Lucinda, Darkly Page 5

  “Princess Lucinda.”

  “Jory.” I nodded to the little demon. Asked politely, “Is Halcyon in residence?” He had better be after summoning me here.

  “Aye. He is waiting for you in the downstairs study.”

  My brows lifted. It was the room he used to conduct formal business while in residence. So. This was about an official matter.

  I stopped before a closed door at the end of the hallway. Knocking perfunctorily, I entered the simply furnished chamber. No need to try and impress: the power that filled the room was impressive enough. The ruler of the realm sat perusing some documents. He was plain like the room he inhabited, of average height and leanish build, with dark hair and eyes. He wore a simple shirt of white silk and black tailored pants, diamonds glinting discreetly from the cuffs, looking more elegant than handsome. A portrait of the High Lord, his father, hung above the mantel of the fireplace, the crackle of the flames from the burning hearth adding warmth and sound to the room.

  The portrait of the father above. The son sitting below. They looked almost identical except for the silver that burnished the High Lord’s temples, and the black shirt that he wore like his name, Blaec, which meant darkness. But whereas the High Lord’s skin was a deep bronze, the hue our skin would eventually attain if we existed long enough, Halcyon was golden skinned like I.

  The High Lord’s stamp was strong upon my brother’s face. His parentage would never be questioned, unlike mine.

  “You summoned me on official business?” I queried.

  “Lucinda,” Halcyon said, greeting me. He set down his pen and leaned back in his seat. “Yes, official business. Regrettably so. There is a Monère rogue that the High Council requests your assistance with.”

  I stiffened. “The rogue’s name?”

  Halcyon’s brows slanted upward. “The warrior’s name is Nico. Do you know him?”

  For one horrible moment I had feared they wanted Stefan. “No, I don’t know him. Nor do I wish to hunt him, poor bastard. Send another guardian.” If I returned to that other realm—to him—and with each passing day it seemed that I would, it would be for an entirely different reason. Stefan . . . he haunted my thoughts even now.

  “Would that I could. You have just returned. In this particular case, however, only you will do. He has settled into your province, and none of the Monère warriors tracking him dare enter into it.”

  Wise of them. I would not have tolerated any trespass lightly. “Is he causing trouble? Did he harm his Queen?”

  “No.”

  “Then if he is simply fleeing her and causing no problems, why don’t they just let him be?”

  “An oddly tolerant view of rogues you’ve suddenly developed, sister. Unfortunately, he’s chosen a bad time to take flight.”

  “I didn’t know there was a good time to do so,” I returned dryly.

  “A good time would have been anytime before Sandoor and his band of rogues upset the entire Monère society,” Halcyon replied.

  Sandoor had faked the death of his Queen and had held her captive for over ten years. An unheard of atrocity, breaking one of their greatest taboos. It had unsettled the whole Monèrian race, a delicately balanced matriarchal society built around their precious queens. Only queens could call down the life-renewing rays of the moon. And Mona Lisa had been the one to stumble upon this poor Queen and rescue her while liberating herself, sending ripples throughout their entire world. For a little Mixed Blood, she sure was shaking things up, above and below.

  “A bad time is now, just after this unfortunate occurrence,” Halcyon said, his hands folded together on top of the desk with his nails sharply displayed. “The rogue’s Queen demands his return, and the Council, in this case, supports her petition. They wish the rogue punished to serve as a public warning, and to reinforce the queens’ powers. No doubt so that mistreated warriors do not try to do a ‘Sandoor’ themselves.”

  Hunting a rogue would not have mattered to me before. But since meeting Stefan, I was more in sympathy with those who fled their queens. “Frankly, if they just treated their men better and found something other to do besides killing their most powerful warriors off, they would not have this problem.”

  “True,” he said. “Sadly what this Sandoor fellow did not only argues in favor of the current system, but the dead bastard’s set off a bloodbath that will likely not abate for years. Many powerful warriors will be slaughtered as a result of this. As a part of the Council, though, we have a duty to help reinforce their wishes and help them keep order.”

  “You are part of the Council, Halcyon, not I. You may have a duty, but I do not.”

  Halcyon just looked at me. I hated when he did that. So calm and reasonable.

  The High Lord had been one of Hell’s more civic-minded rulers, concerning himself not only with matters of this realm but of the one we had left behind. He had raised Halcyon in that tradition. Myself, I was generally more self-serving. My existence was easier that way. But in this matter, I yielded to my duty, unpleasant though the task had become. It seemed I had no other choice.

  “Very well,” I said. “I shall return this wayward rogue to his Queen.”

  And then . . . then I would go claim my own rogue.

  FIVE

  MY PROVINCE WAS in the human state of Arizona, sandwiched between the gorging Grand Canyon and the university town of Flagstaff. My territory was comprised of a handful of townships, the largest numbering a few thousand residents, the smallest, a few hundred, if even that. Located in the remote Arizona strip to the far north, dotted with canyons, plateaus, and volcanoes, it was a wilderness area that many travelers had yet to discover. Which suited me just fine.

  One traveler, though, was making himself quite at home at Smoky Jim’s, the bar-restaurant I had tracked him to. Finding him, in this case, had been ridiculously easy. Just listen for the slow, slow heartbeat. He was sprawled cozily back in his chair propped against the far wall, surveying the room like a lazy lion overlooking his domain. He didn’t look like a rogue . . . and, no, rogues don’t have a particular coloration or build. But one thing they were not was relaxed . . . happy, even. Those two words, for that matter, weren’t something that could be applied to Monère males in general, not once they had passed their puppy-fresh virgin state, that blissful time in life when first entering a queen’s bed.

  This one was far from a puppy or a virgin. He thrummed with power that could only come from years of Basking—a hundred years, at least—and years of mating with queens. If he had frequented less in his lady’s bed, been wisely doled out, as it were, for greater longevity, perhaps he might have even reached over two centuries of life, which would put him in his prime.

  He was neither the most handsome Monère male I’d ever seen nor the ugliest. More ruggedly attractive, with a square jaw and a bold, beaky nose, saved by plainness by stunning heather gray eyes fringed with long thick lashes, and hair as fair and bright as sunshine—that rarer, more coveted coloration among the more commonly dark-haired, dark-eyed Monère. But even the ugliest among us—there I go again . . . among the Monère, drew a human’s eyes. And he was no exception. Three women—three!—sat gathered around him, gazing adoringly at him as if he were their bright and shining sun. Hah! Not likely. He sat there beneficently soaking in their attention and spreading his own around, rubbing a dark Mexican flower’s shoulder, playing with a freckled redhead’s long curls, laughing richly at something his third companion said, a handsome Native American Indian woman.

  My brow winged up. How nice. An equal opportunity playboy. Then I frowned, pondering over his odd behavior. For it was odd for a Monère to act so comfortably in the company of humans, unafraid of drawing attention to himself. Odder still to lavish his attention on their women. Because Monère did not gain pleasure from sexually mating with humans. They were of a different chemistry, a different species. Their skin did not glow—yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking, but demon dead and Monère are alike enough to share pleasure, tha
t I knew for certain now. Not so with a human. Making love to one of them was, frankly, a tedious and unpleasant chore, usually forced upon a warrior if his queen desired business or monetary concessions from one of them, and usually requiring the aid of a potent aphrodisiac to stiffen that which needed stiffening. I smelled no such scent upon him. Why, then, was he troubling to be so charming to them?

  He laughed again and my eyes narrowed, feeling a distinct and growing irritation within me. He did not look like a rogue desperately running for his life. Not in the least. The bastard was clearly enjoying himself here in my town.

  I wondered if he had trespassed knowing who ruled this small province. Or had he stumbled into my sanctuary unknowingly, and then stayed when no warriors pursued him here? Had to be the latter; he could not have known who ruled here, for he was not scanning for the absence of a heartbeat or he would have noticed mine.

  Still, as seemingly relaxed as he was, he was alert enough to note my entry. His eyes widened appreciatively as he caught sight of me, and his lips curved upward, blossoming into a wide, flirtatious smile that issued a clear invitation: Come play with me.

  Nope, definitely didn’t know who I was.

  Another rogue who thought me human. It was becoming almost tedious. And this one was acting like the Goddess’s gift to women. Who the Darkness did he think he was? Powerful though he was, he was no Warrior Lord, ruler of his own lands.

  That inviting smile settled it. It was off with the gloves, literally. Not what I had originally planned, but it would serve the same purpose of getting him outside where I could take him. The other options were to wait for him to leave or lure him out. His human harem, and the smile he had still aimed my way, greedy bastard, decided me on a more quick, direct route.

  Yes, I’d be happy to play with him.

  I met those lovely gray eyes, held them. Let a sweet, savage smile shape my lips. Let heat burn in my own eyes. Heat that glowed in anticipation of the coming hunt.

  I stroked the leathery tip of my glove across the lower fullness of my lip. Pushed it inside my mouth with tantalizing slowness. Circled my red mauve lips around it, and sucked it in deeper. Across the room I heard his lungs expand in a deep, involuntary breath. Heard his heartbeat pick up. And I issued a soft hum of pleasure, the barest sound, but one he heard. The black centers of his eyes grew, expanding like dark flowers unfurling their bloom at night. His hands stilled, as if he had forgotten the human flesh he was touching, stroking.

  I opened my encircling lips and set my teeth delicately on the leather tip, and gently . . . and not so gently . . . tugged, pulled, and nipped as if something else was at the portal of my mouth. Slowly, I removed the leather glove, unveiling increment by increment the golden nude skin of my hand. A teasing disrobing as if I were uncovering more than just my glove. Off it finally came. It took him several seconds before he focused on what had been revealed.

  I knew the exact moment when he finally took note of my long, sharp nails. When his heart stuttered a beat then sped up to match that of his human companions. When his face, which had slackened as he had watched the play of my lips and teeth, lost that easy con-geniality and became as hard as granite. I knew then that he was focused fully upon me, and that he saw me not as a woman, but as a hunter.

  His power flared out over me, seeking, searching, testing mine. Meeting only that faint, barely there presence that those who came from Hell emitted. Noticing, finally, that no life-pumping organ beat within my chest, that no air filled and emptied my lungs. Unless I deliberately chose to do so, as I did now . . . to smell and taste his fear, and roll it on the back of my tongue.

  “Run,” I whispered, soft enough that no one else heard me. No one but him.

  Deliberately, he removed his hands from all that feminine pulchritude, and pushed back his chair, an unhurried controlled moment.

  “Ladies,” he said, his face calm, his eyes locked upon mine. “Forgive me but I must leave you now.”

  Truer words than they realized. All had noticed where his attention rested. Correctly concluding that he was leaving because of me, but utterly wrong in their assumption of why. He watched me now because he was afraid of taking his eyes off me. Because I could strike that fast and take him out, though I would not. Not here in front of so many human witnesses. We both knew that. We both still played by the rules. Yet he did not leave me unwatched. Prudent of him. Not as dumb as he had first seemed.

  “Don’t go, Nicky,” the Mexican flower pleaded, grabbing his hand as he stood up.

  He turned his palm and brought her brown hand up to his lips, lightly kissing the back of it. A gesture that almost made the recipient swoon, I observed. I smiled with a soft curl of my lips, tinged with both amusement and disgust.

  “I’m sorry but I must,” he murmured, a pleasing Continental lilt to his words. “Thank you, ladies, for your delightful company.”

  Then he was walking boldly toward me, and past me, as human men parted way for him. He strode out the front door, with me right behind. The muttered comment of one of those men sounded softly in our ears. “Lucky bastard.”

  “For a time,” Nico murmured. “For a brief, lovely time.”

  SIX

  THE DEMON DEAD—shocking to think of it as a her—walked beside Nico until the din and noise of Smoky Jim’s faded. He felt as if he were towering over her, and he was not an unusually tall man. On the shorter side, actually. But she was so small.

  No matter the size, though, it was clear who was the hunter, and who was to be the hunted. By mutual consensus, they headed for the dark woods opposite the crowded, well-lit parking lot, fading like shadows into the leafy darkness, both of them natural predators of the night.

  Nico’s heart pounded but his resolve did not waver even though he cursed himself for a fool. A woman! Dear Goddess, she was a woman when he had been expecting a man. And a beautiful, stunning woman, at that, so lush and so tiny. Still, what did it really matter? She had to be powerful, more powerful than he, or she would not be here.

  When they had treaded far enough into the forest, he stopped. “If your offer is still open, milady, I would like to take you up on it.” His words fractured the tense silence, although the tension was more on his part. She seemed just . . . eager. Which was actually good for him. She wanted a true hunt or she would have taken him already.

  Her dark chocolate eyes flashed at him in the rich, silvery moonlight. The near perfect roundness of their mother planet shone over them in benefic glory, bringing tears to Nico’s eyes; making his heart yearn unexpectedly for an anguished moment. A full moon had recently passed, the traditional time for Basking. One he had missed yet again.

  No more would its renewing rays dart like quicksilver into him, making his skin glow, making his senses tingle and feel so alive. So blessedly alive! No more would a queen call down its rays and share them with him, for he no longer belonged to any queen.

  Nico wanted to lift his eyes one last time to the glorious round orb, their source of life and power, but dared not take his eyes from her. He would die, yes. But he did not want to die too soon or too easily. A matter of pride for him. Silly, perhaps. But precious when that was all he had left. No home, no queen, no brothers. Not even this precious human haven anymore.

  “What offer? And do not call me ‘milady’ when I am not,” the demon snapped. But even when the tone was hard and unhappy, her voice was as rich and softly sensuous as her body, her face, that striking hair that gleamed like metallic gold in the silvery darkness. When death came for you, Nico thought with an odd pang, it should not be this beautiful.

  “To run. That is what you wish, is it not? A chase, a true hunt.” With effort, he pulled a light, mocking smile onto his face, hiding how effectively she had already shattered him. He wanted this chance. Dear Goddess, how he wanted it. One last chance at life. At escape.

  She turned, gazed upon him fully then. “Yes,” she purred, and deliberately removed the remaining glove, dropped it to the ground, stretch
ed out her fingers. Curled them into claws. Her teeth flashed ivory white, lethally sharp, as she smiled at him, fangs fully extended, her dark eyes growing almost black in her excitement, her anticipation. “Run.”

  He ran. For his very life, for his freedom. As if a demon chased behind him. And one did . . . one truly did. He sprang full out, leaping with that inhuman strength and graceful speed all children of the moon were born with. A fast blur springing into the forest, dodging trees, jumping over bushes, flowing around obstacles with instinctive ease, with swift silence. Behind him, she followed without sound: no rustling of leaves, no cracking of twigs, no heartbeat thundering in his ears, no breath, no life, no emotion when he felt bursting with it.

  She tackled him in midair, slamming him down hard upon the shrub-covered ground, sending birds screeching into the air at the sudden graceless disturbance. Yes, she was strong. But still, greater strength notwithstanding, she was smaller, lighter than he. With a writhing twist, a hand and knee carefully placed, Nico sent her soaring over him, using her own coiled momentum to throw her off him. He sprang away and ran with every ounce of strength, every force of his will, a part of him sure he could not possibly escape her, another part still hoping. A terrible thing that can be—hope. You never knew how strong that flickering emotion was until it was fully extinguished.

  Nico flowed, almost floated over the ground, cutting through the air, so free. A last taste of freedom, of life, and then he—it—all came crashing down again. She brought him harshly down to Earth with slamming reverberation. His arm was twisted back in a joint lock, her left hand grabbing his hair, arching his head back. “Play-time’s over. Yield.”

  “No,” Nico grated and fought with the madness, the desperation of no hope at all. He bucked and twisted, tried to roll her off, unable to, fighting with despair, with the bitter dredges of dashed hope.

  Agonizing pain shot through him as she jerked his arm up to the point of breaking, stopping and teetering there on that painful edge. “You have lost. Yield.”