Her Demon Prince (Forbidden Fantasy)

by Cathleen Ross

  Agrat moved over, but pulled her close by holding her around her waist.

  For quite some time she lay in his arms, her body replete, drifting in the warmth of his arms. When he went to move away, she tightened her grip on him. Inside her, cold, hard fear replaced the heady sensations of lovemaking.

  “I have to leave. I must be at my father’s side to claim my birthright.”

  Phoebe’s eyes flicked open and she stared at him. “You are the eldest son. Surely your people expect you to inherit.”

  Agrat pushed himself to a sitting position. "I am told that the queen, mother of Galaden, sits by father’s bed, weaving enchanted spells so that her son will inherit the throne.

  The Prince rose, walked over to the ewer of water, spooned some into a basin and washed himself.

  Phoebe followed him, took a linen cloth from a shelf, wet it and washed the prince’s neck and shoulders. He was hard, magnificent and a tremor of fear passed inside of her. She would never see him again. “You go to fight for your inheritance.”

  His dark eyes held a coldness she had never seen and his sensuous mouth had formed a grim line. “I go to fight for my life.”

  Chapter 2

  Agrat stood at the foot of the bed, conscious of his father’s penetrating gaze. Even the scent of incense couldn’t hide the fetid smell of approaching death in the air. A slave wiped the perspiration beading on his father’s forehead as he stared at his son, his face grim. “You seek the crown before I am dead, demon son of mine,” said the king.

  Agrat sucked in a deep breath. The demon insult thrown by his father was a knife wound to his heart. Fighting to show no emotion, he knelt and lowered his eyes, conscious of the constant murmurings of Galaden’s angel-faced mother who stood on the king’s right hand side. He doubted her prayers were for the king’s soul, more likely chants designed to weave around the king’s fevered mind like vines, poisoning him so that her angel son would be shown favor. On the king’s left stood his half-brother, Galaden, once his friend in the nursery, now a contender for the throne. Galaden’s blond hair was feathered around his face giving him a boyish look, but Agrat was not fooled, his eyes were as hard as crystals.

  “Forgive me, Sire. As your eldest born son, I seek the crown once you have entered great Yahweh’s house. Not before,” he said, choosing his words carefully. Stripped of his weapons before entering the king’s chamber he saw that Galaden had his golden sword sheathed at his side. As the older and stronger brother he had bested Galaden when the brothers had trained as youths; but the angel son was a man now, strong in the ways of his mother’s folk and their corruption had spread through his veins. He would obey his father and king without question as male angels were bred to protect their creator and follow their lord’s wishes, even if that meant taking off his brother’s head.

  The king shifted in his bed, his face grimacing in pain. The sweet, sickly smell of a wound that could not be tempered wafted from under the linen sheets toward Agrat. “You have committed a crime punishable by death. You have stolen my concubine.”

  Sweet Phoebe. Her face flashed in front of his eyes. His father must have spies in his compound. Phoebe’s life would be forfeited if he was not alive to protect her. He knelt and bowed his head. “I beg your forgiveness, Father.”

  The king beckoned him to stand. “Speak your reasons.”

  When Agrat rose he saw his brother’s hand hover over the hilt of his sword. “All my life I have served you as both son and general, protecting you, your people and your lands. You are a just king. I ask on the eve of your life that you show mercy, forgive me my one mistake of loving the princess.”

  His father struggled to a sitting position though, from the sheen on his forehead, the movement cost him dear. The linen sheets fell forward exposing his shift. Watery blood stained the linen and death scented the air. The king pulled an ornate ring from his forefinger, the Ring of Kingship, held it in the palm of his hand then closed his fingers over it. “Love? What would the son of a demon princess know of love? You were bred for war. By stealing my concubine, you move to take my kingdom before I am dead.”

  His father valued his skills as a warrior above all else, directing his son in warfare from the moment Agrat had been old enough to hold a weapon. Even his wet nurse had been ordered to show him no affection so that he would grow warlike. Agrat could bear it no longer, his need to love and be loved rose up, choking him. “Not so, father. I have wed the princess but wish to continue in my duties as loyal son and soldier. I beg of you, forgive me this one thing.”

  The old king turned to stare at Galaden. “What fools I have bred for sons who think to marry their own choice. Did you not learn from Galaden’s mistake? Love and obedience is in his nature. I have forgiven him, but he has been well punished.”

  Galaden raised his chin and stared straight ahead but his jaw tightened. Did his brother miss Rachael, the flame-haired merchant’s daughter with whom he had fallen in love? Agrat had not heard of his brother seeking a paramour since. It was hard to tell with his sibling who, like Agrat, had learned that to show any form of emotion in front of their father was seen as weakness.

  No, Galaden had hidden his suffering well until the king had ordered the woman’s death for tempting the angel. It was the only time Agrat had ever seen his brother show pain; pain so raw that he had keened with misery and the life glow that radiated from all angels had ebbed from his body, leaving him a stern shell, his skin white like alabaster.

  On the day Agrat heard that Galaden had not fought for his lover’s life, he lost all respect for him.

  “I love too.” The words left Agrat’s lips through gritted teeth. It struck him that he would do more than fight for this woman; he would kill for her.

  Galaden’s hand gripped the hilt of the sword, his knuckles white. "Your love is treacherous."

  "Silence! I have not given you leave to speak," the king said.

  Galaden's mouth snapped shut but his eyes blazed with hatred at the demon prince.

  “Let me see the woman who turns this son to a fool.” The king snapped his fingers.

  The evil monkey-faced demon, Snarcus, brought Phoebe in, holding her by the arms. Though her face was bleached with fear she walked with dignity, her eyes vulnerable, wide like an animal’s when the blade was pulled for sacrifice. Her long blond hair flowed over her shoulders, her white robe was dusted with red desert earth and her feet were bare. Even disheveled, her beauty shone like a lamp drawing all eyes in the room, but she only looked to Agrat.

  Even Galaden straightened and Agrat noticed him take in the curves of her body. It was not in the angel’s nature to covet another man’s woman but Phoebe was mesmerizing, and as Galaden looked from Agrat to Phoebe he seemed moved.

  “You risk your throne for a goddess, but she is flesh and blood and will wither and die. No heir of mine can afford the luxury of marrying for love. My second son understands this,” the king said.

  “I marry who I choose,” Agrat said. He thought of Phoebe’s gentle hands upon his body and the look in her eyes as she gave herself to him. No woman had ever gazed upon him like she had. Hatred for his father rose up so that his throat clogged though he knew emotion would weaken his mind powers. His heart thumped and his muscles twitched, priming for a fight. Phoebe was his. His gaze flicked over her, taking in the way her body strained toward him. Snarcus would regret his treacherous role in bringing Phoebe here.

  The king’s face darkened at his son’s rebuttal. “Kill her,” he ordered Snarcus.

  With lightning-like reflexes, Agrat withdrew the dagger hidden under his robe and threw it. It gleamed as it flew through the air before embedding itself into Snarcus’s throat. Black blood sprayed from the demon’s throat as he clutched it and he dropped to the ground. A flash of fire rose where Snarcus had stood as hell reached out to welcome him back to the fold.

  Phoebe cried out and ran to Agrat.

  Within a second he had pulled her behind him and conjured a red firebal
l in his hand as a warning, should anyone try to approach him.

  Galaden drew his sword, making a swishing sound as it left his scabbard.

  “Traitor!” the king cried. “You dare to use your evil powers in my chamber?”

  Agrat backed toward the door, determined to shield Phoebe, cloaking her with his body and his mind powers, a move that left him exposed to the angelic fire-power of his brother. “I will harm you not, Father. Only let us free,” he said to the king, determined to leave the chamber before Galaden struck. Focus. He needed to focus. He could dematerialize without Phoebe in an instant, but it would take intense concentration to vanish with her.

  “You would lose the right to the kingdom over a woman?” the king said.

  Black hatred filled his mind as he thought of the tale of his mother, as told to him by his nursemaid. She had cried out for him as she was dragged to her death by this king. Would this become Phoebe’s story, too?

  Galaden’s angel mother unfolded her wings and wrapped them around her body, so that no weapon could penetrate her shield. Her chanting rose and the king’s breath grew labored.

  “I never had it,” Agrat answered, his voice bitter. “Not from the moment you murdered my mother and married the fallen angel who chants for your death.”

  “Cursed son, she prays for my life.”

  “No, Father, the angel whore is not the only one who can mesmerize a human with mind powers. I also have those powers as you well know, but I would never use them on you. I can hear your heartbeat. It grows weaker by the moment, your mind and blood poisoned by her words.”

  “You dare mock my beloved?” the king roared.

  Blood trickled from the king’s nostrils, mingling with his beard.

  “Do not look to Galaden to hold your kingdom,” Agrat said. “He obeys orders like a whipped cur.”

  “My angel son was bred for loyalty,” the king said. He coughed and blood sprayed across the bed sheet.

  Agrat was too far gone to care. “Loyalty?” He turned to his brother. “You watched when our father ordered a soldier to cut Rachael’s throat. You did not raise your sword to save her though she begged you to. I heard she died calling your name. She should have called you coward. It is fitting.”

  Galaden looked as if he’d been punched. Raw pain followed by anger spread across his features. “A soldier slit her throat? A soldier! No matter how many times you wash your hands, they are stained with her blood,” Galaden said. He raised his sword and a white fireball grew in his other hand.

  “Do not blame your wife's death on me, coward.” Agrat’s flame-red fireball flared. "I was not present when Rachael died."

  The angel prince's eyes blazed with hatred for his half-brother. "You lie. You murdered her. You will die for this."

  “Stop!” The king showed his fist. “You think to wage war in my chamber? I took your demon mother to my bed to breed a warrior. I bred a demon traitor. And you, my angel son, will not draw your blade in my quarters unless I bid you to do so.” With trembling fingers, the king opened his hand. On his palm sat the golden Ring of Kingship. “Wretched demon son of mine. I curse you to turn to stone.”

  Agrat knew the ring had the power to control all living creatures. Along the king’s roads stood statues of his enemies; twisted stone prisoners with anguished faces, delivering a stern warning to others. As the ring glowed in his father’s hand, his first thought was of Phoebe and how to get her from the room, but he couldn’t move. Already his legs and arms were hardening. All he could feel was the heat and trembling of Phoebe’s body behind his. The guilt of what he had brought upon them overwhelmed him like a dark cloud, leaving his heart as heavy as the stone it would soon become. The fireball he held in his hand extinguished as his powers dissolved, leaving him at the mercy of his father. “Punish me Father, but let my woman live,” he cried, his voice hoarse.

  “No, Agrat.” Phoebe moved in front of him, wrapping her arms around him.

  “I love you. I’ll always love you.” Already, speaking was an effort as Agrat's throat hardened and he fought for breath.

  The king’s face showed no mercy, but Galaden sheathed his sword. Perhaps his brother knew he had won because there was pity on his face that made Agrat want to kill him.

  “I curse you, demon son, never to have this woman. And you, faithless concubine, if Agrat should escape his stone prison and come to you, it will mean your death. Galaden, faithful angel son of mine, you will enforce this curse after my death. You will kill Agrat and Phoebe if they ever meet again.” Near the end, King Sol’s voice quavered.

  Galaden's gaze was filled with loathing and fixed on Agrat. "Gladly father. I was born to do your will. If Agrat escapes his stone prison, I will kill him. If Agrat seeks out Phoebe, she too, will be killed."

  A low moan of pain, of anguish, left Agrat’s throat as his brother strode over and dragged Phoebe from him.

  "It is fitting that I take your woman so that you know the pain of losing the one you love, since you killed my wife, Rachael," Galaden said, his voice musical with satisfaction.

  "No. Didn't kill her." Agrat struggled, his mind in agony while his body hardened, forced to watch as his brother bound Phoebe in his arms, his gaze triumphant from his win of the kingdom and Agrat’s woman.

  Phoebe fought to get back to him, crying out as tears streaked her face. She scratched the angel, her nails raking Galaden’s bare chest, drawing blood.

  “Do not fear. You are mine now. I will look after you,” Galaden said, his voice melodic as if he had just won a new plaything. His brother fisted her hair, closed his wings around her and bent his head to kiss her.

  Would Galaden rape Phoebe until she could stand it no more? Phoebe had become his property and having her was his right. Agrat summoned up every speck of fiery energy from his life essence, enough to pierce his triumphant brother’s heart. The red fireball zapped across the room and Galaden’s wings exploded into flame.

  A roar echoed around the chamber as his angel brother opened his wings and sent a cloud of ice-cold energy to freeze the fire. As his wings smoldered, Galaden turned on him, his expression filled with loathing. “If you ever escape the statue, Agrat, I will follow you through centuries and kill you.”

  Phoebe untangled herself from the angel’s arms and raced back to Agrat, her face bleak with misery, but he couldn’t move his arms to hold her or give her comfort. Soon he would be no more than a frozen sculpture, his face a mask of horror like the statues on the road into the capital.

  In the background, Galaden’s fallen angel mother unfolded her wings and smiled her triumph.

  Energy depleted, Agrat gasped for air. “Phoebe.” He couldn’t save her. All they had was one last urgent moment together. One last chance to make up this wrong for eternity.

  “It is done,” the old king said, his hand closing over the ring. The light died in his eyes and he fell back on the bed. His angel wife’s chants came to a close.

  “Don’t leave me.” Phoebe flung her arms around the back of Agrat’s neck, clinging to him, but he had lost all sensation.

  Death would be better than this, Agrat thought, sickened. “I will come for you, Phoebe. I give you my oath.” His voice sounded brittle and dry. Words of dust.

  Blackness and silence surrounded him. Nothingness. His stone body a prison.

  Chapter 3

  Present Day New York

  “I wish you’d focus on carving more angels for clients, especially ones like this gorgeous male angel you’ve just finished. I can’t stand that demonic sculpture you’re obsessed with restoring,” said Phoebe Larson’s agent and best friend, Rachael Ryan.

  “I don’t see him as a demon. Anyway, look who’s talking about obsession. Running your hands over that angel’s body won’t bring him to life, you know.” Phoebe laughed at Rachael who was staring up at the sculpture’s face with abject fascination as she tenderly caressed his wings.

  “He’s perfect in every detail. He looks like he might spread his win
gs and take flight,” Rachael said, her voice full of awe. “I don’t know how you get such lightness yet that intensity in your sculptures.”

  “I see them that way.”

  The Prince, his face full of fury mingled with despair, faced off against the angel as the angel’s wing enclosed her. The repetitive snapshot that haunted Phoebe's dreams and she didn’t know why.

  Phoebe studied her agent, appreciating the faith she had in her work. Rachael was a curious mix of Irish and Jewish heritage. From her father she gained her wild red hair and fair skin, which burned easily and turned to freckles. From her Jewish mother, she had business acumen, an arresting rather than beautiful face with cut-glass cheekbones and a sharp nose. From both she'd inherited her fey instincts, superstitious nature, and passion for art.

  The studio in New York’s Meatpacking District was filled with light, a mix from the full moon and various lamps, which gave the room an ethereal glow. Phoebe pushed her hair from her face and continued polishing the marble torso of the old sculpture, easing any stains from the intricate carving on the breastplate, her fingers caressing the lines and planes of the mythical warrior she dreamed about so often that he seemed real to her.

  “I think this is my best work, even if he took me a year. Even though I’m not creating my warrior from scratch.”

  Rachael walked from the angel sculpture and came to stand by Phoebe. She put out her hand but didn’t touch the marble, instead letting it hover over the stone.

  “Old pieces carry energy and that marble holds blackness. Evil. I can feel it in my bones. I don’t know how you can touch it.”

  “It’s stone, Rach.” Phoebe gave the torso a pat and Rachael winced. Phoebe knew her agent expected her to take her psychic feelings seriously and, to be fair to Rachael, her friend of twenty years, all of her predictions had come true, even when they had seemed unlikely.