by Nikki Sex
Demon Dreams
By
Nikki Sex
Copyright 2017 by Nikki Sex
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
To Gail, for her daily talent, input, and support. To Mike, who has put up with my imagination for years. To Trish, my fellow Aussie. To Sheree, my editor. To Sophie and her blog “Beware Of The Reader” and to all my Beta readers who enthusiastically helped. Thank you!
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1.
Chapter 2.
Chapter 3.
Chapter 4.
Chapter 5.
Chapter 6.
Chapter 7.
Chapter 8.
Chapter 9.
Chapter 10.
Chapter 11.
Chapter 12.
Chapter 13.
Chapter 14.
Chapter 15.
Chapter 16.
Chapter 17.
Chapter 18.
Chapter 19.
Chapter 20.
Chapter 21.
Chapter 22.
Chapter 23.
Chapter 24.
Chapter 25.
Chapter 26.
Chapter 27.
Chapter 28.
Chapter 29.
Chapter 30.
Chapter 31.
Chapter 32.
Chapter 33.
Chapter 34.
Chapter 35.
Chapter 36.
Chapter 37.
Chapter 38.
Chapter 39.
Chapter 40.
Chapter 41.
Chapter 42.
Chapter 43.
Chapter 44.
Chapter 45.
Chapter 46.
Chapter 47.
Chapter 48.
Chapter 49.
Chapter 50.
Chapter 51.
Chapter 52.
Chapter 53.
Chapter 54.
Chapter 55.
Chapter 56.
Chapter 57.
Chapter 58.
Chapter 59.
Chapter 60.
Chapter 61.
Chapter 62.
Prologue
Janice St. John here. Remember me? Ghost whisperer. Host to a baby demon and an inner wolf. In charge of an ancient Jugulo, one of the most powerful vampires on Earth.
I’m also madly in love and soon-to-be-mate to the Beast Lord.
Currently, I’m having a dream that’s so damned real. If overcoming obstacles builds character, this guy in my dream has personality in spades. Adversity, tragedy, suspense—I’m on the edge of my seat, except I’m not watching a movie.
Somehow, I’m the main character.
How does this story end?
~~~
British Columbia April 1, 1809
Alard LeBlanc was his name, but he went by Hawk. Hawk had left Kelowna, moving swiftly at a steady, measured jog. He was in a great hurry, not so much to arrive in Vancouver—more to escape those from the Hudson’s Bay Company.
His thick, black hair swung rhythmically as he moved. Well past his shoulders, long as a woman’s, it hung like a rich, midnight cloak. Hawk wasn’t feminine in any way. In truth, he was frightening in his strength and masculinity.
Indian.
Redskin.
Native.
In his late twenties, shrewd, intelligent, and alert, he seemed much older. With prominent cheekbones, a broad forehead, and high-bridged nose, Hawk was proud of his heritage. Warrior, hunter, trader, guide, he and his father supplied the Hudson’s Bay Company with beaver fur, meat—whatever they could trade in exchange for ammunition, salt, wheat, and coin.
Wise, kind, and vitally connected to the natural world, Hawk’s mother came from the Secwepemc people who inhabited the interior river valleys of British Columbia. White men dismissed her as an “ignorant Indian squaw,” yet his father had been conscious of her gifts and her beauty.
Hawk’s father was a French fur trader and a talented woodsman. After injuring himself while skinning a large buck, he died from bone breaking spasms. Hawk had been fifteen-years-old.
Hawk’s mother claimed a malevolent spirit had tainted his blood. The white man called it lockjaw, known to physicians as tetanus.
Until then, Hawk and his family had lived a happy life, moving from place to place, hunting and trading. A good student, he’d watched in fascination as his father astutely bargained. Back then, he’d been grudgingly accepted as his father’s son.
When his father passed away, he was raised in his mother’s tribe. There, he was treated with contempt as a half-breed. When trading with the white man, without his father by his side, he was ignored or despised as Indian.
Hawk was always an outsider, different from everyone else.
The day of his sixteenth birthday, he was bitten by a rabid wolf. Instead of death, the young man became un loup garou—a werewolf. Hawk sensed others like him, but thanks to ongoing rejection by his tribe as well as the white man, he had no desire to risk more of the same treatment by joining a pack.
As a solitary life was his custom, he became a lone wolf.
Hawk treasured his father’s Baker Flintlock rifle, a weapon he didn’t need. Each time he held it, he was reminded of the fair, yet tough man he loved and respected—the man who adored Hawk’s mother.
While a bullet could cleanly take down an elk, his well-placed arrows were just as deadly. When in wolf form, he killed with tooth and claw.
As he grew older, stronger, tougher, Hawk was no longer bullied. He became feared, and respected—but was never welcomed anywhere, by anyone. He told himself his lonely life of exclusion didn’t bother him, he preferred his own company.
Until Marie. Marie Maisonnat.
Marie, Marie, Marie!
Her name, like her heart, was soft as summer moonlight. Marie delighted in Hawk’s company. She spoke to him, accepted him, admired him.
Marie was the daughter of Monsieur Trefflé Maisonnat, the administrator of Fort Thompson, a branch of the Hudson’s Bay Company. It was built in what is now known as Kamloops. For the first time in his life, Hawk’s heart had blazed with love and adoration. At age twenty-eight, he’d fallen hard.
To her father’s disgust and disappointment, so had Marie.
Later, much later, Hawks passion still burned, but for a different reason. It blazed with loss, hate, and the hellfire of vengeance for his love had ended with pregnancy—and murder.
After a lifetime of being treated as lesser, of being ignored, bullied, or brushed off, Hawk’s anger had grown to alarming proportions. Buried deep in his heart, it coiled like a snake, until he struck with unbridled passion.
Now, the young warrior had a price on his head.
After half-a-day’s journey—as was his way when uncertain upon reaching a fork in the road, he made a fire. Hawk sang and danced to the Sky God, respectfully asking for a sign.
Psychically as sensitive as his mother, the answering portent he received was stronger than any he’d ever known.
Hawk followed that omen, traveling deep into the woods.
He was never seen again.
Chapter 1.
My story so far…
I was born June 15, 1815, in a small town in England. I’m a couple of centuries old, but I look to be in my early twenties. Plain brown hair, brown eyes—I go out of my way to be forgettable.
To supernaturals, I seem harmless and
human. They don’t sense me as a powerful psychic. I register as normal.
I’m soooo not normal.
I’m not perfect, either. In my defense, is anyone?
Everyone has their inner demons, but in my case, I actually do. When I was seventeen, my human mother summoned my inner monster. Since then, other than making me immortal, my demon encourages me to engage in irresponsible lust, bloodthirsty violence, slaughter, and the joys of total mayhem.
It’s not his fault—it’s in his nature. He feeds on dark energy of the spirit.
I’ve worked hard to teach him compassion, understanding, moderation—doggedly hoping he’ll feed on more positive magic. He enjoys sexual energy, but violence, death, blood, and pain remain his favorite meals.
Happily, my inner monster has learned how to help people—a first for a demon. As a side effect, anyone he heals gains power. One of the first people he helped was Hope. Not only did he save her life, but he altered her DNA, curing her of Down Syndrome.
Part of my magic is because I’m half fae. My douchebag of a father looks like a heavenly angel. He’s also a scary, evil mastermind who plans to open a portal from Faery to take over the Earth.
My faithful dog and I are psychically linked. According to daddy dearest, Toby was once a man. In a fit of rage, my father transformed him into a dog. As Wonder Dog always seemed human to me, this wasn’t earth-shattering news. It does make me curious, is Toby someone I know? Someday, will he change back to human?
After adopting the inner beast of a murderous bitch, I got stuck on Faery for two years. During that time, only two weeks passed on Earth. Now I’m home, I’m trapped in human form—unable to shift.
Metaphysically, I collared Leonidas Sparagis, compelling him to obey me. We’ve become friends, even though my Jugulo’s a little upset right now. That’s because I ordered him to turn my newly discovered cousin, Millicent, into a vampire to save her life.
Leonidas, a repressed empath, resists intimacy. Siring a vampire was apparently right at the top of his “Things I Never Want to do” list.
He’ll have to suck it up—literally, as he’s stuck with Millicent—or is he? Is their bond forever? Or can another vampire take his role as sire? Paradox, the local Vampire King, is master of numerous vampires he’s never sired.
When I collared Leonidas, I also accidently collared Stafford—the Beast Lord, and love of my life—a fact that pissed him off royally. We seem to have resolved that issue.
In my latest out-of-body magical snafu, I really screwed up. While untangling a demonic spell, I managed to compel everyone my demon has ever helped. Unbeknownst to them, they now all wear my collar.
I have my own private army. To hell with diamonds, isn’t that what every woman wants?
Fucking magic! The fine print always bites you on the ass.
My impromptu defense force has more than a lightening-blue collar to show for it. Each has their own invisible set of blue-black raven wings. Stafford’s wings are magnificent.
What’s a ghost-whispering, werewolf, demon host, half-fae chick supposed to do in this situation? Is there any chance these raven-winged paranormals will find out what I did to them?
Christ, I hope not. A girl can dream, right?
Oh, I also recently got a good look at my inner monster. He’s a misshapen cross between a giant raven and a dwarf. Skin the color of coal, he has a scary troll face, a hunchback, a raven’s beak, and blue-black raven’s wings. He’s so ugly, I’m surprised my eyes didn’t bleed.
Bias as hell, I think he’s cute. To me, my inner pal is lovable.
My friend, Detective John Joseph, who works for the Vancouver Police Homicide Department, has become blood-bonded with my Jugulo. Newly conscious of the paranormal world, he’s finding his feet. Hope has an awkward, flirty thing going on with him. John is attracted to her, too, but doesn’t seem to know what to do about it.
The Beast Lord—my on-again, off-again sweetie—has professed his undying love. We plan to be mated, married, and have children. When lycanthropes join magically, their bond is permanent.
And at long last, it’s happening today.
I’m so excited, I feel like doing cartwheels. So far, I’ve managed to restrain myself, but it’s been a close thing.
Being the Beast Lord’s mate will put me at the top of the pack hierarchy. Not bad for a don’t-notice-me, intentionally low-profile individual like myself. Now I’ve “come out” as a paranormal, I don’t have to hide.
Things are looking up.
Speaking of “up”—Little Stafford is!
I use the word “little” loosely when talking about my man’s appendage. The Beast Lord has three legs, all roughly the same size. OK, I’m exaggerating, but he does have one hell of a good-looking penis. Penis is a “P” word like prominent, plentiful, piquant, potent, powerful, and deliciously penetrating.
Don’t get me started on the rest of the alphabet. Every part of Stafford’s body makes my mouth water.
Every last inch.
We’re about to have a shit-load of hot and heavy, make-up-for-lost-time, animal sex. It’s been weeks for him, but years for me while stuck on Faery. Look out world, here I come!
Literally.
Again and again and again, I hope.
Werewolf mate bonding is a merging of body, mind, heart, and soul. The thought of taking Stafford inside, takes my breath away.
Chapter 2.
“After you.” A knowing smile simmers in the Beast Lord’s eyes as he gestures me up the stairs at the Spukani Lodge. His gentlemanly bow doesn’t camouflage the predator smoldering inside.
I stop and stare, bare-knuckle punched by love and lust.
My gaze drops to his mouth as he licks his sensuous lips. Oh, that mouth and the things he can do with it!
A silly verse about Stafford pops into my mind: “I would eat him in the rain, on a boat, or in a train. I’d dine on him while in a truck, he tastes divine with a fuck. Even here on the stairs—I’d feast on Stafford anywheres!”
Yeah, I’ve lost my mind. Is Dr. Seuss-ifying sex a sign of insanity?
Like me, my demon lusts after the Beast Lord. He hums with pleasure as Stafford’s animal energy resonates seamlessly with his own.
Stafford’s brown silky hair brushes his shoulders in thick waves. Lean, long, and muscular, he’s handsome in a rough, no-nonsense way. To many—humans and shifters alike, he’s intimidating as hell.
Years of being the Beast Lord have hardened him. I gaze at the bulge in his jeans. Being near me also hardens him.
Feigning ignorance of how much we want each other, I place my hand on my hip in a sexy pose. “What’s your hurry, big boy?”
His eyes narrow, his amber eyes darken. When he shoots me a crooked smile—my insides melt like frost under a summer sun.
The potent scent of her mate alerts my inner wolf. Raising her muzzle, she sniffs the air. The Beast Lord smells dangerous and delicious. I lick my lips, my mouth flooding with moisture—not to mention how wet I am elsewhere.
The Beast Lord has an overwhelming, masculine presence. Frighteningly formidable, he’s intoxicating.
Elemental.
Sexually lethal.
My inner wolf and I both want to sink our teeth into him. Fleeing, I bound up the stairs. He stalks after me with purposeful strides, taking the stairs two at a time. Run, hunt, and chase is the ultimate in animal foreplay. The male wolf pursuing his mate—
—ultimately catching her.
When I stop outside his room, I turn to see a storm of hunger in Stafford’s lust-filled gaze. The big, bad wolf’s smile is eloquent. “See my teeth? All the better to eat you with, my dear.”
Unlike Little Red Riding Hood, I want to be devoured.
One large hand possessively gripping my shoulder, he opens the door. Looming over me with single-minded intent, he backs me inside, never taking his gaze from mine. Eyes blazing, he kicks the door closed.
As foreplay goes, the look on his face is more
than enough for me. The man wants me.
Badly.
The feeling is mutual.
In a sudden frenzy, our bodies collide. We nip, grope, caress each other, as we rip each other’s clothes off. Burrowing into my neck, Stafford greedily kisses my exposed flesh. Turning us, he guides me backwards. With a gasp, I find myself pinned against the door by the naked, enormously aroused Beast Lord.
Mm. I’m between a rock and a hard place.
Stafford’s earthy, animal power sings over me like a strong, hot wind. Tilting my head back, my eyes drift shut in concentrated bliss. My inner wolf and I sigh with pleasure. Captive within his arms, there’s nowhere we’d rather be.
Sensual heat sweeps through my body, searing me head to toe. My nipples throb, my breasts ache. Edgy need whispers over my flesh. I’m giddy for his energy, his magic, his heady male lust.
“Christ, now. Now!” I plead, desperate to have him inside.
“Yes, now.”
I tremble as his rock-hard muscles push against me. His hands cup and squeeze my ass. Urgently, effortlessly, he lifts, then slowly lowers me. As I take his thick length all the way in, he lets out a low growl.
“Stafford!” I gasp in pleasure.
“Jan.” His snarl sounds as dangerous as a moonstruck wolf.
Stafford’s touch leaves trails of magic, igniting a firestorm inside of me. It’s been so long since I’ve had sex with the man I adore. Forever since we’ve made love. It feels incredible, better than I remember.
“I’ve dreamed of you for years while on Faery,” I gasp, remembering those lonely nights.
“I’ve dreamed of you since the day I first met you.”
Stafford buries himself inside of me balls deep. He drives inside steadily, forcefully. It feels as though he’s trying to drill right through me, and into the door behind as well.
Bang, bang, bang, bang.
The door knocks, there’s no need to answer. This rhythmic knocking comes from inside his apartment, from us.
My demon emits a low, humming background buzz, the lazy sound of a summer bee harvesting honey. He’s feeding on sexual energy, then sharing any magic we generate with the Beast Lord’s pack.
Do they feel it?
I snort, briefly thinking of the shifter community. Due to the connection they have with their Alpha, all his werewolves know he’s ferociously fucking like the animal he is.
