Poison Priestess by Lana Popovic (some good books to read TXT) 📗

“Thank you for trusting me enough to join me here in this corner I’ve carved out for us and hidden from the eye of notre Dieu. So that we may, together, court a very different kind of light. The kind shed by a darker star.”

I whisk the damask cloth off the altar table with a dramatic flourish, drawing a sharp gasp from the attendees as I reveal the nude form of the courtesan I’ve hired for tonight.

“Tonight, the pure vessel of this maiden’s body will serve as our living altar,” I continue, and I swear Camille’s sensuous mouth curls just a whit, amused by the allusion to purity and maidenhood. “The centerpiece of an arcane ritual of worship ancient as the grave. Our offering to Lucifer Morningstar, banished from heaven and reigning king of hell. Hallowed be his shadowed name.”

My guests shift from foot to foot with a whispering of robes, still captivated but now a touch unnerved. They all attend entirely of their own volition, of course, but nothing could have prepared them for this darkness I’ve curated for their entertainment.

Nor could they have anticipated the splendor of Camille.

She lies perfectly still, just as I have instructed. Moonlight sluices over her fine skin like some forbidden sacrament, limning the contours of her body with an inviting silver glaze. Her dark tresses pool over the tabletop and cascade to the floor, shining in the firelight and twining like ivy around the table legs. She is every bit as lovely as the sleeping beauty from the tale. The sight of her stirs even me, who arranged her there.

I take a pause, drawing a breath to quell the faint flutter in my belly. While I aim to stoke my guests’ own lust, I cannot afford any distractions tonight myself.

Not when I am to serve as their sacrilegious prêtresse.

“Are you ready for this worship?” I demand, raking them with an austere gaze. “Do you stand willing, with bloody hearts beating in your hands?”

“We are ready,” the marquise pronounces on the guests’ behalf. She exchanges sparkling little looks with the maréchale and the sly Monsieur Philbert, one of the king’s most favored court musicians, all three incandescent with excitement. The lecherous Vicomte de Couserans is here as well, alongside the king’s own Master of the Wardrobe, the hatchet-faced and vain Marquis de Cessac. I had considered asking my attendees to come masked, but now I’m glad that I did not. They could never betray one another’s presence here without revealing their own participation, and this way they can freely catch each other’s eyes, mutually savor the experience.

“Then join me in this prayer to our shadow sire,” I go on. “In which we call on Lucifer by his many names. Mephistopheles, Belial, Asmodeus, Legion. Prince of darkness and daystar of the damned.”

Their voices merge with mine as I lead them through the prayer, a simple call-and-response I devised only this morning. It is ridiculous, of course, pure invention.

And yet, watching their rapt faces, I see they believe me anyway. It makes me feel brazen and powerful, a gout of fire searing through my veins. As if I myself am the shrewd and seductive evil they think to enjoin.

“Are you ready to pay obeisance?” I demand. “To offer up a draught of your own spirit before you partake of the dread lord himself?”

The guests murmur that they are, though I can feel their tension spike until the room fairly vibrates with it. They are nearly where I want them, I think as satisfaction waxes within me, full and round as the risen moon.

Now to take them even more firmly by the hand.

“To fuel this prayer, there must be pain,” I inform them, approaching the altar and setting my candle down, then taking up an apple and a wine-filled copper chalice from beneath. I take care to keep each movement languid and hypnotic, purposely captivating. Just as I would if I were charming snakes.

“After all, gaining the shadow sire’s regard always demands a sacrifice.”

I set the chalice down above Camille’s heart. Her pale hands drift up like little ghosts to curl around its stem, keeping it in place. Then I take the candle back up, walking slowly around the altar with it raised above her body, tilting it to drip forth a steady stream of wax. She swallows a gasp as each droplet strikes her skin, though I have negotiated all of this with her in advance. What I may do during the ritual, what she will accept from the guests. For all that she is paid handsomely, I would never ask her to endure anything other than what she might happily invite herself.

Once the wax begins to harden, I set the apple, a crimson so dark and gleaming it looks nearly black, into the dip of Camille’s navel. It rises and falls, trembling a little with her every breath.

Though I have planned all of this down to the last detail, I am struck by how she must appear to my rapt guests. Speckled with wax and with the chalice clasped between her breasts, a forbidden apple cradled on her belly.

A fallen Eve in repose, flawless and indolent.

I sense the weight of Adam’s eyes on me, glancing up to find them glinting like spun coins from the shadows pooling in the corner of the room. His lips curled with admiration, he tips me a sardonic little nod, as if to say, Well played.

Pleased by his reaction, I look back to my guests. Dropping my voice to a whisper, I beckon them forward with a curl of my hand.

“Come forth,” I invite them with a smile like light shining off a blade. “For he requires your sacrifice as well.”

They creep forward single file, wary yet drunk on danger, torn between enchantment and trepidation. I reach first for the marquise, who was bold enough to venture closest. When she gives me her hand, I flick out a knife from the folds