Chapter 11

Chapter

Eleven

R ewd

Our Portia is having fun at the party.

I do not care about parties, but I'm happy to be here for her.

She needs protection. Dozens of other people here keep trying to take her away from us, and she is not scared enough of them.

She smiles, laughs, and dances like a free spirit all night in her flowing princess dress, the glittering hairpiece complimenting her soft features and the golden ribbons and stitching of the bodice showing off her tantalizing bosom. Her mood changes suddenly when we dance together near the werewolf-masked deejay. She startles when he removes his mask to get a better look at her.

Portia stiffens in my arms.

"What is wrong, little witch?"

Her eyes look past me, and I follow her gaze.

The deejay stares back at her, shaking his head, his werewolf mask propped on his head.

I do not like the look on his face.

I turn to Bragg. "What did the deejay do to her?"

Bragg shrugs. "No idea. But I don't like that guy."

I rest a hand on Portia's lower back. Watching the way Bragg dotes over her has taught me a few things, and I've learned that this helps keep our witch grounded.

The idea that someone has mistreated her… it's horrible, and I want that horrible feeling to go away.

"What's wrong? Tell me, Portia," I demand.

She turns to me as Bragg places himself between her and the deejay booth.

"I didn't know my ex was deejaying," she says.

That's all she needs to say.

"Very well. I shall rain fire on him. I'll just be a minute."

Portia tugs at my shirt. "No, Rewd. Bad demon. You'll burn the place down."

Growling resentfully, I look over at the deejay booth.

Staring back at me is an overgrown man-child in headphones and coiffed hair who scrutinizes Portia disapprovingly.

I don't like his face. I don't like his eyes. I do not trust him.

Bragg bares his teeth as if he's ready to rip the deejay's throat out.

"Let's just go," she says.

That, I am on board with.

"So," the man-child calls out to Portia as we turn away. "You finally found some LARP-er nerds to play dress up with you. Congratulations." She freezes to the spot in response to his voice.

The idiot human seems to think our Portia looks silly.

But she, in fact, looks breathtakingly beautiful. Portia glances down and smooths the front of her corset, which reminds me of a lonely courtier I deflowered in the 1400s during my wilding phase. Before the accords put us all under lock and key. Those were good times.

The fact that this disapproving human male has any effect on her at all is testing my resolve not to cause destruction and mayhem.

Portia stays put, but I turn toward the deejay, and so does Bragg.

I do not care what anyone says about me, but I do not like his tone with Portia. She crosses her arms over her pretty breasts and looks at the floor.

Bragg nods at me, his eyes blazing with rage. We are of one mind, and I feel the excitement build inside me.

"Bragg, I do not think this man is earnestly congratulating our mate," I say.

At the word "mate," Portia turns and looks up at me. I am still getting accustomed to human expressions, but I think she may be shocked at that. Bragg coughs. He is uncomfortable with sincerity, too.

I turn to the deejay. "Tell the lady you are sorry, and pay her a compliment."

The human male laughs. He does not know he's in the presence of two actual demons.

"Some chicks cut their hair after a breakup. This one decides to come out as poly. So edgy, baby!"

Portia seems to coil in on herself. Bragg takes another step forward. We move in sync. I'm ready to attack and maim.

Meanwhile, the deejay continues his ill-advised nonsense. "Enjoy my sloppy seconds, fellas!"

Bragg reaches one hand over the deejay booth and lifts the human man by the neck. His mask and headphones clatter against the equipment, and the music abruptly cuts off.

Everyone turns and stares at us.

I crack my knuckles.

Portia's eyes widen with worry.

"Shall I flay him for you?" I offer her.

"Flay…him?" Portia says. She's terrified at first, but then a smile plays on her lips. "Let me think about it for a minute, boys."

The deejay claws at Bragg's talons that cuff his throat. He makes a choked cry. "What the fuck, Portia?"

Bragg lifts him higher, the man's feet kicking against his equipment.

Portia squares her shoulders. "You don't get to speak to me or about me like that. Do you understand?"

"Call off your pit bulls, bitch!"

Bragg squeezes his windpipe and he twitches.

"No, I don't think I will," she says.

"I think my girlfriend would like an apology," Bragg says.

"Yes," I say. "Apologize. And mean it."

The people nearby who haven't yet run away from danger start to murmur their disapproval.

"They're gonna kill him!"

"That would suck. We don't have that many deejays in this town!"

"My god, he's asphyxiating!"

Portia rolls her eyes and sighs, "Fine!" She places a soothing hand on Bragg's arm and whispers, "He can't apologize if you're cutting off his air supply, babe."

By this time, most of the house has emptied as the guests have poured outside, eager to get away from the scene.

Bragg reluctantly lets the impudent human breathe. "Dammit," Bragg growls. "You're lucky Portia's here."

The deejay, who's about 135 pounds soaking wet, finally apologizes. It's puny, pathetic, and quick, but it's a sincere apology.

"You may put him down, Bragg," Portia says.

My friend drops the deejay, who scrambles along the floor to hide behind the deejay booth. He's so frightened, I scent his urge to vomit.

"You may keep your skin, then. For tonight," I say.

Portia hooks her arms through ours and leads us out of the party, one of us on each side of her.