Magic and Alphas: A Paranormal Romance Collection Read online

  Michael let out a dark chuckle, one devoid of humor. “That is the only easy question you have asked, amicus. We go for Death.”

  * * *

  At the sound of footsteps in the hall, the young half-daemon froze, rooted to the spot. The pair of heavy boots came to a stop just outside Dante’s chambers and he broke out in a cold sweat. Dante’s eyes never strayed from the thick slab of wood that formed the only barrier between him and whatever nightmare waited on the other side. He felt empty as his own aura retreated in fear. The navy blue sphere faded and shrank inside his chest in a futile bid to protect Dante’s condemned soul from his father’s perversions.

  Though Dante had been expecting it, the three loud thumps on the door startled him and his whole body jerked. He swiped his tongue over dry, cracked lips and a flock of fluttering nerves clawed its way up his throat. Dante’s empty stomach twisted, and the hollow, nauseated sensation swelled when he heard the all too familiar words that followed the knock.

  “My Prince, the King requests your presence, posthaste.” When Dante didn’t respond to the voice he knew to belong to Vyltaran—an incubus, his father’s closest advisor, and an evil piece of troll shit—the sex daemon snarled. Low vibrations from Vyltaran’s growl penetrated the thick wood to slam directly into Dante’s hammering heart. “I know you’re in there you insolent whelp. If you don’t come out, I shall be most delighted to force you.” An evil laugh accompanied by the tooth-jarring screech of long, sharp claws down the length of the door had Dante shivering in terror. He swallowed and winced at the gritty sensation that scratched his dry throat.

  “I-I’m coming.” When his voice cracked, Dante cursed under his breath for allowing his cowardice to show.

  “See to it you do… come, that is,” Vyltaran responded with a foreboding chuckle. The double-entendre did not escape Dante’s notice and sent the prick of goose flesh along his arms.

  Dante leaned against the cool stone wall and closed his eyes. At one hundred and twenty-three, Dante was young for a daemon, half, full, or otherwise. A male barely out of his youth. Raised by his human mother until the tender age of fourteen, Dante’s father, Asmodeus, who happened to be the Daemon King of Lust, showed up the day Dante reached sexual maturity and whisked him from his home in Italy. Asmodeus brought him directly to this horror show of a palatial mansion. The King’s estate, perched on the cliffs high above the human village of Eastlake Falls, encompassed a vast amount of land. In the very center stood his father’s pride and joy, Domus Desiderii, the House of Lust, an enormous stone and marble monstrosity that was about as inviting as a djinn’s asshole. Inside was even worse. His father thought reams of red and black velvet, creepy, twisted iron candelabras, and furniture that resembled torture devices were resplendent displays worthy of his status as the King of Lust. The grotesque mansion was his father’s pride and joy.

  Unlike his son.

  Out of Dante and his six daemon cousins, each the son of a living embodiment of one of the seven deadly sins—Lust, Pride, Greed, Sloth, Envy, Gluttony, and Wrath—Dante and his cousin Maximus, the Prince of Wrath, drew the short straws. In fact, Dante despised his father so much, he actively sought to spend most of his very limited free time hiding at the home of one of his other cousins, Davin, the Prince of Pride. Opulent and jaw-droppingly beautiful, the King of Pride’s home was the perfect expression of the male’s sin and the King treated Davin like the Prince he was.

  Dante and Maximus? Not so much.

  “You wretched cunt. I’m coming in!”

  Dante startled once more at Vyltaran’s booming roar. Knowing there was no point in answering the bastard, as anything he said would be twisted to use against him, Dante scrambled to open the door and stepped into the dark corridor. He made certain to pull the door shut behind him to engage the lock. The last thing he wanted was his father’s nasty incubus flunky skulking about his chambers or, for that matter, anywhere near Dante’s personal belongings.

  No sooner was he in the hall than Vyltaran grabbed him by the biceps.

  “Hey!” Dante attempted to wrench his arm out of Vyltaran’s grip, but the incubus dug in deeper, using his wicked four-inch claws. Dante’s skin split open like a ripe peach. A gush of warm blood wound its way to his elbow and dripped onto the floor.

  “Hold your tongue, Prince.” Somehow, Vyltaran managed to make Dante’s much-loathed royal title sound like a vulgar insult. At least the incubus removed his talons from Dante’s biceps. Vyltaran, however, did not retract the shiny black claws that protruded from long, elegant fingers. Like his father and the other Kings, incubi hail from the Underworld. Devious creatures, they seduced and bedded whoever piqued their fancy, feeding off their victim’s sexual desire. To draw in bed partners, each and every one of the incubi—as well as the female succubi—was inhumanly beautiful. Vyltaran was no exception, though in Dante’s opinion, the incubus’ shitty personality made the tall, handsome male about as attractive as a fungus infested Hellhound.

  The urge to tell off Vyltaran was so great Dante snapped his mouth shut hard, tasting the copper tang of blood on his tongue. The mild pain was easy to ignore. It was nothing compared to what lie in wait for him in his father’s favorite room, a richly appointed chamber that hid its abominations and implements of torture beneath fine fabrics and expensive jewels. It was more dungeon than boudoir and just the thought of it made Dante sick. When they reached the door, Dante hesitated. With a snarl, the incubus shoved Dante through the grandiose stone arch. Dante stumbled and fell to his knees, missing the exposed marble flooring by inches to land on a thick, expensive Persian rug.

  “Ah, my son finally decided to grace me with his presence.”

  Slowly, so as not to expose the very real terror racing through his veins, Dante lifted his gaze to meet his father’s flashing blue eyes. Eyes so similar to Dante’s own, he had to swallow back revulsion every time he looked in a mirror. Dante wished he were ugly, but it was never to be. As with most immortals, every one of the Daemon Kings and their sons were inhumanly beautiful. Unlike Dante, who hated his own attractive face and the misery it brought, his cousin Davin reveled in his own stunning looks. Appearance was Davin’s main source of pride, after all, as it was the sin upon which Davin fed. Unfortunately, Dante’s daemon half—like his father—required lust to survive. Dante fed his daemon’s needs by seducing willing human partners in the village and beyond. His father was… not as kind.

  “I am here, sire.” Dante bit back the insult that sat at the tip of his tongue. He learned a century ago, that speaking out of turn and arguing were fruitless and only led to further agony at his father’s hand.

  “And already on your knees,” the King chuckled. Titters joined in from around the chamber as his father’s pathetic minions laughed at the King’s poor excuse for humor. “Just how we like you.” Dante swallowed his revulsion. The King crooked a finger and two human slaves stepped forward, both male. Any hope Dante may have held onto that mayhap this session wouldn’t be too terrible, vanished. He hung his head in defeat. It appeared his father would spare nothing for his son today. “Put the disrespectful brat on the bench.”

  Two sets of hands lifted Dante under his arms and began to drag him toward the bench. He couldn’t help it. Dante’s fight or flight instinct kicked in. His eyes bulged, his heart hammered, and he dug in his heels. The humans were no match for Dante’s strength. Even though his father compelled them, humans were much weaker physically. Dante twisted his head around to beg the Daemon King. “Please, father, not the bench. I’ll cooperate, I give my oath.” Dante’s pulse raced and his guts knotted in abject fear. The corner of his bastard father’s mouth turned up in a sadistic grin and Dante’s legs gave out.

  “Strip him and strap him down,” the King commanded.

  Dante’s clothes were torn from his body and he was laid face down over a long leather pommel, similar to those used by the stable hands to care for the horses’ saddles. His wrists were shackled to the front support, his ankles to the back, leaving his ass hanging off the end of the bench. Dante jerked at the bindings. As always, he was held down by cursed chains—the only restraints that could hold an immortal captive. Unless a sorcerer released the spell, only the key would open the cuffs, and this particular key was held by his loathsome, pile of dung father.

  Cold hands groped Dante’s buttocks, kneading and massaging them roughly. He jerked and lifted his head enough to peek over his shoulder and choked at the sight. Horrified, he began to beg in earnest. “Please don’t do this, I beg of you.” Dante thrashed and fought to no avail. There was no escape from the bench. He should know. Dante had been strapped to the device at least once a week, sometimes more, for the last hundred years. Today, Dante discovered, was to be unlike any of those other awful days. Today, it wasn’t Vyltaran or one of the other daemons that worked for his father, or even a lowly human slave that stood behind Dante, ready to penetrate his body and abuse it for their pleasure.

  No. It was much, much worse.

  A large palm connected with Dante’s flank, sending a reverberating smack throughout the chamber. His buttocks were roughly pulled apart and Dante gave one final, valiant attempt to make this nightmare end. With his throat as dry as the burning hot bowels of the Underworld, his voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. “Father, I beg of you not to do this.”

  Asmodeus, Daemon King of Lust, threw his head back and laughed, right before pushing his length into his only son.

  Dante dropped his forehead to the leather and for the first time in his existence, he cried. Silent tears streaked down Dante’s cheeks. It wasn’t that Dante was sad or broken. Wasn’t shamed or defeated. No… Dante was furious. As the rough thrusting rocked Dante’s abused body back and forth on the bench, his mind detached and Dante formulated a plan. A plan to get rid of his father and everything other creature on the Earthly plane that existed solely to inflict pain. So absorbed in his thoughts was he, Dante didn’t notice when a new male took his father’s place, nor another after that. Dante’s anger held him captive in a place far away, his focus on his task unbreakable. By the time the humans unlocked the chains and dragged Dante back to his chamber, tossing him on his bed, he had everything sorted out.

  He discovered methods to get rid of evil were plentiful. Finding and recruiting proper help was the difficult part.

  But sanctus infernum, he would do it. Dante would do anything to be free of his father’s cruelty. Even if it meant having himself banished to the Underworld just to escape this alternate version of hell.

  Chapter 3

  “This is the dwelling of the supposed Master of Practitioners?” Michael asked. He scrunched his nose as he took in the building before them, a crumbling structure that once served as an inn to travelers passing through the township of Eastlake Falls. Michael had walked by it many times, but not once gave it a second glance.

  Joan stared at the dilapidated three story, one of her arched brows raised in similar doubt. After a moment’s contemplation, Joan answered Michael’s question. She couldn’t—or more likely didn’t bother to—hide the skepticism in her tone. Joan was honest to a fault. “Osdel said the Master, Dionysus Albericus, has a room here.” Michael pondered this news. Osdel was a practitioner Michael knew well and trusted. If the information came from the sorcerer, Michael believed it to be truth. “Apparently, when the innkeeper died, he left no heirs. According to Osdel, a sorcerer purchased the property and rents rooms to young practitioners that don’t have parents,” Joan continued. “Then he takes the time to teach the youths what it is they need to know.”

  “A dormitory for practitioners,” Michael mused. “Smart. Keeping the young ones under a watchful eye.”

  Practitioners were born human, coming into their abilities some time around the age of twenty-three. Believing themselves human only to be suddenly thrust into a world of immortals and what they previously believed to be fantastical impossibilities, practitioners required instruction in order to gain full command over their powers. Usually, the parents were tasked with teaching their offspring. There were times, however, where the parents were either deceased or for whatever reason unable to pass on the appropriate knowledge to their offspring. Creating a place under one roof where those in need of instruction could be taught was wise indeed. The last thing Michael desired or needed were untrained, rogue practitioners running around Eastlake Falls, casting spells without thought, possibly even alerting humans as to their existence.

  Michael held the door for Joan and asked, “Which room?”

  “One oh four.”

  He led the way down a damp, narrow hallway, eyeing the sagging ceiling. Damaged by neglect and time, it looked as if mayhap it would collapse any moment. Once they reached the correct door, Michael raised a hand and knocked.

  “Y-yes?” A wavering voice called out from within.

  “Dionysus Albericus?” Michael asked. There were scuffling sounds behind the door and a loud thump. He exchanged a look with Joan before speaking again. “Open the door, Dionysus. We are only here to talk.”

  “W-who are you?” The voice pitched higher and its source was much closer. If Michael had to guess, he’d say its owner was directly on the other side of the thin wood slab.

  “I am Michael Caelum. With me is Joan Puella.”

  There was a gasp loud enough to hear in the hall, and then scrabbling as the bolt was unlatched and the door yanked open. Before them, wide-eyed, ruddy cheeked, with his clothes and hair disheveled, stood a young male who, in order to be a mature practitioner, had to be in his early twenties. Yet if Michael didn’t know the male was a sorcerer who already gained his abilities, he’d assume the boy to be a mere teen. And a young one at that. Huge hands and feet, all long, gangly arms and legs, and a protruding Adam’s apple, it was obvious Dionysus had yet to grow into full manhood. Unheard of in changed practitioners. Michael had doubts. He didn’t think it possible the nervous male trembling head to foot could be a Master Sorcerer, if even a practitioner at all.

  “You are Dionysus Albericus?” Michael questioned, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  The boy swallowed and that bulging Adam’s apple bobbed. “I-I am. I… I can’t believe it’s really you, um, m’lord.” Dionysus’ voice cracked like that of a boy halfway through puberty. The boy’s eyes flicked to Joan. “Oh. Apologies.” He made a half bow to Joan. “And m’lady.” Dionysus stepped back and indicated they should enter. Michael and Joan stepped into a room so tiny it barely fit the three of them without their shoulders touching. When the door slammed behind them, Joan spun around and assumed a defensive position. Dionysus flushed bright crimson all the way to the tips of his ears. “S-sorry. I’m just nervous.” The boy licked his lips and dropped his gaze to the worn wood floor.

  “You know of us?” Joan asked. “You know who we are?”

  “I do,” the boy responded, eyes still fixed on his own feet, stuffed into worn out shoes. “H-how can I be of service, Archangel? And, um, St. Joan.”

  Joan and Michael exchanged yet another incredulous look.

  “You are the Master of Practitioners we’ve heard so much about?” Michael asked. His tone must have relayed his disbelief, because the young male stiffened and raised his chin in defiance until his glittering eyes met Michael’s. Eyes that held secrets. Eyes that had seen things, the kind of things that changed you. Changed who you were inside. Eyes that appeared older than that of the face in which they were set.

  “Aye, I am the Master of Practitioners.” Michael found Dionysus’ rapid transformation from nervous to overly confident puzzling. The immortal before him was a complete contradiction to the cowering young male that answered the door.

  Joan stepped forward and, being rather petite, tipped her head back to glare at the tall, lanky practitioner and growled, “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen.” Which was flat out impossible if Dionysus had come into his powers. Before Michael or Joan could voice protest at the obvious lie, the boy continued. “I know I’m not old enough to go through the transition, but on my vow, I did. I have all my powers and they are both plentiful and formidable.” When Michael and Joan stared back at the boy without responding, Dionysus shocked them both. “I can prove it.”

  Joan, clearly not believing a word the boy said, crossed her arms over her chest and sneered. “Go ahead, then. Prove it.” She waved a dismissive hand in his direction.

  “Joan,” Michael warned. He didn’t fancy the lad truthful either, but Michael wasn’t about to shame the boy outright.

  “No, it’s all right,” Dionysus said. “No one believes me when they lay eyes upon this face or this body.” He glanced down at himself as if angry at his undeveloped body for having the gall to appear so young. “It is precisely my age that makes me certain I am indeed a Master. I, um, came unto my powers at twelve.” Dionysus flushed for the third time since they arrived, his ruddy cheeks and the way he bit his lip subtracting years to make him look even younger than his proclaimed fourteen.

  Joan choked and Michael smothered his own reaction to the revelation. “I have never heard of such a thing,” Michael said.

  “No one has,” Dionysus replied, a sheepish expression on his rounded, boyish face. “But I promise, I am what I say.” Dionysus puffed out his chest. “If it pleases, I beg you to watch.”

  Michael and Joan both stepped back—well, as much as they could in the tight space—as Dionysus raised a hand. Without uttering a single word, his palm emanated a bright glow from within. Michael immediately recognized the golden power of the aether—the energy that surrounded every Earthly being and object—as it gathered in the boy’s hand. With a flick of Dionysus’ wrist, the coiled ball of light rose and grew into a large orb that hung in the air. Another subtle hand gesture and the orb flattened and stretched until it spanned the width and height of an oversized tapestry, one that hung in the air without the aid of hooks or rope. Then, the strangest thing happened. The light in the center of the energy faded and began to blur. It morphed in brightness and color until Michael realized he was looking at an image of a village. One he didn’t recognize from his many travels.