The scent of freshly mowed grass filled the air as Yiant pushed back his thick mane of golden hair.
“I provided the phi potion,” he said, referring to the potent mixture of rare herbs that Anthony needed to defy his mortality. The herbs could only be grown with fey magic. “As well as your favorite fey wine.”
“You know what I want.”
“We have no more of the potion,” the fairy insisted, the pale green eyes wary. “I told you, it was very rare.”
“Then create more.”
“It is forbidden.”
Anthony set aside his whiskey.
His family had held a treaty with the fairies for countless centuries. It had started when a distant ancestor had joined the clan of mystic druids.
It was a mutually beneficial arrangement.
The druids helped to protect the traditional lands of the fey from human development and the fairies offered them extended life.
For his ancestors it’d been a religious duty. The land and the fey were a part of the magic that allowed the druids to thrive. It was in their self-interest to protect them both.
Anthony, however, wasn’t content with being a lesser partner to a bunch of fairies. Especially not after discovering that there were far more dangerous creatures out there than just the fey.
He’d been forced to accept that humans were truly stupid. They blindly believed they were the lucky winners in the evolution lottery when they were surrounded by monsters that could destroy them.
Well, Anthony wasn’t going to stand aside and allow it to happen.
If someone was going to rule the world, it wasn’t going to be some damned demon.
It was going to be him.
Wisely he’d started slow. Patience was a powerful weapon that he wielded with a skill few other humans could master.
First he’d taken command of the druids.
Most of them continued to live in the past, barely understanding technology as they instead clung to worthless traditions.
Idiots.
Once he had a firm grip on the aging fools, he’d returned to Haven and established his position as head of the Benson family. Again.
It was always tricky when a human lived longer than was reasonably expected. It meant he had to leave and return as his own son. He’d done it three times in the past century.
Once he’d earned his place in the local society and worked his way back up the political ladder, he’d been able to turn his attention to his connection to the fairies.
At first they’d only seen him as a benevolent friend.
He’d offered to extend their homelands by using his influence in the government to reclaim farmland as a sanctuary for . . . hell, what had he insisted was endangered? A pygmy shrew? Some sort of bat?
It didn’t matter. The extra acres of land had allowed the Irish fairies to gather their tribe in one place. A rare occurrence in the modern age that not only consolidated their magic, but had given their prince a position of power among his people.
The fools had been gushingly grateful.
So grateful that they didn’t realize that his generosity came at a price. Even after he’d gently requested that they share with him a rare Compulsion spell that had been forbidden by Sariel, the King of Fey.
They didn’t know that he could make the potion even more powerful with his own skill with magic, weaving vast webs of compulsion that could trap even the most wary.
Then all he had to do was sit back and manipulate those in his command. Like a puppet master, tugging on the strings.
Or at least, he’d assumed they hadn’t been aware of his secret efforts.
Now he had to wonder if the prince had started to suspect that Anthony was using the potion for more than swaying his fellow members of Parliament to vote in his favor.
“I understand, Yiant,” he murmured, his tone still gentle. “And I truly admire your reluctance to break fey law. Your people will be proud to know that you kept your honor even if they are forced to abandon their homes.”
The fairy licked his lips. Duty might tell him to sever his connection to Anthony, but it was obvious that he was reluctant to jeopardize his own power among his people.
“There has to be another price I can pay,” he said, his ambition a tangible force in the air.
“I fear not.” Anthony rose to his feet, his smile one of regret. “Please give my regards to your mother, the queen, and tell her that I’m deeply sorry that we could not come to an agreement—”
“Wait.”
“Aye?”
Lick, lick, lick of the lips.
“Perhaps something could be arranged.”
Gotcha.
Anthony hid his smug smile. The prince was as easy to play as a fiddle.
“I really do think it would be for the best, my friend,” he agreed with a sweetly encouraging smile. “It would be a pity to see the protected lands become a shopping center.”
Yiant gave a stiff nod, turning to head for the door. “I will be in contact.”
“Soon,” Anthony warned, briefly wondering precisely what had prompted the unexpected display of defiance before he was abruptly interrupted by the scent of cherries.
Turning his head, Anthony watched as the mongrel stepped through the hidden panel at the back of the room.
Keeley was a half human/half imp male who’d sought Anthony’s protection after the death of the previous Anasso. The too-handsome creature with pale green eyes and a mane of sleek golden hair had once been a playmate of the dissolute King of Vampires, and worse, he’d been related to Damocles, the imp who had contributed to the downfall of the once-powerful leader.
The imp had feared that Styx might retaliate against those he held responsible for the destruction of his mentor and fled to Ireland.
Not an unreasonable fear.
So he’d allied himself with the druids, and over the past year, he’d earned a place in Anthony’s inner circle.
It wasn’t that he was more clever or talented or powerful than Anthony’s other servants. Hell, his only real skill was creating portals.
But he was willing to follow any order, no matter how outrageous, and more importantly, he possessed an intimate knowledge of the caves where the previous Anasso had lived.
Caves that were now occupied by the leaders of the demon world, the Commission.
“You truly are evil, Benson,” the imp murmured, crossing the Aubusson carpet.
Anthony adjusted his cuffs.
The imp had no idea just how evil he could be.
Not yet.
“I don’t recall inviting you to my office, imp.”
Wearing nothing more than a pair of faded jeans that emphasized his smooth, muscular chest, Keeley halted next to the wing chair.
“We have a problem.”
Anthony frowned. “The prisoners?” he demanded, referring to the elder druids who refused to accept his vision for the future as well as the two interfering fairies.
His first thought had been to destroy them. A dead enemy was the best enemy. But he hated to toss away such a valuable resource.
It would be a sin to waste such potent blood.
So instead of burning them at the stake, he’d locked them in a Labyrinth spell that kept them safely imprisoned.
Keeley shook his head. “The spell still holds them.”
“Then what has happened?”
“A friend from America sent me this.”
The imp held out his phone to reveal a photo of a slender man with a long mane of hair that glistened like rubies even in the grainy image.
“A fairy?”
“A Chatri.”
Anthony hissed in shock. It wasn’t often anyone mentioned the pure-blooded ancients who were the ultimate rulers of the fey. They were written about in the secret druid legends, of course, along with dire warnings never to attract their attention.
It was said that an angry Chatri could kill with just the power of his light . . . whatever the hell that me
ant.
Anthony didn’t know, and didn’t want to find out.
“Impossible,” he growled.
“Unexpected, but clearly not impossible,” the imp drawled.
Anthony frowned. He didn’t like sarcasm. It was the sign of a lazy mind.
On the other hand, he did like using his druid skills to punish those people who were stupid enough to annoy him. He liked it a lot.
Smiling, he ran his thumb over the heavy silver ring that circled his index finger.
A symbol of his authority that made the imp pale.
Satisfied, Anthony returned his attention to the image of the fairy.
“Who is he?”
Keeley had to clear his throat before he could speak. “He claims to be Prince Magnus.”
A prince?
Then he wouldn’t be alone.
Royals always traveled with guards.
“They retreated from the world centuries ago,” he muttered. “Why would they return now?”
The imp returned the phone to his back pocket. “There’re a dozen rumors, but no actual facts.”
“Where is he?”
Keeley grimaced. “At the home of the Anasso.”
The Anasso? Anthony lifted his brows. Things were getting stranger and stranger.
He didn’t like strange any more than he liked sarcasm.
“He’s with the vampires?”
“So it would seem.”
Anthony paced toward the priceless Botticelli painting that hung on the back wall, silently contemplating his next move.
He wasn’t a narcissist. He didn’t believe that everything that happened in the world had something to do with him.
Then again, he wasn’t stupid.
The return of the Chatri after so many years had the potential to ruin everything he’d worked so hard to achieve. He had to know if they intended to cause trouble.
He considered various ruses that might lure the Chatri to Ireland, only to dismiss them. He couldn’t wait and hope the powerful fey might choose to arrive on his doorstep.
He needed to know now what they were planning.
The sooner the better.
“Bring him to me,” he softly commanded, turning back to meet the imp’s horrified gaze.
“What?”
Anthony picked a piece of lint off the sleeve of his smoking jacket, waiting for the imp to gather his composure.
“I believe you heard me,” he at last murmured.
“Why me?”
“You have a connection to Styx, don’t you?”
Keeley made a strangled sound, clearly not overjoyed at the promise of being reunited with his vampire friends.
“Not one that’s likely to endear me to him,” he managed to choke out. “He blamed my cousin Damocles for the destruction of the previous Anasso and he won’t have forgotten that I was related to him. He’ll kill me if I return to America.”
“Nonsense.” Anthony clicked his tongue. The fey, even half fey were annoyingly dramatic. “If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
“But—”
“Keeley, find a way to make him invite you into his home,” he interrupted, his voice deceptively gentle. “I need to know if they’ve somehow managed to discover my plans.”
The stench of cherries made Anthony’s nose wrinkle as the imp fought his instinct to refuse the direct command.
A wise choice.
The vampire might kill him, but Anthony . . . ah, he would make the imp wish he were dead . . . over and over again.
“And if they have learned that you’ve been interfering with the Commission?”
A good question.
Anthony reached for his glass of whiskey he’d left on a small table next to the chair.
Unfortunately he didn’t have a good answer.
“Then I suppose we will have to accelerate our timetable.”
Keeley frowned. “Is that possible?”
“You sound concerned.” Anthony sipped his whiskey, capturing the imp’s nervous gaze. “You aren’t getting cold feet, are you?”
“No.” Keeley took a nervous step backward. Smart imp. “Of course not.”
“Then bring me the Chatri.”
Draining the whiskey, Anthony set aside the glass and headed toward the door. He was stepping into the formal gallery when he heard Keeley mutter behind him, “Bastard.”
Anthony shrugged. The imp wasn’t wrong.
He was a bastard.
Chapter Three
Fallon gasped when Siljar disappeared as swiftly as she’d appeared.
One second she was patting Cyn’s arm and the next . . . poof.
No smoke. No mirrors. No abracadabra.
Just there and then gone.
Damn.
What was wrong with her?
She should have insisted that the powerful demon return her to her homeland. Even with Sariel’s interference she could have kept watch on the Commission. It wasn’t as if she’d ever let her father or fiancé interfere in her fascination with scrying before.
It was easy to tell herself that it was the shock of waking up in a strange cave with a dangerous vampire, swiftly followed by the appearance of an Oracle demanding her help in spying on the Commission, that had rattled her brain. How could any poor female think clearly under such circumstances?
But a part of her knew that she’d allowed herself to be steamrolled by the tiny Oracle quite simply because she didn’t want to go home.
She’d spent centuries trapped in the glorious palace her father had created. She’d been petted and pampered and . . .
Trapped.
And worse, she’d known deep in her heart that she would never escape.
Not so long as her father considered the pure-blooded Chatri above the lesser fey.
So was it really surprising that she would be reluctant to give up this unexpected miracle even if it meant enduring the company of an obnoxious vampire?
It wasn’t like she had to actually work next to him.
He was a clan chief. His lair should be large enough for them never to cross paths, right?
As if to prove her point, Cyn was abruptly heading toward the far end of the cave, his face grim although he held the scroll with obvious care.
Far more care than he was willing to give her. Jackass. With a swift step, Fallon had moved to place herself directly in his path.
“Where are you going?”
He came to a grudging halt, his gaze narrowed. “To have a shower.”
“What about me?”
He shrugged. “Aren’t you supposed to be spying on the Oracles or something?”
Her fists clenched. She’d never hit anyone before, but now seemed a good time to start.
“Now look here, you big lug—”
“You have an obsessive fascination with my size.” He ran a slow, deliberate gaze down her tense body before leaning forward to whisper directly in her ear, “In case you’re interested, I’m large everywhere.”
The brush of his lips against her skin sent darts of white-hot excitement sizzling through her.
How was that possible?
She’d lived with the most beautiful men in the world. Her own fiancé, Magnus, was breathtaking. But never, ever had one of them made her so acutely aware of being a woman. As if Cyn had some magical ability to arouse her darkest, most intimate desires.
Jerking back, she sent him a glare. “Well, your head is certainly bloated.”
His gaze lingered on her mouth. “If you’re trying to charm me, it’s not working.”
She wouldn’t lick her lips. She wouldn’t.
Her tongue peeked out, swiping her lower lip with a provocative movement. Instantly Cyn’s eyes darkened with a scorching heat.
Fallon stiffened. What was wrong with her?
“I’m not trying to charm you,” she stubbornly denied.
“Fine.”
Abruptly he’d stepped around her, clearly intending to leave her abandoned in the caves.
/> “Wait.”
He sent an impatient glance over his shoulder. “Now what?”
“We’re obviously stuck with one another for now,” she said, pointing out the obvious.
“Do you have a point?”
Heathen. Barbarian. Hulking, gorgeous, pain in the ass.
She counted to ten.
“You could at least try to be civil.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “And what does ‘civil’ entail?”
“I obviously can’t stay in these caves.” She waved a dismissive hand toward the damp floor, shivering at the distinct chill in the air. “I’m assuming you have private rooms I could use. And I’ll need food. Oh . . .” She glanced down to the plain, too-short robe. “And clothes. Silk.”
Something dangerous lurked in the jade eyes. “Anything else, princess?”
“Nectar.” She used her most grating princess voice. She was a guest here, dammit, not a prisoner. It was time that Cyn fulfilled his duties as a host. “Preferably from my homeland.”
A stark, dangerous silence followed her daring command. The sort of silence that came before the strike of lightning.
Or a nuclear explosion.
Instead there was a flurry of movement as Cyn reached out to grasp her by the waist and with one smooth movement had her tossed over his shoulder.
Fallon gasped in shock. No man touched the royal princess. Not unless he wanted to be burned to a crisp by Sariel. And certainly they didn’t haul her around like she was a sack of potatoes.
“What are you doing?” she finally managed to choke out.
Leaving the cave, Cyn headed up a narrow set of stairs carved into the stone.
“Let’s get one thing straight, princess. This is my lair,” he growled.
She slammed her fist against his back only to wince in pain. Crap, the man felt as if he’d been chiseled from granite.
“I wouldn’t be so quick to boast about this shabby—”
Her furious insult came to an outraged halt as his large hand landed on her butt, giving the tender flesh a deliberate squeeze. Fallon’s breath tangled in her throat. She was livid. Of course she was. But more than that she was . . . oh dear God, was she aroused? Was the intimate touch of his hand turning her on?
Or maybe being in this world was screwing with her hormones. Yes. That was a much better answer.