Her Demon Prince (Forbidden Fantasy) (5 page)

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 wings 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.

“It’s
more than that.” Rachael waved her hand over it again, concentrating on the
torso and frowned. Her eyes widened and she stepped back. “I’m afraid to open
my senses when I’m close to this statue. I haven’t dealt with this before but
it feels like an ancient evil. Something horrible happened here. Something
unjust.”

“I’m
not being disrespectful about your gift because I’ve seen your predictions come
true, but I don’t get how you can obsess about a bit of antique rock.” Whatever
Rachael said, nothing would deter Phoebe from her urge to restore the piece
she’d felt compelled to buy from an antiquities dealer. It was the only way to fill
the emptiness inside her so that it didn’t open like a bottomless well in her
chest.

Slowly,
through the cool fall months and the icy winter, she’d carved a face, arms and
legs. In spring, she’d meticulously inserted rods into the neck, shoulders and
thighs of the marble torso and in summer, as the studio grew hot and her New
Yorker friends left for vacation, she’d joined the pieces so that he was
finally whole. She was proud of her statue, whose face haunted her dreams. His
hair was shoulder length, his brow furrowed and his gaze piercing over his
sharp nose and sensuous mouth. The torso of marble she’d bought had wide
shoulders and the warrior wore a robe over his back, a breastplate and a tunic
underneath. On his feet she had carved marble sandals. It had been tricky to
get the dimensions of his head, arms and legs right so that all the pieces
fitted together.

“When
I look at him, I get that tight feeling in the pit of my stomach like something
bad is going to happen.” Rachael clutched her stomach.

Phoebe
bit her lip in irritation. Rachael could be so dramatic sometimes.

“It’s
getting worse by the minute. The evil. I can’t bear it. I wish I hadn’t opened
myself up to it. It’s coming at me like a roar.” Rachael ran over to Phoebe’s
workbench, pulled off her bracelet made of black angular rocks and reached for
a pair of scissors. Snipping the elastic string, she pulled ten rocks off the
bracelet, raced back and placed them at even intervals around the statue.

The
hairs on the back of Phoebe’s arms stood up when she saw the intense look on
Rachael’s face. “What are you doing?”

“Protection.
You need it. I’ll sacrifice my bracelet of Moses rocks. They come from around the
tomb of Moses, from my last trip to the Middle East. They’re inscribed with
protective talismans. Don’t move them.”

“Rachael,
stop. You’re scaring me.”

“You
have to get rid of this statue.” Dressed in her trademark black tee-shirt and
jeans, with her wild, rusty curls, pallid face and slim body, Rachael seemed
other-worldly. It didn’t help that a beam from the full moon was spotlighting
her face. A deep moan left Rachael’s lips and she started to sway. Her eyes had
widened as her hand raised and she pointed at the sculpture.

“Oh
shit!” Phoebe had the impression that the studio’s walls were closing in on
her. She’d seen this before.
The last time Rachael had
experienced a vision this intense
,
a friend had died
.

“Stay
away. Don’t take her.” Tears streamed down Rachael’s face as she stared up at
the statue.

Phoebe
looked at her sculpture. Did the eyelids just flicker? She blinked and looked
again. They blinked. Fear exploded up Phoebe’s spine. She raced over and
grabbed her friend. “Rachael, what’s going on?”

Rachael’s
whole body jerked at her touch and she stared wildly at Phoebe. “Destroy it!”
Rachael's face had blanched, so that the freckles on her nose and cheeks stood
out. Even her lips had lost their luster.

“I
can’t. I love the piece. It isn’t evil. I know it isn’t.”

Tears
poured down Rachael’s cheeks and she clutched Phoebe by the shoulders. “You
don’t understand, Phoebe, it’s Halloween! The time when the plane between life
and death is thin. Anything can come in. This statue carries death energy.”
Grabbing a hammer from Phoebe’s workbench, she pushed passed Phoebe and strode
toward the statue. Bang! Down went the hammer, right into the side of the torso
so that it left a raw gash and bits of marble scattered across the concrete
floor.

Jesus,
Rachael had lost it. All her work ruined. Phoebe lunged after her just as she
raised the hammer again and grabbed the tool from her hand. “Rachael. No!”

Eyes
wild, Rachael turned. “I have to destroy it before it comes to life.”

Surely
she’d imagined the eyelid flicker before? “Are you nuts? He’s stone, just like
the others,” Phoebe said, waving her hand at the gallery of carved figures of
biblical princesses, demons, a hideous monkey-faced sculpture, and a beautiful,
proud-faced angel.

Rachael
shuddered. “I don’t know what he is. I’ve never experienced this energy before.”

Oh
hell. Rachael had been right so many times before. Gripping the hammer, Phoebe
realized the temperature in the room had plummeted. “Before, in your vision,
you said, ‘don’t take her.’ Who’s he going to take?”

“You!”

A
nauseating, twisting sensation gripped her stomach. “It’s stone, damn it.”
Phoebe slapped her hand on the torso where the hammer had hit to reassure
herself
that the marble was nothing more than a cold piece
of rock. Something wet and clammy made her draw back her hand and look at her palm.
Blood!

“Phoebe.
Get out of here. He’s coming to life,” Rachael screamed.

But
she couldn’t move. The hammer dropped from her hand. Sheer, sharp disbelief
clouded her thinking. Looking back at the statue, it seemed to be changing
color in front of her eyes. The face, arms and legs had darkened and taken on a
swarthy skin color. Thick, dark blood oozed from the hole Rachael had made.

A
gleam of light from the moon hit the face of the sculpture and the Moses rocks
burst into flames. The statue shuddered, heaved a sigh and his eyes scanned the
room, coming to rest on her. “Princess.”

“No!”
Phoebe said, backing away.

He
jumped off his plinth, his sandals making a clacking noise as he hit the
boards, but when he strode toward her and reached the Moses rocks, his body
shuddered as if he had slammed against an invisible wall. “Princess, move the
rocks.”

“Phoebe,
run. When the rocks burn out, the protection stops,” Rachael cried.

The
man’s dark eyes fixed on her. “Princess, it is I, Agrat. I have come for you.”

Chapter 4

Her whole body trembling,
Phoebe stared, incredulous, at the sculpture’s handsome, merciless face. She
gripped Rachael. “I’m seeing things. The statue…it’s alive. Tell me this isn’t
happening.”

Rachael
grabbed her too, her hold so tight her knuckles were white. “It’s happening,”
she said, her voice so quiet, so fearful, it was almost a whisper.

“What’s
going on, Rach? You’re the psychic.”

“I’ve
never seen this before. That old bust you bought. It contained something evil.
You’ve brought it back from the dead.”

A
sickening sensation of dread made the tiny hairs on her arms and legs stand on
end and yet, mixed with disbelief came recognition. He was just as she’d seen
him in her dreams: his black hair
gleamed,
his skin was
olive and his lips, full and sensuous. Even in this maze of surreal danger she
could sense the sexual pull of his
gaze
as the statue
became a full-blooded man; a man who stood tall and commanding with shoulders
as big as a doorway and muscles that rippled. His breastplate was decorated
with lapis lazuli and the robe over his shoulders flowed red. He was a great
hulking warrior fresh from the pages of an ancient text.

He
looked down at the burning ring of protection and back at her, his face
imploring. “Hurry, Princess, release me or die.”

“Die?
Who will die?” Phoebe asked, unable to take in what he was saying. Still
holding on to Rachael, she stepped back until her body was pressed against the
studio wall.

“You,”
said the man who called himself Agrat.

“Why?
Why will I die?” Every bit of saliva dried in her mouth so that her throat
became thick.

“Because
of the curse.
Hurry, Princess.
Release me,” he urged.
He frowned and his eyes began to glow with red unearthly power.

“Your
eyes. What are you?” Phoebe’s voice trembled.

“Phoebe,”
Rachael cried, clutching her so hard her fingernails dug into her arms. “He’s a
demon.”

The
demon's gaze focused on Rachael. "Healer, you know it is not so. You are
the one who told me so."

"What's
he talking about, Rach?" Phoebe asked.

"I
don't know," Rachael said.

One
of the ten rocks spluttered out, quickly followed by another.

Phoebe
froze, bewildered by the instinct that there was something more to him than the
dangerous reality of what stood before her. Disbelief still punctuated her
mind. Although he looked like a man, the flesh and blood being that stood in
front of her could not possibly be human. He must be a demon. With her heart
pulsing in her throat, she untangled herself from Rachael and took one step
forward. “And why are you calling me, ‘princess’?”

Another
rock died out.

“You
were my princess in the last life you lived, before my brother, this traitor,
the son of a fallen angel, Galaden, betrayed me.” The demon turned and his
furious gaze fell on the carved angel statue standing next to him. He slammed
the invisible barrier but failed to penetrate it before turning back to her,
his eyes no longer glowing, his look beseeching. “Do it now! Remove the rocks.
There’s no time.”

“Don’t
do it, Phoebe. Get out of here. The rocks are made from shale. They only burn
for minutes. There aren’t many left,” Rachael cried.

Fear,
as sharp as a blade, stabbed Phoebe. She recognized the snapshot of her dream
coming to light before her eyes. The demon and the angel were mortal enemies.
She remembered the angel’s wing covering her and yet...trying to remember more
was like catching clouds.

“Princess,
do you desire to become Galaden’s concubine?” the demon asked.

“What
do you mean?” Phoebe asked.

“The
angel, Galaden, means to rape you before he kills you. We have but moments
before he comes to life.”

Absurdity
flooded her mind as she glanced over at the statue of the angel she’d carved. She
blinked. The marble seemed to be changing color just like the demon had done,
the stone becoming translucent. Oh good God, what was happening? Too many years
of Baptist bible study permeated her senses. “I don’t believe you. Angels don’t
kill.”

Two
rocks flared and died.

“Believe
me, they make the most deadly of enemies,” the demon said.

“Liar!”
Rachael said.

A
deep frown creased his brow as he stared down at Rachael. “Do you dream of your
past life with Galaden? Do you remember the fate he delivered to your door?
Even you were fooled by his evil. You loved him once.”

Rachael’s
hand went to her throat and her back pressed hard against the studio wall. “I
don’t know what you mean.”

“I
think you do.”

His
words chilled Phoebe’s soul. She saw Rachael’s eyes fill with tears and she
began to tremble. From their childhood together, she knew that
straight-shooting Rachael was a terrible liar.

Several
more rocks flared and stuttered before turning to small piles of soot, leaving only
two burning. The demon kicked at the pile of ash so that it scattered toward
her.

Rachael
moved forward and grabbed Phoebe by the arm. “The barrier is growing weaker.
Get out of here.”

“Release
me, Princess,” the demon urged her.

Rachael
shoved Phoebe, pushing her toward the door, just as the statue of the angel
shuddered. White and silver dust sprinkled the ground as Galaden sucked in a
deep breath.

Her
eyes shining with wonder, Rachael released Phoebe’s shoulder. “It can’t be. He
is coming to life, too. He’ll save us.”

Phoebe
felt her jaw drop as the angel spread his wings so that they spanned the room,
the feathers turning from an alabaster color to glistening cream with silver
tips. He moved slowly, his joints appearing stiff; he turned to look at the
women and the crystal blue of his irises shone when his gaze settled on
Rachael. His whole body began to pulse and glow. How could this be real?

“Beloved,”
the angel said to Rachael.

“Help
us,” Rachael cried.

Another
of the rocks spluttered and died, leaving one.

The
demon pushed at the invisible barrier, fury crossing his handsome face. He
pointed at Phoebe. “This rock will not bind me much longer. Prepare to come to
me.”

Red
light from his hand zinged toward her, wrapping itself around her. Slowly,
inexplicably, she could feel herself being pulled toward the demon as if he had
bound her with invisible cords.

Rachael
screamed. “Phoebe, don’t go near him.” She grabbed onto Phoebe’s shoulders.

“I
can’t stop it. He’s pulling me,” Phoebe cried.

Galaden
stretched and when his gaze settled on the demon, Agrat, his mouth formed a
hard, tight line. “So, Agrat, you’ve come back to wreak havoc on the world.”

“I’m
saving my vengeance for you,” the demon snarled.

“Your
concubine doesn’t want you. I looked after her well. She was happy with me
tending to her every need,” Galaden said, his voice melodic and calm.

"She
was my wife!" The demon’s fist hit the invisible barrier so hard that
Phoebe saw his knuckles split and spill blood, but the angel just shook his
head, a grim smile on his lips.

“You
always fought better than you thought, which made you treacherous,” Galaden
said. He turned to Phoebe and beckoned. “Come to me, Princess. We have
unfinished business. The demon stole you from my father, the king, in
your
past life and he needs to learn the punishment for
theft.”

Agrat
fixed Phoebe with a penetrating stare, his pupils pinpricks surrounded by
glowing irises. “Don’t listen to him. He means to kill you.”

“I
don’t believe you.” Fear skated along at the edges of her memory, the images of
what had passed between them in her dreams too clouded with terror to bring to
the fore, but she did remember the angel folding her under his wing.

Yet
why did the thought of running to him, even if she could escape the demon’s
pull, ignite panic in her heart?

“Dammit,
Phoebe. Don’t listen to Galaden,” the demon urged.

As
soon as the rock died, he lunged forward and grabbed her arm.

Rachael
gasped.

Phoebe’s
fear gave way to action as she fought for her very survival. “Get away from
me.” Reaching down, she grabbed the hammer off the floor and slammed it on his
outstretched arm that held her captive. She heard the crack of bone and the
demon released her as a deep warning growl left his throat.

She
fell backwards, hitting the studio floor hard and scrabbled to escape, her
heart beating so fast it seemed like it was in her throat.

The
demon stalked toward her, his face implacable, then bent and pulled her to her
feet with one arm. A dark bruise was already forming where she’d hit him with
the hammer. She tried to jerk her wrist from his grasp but even one-armed, he
was too strong to fight.

“Help
me,” she implored the angel, seeing no alternative.

Galaden
reached to his scabbard, though his movements remained stiff, and pulled out
his sword, which made a singing sound as he withdrew it. In his other hand, a
white fireball glowed.

“Finally,
I get to finish you,” Galaden said to Agrat.

“You
never had the courage to initiate a damned thing,” the demon growled, releasing
Phoebe and pushing her behind him. “Prepare to die, traitor.”

Phoebe
glanced at the demon who stood between her and escape through the studio door. Just
to the left of the angel she could see Rachael edging closer toward the door.
She met Rachael’s eyes and mouthed, “Run.”

A
white fireball came zinging at Agrat, who sidestepped it with surprising grace
considering his size. It hit the beautiful female statue of an angel, taking
off its head.

With
the distraction, Rachael made a break for the door and was through it in an
instant, her screams for the police echoing back into the studio.

While
marble exploded around her, Phoebe flattened herself against the wall only feet
from the door. She glanced at the demon waiting for her break.

A
mirthless laugh left the demon’s lips, his gaze intent on the angel. “You took
off your mother’s head. How fitting. You would have done that if your father
had ordered it.”

“King
Sol loved my mother unlike the demon princess that bred you.”

The
angel left trails of silver on the studio floor as he moved, but there was
nothing lighthearted about his expression as his crystal-blue eyes narrowed. “I
heard your mother begged to see you before she died but the king didn’t want you
contaminated with her evil. It didn’t work anyway because you are demon spawn.”

Agrat’s
eyes turned to fire.

Phoebe
shuddered.

The
men circled each other, their hatred palpable. The demon outweighed the angel
who had a leaner, younger figure. Agrat was muscular and well built for
fighting, but unlike the angel he wasn’t armed.

Until
a red fireball that looked like it had been conjured from hell grew in his
hand.

Phoebe
edged toward the door.

The
demon advanced on the angel, his back to Phoebe, throwing fireball after
fireball, which Galaden deflected with his sword.

Statues
exploded, their white marble shards piercing the walls and littering the floor.

The
angel brought his sword down to take off the demon’s head in a grand sweeping
motion but the demon leapt aside, his body fluid, his muscles contracting and
bunching like an experienced street fighter’s. But these men were not mortal.

Their
power was magnificent and deadly.

The
demon punched Galaden sending him flying across the studio. He slammed into the
wall. Before he recovered, Agrat leapt across the space, wrenched the sword
from his hand and held it to his throat so that he was forced to kneel at the
demon’s feet. “You’ll die before you touch my woman.”

“She
doesn’t want you,” Galaden said. “I owned her far longer than you, and I have a
mind to possess her again. She brings great fey power from the people of the
North.” The angel’s beautiful cream and silver wings were spread wide in a
magnificent fan, but Phoebe only had eyes for Agrat. Shameful lust flickered
between her legs as she admired the powerful strength of him.

“She.
Is. Mine.” His eyes focused with deadly intent as his arm tensed and he drove
the blade into the angel’s throat.

Rachael
let out a high-pitched scream.

Phoebe
turned to see Rachael had returned with a policeman, a burly New York cop.

The
policeman stormed into the room, his gun drawn, his face expressing amazement
at the strange scene. “Police. Drop the weapon. Hands up.”

Agrat
whirled around to face the officer, dropped the sword and narrowed his eyes.