Jeweled Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF ANYA BAST

  WITCH FURY

  “Full of action, excitement, and sexy fun . . . Another delectable tale that will keep your eyes glued to every word.”

  —Bitten by Books

  “Hot romance, interesting characters, intriguing demons, and powerful emotions. I didn’t want to put it down and now that I’ve finished this book, I’m ready for the next!”

  —Night Owl Romance Reviews

  WITCH HEART

  “[A] fabulous tale . . . The story line is fast-paced from the onset . . . Fans will enjoy the third bewitching blast.” —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “Smart, dangerous, and sexy as hell, the witches are more than a match for the warlocks and demons who’d like nothing more than to bring hell to earth and enslave mankind. Always an exhilarating read.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Witch Heart is a story that will captivate its readers. It will hook you from the first few pages and then take you on a wild ride. It is a fast-paced story but it is also a story that will make you feel emotion. Anya Bast uses words like Monet used paint. It’s vibrant. It’s alive. Readers will be able to see the story come to life as it just leaps out of the pages.”

  —Bitten By Books

  WITCH BLOOD

  “Any paranormal fan will be guaranteed a Top Pick read. Anya has provided it all in this hot new paranormal series. You get great suspense, vivid characters, and a world that just pops off the pages . . . Not to be missed.”

  —Night Owl Romance Reviews

  “Gritty danger and red-hot sensuality make this book and series smoking!”

  —Romantic Times

  WITCH FIRE

  “Deliciously sexy and intriguingly original.”

  —Angela Knight, New York Times bestselling author

  “A sensual feast sure to sate even the most finicky of palates. Richly drawn, dynamic characters dictate the direction of this fascinating story. You can’t miss with Anya.”

  —A Romance Review

  “Fast-paced, edgy suspense . . . The paranormal elements are fresh and original. This reader was immediately drawn into the story from the opening abduction, and obsessively read straight through to the dramatic final altercation. Bravo, Ms. Bast; Witch Fire is sure to be a fan favorite.”

  —Paranormal Romance Writers

  “A fabulously written ultimate romance. Anya Bast tells a really passionate story and leaves you wanting more. . . . The elemental witch series will be a fantastic read.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “A terrific romantic fantasy starring two volatile lead characters . . . The relationship between fire and air makes the tale a blast to read.”

  —The Best Reviews

  MORE PRAISE FOR ANYA BAST AND HER NOVELS

  “Had me sitting on the edge of my seat from page one.”

  —The Road to Romance

  “The characters were so alive that they leapt off the pages.”

  —Fallen Angel Reviews

  “A lovely erotic tale . . . This unique and passionate story is filled with humor, fire, and heartwarming emotion.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “Anya Bast pulled another winner out of her pocket.”

  —Night Owl Romance Reviews

  “An entertaining erotic romantic suspense tale.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Heat Titles by Anya Bast

  THE CHOSEN SIN

  JEWELED

  Berkley Sensation Titles by Anya Bast

  WITCH FIRE

  WITCH BLOOD

  WITCH HEART

  WITCH FURY

  WICKED ENCHANTMENT

  CRUEL ENCHANTMENT

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2010 by Anya Bast.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  HEAT and the HEAT design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Heat trade paperback edition / November 2010

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bast, Anya.

  Jeweled / Anya Bast.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 9781101454671

  I. Title.

  PS3602.A8493J49 2010

  813’.6—dc22 2010017218

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to my husband for supporting me through my writing career and enduring me during my most angst-ridden times. When I see the world as a dark place, you give me light. When I think the worst, you give me the best.

  Thank you to Brenda for being my sister from another mother. You are much more to me than a BFF.

  Thanks to Brent K., Jamie S., Marcia B., Lauren Dane, and Jody Wallace for giving me feedback on this plot idea when it was just a wee seed planted in my brain.

  One

  Enchantress. Manipulator. Magick-twister.

  Evangeline was called all these things and more, but she’d never understood why. In truth she was a thief, tapping into a person’s emotional currents, stealing them, and redistributing them. She was a master at it—a master thief.

  This day, of all days, she held on to the truth that she was a master even as her hands trembled with nervousness. In ord
er to make the Court believe it, she had to believe it. Normally she felt almost no emotion at all, but she’d spent her life building up to this day. A thin strand of anxiousness had broken through her walls and wreaked havoc.

  If she was experiencing uncertainty and fear, she couldn’t imagine what the other adepts must be feeling. She wasn’t going to taste their emotions to find out either; her concentration needed to be on her upcoming performance.

  A sphere from the current performance floated toward her and spun. Sunlight streaming in through the stained glass window shot cerulean, scarlet, and emerald through the crystal orb. She glanced at Anatol, the adept of light and illusion who wielded the sphere. His sculpted lips were pursed, midnight blue eyes narrowed in fierce concentration. Small, barely noticeable lines creased the smooth skin between his eyebrows. His hands were clasped neatly and held almost completely within the voluminous sleeves of his white robe, though the tense lines of his body revealed the effort necessary to control the orb.

  Anatol Nicolison was a powerhouse of magick.

  The Edaeii and their Court murmured in a delighted hush as the orb darted in front of them, down then up, as though sentient. The sound of the spectators rippled around her like a live thing, but she hardly felt it. The magick cast in the room brushed over her skin like velvet, overwhelming all other sensation. Sometimes the magick of the other adepts prickled, rubbed, occasionally even stung, but this power was a pure, clear note of brilliance dancing through Evangeline’s body. It was a testament to Anatol’s power and the reason she both respected and despised him. His magick seem to come effortlessly and he seemed to pay no price for it, unlike her.

  A tinkling rang through the air, drawing her gaze back to the mental confection just in time to see the sphere dissolve into fat crystal teardrops that rained down from the center of the glittering theater to the delight of all gathered. The Edaeii and the Court nobles laughed and clapped.

  Evangeline studied Anatol a moment longer as he graciously accepted the delighted response with a slight smile and half bow. That was practically effusiveness for him. He’d never been good at playing a crowd, though the strength and skill of his magick allowed him the luxury of reserve.

  With an annoyed jerk of her head, she ripped her gaze away. Surely Anatol would be Jeweled this day. Surely his future as J’Edaeii was now assured. There weren’t many who could sculpt light and awareness to such amusing levels of deception. Not even the newest mechanical wonders of their age, the rolling steam transport or the helium float, were a match for what he could do.

  He was beautiful, too. By far the most gorgeous of all the men at court. Tall, broad through the shoulders, and narrow at the waist. He had the muscled body of one of the guards—lean and strong—but the mind of a scholar. And his magick . . . even she had to admit it was amazing.

  Anatol was the full package with such dark blue, soulful eyes, and that silky dark hair that made a woman wonder what it would feel like brushing over her skin. He had a body that made women fantasize, period. Even she had wondered and she didn’t often think about sex for pleasure. Sex as a tool, yes. Fucking as a necessary evil, definitely. Not sex for pleasure. That was just a dream for someone like her.

  A man who looked like Anatol could have anyone at Court, male or female—a few of each at a time if he wanted. He could have anything he desired if he was willing to use sex to get it, yet he never did. She couldn’t think of one liaison that Anatol had ever been in. He was either very noble or very stupid. Evangeline didn’t know which.

  Maybe he was just frigid. A pity. It was a waste.

  A muscle working in her jaw, she glanced around—anywhere but at Anatol, who now received fervent accolades from Czz’ar Ondriiko himself. Ondriiko sat on his jeweled throne, surrounded by fifteen descending stepped tiers. Upon each sat members of the Edaeii family. Roane, the dark-haired, dark-eyed second in line sat on the tier just below the Czz’ar. Tadui—a charming Edaeii who often sought her company because he wanted to fuck her—sat lower down.

  On the gold and silver inlaid floor of the theater gathered the rest of the Court—those born high enough or who were rich enough to have finagled an invitation to reside at Belai for an allotted amount of time. It was an enviable position that afforded one the ability to gain favor with the Edaeii family, maybe even the Czz’ar, which could get one all manner of niceties—wealth, power, control.

  Though Czz’ar Ondriiko, himself, was not the all-powerful, virile man that a foreigner might expect of the ruler of Rylisk. Far from it. Pallid of skin and pale of hair, he cut a fragile-looking figure on his throne. Right now his bright black eyes gleamed in his delicately boned face, revealing his love for all things magickal. Indeed, he was obsessed with it for its own sake, never mind the value of it to his family line. All in all, he gave the impression of gentle ineffectual-ness. Far too good-natured to rule a vast country like Rylisk competently. But what could you do when power was handed down through families? The family tree was bound to produce a little weak fruit here and there.

  Czz’arina Prademia sat to Ondriiko’s left. One would think she’d take an active interest in the proceedings, since she had been J’Edaeii before Ondriiko had taken her to wife. Instead she surveyed the theater with a bored look on her horse face. No, Prademia was not beautiful, but the strength of her magick far outweighed her personal appearance in terms of her overall value to the Edaeii. And she was a strong woman—likely the brawn behind Ondriiko. It was nice to know there was some.

  Gold and silver laced the walls of the theater in a fetching pattern that incorporated the Edaeii coat of arms—a sword crossed with a magick-wielding rod that the Edaeii were said to have used long ago, before the magick was all but exhausted from their bloodline. The vaulted ceiling with its silver leafed pattern flowed into an entire wall of windows that gave an exceptional view of Belai Square and the city of Milzyr. The guards kept the square fairly clear of commoner riffraff most of the time, allowing for an uncluttered view of the cobblestone area and the tall buildings flanking it.

  There had been much unrest in Milzyr recently, a fact of which Evangeline was only vaguely aware. She could not be bothered with the common-blood squabbles occurring in the city. The turbulence had not reached Belai and never would. The Royal Guard would put the rabble-rousers down and keep them there.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Anatol—finally—take his seat. They did not make formal announcements so as not to interrupt the enjoyment of the Edaeii. So, she, along with all the other adepts yet to perform, searched for Borco, the director of the ceremony and majordomo of Belai. The short and squat black-haired man hovered self-importantly on the fringes of the crowd. He looked at her meaningfully. Her turn.

  She took a moment to compose herself. She’d come to Belai, the national palace, when she’d been four years old. Her entire life she’d trained alongside the other adepts to get to this point, this day.

  Failure was not a possibility.

  Unlike some of the adepts, her family had never had enough money to finance a trainer. In fact, according to Kisa, the sour-countenanced housemother to the female adepts, her family had opposed the Edaeii’s desire to foster and train her for the J’Edaeii. As was the policy with recalcitrant and unwilling families, Evangeline had been forcibly removed from her family home and denied access to them.

  According to Kisa, she’d cried a lot the first year she’d been here, though Evangeline didn’t remember that. Eventually she’d grown beyond such sentiment. How her family must have hated her to try and deny her this opportunity! She only had one memory of her mother. It was hazy and muted. Maybe it wasn’t even real. Still, there was warmth in that memory. When she’d been a child the warmth of that memory had contented her.

  Then she’d grown up.

  Borco jerked his head impatiently and she realized she’d been so nervous that she’d been rooted in place. What a horrible thing this anxiousness was. She couldn’t wait to be rid of it. She drew a breath, g
athered her confidence, and walked to the center of the chamber. Halfway across the floor she reached up and pulled the binding from her hair. Her tresses cascaded, thick and glossy—silver blond and curling softly to the small of her back. With a practiced—yet seemingly haphazard—shake of her head that accentuated her hair’s glory, she allowed it to fall in becoming waves around her shoulders. Her hair was the primary tool of her seduction—and this was every bit a seduction as a test of magickal ability.

  Everything was a seduction, in the end.

  Evangeline stood in the center of the chamber and relished the rapt attention of the spectators. She would make them wait for her. With a slow sweep of her gaze, she took them all in. Multicolored brocade swathed figures, jewels shining at throats, wrists, and ears. The highest born in the realm were here to watch her dance. She, the daughter of a swine farmer. She, who’d come all the way from Cherkhasii Province. The name of that place never passed their lips unless it was accompanied by a sneer.

  She struck her pose—the classic reverence—heel of her right foot touching the instep of the opposite. Right leg slightly bent, arms loose at her sides, shoulders thrust back proudly, yet her head drooping just a little, as though tragically bowed from the weight heaped upon her fragile shoulders.

  Her hair, parted in the middle, hung like two curtains of light across her face. The dancing dress she wore was of a sheer, pale pink fabric. Despite the chill in the palace, the design left her arms bare and pulled tight over her breasts, which were generous for her slender frame, and outlined her nipples. It draped taut yet flexible over her waist. The skirt hung long, to her ankles, though several long splits in the fabric allowed her freedom of movement. The slits went all the way to her upper thigh and revealed her legs when she moved.