Bittersweet Magic (The Order #2)

People she’d known her whole life had just murdered her mother. Now they were preparing to do the same to Rosamund. Soon they would come and lead her out, tie her to that stake, and watch her burn.

Since the arrest, she’d clung to the hope that this wouldn’t happen, that someone would save them, that the people would see they were mistaken and her sweet mother was innocent. That hope perished amid her mother’s screams as the flesh roasted from her body. Now hatred replaced hope, and she allowed it to saturate her mind.

Releasing her grip on the bars, she dropped to the floor, her legs giving way so she collapsed to her knees. Her breaths were coming short and fast, panic threatening to overtake her. She slowed her breathing, clearing her mind of the fear and grief.

She’d done nothing wrong. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t. Her mother was innocent of everything they had accused her of. Her only crime: loving the wrong man, and she’d paid for that with her life.

But while her mother had been innocent of the accusations against her, Rosamund wasn’t. She didn’t know what she was. She wasn’t even sure what the word “witch” meant. Not what the ignorant villagers believed, that was for sure. Now, as she knelt in the filthy cell and waited for them to come for her—to punish her for a crime they understood no more than she did—the hunger for revenge rose inside her. Someone must pay for her mother’s death.

Something slumbered in the dark recesses of her soul, something she had always shied away from. Now she closed her eyes and focused her mind. She visualized a door, locked and bolted.

Under her breath, she began to recite the prayer that came to her mind.

“Lucifer, aid me in my hour of need...”

She woke with a start.

Stumbling to her feet, she crossed the room to where she’d left the file, needing something to distract her from the memories. She carried it back to bed with her, pulled out the photograph, and slid her fingertip over the young girl’s face, the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. Fear filled her mind. For a moment, she fought the sensation, then she closed her eyes and let it take her.

Terror saturated her every cell.

She was naked, but hot as though in a fever. Her throat ached where the monster had bitten her. Now he was back and panic clawed at her insides.

Frantically, she tried to scramble back. His harsh laughter filled the room as a hand wrapped around her ankle and dragged her toward him.

A whimper escaped her throat, and her heart fluttered as though trying to break free.

He licked up her leg almost as she’d imagine a lover would caress her. Then teeth sank into the flesh of her inner thigh, and she felt the spurt of her lifeblood. He drank greedily, sucking, swallowing, and for a brief while, her panic and fear faded. No pain. Just a tugging that pulled at places deep within her body, and the vague sadness that her life was draining away.

When he’d finished, he raised his head. Her vision was fading to blackness as she stared into his handsome face…

She recognized that face—the man from the convent. Jack.

A touch on her arm dragged her back to her own body. Roz sat up abruptly. The lamp was on, casting a crimson pool of light, illuminating the man who sat in the chair beside her bed. Although “man” was hardly the right word to describe him. Lucifer might not have answered her call all those years ago, but she’d gotten the next best thing.

“Shit,” she muttered, pulling herself up, tugging the sheet with her. She was naked and while she’d been naked in front of him before, that was a side of their relationship that had ended more than four hundred years ago, and one she had no wish to resurrect. A shiver ran through her at the memory of the pleasure and the pain. “Don’t you ever knock?”

“Your house is my house.”

Yeah, that was the goddamn truth. Bastard. He was smiling again. Why did that make her nervous? “You’re looking very cheerful,” she said. That wasn’t going to last.

“Is there some reason I shouldn’t be?”

She supposed she’d better get this over with. Her body braced itself for the pain. Asmodai had never been one to smile in the face of failure.

“I didn’t get your Key thingy.”

“I know.”

“You know?” She frowned. “So how come you’re so happy?”

“The Key can wait. Tell me what happened at the convent.”

She gave herself a mental shake and started to go over what had occurred the night before. The tension was seeping out of her limbs as she realized that he wasn’t going to exact some terrible retribution. He really had mellowed, and she wondered what had changed. The love of a good woman? She almost snorted at the idea. What use would Asmodai have for a good woman? She shoved the idea aside and concentrated on telling her story. Occasionally, he’d stop her and ask a question. And just once, she asked one of her own.

“The man, Jack—do you know him?”

“No.”

“But did you know someone else was after this Key?”

“Maybe.”