"Are you sure you wish to wear this, Hellen dear?"
"I am."
"It's so . . . unattractive."
The deep concern in her sister's voice made Hellen smile. Poor Levia. She was truly desperate to make this a romantic event. Both Levia and Polly knew their sister didn't love Cruen, but in the Demon King's household, love had never been a consideration for a mating union. Granted, they didn't know the particulars of why she'd agreed to mate with Cruen-and they never needed to-but they believed her satisfied with the match.
"It will do just fine," Hellen told her, fastening the buttons of the oversized green gown she'd found among her mother's old things. "Cruen isn't mating me for my fine looks or my clothing choices."
She'd meant the words as a joke to lighten the mood, but Levia didn't look amused. In fact, she appeared slightly embarrassed by her sister's words.
"You are not unappealing, Hellen."
Hellen bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Thank you, Levia."
"But the dress does not help matters."
"It was Mother's."
The female sighed. "I loved Mother, but her sense of style was nearly as singular as yours." She frowned. "Not to mention she was several inches larger than you in both height and width."
All true, Hellen mused, turning toward the mirror the girls had placed in her room earlier. Neither she nor her mother had cared all that much about appearance. They'd had far deeper, far more dangerous worries to plague them. How to find and use one's power, then keep it caged and hidden from Abbadon's keen senses.
Polly burst into her room, making them all turn. She carried an armful of fireflower. "I thought you could hold this."
"Why?" Hellen asked.
"I've heard that in mating ceremonies aboveground, the females carry flowers." Her eyes flashed with romantic fire. "They are blooming now, but perhaps they will close up as you walk toward Cruen."
It was in that moment, the innocent mention of Cruen, that Hellen felt her first true pang of regret-laced panic. She had just finished off a third vial of draft a few minutes ago, and her insides were decently cold and her skin held a calming numbness. Her mind, however, seemed to be refusing the draft's call for oblivion. Images of a dark-eyed, possessive, and caring demon male continued to rise to the surface, and now they were tempting her to run.
"Do you know what you will say?" Polly asked, placing the flowers on Hellen's bed. "Do you know your promises?"
"Yes," Hellen nearly whispered. To take one mate for life. To give my body, my soul, and my mind. To bring forth the first child of Earth and Hell.
And perhaps the most important promise of all, Hellen thought as she secured the last button on her mother's gown with shaking hands. Protect your sisters from the fate you must endure.
A sudden and sweet giggle punctuated the air. "Do you think the demon will be watching?" Levia asked.
Hellen froze, her back to her sisters. She wouldn't have them see her face, her eyes. No matter how much draft ran through her veins, they would be able to see the misery in her eyes as they spoke of Erion.
"What demon?" Polly asked.
"The one who came into the Underworld with Hellen and me."
"I have not seen this male."
"He is quite fierce. Isn't he, Hellen?" She didn't even wait a beat before continuing. "He is Ladd's father."
Polly gasped, and Hellen could practically see her clutching her skirts and hurrying over to her sister for more information. The rustle of silk confirmed it.
"If Ladd's father is here, why doesn't Abbadon hand over the boy? Let him go home?"
"Father is punishing him."
"For what?"
Levia paused. "He is the one who abducted Hellen from the coach."
"Oh!" she clucked her tongue. "Well, perhaps he deserves punishment. But the boy is innocent. I do not like Father's choices in punishment. They always involve more than the one doing the wrong, it seems."
Hellen's heart squeezed with that truth. Ladd must be freed and safe-Erion too-and she would see to it. No matter how much she wished things could be different.
"He will release them," Levia said lightly, as if she fully believed it-as if she believed her father merciful. "And when he does, perhaps he will allow me to mate with the male. He is part demon, and I find him fascinating."
Hellen's lip curled a fraction, but she caught herself and forced her face to relax.
"The other part of him is vampire, sister." Polly's tone held a decided trace of disgust.
Levia giggled. "Yes, think of it. Fangs."
"I do not wish to think of it," Polly said indignantly. "I would never find a vampire male pleasing."
"Well, I'm not opposed to being bitten. Not if the male doing it looks like the demon male. He is more than pleasing."
Hellen heard a low growl echo throughout the room. For a moment, she thought Erion might be at the door, and her insides battled against the cold draft that fought to repress any and all flashes of heat and excitement. Then, with a heavy heart and a wretched feeling of embarrassment, she realized the predatory, possessive sound had come from her own throat.
Behind her, her sisters had fallen silent. They'd heard her too and were waiting for an explanation. Hellen closed her eyes and slowed her breathing, forcing back the demon that had emerged as her sisters had spoken of Erion. When she finally turned and faced the two curious females, her mask of impassivity was firmly in place.
"I think I'm a little nervous," she said, granting each of them an apologetic smile. "I'd like a moment alone, if you don't mind."
Levia nodded her understanding and grabbed her sister's hand. "Of course. We'll meet you at the entrance to the theater. Father wants us to present you to Cruen."
The Demon King is a true master manipulator. Isn't he? she mused.
When her sisters were gone, Hellen went to stand in front of the mirror once again. Levia was right, of course. The dress was hideous and three sizes too big, but, truly, what did it matter? The one she'd worn in the carriage on the first trip to meet Cruen-the trip that had changed everything-had been destroyed. Much like her hope for a future that didn't involve thinking about the true male she wanted while she continually feigned surprise at her body's inability to produce an heir.
She grabbed the hair band that kept her curls contained on top of her head and yanked it out. The startling red locks spilled down her shoulders, over her breasts. Despite her hair, she was no beauty. Her eyes were too large and set too far apart, and her nose was too long. Her mouth was strange and wrongly built, with a top lip that was fuller than the bottom. She didn't understand how Erion saw her as beautiful when no one else did, including herself. Perhaps he wasn't being sincere, or perhaps he was blind. She smiled at that, seeing him in her mind, and for one brief moment she saw something shift and change in the mirror before her.
It was gone in an instant, much like her smile. But she was certain she'd seen a rosy-cheeked nymphet with a lovely grin and wicked green eyes.
She swallowed and moved closer to the mirror. Is that it? she thought, touching the smooth glass. Am I smiling when he calls me beautiful? And if so, have I truly spent a lifetime with a scowl upon my face?
Her gaze caught something else in the mirror, something that made every wisp of happiness and hope bleed from her expression. The timepiece on the wall behind her. It was time.
Leaving her child's bedroom behind, Hellen walked out the door. As she traversed the dark corridors like a mole, she recalled the last time she ran the halls. Erion had been beside her, voicing his frustration, his desire. Kissing her. She instantly felt the pressure of heat attempting to penetrate her skin, get into her cold veins, make her remember how it felt to truly desire another being.
Would Erion ever leave her thoughts? Would she have to take double the amount of draft every day to keep the effects of his touch, his taste, his hands on her flesh from reaching her core and her heart?
Her hand ran the length of the damp stone wall as she moved down the tunnel toward her destiny. She'd never thought she'd meet someone like him. Someone who saw her, truly saw her, and wanted her anyway.
If she had . . .
Damn it. She ground her molars. She wasn't going there. What was done was done, and she would claim her role as a sacrifice with everything she had in her. Her sisters would be saved, so would Ladd, so would Erion-and her father's black soul and nonexistent heart wouldn't stretch any further into the future, but end with her generation.
Her thoughts had carried her not just away in her mind, but to a detour on foot. The theater, where she would give herself to Cruen, was in the north section of the compound. Where she stood now was decidedly east and housed the smallest of prisoners. With a glance around to make sure she wasn't seen, Hellen slipped through the door and went straight up to the glass.
The balas, Ladd, was playing with two puppies her sisters had magically conjured for him. He was laughing wildly as they licked his face and tried to seize his toys. Hellen couldn't help but smile at her sisters' manufactured play. They were truly doting on him, teaching him all their favorite tricks and games, making him feel welcome in a most unwelcome circumstance. She leaned closer, trying to scent him, then shook her head at her stupidity.
Erion's child.
He was so beautiful, his features striking like his father's. No doubt he would grow like Erion too, tall and broad, fierce and loving.
The last thought made her stomach clench with pain. And in that moment, the boy chose to glance up. When he caught sight of her, his wild, playful expression turned sweet and knowing. Hellen didn't understand this strange connection he seemed to have with her or the urge inside her to break down the glass and steal him away and hold him in her arms. But his life, her sisters', Erion's too-they all depended on her walking out of this room, out of Ladd's life and his father's, forever.
And so she did. Out the door, into the corridor, and down the hall, dressed in her unattractive mating gown, her hands absent of the flowers her sister had brought her-the fireflower she hoped had closed and released its scent. The fireflower she hoped was dead by the time she returned to get her things and travel home aboveground with her new mate.
The power he had received from Abbadon still soared impressively through his veins.
Cruen stood in the living area of his shacklike hideout, the one located on the grounds of the Long Island credenti, and gazed up at the portrait of Celestine. Her belly heavy with their balas. Once this dirty business with the demon female was done, and the king had his heir, Cruen could finally have both the power he needed and the female he desired.
His eyes roamed over her. He could finally share their daughter's existence with the mother who believed she'd died upon birth. Cellie would be angry with him at first. But he would help her to understand how important it had been to hide the balas, protect the balas.
The faint call of the Demon King reached his ears. It wasn't the only one. Raine had been trying to get him to respond for hours. The mutore was really getting on his nerves, and if he continued to be such a grand nuisance, Cruen might need to clean house.
With a single thought, Cruen flashed straight into Hell. His feet touched down almost angelically upon the black ash outside the compound and inhaled the foul scent that always permeated the still air in the Underworld. He wanted this over and done. Perhaps he would be lucky enough to have his seed take root the first time around, and he would never have to mount the demon again. Perhaps he would think about Abbadon's suggestion of Erion taking her on. It would clear the path for him to bring Cellie home to live in his house and sleep in his bed full-time.
He entered the compound and walked the hall. His son was here already, waiting to see the paven he now despised mate with the female he found himself desiring.
Cruen's lip curled. It was a simple exchange of power-nothing more. He shouldn't care about Erion's feelings in this matter, but there was something deep inside him that did.
A sudden movement to his left had Cruen halting midstride and searching the corridor and shadowed curves in the stone for its origin.
He saw nothing.
Scented nothing.
He was about to continue in the direction of the theater, where his mating would be received by the citizens of Hell, when several yards up, he saw a female turn to look at him, then rush off. At first, Cruen thought it was one of Abbadon's other daughters, as both were far better-looking than the plain virgin he was to mate. But as he continued toward the theater, he realized who he'd just seen.
A blip of apprehension gnawed at his mind.
It had to be a mistake.
It was an impossibility for anyone who didn't possess demon blood to get into Hell, and Cruen knew firsthand that Nicholas Roman's true mate, the one who had stood before him at the table of the Order, once a captive in Mondrar, held absolutely no demon blood.
No. He had not just seen Prisoner 626, Kate Everborne, in Hell.
His need for blood was impossible to deny.
Erion hadn't fed in twenty-four hours, and the sting in his belly, the hum in his veins, worked with the unbridled rage inside his mind and muscles to create the perfect recipe for murder.
Still seated in the first-row balcony on the plush bench overlooking the stage, Erion watched as the room filled with spectators. Some appeared almost human in their dress and facial features, but most were decidedly demon. Eyes that glowed jewel-colored fire; skin in various hues. His eyes closed for a moment and he inhaled. Yes, he thought on a sigh of wondrous melancholy, I know that scent. His cells recognized that scent. It was kin, where the demon side of him had originated.
His muscles jerked as he shifted on the bench-or tried to. He growled, his lids slamming open, his eyes narrowing on his immobile limbs. He was free of the shackles, but his bindings, though invisible, were still in place. The Devil's magic. He wondered in that moment if he'd ever really needed to be shackled to the stone wall in the false dungeon. Could Abbadon have contained him without it? Had it just been a charade or a simple act of mind fuckery, another punishment for taking Hellen? A game.
That male liked to play games. Blood sport, brain sport . . .
And if it was, did he know that Hellen had released his prisoner for a time? Or was his power diminished when he traveled aboveground?
Erion hoped so.
The crowd settled into their seats below him. For a moment he wondered why he was the only spectator in the balcony. Wouldn't Abbadon want his grief, his rage, his desperation to be witnessed and consumed by all the members of Hell? That is, if they knew about him. He lowered his chin, stretched his neck, tried to see if anyone was looking up at him. No one. Every face was turned to the stage.
Was he blocked from their view? Was Abbadon concerned about their reaction to his presence? And if so, why? He was a stranger.
The lights in the theater vanished, taking his questions with them. Erion's guts twisted and his rage flared. This was it. He was to sit here, watch Cruen take Hellen, and silently go mad. For if he moved, roared, or disrupted the event in any way, Erion knew Ladd would be killed.
Suddenly, firelight flashed through the arena. In under a second, a mere breath, hundreds of torches appeared around the stage, making the bed's gold satin sheets and frame glow, and music, strange and haunting, filled the air.
Everything inside Erion, everything that he was made of, screamed to get free, to attack, to kill. He strained against the magical bands that held him.
His demon refused logic and humanity. It would get to hers.
Whatever the cost.
She belonged to him.
And then Erion saw her. His breath caught in his lungs and remained there while she walked gracefully onto the stage, flanked by her sisters. Her green gown was hideous, unflattering, and several sizes too big, but he knew what riches lay beneath it. His hands fisted, remembering how her skin felt beneath them. Warm, soft, wet, HIS.
He propelled himself forward, felt the bindings at his wrists and ankles give just a fraction, and growled with satisfaction. Was it possible? Could the demon within him conquer the Devil's magic? And if it could, would he risk his son's life?
His eyes tracked her, the gown unnoticeable to him now. All he saw was her beautiful face and her flaming red hair, which hung loose in ringlets. Her sisters guided her toward the pallet, then each gave her a kiss on the hand before walking away and leaving her to her fate.
Erion stared at her alone on the stage, willing her to look up, find him. But her eyes never left the formidable bed. Erion snarled as he guessed at her thoughts. It was real now. She would lie back on the gold satin and give herself-
Her head snapped up and he saw all the blood rush from her skin. She'd seen something. Something she feared.
Applause broke out in the theater, and Erion followed her gaze. Cruen appeared on the other side of the stage and as he walked toward Hellen, his lip curled in obvious disgust.
He doesn't want her, Erion realized, his fangs descending.
The bastard found her repellant.
His beautiful, sensual, make-him-weep-with-desire-for-her demon girl.
Hellen watched Cruen advance, her eyes narrowing, and Erion knew she saw the look on his face. He strained again at his bindings, stretching them farther. Erion would see his adopted father die for this, see his blood run for making Hellen cringe with embarrassment.
"Pray hold your applause." It was Abbadon, and Erion's gaze cut to the male who drifted up the steps and onto the stage.
He stood at his tallest, his eyes hard as white crystal, his red skin glistening in the torchlight, making him appear almost reptilian.
A true snake.
"We have come together to witness the mating of vampire and demon. I seek to gain entry and permanent residence in the world above. The fruits of this union between my daughter and her mate will bring a long-denied right to me." He lifted his arms. "For only the child born of both worlds can open the true portal and allow me an infinity to live and walk freely on either plane. It is only then that we as a community can unleash our power on the Earth."
The theater exploded into a near-deafening thunder of applause. Grinning, Abbadon mouthed a few incantations, and rain began to fall. The torches surrounding the stage remained lit, and as the Demon King turned to Cruen and Hellen, who stood several feet apart, eyes on him, wary and nervous, he did not ask them anything.
"I give you my daughter," he said to Cruen. "Everything she is, everything she has, belongs to you. Do as you will, treat her as you see fit, but remember"-his nostrils flared-"the child you conceive is mine."
Erion hadn't realized that he was on his feet, that he-the full demon-had broken through the magical bindings, and that he was gripping the balcony railing so hard, his beast's nails had dug a good three inches into the wood.
All he had to do was jump, and he could grab her, take her, run with her.
All he had to do was jump, and Ladd would die.
"The first child of Hell will be conceived before us, but in the warm rain of our beginnings." He nodded at Cruen, then slashed his hand in Hellen's direction and cried out, "Begin the ritual!"
Erion's mind ceased to work, his skin went rigid, and his muscles flexed against his bones. Before his eyes, the hideous green mating dress Hellen wore split down the center and dropped into an emerald pile of silk at her feet. And when the room erupted in applause at the near nakedness before them, Erion snapped the wood railing in two and roared.