I wonder if she’ll be put off by it. The others that came before her were, but they had to accept it.
She will, too.
At what point did giving her my cock become a bygone conclusion?
When I saw that gorgeous face, damn her. “Answer me, girl, or I shall make you pay for your disrespect.”
Trembling from head to toe, she brings her gaze up to mine. “B-Baron—”
“That’s not the only name you called, mambo,” I growl, using the Haitian term for voodoo priestess.
She gulps, clearly frightened by me, eyes wide. If she trembles any harder, the strap of her sheath is going to finish slipping down her shoulder.
I want my mouth on her breasts.
The desire is a heavy fog on my brain, clouding my judgement.
I take a step closer, hands fisted. “Now, child. Answer me.”
She licks her dry lips and I feel a pulse of heat spear through me. “It . . . it came to me. As I was focused on calling you, it just drifted through my mind.”
Impossible. “Liar!”
She jumps at my tone, but to her credit, she manages to keep our stares connected. “I swear it on all the ancestors. It came to me.”
Alright. Maybe it is possible. I felt her energy for myself, the sheer force of her willpower. She could have tapped into something much higher than herself and pulled that name out by accident.
Or, another being could have provided it to her.
Which brings this whole mess back to Legba’s door.
I’ll have to deal with him later.
I manifest a cigar and hold a hand out. She gasps when one of the candles flies into my grip, and watches as I use it to light the cigar. “Why do you insist on my presence with such passion, girl?”
Her eyes flash and her chin rises in her first sign of defiance. “I am no girl.”
A laugh bursts from my lips. Don’t know why I find that so amusing, but I do. “You cannot be older than twenty.”
“Eighteen years,” she replies, trying very hard to seem fearless.
I was twenty-six when I died. Had I survived, I would now be a forty-six-year-old man.
Not to mention I am now a god.
I’ve been with female worshippers but she might be the youngest.
It should give me pause.
Damn me, it doesn’t.
I raise the cigar back to my lips. “Tell me what it is that you think you can get from me and I’ll—”
“A child.”
I choke on the smoke. It takes a tremendous amount of concentration not to cough as my throat closes up.
Do I need air? No. Immortality and all that. Yet many aspects of this new body function much the same as the humans.
Habits are habits, and even as an immortal, they’re hard to break.
Throat convulsing, I eye her up and down. “You won’t get one from me.”
“I know that. But you can help make me extra fertile. Make sure my new husband’s seed takes root.”
Husband. She’s married? I have an odd, instant dislike for the faceless male she belongs to. “So you’ve already failed at conceiving with him and you want my seed to prime your body for another attempt.” I’d be fucking her and handing her back over to him.
I’ve done it before.
One of my main functions as Baron Samedi is to play the role of fertility god.
It’s never bothered me . . .
Until now.
She hesitates, eyes falling to the ground. “I am not married yet. The wedding is tomorrow.”
Virgin. The word echoes in my mind, the ramifications of what she’s offering sinking in.
It’s one thing to offer your body to a god in order to achieve a desire.
It’s quite another to sacrifice your virginity to said god. The level of power in that kind of act trumps all others except one.
Sacrificing your own life.
“If you have not tried, child, how do you know his seed will not take?” Another thought occurs. “Or have you experience with men before and therefore believe yourself to be barren?” My mind takes me there, to a scene where she is with other males, and I’m surprised by how much it aggravates me.
“I . . .” Her cheeks flush with embarrassment and she stares down at her lap. “I am untouched. But there are rumors that he is the one with dead seed. A failure no man can take claim for. And his previous two brides have already paid the price for that failure.”
“He killed them, then.” I resume smoking my cigar, cock pulsing, certainty thick in my veins.
I decided to have her the moment I saw her. Of course she’ll be getting what she wants from me. I try to ignore the rush of satisfaction that brings.
Then, it disappears as I’m reminded of the truth. Tomorrow is her wedding. She’ll belong to some worthless mortal man.
“Why marry such a dangerous man?” I ask, although it’s a stupid question and I’m aware of that. Women don’t have many choices in this world.
Slave women have even less.
She reaches up with a trembling hand to slide the strap of her dress back into place. “My master demands it.”
As I suspected.
I discard the cigar, eyeing her once more. She kept her stare averted after the admission of her wedding. Good. She doesn’t see the force of my hunger as I size up that gorgeous body and imagine everything I’m about to do to it.
As I did upon seeing her, I let the force of my godhood rise into my voice. It’s a disturbing sound to most mortals, a demonic kind of voice that frightens even the bravest among them. “I call the shots of this exchange. You do everything I command, no questions asked.”
Instead of being scared, she shoots up onto her knees, eyes wide and excited. “So you will do this for me?”
I almost confess that I’m doing it for me more than I’m doing it for her, but that’s a tidbit of information best kept to myself. Snapping my fingers, I nod at the bottle of rum. “Bring that over to me.”
She scrambles to do as told, hands shaking. Once she’s on her feet, the bottle clutched to her generous breasts, she takes tentative steps my way.
“Faster, girl. I don’t have all night.”
Her awe over seeing a god in the flesh must be starting to wane. Brows furrowed, she flashes me a glare. “My name is not girl.”
At least she’s walking to me faster. “Your name is whatever I wish it to be. But out of curiosity”—I hold my hand out as soon as she’s inches away—“what is your name?”
She passes the bottle over. I expect her to recoil at my attempt to brush fingers; instead, she shocks me with her bold stare as our skin connects momentarily. “Shouldn’t you already know that, Baron Samedi? They say you’re all-knowing.”
“That’s Papa Legba.” I haven’t moved my hand away from hers. Stares locked, we stand here, almost suspended in time, my fingers caressing her much smaller ones. “Now give me your name.”
“Marie,” she whispers, dark irises glittering. “I know you’re Baron Samedi, but it’s also Remy, is it not?”
That name is a blow. A deep, burning stab that doesn’t bear thinking about. “If we are to remain friendly with each other long enough to get through this night, I suggest you forget about that name entirely.”
This young human named Marie studies me as I tilt my head back and drink the rum. “So I am to remain silent throughout this entire exchange?”