Supernatural Seduction (Book 2 of the Coffin Girls Series) (4 page)

“Yes,” Sylvain nodded in agreement.

“Why does this sound a lot like the Goddess?”
asked Marie.

“Because the Goddess is using us to restore
balance. That is our mission,” reminded Conall. “The trickster
would not be in cahoots with the Goddess though. But, it is another
reminder of our need to restore balance.”

“Conall is more right than he is aware of,”
Sylvain stated, catching Conall’s cocky smile. He shook his head,
“Or rather,” he amended, “Conall is right this time.”

“Boys,” Anais warned. They accordingly shut
up and resorted to manly, competitive glares instead.

“I’ll show you what ‘not a boy’ is later,”
Conall whispered the promise in Anais’ ear, momentarily forgetting
the hypersensitive hearing of the supes surrounding them. Anais
rolled her eyes and swatted his arm to the chuckles of the rest of
them.

“The opposite of a trickster is a Seelie
seraph,” Sylvain continued. “Think of them as the angel on one
shoulder and the trickster as the devil on the other. With the
politics I referred to, the Unseelie have not been active and my
Seelie have become a bit indolent,” he shrugged nonchalantly
although his expression was anything but. “If the Seelie
counterpart had been active, the incidences might not have taken
place. But, because the trickster had full reign, it did. I’ll
speak to my people and I’ll make my sister aware of the
situation—have her pull in the reigns.”

Sophie sensed resignation coming from Sylvain
and would bet that it took a lot of humble pie for him to seek out
his sister. They obviously had not spoken in a while, and in fae
terms, that could mean centuries or even millennia.

“That’ll sort it out?” Conall asked.

“It will,” affirmed Sylvain, no longer impish
and every inch the monarch.

Sophie was in a dark room. A grovel filled
with the stench of urine, and the reek smell of unwashed bodies.
Bodies. They were all around her. The blank-eyed corpses of young
girls and women. They wore the mark that damned them all - the mark
of a witch. The screams preceding death travelled from outside,
reverberating off the walls of the dark, dank hole that was filled
with the deceased and condemned. The silence following their demise
was interrupted by the hypocrisy of prayers. The persecutors of the
witches implored their God for the salvation of a damned soul.
Sophie shuddered. To her, the owner of that soul had done nothing
to warrant that cruel judgment, but use her God-given gift to help
others.

Rage and agony evoked a sheen of sweat, a
tell-tale sign of life. It was an indication of life that she
couldn’t afford. The dead did not perspire. Their hearts did not
thump. So, she willed herself to still, only pulling in oxygen
through her teeth. Surrounded by the sight and stench of
decomposing humans, the air tested her resolve to keep from
retching.

She’d escaped the horrific persecution her
maman had just endured by pretending to be dead - a fake death
aided by the spell her maman had performed on her. She’d argued
with her maman, declaring that death with her maman would be more
honorable than life without her. And, that an existence without her
would be too bleak to endure. It was her maman’s hopes and tears
for her that had eventually convinced her. Her maman had sat her
down and told her of the dreams she'd had for Sophie. They were
dreams filled with a husband, children, and love.

But, the time they’d spent arguing had left
them with little time to perform the magick, and they’d finished
casting the spell only moments before the guards arrived. As Sophie
felt herself become immobile, her heart rate decrease and her flesh
grow the cold of the dead, she watched through unmoving eyes as her
maman was forced to her death with as much dignity as possible,
clutched between a small army of guards. Sophie knew that her
maman’s courage had been for her benefit. She caught the slight
movement of her maman’s lips, “I love you ma petite chérie, be
strong,” just before she'd turned, with grave acceptance, towards
those who would lead her to her execution.

It was the inevitable physical pain her
maman experienced as rock crushed her against rock, melding bone
and flesh into a grotesque mess that had nudged Sophie out of the
spell she'd been under. She knew from the emotional connection
they'd shared, the one of blood-bonded empaths that her maman had
died instantly, and she'd thanked whomever there was to thank for
that small mercy.

She dug deep, tried to find the strength her
mother had asked of her, but could not stop the tears from rolling
down her cheeks. She looked at the bodies surrounding her again and
wondered if they’d dispose of her maman’s body in another way or if
she’d soon be joined by her maman’s mangled form. She knew that
they took the dead once a week to a body dump just outside of the
village. There, the dead were unceremoniously dumped into a mass
grave without consecration or heartfelt farewells. She’d promised
her mother she’d use that as an opportunity to escape and to do
that she needed to stay here with the dead as companions for the
next few days—no sound, no food, no water, and no comfort for the
loss of her maman—just her promise to have the will to survive.

The sounds of the guards nearing, as they
joked with each other, ridiculing her mother and the other
sentenced witches pierced her thoughts and angered her heart. They
were coming to fetch her. Mania and madness mingled within her. She
acknowledged that the guards scared her to death. The cold,
merciless irony of that thought led to hysterical laughter as
Sophie sobbed and laughed through her grief. The guards be
damned.

“
Mon Dieu!” Sophie sat straight up in bed,
drenched in sweat by the vivid horror of the nightmare. Sophie
looked around her, the fugue of the nightmare slowly dissipating.
Rubbing her eyes like a sleepy child, she got out of bed and made
her way to the window. Dawn was just breaking over the canopy
provided by the ancient oaks, casting slivers of light onto the
alley that made its way up to the plantation house. From her
vantage point, she observed the majesty, the stillness of the vista
offered by the view through her window. The green lawn flowed from
the mansion and joined the alley of ancient oaks that led towards
the brown waters of the wide, tumultuous Mississippi. This ancient
grace that evoked such an undeniable sense of tranquility was
deceptive. The oaks, river, grounds, and house had seen centuries
of passionate loves and gruesome wars. To an empath such as she,
that meant that traces of violent emotions often hit her
unexpectedly in places she sought solace. More recently, the
tranquility of Papillion Plantation belied the traumatic changes
that had affected the inhabitants of the house. Even so, this
contrariness, this ability to withstand was what made it their
home.

She looked around her room, its familiar
comfort macerating, encouraging it to chip away at the remnants of
her nightmare. The room was a warm, rose-tinged haven with flecks
of spring green, brass, and gold. A room fit for a princess. When
she’d decorated the room, she’d gone through the steps of choosing
fabrics, colors, and accessories in the way her mother had taught
her. When the decorating was done, she was faced with the
surprising realization that she had recreated her childhood room
from her family’s châteaux in France. The trick her subconscious
had played on her had not freaked her out. Instead, it gave her a
sense of comfort and the hope that her mother’s hand had guided her
to this point in her life, and that somehow her mother was still
watching over her.

Moving towards the hidden fridge, she
removed a bag of blood and went through her morning feeding ritual
of warming it up in the microwave in the en-suite kitchenette. The
blood always made her feel better. As it nourished the vampire
magick, it gave her a sense of power, enough power to momentarily
bury the past and live each day as well as she could. Feeling
replenished, Sophie sent out energy feelers and found her sisters,
the Coffin Girls, stirring. Their leader, Anais, was enjoying a
morning wake-up call with the witch prince, Conall. Not wanting to
intrude further, Sophie withdrew, shaking her head in wonder at
their insatiable appetite for each other. Sophie couldn’t so much
as hear Marie’s grumblings, but feel them and so could she sense
V’s determination to ensure a successful day ahead and Rose’s
slight anxiety about her new, more complex role in their wedding
planning business. Whilst her empath abilities helped her establish
the household’s emotional status quo, her vampire hearing picked up
Miss Suzette’s calm, steady heartbeat as she bustled around the
kitchen. Miss Suzette poured love into the food she prepared for
them. Deciding that some of that love was the right medicine to
kick-start the day, she turned from the window and got into the
shower, to wash away the night’s torment.

xxx

“There you are boo,” Miss Suzette hollered as
Sophie entered the enormous plantation kitchen. She tugged at the
contentment that filled the room and allowed it to seep into her.
Miss Suzette moved around the room at a speed uncharacteristic of
her age or ample girth, depositing steaming hot dishes of
delectableness on the huge farm-style oak table that dominated half
the room. The other half was a homely, yet stylish mix of old and
new as antiques mingled comfortably with modern appliances to
create an ambience befitting of the hearth of the home and the
woman who commanded it.

“Morning, Miss Suzette. Can I help with
anything?” Sophie responded.

“No, cher, you just sit yourself down. You
look like you’re going to flop over any second. Are you okay? I
know you’re a witch-vampire and that y’all can’t really get sick,
but you sure look it.” Miss Suzette sent off the flood of words as
she set a huge loaf of fresh, steaming, hot bread on the table, and
then came over to Sophie to touch her palm to her forehead.

“Nope,” Miss Suzette shook her head, baffled,
“still as cold as a vampire.”

“I’m fine, Miss Suzette,” Sophie replied,
focusing on first lathering the bread with butter, and then fruit
compote. She couldn’t meet Miss Suzette’s eyes, because she would
see the lie. The trick didn’t work, as was evident by the
disbelieving harrumph Miss Suzette let out. Thankfully, though, she
didn’t probe further and left her alone with her breakfast as she
continued to bustle around the kitchen.

Miss Suzette was obviously miffed at her as
she worked in uncharacteristic silence. Sophie finally broke the
ice by asking, “Where are the others?”

Miss Suzette arched a brow and gave a
look--more like a mama than the voodoo priestess, she was. “Now you
want to talk? You’ll ask me a pointless question instead of telling
me what’s really on your mind.”

Sophie opened her mouth, but the apology was
dismissively brushed away when Miss Suzette gruffly continued, “V’s
gone to Raulf to discuss their trip to Europe to look for more
witches to rescue and Marie left early for the house in the
Quarter, in order to prepare for the wedding dinner tonight. You
just missed them both. Rose is about somewhere and Anais and Conall
will be down after they finish up what they’re doing.”

At Sophie’s blush, Miss Suzette guffawed,
making her generous girth vibrate. “Sophie, if an old vampire like
you can blush at what they be doing up there, then we need to get
you a man and right soon.”

“Jeez, Miss Suzette,” Sophie admonished
playfully. Miss Suzette’s tongue might be sharp, but her heart held
a place for each of them. “I don’t need a man. I’m quite happy with
the family I have.”

“Every beautiful woman needs a man, Sophie,
and you certainly fit that description,” Sylvain stated, factually,
as he entered the kitchen.

“And a good morning to you, Sylvain, or don’t
you know how to properly greet someone? Or is sticking your nose in
other people’s business your way of saying ‘hi’?” Sophie responded
sarcastically. She really didn’t need Mr. Smooth’s dissembling
flattery this early in the morning and especially not this morning.
She hadn’t seen him since the night he’d told them of his sister. A
part of her felt guilty at her bitchiness, but she didn’t have the
energy to hide the myriad of emotions he sparked within her.

Sylvain regarded her with astonishment.
Sophie was the sweet, gentle, and caring one and her waspishness
was unusual. And then he noted the dark circles under her
eyes—another anomaly. Sophie had an ethereal beauty to her. Nearly
elfin in looks with huge, slanted blue eyes. He’d often wondered
how dark those blues got in her moments of passion. Her long,
golden hair that carelessly tangled at her waist had tempted him to
break his promise of distance countless times as he itched to run
his fingers through it. He noted her lips pressed together in the
fashion of a displeased school marm. The action prompted his desire
to nibble the cherry-reds apart.

Sophie must have sensed his desire because
she looked up at him in sudden surprise. Damn! He’d momentarily
forgotten that she was an empath. Shielding his emotions, he sat
down at the chair opposite her and accepted the steaming mug of
coffee Miss Suzette handed him. He sneaked a glance at Sophie and
saw her brows knitted in confusion followed by a shake of her head.
He’d gotten the result he wanted; she obviously thought that she’d
imagined what he’d felt. Feeling like a lecher, he made up for it
by flattering Miss Suzette—Miss Suzette was a safe bet. The voodoo
priestess might be a chronological infant compared to his immortal
age, but was biologically much older and as such, saw herself as
the mother of the household and its guests. Her resulting brusque,
yet loving maternal manner was another attraction of this home, and
contributed to his continued visits to Papillion Plantation.