Текст книги "Throne of the Fallen"

Автор книги: Kerri Maniscalcol

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

TWENTY-FIVE

ENVY KNEW CAMILLA would be furious if he called her pet, but that didn’t stop him from doing it. Igniting strong emotions in her perversely amused him. He liked seeing her nostrils flare ever so slightly, liked seeing the uptick in her pulse and the narrowing of those moonlike eyes. He’d come to enjoy the second before she gave him a little bit of hell.

And right now, her clear-eyed aggravation was a relief. When he’d pounded on the door the first night and she hadn’t answered, he’d gone to bed thinking nothing of it, knowing how easy it was to get lost to creativity.

On the second evening, after Alexei had spent the day outside the studio and reported that she hadn’t emerged to eat or drink, Envy had grown suspicious.

Camilla hadn’t lied when she’d told him she’d only been gone an hour—he would have sensed it if she had. To her it had only been that.

Meanwhile, just over two days had passed in Waverly Green.

Envy wasn’t sure whether it was the game or the throne itself causing time to flicker, but whatever the cause, he would not be leaving Camilla alone again.

It didn’t surprise him in the least that this clue was proving more difficult than the last. Lennox wouldn’t give up his prize so easily this time.

Camilla tried to move out from beneath his arm and he blocked her passage, keeping her firmly against the wall.

“Now what?” she asked, fresh aggravation lacing her tone.

“It’s getting late. You’ll eat and drink something, then retire to bed. We’ll begin again after you’ve fully rested. You are of no use to me if you’re ill or half dead.”

Silence stretched between them.

Camilla’s eyes sparked with anger.

“Nowhere in our bargain do I recall agreeing to specified bedtimes, Lord Synton. I work until I’m satisfied. You may either join me or see yourself to bed alone. Clearly your senses have been addled if you believe you have any right to order me around.”

Envy looked her over, wondering what was so gods-damned appealing about this constant battle of wills. If this mix of intrigue and arousal was even close to how Lust constantly felt, it was a wonder he did anything aside from indulge his sin every moment of the day.

A muscle in Envy’s jaw tightened. He wanted Camilla to continue painting for selfish reasons, and he was far from tired. If she wished to continue, then so be it.

He stepped back and swept an arm out. “After you, then, Miss Antonius.”

Camilla brushed past him and walked into the studio, spine straight, as if entering a battle.

If a war ever did break out, he wouldn’t be surprised if she eliminated her enemies, one by one. Her will was one of the strongest he’d ever encountered.

Camilla was all polite society darling until pushed; then a scrappy little warrior emerged, baring teeth.

Her savage side called to his.

She rolled her stiff shoulders only once and then sat, the emerald paintbrush he’d gifted her already in her hand and poised above the red paint. She’d kept his apron cinched at her waist.

Behind her, Envy poured himself a knuckle of brandy and leaned against the settee by the fire, his gaze snagging on the painting for the first time.

Camilla was much further along than he’d imagined.

Seeing the throne emerge from the canvas, he was reminded less of a chair and more of a blade, which made sense, considering the hexed object was precisely that: a weapon. Camilla had chosen a color somewhere between champagne and bronze, not quite warm in tone and not cool, either, but situated perfectly between the two.

Opposites melded together in perfect harmony.

Camilla had only just begun to add the flames on the left. She worked on them now, her brush dipping in and out of the blended paint on her palette.

As he stared at the image, the darkness around the throne slowly undulated, as if smoke were curling around the sides of the canvas. Curious.

If Camilla noticed the oddity, she didn’t let on.

Envy sipped his drink, the burn satisfying as it traveled downward. Camilla was fascinating to watch, as present and free, a touch reckless, as she’d been while receiving pleasure. Her silver hair tumbled down her back, shimmering with her deft movements, and the emerald on her finger caught the firelight. In her hand, the paintbrush flickered with life, as if she were imbuing her very soul into the paint, breathing life into her art.

Envy’s attention shifted once again to the painting. Now its background moved like the sea at night, as if a secret might be rising in the throne’s wake. Somewhere in this image was the third clue.

Anticipation had Envy leaning forward, body tensed, ready to spring into action.

As if in response, Envy sensed another energy in the room, a sort of power, testing for any constraints, any magical boundaries set up to lock it in place.

His own magic snarled in response. Something otherworldly was definitely here.

Envy straightened.

This was his domain.

Camilla was completely unaware of the charge building in the room, of the shadows that began to slowly pour out from the canvas, leaching into the studio like a dark wave.

His heart thudded. She was close to finishing the piece.

And whatever had joined them knew it too.

The flames on the painting crackled like real fire. Across the studio, the flames in the fireplace flared in solidarity.

He’d never seen such a thing—Camilla was creating reality from fantasy with her brush.

For a moment, Envy forgot about the game, the prize, and what winning might mean for him and his court. Instead, he considered what it would mean to set his sights on the woman herself.

Could she truly create new realities?

Perhaps the painting wasn’t the clue he’d been sent after; perhaps the artist was.

Envy considered the implications of that as the studio howled around them, the darkness now swirling angrily like a great gathering storm.

Any moment now, fantasy and reality would no longer be discernible; their world and whatever Camilla created would collide.

Envy tossed back the rest of his drink and set his tumbler on the table, hands flexing. His demon blade practically burned at his side, begging to be used on this intrusion.

“Miss Antonius.”

Envy’s voice cracked through the storm like a whip of lightning. She didn’t seem to hear.

“Camilla.”

She turned from her easel, silver eyes glowing like stars.

He’d swear that whatever looked out at him was not entirely human.

Did the throne overtake her?

His heart ticked faster.

Envy said her name again, his voice this time laced with the command of a demon prince, a magical demand that none could ignore, and she blinked, irises once again normal.

“Come,” he said, his gaze fixed on the hulking form behind her. “Now.”

Camilla glanced over her shoulder and then did as he’d bidden without argument, her paintbrush still clutched in her hand.

Once she was safely secured behind him, Envy smiled mockingly at the throne before them.

With a roar that would make the devil himself pause, all hell broke loose.

TWENTY-SIX

CAMILLA DARTED BEHIND Synton, praying they would be able to exit the room before the hexed painting did whatever it was about to do.

But it was too late.

Much too late.

An inhuman screech rent the air. Her body felt suddenly hollow, as if giving life to the hexed object had taken something from her in return.

Camilla grabbed Synton’s arm at the exact moment he reached back for her, as they tried to take in whatever vileness she’d set loose.

From what she could tell, it was enormous, crouched or hunched before them, a dense shadowy form with glowing crimson-orange embers for eyes.

In all her years, in all her nightmares, Camilla had never seen the like.

Not in the stories her mother and father had told. Not even in the places her mind had roamed.

Whatever it was, she understood that it wasn’t the throne itself; it had been the hexed thing living inside the throne, using its physical form.

Fire raged around them, growing stronger, wilder, like its shadow master.

Its hatred was palpable—its fury unmatched.

Camilla sensed it wanted to burn the entire estate, the whole city, until nothing but ash remained. Destruction. Cruelty. Chaos. Who knew how many years it had plotted revenge, locked within the confines of its prison? Maybe the old stories had it wrong, maybe the witch had hexed the throne to keep this creature far from the world. Maybe her hatred wasn’t a threat so much as a protection.

Truth was often lost or rewritten over the centuries.

“What’s happening?” Camilla shouted, her voice swept away by the next gust of sulfuric wind.

Synton squeezed her hand but didn’t comment.

What was there to say?

The world was breaking and re-forming into a hellscape before their very eyes.

Camilla’s mother had been less obsessed with the mythology of the other worlds than her father, but she had held fast to one rule: Pierre should never open his talent to a demon, and she’d raised Camilla that way too.

Camilla never would have painted the throne if she’d known what it truly was. And there was no way anything that malevolent was anything but demonic.

Winds howled in the most frightening manner, the air growing uncomfortably hot, smelling of death and ash.

Embers seared her skin, falling like some cursed snow from the devil’s domain.

Terror seized her. This would not end well.

Camilla needed to get herself and Synton to safety. If she destroyed the painting…

She inched forward, determined to—

“Stop.”

Synton barely raised his voice, but the creature heard him all the same. It stilled. And so did Camilla.

From deep within the bowels of the Underworld they now stood in came a sinister laugh.

It was layered, as if multiple voices in varying tones spoke at once.

“You dare to command me?” the hexed demon seethed.

Synton completely ignored the violence in the creature’s tone. He took a step toward it as if it should fear him. “You have information for me.”

Camilla wanted to throttle Synton. Did he not notice how much danger they were in?

Before she could pull him back, the demonic creature lurched forward, drawing in deep breaths like it was scenting them.

“So much power. So much… sin.”

The shadowy form exhaled slowly, its eyes flaring a brighter red.

“Your Highnesssssss.”

Camilla went perfectly still.

Its head swiveled in her direction. In the next moment, it was inside her mind, speaking to her silently.

Talent is such a horrible thing to waste, it said. Yours will be given back if you play the game until its end.

What game? she thought back at it.

Did you believe he wouldn’t eventually force your hand?

Inside her mind the Hexed Throne laughed wickedly. It had seen her realization.

Yesssss, it hissed, delighted, you are now but another pawn to be moved around his board.

It wasn’t talking about Synton. The creature was speaking of someone much, much worse. And she felt it again, then: that strange hollowness from before, and she knew her talent was gone. Her heart pounded wildly. He’d stolen her talent, her very essence.

She didn’t have long to dwell on that horrid revelation; she gasped as a crown shimmered to existence on top of Synton’s head. Emerald-tipped, beautiful.

“Ahhh.” The throne purred, speaking aloud again. “Prince of Envy. There you are. In hiding no more.”

“What?” Confusion warred with Camilla’s terror, winning for a moment.

Without glancing in her direction, Synton strode toward the throne, magic cracking around him—from him—with each mighty step.

If the throne was power, then, impossibly, the alleged prince was the source from which it sprang. She could feel the magic unspooling from him now.

Camilla’s heart pounded a furious beat. What was Synton? Surely he couldn’t be…

“Tell me what I want to know.” Synton’s tone was insolent, demanding. Royal. “Now.”

The flames on the throne shot upward, a towering inferno of fury and chaos that the elemental creature danced before. The hexed object raged at the command, but just as Camilla was convinced it would strike out, it whispered, “Hush! Those goose, lose no text.”

There was a beat of silence before the lord reacted.

“Send my regards to your king.”

Synton’s arm lashed out, and it shrieked, its many voices screaming in unison as a gleaming blade pierced through the shadow-like creature with ease.

Faster than it had begun, the fire, the embers, the wind, and the throne itself winked out of existence. In fact, the very painting she’d created had turned to a pile of ash. The only thing that remained was the emerald-tipped crown sitting atop Lord Synton’s head.

The throne had called him the Prince of Envy.

A charge he hadn’t denied.

Camilla watched as he finally shifted to meet her accusing stare, his expression cold, without an ounce of remorse. His gaze was fathomless, unflinching. Inhuman.

It all made sense, suddenly.

There was an ancient loneliness in his eyes because he was no mortal, brokenhearted man. Lord only knew how old he was. How many lives he’d lived, how many loves he’d lost.

If he was even capable of such an emotion. Maybe he’d simply shown her what she wanted to see, manipulated her to the full extent of his power.

Prince of Envy.

Now that the initial shock had passed, Camilla could think more clearly.

Most in Waverly Green believed the tales of the seven demon princes to be fiction, but she should have known better. She was well aware that it was unwise to write something off simply because you’d never seen it.

Many strange things were often found hiding in plain sight. The world was a vast, curious place filled with curious creatures. People rarely showed their true selves. But in all the stories she’d heard, demons couldn’t lie.

She laughed then at the irony, the sound anything but amused.

“Lord Synton. Clever. You must have had a good laugh at all our expenses.” Her tone hardened along with her expression. “You claimed you and Vexley were nothing alike, but here you are, nothing but a ruthless liar. And a miserable demon.”

His hand fisted at his side, his gaze darkening.

A spark of temper ignited in his eyes now, burning away the iciness.

One thing had been true in his charade, at least—he did not appreciate being likened to Vexley.

“Not so miserable when I’m in your bed, Miss Antonius.” His gaze mocked now. “You got a small taste of my powers.”

Despite her anger, heat lanced through her. No wonder he’d pushed her so thoroughly out of her mind—he was a prince who literally ruled over sin. No human in this whole world could compete with his skill in debauchery; since the stories were apparently true, the princes had practically invented the term. He had owned her with his tongue, and like every other fool who ended up in his sheets, she’d willingly sold her soul for that taste.

He smiled then, a quick brutal flash of teeth.

“I sense your arousal, Miss Antonius. Even knowing what I am, even hating that I lied, you want me.”

Attraction or not, it would be a cold day in hell before she invited him into her bedchamber now.

Another thought hit Camilla.

“Which brother did I meet?” she demanded.

At the ball, Syn had said there were seven brothers total. Truth as far as she knew. Probably the only bit of truth she’d been granted this whole time.

The Prince of Envy narrowed his eyes.

That look was definitely the sin he ruled over rearing its head. Good. Now she knew one of his weaknesses.

“Lust.”

That certainly explained things.

“Which brother is Alexei?”

“He’s my second-in-command.” Envy’s gaze glittered, dark and ominous. “Think twice before you threaten to bite him again, pet. Alexei is a vampire, and I promise he’ll bite back much harder. Although his venom can give you untold pleasure. You’d come as you died and beg for more with your last breath.”

Camilla knew he was trying to shock her, but most fiction spoke of vampires and their dangerous seduction, so the fact that Alexei’s venom could create orgasms to die for was hardly the most inconceivable part of her evening.

Which was rather remarkable.

“Since our bargain is now complete, I highly doubt I’ll encounter your pet vampire again, Your Highness.” Camilla drew herself to her full height, wishing she weren’t still wearing the damn painter’s apron. But at least using his true title seemed to rankle the prince.

God save her. The Prince of Envy. A fairy-tale villain sprung to life, and he’d had her convinced she’d experienced heaven in his devilish arms the night before.

With nothing left to say to the lying scoundrel before her, Camilla headed toward the door, but paused with a sinking heart. She couldn’t leave. To win her talent back, she needed to play the game. The throne was very clear on that. She wished she could claim she had no idea what the throne had meant, but she did. She subtly tried to summon her talent… to no avail.

Camilla took a deep breath. She knew very little of how the games worked, but she’d heard legends of their deadly stakes before, and of the sneaky game master himself. Losing her talent, her ability to paint, was the one thing he’d known she’d never endure, the one move he could make that guaranteed she’d play.

And if she was joining a current game, then odds were that was what Synton—Envy—damn it, whoever he was, had been up to all along. She felt her anger rising, but she reminded herself that if all this was true, then she needed Envy. At least until she figured out what she had to do next. Or she found another player to…

She closed her eyes. Of course. Lord Garrey. Recalling how Synton had helped him meet his end, she wasn’t sure it would be a good idea to let the demon prince know he had a new competitor—her.

And it’d be an even worse idea to let him find out she’d kept her own secret all along too. For now, she’d not reveal anything about her stolen talent, either. He’d become suspicious.

What was one more secret, anyway?

When she opened her eyes again, Envy was standing directly before her, looking dangerous.

“Do you know what the throne said?”

“A bunch of gibberish.” She tried to say it calmly, but her heart pounded so hard she worried he’d hear it.

“Hush! Those goose, lose no text.”

“You are proving my point beautifully, Your Highness,” she managed.

“It was a clue.” Envy looked briefly offended. “An anagram. Hush! Those goose, lose no text. Deciphered it says, House Sloth next. She goes too.”

Camilla’s mouth snapped shut.

The prince didn’t miss a beat. His smile was victorious.

She kept her face blank. Her game and his were truly intertwined.

“So you see, my darling,” he continued, “you have unwittingly become a part of the game I’m playing. A game I have spent many years waiting to win.”

He had no idea how correct he was about that.

With his free hand, he made to reach for her, then dropped it before making contact, a serious look overtaking his face.

“I might have lied to you about my name and title, but you have to understand, I will use any means necessary to win.” Then he gave her a wolfish smile. “And I love being a sinner too much to ever be a saint.”

“No one would nominate you for sainthood.”

“And be glad of that. Saints don’t typically kill to protect their investments.”

“Is that what you think I am? Your investment?”

“I think you’re delaying the inevitable and wasting time.”

“Perhaps I want you on your knees, apologizing before I decide what to do.”

His expression turned dark with sinful promise.

“I’ve been on my knees for you. If you want me there again, just ask. But if you expect an apology while I’m down there, you’ll be disappointed. At least in that regard.”

She gave him a withering look but said nothing.

“Choose to accompany me, or don’t, Miss Antonius. Either way, you’re coming with me to House Sloth.”

Heat coiled low in her belly. Most inconveniently. She shouldn’t be aroused by the damned brute.

Camilla cursed that wretched little deviant inside her, the one who purred seductively at the villain for his unbridled vices and mocked the hero for his unshakable virtues.

Life would be so much simpler if she would fall for the male whose moral compass was as dependable as the North Star.

But helping Envy was the key to helping herself now. For better or worse, they were partners in this game, no matter that he didn’t know that. At least not yet.

“Since you need me for whatever the next clue suggests,” she said at last, “I want time to prepare, at least.”

Her tone was firm, her stance clear. This would be a negotiation, or she’d find another way to play the game.

Envy looked her over. “An hour.”

“Two.”

He stared at her a long moment. His expression was carved from stone, but she swore she saw the faintest flicker of respect before he blinked it away.

“Two hours,” he agreed, gritting his teeth. “Eat, bathe, dress warmly. We’ll leave precisely at midnight.”

She graced him with a single nod.

He held the studio door open for her. “Camilla?”

She paused on the threshold, glancing back.

“If you run, I will chase you.”

She saw how serious he was. Envy would pursue his goal ruthlessly.

Part of her was intrigued by the intensity of wanting something so badly that no moral line would go uncrossed. A male that driven, that focused… fascinated her on the most basic level.

She spun around, heading for her chamber before he could see the tiny thrill she felt at that dangerous vow.