Succession of Witches (The Familiar Series) Read online

  Miri nodded slowly. She hadn’t wanted to admit the severity of Nyesha’s condition, but after hearing him say it, it was impossible to disagree. The sun sickness was new, but Nyesha had been fading for weeks now. Ever since Quentin had turned his attention to her, she was becoming less the woman they knew—a practical-as-they-come medical student—changing to a fragile shell of a girl. Miri didn’t know what Quentin had done to her, was still doing to her, but if it were possible she would gladly kill him for it.

  Not that long ago, she had actually liked Quentin. As masters went he was a bit green around the edges, but no one could argue that the man didn’t know how to have a good time. The nights they’d spent together when her clan had first pledged their service to him were something to remember.

  Besides, their old master had been a tool and Quentin had given him the messy death he richly deserved. However, when Nyesha came into the picture, Quentin had lost all interest in a certain tiny redhead and become obsessed with the strikingly beautiful student. Miri’s pride was hurt, but more importantly, he didn’t seem to notice or care how much his obsession was hurting its object. She couldn’t forgive such callousness to one she considered her blood.

  “How are we going to get away from Quentin? Our contract may be coming to an end, but he won’t just let us leave.”

  “He won’t. That’s why we have to go somewhere he won’t want to follow us.”

  Miri tilted her head; she couldn’t see where this was leading.

  “Where is a demon lord afraid to follow? They aren’t afraid of anything – that’s what makes them demons.”

  Eugene steepled his fingers, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “They’re afraid of exactly one thing: other demons.”

  Miri exhaled slowly; she didn’t really need to practice respiration, but going through the motions of breathing always relaxed her. “You’re suggesting we pledge our service to something so nasty even Quentin won’t interfere.”

  That was a disturbing thought. Miri didn’t know very much about the hierarchy of demons (Eugene made a point of keeping that sort of information to himself), but she knew Quentin was formidable. Other demons sweat bullets and babbled obsequiously whenever they were in his presence. Despite his youth and inexperience, he was the kind of lord you were privileged to serve—at least, until recently.

  Eugene nodded. “And that’s why I needed to speak to you. Liam and Dmitri have lived long enough; if they die in service, or if a new master kills them, that’s just the way of things,” he said. His voice didn’t change, but Miri knew that despite his tone, he loved both men like his own sons. “And Billingsly, he’ll probably outlive us all. But you are different. You have barely lived, either as a human or as one of our own. And this could be the most dangerous thing we’ve ever done,” he finished solemnly.

  Miri swallowed, another unnecessary function that even 20 years of vampiric living hadn’t cured her of. Pledging their service to another demon might save Nyesha, at least in the short term, but it was a total gamble. They could try to negotiate, but you never really knew what a demon was going to make you do until it was too late.

  Still, the thought of staying under Quentin’s thumb for even another five days was irksome. The idea of serving him for another five years, as per the traditional contract of servitude, was unthinkable. If he hadn’t honored their requests to leave Nyesha alone and let her acclimate to her new life as a vampire at her own pace by now, he was never going to. And she would die herself before she lost a sister.

  “Do you have any replacement demons in mind?” she asked after a brief pause. When he nodded, she hopped off the bar stool with something close to her usual energy.

  “Then let’s leave tonight. All the people here taste like stress and too much caffeine anyway.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cassie woke up tired on the morning after the show. Not as though she hadn’t slept well, but as though something had been draining her energy while she dreamed. It had taken a while, but she was beginning to be able to tell the difference between physical and magical fatigue, even though the two usually felt very similar.

  As she stumbled her way to the bathroom, she wondered if she should stay home sick, but quickly decided against it; she wouldn’t have a fever or any other physical symptoms, and her parents were already concerned about the amount of school she’d missed in the fall. She’d just tough it out through school and take a nap as soon as she got home.

  As she brushed her teeth, completing her morning rituals, she wondered what was causing her current malaise. Her first thought was Sam, but she dismissed him as the culprit immediately: every time he had ever tapped her magic, they had been physically touching, and even if he was capable of tapping her from afar, he wouldn’t do it without an explanation. If it had been Sam, she would have dreamed of him.

  That left another demon, the thought of whom made Cassie’s stomach lurch. No one, save Serenus, knew that she also had a familiar bond with Sammael, Sam’s father and a Lord of Hell on top of everything else. Vastly more experienced than his son (though whether or not he was more powerful was a subject of some debate), Cassie had no trouble believing he could drain her magic from afar.

  If her guess was correct, that meant a full-blooded demon was using her magic for some mysterious purpose, there was no telling when he would stop, and she couldn’t tell anyone because her bond with Sammael was the most dangerous secret she possessed. It wasn’t a good position to be in.

  As she got dressed, she tried to clear her mind of all other distractions and reach out to the demon lord; maybe he himself could tell her what he was doing. She was doubtful that he would cooperate, but she didn’t have many options available.

  Hey Sammael? She thought as she slipped a sweatshirt over her head. Is that you making me feel like death warmed over this morning? What gives?

  There was a pause, which led Cassie to believe the demon wasn’t going to respond to her mental call. The one other time she had called out to him (she didn’t make a habit of it), he had responded almost immediately.

  However, a few minutes later she dropped her hairbrush in surprise when the demon responded.

  I’ll only need you for a little longer. Patience, tiny little witch.

  Cassie put her hands on her hips and sighed.

  You know I’m not a witch yet.

  Well, whose fault is that? Sammael responded, then there was a break in the connection and Cassie knew he wouldn’t answer anymore. The demon lord seemed to love nothing more than getting the last word.

  She was barely conscious of eating breakfast, walking out to the bus stop, and riding to Silver Crown Academy. The tasks of her regular routine were a blur in the background, while in the forefront of her mind she was consumed with thoughts of her bond with Sammael. The kiss they had shared, passionate yet painful, had served as a contract, binding her to him as a servant. The demon lord had insisted that the claim he had on her was not as strong as that of his son, but what did that even mean? If both of them compelled her to come to them at the same time, would she run to Sam’s side instead of his father’s?

  Right now, it seemed like a technicality. She felt equally bound to both of them, and if she wasn’t so incredibly tired, she’d be rather pissed about it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  When Sam got to work that morning, he was already there. At the very least, a creature who wore his face was manning the espresso bar.

  Khalil looked up in confusion from the customer he was ringing up at the register to the entryway of the shop, where Sam stood stock still. The dark-skinned man looked to Sam, then back to the bar where his doppelganger was busy behind the espresso machines, then back to Sam again, recognition slowly dawning.

  As Khalil tried to maintain his composure in front of the customers, while it was clear from his face he was trying to figure out who, or what, had been impersonating his friend for the last hour, Sam walked towards the espresso bar, where one of the Lords of Hell was pre
tending he knew how to make lattes. He stopped before the ledge where the customers waited for their finished drinks to arrive, and glared at his father. “What are you doing here?”

  “Steaming milk at the moment,” responded Sammael in a perfect copy of Sam’s own voice, not making eye contact with his son. “It’s fun to make it bubble.”

  When the customers Khalil was serving left the counter to take seats in the café, Khalil walked around the counter, keeping his distance from Sammael, and walked up to Sam with his hands on his hips.

  “I’m guessing that’s not your twin brother over there,” he whispered, still mindful of the customers.

  “No, it’s my father,” said Sam with little hesitation. How else could he possibly identify this being: as Sammael, once known as the Angel of Death? Most recently fallen angelic power, now one of the demonic monarchs known as the Lords of Hell?

  “Oh,” said Khalil, blinking his heavy-lidded brown eyes as he processed that. “I was wondering why all the drinks you made this morning completely sucked.” Behind the bar, Sammael made an amused sound at the obvious disdain in Khalil’s voice.

  Sam held back a groan. Khalil had gotten over his initial fear of all things supernatural by reacting to these situations with his typical brand of glib humor, which Sam himself didn’t mind, but this casual attitude put the young man at risk. Sam doubted that his father was petty enough to hurt Khalil just to make a point, but he was going to have to have a talk with his friend about how to act around demons in the near future. If he mouthed off to the wrong demon (which is to say, most of them), he was going to regret it.

  “You: follow me,” said Sam, pointing at his father over the drink ledge and then pointing to the door to the break room. To his surprise, Sammael quickly untied his apron and walked to where Sam had gestured. Sam had expected Sammael to play dumb for at least ten minutes just to be infuriating, but today he didn’t appear to be in the mood for his typical games.

  Whatever he was here for, it had to be important; not only because he was being contrite, but because he was here at 7 a.m. to begin with. Sam didn’t know the details, but he knew being out in the sun was no easy task for full-blooded demons like his father.

  Nodding at Khalil to handle the front while he was gone, Sam led his father to the elevator behind Dwight’s tiny managerial office. Past experience told him that it was of paramount importance to keep his father as far away from the humans as possible.

  After pushing the button for the roof, Sam leaned back against the back elevator wall and crossed his arms. His father strolled into position in front of him, mimicking his pose. It was almost, but not quite like looking in a mirror; other than the fact that Sam was wearing his old leather jacket over his work slacks and button down shirt, their clothes were identical. While Sam resembled his father’s human form down to the most finite detail, the one exception was his eyes. While Sammael’s eyes were relatively large, giving him a look of wide-eyed innocence that couldn’t be more deceptive, Sam’s own eyes were narrower and almond-shaped, like his mother’s. It seemed like the shape of his eyes was the one physical feature he’d inherited strictly from Helen. Both kept their eyes the same dark brown color, a cover for their natural red.

  Furthermore, Sammael didn’t age. When he looked into his father’s face, he didn’t see any of the tiny lines that he knew were developing around his own eyes.

  Sam frowned. “It’s been a few years. You look younger than me now.” He wasn’t happy about it, but admitting it up front gave the demon one less obvious thing to taunt him about.

  His father grinned. “I thought it was about time you got another visit from dear old Dad.”

  Sam reacted like he’d been slapped. “Dad” was something he would never dream of calling his father. It implied a world of affection and intimacy that they had never shared. In fact, it had always been difficult for Sam to even address his father in the first place. Calling him “Father” was technically accurate but sounded awkward and old-fashioned, and “Dad” was unthinkable, so he usually just addressed him as “You.” Incredibly rude when you thought about it, but if his father minded, he gave no sign.

  The elevator dinged, and Sam moved past his father and into the misty, rainy day as soon as the doors opened. He didn’t think he had to worry about Sammael trapping him in the elevator just to toy with him, but old habits were hard to shake.

  It had been a dreary winter in general, with no white Christmas and barely any snow to speak of. Now that it was January, the weather continued to provide a seemingly endless parade of rain and fog. Normally, Sam wouldn’t be so eager to go out into the damp, but after being stuck with his father in a small room, the light rain on his face felt refreshing.

  Besides, the noise from behind his bed had kept him up half the night and he was tired. He’d complained to management about the banging in his wall, which had gotten more and more enthusiastic ever since it began the previous day, but they hadn’t done anything. That was the problem with living at Bob’s Motel: you couldn’t expect a very high level of customer service.

  From the roof he could see the city of Sterling; not as impressive as the likes of New York or DC, but it was a place he’d come to think of as home. For a moment, he was so distracted by trying to make out the shapes of the buildings he recognized in the pea soup fog, it almost surprised him when his father broke the silence.

  “I see now why you work these low-rent jobs; it’s fun. You get to play with all the toys. Better than most halfbreeds, who just pilot a desk for forty years and count their useless money.”

  Sam took a deep breath, then faced his father, who had followed him almost to the edge of the roof. There was a high fence all around the perimeter to dissuade would-be jumpers, but he still felt exposed.

  “How are you here in the morning? I’ve never even seen you in daylight…as much as this counts as daylight,” he said, gesturing to the cloudy weather.

  Sammael broke into a self-satisfied grin. “How badly do you want to know?” he asked, and Sam stifled a groan.

  As long as Sam could remember, everything he wanted from his father had to be bartered, whether it was a tiny piece of information or a powerful spell. If Sam wanted to know how his father was present in the human world during the daytime, he had to be prepared to offer something in return.

  The only thing his father had ever provided for free was the disguise spell that turned his eyes from red to brown, and that hadn’t even been given to him; he’d given it to Helen. Sam himself was still in the womb at that point.

  “Forget it, I don’t need to know,” he snapped. “Just tell me what you’re doing here.”

  Sammael yawned, then began to pace the roof as though he had all the time in the world. “Do I need a reason to check up on my one and only son? How about, instead of being so suspicious, you bring your Dad up to date with everything in your fascinating little life? Anything new and exciting going on?”

  “No, it’s all the same. Work, sleep, try not to kill anybody, rinse and repeat,” said Sam in a flat tone. He wasn’t sure whether or not his father knew about the recent drama with new familiars and harried trips to court, but if the demon lord didn’t know, he certainly wasn’t going to tell him.

  Sammael reversed direction, still pacing in his languid way. “Oh, really? That’s a shame. Still, are you sure there isn’t something you’re forgetting? A new girl in your life, perhaps?” he said, his lips curling into a sly smile as he spoke.

  Sam felt his blood run cold: his father knew about Cassie. That had to be why he was here.

  “Nothing that concerns you,” said Sam, trying to sound more confident than he felt. Whether demons, vampires or other creatures, he could protect Cassie from harm. But his own father? If a Lord of Hell had taken an interest in her, there might not be much he could do. The very idea of it made his heart start hammering painfully in his chest, which he knew Sammael could hear.

  “Oh, c’mon,” said Sammael, turning to face his
son and breaking into a conspiratorial grin. “My son finally takes a familiar, and I’m not allowed to be excited? And such a cute one, too!” he said, reaching his palm forward.

  Sam leaned back, bracing himself for an attack, only to see the surrounding mist converge above his father’s hand. Soon, the almost-translucent swirls of air and moisture had formed a tiny likeness of Cassie, who danced above his father’s palm. From the angle of her bobbed haircut to the way her Daily Grind apron swelled at her bosom, everything about the tiny figure was perfectly proportioned.

  Fear battled with seething anger; not only was his father mocking him, but he was doing it on several levels. The tiny Cassie apparition showed that he knew all about the girl, not just rumors that must have reached the Realm, and the figure itself demonstrated the kind of exceptionally delicate magic that Sam himself was completely incapable of.

  “I have to congratulate you on a stellar find: smart, filled to the brim with magic, and a nice body on top of that. I’ve no idea how you’ve kept from turning her into a witch for so long,” he said, fixing Sam with a lecherous look.

  “Shut up,” Sam snapped before he even realized what he was saying.

  “Be careful, son; if you don’t pick up the pace, something else might beat you to the punch.” The tiny Cassie in his hand gasped and trembled as a winged creature swooped down from the air to snatch her in its claws.

  Sam realized he was clenching his fists so hard it was painful. Relaxing his fingers, he decided he was through putting up with his father’s taunts. Sure, it was stupid to antagonize a demon of Sammael’s caliber, but as far as he was concerned, the gloves were off now.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” he said quietly. “You wouldn’t dare touch Cassie, because you’re still completely, sickeningly obsessed with Helen. A High Lord of Hell, following an elderly woman around like a pathetic little lost puppy, that’s what you are.”