“Dear goddess.” She pressed a hand to her aching head. “This is madness.”
“I agree,” Sariel surprisingly murmured. “And only you can bring it to an end.”
“Me?”
“It’s the reason you were created.”
She flinched at his unexpected words, then a bitter laugh was wrenched from her lips.
“Newsflash, Sariel, I was created to maintain a sorcery spell I inherited from my mother.”
He gave a slow blink, as if wondering why she would bother him with such boring trivialities.
“The spell was inconsequential,” he informed her.
“Inconsequential?” she repeated, stupidly offended by his lack of interest. “That . . . vampire could have destroyed the world.”
She’d nearly died during the battle. Hardly inconsequential. At least not to her.
“Perhaps, but your mother’s need for a daughter was only a minor reason for your conception.”
She clenched her teeth. The man might be all kinds of beautiful, but he had the personality of a slug.
“How would you know?”
He easily held her gaze. “Because I am your father.”
Roke paced until the grass was trampled and a small groove was worn into the ground.
It was that or crossing the short distance to grab the Prince of Imps by his long red hair and shaking the shit out of him.
Something Styx had made him swear he wouldn’t do.
When Levet had returned with Troy, Roke had exploded in fury.
The creature looked like he should be working in a strip club.
Large and muscular with the build of a linebacker, he was wearing zebra striped spandex pants and a see-through shirt that revealed the width of his pale chest and the nipples that had been pierced so he could run a delicate gold chain between them.
The crimson fire of his hair was pulled into a dozen intricate braids that emphasized his delicate features while the emerald eyes smoldered with a sensuality that was almost tangible.
He was a walking, talking invitation to sex.
What the hell good could he do?
But once Styx had briefly explained they needed him to seek out the fey magic, the imp had set to work with an efficiency that helped to ease Roke’s initial desire to toss him into the trash.
And it didn’t hurt that Levet had stomped toward the mansion, muttering something about visiting Darcy.
There was no way Roke’s nerves could endure both Levet and Troy, the Prince of Imps, in the same space.
Still, as the seconds ticked past and the imp continued to kneel a few feet away, his hands raised as if he could feel something floating in the air, Roke’s attempt at patience was about to come to a violent end.
“Well?” he at last barked.
Troy slowly rose to his feet, brushing the dust off his obnoxious spandex pants.
“There has definitely been a portal opened here,” he said. “Recently.”
Roke hissed in frustration. “We know that much.”
Styx stepped next to him, placing a warning hand on his shoulder before speaking directly to the imp.
“Can you identify who opened the portal?”
Troy shrugged, a bemused expression settling on his narrow face.
“It is fey, but . . . more.”
“More what?” Roke snapped.
“More everything.” The imp once again held his hand toward the empty air, as if he could feel precisely where the portal had opened. “The magic is intoxicating.”
Roke bared his fangs. “You’re not helping.”
“Leeches.” Troy slid a hand down his too-tight pants. “Yummy, but always so impatient.”
Styx tightened his hand on Roke’s shoulder, keeping him from lunging.
“Tell us who opened the portal,” Styx commanded.
The bemused expression returned to Troy’s face. “If I didn’t know better, I would say it was a Chatri.”
Roke jerked in shock. “Shit.”
Troy’s eyes narrowed, revealing a cunning he hid behind his frivolous façade.
“You know fey history?” the imp asked.
“More than I ever wanted to,” Roke growled, his hand pressing against the empty ache in the center of his chest. Had a Chatri somehow created a portal that had stolen his mate? Or was the magic merely a residue. “Can fey magic be contained in a box?” he abruptly demanded.
Troy widened his eyes in surprise. “What sort of box?”
“A music box decorated with ancient glyphs,” Roke answered.
“How would you know of such an object?”
“My mate has one.” Roke clenched his hands at the stab of pain that sliced through his heart. “Is it dangerous?”
Troy shook his head. “No, from what little information we have, the boxes were used by the Chatri to share information, not magic.”
The imp acted sincere, but Roke remained unconvinced. Demons were notoriously reluctant to give up secrets about their individual species.
“What sort of information?” he probed.
Troy shrugged. “Family histories, the ingredients for rare spells, occasionally maps.”
“Maps?” Roke latched on to the unexpected revelation. “Are you sure?”
“Of course, I have a collection of boxes in my private vault,” Troy said. “At least two are maps to entrances of the hidden fey dimensions.” The imp studied Troy with a puzzled gaze. “Why are you asking?”
Roke forced himself to give a shake of his head. So Sally hadn’t been mistaken when she confessed she thought she was beginning to understand the language of the glyphs. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to help him find her.
“Later,” he muttered. “Could a box create a portal?”
“No.” Troy’s response was emphatic, his hand lifting toward the spot where the portal opened. “This was the work of an extremely powerful fey. One who can call on the talents of the Chatri.”
Roke grimaced.
They were wasting time and he hadn’t discovered anything beyond the fact the imp insisted there was some sort of ancient fey magic involved.
“Can you trace it?”
Troy looked confused. “You mean follow it back to where it originated?”
“No.” Roke forced himself to count to ten. No sense in killing the one fey who might be able to help him. “I want you to open the portal.”
“Why?”
Roke flashed his fangs. “You don’t need—”
“Roke believes his mate is stuck inside it,” Styx interrupted Roke’s furious words, his own voice smooth.