Kiss of a Demon King

'And then?' Omort said quietly. 'What will you do

with him?'

'And then I'll kill two birds with one stone,' she answered. 'This is the prophecy beginning.' Just in time for the Accession.

Every five hundred years, that great immortal war took place, and they were on the cusp of it right now.

Her gaze flickered over the mysterious well in the center of the court, strewn with sacrifices-bloody and unidentifiable body parts. Her future depended on unlocking its power. And the demon was the key.

When she faced Omort, his brows drew together, as if he'd thought she would balk at bedding a demon. In fact, she was eager to get this over with-and then to seize the power that was there for the taking.

At last, something to want, to need.

Hettiah asked, 'What if the demon resists you?'

Sabine's lips parted. 'Have you looked at me lately, Hettiah?' She turned in a circle, a move that left Omort leaning forward on the edge of his throne, and Hettiah sending her murderous glances.

Hettiah wasn't without power. In fact, her ability was neutralizing others' powers. She could erase illusions as easily as Sabine could cast them. Lanthe had nick­named her Hettiah the Buzz Kill and Aunty-Matter.

'Don't underestimate the demon,' Omort finally said. 'He's one of the most iron-willed beings I've ever encoun­tered. Don't forget that I faced him-and yet he lives.'

Sabine exhaled, trying to keep a rein on her notori­ous temper. 'Yes, but I have unique attributes that make this demon's seduction in the bag.'

'You also have a detriment,' Hettiah sneered. 'You're a freak among the Lore.'

It was true she was unique-a virgin seductress. Sabine chuckled at Hettiah's statement, then her expres­sion instantly turned cold when she faced her brother. 'Omort, put a muzzle on your pet, or I'll make her one from her intestines.' She rapped her silver-tipped claws together, and the sound rang out in the chamber.

Hettiah lifted her chin, but she'd paled. Sabine had in fact plucked an organ from her. On several occasions. She kept them in jars on her bedside table.

But Sabine refrained from this as much as possible, because whenever she fought Hettiah, it seemed to overly excite Omort.

'Besides, if the demon somehow resists this'-Sabine waved her hands over her figure-'I'll have a backup plan.' She always had a plan B.

'You'll need it.' Hettiah smirked.

Sabine blew her a kiss, the ultimate insult among the Sorceri, who stored poisons in their rings to be mixed into drinks-or blown into the eyes of an enemy.

'Capture him tonight, and then . . . begin.' Omort sounded sickened. Not only was Rydstrom a demon, which most Sorceri viewed as little better than an ani­mal, the fallen king was Omort's blood enemy.

And the time had finally come for Sabine to surren­der her virginal-hymenally speaking-body and her womb to the creature. No wonder Omort had gone into a fury with the oracle.

Part of him lusted for the power Sabine could garner. And part of him lusted for her-or for women who resembled her, like the red-haired Hettiah.

He rose then, descending the steps to stand before Sabine. Ignoring Hettiah's huff of dismay-and the warning in Sabine's eyes-he slowly raised his hand to

her face.

His bloodstained nails were long, cloudy, and thick. When he pinched her chin, she said in a seething tone, 'Now brother, you know I dislike it when men touch

my face.'

When angered-like now-Sabine's surroundings appeared to rock and explode as though from an earth­quake, while winds seemed to gust in tempests. Omort hesitantly released her as the court attendees nervously

stamped about.

'I have the coordinates for the road Rydstrom will be traveling,' Omort said. 'Lanthe can open a portal from the dungeon directly to that location, and you can stop him there. It will be a perfect trap. Unless she's already lost her thresholds power.'

Lanthe could still create portals. But her ability was temporarily weakened each time, so she could only

manage it once every six days or so. Sabine only hoped she hadn't burned one recently.

'Why don't you call Lanthe in here and ask her your­self?' Sabine said, making him scowl. For some reason, Omort had always loathed being near Lanthe and had decreed that the two sisters would never be together in his presence.

'Exactly how long do I have to set this snare?' she asked.

'You must intercept him within the next two hours.'

'I go at once.' She had little time to hatch a plot, which irritated her. She adored plotting-devising plans and subplans and contingencies-and half the fun was the anticipation of a trap about to be sprung. She would dream up scenarios for months, and yet now she had only mere hours.

Before she could leave, Omort leaned down and murmured at her ear, 'If there were any way around your sleeping with this beast, I would have found it for you.'

'I know, brother.'

She did believe him in this. Omort would never willingly give her up, because he wanted Sabine all for himself and had since the first time he'd seen her. He'd said there was something in her eyes he'd never seen before-the dark knowledge of what it was like to die. Something he could never know.

He covered her bare shoulder with a clammy hand, sounding as if he'd just stifled a groan at the contact.

'Do-not-touch, Omort.' She gritted out the words, making her plaits appear to be striking vipers

until he removed his hand. Sometimes she had to remind him that she was as treacherous as the serpents he worshipped.

She turned immediately, giving him her back instead of taking three steps away before turning to exit the chamber. When she passed the well, she darted her gaze to it.

Soon . . .

'You won't fail me?' he called after her. 'Rydstrom must not reach his brother.'

'Consider it done,' she called back with utter surety. How hard could it be to capture a demon?

2

A prize so rare it was fabled . . .

Rydstrom sped his McLaren down a deserted levee road, his headlights cleaving through the swamp fog. That crazed energy within him, the inexplicable tension, had spiked to a fever pitch.

Omort could be killed.

One hundred miles per hour. One hundred and ten . . .

With a sword forged by Groot the Metallurgist.

Rydstrom had waited so long for this, he had a hard time believing it was happening now. Although he didn't trust the demon Pogerth, Rydstrom trusted his ally, Nïx-the Valkyrie soothsayer who'd arranged their meeting.

Nïx had said that this campaign was a chance to kill Omort-Rydstrom's last chance. Either he would suc­ceed in destroying the sorcerer or he would fail forever.

By all the gods, it was possible. But for payment, Groot had asked for the impossible. Or so it would seem.

One hundred and forty miles per hour. Though Ryd-strom had hung up the phone with his brother min­utes ago, he was still slack jawed. Cadeon-the most untrustworthy and least dependable being Rydstrom had ever known-had informed him that he was already in possession of the prize Groot demanded in exchange for the sword.