He couldn’t agree more.
His clothing was staying on.
Unlike his mate, he couldn’t run hot at all. He didn’t have the luxury of being able to warm his body at will. Although, Mackenzie didn’t have that luxury either. She had confessed that her species felt the cold more than most did and that using her phoenix fire to remain warm was a drain on her strength and was therefore something she couldn’t afford to keep switched on. He agreed with that. He didn’t want her tapping herself out when a fight was liable to erupt at any moment.
He knew whenever the cold got too much for her and she risked using her fire to warm her body though, because she got a dazed edge to her eyes that had made Rosalind ask her whether she had been relieving herself in her salopettes to keep warm.
Mackenzie had blushed hard and sputtered at that.
Prince Vail had gently admonished his mate.
Hartt lowered his gaze to the compound in the distance, envious of the warm light that constantly emanated from it. It made him imagine roaring fireplaces and hot baths. His gaze shifted to his left, up the tree-covered slope to a ledge barely visible above the frosted tips of some of the pines. A tiny flicker of light struggled to chase back the darkness, a small fire in the heart of the cave that was all that they could risk without alerting the witches to their presence.
Witches plural.
Rosalind had performed another spell, one that had tallied everyone in the compound and revealed they were up against more than a dozen mages.
The low number had been amusing to the vampires and Syn, until Hartt had told them that the witch they were after could create copies of himself, clones that were strong and could fight for him. Those dozen witches could easily create an army of one hundred.
The mood had been low since then, partly because of his announcement and the discussion that had followed it, and partly because of the damned cold. Life in their draughty cave was taking its toll on everyone, but so far no one had opted to teleport away from the area to get warmed up and get some proper sleep. None of them were willing to leave just in case the witch attacked or ran while they were gone.
All of them wanted in on this fight.
Hartt grunted and pressed his hand to his chest, fought the twisting mass of darkness that writhed in his soul and reached for his bond with Fuery. He had sent his friend back to the guild when they had reached this location two days ago and he had seen how on edge he was. Fuery had been reluctant to leave, but Hartt still believed it had been the right move, something his friend only proved correct as the oily tendrils of darkness crept outwards in response to Fuery’s unrest. He breathed a little easier as they slowly settled again, as the darkness calmed in time with the feelings coming through his connection with Fuery.
“Not going murderous psychopath on me again, are you?” Mackenzie’s voice warbled in his ears, light but laced with a wary edge, and he shifted his focus to her, felt her concern as it flowed into him.
He grimaced and shook his head, wrestled the darkness back under control and straightened. “Fuery is still… Hopefully Shaia can calm him.”
Because Hartt wouldn’t say no to his friend being here. He didn’t want to risk Fuery, didn’t want him fighting if it would only push him into the darkness, allowing it to seize him, but he also wanted to strengthen their numbers.
He tensed as he sensed something, twisted to his left to face the cave and growled when he spotted the silhouette of two figures—one decidedly female, and the other an enormous male.
He grabbed Mackenzie’s hand and teleported on another growl, rushing to join the others and help them fight the intruders.
When he landed on the broad ledge with her, his senses blared a warning and he leaned back, shoving Mackenzie out of the path of danger. He grunted as a meaty fist swung at him, barely evaded the blow and sank to his haunches in front of Mackenzie as she hit the ground. He shielded her with his left hand, telling her to stay down, and issued a mental command to his armour, so it formed talons over his fingers as he prepared for a fight that looked as if it was going to be brutal.
“Frey!” a high female voice snapped.
One he recognised.
The huge brute of a demon male who towered over him as he protected Mackenzie twisted away from him, revealing the female.
Long snow-white hair, ethereal blue eyes, curves clad in cerulean leather that matched the trousers the demon wore.
“Isla,” Grave growled before Hartt could think her name, rounded the small fire that blazed in the heart of the cave and stormed towards her. “I sent word telling you to remain away from here.”
“And I received that word.” She turned on her mate, and Hartt shivered as the air chilled around her. “And here I am, come to ensure you do not dare issue me such orders in the future.”
It was cold enough already. He didn’t need a phantom sucking what little warmth they had from their makeshift base of operations. He remained crouched in front of Mackenzie, acting as a shield between her and the six-eleven wall of muscle that cast another glance at him, a battle hunger shining in his pale blue eyes. The demon wanted a fight.
Hartt wasn’t about to give it to him. He needed to conserve his strength for the battle that lay ahead of him, wasn’t interested in weakening himself by obliging the demon.
“You brought backup with you. Expecting a fight from me, my love?” Grave eyed the demon, his ice-blue irises ringed with crimson.
Isla folded her arms across her chest, her pale skin stark against her blue leather corset. “No. I tracked you, saw through your eyes where you were, and Frey offered to provide the transport.”
“You agree with this plan of hers?” Grave peered past his mate to the demon.
Frey grunted. “No… but you are well aware that once Isla has her mind set on something, there is no deterring her.”
His mouth flattened, and then twitched into a half-smile when Isla glared at him. Hartt had the feeling he either liked courting danger or he often teased her like this, as if she was a younger sibling. He decided it was the latter when she sighed rather than beheaded him and turned her focus back to her mate.
“I said I should have come here blindfolded.” The vampire turned to his brother as he ran a hand over his short dark hair, his aquamarine eyes holding an accusation. “But you said it would be fine and I was overreacting.”
Night rolled his shoulders in an easy shrug beneath his thick black fleece. “Maybe I thought it would be better if she were here. Although, I didn’t expect her to bring her own one-man army.”
Grave sneered at the demon. “Shouldn’t you be off back to your realm to run your kingdom?”
Not just a demon then, but a demon king.
Hartt assessed him. Long, blond hair tied at his nape with a leather thong. Pale golden horns that curled from above his pointed ears, following the curve of those ears, and were flaring and growing as he glared at Grave, beginning to twist around to resemble those of a ram. Cerulean leathers.
If he had to guess, he would say the male belonged to the First Realm. One of the realms at peace with the elves.
Prince Loren had formed a treaty with the First and Second Realms of the demons centuries ago. Those two realms bordered the elf kingdom and the treaty stopped them from participating in the constant battles that happened in the remaining five demon kingdoms, providing a nice buffer zone for the elves. Where villages had once been destroyed by the constant skirmishes along the border, towns now flourished, risen from their ashes to provide hubs for the demons and elves to trade with each other. All three realms were prospering because of the alliance.