“That’s not exactly the glowing self-confidence I would have wished for.”
“Unfortunately, it’s all I have.” For the first time since he’d met her, Grann looked her age. Jon felt an icy fist clenching his insides. Then Barion placed his hand on Jon’s shoulder, the demonic warmth soothing him immediately.
“I’d say you’ve got a lot more,” his mate said. “I’m a bit rusty on magical duels, but everything goes, doesn’t it?”
Grann’s gaze drilled into Barion. “Yes. Everything within the combatants’ skill sets, which is usually the kind of majik they’ve learned, be it voodoo or hedge witchery or any of the other kinds.”
“Then it’s easy. You’re going to summon one of the demon princes to squash that bug bothering you. It sends a strong signal to anybody contemplating challenging you for your crown, and I get to scare an idiot. Plus, Calixte can see me playing with a human firsthand.” Barion grinned, showing his impressive teeth, the fangs just elongated enough to seem threatening. Calixte gave a little squeal, not at all intimidated or put off by the idea of watching a demon do…things with a human. Jon felt pride of his mate swelling up inside his chest, quickly followed by worry.
“Barion, what if something happens to you?”
Barion leaned toward him for a kiss. “I’m indestructible, remember? Whatever magic that roach is throwing at me, it won’t harm me. And should he, for some impossible reason, be able to bind me, all you have to do is call Dre to kill him. Nobody can bind more than one demon at a time.”
“You would do that for your Grann?” Grann asked before Jon could come up with other reasons why Barion shouldn’t be taking such a risk, small as it was. Barion pulled Jon closer to his body.
“Of course I would. It’s tradition to impress the in-laws.”
Grann chuckled. “I like your demontre, Jon. He’s a good man and worthy mate.”
Under his cheek, Jon could feel Barion’s chest puffing up. So much for a short, peaceful visit. The interrogation at the table seemed trivial all of a sudden. On the upside, the ancestors as well as the family members were now a lot friendlier toward Barion, presenting him with the best pieces of each dish, urging him to try everything and gushing to Jon what a good choice in a mate he had made, as if choice had had anything to do with it. Barion seemed to be happy, though, bathing in the admiration of his new relatives—there was no doubt he was adopted into the fold already—and pressing kisses to Jon’s temple now and then. Jon tried to enjoy the food as well, not thinking too hard about everything that could go wrong during a freaking magical duel.
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning they were all up early, if not bright. At some point Grann had gotten the bourbon out, and Barion, never one to be shown up, had made a short trip to Scotland and his favorite distillery. Alcohol didn’t work on zombies and demons but all-the-better on humans. Holding Calixte’s hair while she lost everything she had consumed to the porcelain god was not Jon’s idea of a fun-filled evening, and neither was stopping a stupidly drunk Refoel from pissing into the potted palm Grann had in her hall. The man had loudly insisted that it would do the plant good, his piss being a wonderful fertilizer, while Jon had feared the poor thing would wither and die when it came in contact with what had to be almost pure alcohol after the amounts of liquor the young man had guzzled. Edwige had insisted on Barion dancing with her, where she’d tried to climb him like a jungle gym, all the while screeching like a banshee about how men had to be conquered as if they were mountains. It only ended when she managed to reach Barion’s shoulders, where she took one look at the floor way below her and fainted. Luckily for her, Barion had caught her before gently laying her on an antique chaise with upholstery in dark red brocade. Grann had cackled like a mad woman the entire time, the way she shot Barion warm looks when she thought nobody was aware of it the only indication how worried she had been about the duel.
After all the family members had passed out from alcohol consumption, Grann had sent them to bed in Jon’s old room, which—to his utter mortification—was still the same way he had left it. It was complete chaos, the picture of a young Jason Momoa pinned to the ceiling above the bed and a life-sized Mr. Spock made from cardboard standing in one corner. Luckily for him, he had the best mate a zombie could wish for. Barion had pounced on Mr. Spock, doing the Vulcan greeting complete with May you live long and prosper, before he let himself fall on his back on the bed, staring up at Momoa in his Stargate Atlantis gear.
“Do you want to get naughty while Jason watches us?” Barion had winked, which had done wonderful things to Jon’s lower body. Normally he would have balked at the idea of having sex under his Grann’s roof, with the entire family gathered, but the living members were all knocked out from too much bourbon and whiskey, the ancestors watched him all the time anyway—it was amazing what a zombie could get used to when he regularly practiced the art of ignorance—and Grann? Well, Grann had buried more than one husband and lover, and probably knew more about sex than Jon cared to ever learn. They had given Jason Momoa quite the show—thrice, thank you very much—before falling asleep.
Now they were sitting at the table in the dining room with Grann, who was already dressed for the duel. She had taken out one of her favorite dresses, a red tunic, and had given her face what she called the full makeup treatment, meaning her eyes were surrounded by white paste with black and red dots, her lips painted a glossy ruby red and her cheeks highlighted with gold. On everybody else, this would have seemed as too much, but on Grann, the look worked. She was a badass voodoo priestess, and today, it showed in more than just the way she moved and talked and looked at people. She was sipping on her morning tea, spiked with the leftover bourbon from the previous night. Barion had brought crêpes from Paris and Poffertjes from Amsterdam. Fresh strawberries and cream made it all even better, even though nobody from the family seemed to be willing to eat with them. Edwige was still on the chaise, not moving a single muscle, and the house was quiet apart from a soft moan of pain here and there.
The duel was set for ten in the morning and by then, everybody would be on their feet, most probably wishing for death and swearing to never ever touch a drop of alcohol again. If everything worked as planned, those promises of sobriety would be forgotten in the evening when Grann’s victory would be celebrated. Jon found the reliable behavioral patterns of his family more soothing than annoying, at least in this case. His own nerves were still wired, and not even the warmth of Barion’s touch was able to calm him down.
“It’s okay, Jon. Barion will make the bad man go away, won’t you, demontre?” Grann smiled at Barion, who nodded with his mouth full of crêpe.
After he had swallowed, he said, “I’ve already texted Dre. He’ll keep an ear open starting at ten. All you have to do is call him by his full name and infuse it with a bit of your power. He’ll hear you and be there in a second, should what’s-his-name have an ace up his sleeve I didn’t see coming, though I highly doubt it.”
“Don’t jinx it.” Jon touched Barion’s arm, needing to feel his strength.
Barion turned his body fully to Jon and tugged him against his chest. “I don’t. You won’t lose me, iubit. I promise.”
“Trust in fate, Jon. You wouldn’t have gotten your mate just for him to be taken away again.” Grann’s voice was soft. She wasn’t mocking him or disregarding his fear, unreasonable as it might be.
“I’m trying, okay?” He snuggled into Barion’s embrace, basking in his warmth.
The conversation went to lighter topics, Barion telling Grann about his mansion in the Carpathians and what a struggle it had been to get the right wood for the floors. She could definitely relate, because keeping her own house in all its old grandeur wasn’t an easy feat. Jon stayed in his mate’s arms, his eyes half closed, listening to the soothing rhythm of their talk while the sun climbed higher in the sky and the family members slowly found their way to the table, all refusing the crêpes and Poffertjes, instead falling on the coffee as if dying from lack of caffeine was a thing.
At half past nine they got up to make their way to the old Holt Cemetery with its huge oaks guarding it. Barion offered to open a rift, but Grann didn’t want to give her trump card away before it was necessary. She did have a flair for drama, her soul be blessed. In the end, they drove there in a long convoy, earning them odd looks from the tourists and bows from the locals. Barion was now fully glamoured and would stay with the cars until Grann called him. Jon didn’t feel happy about parting with his mate but didn’t want Grann to face the voodoo priest—his name was Fabien, as Jon had found out during the car ride—alone. Barion gave him a deep kiss and the promise to follow that up as soon as Fabien was dealt with. As a result, Jon was now anxious for two reasons.
Grann took his arm when they entered the cemetery, followed by the family, the ancestors hovering around them. Fabien was waiting under a particularly huge oak. Jon looked very closely at the man who thought challenging his Grann was a good idea. He was of average height, perhaps a few inches taller than Jon, and his skin was a deep black with a greyish tinge, something Jon had learned to recognize as a sign of heavy magic abuse, which told him the man wasn’t powerful on his own merit but had to force the majik. That was never a good idea because magic didn’t like to be forced where it didn’t want to flow. Fabien had a voodoo stick in his hands and two pale men at his side, who had the empty look of mind slaves—another thing Jon had seen and learned to detest. Grann was strictly against it, because it was irreversible and the power necessary to keep the spell going was too huge to be trifled with. Fabien, it seemed, had no regard for rules or limits or decency. He was dressed in a tunic similar in cut to Grann’s. Though where Grann’s cloth was bright and cheery, Fabien was clad in black. He stared at them when they came closer, the slight widening of his eyes the only indication that he had realized what Jon was—or he was just surprised by how many people had come with Grann, or he had a sudden burst of stomach cramps or his eyes were simply twitchy. After all, it was no secret in the world of majik that Grann and Jon were blessed by Papa Legba.
“I thought you wouldn’t show, bouzen,” Fabien said with a sneer. Jon felt his hackles rise. Nobody talked to his Grann like that!
“And I thought a big bad voodoo priest like yourself would know better. Seems we were both mistaken.” Grann remained absolutely calm and smiled brightly at Fabien, like what Jon thought a saber-tooth tiger would have looked like were it still alive. Fabien huffed, seemingly not knowing what to say for a moment. He soon found his arrogance again, which Jon thought was a shame.
“Fine. If you’re that intent on dying, let’s get on with it.” He gestured at two circles scratched into the soft earth of the old cemetery. Jon assumed he had done that before their arrival. “As the challenged, I’ll let you choose.”
Grann shrugged. “It makes no difference to me.” She stepped forward and into the circle closest to her. Fabien took his position in the other circle, watching the assembled crowd with a cold look. The family had no problem returning it with venom.
