Coming Soon!
AN ALLIANCE COMMANDER REDUCED TO A CAPTIVE
Daemon, a Commander in the Alliance, is slowly going mad. Having been hexed by the legendary Merlin in the magickal realm of Broceliande Forest, he now lays comatose in the bed of a witch who is forced to heal him. As a prisoner of Freja’s coven, his only hope of escape lies in seducing the beautiful witch who has the heart of a child, the patience of a saint, and a deep-seated trauma that makes his deception all the more painful to bear.
THEY DIDN’T BURN WITCHES. THEY BURNED WOMEN.
THE WITCHES ESCAPED.
Jocelyn Greenwich is a survivor. She’s carefully and painstakingly built a life out of service to her coven sisters, weaving magick into talismans, tending to her garden and her animals, and using all of that as an excuse to remain a hermit. She’d learned early in life that trusting outsiders only led to pain and heartache. But when her goddess insists she host and heal Daemon, a six-foot-six Alliance Commander, she does as she’s instructed, even though her intuition warns her that the past is about to be repeated.
THE HEART OF THE COVEN
Having failed in his last endeavor, Daemon isn’t going to allow Jocelyn’s sweet demeanor—or his love for her—to sway him from his duty. An immortal war wages, and he’s on the front lines. He gives her a blood oath he has no plans on keeping just to gain his freedom, and once freed he turns the tables on his sweet witch, and she becomes his captive. Can the two find common ground, or will the docile witch surprise them all…
Coming Soon…
Chapter One
Two hours prior to drawing sigils and runes onto Daemon’s naked body, Jocelyn Greenwich had centered herself and purified her energy in preparation to remove Merlin’s hex from one of the most powerful commanders of the Alliance. She’d meditated. Realigned her chakras. Basically got her head in the game, so to speak.
Safe to say she was no longer centered as her finger trailed over Daemon’s muscled abdomen. A bicep. A pectoral muscle. The demon’s skin was absolute perfection. Not a freckle, scar, or wrinkle marred his massive body. His flawlessness was distracting to say the least. He had once been one of God’s angels. Created perfection.
She murmured spells of protection as she drew sigils onto his skin by using a finger dipped in the ashes of saints who had lived and died with a purity of soul most could not attain.
Even with the bones of saints coating her skin and his, her thoughts were anything but pure at the momen—
“You want me to set the cauldron here?”
Jocelyn jumped, index finger raised in the air. With the ashes of a saint on the tip, she spun to face Raith with her heart in her throat. “Yespleasethankyou,” she said too fast, too shrill, and far too telling.
If Raith noticed—of course he had—he showed no sign. The pragmatic demon just set the large, black cauldron on the floor and went about his business. The ease with which he had placed the massive cauldron was telling. Especially since it was filled to the brim with water. He was stronger than a mortal. Stronger than most demons. As strong as the male lying prone on her guest bed.
How did I get here? I’m not built for missions of this sort.
Trying to act nonplussed, she was failing on every level. “Thank you,” she called out again as he left the room, flinching when her voice wavered.
She turned back to Daemon, her gaze traveling over all that hard, perfect bare skin, and took a long, deep breath. Why Cairenn had thought it best to bring Daemon to Jocelyn’s cottage was still a mystery to her. Jocelyn wasn’t the witch she once was. She was limitless when secluded and left to herself, but she wasn’t good in a pinch, and she certainly wasn’t good on the front lines of an immortal war.
There was no centering herself for what she was about to do to the demon. He shouldn’t be here, in her small spare bedroom, feet hanging off the edge of the queen-sized bed. He was an enemy. He’d tried to kill her coven sister. Had physically fought her coven not that long ago.
Was the leader of an organization Jocelyn secretly supported.
The Alliance, though in shambles, had protected the immortal factions for centuries. Mortals were not supposed to know that vampires, demons, fae, or witches existed. Because when humans learned of their existence they went straight to violence. Vampires were set out to face the sun. Werewolves were buried under lead.
Witches were burned. Drowned. Beat to death. Their decomposing corpses hung from trees to ward off the evil they purportedly practiced.
The Alliance saved immortals from having to face humans who’d been enlightened to their existence, and from immortals who brought attention to their presence in the mortal realm—first-hand experience, thank you very much. History told a tale of the Salem Witch Trials that didn’t include an integral piece to what actually took place.
The Alliance had come in and cleaned house. And goddess, Jocelyn loved them for it.
Humans involved in the hunt for witches died—many by natural causes. The immortal men and women who served in the Alliance had swooped in and did what they did best, doing all they could to right all the wrongs done to those who practiced magick.
The Alliance had given her a second chance at life. They’d provided her with an entirely new existence—even though she’d deserved a death sentence for what she’d done. They’d gifted her with a fresh start.
He’d gifted her a fresh start, even though the Alliance had sent Daemon to assassinate her. He’d gone against orders for her. Cleared her name from the Alliance’s hit list. If not for him she wouldn’t be standing here today about to remove a hex placed on him by an incredibly powerful mage.
“Did you want the box of black candles or the white?”
Jocelyn slowly lowered her shoulders, trying to rid herself of the building tension brought on by Daemon’s presence. She didn’t turn around to face Raith. Instead she sent a quick, silent prayer to the goddess Athena for strength and courage—or at least the visage of strength and courage, neither of which she could currently claim. “White, please.”
Raith’s voice had brought her back to the present, when all she wanted to do was escape the reality she’d found herself in. White candles represented purification. Cleansing. Peace. Not exactly things that represented the Alliance as a whole, nor its leaders and assassins, but the very thing she needed to bring to Daemon—and the very thing he’d provided her when she’d needed assistance the most.
He’d been so integral to that time of her life. His words and actions during that dark chapter of her existence had released so much of her guilt. Her pent-up aggression and stress.
The things we did that night…
Even in sleep the demon struck an imposing figure. Perhaps even more so than he had back in the sixteen hundreds. He had so much more training under his belt. Experience. Tenacity. He was the interim leader of the Alliance now, not just a commander, and they shared a past.
A past he likely didn’t recall.
Past or no past, if she cured him of Merlin’s hex? If he rose tonight…?
He’ll kill me without thought.
Jocelyn felt Raith’s energy invade the small room once again. He was being so helpful that she felt guilty for harboring all her fears and doubts when it came to Daemon. Raith fully expected her to heal his ex-commander and longtime friend, as did her High Priestess, Freja. In fact, healing Daemon wasn’t just asked of her—it was expected of her. Healing Daemon was her mission.
And she’d never been given a mission before. Missions were normally relegated to Cairenn, Brighid, Nyx…
Jocelyn? Laughable.
It wasn’t that she doubted she could remove the hex Merlin had inflicted on Daemon. There wasn’t an if to this situation, only a when. She was as protected as she could be while working against Merlin’s black magick. She absolutely had the power. The training. She didn’t have one doubt about her ability to remove the hex… It was her fear that kept Daemon bedridden. She was afraid to release him from the curse that kept him in a coma.
Because when he wakes up, he’s going to kill me.
She took another moment to calm her racing heart and did her best to extinguish her fear as Raith set up the white candles in the corner of the room. Fear was doubt’s insatiable cousin. Like doubt, fear fed upon itself until it rendered a witch useless. So she replaced the thought that fear had placed in her mind with a more positive outlook.
When he wakes up I will simply subdue him with magick until I am able to call upon Leviathan, Raith, or Freja. Then they can deal with him.
She took another few seconds to calm herself as she looked at the male before her. He was utterly beautiful. To this day she could recall the sandpaper-like feel of his dark stubble against the tender skin of her inner thighs.
Will he remember me?
You’re a witch on a mission not a schoolgirl with a crush. Get on with it.
First things first. For Daemon to rise she had to release him of the hex. No easy feat, but essentially doable. If you knew the who, when, and what of a hex, you could usually unravel the curse. And Daemon’s who, when, and what was Merlin, one month prior, and legendary black magick.
Raith left the room again. Probably to get a lighter.
She smiled when she recalled that Raith wasn’t used to the daily use of magick yet.
She didn’t need a lighter, but she didn’t call him back.
She stood before Damon with layer upon layer of protection. Though she felt black magick tracing across Daemon’s skin and throughout his body, crawling like a thousand vipers in an undisturbed nest, she knew he was not inherently evil; he was only overcome by Merlin’s hex. Having spent a month taking care of Damon’s physical body, she’d come into contact with his personal energy enough to know the male was…
Her gaze slid over his body again. Muscles built in preparation for war. Black hair cut short, beard trimmed close to his jawline. She recalled what he’d looked like when he was in the heat of battle. How could she forget? She’d been terrified. Enthralled with watching him move.
So enthralled she’d gotten stabbed for her weak attention span. Stabbed four times.
Athena, her newest coven sister, had healed her of four stab wounds that night. Jocelyn had never told a soul she’d been paying attention to the commander and not the immortals surrounding her.
Daemon hadn’t inflicted those stab wounds, but he’d been in the fight. In the clash between her coven and his organization. He was an enemy, but that night had been the first time she’d seen him in centuries. And though he’d spared her a few glances, recognition had never come over his features.
Oh, but she’d remembered him.
She’d come home that night to her small dwelling in a daze. Left her coven sisters to their mansion while she fed her animals, hoping to work the anxiety out of her body. She’d made a cup of tea and sat with her trauma for a long while until she’d finally fallen asleep on her couch.
She hadn’t fallen asleep to visions of him fighting her coven. She’d fallen asleep to memories of him kissing a line down her abdomen.
The last thing she’d ever wanted was trouble to come to her cottage. Daemon was not evil, but he was trouble. His physical body was nothing more, nothing less, than a weapon devised for war. And she despised war. She only wanted to heal—never hurt.
At least, never hurt again. That side of her was dead thanks to him. And she’d made a promise to herself to never go back.
Look back? Re-live the past in agony? That she couldn’t help.
Head back in the game.
Because of her nurturing spells he remained the same weight and kept the same health he’d had the night he’d been cursed by Merlin. Daemon wasn’t a sickly mortal patient with a feeding tube, an IV, and sporting a hospital gown. Though in a coma, Daemon remained an immortal warrior who was trained to kill efficiently, who’d been entrusted into the hands of a powerful witch who detested violence and war above all things.
The two couldn’t be more opposite.
Throughout the last month he’d consumed nothing solid, nor had he drunk anything, and yet he had no tubes or needles going in or out of his flesh. She’d never taken his vitals. Had never checked for fever. Never peeled back his eyelids and shone a light to gauge his pupillary reflexes. There was nothing physically wrong with him. Merlin’s magick kept him immobile and her magick kept him healthy and in stasis.
In fact, her magick kept his body just as strong as the night Cairenn had brought him to Jocelyn’s cottage.
And your magick can keep him from springing off that mattress and murdering you when he wakes up.
When Raith returned with a lighter, she thanked him profusely and gently asked for privacy. There was no more stalling. The new moon was reaching its peak.
She pushed her shoulders back, raised her arms, palms lifted to the Creator’s Realm, her gaze on Daemon’s handsome face. With a flick of her wrist the candlewicks spread throughout the room sparked with flame. The water in the cauldron boiled instantly. Her fingertips tingled with magick. The hem of her floral dress ruffled amid a gust of wind at her feet.
Jocelyn was in her element.
The light of the candles danced over the muscles of Daemon’s naked body, highlighting the strength in his limbs and the size of his—
She found a spot just above the bed to focus on. Though she’d never fed him food or drink, she’d read books to him and talked to him throughout her days. She’d cleaned his body every day. Even brushed his teeth. Her heart went out to him even though his organization was trying to kill every last witch in her coven—including her.
Then again, her heart went out to everyone, friend or foe.
And he wasn’t exactly a stranger.
Pay attention to what you’re doing.
She squared her shoulders and leaned toward Daemon to pick up the dragon’s egg she’d set at the foot of the bed. Right between Daemon’s spread legs.
In hindsight, it might not have been the best place to put it.
She lifted the egg gently.
The speckled shell of the incandescent egg was warm to the touch, even though unfertilized. The magickal DNA contained within was still potent. The spell Jocelyn was about to use required a fertilized dragon egg, but Jocelyn would never harm a precious, vulnerable fetus. The very thought made her sick.
Because of her belief and intention, Jocelyn didn’t need the egg to contain a fetus, even though the spell reiterated over and over again that the egg must be fertilized.
Magick was all about belief. She wasn’t using the dark arts to bring Daemon out of his coma. She was using a dark spell—but she’d cleansed the spell with words and intentions that carried no harm or ill intent toward a dragon fetus. She was only trying to liberate Daemon of his hex, not harm a baby dragon in the process by transferring the hex.
She’d never doubted her power a day in her life, unlike most of her peers. Fear? Twenty-four seven. Anxiety? Same. Her PTSD crippled her, even though she worked with Nyx, Brighid, and the goddess to alleviate some of it.
She held the heavy, fragile egg above her head, just as another gust of wind came through the open window of the bedroom. Jocelyn kept her eyes firmly shut, though she did hear the whoosh of wind play with the flames surrounding her. Could see the flicker of all the candles behind her eyelids.
She called on the elements first. Air, water, earth, fire. Called on the spirits of her ancestors—what she’d always considered the fifth element. Called on the goddess of purification, health, and recovery—Hygeia—for assistance. Then she used the language Daemon had used before he’d ever spoken the demonic tongue—the language of Yahweh’s angels. More a vibration than anything else. A thought frequency taught to her by Freja. Then she spoke the spell in Hebrew, a language Yahweh had chosen for His people. The language was expressive. Vibrant.
Next, she took the dragon’s egg and slid the shell all over Daemon, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. Slowly. All the while chanting in Hebrew.
“Cleansed in spirit, cleansed in mind, transfer black magick. Release. Unbind.”
After five minutes of moving the egg over his body, she went to her cauldron. She then cracked the egg and allowed the translucent vitellus to spread into the boiling water as she said, “Magick imparted, magick disbursed, I demand Daemon’s release from Merlin’s curse.”
She leapt back when the water sizzled and violently sprayed the air around her. She’d put about four feet between her and the cauldron before looking back at the volatile contents. The water was boiling over the edge of the cauldron, but not from her magick. From whatever Merlin had inflicted Daemon with. The stench of sulfur engulfed the room, causing her eyes to water from the acidic gas.
A low groan came from the direction of the bed.
With a gasp she turned back to the bed just as Daemon sat straight up, his luminescent emerald gaze absolutely terrifying in the soft glow of the candles’ flame. When that chilling gaze settled on her, his lips peeled back from his teeth in warning.
As fast as a bullet through flesh, Jocelyn recited, “Magick imparted, intention retracted, retrace my steps, outcome redacted.”
Daemon’s body immediately crumbled in on itself, and he fell off the bed and onto the floor just as every candle extinguished, the noise of the flames’ expiry an audible sound. The water stopped boiling. The energy of her magick and her spells vanished as though never spoken. She stood holding the cracked egg of a dragon, her whole body shaking.
No. She’d never doubted her powers.
After tonight? She doubted Daemon ever would, either.
D.M. McClure 