“Of course not.” As if Styx would trust the word of any fey. Let alone the King of Fey. “Sariel is convinced that Cyn kidnapped his daughter and that I’m helping them remain hidden. He planted that annoying twit in my house to spy on me.”
Viper looked hopeful. “Did you want me to kill him?”
“Hell, no.” Styx shoved himself away from the desk, his power filling the room with an icy chill. “If anyone is going to kill the prissy pain in the ass it’s going to be me. Unfortunately I’m not prepared to start a war with the fairies, no matter how tempting.”
“Ah.” Viper flashed a smile. “Then you invited me to chain you to the dungeon wall so you don’t do anything stupid?” He offered a mocking bow. “My pleasure, Your Majesty.”
“You can shove that ‘Your Majesty’ up your ass,” Styx growled.
His people knew just how badly he hated any symbol of authority. Well, except for his big-assed sword that could cut through an ogre with one swipe.
The one sure way to grate on his nerves was to call him by some stupid title.
Viper’s smile widened. “Fine. What do you need from me then?”
“Nectar.”
“Nectar?” The clan chief waited for the punch line. When Styx merely studied him with growing impatience, he gave a shake of his head. “What kind of nectar?”
“How the hell should I know?” Styx made a sound of disgust. “The stupid prince keeps bleating about some nectar that is essential to his survival.”
“He’ll die without it?” Viper shrugged. “Problem solved.”
Styx shook his head. After a week of enduring Magnus’s moans and groans, he was ready to stake himself.
“Not if I have to listen to him complaining until he finally croaks.” Styx shuddered. “I just want to shut him up.”
Viper moved to stand near the windows that offered a stunning view of the moon-drenched rose garden.
“Understandable. No one likes a whiny fey. But I’m not sure why you called me.” He turned back to send Styx a puzzled frown. “I don’t have any nectar.”
“You have clubs that cater to the fey.”
“And?”
Styx swallowed a growl of annoyance. Viper was obviously in no mood to be helpful. No doubt it had something to do with being taken away from his beautiful mate.
“And at least one of them must have some damned nectar,” Styx snarled.
Viper pulled his phone from his pocket, accepting that Styx wasn’t going to allow him to leave until he had what he wanted.
“I suppose I could check around.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
With a grimace, the silver-haired vampire began contacting his various managers that ran his chain of demon bars. Styx didn’t doubt at least one of them would have what he needed.
Viper’s clubs were notorious for satisfying the desires of his guests. No matter how outrageous those desires might be.
“Got it,” he at last muttered, glancing at Styx. “Tonya has a fresh batch.”
Thank the gods.
“Tell her to bring it.”
“Now?” Viper scowled, a businessman to his very soul. “The club—”
“Now.”
Viper rolled his eyes. “Bring what you have to the Anasso’s lair,” he commanded the beautiful imp who was in charge of his club a hundred miles south of Chicago. “But don’t try to travel directly into the estate,” he warned. Styx had a layer of barriers wrapped around his home to prevent magic. He had a lethal dislike for unwanted guests popping in. “You’ll have to stop at the edge of the estate and wait for an escort to bring you inside.”
Styx reached behind him to punch a button that opened the intercom to his security team, warning them to expect the imp.
When he turned back, Viper had put away his phone and was adjusting the lacy cuffs of his ridiculous shirt.
“Have you had any word from Cyn?”
“Nothing.”
Styx felt a familiar stab of frustration. When Roke had informed him that the clan chief of Ireland had disappeared along with the Chatri princess, Styx had assumed that they would turn up within a few hours. There were few women who wouldn’t leap at the chance to spend some time alone with the charming vampire. But as the days, and then weeks passed, the mildly annoying incident had turned into a looming disaster. The Chatri were the ruling class of the fey and if they decided that the vampires had insulted their king, they could make things very unpleasant.
He gave a sharp shake of his head.
“If Cyn has returned to this dimension he’s remaining well hidden.”
Viper shook his head. “I know Cyn. He can be impulsive—”
“He’s a damned maniac,” Styx muttered, recalling the night the clan chief had released a herd of cows in King James’s palace. It’d caused a near riot.
“But he would never kidnap a fairy princess,” Viper insisted.
“Unless she wanted to be kidnapped,” Styx pointed out.
“If that was the case then he wouldn’t remain in hiding. He would confront Sariel head-on, not skulk in the shadows.”
“I agree.” Styx grimaced. “He’s never been subtle.”
“Which means he’s in trouble.”
Trouble.
It was a word that he’d heard too often over the past year.
Was it really too much to ask that he have one damned week without some disaster lurking?
“I have my Ravens searching for him,” he said. “Between them and the fey there’s no rock that will be left unturned. And once I have my hands on whoever is responsible”—his power made the electricity flicker—“there will be hell to pay.”
“Yes, there will be, no matter who is responsible for kidnapping the princess,” a male voice drawled from the doorway.
Styx’s fangs lengthened, aching for the opportunity to drain the idiot who waltzed into the library as if he owned the place.
Prince Magnus was exactly what you would expect of a pure-blooded fey.
His long hair shimmered like the finest rubies in the light from the chandelier. His brow was wide, his nose a thin, noble blade, and his lips lushly carved. And his eyes were the color of cognac and rimmed with gold.
Tonight he’d put aside his usual flowing gown encrusted with jewels to wear a pair of black slacks and a jade green silk shirt, revealing his surprisingly muscular body.
A humorless smile twisted Styx’s lips. The clothes had changed, but the outrageous arrogance was the same.
Viper moved to stand at Styx’s side. “I presume this is Magnus?”
The Chatri lightly touched the large emerald pendant that was hung around his neck, the intoxicating scent of finely aged whiskey filling the room.
“Prince Magnus,” the fey corrected, his expression pinched as if he had a corn cob stuck up his ass.
Styx wondered if his expression would be the same if it was a size thirteen boot stuck up there.
Viper smiled, deliberately exposing his fangs. “The last royal I met ended up as my dessert.”
The pale, elegant features hardened, hinting at a dangerous power hidden behind the fey’s pretense of namby pamby stupidity.
“I do not fear you, vampire,” he said.
Viper tapped the tip of his fang with his tongue. “Then you’re even more stupid than you look.”
“Enough,” Styx interrupted, not entirely pleased by the suspicion that Prince Magnus wasn’t quite the harmless fribble he’d first assumed. “What do you want now?”
The prince sniffed, once again a harmless, aggravating pain in the ass.
“I smelled imp,” he said.
Styx belatedly caught the scent of plums at the same time that Viper glanced in his direction.
“He’s right. Tonya’s here.”
“Thank God for portals,” Styx muttered, lifting a hand as the female imp appeared in the doorway. “Enter.”
A hum of male appreciation buzzed in the air as the tall woman with lush curves and a stunnin
g mane of dark red hair sashayed across the carpet. Tonya was the sort of imp that could make any demon rejoice at being a male.
It was more than her pale, perfect skin and slanted emerald eyes. It was the blatant sensuality that oozed from her, enticing and provoking the male senses.
“You wanted nectar,” she murmured, holding up a jar that contained a pale gold liquid.
Styx nodded toward the man standing near the marble fireplace.
“It’s for him.”
“Who . . .” The imp turned, her flirtatious expression freezing as she caught sight of the Chatri prince. “Oh.”
“Well?” Magnus snapped his fingers. “Bring it to me, imp.”
“Yes.” Clearly bedazzled by the fey, Tonya obediently headed toward Magnus.
Waiting until she was standing directly in front of him, Magnus took the jar from her hand and sniffed at the golden liquid.
“Pedestrian,” he muttered. “But I suppose it will have to do.” Setting the nectar on the mantel, he turned his attention to the enthralled female. “Why are you not on your knees?”
Viper made a choked sound. “Oh hell.”
Tonya blinked, as if coming out of a spell. “Excuse me?”
“You are a lesser fey,” Magnus informed her, his superior tone enough to make any demon consider the pleasure of kicking him in the nuts. “You should be on your knees when in the presence of your master.”
The emerald eyes widened; the scent of scorched plums making Styx rub his nose.
“Master?”
“I am Prince Magnus.” The idiot gave a wave of his hand. “Bow before me.”
“How about I do this instead?” the imp said, pulling back her arm before punching the prick directly in the nose. Viper shrugged as the prince cursed in pained disbelief. Turning his head, he met Styx’s amused gaze.
“He really did ask for it.”
Styx chuckled. “I think I just found my fey liaison.”
Cyn unrolled the fragile scroll with a practiced care that would have surprised most people.
They only saw the wild berserker who would destroy anyone who threatened his clan. Or the impulsive hedonist who reveled in sensual pleasures.
His love for history was a hobby that he shared with very few.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice reverent.
“It was presented to the Commission as a gift.”
Cyn caught the scent of musty linen and charcoal as he studied the delicate hieroglyphs sketched on the scroll.
“Presented by whom?”
“No one can recall.”
Hmm. That was odd. His gaze skimmed over the delicate symbols.
“What’s it for?”
“I believed that it was a simple cleansing spell that would rid the caves of any lingering residues of magic.” The female Oracle gave a lift of her shoulder. “When so many powerful demons are gathered in one place it is necessary every few months to purge the air so that the overspill of energy doesn’t build up and interfere with our current spells.”
Cyn was blissfully ignorant when it came to magic and residual buildup. He was, however, an expert when it came to the subtleties of language.
“You said you believed.” He studied her tiny, heart-shaped face. “Now you don’t?”
She gave a firm shake of her head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t remember who planted the idea in my head that it was a cleansing spell.”
Cyn frowned in puzzlement. “You can’t read it?”
“No. But there is a compulsion deep inside me to try and cast it.”
“How would you cast it if you can’t read it?”
“That is a question I have no answer for.” Siljar stepped toward him, pointing to the glyphs. “Can you decipher it?”
“No.” He frowned, sensing the age of the writing. “It’s old. Very old.”
“Fey?” the Oracle prompted.
“Maybe fey in origin, but—”
“What?”
“The marks are too straight.” His finger traced an angled line that was topped by a section of triple dots. “The fey glyphs are curved and usually more . . . elegant.” He gave a shake of his head. “This has the blunt simplicity of humans, but it isn’t in any language I’ve seen before.”
Siljar’s expression remained calm, but Cyn didn’t miss her tiny jerk of surprise.
She hadn’t been expecting him to say human.
“But you have the means to translate it?” she at last demanded.
Cyn considered his response. He was impulsive, not suicidal. A wise vampire didn’t say no to an Oracle.
Then again, he wanted nothing more than to get rid of his unwanted guests and check on his clan. He had full faith in Lise, whom he’d left in charge when Roke asked him to travel to America, but his clan would be frantic to discover what’d happened to him.
And more importantly, he wanted the damned fairy princess out of his hair.
Okay. That wasn’t entirely true.
If he was honest, what he really wanted was her soft and welcoming and groaning with pleasure as he came deep inside her.
But that was about as likely to happen as him sprouting wings and a halo. Which meant he would be stuck for days with a haughty, prudish female who was way too fond of treating him like he was some sort of lesser being who should be kneeling at her elegant feet.
Yeah. A big “No, thank you,” to that.
“Why not go to the fey?”
The dark gaze never wavered from his face. “I suspect the answer is in your library.”
Cyn narrowed his eyes. How the hell had she known about his library?
“Is there a reason for your suspicion?”
“Erinna came to me shortly before she and Mika left.”
Cyn stiffened. Erinna and Mika had been the two fairies who’d rescued him from these caves, taking him into their home even when he could so easily have destroyed them.
He’d never forgotten how they’d rescued him from the caves, and how they’d made him a member of their family. They’d been a part of his life for centuries, treating him as a true son. At least they had until they’d disappeared several days . . . No, wait. If it was January, then they’d left weeks ago, with only a short note to tell him not to search for them.
“What did she say?”
“She had a premonition after they took you into their home that you would be the savior of the fey.” Siljar watched the disbelief spread over Cyn’s face. “That’s why they insisted you learn as much of their history as possible.”
He adored his foster parents and he’d been happy to indulge their desire that he learn the language and writing of the fey. And even had listened to the endless stories that had been passed down by their ancestors.
But they tended to be highly dramatic, and it wouldn’t take more than a stray dream, or the shape of a leaf, to convince them that he was supposed to be some sort of fey messiah.
Cyn shook his head in denial.
Bloody hell.
It had to be a joke.
“If they thought I could be their savior then why did they leave?” he demanded.
Siljar shrugged. “They sent word to me that Erinna had a new vision and they were going to check it out. They refused to give me any more information.”
The growing fear that he was going to be forced to help the Oracle whether he wanted to or not was forgotten at Siljar’s words.
It was one thing to accept that Erinna and Mika had taken off for their own pleasure. And another to think they’d put themselves in deliberate danger.
“Damn them.” He shook his head, angry that he hadn’t suspected there was more to their abrupt departure. “Why didn’t they tell me?”
“Clearly they wanted to protect you.”
His fangs ached. “That’s not how it works. I keep them safe, not the other way around.”
Siljar blinked, as if confused by his burst of anger. “It was their choice.?
??
He wasn’t going to argue the point. At least not with the Oracle.
Now when he found Mika and Erinna . . .
“Did they tell you what direction they were going?” he instead asked.
“They only said that they wanted to investigate the vision.” The Oracle smoothed her hands down her satin robe, not appearing particularly concerned. “I don’t think they were entirely clear on what they expected to find. They were, however, quite convinced that you would soon be needed to play your part in fey history. They asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“Do I have a choice?” he muttered.
“No, your foster parents are depending on you.” Siljar reached to place a hand on his arm. “We all are.”
Cyn glanced down at the scroll in his hands. “Well, shit.”
The Haven Estate was a sprawling work of art just half an hour north of Dublin.
The three-story Palladian-style mansion was built of white stone with simple, symmetric lines and a large portico that added to the air of splendid dignity. It was framed by lavish gardens that were formally terraced to lead to the large lake with a fountain in the center.
It was precisely the type of home one would expect for an aristocratic member of the Irish Parliament. And Sir Anthony Benson was exactly the sort of man that one would expect to be the owner.
Seated in a wing chair in the Green Drawing Room, Anthony was dressed in an emerald smoking jacket the precise shade of the curtains and a formal cravat that had gone out of fashion a couple centuries ago. His face was rounded and his pale brown hair had thinned until it was little more than a fringe around the edges. At a glance he looked like a comfortable, middle-aged man with a kind smile.
It took a much closer look to see that the clear gray eyes were as flat and cold as a snake.
Sipping his aged whiskey, Anthony studied the fairy prince who stood in the center of the room.
Yiant tried to appear indifferent to Anthony’s basilisk stare, but his too-pretty face was damp with sweat and the slender hands that smoothed the silk robe covering his tall, reed-thin body weren’t quite steady.
“You summoned me?”
“I did,” Anthony said, his tone gentle as he pointed toward the ceramic pots that were arranged on a priceless pier table that had been in his family for six hundred years. “After examining your latest delivery I realized there was something missing.”