet they wouldn’t give another newcomer that same chance.
Wynter headed to the surface of the town and searched for work there. She found none. She did, however, realize that someone was following her. The feeling hit her mere milliseconds before a very familiar breeze fluttered over her in warning.
Wynter didn’t look back. She continued to walk casually along the path of the plaza. She stopped near the mouth of an alley, feigning being lost, and then began to walk down the aforementioned alley in search of an exit.
She’d reached the large barbed fence at the rear of it when she heard the heel of a shoe scuffing the pavement. She turned and found herself facing a bulky male with a mean scar slicing diagonally from his hairline to an eyebrow.
She jutted out her chin, going for belligerent. “Problem?”
He smirked. “Not anymore. I’ve been looking for you for some time. And now I have you.”
The monster within her woke from its slumber and studied their enemy. Wynter would rather not free it here. Anyone could walk past the alley and see too much—she couldn’t risk that. Sending it telepathic images, she showed it what she had in mind for this asshole, knowing from past experience that the bloodthirsty entity was occasionally happy to watch.
As he took a step toward her, she said, “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Oh, you think I’m here to collect on the bounty? I am. Kind of. You see, you’re wanted alive. But a mage has offered me yet more money to instead kill you. I’ll never turn down more cash.”
Irritation surged through her. She really should have executed the families of her killers long ago.
“He also wants me to make it hurt.” Wicked fast, the male witch raised his hand and let out a gust of magick that sliced at her skin, sharp as a scalpel.
Fucking ow. Ignoring the pain, Wynter struck with her own magick. Toxic and scorching hot, it lashed his face and neck, leaving deep welts that sizzled like meat on a grill.
He retaliated fast while chanting under his breath, blasting her with blue fire. She jerked back, but the cold flames seared her lips and chin. Oh, this fucker was going down.
She whacked him with a heavy surge of magick that sent him colliding into a dumpster. Even as he slid to the floor, he hit her with blue fire again, but he hadn’t moved fast enough—she’d already called to her sword and angled it just right so that the blade deflected the flames.
Then she was on him.
She could have made this quick, but … nah. She jammed her thumb against a bleeding welt on his face and sent a dart of magick straight into his bloodstream.
He cried out as an inky blackness slicked its way up his veins. His skin paled and softened at first, looking almost papery. But soon, it became red and swollen and veiny. He cursed in shock and pain as blood blisters formed over his body; some burst, giving off a cloying rank smell.
What happened next … yeah, it’d make anyone queasy. His flesh began to blacken. Dry up. Peel. Decay. The rotting magick ate at his body, including his lips, making his mouth look like an obscene hole in his face. His teeth cracked and crumbled, and two of his withered extremities fell off.
The otherworldly breeze that had earlier carried a warning now danced over Wynter’s skin, humming with approval. Similarly, the monster within her settled once more, satisfied with how she’d handled the situation.
Just as the inky blackness in his veins reached the witch’s scalp, his eyes darted to the side of her now-burning face and widened almost comically.
Knowing her mark was visible, Wynter gave him a bright smile. “Yeah, you went and fucked up. I could have killed you quickly but, as you can now see, making people hurt … well, it’s what I’m built for.” And so she waited for the life to fade from his eyes before she sliced off his head.
*
Walking up the path toward the cottage a short while later, Wynter puffed out a breath. Dealing with the male witch had been … well, fun, to be honest. But it hadn’t exactly improved her day, considering she’d failed to find work. Figuring the job-seeking was a waste of time, she’d decided to head home after using one of Anabel’s nifty potions to disintegrate the witch’s body. Wynter had used a separate potion to heal her wounds.
The blonde insisted on them carrying ‘evidence ridding potions,’ paranoid that death would come for them any moment and that they’d need to cover their asses. It was at times like this when Wynter was glad of it.
Strolling into the cottage, she found both Delilah and Xavier slouched on the plush sofa. “Any luck?”
Delilah pulled a face. “Nu-uh. I went to all the herbalist stores. None of the witches want an outsider working for them, and they were seriously snarky. I almost had to smack a bitch down.”
Xavier rubbed at his nape. “The witches I spoke to were just as reluctant to hire an outsider. I asked about the job opening in a bar on the surface, but the mage who ran it said I’d have to join his conclave—apparently, they’ll take in any magick user.”
Delilah pulled at her curls. “I tried applying for other jobs—waitressing, bartending, stuff like that. No joy. People were like, ‘We don’t know you or the Priestess who’d vouch for you, so no.’”
“Some said the same to me,” said Xavier. “Hell, I couldn’t even get a position as a stable hand unless I’d agree to work three months for free while they ‘got to know me.’”
“You know about horses?” asked Delilah.
His face softened. “Used to have one back when I was a kid.”
“No, not really.”
Delilah flapped her arms. “Then why say it? Why lie?”
“Maybe I just like to hear myself speak.”
Wynter sank into the armchair. “I had no luck finding employment either, and I’m not getting the sense that that will change anytime soon. So … I guess we could each do what we usually do to make money. Only this time, we join together and start an official business. We could run the whole thing from home, since we now have a permanent base.”
Xavier sat up straighter. “Now that’s an idea.”
Delilah nodded. “Hattie and Anabel would be up for it. Especially since it means they won’t have to leave the cottage.”
“Some of the local business owners might not be too happy,” began Xavier, “but since a lot of them were rude as fuck to me today, I can’t say I care.”
No, neither could Wynter. Mentally running through everything they’d need, she asked him, “Do you still have that tent you often held your tarot readings in?”
His mouth curved. “I do. I could pitch it in the yard whenever I do readings.” He dabbled in cartomancy, and he was damn good at it. It was the one time you could guarantee he wouldn’t lie to you. “Where would you do your thing?”
She twisted her mouth. “The shed in the backyard might work. Anyone know if it’s empty?”
“Never checked.” Xavier stood. “Let’s go find out.”
Outside, they pulled open the wooden shed door. Dust motes danced in the air, and the scents of rust, dirt, and sun-warmed wood greeted her. She ignored all that and studied the building. It wasn’t too small or cramped, which was good. It also wasn’t in bad condition.
Yes, she could use this. It would need a good clean, of course, but Anabel could whip up a brew that was better than any bleach. First, though, Wynter would need to empty the shed. That wouldn’t take long, since only the most basic backyard tools were stuffed inside it.
Before she got started on all that, though … “We need to run this plan by the others and make sure we’re right in thinking that they’ll both be up for this,” she said, turning back to the cottage.
“They’ll be up for it,” said Xavier, following her. “You know … I don’t have to stick with just card readings.”
Sensing where this was going, Wynter shook her head. “No.”
He frowned. “People like talking to the dead. They pay good money for it.”
“No.” Because, while Xavier had mastered the ability to communicate with spirits, he needed to use a conduit to speak with them. And that conduit was always a corpse. “We’re not storing dead bodies in our yard.”
“Why not? They don’t smell that bad.”
“Ugh, yeah, they do. Also, they freak people out. And the lycans will whine like babies, since their enhanced sense of smell will be tortured by the stench. So, no mediumship.”
He huffed. “Fine.”
“And no holding false seances either.”
“Oh, come on.”
Halting, Wynter turned to face him with a sigh. “Remember we talked about right and wrong? Well, conning people into thinking you’re communicating with their loved ones is not anyone’s definition of ‘right.’”
“My clients always walk away happy. Isn’t that what’s important?”
“No, Xavier, it’s not.” She jabbed a finger toward him. “No seances.” With that, she headed into the cottage via the back door.
In the kitchen, she gathered them all together and ran the plan past Hattie and Anabel. Both were up for it. Anabel loved the idea of hanging in the kitchen all day doing what she did best and, in the process, being able to avoid people. Hattie adored feeding others and hearing they enjoyed her food. Mostly, though, she loved the idea of making her own money so she could feed her book addiction.
Wynter turned to Delilah. “Make a list of all the ingredients you guys are going to need. Then I’ll need you to go shopping.”
Delilah’s lips curved. “Shopping is one of the things I do best.”
“First, well, you should know that a male witch just tried to kill me.”
“A male witch just tried to what?”
*
Although he heard footfalls approaching, Cain didn’t look up and wait for his visitor to come into view. He kept his gaze fixed on the sleek black serpent that slowly slithered along the ground near his feet, its unblinking eyes locked on him.
Maxim cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to intrude, Sire, I know you did not wish to be disturbed. But the oracle wishes to speak with you. She says it’s important.”
Cain felt his lips begin to flatten. “How important?” Because Demetria’s definition of that particular word didn’t always cohere with his own.
“She insisted you will want to hear this.”
Inwardly sighing, Cain finally looked up. “Then I suppose you should escort her to me.”
The aide hesitated. “She doesn’t like the garden, Sire. The snakes make her nervous.”
“I know.”
Maxim’s lips quirked and he shook his head. “I’m not sure I’ll ever understand why you find people’s fear so amusing.” He turned on his heel and disappeared down the twisting path.
Careful not to step on the serpent now slinking around his feet, Cain crossed to the wrought-iron bench and sat. A white satin moth fluttered past him and settled on the moss-covered wall ruin. Fatal mistake. He could see the head of yet another snake peeking through the wall’s arched, glassless window; it hadn’t failed to notice the insect.
Cain cricked his neck, his mood a little less black than it had been when he first entered the garden. There had been no trigger for the change in his mood. But, then, there never was. It simply happened. And he’d known it would be best for him to not be around others until the dark cloud passed.
The sooner he hit the reboot button, the better. But not until all his ducks were in a row. And definitely not until he’d coaxed Wynter into his bed. It wasn’t as if he could afford to wait. Being mortal, she’d no longer be alive when he next woke. The thought … it bothered him.
He’d never envied mortals their short lifespan. No, they had their own version of immortality—their souls returned again and again. Cain’s kind? Once they were dead, they were dead. And since he had no wish to quite simply cease to exist, he didn’t begrudge the curses of immortality. Especially when Resting gave him a much needed reprieve whenever necessary. The aftermath could be annoying, though—waking to new faces, catching up on all he’d missed, seeing so many changes around him. It could be disorientating.
Well, disoriented was far better than the dark state of mind he continually found himself in lately. Being here helped. Few people ever bothered him when he was in his garden. Mostly because the place wasn’t exactly safe. Nor was it all that welcoming.
A lot of people didn’t understand how he could relax here. Personally, he didn’t understand why bright, attractive gardens were considered peaceful. But then, people tended to equate beauty with goodness when, in truth, the two didn’t always go together.
Soon, Maxim reappeared with the oracle in tow. The tall, Hispanic woman was one of the residents who’d sold her soul to Cain. It was longevity she’d craved, terrified of aging; hating each wrinkle that already lined her face. Really, the red mark on her cheek detracted from the blemishes. It was a mark that said she was Favored by a particular deity. In her case, it was Nemesis. Any witches Favored by Her would receive precognitive visions from the deity, hence why they were referred to as oracles.
Right then, Demetria’s brown gaze nervously darted around. A delicate shudder rushed down her spine as she spotted a python dangling from a thick tree branch.
Cain felt a smile warm his chest. If she had any clue what lived inside him, she would not find those serpents so terrifying in comparison.
Sliding her eyes to him, she bowed slightly. “Sire.”
“Demetria,” he greeted. “What brings you here? For your sake, I hope it truly is as important as you insinuated.”
“It is, I assure you of that.” She waited until Maxim had left before moving closer and adding, “Something … something is wrong.”
“Wrong how?”
“My gift is failing me.” She twiddled her fingers. “I feel that something is coming. I cannot tell if it is good or bad. I see nothing.”
He felt his eyes narrow. “Nothing at all?”
“No. That never happens when there is such urgency behind a feeling I have. A vision always accompanies it.” A shaky breath left her. “I consulted the bones. The reading confirmed that my gut is correct. But still, I see nothing. I believe I am being blocked.”
“By someone here?”
“I do not believe it is a person. More like a presence. A power. It is jamming the frequency of my gift. Purposely.”
He twisted his mouth. He hadn’t sensed any such presence. But then, if something was powerful enough to block an oracle, it was powerful enough to remain undetected. “When was the last time you had a vision of any sort?”
“Six days ago. It was nothing consequential.”
“And this feeling you got that something was coming … when did that hit you?”
“Yesterday morning. I didn’t report it to you straight away because I had hoped a vision would come to me if I waited. But it didn’t.” She sighed. “Being unable to see what lies ahead … it feels like I have been cut off from a part of myself. I worry that Nemesis has forsaken me.”
“I doubt it’s anything as dramatic as that. If it was, you would no longer have that mark on your face.”
“I tried reaching out to Her. She did not respond to my calls.”
Cain shrugged. “Deities tend to do as they please.” He pursed his lips. “We’ll keep an eye on the situation. It’s all we really can do.”
Swallowing, she nodded. “I will let you know if …” She trailed off at the sound of Maxim’s muted voice and the click-clacking of heels along the paving stones.
Cain barely resisted the urge to grind his teeth. He knew the rhythm of that walk. Knew exactly who was coming. And he wasn’t in the mood to deal with them.
Mere moments later, Ishtar sauntered into view, a furious Maxim close behind her.
She beamed at Cain. “Such a lovely afternoon, isn’t it?” She spared Demetria a disinterested glance.
Recognizing the female Ancient’s voice, the monster inside Cain opened one eye. At one time, it might have perked up in interest. Now, utterly indifferent to her presence, it allowed its eyelid to once more drift shut.
His cheeks red, Maxim looked at him. “I’m sorry, Sire, I explained that you had company but—”
“It is not you who needs to apologize,” Cain told him, a thread of menace in his voice.
Ishtar let out an airy chuckle. “I merely saw no reason why I couldn’t announce my own arrival. It seems silly when I’ve spent so much time here over the eras.”
No, she’d intruded because she’d wanted to know who his ‘company’ was and if said company was female. “You will apologize to Maxim.”
Ishtar stared at Cain for a long moment. “You are not serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious. You don’t get to be dismissive toward my hirelings. You don’t get to make their jobs difficult. You will treat them with respect, or you will not come here at all. Now, apologize to Maxim.”
Twin flags of red stained her cheeks as her cornflower-blue eyes bore into Cain, hard as diamonds. There was the smallest hint of arousal in their depths. She hated when he made any demands of her, but a part of her got off on it. Which was an annoyance for him, since he didn’t wish to have such an effect on her.
“Do it now, or leave,” he said.
Ishtar gave the aide a sickly sweet mockery of a smile. “I am so very, very sorry, Maximus. Yes, yes, that isn’t actually your name, but it suits you so much better than Maxim. Or Maxie could work, if you’re open to that.”
As apologies went, that was probably the best Maxim would get, even if there wasn’t a droplet of sincerity in it.
Demetria cleared her throat. “I will take my leave, Sire.” She inclined her head at Ishtar, who didn’t deign her a glance.
“Maxim will escort you out.” Once the two had disappeared down the path, Cain cut his gaze to Ishtar, his jaw hardening. “You go too far.”
“And you used to be more fun,” she shot back. She bent slightly, making her blonde ringlets tumble forward, as she smiled at a snake that zipped through the long grass. Cain inwardly snorted. If she thought she was subtle in her attempt to flash her cleavage, she was wrong.
She returned her focus to him. “You are obviously in a frightful mood, so I will not bother staying long. I came to see if perhaps you would like to escort me to the festivities tomorrow evening.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
She frowned. “Whyever not? It would give us a chance to catch up. We haven’t spoken much since I woke. We have arrived at events together before.”
“That was a very long time ago.”
“A time when we were … close, yes.”
They’d never really been ‘close.’ Not in an emotional sense, at least. Neither had ever cared for the other. What brought them together had been simple: He’d been attracted to the untamed passion for life she’d once had, and she’d enjoyed that he didn’t fall all over himself to please her the way so many other men did.
The trouble was that Ishtar wasn’t interested in an equal partnership, and Cain wasn’t interested in being a mere consort who obeyed her every directive. In that sense, their on-and-off relationship had been more of a battle for dominance. But it had given them both a reprieve from the relentless boredom that plagued every Ancient. For a while, anyway. He’d soon tired of it. Of her. Of things always ending the same way.
“It’s not a time in my life that I intend to repeat,” he told her. “I’ve been clear on that.”
“‘Rude’ is what you have been. And unnecessarily so.” She came closer, swaying her hips. “I have been asleep for over three centuries. Surely you missed me just a little.”
He sighed. “If you need someone to shine your ego, I suggest you find Solomon.”
She made a face. “He gives me my own way in everything. He does not push back or demand to be counted. Not like you. You always challenged me. I need that in a man. Need someone who is my equal.”
Cain gave her a bored look. “Do you really think I’m going to fall for this? It’s not like I fell for it last time you came to me swearing that you wanted a true partnership.” He’d almost laughed, recognizing it for the lie that it was.
“I do want us to be equals, I just do not know how to have a relationship like that. You could show me—”
“Why are you pushing this when there are dozens of men out there who’ll tell you exactly what you want to hear?”
“Because they do not know me. You might look down on me in some ways, but at least you know me. See me. Sometimes we just need to be seen. And you … you are the first person I thought of when I woke. The person I most looked forward to talking with. But you won’t even make time for me. You won’t even give us a chance.”
“And what would be the point, Ishtar? You like to be seen. Until you don’t. Until you want to pretend you’re not riddled with flaws and vulnerabilities like everyone else, and so you then lash out at the people closest to you to drive them away. I’m not signing up for that.”
“All I ever wanted—”
“Was me on a leash, just like the souls you own,” he finished. “That’s never going to happen.”
She studied him hard. “You are different than you were before I chose to Rest. You hear everything I am saying, but you are not touched by it, are you? It’s not even that you don’t care, it’s that you can’t.” She swallowed. “I remember that stage. Emotion often just slips right off you. It does not always take hold.” She took a step toward him. “You can talk to me, you know.” She sighed when he didn’t speak. “But you won’t, will you?”
No. She’d never been someone he confided in. Not even when they shared a bed.
“Have you ever really trusted anyone, Cain?”
“Yes.” Very few of those people hadn’t let him down.
Sorrow lined her face. “But I am not one of them, am I?”
“I’m not buying the oh-so sad act. You don’t trust me any more than I trust you.”
Her face went hard in an instant. “Fine.” She notched up her pointed chin. “If you change your mind about tomorrow evening, I will be at home.”
Yeah, and if he turned up to escort her anywhere, she’d sniff at him and declare that she’d already procured someone else to accompany her.
She flounced off, putting extra sway in her hips.
Unmoved, he looked away.
Maxim reappeared, his lips thin. “Again, Sire, I’m sorry that Ishtar—”
Cain waved off the unnecessary apology. “It’s fine, Maxim.” He stretched out his legs. “Tell me … where’s my new witch? The Priestess who insists she isn’t a Priestess.”
He blinked. “The Bloodrose coven moved into the cottage between the quarreling lycan packs, Sire. I heard …”
Maxim briefly averted his gaze. “Grouch has announced to one and all that she intends to hex his shop.”
“Hex his shop?”
“He refused to hire her, and she apparently made it clear that he would lose custom. I don’t believe she’d do as he claims, though,” Maxim quickly added.
“No, she’s smarter than that,” Cain agreed. A hex would have not only the berserkers turning on her but the town’s population reluctant to trust her. Wynter didn’t strike him as a person who’d recklessly make enemies or isolate her coven.
“She probably meant to do exactly what she’s done—rile him.”
“Perhaps.” Cain paused. “I wouldn’t have expected her to seek a job at a blacksmith’s shop.”
“Having spent twenty minutes with Wynter and her coven, I would say they’re the type of people who will do many things we won’t expect.”
“My gut would agree with you on that.” Cain pushed to his feet. “Bring her to me, Maxim.”
The aide stilled. “You’re not … you’re not going to discipline her, are you?”
“No, I don’t believe Grouch’s claims.” Cain felt a smile tug at his mouth. “But she doesn’t know that, does she?”
