A hum of male appreciation buzzed in the air as the tall woman with lush curves and a stunning mane of dark red hair sashayed across the carpet. Tonya was the sort of imp that could make any demon rejoice at being a male.
It was more than her pale, perfect skin and slanted emerald eyes. It was the blatant sensuality that oozed from her, enticing and provoking the male senses.
“You wanted nectar,” she murmured, holding up a jar that contained a pale gold liquid.
Styx nodded toward the man standing near the marble fireplace.
“It’s for him.”
“Who . . .” The imp turned, her flirtatious expression freezing as she caught sight of the Chatri prince. “Oh.”
“Well?” Magnus snapped his fingers. “Bring it to me, imp.”
“Yes.” Clearly bedazzled by the fey, Tonya obediently headed toward Magnus.
Waiting until she was standing directly in front of him, Magnus took the jar from her hand and sniffed at the golden liquid.
“Pedestrian,” he muttered. “But I suppose it will have to do.” Setting the nectar on the mantel, he turned his attention to the enthralled female. “Why are you not on your knees?”
Viper made a choked sound. “Oh hell.”
Tonya blinked, as if coming out of a spell. “Excuse me?”
“You are a lesser fey,” Magnus informed her, his superior tone enough to make any demon consider the pleasure of kicking him in the nuts. “You should be on your knees when in the presence of your master.”
The emerald eyes widened; the scent of scorched plums making Styx rub his nose.
“Master?”
“I am Prince Magnus.” The idiot gave a wave of his hand. “Bow before me.”
“How about I do this instead?” the imp said, pulling back her arm before punching the prick directly in the nose. Viper shrugged as the prince cursed in pained disbelief. Turning his head, he met Styx’s amused gaze.
“He really did ask for it.”
Styx chuckled. “I think I just found my fey liaison.”
Cyn unrolled the fragile scroll with a practiced care that would have surprised most people.
They only saw the wild berserker who would destroy anyone who threatened his clan. Or the impulsive hedonist who reveled in sensual pleasures.
His love for history was a hobby that he shared with very few.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice reverent.
“It was presented to the Commission as a gift.”
Cyn caught the scent of musty linen and charcoal as he studied the delicate hieroglyphs sketched on the scroll.
“Presented by whom?”
“No one can recall.”
Hmm. That was odd. His gaze skimmed over the delicate symbols.
“What’s it for?”
“I believed that it was a simple cleansing spell that would rid the caves of any lingering residues of magic.” The female Oracle gave a lift of her shoulder. “When so many powerful demons are gathered in one place it is necessary every few months to purge the air so that the overspill of energy doesn’t build up and interfere with our current spells.”
Cyn was blissfully ignorant when it came to magic and residual buildup. He was, however, an expert when it came to the subtleties of language.
“You said you believed.” He studied her tiny, heart-shaped face. “Now you don’t?”
She gave a firm shake of her head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t remember who planted the idea in my head that it was a cleansing spell.”
Cyn frowned in puzzlement. “You can’t read it?”
“No. But there is a compulsion deep inside me to try and cast it.”
“How would you cast it if you can’t read it?”
“That is a question I have no answer for.” Siljar stepped toward him, pointing to the glyphs. “Can you decipher it?”
“No.” He frowned, sensing the age of the writing. “It’s old. Very old.”
“Fey?” the Oracle prompted.
“Maybe fey in origin, but—”
“What?”
“The marks are too straight.” His finger traced an angled line that was topped by a section of triple dots. “The fey glyphs are curved and usually more . . . elegant.” He gave a shake of his head. “This has the blunt simplicity of humans, but it isn’t in any language I’ve seen before.”
Siljar’s expression remained calm, but Cyn didn’t miss her tiny jerk of surprise.
She hadn’t been expecting him to say human.
“But you have the means to translate it?” she at last demanded.
Cyn considered his response. He was impulsive, not suicidal. A wise vampire didn’t say no to an Oracle.
Then again, he wanted nothing more than to get rid of his unwanted guests and check on his clan. He had full faith in Lise, whom he’d left in charge when Roke asked him to travel to America, but his clan would be frantic to discover what’d happened to him.
And more importantly, he wanted the damned fairy princess out of his hair.
Okay. That wasn’t entirely true.