Brimstone Prince

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.

Her relief lasted only as long as it took for her to realize her father’s sword was missing. It hadn’t been returned to the sheath that rested between her shoulder blades beneath her shirt and it wasn’t in the specially altered side pocket of her backpack that ran the length of the bag. Only the top of the hilt showed when it was in her backpack, but she was used to the weight and balance of the bag when the sword was hidden within it. Her father’s sword was gone.

Slowly, Lily stood. The pack dropped at her feet as she flexed her arms out at her sides. The daemon prince’s fingers stilled on his strings. He watched her rise. He met her accusing gaze. The flickering fire made mysteries of his dark-rimmed eyes. She couldn’t read them or guess what his intentions might be.

Daemons couldn’t be trusted. Surely, a daemon prince least of all.

“I need your help. Normally, I rely on Grim to guide me to Rogues over pathways that aren’t fully a part of this world. But he’s a hellhound and he can’t guide me to where I need to go this time,” Michael said.

He shifted to place his guitar on the ground beside him and then rose so gracefully that he seemed to be standing before her between one blink and the next. His movements echoed with the grace of the rhythm and blues he played as did his voice. But there was another quality to his voice—a smokiness that hinted at pain. Lily swallowed because his grace and his pain were alluring. She had heard of him. Of course she had. She knew he was the heir to the throne of hell and she knew he wasn’t happy about it. She was suddenly afraid that she knew why the daemon king had allowed her to run away. The music of this daemon prince was as seductive as the fire in his veins. Her affinity must have brought him to her. Had the daemon king planned it that way?

“I’ve been searching for a guide. Someone who can help me retrieve my grandfather’s crown. It isn’t an actual crown, but a symbol of his right to rule the hell dimension. He sacrificed it years ago to save my father’s life. It’s my duty to get it—them—back,” Michael said.

“Them?” Lily asked. It was extremely dangerous to have a conversation with a daemon, but she had no choice. She wasn’t leaving without her father’s sword. She firmed her spine as if he was coming at her with weapons instead of words. Because daemons used words as weapons.

He’d stepped closer and closer to her as he spoke. His face bathed in the light from the dancing flames was hypnotic in its familiarity and the startling newness of seeing it animated, alive, life-size and so achingly appealing.

“Lucifer’s wings. When Rogues like the ones that just attacked us revolted, they cut them from his dead body and coated them in molten bronze. They hung above the Rogue Council until the council was defeated and driven from hell by my grandfather. He’s the king now. The wings rightfully belong to him,” Michael explained. “The only problem is that they’re currently in heaven.”

“Bronzed wings singed black by Brimstone,” Lily whispered. She’d seen them once or twice or a million times as a child, but the daemon king, Ezekiel, looked nothing like her doll. A daemon who looked exactly like her kachina searching for black wings caused an eerie awareness of destiny to prickle along her skin.

“Yes. I must retrieve them from heaven and deliver them to my grandfather in hell. It’s complicated...but doing so will complete a bargain between us,” Michael said.

“Lucifer’s wings are in heaven,” Lily repeated. She could easily imagine the kachina doll in her pack with its dark wings and Michael’s face.

“The elemental spirits you call might be able to guide us to find them,” Michael said as if he was certain of her abilities. More certain than she. He had no idea how unpredictable spirits could be. And he had no idea that she had her own obligation to his grandfather.

“It’s possible. It’s also possible they’ll refuse to help you. Sealing a portal to hell is one thing. Stealing from heaven another. Where is my sword?” Lily asked.

He had stopped very near her. The fire now backlit his features until they were entirely in shadow. Her chin lifted in response to his height and his nearness, but she could no better read his eyes in shadows than she could in firelight. In a way, she’d known him all her life, but in much more tangible ways he was mysterious, a threat to her and to her duty and possibly even her soul. He obviously denied his Brimstone blood. He refused to live in hell and his heat was tamped down so that someone without her level of affinity might not even detect it but his controlled burn seduced in ways that a more rampant fire never had. It was a distant intrigue to her senses. One she had to work to resist.

“I’ll give you your sword and help you close the portals you promised your mother you would close. You’ll lead me to Lucifer’s wings,” Michael proposed.

Gone was the almost lyrical quality to his speech. He had spoken in a loud, clear voice as if a proclamation had been made.

Lily’s chest tightened. The air had gone thick and still around her. The dancing flames slowed. Her mother had warned her. Daemon deals were dangerous. They’d lived in hell for years because of a deal her father had forged with the daemon king before he died. But Lily couldn’t turn away. She was held in place by the universe pausing around her as it waited for her to accept or reject this daemon prince’s plea.

Because it was a plea. She could feel the tension in the man before her. He didn’t touch her, but he stood so close that his Brimstone heat caused her cheeks to flush. He’d said that retrieving the wings would cement a bargain between him and the daemon king. In her bag, the kachina doll had black wings that had been carved hundreds of years ago by a Hopi ancestor she’d never known.

Michael D’Arcy Turov should have wings.

Lily knew it. The dolls in her bag were wrapped and silent. She didn’t summon any spirit for guidance. It was her heart that whispered the truth.

“I’m Lily Santiago. Give me back my father’s sword and I’ll guide you to Lucifer’s wings,” she agreed.

The flickering flames halted. Sparks above them hung suspended in the air. Her lungs froze. Her heart paused, but after a moment of panic everything resumed as it should. The fire flickered. She breathed. Her heart pounded. And Michael Turov, the daemon prince, turned away. But not before she saw the flash of triumph in his suddenly illuminated eyes.

Chapter 2 (#u5232f25a-0f0a-577b-b7cc-37200b3f461a)

Hell had no stars. The sky above the palace was as thick and impenetrable as velvet. There was no moon. No planets. Only a nothingness of an atmospheric blanket that existed to separate a lower dimension from another. One had to rise up to the outer earth to see the stars, moon and sun. In hell, day was divided from night by the passage of time and by a slight violet haze that distinguished the coming of dawn and a deeper purple hue that signified the fall into dusk.

The hell dimension was beautiful—different, dark—but beautiful. Ezekiel often wondered that anyone could find it frightening or ugly.

Of course, the purple haze illuminating the carnage of battlefields was hideous. A sight he would never forget. And for a daemon king, “never” was a very long time.

He had been a warrior king during a time when war was inevitable. But it was time for a shift. Hell needed different leadership. Even a warrior king could dream of peace.

He stood on his own private balcony looking up at the velvet sky of hell’s night and instead of thinking about war he thought about children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He thought about Samuel Santiago and the deal they’d made. For a human, Santiago had been surprisingly capable of planning for the future. Ezekiel had cared for them separately—Lily and Michael, but he’d watched them grow and he’d waited for the right time for them to meet. His grandson was almost twenty-one. It was time, but that didn’t stop Ezekiel from worrying about his ward outside the palace walls for the first time. Her affinity had always taken his utmost ability to dampen in the palace, but he’d had to keep her presence mostly hidden until the time was right.

Rogues would be drawn to her. She was in terrible danger. Ezekiel fisted his hands and placed them on the cold stone rail in front of him. A daemon king had to take risks sometimes. Bold moves had to be braved. Even if it meant he risked losing them both. To Rogue daemons, to each other, or, worst of all, to a betrayal of all he held dear. Michael was only half daemon. Lily was human. Yet the fate of hell was in their hands.

Ezekiel stood for hours watching the black velvet sky lighten to purple. The passage of time was tricky in the hell dimension. They had yet to completely understand and master it. He had manipulated time to bring Lily and Michael together as peers. Time in the palace didn’t stand still. It was only infinitesimally slowed. Lily had actually been born first, but she’d needed to wait for Michael. Now, they were together. Santiago and D’Arcy. Kindling waiting for a spark. Things would proceed quickly. Yet it seemed an eternity passed as he watched and waited.

* * *

Lily cleaned and polished the sword with the same reverence she’d shown the kachinas. Her entire world had been one wing of a dark Gothic palace for many years. There was plenty of time to devote to ritual and habit when your world was one of confinement. Her mother had filled their days with art and music as well as exercise and training. Lily continued the practice after her mother had died.

“There are prayers scribed on my sword...it didn’t hurt you to touch them?” she asked.

Michael still stood near her after he’d given her back her father’s sword. She tried to ignore the intensity of his gaze, but it carried an almost tangible heat that flushed her cheeks.

“My mother was human. My father was a daemon. I’m only half-damned. Your sword is uncomfortable for me to touch, but not impossible,” Michael said. “Your father was a daemon killer?”