Bittersweet Magic (The Order #2)

“At the time, I believed she was totally innocent—and really she was. She knew nothing. But she was a healer. People would come to her when all else failed, and she would help them. They repaid her by burning her alive. I listened to her screams.”


Piers remembered back to the night they had arrived. The scar on the other sister’s back—the healing had been much more advanced that it should have been. “Are you a healer as well?”

He thought she wouldn’t answer, and fear flashed across her face. She must have been warned not to talk of her powers, no doubt by whoever had saved her all those years ago. And she must have lived with that fear all these years, hiding what she was, blending in with the “normal people” but always on her guard. He saw resolve harden in her face. “Yes. But more than my mother. I can bring people back from the brink of death.”

He was guessing her mother must have had a touch of fae blood, as Jonas did. But Roz had far more than a touch. “Did you know your father?” he asked.

The anger flashed again. “I remember him vaguely. He was tall and blond, and my mother loved him madly. Then one day, when I was about six, he went away, and he never came back.” Her eyes hardened. “Bastard. He promised to return, and my mother spent her whole life waiting for him, swearing that one day he would come for us. Even when the witch-finder came at the end, even as they were torturing her, she held on to the hope that he would somehow save us. He never came.”

“Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe something stopped him.” Tara spoke, and Piers glanced across at her. The little demon-fae was blinking back tears. She was such a softy—amazing, really, when you considered who and what her father was.

“I believed he was dead,” Roz said. “I hoped he was dead.”

Her tone was harsh, but Piers suspected she was very likely wrong. “I somehow doubt that he’s dead.”

“Why?”

“I’m guessing your father must have been pure-blooded fae. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be immortal.”

Shock flared on her pretty face, her eyes stretching wide. “I’m immortal?”

“Well, how the hell else did you think you’d lasted all this time?”

She shook her head, clearly bewildered. “He told me…” She broke off and her expression hardened. “That fucking bastard. If I ever get near him again, I’m going to slice him into little pieces.”

“He?”

She clamped her lips together.

“I think maybe the sigil prevents her from speaking his name,” Jonas said from across the table. “It’s a protection method.”

“So what did he tell you? How did he explain the fact that you never died, never aged? How old were you when you made this deal?”

“Seventeen.”

So young. A child.

“He told me that he’d extended my lifespan, that I would live as long as I was indebted and bore his mark, but once I was free, I would age as normal and die as normal.”

“Can I see this mark?” Christian asked.

Piers glanced across at Roz and raised an eyebrow. She shrugged, swallowed the rest of her scotch, and pushed herself to her feet.

She loosened the front of the robe, flashing her underwear, then slipped it off one arm and turned sideways to Christian so he could see the mark.

It was actually very beautiful: an intricate, almost Celtic design that wrapped around her upper arm. “Can you tell who put it there?” Piers asked Jonas.

“I might be able to find out. We have some books in the library, which might help.”

“Okay, but later.” He had a good idea anyway, considering which demon he already suspected was involved with the Key, but he’d keep that to himself until he decided what to do with the information. “For now, let’s get on with the story.”

Roz tugged up her dress and sat down. This time Piers filled her glass. She peered at him suspiciously before muttering a thank you. Underneath the calm exterior, she actually looked a little shattered. Well, she had just discovered that she was immortal.

“After my mother died, I knew they were coming for me. I stopped praying to God at that point and asked for help from another source.” She gave them an almost defiant look. “I prayed to Lucifer. And while I didn’t get the devil himself, I got the next best thing.”

“And you made a deal?” Christian asked. His tone was expressionless, but she must have sensed some censure, real or imagined, because she turned to face him, her eyes narrowed.

“I was seventeen, I’d just listened to my mother die screaming in agony, and they were about to do the same to me. So yes, I made a deal. I didn’t want to die screaming, but more—I wanted them to pay. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” Christian replied. “You could say I made a similar deal myself. You don’t think I was born like this?” He grinned with a flash of fang and some of the tension seeped from her.