“But, Father. I’ve not fed.”
“Atalos,” Grapple called.
The most ancient of the darklings, one who’d mastered the black art of human disguise by skin walking, wore the body of some college boy and appeared with a succulent young blonde woman wearing a tiny sparkling silver dress and some sort of crown on her head. She was frantically screaming and crying, flailing about wildly as Atalos dragged her along with him.
“Feed,” Grapple said, drolly.
Atalos presented the terrified human to him. Was this a trick? His heartless father never assisted in providing food, and nothing was ever freely given.
“What am I to owe?”
“Do not question me. I said feed.” Grapple’s eyes flickered wickedness, narrowing in on the girl. “Or, I could just take her for myself and let you wither into nothingness.”
“No.” Kros flicked out his serpent tongue and licked the side of the girl’s neck, somewhat disappointed. This human female was nowhere near as tempting or as innocent as the Darlinghart female had been. Still, the one before him would slake his hunger. “I’ll feed.”
“Would you like her on the banquet table?” Atalos asked.
Kros shook so hard, his bones clacked together—his craving to feed overtaking him. He disrobed. “I’ll have her right here.”
The girl whimpered when Atalos tore the dress from her, revealing her body. Kros allowed his gaze to flow over her. She wore nothing but little blue silky panties and high heels. Her curves pleased him, and if he weren’t starving, he’d take her under him first.
Kros reached for her. She let out a high pitched screech. “Music to my ears,” he said, securing the shaking human to him, reveling in the feel of her supple breasts pressed against his chest.
He ran his hand up her spine, wrapping his bony fingers around the base of her skull, and then slanted his mouth over hers. She tried to fight him. Silly girl, he thought blowing tendrils of his darkness into her.
Her eyelids drooped. He knew the lethargy she was experiencing would win out over her fear, even her will to survive. A moment later, she stilled, going limp in his arms. When he breathed in her essence, he had what he needed to meld with her.
As Kros spoke the ancient words, blackened tendrils seeped from every pore of his body and whirled around the two of them, manacling long tentacles to the girl, creating the gateway. Not wasting a moment, he became the shadowed-mist and stepped inside of her. Once acclimated, he looked out from behind her eyes, stretched, rolled his neck along his/her shoulders, and smiled. Human warmth enveloped him, driving the cold away.
He felt her mind protesting the possession, screaming. He latched onto those screams, projecting explicit images into her thoughts of being with her dream man. He proceeded to run her hand/his hand over her right breast, feeling the nipple pebble to the touch. He had her now. Dalia was their name.
She licked her lips, a seductive swipe, and Kros experienced the petal softness of those lips on his tongue. Slowly, their hand slithered over the dip of her stomach. Inched lower.
“I want to touch you, Dalia. Lick you,” he whispered inside her head.
“Yes,” she said in a dream-lust voice. “Touch me.”
They reached down between her legs, burrowed beneath her panties and stroked. Her clit throbbed beneath his fingers. She moaned. He groaned.
Using their left hand to strum between her creamy breasts, mimicking how they rubbed between her sopping folds, he projected, “Finger your cunt for me,” keeping up a steady pace of erotic pictures flowing through her mind’s eye.
They thrust their fingers into her wet core. Upon penetration, the human climaxed. Euphoria struck him and he rode the wave until the last spasms of bliss shook him, and her. Sated, he pulled back into her body with his mist as if he were removing a glove of flesh. Her right hand immediately left her pulsing sex and flopped to her side—a puppet with a cut string—dangling.
Reaching inward, Kros palmed her frail heart. It thumped-thumped in his misty-palm. He basked in the moment, wrapped his fingers around the organ and squeezed until he stopped the beat. Easily, so easily, he plucked her soul free as if picking a grape from the vine, inhaling.
With her inner light extinguished, the human shell he wore withered and crumpled. Akin to leaving a pile of old clothing on the floor, Kros stepped away. His movements were sure, no longer jerky. Feeling strength surge through him, he threw his head back and roared.
Reborn. His blood soaked body, no longer skeletal, had been rejuvenated. The feeding, complete.
Chapter Three
Petúr stared down at the petite blonde; sporting black and pink striped knee high stockings, wearing a bar uniform which reminded him of a Catholic school girl uniform, only naughtier. The short pleated skirt was dark in color with small pink skull and crossbones patterns weaved throughout, and the button up shirt, tied in a knot, showed off her belly button.
She’d muttered something like, it’s really you. Then she kneeled and was bowing her head. He pulled in a breath. His eyes narrowed. Besides him, his brothers, Grapping Hook, and the darklings they battled, he’d never come across someone residing here who clearly smelled non-human. Not even when he was a small boy living in the orphanage, nor later on the streets.
“Vibe. Dash,” he said. “Stay with Wyndi.” He tugged the strange feminine creature up by the elbow. “Come.” He didn’t give her the option, just kept on tugging her until they were out of Wyndi’s office, down the hall, out the front doors of the Jolly Roger’s Bar & Grill, and then walked over to the sparsely populated back parking lot. “Why did you speak as you did, then bow at my feet, little one?”
“The symbol,” Bell said.
How does she know of it? “Symbol?”
She reached out and moved the torn flap of his shirt aside. “On your chest.”
He gritted his teeth. “What about it?”
“I know of this.” She lightly traced one circle and tilted her head, staring up into his face.
“How?”
“I’ve seen this before.”
Petúr’s brow furrowed. “Where?”
“In my homeland.”
Did this creature know of his homeland? He always knew he wasn’t from this world, not human, and over the years he’d had flashes of a place. Glimpses of a woman. They were vague, dreamlike images of a faraway land, lush and green, and of a beautiful enchantress wearing gowns of gold, with a loving face, golden eyes, and long, flowing brown hair.
The woman, and the land, he never knew, yet somehow he did. They danced in the peripherals of his mind. As a boy, he believed them to be real. As a teen, he supposed them a figment of his imagination. As a man, he assumed neither the place, or the woman ever really existed.
“I know of you, Petúr.” He ground his teeth. “You might not want to believe me, but I do, and what I have to say is the truth.”
“I do not know of you,” he said.
“I’m Bell.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re not human, Bell.”
She shook her head. Blonde ponytail whipping. “No. I’m not.”
“What are you then?”
Her eyebrows pulled together. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“No.”
“I am Fae.”
He’d heard of such creatures, being spoken of in human fairy tales. “A fairy?”
“Yes. A Demi-Fae.”
****
Wyndi splashed cold water on her face from the sink in her office restroom, feeling dazed, a little sick to her stomach, and completely baffled. Ever since she was a little girl, she’d dreamed of a beautiful man with the face of an angel, and eyes of the purest gold. Water dripped from her nose, lips, and trickled down her neck as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Tonight, after being mugged, she’d met the man she’d somehow visited over and over again in her dreams, only while he did have those same angelic features and golden eyes rimmed in dark ash, he wasn’t her guardian angel. He
was too earthy to be celestial.
She grabbed a hand towel and patted her face dry. In her dreams, her angel was lighthearted. In her dreams, he would take her into his strong arms and fly her into the clouds, smiling and laughing as the wind thrashed through that chocolatey-gold mane of hair.
Stop being ridiculous, she told herself, placing the towel onto the counter. Dreams are dreams. They aren’t real. They don’t come true. And the fact Petúr resembles a make-believe dream man who flies you through the heavens when you sleep is only a coincidence. Besides, the man she met wasn’t even close to being lighthearted. He was lethal looking. Intimidating for sure. Most assuredly possessed a stern set to his jaw, hardness to his face, and punishing eyes.
But he had the softest looking mouth. Wyndi stomped her foot. “Stop thinking about his mouth,” she mumbled.
“Ma’am,” one of the men, she couldn’t distinguish the voice, called through the door. “Are you okay in there?”
“Fine,” she said, snapping her spine straight.
Quickly, she pulled the clip from her hair, combed her fingers through the strands, yanked at the hem of her dirty suit jacket, grabbed up her purse, and turned on her heel.
When she stepped out of the confines of the restroom, she glanced around. Vibe and Dash were imposing sentinels, taking up a post by the exit to her office.
“Where’s Petúr?” she asked.
“He stepped out for a moment,” said Dash.
“Well….” Her gaze bounced between the two large men. While similar in ways, both having the same thin line to their noses, same shape to their full lips, they were also the contrast of opposites. Vibe wore a white suit, had short sun-blond hair, silver eyes, and looked as though he stepped out of the pages of GQ magazine. Yet he too had this lethality about him. While Dash was dark haired, which he wore pulled back in a nubby ponytail, donned biker leathers, and had coal-black eyes which seemed haunted, his youthful features were hardened, too. “Thank you for your help tonight, and for making sure I arrived back at my office safely, but you really needn’t stay. I’m just going to—”
Vibe smiled bright white, however it was Dash who said, “None of us are leaving until the big guy tells us it’s time to go.”
Wyndi frowned. Vibe and Dash glanced at each other. Their body language, and the way Dash arched a brow intrigued her. If she didn’t know better, she’d think they were talking, but their mouths never moved. She dismissed the bizarre thought and walked determinedly over to her desk, put her laptop into the carrying case, and flopped the strap over the same shoulder her purse was on.
“All I needed was this,” she said, tugging at the canvas strap with one hand. “So, I’m going—”
“We’re right behind you,” said Vibe.
“All right,” Wyndi said, not sure what to make of her alleyway rescuers. She breezed between them and kept on making tracks, heels clacking on the tiled floor. “Someone get the door.”
No sooner had she said the words than she heard her office door shut and latch behind her.
Once outside, she took in a deep breath. The familiarity of sea-salty air caressed her as she made her way a little farther around the building, into the overflow parking lot which wasn’t overflowing, then froze—her two unwanted bodyguards coming to a stop on either side of her.
What in the name of Confucius?
Just steps away, standing beneath the lamp light, stood Petúr, who towered over Bell, her bartender. Bell had rucked up the back of her bar shirt, while he ran his large palm over the surface of what looked to be a lacy, light pink, almost a shimmering scarification, or tattoo of wings across her bare back.
Wyndi blinked. Then blinked again. Something fiery boiled up from her belly, coiled around her bones, and constricted. Were her nostrils flaring? In any case, she was seething, and wanted to snatch Bell bald. Visions of wrapping her fingers around that blonde ponytail and yanking with all her might danced through her head. And, just so she was clear with herself, she wanted to do the said snatching not because she was jealous. No. Jealousy couldn’t be it. Why would she be jealous of a man she didn’t know the first thing about and had absolutely no claim on?
Anyway, back to the problem at hand. She narrowed her gaze. She was livid because this was her bar and her employee was acting like a floozy out in the open where anyone could see her. After all, Jolly Roger’s Bar & Grill did have a certain level of respectability to uphold. Yeah. That sounded more plausible.
Wyndi stomped forward, fists tight, uncaring of the two massive men flanking her.
“What is going on out here?” she asked, voice harsh. She hit Bell with a menacing stare. Switched and glowered up at Petúr whose expression was unreadable. “Because I know I’m not seeing my bartender, in my back lot, half dressed, doing God only knows what with you Petúr.”
She heard Vibe snicker.
“Incoming, big guy!” Dash yelled.
She jumped, startled, her hand going to her chest.
Petúr grabbed both Bell and Wyndi, spun on his heel, flinging them behind him. “Protect the human woman,” Petúr said, kicking into gear.
Some sort of dark swarm emerged out of the shadows on the far end of the parking lot. Eyes rounded, Wyndi backed up. From nowhere another man came running in their direction. “Move!” he yelled, shooting flames out in front of her. The heat was sweltering. Her mouth fell open. Yes, he was shooting flames from his hands.
Bell grabbed onto her by the collar and yanked. They hit the ground in a wallop, purse and computer bag thumping down between them. Her heartbeat pounded in her throat. A sense of déjà vu struck. Had she been on the ground earlier tonight? Yes. She rubbed at her thudding temples. Everything slowed down around her as memories—and they were memories, Wyndi realized—of being accosted by some sort of dark demon thing in the alley played out inside her head as if she were watching a scratchy, looping video.
Vibe. She remembered him staring at her. Recalled a ruffling sensation, butterfly wings flapping inside her head. Heat. A penetrating vibration. No way. Had Vibe done something to her? Messed with her head somehow? What she was considering made no sense. It just wasn’t possible. Was it?
She glanced up. Petúr, Vibe, Dash, and the newest arrival, a redheaded human flame thrower, were in a semicircle around her and Bell, taking on the converging monsters in her parking lot with a fluid grace of movement which mesmerized her—a macabre ballet set to the soundtrack of screeching, bones breaking, snarling growls, grunts, hisses, curses, and groans.
In front of her, Petúr gripped two daggers, one in each hand. Even though hell was happening all around her, she couldn’t stop watching him. He ducked blows, bent, spun, kicked, thrust, chopped, slashed, his chocolate colored hair tipped in golden sun swishing around his chiseled cheekbones…. His golden eyes caught in the light, flashing deadly ferocity. God. He was pure banked power and liquid motion as he cut down dark being after dark being, without mercy.
Heads rolled. Blood arced. Dark gnarled remains burst into clouds of smog, leaving behind ash that scattered in the breeze. Perhaps she should be horrified to be witnessing such brutality, or maybe she’d completely lost her mind, but Petúr was utterly fantastic. Coat gone. Shirt hanging in tatters. Glorious muscles flexing. The blood of those monsters splattered across his fallen angel’s face.
He was artwork, yet she didn’t think she’d ever seen any artwork, or anyone, so hauntingly beautiful.
Chapter Four
Oh, hella no.
Bell wasn’t going to cower on the ground, especially with some wacked-out black thing slithering across the pavement, coming toward her and Wyndi.
“We can’t stay here.” She tugged on her boss’s arm, getting no response. “We need to move.” She looked over to see Wyndi, her expression strangely blank, with her gaze clearly trained on Petúr. “Wyndi,” she said, adding a bit of bite to the tone, relieved to see blue eyes as she turned to look at her. “We’ve got to go.”
“Where? We�
�re surrounded.”
“Petúr!” Bell yelled, kicking out at the misty hand reaching for her boss’s foot. “They’re after her.” She hadn’t made contact when she kicked and didn’t know how to fight shadows and mist. She needed to get into the air. She could help from the air.
“Dash,” Petúr bellowed, embedding one of his daggers into the neck of a darkling. Blood gurgled out of the wound. “Get the human out of here.”
“Come on!” Bell tugged then shoved the now terrified looking Wyndi face-first toward the warrior right before she transformed into a hummingbird, clothing falling from her form when she took flight.
From her vantage point, high above the battle on the ground, she saw Dash turn. The slithering shadow had started to reach for Wyndi again. Dash was fast. He ducked a blade being hurled at him, slid on his hip, reached up, wrapped his arm around Wyndi’s waist, then bam! They were gone.
Dash can teleport. He and the others who fought by Petúr’s side had to be the fabled lost boys, caught within the world of man when Queen Serbian sealed the portal between the human realm and the world of the fae. A brief moment of relief washed over her. Dash would have Wyndi far away from this nightmare in a matter of milliseconds. Yet the relief was soon followed by a sense of renewed panic.
Vibe took a knife to the thigh. The one who wielded fire was quickly being overtaken. And she knew Petúr didn’t see the dark being sprouting up from the pavement, shrouded in mist. Bell didn’t know if this would work or not, but she had nothing to lose at this point. She had to do what she could to protect Petúr.
Bell dive-bombed the asshat headed toward Petúr’s back, releasing her fairy dust. It fell from her tiny flapping wings—glistening bits that sprinkled the misty-shadow-dude. His shoulder appeared. A stump of an arm. Now that she could locate him within the mist, she could glamour him, or at least she hoped she could.
No coulds, Bell. She would stop the advancing army of darkness.
Bell shifted back into her fae body, placing her small nude frame between Mr. Stumpy and Petúr, fairy wings flapping, dust pluming out behind her, surrounding Petúr, Vibe, and the fiery one in a cloud of shimmering fairy protection.
Rise of the Lost Prince Page 3
