Brimstone Prince Read online

  The kachina doll had stiff wings that had been carved in a mantle down its back and painted black. This daemon had no wings. That initial illusion had only been created by shadows. But his fallen angel’s voice made the idea of wings possible every time he spoke.

  He couldn’t be her warrior angel.

  Her hand gripped the hilt of her sword to stop the trembling in her wrists and fingers. This couldn’t be her family’s kachina come to life. He was no nature spirit or ancestor who had come to help her. When he moved, she could see the glint of Brimstone glow in his eyes. She could feel the heat of his blood. She refused to let fire and familiarity influence her actions.

  “The daemon king doesn’t rely on sipapu portals. He has his own pathways he protects,” the daemon explained. “But it isn’t safe for a human to meddle in these matters.” He had paused, but it didn’t feel like a reprieve. It felt like he was waiting for an opportunity to pounce.

  “Are you his servant then? And you’ve come to help me?” Lily asked.

  Likeness to her family’s oldest treasure aside, she still held the sword at the ready. Over the long, hot months of the strangest summer job any runaway had ever taken on, she’d learned to guard against daemon deception. They couldn’t be trusted. It wasn’t her Hopi mother who had told her that the devil had a silver tongue. That bit of wisdom had come from her guardian himself.

  “No. I’m not his servant. I’m his adopted grandson,” the daemon said. “My name is Michael D’Arcy Turov.”

  Her sword didn’t waver, but the air did catch in her lungs again in a hiccup of surprise. Her guardian’s heir wasn’t here to hurt her. She’d never been allowed to meet him, but she’d known about him from afar. The guitar on his back should have given his identity way, but her shock over his features had distracted her.

  Michael Turov was a living replica of her warrior angel, but he was also the Brimstone prince. He was the talk of the hell dimension and had been since it had become common knowledge that he didn’t want the throne.

  The unusual kachina her Hopi family had once worshipped, then treasured for centuries, was the perfect likeness of a daemon prince. She wondered why her guardian, the daemon king, had never deemed it necessary to warn her. Lily was distracted by the revelation only long enough to blink in surprise, but that was long enough. The daemon leaped. His body slammed into hers and her planted feet slid backward with the force of his superior weight and strength. His momentum pushed her back from the portal’s edge, and his hands over hers on the hilt of her sword kept her from using it in defense.

  It didn’t matter. She couldn’t have attacked him anyway. Not even if she hadn’t realized he was trying to protect her from the sipapu’s edge. She’d always slept with the beautiful kachina beneath her pillow. When Michael Turov pressed her back against the chamber’s earthen wall so that his body was between her and the open sipapu, the shock of his Brimstone heat didn’t stop her from tracing the familiar features of his face with her gaze. It was almost too sharply cut to be traditionally handsome. There was something inhuman in the perfectly pronounced bone structure beneath his skin.

  This daemon prince’s face was the reason she’d been drawn to kachinas in the first place.

  Face-to-face with a living replica of the unusual doll, her hand twitched against the hilt of the sword. Her mother had been a carver, but Lily suddenly ached to be an artist. Could she re-create the angles of his cheeks and jaw? Could she capture in wood the ferocity of his expression while still creating the slight softness of his lips? She noted his mouth seemed to tilt on one side as if he laughed at the world, or himself, or some unseen joy in the shadows that gamboled for his attention alone.

  “Grim, we’re about to have some unsavory visitors. You might want to come out here and give us a hand,” Michael said. “Or a paw.”

  His gaze swept over her face as he spoke as if he was the sculptor who would try to capture the blend of Hopi and Spanish that came together to create her brown eyes, dramatic brows and dark hair. Her hair had loosened when she hit the wall. It had fallen around her face in a black waterfall of straight silky chunks.

  “Your hair reflects the light,” Michael said.

  Maybe it was a daemon prince thing to say, but it wasn’t a usual thing for her to hear. She’d been kept in isolation her whole life. The wonder in his tone and the admiration in his eyes gave her pause. For the first time, her grip loosened beneath his fingers on the hilt of her sword.

  “Who is Grim?” Lily asked.

  Michael turned his face toward the shadows where he’d appeared earlier and his move—when she dragged her gaze from the razor’s edge of his lean jaw—allowed her to see a monstrous doglike beast swirl into being as ashy embers coalesced into a canine shape. A snarling maw of snow-white teeth was the first part to solidify, followed by a muscular form surrounded by shifting fur that seemed more smoke than hair at the ends.

  Lily’s nose twitched as the pleasant scent of wood smoke filled the air around them. It was a scent her body instinctively associated with hearth and home—because of the slight sulfuric burn, not in spite of it. She’d found a haven in hell with her mother as a child. They’d created a home in one wing of an immense Gothic palace others would have feared.

  Her hands tightened again and she tried to pull from the daemon’s grip, but he held fast. His hands were big and warm around hers. She glanced down. The indentations his guitar strings had caused in the tips of his fingers were slightly rough against her skin.

  “Grim is a friend. And we’re going to need his help,” he warned.

  She stilled and looked up into Michael Turov’s gaze. In this position, the glint was gone and all she saw were sincere hazel irises rimmed with a darker chocolate as he met her gaze without blinking. But movement behind him kept her from becoming mesmerized. Smoke poured up from the hole in the ground. The sipapu now seemed like a slumbering volcano that had wakened. The wood smoke scent was suddenly tainted by a much stronger sulfuric stench.

  “Let us take the lead,” Michael said. “Rogues give no quarter and they have particular reason to want me dead.”

  “Oh, so you came to make it worse then?” Lily joked. “Don’t let my hesitancy to lop off your head fool you. I don’t need anyone to take the lead. Not a prince or a...” She failed to be able to label the creature across from them that snarled and snapped at the sulfuric smoke.

  “Hellhound,” Michael supplied. “Grim is my hellhound.”

  “Of course he is,” Lily replied.

  A fissure had begun to open up from the sipapu. She gasped, more concerned at the destruction of the kiva than she was over what the fissure signified...until daemons began to climb from the widening portal.

  “Complete your ritual,” Michael yelled over the grinding of crumbling earth.

  But frankly, she was too busy deflecting the daemon blade that aimed for the back of Michael’s neck. He fell back as her sword clashed, metal against metal, and sparks flew. Several Rogues had climbed from the sipapu, but several more had come from the shadows and the smoke. Half a dozen daemons attacked. Michael fought with his bare hands and his hellhound’s crushing bite. She fought alongside them until she realized they didn’t need her help. For now. The widening fissure was the threat if it allowed more of the Rogue daemons to join in the fray.

  Her traditional kachinas were already in place. She raised the flute to her lips and called the spirits to life with the song her mother had taught her. It didn’t matter that her mother had considered it nothing but tradition and a comfort during the difficult times following her father’s death. Lily’s affinity brought the old ways to life. The song came from her flute, but it also came from the affinity in her heart and the Hopi blood in her veins. She could feel Michael’s gaze on her as she moved. She’d never done the ritual with an audience. For the first time, distraction threatened. She strug
gled to block the daemon prince from her mind, but hadn’t he somehow always been there? The hidden kachina in her backpack was one of her earliest memories. It had fascinated her forever. While her mother’s kachinas were masked and carved with blocked shapes, the one with wings had been rendered with meticulously lifelike features. She hadn’t known how meticulously until moments ago when Michael Turov had walked into the kiva.

  The earth calmed as she played. The fissure shrank, and then closed. The sipapu became filled in to the point of being a shallow, symbolic hole the size of a melon. There was a pause as the kachina spirits quieted and the universe accepted her interference. She’d run away from her refuge in hell in just this way by widening a sipapu portal with the kachinas’ help. Even though it had been three months, she still couldn’t believe that the daemon king hadn’t retrieved her.

  In the lantern’s glow, motes of ancient desert dust hung in the air before they began to float and fall again.

  Lily fell, too, her energy completely spent. But instead of the hard-packed soil she expected, her body was caught by strong, muscular arms.

  * * *

  Michael quickly carried his slight burden up out of the earth. Grim helped without being asked. Walking a short distance ahead, he led Michael and the woman he carried through pathways only he could find. Michael was used to walking through the chill of an otherworldly portal. He was used to dematerializing in one place and reappearing in another. He laid the woman on a smooth patch of ground and shrugged out of his jacket to roll it up and cushion her head. Then he forced himself away to start a fire beneath the rising moon and sleepy stars winking awake in the night sky. The desert sky wasn’t black. It was a midnight blue so deep and lush it reminded him of velvet. But the night would grow cold and the young woman, no matter how ferociously she’d fought, didn’t have Brimstone in her blood to keep her warm.

  The fire kindled easily while she murmured in her sleep.

  He approached her after the fire was built. She drew him with a powerful pull—like the moon to his sea—and damned if he didn’t feel like waves crested and crashed inside of his chest with every heartbeat. She didn’t seem hurt, only drained. Sleep was probably what she needed to recover. She was petite, but athletic, and obviously used to fighting daemons. He touched her face when a particularly loud whimper escaped from her rosy lips. It was a mistake. The scars that tracked along his arms flared to life with a red glow. The sudden ignition startled him into stumbling backwards to cradle his tingling fingers against his chest.

  The tempest in his chest was shocked into stillness.

  Her affinity was stronger than any he’d felt before. And it called the Brimstone in his blood to roaring life in spite of a lifetime of practice at tamping it down. After that touch, he took a seat well away from the young woman. He put the fire between them. Not because the flare had hurt him. It hadn’t.

  It had been a pure pleasurable jolt of heat akin to desire.

  Where had this woman gotten an affinity so strong that it tempted him to loose his Brimstone burn? He had inherited affinity from his own mother, Victoria D’Arcy. Affinity for daemons had been passed to his grandmother, Elizabeth, by a monk named Samuel. She had passed it to her daughters and, in turn, it had come to him. But each passing had diluted the affinity’s strength.

  He was used to its almost musical call. He wasn’t used to this. The woman’s affinity was nearly pure and so powerful that he could feel it calling the Brimstone blood he’d inherited from his biological father even though he had a lifetime of experience guarding against it.

  He hadn’t trusted his daemon blood since it had almost killed him as a child.

  He hunted daemons. He refused to accept that he was nearly one himself. But hunting Rogue daemons wasn’t the only family business and the daemon king wasn’t their only concern.

  The Turov estate was one of the largest in Sonoma, California with thousands of acres of vines. His stepfather had established it right after the Russian Revolution when he’d brought his parents to America and he’d had many years to bring it to lush, thriving success.

  Brimstone wasn’t all bad. It had extended Adam Turov’s life and allowed him to help Michael’s mother after Michael’s real father had died. Turov had helped Victoria defeat the Order of Samuel when they’d kidnapped Michael as a small child. Then, Turov had married Victoria and raised Michael as his own.

  The Brimstone in Michael’s blood had almost killed him when it had first flamed high during his rescue. He’d never trusted it since.

  He reached for his guitar to keep himself from standing and going to the woman again. Her restless murmurs drew him as much as her affinity. She was distressed. What worried this amazing woman who had used her affinity and her dolls to call Fire, Water, Wind and Earth to defeat the Rogues that stalked her? Were more daemons on their way? He could see Grim silhouetted on a rise just outside of the fire’s light. The hellhound was alert and watching for trouble, but Michael still felt every protective instinct he possessed on high alert as well.

  The fire’s glow was gentle in comparison to the glare that had come from his scars. It helped to filter the woman’s murmurs and sounds through a soft haze of smoke. By all accounts, his grandmother had been a remarkable woman, too. She’d loved the daemon king before he was a king. He’d loved her as well. So much so that he’d “adopted” her human children after her death. Unfortunately, his devotion to the D’Arcy family shadowed Michael’s future.

  And now it would shadow this woman’s future as well.

  He was in the fight of his life against more than the Brimstone in his veins. He fought against the daemon king’s expectations. Ezekiel had proclaimed Michael the heir to the throne of hell. But Michael’s scars were a constant reminder why that could never happen. They didn’t glow anymore. He’d succeeded in extinguishing the flare. He always would. He refused to acknowledge his daemon heritage, now or ever. He’d seen the harm his own blood could do. He’d grown up knowing that daemons couldn’t be trusted. He refused to accept a position that might make it impossible for him to protect others from the power in his blood.

  His guitar came to life in his hands as the elements had come to life for the woman. She’d used a flute and the dolls to channel her affinity. He used the guitar’s strings. But he wasn’t calling anything. He played to drown out her affinity’s call. He played to control the Brimstone in his veins. If he also soothed her distress, so be it. He would give her peace before he shattered her peace completely.

  Because in spite of needing to keep his distance from the woman who obviously tempted his burn, he needed her help to find the one thing his “grandfather” the daemon king wanted more than Michael—Lucifer’s wings.

  * * *

  Guitar music woke her. Classical Spanish guitar expertly played and accompanied by flawless singing. It was a song about a desert flower she’d heard before, but for some reason the lyrics romanticizing a woman as a beautiful, hardy bloom made her flush. She hadn’t told him her name. If he asked now she might say “Jane.” Anything but allow him to see that the sound of her name from his lips as he sang caused a rush of response she’d never felt before.

  “You have a powerful gift. I’ve never seen anything like that...and I’ve seen more than most.” He stopped singing to speak, but he continued to play.

  She had blinked open her eyes and lifted her torso from the ground. From her propped position, she could see his fingers deftly flying over the strings. The calluses she’d felt on each digit were explained by his swift, experienced manipulations. He wasn’t a casual player. He played often and long, enough to cause permanent ridges. He plucked, strummed and slid his hand on the neck as easily as another man would breathe.

  The guitar was a rockabilly beauty complete with inlaid turquoise and silver panels. The color was brilliant against his black t-shirt and faded denim.

 
Nearby, a tiny fire crackled. It had been built with the kind of foraging only an experienced desert camper could accomplish—brush, twigs, dung—all patiently scavenged from the barren landscape. The fire held back the night with a soft wavering circle of light, which only served to make the vast expanse of blue-black sky above them seem limitless and cold. There, bright diamond bits of stars twinkled while down below a daemon prince bent over his strings and the flash of glimmering polished maple. A vintage motorcycle was parked near the outer reaches of the light. Farther out still, her dusty SUV was exactly where she’d left it before night fell.

  She didn’t believe in coincidence. A ward of the daemon king learned early and well to notice every tweak, every manipulation to the universe around them. The daemon king hadn’t retrieved her and now his grandson appeared. What trickery was this?

  “The kachinas. I need to pack them properly,” Lily said, suddenly appalled that she hadn’t thought of the sacred dolls right away. She was light-headed, but she rose to her feet and made for the pack that had been placed near the fire.

  “Easy does it. You went down hard,” the daemon prince said. Michael. His name was Michael. She’d been sheltered in a secluded wing of the palace. Kept away from others because of her affinity. But she knew all the D’Arcy family by name. They were the daemon king’s beloveds and Michael’s sudden appearance in her life was cause for concern. He continued to play his guitar, but he’d tensed. He watched her as if she might faint into the fire.

  “I’m fine. Summoning takes a lot of energy. Like a marathon. I could run ten more miles if I had to. Just need carbs and water,” Lily said.

  She rummaged through her bag for a protein bar and a bottle of water. As she ate and hydrated, she repacked the dolls in their burlap wraps. She was relieved to note that Michael had been careful with the kachinas. None were busted or broken. He’d also placed her flute back in its velveteen pouch. The special kachina that bore a remarkable likeness to the daemon prince was still wrapped and undisturbed.