Sunny - Mona Lisa Eclipsing

To two wonderful fans Janon Swink and Candace Clemons, and my fellow author Mima—the three angels who convinced me to hurry up and write this next part of Mona Lisa’s story.

THE SWORD WHISTLED toward me in sharp descent, almost too fast for a human to see. But not for a part human, part Monère, and whatever else part thing I was, which was, oh yeah, that’s right—demon dead.

I parried, feinted to the left, then thrust to the right. “Gotcha!” I crowed as I tapped Edmond smartly on the ribs.

My young partner lowered his sword, rubbed his side, and grinned as I did a small victory dance. With protective padding and dulled weapons, he could afford to grin. Practice was much more civilized and far less bloody than real life would have been.

“You didn’t let me score on purpose, did you?” I asked suspiciously.

“No, milady,” Edmond said. “You’ve gotten better than me, sure and true.”

“You hear that?” I said smugly to the big guy watching us, Nolan Morell, our sword master instructor. “I’m better than Edmond now.”

“Progress, indeed, milady,” Nolan agreed blandly. “You can defeat an eighteen-year-old boy.”

“An eighteen-year-old Monère warrior-in-training who has been practicing with the sword since he was ten, whereas I have been swinging a practice blade for only three months,” I corrected.

“And no longer just swinging but thrusting and parrying, attacking and counterattacking,” my stern teacher relented with a brief smile that faded all too quickly. “But your footwork is still sloppy, your crossover too slow—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I dismissed the oncoming lecture with a careless finger wave. “Indulge me for a moment. Let me enjoy my brief glow.”

Both of them waited a couple of seconds as I rested, sucking in deep breaths.

“Enough glow, milady?” The dryness in Nolan’s voice could have rivaled the finest aged wine.

I straightened. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Nolan.”

His tone, if anything, became even drier. “I will be sure to take note of that, milady. Now let us continue. En garde!”

We practiced for another twenty minutes concentrating on footwork, then finished up the session with more challenging blade work. Whatever Edmond lacked in skill, he made up for in exuberance as the multiple sore spots where he had tapped me attested. Of course, I’d delivered quite a few whacks myself, I thought with satisfaction.

I saw my progress in swordsmanship much as I did the ruling of my new territory and its many people—much improved. It had been half a year since I had become a Monère Queen, the Queen of Louisiana specifically. It was a mantle that had been awkward at first but now fit more comfortably. I had over four hundred people under me, Monère men, women, and children. I knew almost all their names now and their varied relationships within our insular community.

“I’m going to miss you, Edmond,” I said as we wiped down our equipment and hauled it inside.

“You have only to say the word, milady, and I will be happy to stay with you.”

And here was where the easy camaraderie that we had shared over the past few months became strained. Because what he was really asking was that I take him into my bed. That was what Monère Queens did to fresh and dewy eighteen-year-old virgin Monère boys: take them into their beds and enjoy their harmless, lusty vitality for a handful of years before they tired of them or they grew too strong, too powerful, and were kicked out of their Queen’s bed. Because then it was not mere copulation anymore, an exchange of pleasure that took place, but an exchange of power and sometimes of talents and abilities.

Awkwardness fell as the ticktock of life intruded on us. The summer solstice was coming up, and in several months Edmond would leave his home, all that he had ever known, to seek service in another territory with another Queen, one who was willing to make him her lover—our Monère version of going out into the big, bad world. It made worry flutter in my stomach like any mother sending a kid off to college would feel, but to keep him here safe with me would be even crueler because I had no intentions of taking him into my bed. It was much too crowded already.

“Ah, Edmond,” I said, sighing. “I would be doing you a grave disservice if I asked you to stay. Find another Queen who will appreciate the gift of your Virgin Claiming. Me? I’ve got too many lovers as it is.”

“Not enough, milady, and half of those are not even with you regularly.”

He was referring to Amber, the Warrior Lord who ruled the adjacent slice of Mississippi territory, a portion of my own domain that I had induced the High Queen’s Court to officially split off and deed to him. I’d upgraded Amber’s status and downgraded his time with me. Gryphon, my other Warrior Lord, my first love, had died and become demon dead. He resided in Hell now, but that wasn’t a barrier for me. I could visit him, was the only Monère who could, actually, thanks to that quarter human part of me: my blood was warmer than a Full Blood Monère, allowing me to survive Hell’s scorching heat. Of course, the fact that I was out of sorts with Halcyon, the High Prince and ruler of Hell, who not only happened to be my demon mate but also the sponsor of my newly dead first love . . . well, that made visiting Gryphon a bit awkward. My other lover, Dante, was missing. Of course, I’d sort of kicked him out, but I’d had a change of mind and heart. Only problem was he didn’t know that. He hadn’t come back.

“Only Dontaine is here with you now,” Edmond noted.

Dontaine—my breathlessly handsome master at arms. He had stuck despite my best efforts to push him away. I seemed to be my own worst enemy.

“The others might be absent but they still count,” I said firmly.

“Still, that is only five men.”

“Only.” I rolled my eyes, my humor returning. How could it not at such an outlook. “Only five men. If I had it in me, I would blush, but my human upbringing seems to be fading more and more each day I spend with you guys.”

“And they are all old,” Edmond complained. “You should try someone younger and more tender.”

“Yuck,” I grimaced. “You make yourself sound like a piece of steak.”

A smile widened his lips. “Juicy and succulent, prime and untouched—”

“Stop, just stop. You’re turning me off steak, and if you do, I’ll never forgive you.”

The two of us shared a laugh, then in a more serious vein because I had become fond of my young practice partner, I told him with honest regret, “I cannot give you what you need and deserve, Edmond. I’m weird that way. I happen to like older guys, especially the ones I’ve chosen. And I know I may be fucked up, because I was the one to push them away, but I’m waiting for them to come back to me.”

Edmond gave me a gentle smile. “Then they surely will, milady, for I cannot see any resisting you.”

“How about forgiving me?” I asked wryly.

“That, too,” he said with an earnest kindness that allowed a glimpse of the strong and wonderful warrior he had the potential of maturing into . . . if the Queens whose beds he passed through in the next few decades of his life weren’t totally fucked-up bitches—which, unfortunately, most of them were.

“After you’ve enjoyed your time with as many Queens as you can glut yourself on, Edmond, when it becomes too dangerous for you . . . you know that you can always come back here, right?” Young and dewy fresh though Edmond was now, he had only fifty years or less to play paramour to a Queen, a century at most after that to serve as guard. Then would come the grim fate of death or desertion. Because most Queens ended up killing their oldest and most powerful warriors, who became not only threats to the Queen’s authority but also potential competitors for a territory of their own should they gain enough power to attain Warrior Lord status. Either they were killed or they fled and went rogue. They were never invited back to the territory of their birth, offered a promise of safety and shelter, as I was now offering Edmond.