Demon Princess Chronicles 01: Lucinda, Darkly Page 2

  Demon dead were the stuff of legends and nightmares, the Monère’s bogeymen. What mothers taught their young children to fear and avoid. Beware the demon dead. They were either ravaging beasts or dangerous seducers, trading pleasure for blood, stronger even than their Warrior Lord.

  Only, she had not seemed a beast or a monster, as the legends declared. Stefan didn’t even know her name. She was so petite in size—five foot two, or three at best. And so beautiful, such radiance. Hair of spun gold, skin dark like ripe honey. Lush, with full hips poured into leather pants, generous breasts straining her silk burgundy shirt. A waist tiny, wasp-small. And the way she moved, so fluid and graceful. She was sex incarnate, with an almost touchable sensuality.

  In all the warriors’ talks and fears about the demon dead, they had said nothing about kindness. Perhaps that was what threw him off most, her kindness, even after he knew what she was. She had been benign with him and gentle in her care of Jonnie … until he had demanded why. Why was she helping them? Then the dangerous hardness, the fiery hunger, had spilled into her eyes. But still he did not fear her. He wanted to fuck her, please her … how could any man not, even one wounded such as he … but fear her, he did not.

  Only it was not sex she wanted. It was blood.

  Stefan staggered along the darkened streets until he reached his apartment, located on the third floor of a ten-story complex. He shrugged out of the leather coat, heavier now with the weight of his blood, but better soaked in the garment than leaving a bloody trail for someone to follow. He had been careless enough, not realizing he had drawn the attention of human hunters. His daytime sleeping habits and pale skin had attracted Clarence’s notice and made him think Stefan vampyre. He snorted.

  All these years since Stefan had fled his Queen, he had worried more about the danger of stumbling across other Monère warriors who would not hesitate to kill him, a rogue, had they come across him. He had overlooked the threat humans might pose.

  He had abandoned his former life when his Queen had started cleaning house again, killing off her strongest warrior, Geoffrey, her captain of arms. Using Stefan as her instrument and Geoffrey’s replacement. He’d beheaded his friend because he’d had no other choice; he’d been ordered to do so in front of her. And then he’d fled because in a few more years, it would be his turn. His death on a pretext or a whim. He’d fled because if he’d stayed, he might have killed his Queen instead of serving her. His friend’s death at his hand had been the last straw.

  She had been neither cruel nor kind. Just ruthless. Her strongest warriors were killed off every ten years or so. He had not loved her. He had come too late and too old to garner any bed interest. But he had not hated her before. Now he did. So he had fled come the dawn, with sunlight burning his skin, and his brothers in arms all fast asleep.

  He’d fled across the country, traveling along the fringes of territories, areas less frequently patrolled, hiding among humans in small towns, not the forests where they would have hunted for him. He’d traveled like that for one year, growing to understand human ways, picking up jobs here and there that allowed him to work at night.

  Being alone had almost killed him. It had stifled his spirit, made listless his heart. Having no purpose, no meaning, serving no honor—that, more than no longer being able to Bask, to drink in moonlight … that had slowly leeched away life and the will to live. Until the day he’d heard a cry late at night on the way to work, and had found a newborn babe abandoned near the back of a hospital. Its faint familiar presence had drawn Stefan to pick it up. He’d held the babe in his arms and had known that both human and Monère blood mixed within it, and that it had been discarded because of this impurity of blood. He’d looked into those innocent brown eyes, and had felt love and purpose stir anew within him once more.

  Jonnie had been his reason for living since then. And now this woman, this demon. Coming across her tonight was like how he’d felt holding that newborn babe. Something stirring. Something being brought back to life.

  He closed the window curtains and showered quickly, bandaging himself tightly to stop the bleeding. This blood was not his to waste so freely anymore, it was hers. So he did his best to conserve it. Crawling into bed, he lay there still and unmoving, letting his body begin to heal. Waiting patiently for her to come.

  Hours passed in healing slumber before the doorbell chimed, waking him. Upon opening the door, Stefan noticed what he had failed to notice before—the absence of a beating heart. No stirring sound of deep, slow breathing. All the things a Monère relied upon to detect the presence of others venturing into their space. There was nothing to warn him of her arrival but for a whisper of her faint presence.

  She entered silently, moving in that languid rolling grace, hips swaying softly, sensuously. “Jonnie is well. Lost a lot of blood, but the doctors are replenishing that. No major organs damaged. He’ll be fine.”

  Relief and gratitude flooded Stefan, weakening him, while desire drew him nearer to her, as if she were a flower blooming and he a famished bee. He wanted to touch her, see if she was real, tangible. If she felt different from his kind. So much myth and mystery, fear and fright associated with the demon dead, those mythical beings from another realm.

  He touched her then, as he wanted to. Captured her hand and held it in his. Her skin felt warm and soft against his fingers. She was real, as tangible as any of them, save for a darker skin, a richer hue. Shades of shiny brown and gleaming gold.

  “You were kind to have stayed longer than you needed, to see that Jonnie was well.”

  Gently she eased from his grip. Moved her sharp, lethal nails away from the brush of his skin. “The police. Had to answer all their questions without mentioning you. They have a good description of the three men.” She smiled sharply. “Especially gun-happy Clarence. Then there were all the bloody forms at the hospital. Piles and piles of them to fill out. I made up most of the information. Hope you don’t mind.”

  He shook his head. “It does not matter. I shall settle their bill, then we will leave this place when Jonnie is better.”

  “Is it safe to remain here that long?”

  He shrugged. “As safe as any other place for now. I crushed the attacker’s hand. I do not think he will attempt anything further until he has healed. We will be gone by then.”

  “Jonnie was worried about you when he roused. I told him you were injured and could not be there, but that you were fine.”

  “I am in your debt,” he said formally.

  “Yes, you are,” she purred and gazed about the apartment curiously. It was a home filled with the comfortable clutter of living, books lining the shelves, CDs stacked neatly by a stereo. A basketball, a baseball bat and glove piled in a carton by the door. Signs of Jonnie all around, speaking much of the importance of the boy in Stefan’s life.

  “How can I repay you?” Stefan asked.

  She blinked those dark sultry eyes, focused on him. “I’m thirsty.”

  “What can I get you to drink?”

  She smiled slowly. “Blood.”

  He answered calmly, “My veins are open, awaiting your first bite.”

  Her smile grew, stretching her lips until he could see her small, white even teeth. No fangs yet.

  “Good,” she purred, leaning against him, “you remembered your pledge.” Her breast and hip brushed his uninjured side, and the sharp tips of her nails rested on his bare chest. He made no move to draw away from her, nor did his heart speed up in fright. He just stood there willingly, like a silent lamb, waiting for her to pierce him, to puncture him.

  “Let me see your wound,” she said, stepping away. He obeyed her silently, unwrapping the bandage.

  She frowned. He had begun to heal, though not as much as she would have expected for someone with his power. Even so, what had been two large gaping holes were now knitting flesh, shrunk to a third of their previous size, but still raw with juicy wetness.

  She sniffed lingeringly at the wounds, the sanguinary aroma
tempting her, making her wonder what he tasted like. Would he be honey sweet? Or more citrus tang?

  “Come into the bedroom.” Taking her hand, Stefan drew her to the bed and sank down upon the mattress, lying on his side. She stretched out behind him, pressed her fingertips lightly into his flesh. Gently scraped her nails down his back.

  He shivered at her touch. Not in fear but in pleasure. “Tell me your name, please.”

  “Why? Never been bitten by a strange demon before?”

  “I wanted a name to remember you by.”

  “A sentimental fool,” she murmured, and dug her nails lightly into his skin.

  He unleashed a small cry.

  “Name is Lucinda.”

  “Lucinda.” He rolled the name upon his tongue. “My name is Stefan.”

  “I know.” She pressed her lips to the curve of his back, flicked her tongue out to taste the skin. He gasped, his muscles tensed, but in suspenseful waiting rather than in fright.

  So white, so tender his skin. She wanted to see it glow against hers in brilliant light. But he was weak, he was wounded, and healing slowly. So she decided not to use any of her powers, to spare him the shock and the thrill of it. She brushed him lightly with her hands, played upon him with her lips. Tasted him with her tongue, her mouth. Rimmed the edge of his wounds in back, licking, lapping. Finally tasting his blood.

  This one was sweet. Honey sweet.

  Luanda felt the punch of his thrumming power seep into her with his taste. She sucked and suckled him, her heart sweetened by the teasing taste and power of him. Ah, what a feast he would be. But all she intended to do today was play with him.

  Her fangs emerged, her savage hunger roaring to life like a living, breathing thing. But she reined it in, held it tightly to its leash keeping the monster at bay—he was too weak to feed her today— and continued to lap delicately at the burgundy nectar coating his wounds, licking it clean with her tongue. Drawing shudders from his body and delicious sounds from his throat.

  “Am I hurting you?” she asked in a throaty purr.

  “No … yes. I don’t know. Somehow it feels good.”

  She lifted herself over him. Lay in front of him so that she could see his face, watch his eyes. They were hazel in color, a warm mix of rich blue and vivid green.

  “There is a healing element in my saliva,” she said, running the tips of her nails down the side of his face in a dangerous caress. “It eases the pain, stops the bleeding if I so wish.”

  “And if you wish otherwise, could you increase the bleeding?”

  “Good guess.”

  “Is that unique to all demon dead?” Stefan asked.

  “Most have that ability.”

  He smiled, a crooked, little uneven smile lifting up only one corner of his mouth, an endearing imperfection. It warmed her, stayed with her as she scooted lower until her face was level with the two entry wounds in his belly, still visible when they should have been almost completely closed by now. Daintily, she put her mouth over one tiny hole, licked her tongue over it, felt him draw in a deep breath. Lips sealing over it, she sucked tightly on it for a moment— not quite gentle, not quite rough, dancing that delicate line in between. He trembled as she moved on to the second little hole and laved that, too, in a delicious swirl of tongue.

  He gave a shaky exhalation. “Oh, Goddess.”

  This close to his lap, Lucinda could not fail but notice his risen bulge. An almost shocking surprise because she had used none of her powers upon him, nothing but her simple touch. He was swollen and full, rising in silent homage, begging for her touch. She looked up into those sea-swirling eyes, saw the heat there making his eyes gleam like precious gemstones. Touched upon his flushed cheeks, his flaring nostrils. Drew irresistibly back down to that lovely, long male ridge. Unable to resist, she pressed her cheek against him, rubbing and purring like a cat against his hardness, his moans and shuddering groans trickling like an unexpectedly sweet song into her ears.

  She drew back with surprise. “You want me.”

  “Yes.”

  “You are wounded, injured.”

  His eyes seared her with heat. “I feel much better.”

  She laughed, rubbed her face once more against his swollen thickness. “I guess you do.”

  “It has been so long since I have been with a woman … May I touch you?” he asked, and caught the briefest glimpse of something in her eyes—surprise? Surely not—before she shuttered them.

  “If you wish.”

  “I do. Most fervently.” His hands lifted and alighted softly on her hair, fingers sifting through her long tresses. “So silky and fine,” he discovered. “Like spun gold.” He twined the long locks about his fists, squeezed them tight for one crushing moment, then let the silky strands slide free. His hands slid down to brush the bare skin of her neck. The feel of his callused fingers gliding over her there sent a delicious shiver tripping down Lucinda’s spine.

  “Does it please you?” he asked. “The touch of my hands upon your skin?”

  “Yes.” Again that flash of emotion in her eyes.

  “Why does it surprise you? Has no other touched you like this?”

  She smiled, that slow stretching of lips—wicked, wanton, wry. “I am usually the one touching them while they are stiff with fright.” Or later, greedily grasping her desperately in the throes of their enthrallment and pleasure as her magic played upon them, as she seduced them for a drink of their blood. Never this gentle, simple, voluntary stroking. He touched her as if she were lovely and delicate. Something fragile. Something to be cherished. Everything she was not.

  She drew back in confusion.

  “No, please, don’t pull away. Let me touch you. Let me please you.”

  “Why?” Her dark eyes searched his face.

  “Because I want to. Because you helped us when you did not need to. Because it would give me pleasure to give you pleasure. To touch a woman once more.”

  Touch. How long has it been for you? she wondered. For her as well. The voluntary touch of someone wanting to bring her pleasure?

  She sighed in soft acceptance, unable to refuse the gift he offered her. Not just of touch, but of his trust that she would not hurt him. That was far sweeter, more precious. She slid up with slow, sultry ease. Settled herself soft and full against him. “Yes, touch me.”

  It was like a feast suddenly presented to a starving man. Stefan’s heart leaped, his hands shook. With his touch gentle, if unsure, he lightly stroked his fingers over her shoulders. When she did not protest, just blinked those dark cinnamon lashes at him, his hands moved in a firmer caress down the sleek slope of her back, making her arch a little so that her full breasts caressed his chest, releasing a sigh from him.

  Ah, the treasure here. Greed for more sprung up hotly. But Stefan kept it leashed, his hands gentle, the course patient, sliding over the flare of her hips, such curves. Dipping and gliding in front then to back over her rich femininity, cupping the generous mounds of her bottom—lush, abundant. Soft, succulent, and firm. He squeezed them, filled his hands with her ampleness then dipped into the valley between, sliding from the top of the crevice down, down below, almost to where she lay hottest. Stopping just there, hovering. Feeling the heat, the building warmth down below, savoring the ripening fruit of his labor.

  His hand retreated, making her wiggle in small outrage, in tiny disappointment, her eyes flashing with that echoing heat building slowly within. Stefan smiled and wandered his fingers back up, caressing the dipping indenture of her waist, so small. “Let me feel your skin.”

  With her dark chocolate eyes languid, opaque, and unreadable, she nodded. He grasped the silk of her blouse and pulled it from her waistband, making vulnerable the soft flesh beneath that he so craved to feel and explore.

  Finally … bliss. The silk of her skin beneath his rough hands. He had to see what his hands enjoyed. Had to lift his head so that he could feast with his eyes as well as his touch. Slowly he pushed her shirt up, a silken t
ease, exposing increment by increment the naked, golden skin. His hands trembled at the sight gradually revealed, the soft feminine flesh, the wonder of touching it, caressing it. The contrast of his white hands against her honeyed darkness. The tenseness of her belly as he glided his hands over her, finding her responsiveness more precious than the moon’s renewing rays.

  “How soft you are,” he murmured in pleased wonder. “Soft and fine. Firm yet fluid. Lovely, so lovely.”

  The shy dip of her belly button drew him and he followed its silent calling, tracing one finger down around its rim, then dipping in deep to search out its hidden secrets. She gasped, the golden goddess, as he pierced her in this small way. Her hand flew up to cover his like a sun-kissed benediction, tawny skin over white, the long sharp curves of her nails gleaming like elegant ivory. Another difference to explore.

  Leaving one hand captured beneath hers, he lifted free the unfettered one—how nice to have two—and stroked along those slender fingers, so tiny, so much smaller than his. Slim and elegant, yet capable and strong.

  He lifted her hand, drew it to his mouth, kissed the silken skin on the back, inhaled her soft subtle fragrance. His to do with what he willed, that lovely hand. To turn it and press his lips into her palm. Firmer skin here but just as fine. Smooth, unblemished by calluses, soft and yet hard. A lady’s hand. A warrior’s hand, too. He tasted it with his tongue. Stroked along the lines of her palm. Pressed his tongue, surging its thickness between her fingers, felt her gasp and tremble as he pushed deep. His lips slid up her elegant finger and traced the smoothness of her nail with his sensitive tongue. Freezing her into stillness as he delicately explored its pointy tip.

  Despite Stefan’s care, its razor sharpness pierced his tongue, and the sweet metallic tang of blood filled the air, fresh against the scent of old blood. Her eyes drew irresistibly to his mouth.

  “Kiss me,” he said. “Taste me.”