Page 3 of Taming His Vampire Mate
“Speaking of which, there are somanyoptions for dealing with an ungrateful vampire,” Tatiana, the witch queen of Seattle, chimed in. She stood beside Wynn, the only other surviving member of the original witches’ council. They were holding a shimmering circle of power in place around us.
“Enlighten me, then,” I said to Poppy, ignoring Tatiana. I respected the queen’s ruthlessness, but engaging with her was rarely wise. I added, “Preferably in fifty words or less.”
“Thierry, come on.” Poppy shook her head. “I don’t get the attitude. I really don’t. It’s not because you’re old and jaded or whatever. My girlfriend is at least twice your age, and she’s nothing like you.”
From the circle’s edge, Simone—one of my oldest friends—gave me a little wave. Judging by the crinkles around her almond-shaped eyes and the curve of her lips, she was trying hard not to laugh. Many things amused her. The perks of being unknowably ancient and having seen empires rise and fall. I suspected she didn’t even know exactly how old she was, given she had been born long before written record-keeping became standard practice. Very little disturbed Simone, save for wanton violence against innocents.
But I had never seen her happier than when she was with Poppy. The two couldn’t have been more opposite: Poppy was pale, freckled, wreathed in an unruly mane of vivid red hair, and filled with nervous energy. Simone, on the other hand, was steadfast and regal. With her flawless dark skin, killer bone structure, and close-cropped black hair, she was the epitome of elegance—almost like a supermodel who had wandered off the runway. That is, if said supermodel was thousands of years old and had fangs.
“Maybe I’ll be nicer in my old age,” I muttered. “Give me another two thousand years and I’m sure I’ll be sweet as pie.”
“That’s the spirit,” Simone called, laughing. “And be nice to my girlfriend. Orelse.”
I scowled.
“Anyway,” Poppy said, cutting back in. “Like I was saying before you decided to be an asshat for no good reason, this spelltaps into all possible outcomes of every decision you have ever or will ever make. It creates a branching of fate lines, so that—”
“I find my one true, destined love.” I couldn’t quite keep the exasperation out of my voice when I added, “Yes, yes. Very impressive for those who appreciate such things.”
In my defense, she had explained the mechanics before. Repeatedly. And I wasn’t a warlock, so the finer points were lost on me.
But Poppy stopped dead, clutching her bowl like she might hurl it at my head. Simone shot me a warning look. Even the witch queen glared.
I sighed. No one likes getting ganged up on.
“Look, I understood the theory the first half-dozen times you explained it. And it didn’t work those times either.”
“If you don’t want me to cast it, just say so. You’re not the one risking spontaneous combustion.”
“I won’t let that happen,” Ethan Solomon assured her, voice carrying. He showed Poppy the wickedly sharp blade in his hand. “See? Locked and loaded. At the first sign of trouble, I’ll neutralize the magic by bleeding all over you.”
“Gee, thanks,” Poppy said, though she looked marginally reassured.
“And if you’ve exhausted your supply of wit,” Tatiana said, giving me a cold-eyed once-over, “we’re ready to begin.”
“Just get on with it, darling,” I drawled. “I’m not getting any older, but we shouldn’t waste time.”
Poppy sighed. “I hope your fated mate has the patience of a fucking saint.”
“As long as he’s well-endowed, everything else is negotiable,” I shot back, flashing a too-sweet smile to hide the sudden nervousness I felt.
Eight hundred years ago, I’d been turned by a sadistic bastard who delighted in seeing me suffer. When I realized I wasgiving him exactly what he wanted every time I reacted to one of his cruelties, I shut it all down. There was no way in hell I’d ever give Magnus the satisfaction of seeing my pain. My instinct, even now, was to drown whatever I was feeling in humor. Or anything else I could manage.
Still, I couldn’t help the flash of guilt at how dismissive I sounded. She was taking a colossal risk. They all were. But she was choosing to do this because she agreed with me. She believed what we were doing here mattered. I wasn’t so ungrateful that I couldn’t see it. Even if they were making it worse by dragging things out.
“Look,” I said, meeting her eyes and forcing the words out before I could overthink them. “I understand this is dangerous. For me and for you. And I trust that you’ve figured out the mechanics.” Grudgingly, I added, “Thank you.”
“Am I really high, or did you just—”
“Frame it,” I said brusquely. “It’s not happening again.” When she just stared, I added, “Don’t you have a spell to cast?”
Seeming marginally relieved, perhaps that we were back in safer waters with one another, she gave me a sharp nod. Then she and the other witches launched into the spell.
It was the same ancient Greek incantation she’d used before, this time echoed by Tatiana and Wynn. The only word I caught wasMoirai—the ancient Greek word that referred to the triplicity of fates. Then came a shorter passage in a guttural-sounding tongue, possibly an ancient Germanic dialect. Though fluent in modern German, I didn’t recognize a single word of it.
As they chanted, Poppy circled me, scattering flowers. She threw them haphazardly, but the petals still formed a perfect ring at my feet. As she moved into a third incantation—a spell she’d never used before, maybe in a forgotten Welsh dialect—a strange pressure built in my bones.
A moment later, I let out a sharp gasp.
