Marie was a legend among the coven run by The Bestowers, until she became too much for them to handle.
She was run off ten years after another witch was born into their ranks.
A witch with pale-blue eyes and a level of magical ability that caused serious concern among the coven.
As it should’ve.
One morning she awoke a master of fire, the likes of which has never been seen before, putting her in the same danger Marie eventually faced.
It’s only a matter of time before The Bestowers call for her head. Or force her into exile, as Marie was.
It’s that witch’s aura I sense now.
Right outside my fucking house.
I might be allowed to party among the mortals and feast on their energies, yet the rules that apply to all immortals apply to me as well:
They can’t know about us, unless they worship us.
Period.
And sometimes not even then.
Apparently, each time they get too close, it tends to turn out badly for them.
That fact is the only reason why I don’t dematerialize to the side door by the kitchen. I keep the humans in a mythical sort of trance—all the better to lower their inhibitions and keep them focused on having a good time—but that has its limits.
I walk like a regular fucking mortal to open my door..
Living among them has its limitations. Can’t deny that.
My hand wraps around the knob as I sense the witch’s presence arriving right outside the door, as well as that of another immortal’s.
An immortal with a curious energy signature.
I yank the door open and find the pyromaniac named Khatiya with her hand poised to knock.
A werewolf male stands next to her and his aura is as odd as I sensed.
Not that I care.
It isn’t every day that a member of their coven shows up at my doorstep, and this one has a special connection to Marie. Marie loved her as family since she was little.
Thus, I also have a special interest in her. I tip back my hat in greeting. “If it isn’t the most annoying fire starter this side of the country.”
“The most powerful one, too. Don’t forget it.”
Always had a mouth on her, that one. No respect for the fact she’s speaking to a fucking god.
No wonder Marie took such a liking to Khatiya.
“Come to join the party?” I grouse, although in secretly praying her presence has something to do with—
There I go again. Obsessing. Hoping like a fool. There’s been no indication of Marie remaining in contact with Khatiya, or anyone, after her disappearance.
I turn to study the werewolf accompanying her. “And you’ve brought along a bodyguard this time. One with impressive strength, I sense.” As a matter of fact, that boy’s green, gray, and bronze aura is almost godli—
“The coven has fallen to Seril and Sabian, Baron. We need access to Papa’s domain.”
She said what now?
“You can’t be serious,” I hear the werewolf mumble to himself, but I’m too busy staring at the fire starter, half-rooted with shock. “How would those two ever achieve such a thing?” I ask.
She’s deadly serious, her state unwavering. “I don’t know, but it happened.”
“Blasphemy!” Papa himself took The Bestowers under his protection. I’ve had my differences with him over the years, but this level of disrespect toward our family cannot stand. “Those two barely deserve their abilities, let alone the distinction of killing kado yo bay.”
Khatiya turns to translate for her werewolf. “The—”
“Gift givers,” he finishes for her. “I know a little Creole.”
Hm. Perhaps my non-existent regard for him has risen a notch.
“We aren’t sure they’re dead,” Khatiya continues, “Marie and I tried a—”
“Marie?” It’s not everyday that a god feels the world falling out from under their feet, but I swear I have to grab onto the sides of the doorframe to remain steady. “Marie has returned?”
Marie never told her about our history. A fact that is proven by Khatiya’s lack of reaction, even as I claw at the door frame and try to rein my own ridiculous reaction under control. “We lost her. Now, are you going to get us access to Papa’s domain? He had a vision of the Bestowers there.”
“We lost her.”
They were with Marie!
Even curiouser . . .
Normally, the mere mention of my voodoo priestess distracts me from everything else, but what she’s claiming is too odd to ignore. A werewolf having visions? They’re the least magical species in the entire realm of immortality. “Him? But he’s a werewolf, not a warlock.”
“Don’t look at me,” the male says, shrugging his large shoulders. “I’m even more confused about all this shit than you are.”
Interesting. Almost as if he’s clueless to our world.
Almost as if . . . he’s freshly turned. Something that can only be achieved through magical intervention, despite what the entertainment industry makes the humans believe.
And if magic was used to alter his DNA, then that would make him a target.
Hm. Is Khatiya carousing around with one of her would-be kills?
Not that I really give a fuck. “I’ll get you into his domain,” I tell her. “But I demand to know where Marie is.”
Khatiya has the nerve to threaten me with a show of her fire as it dances up her arm. “We lost her and we don’t have time to find her right now.”
The fuck she doesn’t.
“Hey! Baron!”
I tense at the sound coming from within the house, remembering that voice.
It’s one of the human females.
“Come back in,” the mortal whines. “We miss you.”
I wave her away, tempted to kill her on the spot, and lock stares with Khatiya. “I want Marie. Now.” Been wanting her for centuries, actually, and even if she can’t see me, forty-years is too damned long to go without a glimpse of her.
“And you shall never have me again, but I’ll be kind enough to grace you with my presence, paysan.”
No.
Impossible.
It can’t be.
It is.
It’s her.
My head jerks back, eyes landing on—
She’s staring right at me.
She can fucking see me now.
The spell is gone. It’s fucking gone. There’s nothing separating us now.
Chapter Eight
I should be on her already, my hands on her body. My mouth on her skin.
Like a fool, I’m rooted to the spot.
Marie juts her chin. The air of coolness around her can be felt in the feet that separate us. Holding her dark skirt with one hand, she walks to me.
Fuck. She’s willingly coming my way.
It’s the last thing I ever expected.
I haven’t seen her in forty-years.
She’s a million times more beautiful than I remembered—of course, centuries of increasing spiritual abilities does that to a being.
My mind’s wrecked, my heart a bruised mess, and her entirely gray eyes confuse me.
Just like they have every time I’ve seen them since that night she killed Jacques.
Brigitte is a goddess. How can Marie have eyes identical to hers as an immortal necromancer?
She all but sashays right past me, and I’m so fucking dumbstruck that I can do nothing but watch her as she enters my home. “You wanted to see me, you ungrateful ass. Here I am.” The glare she throws over her shoulder is that of a wronged woman.