Don't Hex and Drive (Stay a Spell #2) - Juliette Cross Page 0,94

name of the first known Stygorn.”

“Really?” She flipped sideways, propping her head on her elbow, her wild wavy hair falling across her chest. “Tell me about him.”

I shifted to do the same, relishing that her gaze flicked down my naked body, certainly noticing I was half-hard already.

“You want some covers?” she asked, lifting the edge up.

I wasn’t cold or embarrassed in the open, but I wanted an excuse to be closer, so I shuffled under the blanket with her. She blushed, her gaze dropping to my biceps, which made me want to lean forward and kiss her sweetly. But I wasn’t sure how she’d react. Sure, we’d just had sex three times, but the last time she was here she’d distanced herself when the physical intimacy felt too intense. I didn’t want to scare her off again.

“Not a him. A her.”

“Really?” Her face brightened.

“Oh, yes. Styx was a born vampire, not made, a millennium ago. Her parents, a vampire and a witch with gifts as a Seer and an Influencer, brought her to their perspective Guilds, saying she demonstrated heightened gifts. At two, she could make a seasoned vampire do her will. And she could track deer in a blizzard at age five. But like most gifted vampires, supernaturals began to fear her.”

“She was too powerful,” said Isadora, nibbling on a grape.

I focused on her lips as she held the grape between her teeth.

“Indeed, she was. A faction of vampires sent out their best trackers when the family fled. Eventually, they tracked them down. When her mother and father were nearly killed trying to defend their child, Styx, now eight years old, beheaded every vampire with a single swing of her knife.”

“Wow.”

“Indeed. After that, the Guild instilled a protection law.” I lifted a lock of her blond hair, rubbing the silky strands between my fingers. “Later, after her gene was passed down, by blood or bite, the Stygorn were formally named. Our name is a loose variation of stygian, the origin of the mythical river of the underworld Styx.” Pressing her lock of hair to my lips, I met her quizzical gaze. “Then they began to be trained by ancients.”

“And the rest, as they say, is history.” Isadora got that dreamy look, watching me sweep her lock of hair against my closed mouth. “It’s hard to imagine such a brutal world that would allow that to happen to Styx and her family before our laws were put into place. Before the Stygorn became revered instead of feared.”

“We’re still feared,” I admitted. “I’m not always as welcome as I am here with Ruben’s coven. To be honest, I’m not so sure how welcome I am even here.”

“Seriously?” She sat up, seemingly affronted by this fact. “Vamps give you shit for being Stygorn.”

I laughed. “Some do. The ones who fear us still.”

Her frown deepened. I pressed my thumb to the spot, smoothing it out by rubbing softly. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

“But I don’t like the idea of people mistreating you. You can’t help that you’re a stronger vampire. That’s ignorant prejudice. It’s stupid.”

“Lots of people are stupid for less reasons than that, love.”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

Something buoyed up inside my chest, lifting me with the thought of her care for my wellbeing. “You learn to ignore the fools and cherish your friends.”

I laced my hand with hers, palm to palm. And she let me.

“You’re wise, Devraj. And more forgiving than me.”

I smiled. “I’ve lived a long time.”

She nodded. “So the S is for Styx.”

“But also, the ring is a symbol of my status as a Stygorn. We’re given the ring after our training is complete.”

She stared at our laced fingers, fair and dark overlapping, entangling. So lovely. “And how did you become a vampire?”

“That’s kind of a sad story. I’m not sure you want to hear it.”

“I do.” She stared at me, sincerity written in her eyes.

I’d told this story to only a handful of people, all of whom were dear friends and confidants. Like Ruben. And never a woman I had bedded. Strange that I felt as if I were walking across a line in the proverbial sand. A place of no return by sharing this intimate part of my past that I clung to and hid from the world.

“I was young, only thirteen, and I took my mother on our annual pilgrimage to Varanasi. This was the first time since my father had died of illness the previous year. We were nearing the temple and set up camp on