Page 1 of Demons of Eden

CHAPTER ONE

Ishould have fucking known coming out for drinks was a terrible idea.

Slowly sipping my cocktail without any real enthusiasm, I survey the club from my seat at the bar. Midnight Masque is packed tonight. Its wild, modern take on gothic sixteenth-century ballroom decor is hardly visible. It’s been lost behind the thick throngs of people drinking and dancing to the near-deafening music playing throughout most of the club. Thankfully, the volume is lowered with a charm cast around its two bars, sparing my ears and allowing the people chatting or ordering drinks to be heard over the noise.

Most of the crowd tonight are witches. They’re all revelling as they celebrate the coming spring, continuing the party once most of the more traditional celebrations ended earlier this evening. Despite that, not a single member of my coven I was supposed to meet with here is in sight. And sadly, as much as I would like it to be, it isn’t simply a case of missing them in the masses either. I looked all over the club before retreating to the bar, and not one of the messages I’ve sent has been replied to, despite the vexing little marks beside them.Ugh.The fucking audacity to invite me along, only to leave me on fucking read.

Sighing, I set my drink back on the bar top while trying to look busy stirring a tiny straw through the fruity concoction. I watch as the ice cubes swirl around, clinking together with a somewhat pleasant, mind-distracting ring. However, it can only occupy my brain for so long before the unhappy thoughts return.

It’s official; I’ve been ditched.

With my best friend, Suvi, working the night shift at our coven’s health clinic, maybe I should have seen this coming. It’s not as if I’m particularly close to any of the others, but I’ve been trying to get to know them at least. Still attempting to forge connections after nearly three years of apparent missteps, only managing a level of friendly acquaintance with a few of them at best. Maybe not even that, given tonight’s epic failure.

Ever since I made the move to the city and joined up with one of the local covens, I’ve found I don’t quite fit in with most of the witches here. Other than Suvi, I’ve yet to make any other witch friends, period. The only other friend I’ve made in this stupid city besides her is a human who lives in my building. A fact some of the other witches seemed to find outright distasteful when they’d found out, especially Lorcan, who’d been particularly vocal on humans not beingactualfriend material. In the end, it’s just another reason for them not to like me, right along with my being from a small town in the middle of nowhere and not being a part of their group who’d all grown up here together. It’s like being in high school all over again, but somehow, it’s even worse.

How can I be twenty-six and still dealing with this stupid juvenile bullshit?

I was desperate to leave my hometown. The bustle of cities has always called to me, but the witches here aren’t like they are back home. There’s none of the warm welcome I’d come to associate with coven get-togethers. Even the elders are distant, never seeming to interact more than strictly necessary, unless it’s with those who grew up within their coven. It’s only gettingclearer with time that I’ll always be seen as an outsider here, lost in a group more than five times the size of the one I’d known before.

Maybe this was all a stupid mistake. Coming out here tonight, hell, maybe even the move to the city itself was only ever asking for trouble...

“You keep stirring that drink so intently, and someone will think you’re brewing a tiny potion in there,” an amused voice says from my left as they settle onto the elaborately carved barstool next to mine.

“Who says I’m not?” I reply sarcastically without so much as glancing up at the speaker. I’m sure whoever it is will get the hint and quickly realise they picked the single worst person at the bar to try starting a conversation with. I’d feel sorry for them if I wasn’t so busy feeling sorry for my-damn-self tonight.

A lightly tanned hand darts into my field of vision, and before I can process it, their long fingers are sweeping down over mine. The skin on their hand feels slightly calloused yet clearly taken care of.A man who actually knows what moisturiser is? Praise be the Goddess.His hand quickly wraps its way around mine and the glass I’m holding before I can protest. Then suddenly, he’s gripping tighter as he lifts it, with my hand stolen along for the ride, to his mouth. Striking amber eyes staring straight into mine, he downs the rest of my drink in one long gulp, his lips curling up into a pleased, practically criminal smile when he’s done.

It takes at least three long, shameful seconds for my brain to reactivate and respond to the bizarre action, finally pulling my hand back and slamming the empty glass onto the bar. Too many responses begin to filter through my head all at once, but for all the noise in my brain, all that ends up coming out of my mouth is an indignant,“Hey!”

“What?” the man asks, giving me an innocent look, which is thoroughly ruined by the entertained glint in his eyes. “I was only preventing whatever disastrous plan you had for that concoction of yours.”

“I wouldn’t call getting drunk a bad plan considering the day—no, scratch that—considering the last two years I’ve had,” I retort, glancing across the bar to see where the staff are now that I’m clearly in need of another drink, but they’re all far too busy to notice. Damn holiday crowds. I’d curse my own kind, but it isn’t only the witch celebrations that pack out Midnight Masque. On the main vampiric holiday of the year, it’s practically impossible to get into any of the decent clubs in the city with how busy they all get.

Both shapeshifters and otherworlders are more private with their special dates, so much so that I couldn’t even guesswhenthey all celebratewhat. They tend to be more reclusive species in general, for the most part, with my brother’s husband, Kit, being the one notable exception I personally know of. Though, a person would have to be at least a little odd, by anyone’s standards, to have married Forrest, in my humble opinion. His personality is anacquiredtaste.

“You know…to get drunk, you’d actually need to consume the drink, rather than just stirring it around for twenty minutes while the ice slowly melts,” he points out dryly. “So, naturally, I assumed you were doing something witchy instead, seeing as you were doing such a poor job of drinking.”

Have I been sitting here for that long? And has he really been watching me the entire time?

I look back at him, finding myself a little unsettled that I can't immediately pin down his species. You can’t always tell, but for the most part, it’s usually simple enough. Witches look the most like humans; shapeshifters you can tell by how they interact, and with vampires, you only have to get a good look at their teethor eyes for confirmation. Otherworlders are the most difficult, no matter their type. Most of them are capable of changing their appearance at will, and they’re incredibly well-practised at blending in with the Earth-born populace when they wish to, no matter the crowd.

Whatever his species is, he’s unfairly,brain-meltinglyattractive. Strangely, if I had to pick just one singular word to describe him, it would begolden. His amber eyes are reddish directly around the pupils but are a bright, ambery-gold over the rest of the irises. They also radiate an unnatural gleam, confirming that whatever he is, he isn't a baseline human. His hair, caught somewhere right between brown and a darker shade of blond, could also be described as gold in colour. That, along with his tanned skin, which manages to practically glow even in the dim and flashing lights of the club, and it’s impossible not to notice the comparison to the precious metal.

He’s impossible not to notice.

“And if I was—doing something witchy with my drink, that is—what would you have done then?” I ask, not really sure where I’m going with this, but finding that I don’t particularly want to immediately shoo him away and return to my pity party for one. He may have stolen my drink, but he seems like a far more entertaining distraction than swirling ice cubes while feeling sorry for myself.

“Depends on what it did,” he answers with a shrug of his broad shoulders, the movement causing the edge of his dark, blood-red shirt to move just enough to reveal a tantalising glimpse of the black ink hidden on the upper-left side of his chest and shoulder beneath it. “For example, if the potion triggered lust, it would have gone to waste on me. You’re more than capable of evoking that response all by yourself.”

I can feel the flush that heats my face at his reply, really wishing I still had a drink in my hands to blame my increasinglyred cheeks on. This guy, who looks practically like sex given a physical form, is callingmedesirable? He cannot be for real. My brain processes the fact he’s actually flirting with me perhaps a second too late, as I say, “Sweet-talking words, but how do I know you weren’t just stealing yourself a free drink?”

“Have you considered that I was creating an excuse to buy you one instead? I couldn’t sit back and watch you stir that one drink all night while waiting for my chance.”

“What if I don’t accept drinks from strangers?” I ask, smiling and leaning in a little to soften my words, not wanting to accidentally make him think I'm uninterested. Then again, I doubt he’s used to encountering people who aren’t interested in him. Tall, attractive, charming? I highly doubt he’s lacking in confidence.

“Then,” he begins, cutting off momentarily as he flags down one of the staff behind the bar, who somehowimmediatelynotices him when he holds up two fingers and gestures at my glass. “I’ll have to introduce myself, won’t I?” He then waits until the drinks are placed in front of us before pushing one of them in my direction and picking up his own.

“Ash,” he offers his name simply, holding his glass out towards me.

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