The Shifting Price of Prey

Chapter Forty-Three

Johnny/Ricou had moved so he lay on his side, elbow bent, head propped on his hand. His other hand, more Ricou’s than Johnny’s going by the blue webbing between his long-clawed fingers, was spread low over the softly rounded stomach of the female figure lying on her back in front of him.

Sylvia.

A naked and hugely pregnant Sylvia. Her magnificent ‘Hello Boys’ boobs were tipped with pointed, cherry-red nipples, her bushy head of twigs, heavily laden with pink and white cherry blossom, was spread out over the pillows, and more pink and white flowers bloomed at the juncture of her thighs.

Wow. I’d known Mary had a thing about Ricou and his Johnny Depp Glamours, but I hadn’t realised she had a thing about the pair of them together. As fantasies go, that was fine by me, if not for the fact that I was about to get an up-close-and-personal ringside seat of her fantasy ménage à trois, and no way did I need to see the three of them doing whatever Mary’s subconscious was about to conjure.

Not to mention: where had the other cambion, or whatever she was, come from? Somehow I couldn’t believe Cupid was powerful enough to cast himself into two illusions. Of course, the bed was massive, its base about three feet off the floor, and the drapes round the base . . . well, draped, hiding the space beneath it. A space large enough for half-a-dozen more cambions. A cheerful thought. Not.

Sylvia gave a sly ‘come hither’ smile, the expression uncannily like one the real Sylvia had given me two nights ago when she’d hit on me. Mary made a tiny eager noise, and Johnny/Ricou trailed his webbed blue hand up to cup one of Sylvia’s jiggling breasts. Sylvia squirmed in delight, her own hands zeroing in on the flowers between her legs, fingers plucking at the blossoms. Johnny lowered his head and swiped at one cherry-red nipple with a long purple tongue. She giggled, legs parting and blossoms flying as her fingers picked up speed. Johnny/Ricou grinned, his ’shopped face contorting bizarrely, and held out his hand. ‘Mary, come and join us, luv!’

There was a soft thud, then another, and Mary – minus her stab vest and Stun baton – shoved me and Dessa aside, unbuttoning her blouse with quick jerky movements as she rushed towards the pair on the bed.

Oh. Crap. This was so not going to happen. This might be Mary’s fantasy but that didn’t mean she actually wanted to experience it, and even if she did, she’d want it to be with the real Sylvia and Ricou, not with whoever the cambion and his pal were under their illusions. I focused on the Stun spell winking on the end of Mary’s baton, called it, caught the firefly of green magic, and, after a brief internal debate about which figure was the cambion, lobbed it in resignation at Mary’s back. It hit dead centre, exploding in a flash of mint-scented green, and unsurprisingly, Mary collapsed in a Stunned heap.

‘Wow!’ Dessa’s loud exclamation made me turn to her. She wasn’t looking at the unconscious Mary, but down at herself. ‘You know, I haven’t been this big since I stopped breastfeeding.’

‘What?’

She lifted her head. Gold flecked the brown of her irises. Unease crawled up my spine. Had the gold flecks been there before, or were they new? Gold meant something was . . . wrong . . . Then all thought left me as Dessa ripped off her stab vest, shirt and bra, revealing a pair of breasts way bigger than Sylvia’s, with large areolas the colour of bitter chocolate. ‘Look!’ She grinned, bouncing them. ‘Gorgeous, aren’t they?’ She pulled a sympathetic face. ‘Shame about yours, Genny.’

I blinked. Looked down. I was as flat as a pancake. Again. I tore my own vest off to double check, patting myself down. Nothing but tiny bumps. I started to undo my shirt buttons, panic shooting round my gut as if I’d swallowed a set of hyperactive pinballs. The familiar feeling stopped me cold—

I’d had it before. The Magic Mirror spell. The one from Harrods. Shit. Not again. Even as the knowledge clicked, my fingers were still frantically pulling apart my buttons as if on autopilot, and the realisation was lost.

‘Here, you can share mine.’ Dessa grabbed my hands, and cupped them to her own breasts, giggling.

Lust and surprise flashed in me at the soft, generous weight of her. I’d never touched the breasts of anyone as well endowed as Dessa; the only women I’d ever been this hands-on with – literally – had been vamp venom junkies, and I’d always been more interested in blood than sex at the time. Only now I wanted— No, I needed sex. Never mind that I was basically straight, and Dessa was female, that didn’t seem to matter. Not when she seemed to like my hands on her body as much as I did. I brushed my thumb along the freckles trailing across the mound of her left breast like a shooting comet, then squeezed gently, mesmerised as her nipples instantly contracted, thrusting eagerly into my palms. She gave a happy moan, her own hands slipping inside my shirt, and I discovered, even flat as a pancake, the slightest touch from her was enough to drag a desperate groan from my own throat.

As she moved my blouse aside, I moulded her with my hands, fascinated by both her body’s reactions and my own. She pressed her palms over my smaller nipples were pushing against the smooth satin of my bra, rubbing the tender, aching points. Another, deeper groan escaped me. Bending her head, she dragged down my bra, and quickly fastened her mouth over me. I gasped, my fingers digging into the lush fullness of her, as the slick wetness of her tongue played over my sensitised skin, flicking and teasing . . .

The boat shifted, rocking us gently on our feet, then settled.

. . . I gazed down at his black silk hair, the obsidian gem gracing his earlobe, his lips teasing my breast. Desire flooded my veins, need, sexual and something more, something stronger, fluttered inside me at his nearness; and as his teeth nipped, I threaded my fingers into that black silk, wanting him to pierce my skin, wanting him to have my blood. To have me. I arched into him, physically and mentally, telling him with my thoughts I wanted all the pleasure he could give me, to share that pleasure with him, and telling him that I was his, however he wished. He complied readily, sucking me deeper into the heat of his mouth and biting down, hard. But instead of the delicate sharpness of fangs, clumsy human teeth tore into my flesh. The unexpected pain threw my head back in a scream. I shoved him away from me—

And watched uncomprehendingly as Dessa stumbled back and fell.

She lay there, panting, dark blood staining her lips, her irises solid golden orbs, gazing adoringly up at me.

For a moment I gazed back, confused. Then, as the honey-copper scent of my own blood reached me, my mind cleared and it dawned on me what had happened— what was still happening. The Wishing Web I’d absorbed and spooled was unravelling inside me, its sticky fibres sliding deep as they hooked into my long-held fantasies . . . of Malik . . . of giving him my blood . . . not because I had to, not because the 3V forced me, not for any reason other than I wanted to . . . I shoved the thoughts away, hitching my bra up, heedless of the bloody bite – I’d heal – and buttoning my shirt as I did so. Now wasn’t the time for whatever fantasies the Wishing Web had pulled out of my psyche. Not when I had a more immediate and horrific problem to deal with.

Dessa. I’d trapped her in my Glamour. Never mind that it was illegal and would win me a quick one-way trip to the guillotine. Never mind I could’ve killed her if we’d got as far as orgasm, leaving her daughter without a mother. Bad as both of those things were, I had an uneasy feeling that releasing Dessa wasn’t going to be as simple as I needed it to be. She was a witch. She had to have been Glamoured by a sidhe at least once before (during a fertility rite, otherwise she would never have become pregnant). And we were trapped in a Wishing Web. Despite Dessa’s Jonathan Rhys Meyers fantasy, it looked like, deep down, she wished for something else, but whether it was sex with another female, or with a sidhe, I didn’t know.

Or really, for all I did know, she was gazing happily up at a creepy magically ’shopped merging of Jonathan Rhys Meyers and me. Which was kind of disturbing given the way she was lying half-naked on the sun-drenched grass—

I blinked.

The houseboat was gone. In its place was a manicured lawn, littered with early autumn leaves, half of it covered in bright sunshine, the rest deep in the shadow cast by the grey-stone walls of a half-ruined Norman manor house. To my right was a huge arched stone entrance, the door half ajar. To my left a copse of trees rustled in an almost chilly breeze. In the distance the deep waters of a moat sparkled.

I knew where this was. Knew what had happened here on my fourteenth birthday, on my wedding night. It’s an illusion, the rational part of me cried, ripped from your memories by the Wishing Web. Memories I’d revisited in shocking clarity only an hour or so ago in the Dreamscape with Bastien.

‘My sidhe bride.’ His voice was light, chiding, gentle. A lie. ‘Mildly entertaining as it is to see you toy with the witch, I wish your attention now.’

It’s not Bastien. It’s the cambion.

A sword appeared next to me, its point stuck in the grass, its bejewelled hilt quivering as if it had been thrown there.

‘Unless, of course,’ Bastien’s voice said, ‘you wish me to cause her, or the other witch, some damage, with that pretty sword.’

I glanced at Dessa, still lying oblivious in the sunshine. And across at Mary, still unconscious from the Stun spell. Horror choked my throat. I swallowed it back. He might be the cambion, but it was my memories the Wishing Web was channelling into this fantasy. And both of them were easy pickings. Innocent victims he would gleefully torture while he fucked them. It was what he’d done to Sally, my faeling friend, all those years ago, in the grand hall of this very house.

Sweat broke on my skin. My heart pounded in dread. No way did I want to relive that horror.

Illusion! Nothing more!

But it didn’t matter what I told myself. Between my memories, and the Wishing Web, the illusion was now as dangerous as the reality.

I scooped up Dessa’s shirt, slapped it on her chest, and grabbed her head. Ironically grateful that my Glamour forced her to be my puppet, I told her to put her shirt on, get Mary, and get both of them, and the still stone-like Taegrin, out of the tent, and then to keep everyone else out.

She scrambled to her feet, yanking on her shirt as she rushed to do my bidding.

A sigh behind me. ‘You disappoint me. I was hoping for some entertainment while we continued our conversation, which you so rudely ended earlier.’

I gripped the hilt of the sword, it wasn’t Ascalon but it would do, and turned. Keeping him occupied would give them chance to escape—

My eyes met those of the sucker I’d always wanted dead.

I smiled. As fantasies go, this one was turning out to be a killer.