Devil's Prince (Satan's Brood Book 1)

by Louise Furley

  Sveti gave him another quick kiss then made her way to the chapel down the lane.

  Leaving the voluminous, ivory granitium castle behind her, she hurried along, choosing to run over the flowing blades of grass instead of on the moving travelelator.

  As soon as she entered the tiny, dim, quiet building, the tenseness shed from her shoulders. The chamber was empty.

  She walked quietly to a pew and knelt on the prayer bench. Her hands clasped and head bowed, she struggled to pray for the prisoner Kincaid, for Miles, and for Krystian to do the right thing with her.

  Shaking her head in chagrin, that was not going to happen. Krystian was more powerful than their father who was only a human. Krystian gained his powers from his mother, Khrisstya.

  Khrisstya and their father met while she had come to his planet on an intergalatical vacation, but she had died bearing Krystian. Sveti’s half-brother was a narcissistic sociopath.

  The rumors that filled the castle of Krystian’s decadence and depravity, and the enjoyment he got out of torturing his sex partners chilled Sveti to the core.

  As she tried to concentrate on her prayers, the picture of that…man? Beast? Devilos Dravidian came to her mind. Assuming the warlord Dravidian would be suspicious of Krystian but less so of a female, Krystian had sent transmissions for the trade of Miles in her name. A full body shudder shriveled her skin as she recalled the…creature. The warlord.

  The men standing in a circle around him had looked fairly human. He was different. Sort of human but…beast-like. He was big, massive, all mammoth lean muscles, and he had…horns, like a ram’s that faced the back of his head, and, he had pointed ears. Numerous, long black braids covered his head and swung around like tentacles as he had reached for her.

  At first he had regular hands, human fingers, big and thick and strong, like iron pegs that clutched her face. Then as he reached for her while she was fading she saw claws unsheathe from his fingertips in his rage.

  Her heart pounded as she recalled those claws, the behemoth chest, the horns, and the unleashed wrath on his roughly carved face, fierce and frightening, yet oddly…handsome.

  With a quiver, Sveti thought she’d also seen…fangs, along with the fury and vow of death in his dark eyes as they turned to…blazing white…as she faded from him.

  She touched her lips with her fingertips. As hard as his full lips were, his rough kiss…was…unnerving, almost...painful, she had felt the brush of his fangs as she was dissipating. Yet, something deep inside her, she couldn’t put her finger on it, stirred.

  Exhaling a deep sigh, she pushed him from her mind and tried to focus on her prayers, but those deadly eyes bored right back into her brain. Sveti knew, if he found her, he would kill her.

  And, she had a feeling, he was going to hunt her, like wild game. He wasn’t the kind of creature that would let the trickery committed against him go without retribution.

  “Prințesă,” a quiet voice called to her.

  It took a strong effort to pull her thoughts from the…ferocious beast, Dravidian, to attend to Gillian, one of the castle tenders. Lifting her skirt, she wiped her eyes with the hem of the dress, then resettled the skirt around her ankles and turned to the woman. “Yes, Gillian? What is it?” It had to be important to interrupt her in the chapel.

  Gillian, in her thirties, would have been prettier if her chin wasn’t so long and square, and her poor wispy hair that grossed out Krystian. He told her if she didn’t get it under control he would remove it, with a knife. Starting at her eyebrows. She hurried over to where Sveti knelt. “Prințesă, it’s Samson.”

  Sveti’s hand flew to her chest. “My little brother, what, Gillian, what has happened? Is he all right?” Grabbing handfuls of her skirt to pull it out of the way she scrambled to her feet.

  “No, I mean yes, I mean no,” the woman panted, she’d run all the way from the castle.

  Sveti grasped her arms. “Take a breath, Gillian, tell me.” She waited, growing more scared by the second as Gillian struggled to get a grip.

  “He- he’s been taken, Prințesă -”

  “Who? Who has taken him? Answer me, Gillian!” Sveti shook her hard.

  “Uh,” she stammered, “Illyios Gha’auvin, Priest of the Amphicyonids, the bear-dogs. A messenger sent notice,” she gasped for breath, “he is going to sell him to the Ochlos.”

  The words shook from Sveti’s frozen lips, “From the planet Ochlo for- for Ochlocracy- meaning mob rule. They are the ones stealing people, other beings, aliens, to work the Naledi-Sarkastodons’ mines. Oh my Goddess Satrine!” Sveti pushed past Gillian and rushed out the door.

  She didn’t stop running until she was in the castle and to the communications center.

  Sveti forced herself to stop outside the door and draw a deep breath; if she flew in all frantic and disheveled they would call Krystian before complying with her instructions. Her half-brother would never attempt to rescue their little brother Samson.

  She took a panicked moment to smooth her fiery fat curls down, then her dress, wiping her damp palms on her gown she willed her pulse to slow.

  As she moved in front of the automatic door, it swished open. She stepped inside the center.

  There were eight people within the room consisting of several species working at various controls. They glanced up at her.

  When they went to rise, she held out a hand and said, “Please, stay seated.” She walked on wooden legs to the orator transmitter.

  “Dennison.” She smiled at the orator.

  “Yes, Prințesă.” The Acksand from third galaxy of aurora nodded his long horse-like head to her.

  “I need you to send a transmission for me. Right now.”

  “Yes, Prințesă. To whom?” His four tiny, hooved fingers hovered over the inlaid tablet.

  Sveti cleared her throat, calmly said, “To Illyios Gha’auvin.”

  His hooves halted in mid-air. Dennison’s big nostrils flared, snorted, super long lashes swept down then up, his chocolate eyes rolled sideways up at her. “Ma’am? Not the- the Priest of-”

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “It’s all right. Krystian asked me to forward a message to him. There is a planned ransom to be made between them. Go ahead.” Sveti gestured with her head for him to type.

  The round brown eyes stared at her for so long Sveti thought he would deny her. If he called for Krystian, her brother would flat out refuse, and quickly lock her up. But, then Dennison nodded his long head and typed.

  Releasing her held breath, Sveti said softly, “Let me know when you access him, Denn.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Several taut moments passed before Dennison nodded at the tablet. “I have the speaker for his head captain.”

  “Fine. Scoot out of the way.” Sveti pumped her hip at him to move him off his chair.

  “But-” It was highly irregular for anyone but the assigned communicator to utilize the tablet. However, he would lose his head if he angered any of the royals in the castle, so Dennison shoved off the chair and stood to her side.

  Sveti leaned over so he couldn’t see what she typed:

  ‘Illyios Gha’auvin. I wish to trade, immediately, myself for my young brother, Samson. I am older and thus will last longer, therefore be more valuable. I await your response, Prințesă Svetiessa Ritrova.’ She sent the coordinates for her exact location.

  Sucking in an anxious deep breath, Sveti sat on her hands to still their trembling. She’d signed her own death warrant.

  Illyios would either kill her after they entertained themselves with her torture, or sell her to another species to be sexually assaulted for as long as she survived, or be sold to the animal Nal-Sarks to work in their mines until she collapsed and died.

  The Nal-Sarks were always seeking slaves as no one lasted too long in the mines. Some beings were stronger than others and lasted a while. Sveti knew she wouldn’t last long, humans were the first to expire.

  Getting a bad feeling, Dennison said nervously, �
��Mistress, perhaps we should wait for Principé Krystian to deci-” But he was too late. Sveti was fading before his eyes. Illyios Gha’auvin was taking her.

  While he blinked like crazy, another form materialized.

  A boy, more a bloody broken pulp than a human, lay crumpled on the floor.

  Dennison ran for the com to call the principé.

  Chapter Four

  Earsplitting noise embroiled with shrieking pandemonium bombarded throughout the iron and rock fortress. Warlord Devilos Dravidian led his men battling their way through the rudimentary stronghold.

  Screams and cries resonating in the very air around him, Dev slashed and thrust his Black-Noachian sword hacking off heads and arms, stabbing into bellies. The blood groove on the shaft of the blade caused increased bleeding, blood gushed like red rain hailing around them.

  His team splintered out to the tunnels and stone corridors. No one used firearms as they could shoot each other accidentally with ricochets.

  Creatures called amongst other names bear-dogs along with more alien fiends circled Dev, howling and screeching in a whirlwind, they hacked at him with ax-type weapons.

  Chains whipped and swords slashed at the warlord trying to cut off his head, he ducked and dodged knives and spears flying at him.

  Then, in an almost invisible cyclone of movement, Dev whisked around the room chopping and stabbing, punching and lancing until all but one of the creatures was lying dead or dying.

  Ceiling-tall, the grizzly-canine came at him, mouth wide in a thunderous roar, every razor-sharp tine dripping with saliva, monstrous arms raised to bring his slashing trowel-sized claws down to slice Dev into pieces.

  In less than a nano-second Dev morphed, growing hulking huge. His muscles burst into boulder-size, chest massive slabs of steel, he towered over the grizzly. Face a snarling mask of beast, Dev’s own claws raked across the grizzly’s gut as he smashed his fist into its face.

  All around the charging Devilos, his body ignited fire that sparked and flamed then raged into a wildfire blazing through the chamber burning everything including the bodies to ash.

  The creature fought back. Like two gigantic leviathans thundering over the earth they clawed and punched, kicked and snarled, slashing and hitting until Dev finally overcame the animal, pounding it into the ground until it was nothing but a bloody mess of entrails and crushed bones.

  “Hey, Dev,” Bowie huffed as he ran up to him sheathing his own Damascus sword. Like Devilos, he was smattered in blood and guts, but his grin was ever cheerful.

  Dragging a sleeve over his eyes to clear the muck from them, he said panting, “I think we’ve got most of them. Our men are checking every room. Gha’auvin wasn’t here that we can tell. We liberated the captured victims up here. Hey where you going?” he called out as Dev strode from him heading down one of a dozen spindled stone corridors.

  Connar came tromping out of another corridor looking the same as Bowie, filthy, bloody, proud, and exultant. “Where is Dev going?”

  A big smile covered Bowie’s handsome face. Swiping the back of his wrist over his sweaty blond locks to push them out of his eyes, he replied, “The prințesă. Word was she is here, a prisoner. It’s why we came. Gha’auvin captured her younger brother, Samson, and was about to sell him for the mines when the info reached the Prințesă.”

  “Aye, the rumor is true then.”

  Nodding, Bowie affirmed, “They say that she,” the smile straightened into a solemn line, “traded herself for Samson. I heard the boy was returned,” he grimaced, “in less than the perfection he was when he was taken.”

  Connar dropped his hands on his hips and matched Bowie’s somber mien. “The prințesă is screwed.”

  Bowie shuddered with desolate sorrow. “Undoubtedly, she has been screwed to death.”

  “Well, the Amphicyonids are bear-dogs. I don’t think they can, you know, fuck with humans. If she’s still alive, she was probably to be sold. She wouldn’t last but a minute in the mines, so Gha’auvin likely put her on the block. But, he and the other hounds would have had their torturous fun with her first.”

  “If she’s still here, and lives, which is highly doubtful,” Bowie said grimly, “Dev will find her. That’s why he brought us here, he has unfinished business with the girl.”

  Nodding, Connar dragged his sleeve over his face clearing a path through the sweat and blood. “Uh huh, and then he will kill her for her trickery.”

  Dev moved quickly, stealthily down the stone steps into the bowels of the bastion, his heavy boots silent on the stones. Lanterns on the walls lit the way. The creatures that resided there were not into technology. They hadn’t the brains or hands needed to utilize it. When transporting and communicating they used captured victims or other alien mercenaries to do the work.

  He slowed when he reached the last step and adjusted his eyes to the dimness. All stone; walls, ceiling, dirt floor, the dampness clung to his skin, the stinking air cold. Desperate cries and tormented wails echoed over the barely lit, dank, harsh chamber.

  Hesitating, Dev stood and looked around.

  In the murky, pungent soil smelling, chilled gloom, all kinds of beings were chained to walls, poles, the ground. Most looked on their deathbeds, beaten to little but crushed bones and flesh.

  Methodically scanning each prisoner, his eyes flicked over to a body hanging by a chain from the ceiling, the feet dangling a few inches from the floor.

  The wrists were above her head clamped in chains; her emaciated body hung limp, head hanging down. The vibrant hair, a dirty tousled mess draped over her face.

  Near her, a mercenary guard, he appeared human, had his hands on the hem of her ruined gown and was pushing it up to the tops of her thighs. When Dev approached, the guard turned.

  “Halt,” the guard ordered, “do not come any closer or I will kill you. You can do her after I’m done.” His hands moved up under the dress.

  The long braids dangled down his broad back, Dev’s body was shifting almost back to normal, yet still double the guard’s size, he kept advancing.

  One hand on the hanging female, the guard pulled out a gun. Before he could aim it, Dev was on him. He threw his hands out, grasped the guard’s head, dug his claws into his neck and tore the head completely off. The carcass fell, and he tossed the head.

  Dev stepped over the body to Sveti. Fire burned in his gut at the way she’d tricked him, cheated him. But, Zues, she was hanging by her thin wrists.

  His stomach churned, she was likely dead. He stuck his bloodied claw in the back of her thick, knotted hair and pulled her head back.

  Sveti’s colorless lips parted, her lashes fluttered so slightly Dev thought he’d imagined it. He saw her bosom rise slightly. She was alive, barely. He slid a burly arm under her and lifted her while hacking at the thick chain she hung from with his sword.

  “Godsdamn, Dev, is she gone?” Bowie strode into the room, the sound of metal grinding as he thrust his sword into the sheath at his side, his heavy boots clunked across the stone floor.

  “Not yet. See to the others,” Dev commanded. The chain cut, Sveti slid into his arms.

  Bowie looked down at her. “God’s breath, Dev, they did a number on her.”

  Sveti’s face was battered, so bruised and swollen she was barely recognizable. Her neck, arms, every visible bit of skin was bruised and slashed, bites pocked between the other injuries.

  “Aye. Free the others, destroy the fortress and meet me at the Grisail.” Carrying Sveti in his arms, Dev strode rapidly across the stone floor and up the steps two at a time.

  He didn’t stop moving until he’d reached the flashjet. When he got inside he saw everyone but Bowie was already there.

  “Whoa, Dev, you got the prințesă,” Tomi crowed from his seat. He was belting in his huge body preparing for flight. Blocks of muscles covered his chest and arms. His shaved head gleamed with sweat under the bright lights.

  Everything on Tomi was thick and black, his head, his neck, his
body, his clothes.

  Dev didn’t respond. He moved to a captain’s chair and sat down with Sveti draped in his arms on his lap. He looked down at the frail, delicate female.

  She hadn’t opened her eyes, her breathing was thin and shallow. The flaming hair darkened with filth whirled, arraying messy ringlets over his arms. Brushing the dirty locks off her battered face, he barely felt her slight weight on his legs. She’d been torturously beaten, starved, brutalized by the bear-canines.

  Her gown was in shreds, he struggled to keep his eyes off her breasts more exposed than not in the torn fragments. It was doubtful she was going to make it.

  He hoped she survived. Dev had punishment planned for her for making a fool of him. Lies, and cheating, faults that he abhorred the most. She’d done both. To him. No one got away with that.

  Connar sank into the 2nd command chair and flipped levers and pushed buttons, stroked the digital pads, firing up the flashjet. He twisted his head to look at Dev with Sveti dying in his arms. “We’re only waiting on Bowie.”

  His eyes on the critically injured woman on his lap, Dev mumbled, “He is liberating the civilian captives, and triggering the demolition devices you guys placed in the hold. As soon as he’s here we leave. Be ready.”

  It wasn’t long when Bowie trampled on board with a group of ragtag beings tramping behind him. “I’ll get them settled in the board room,” he said, as he motioned for the people to follow him. They were in pitiful filthy shape, so ill and injured they had to help each other to the lifts.

  The outside door closed up and the engines fired.

  The flashjet swooped straight up, then shot like a rocket into the stars.

  Chapter Five

  The ship landed smoothly on the space station. After they docked, Dev unbuckled his safety belt and left the ship carrying the prințesă. She hadn’t once opened her eyes. Dev decided he must have only imagined how radiant and crystal blue they were.

  As he made his way along foam-carpeted corridors and vast open spaces where people, humans and other species, hung around or traveled about, some who knew Dev waved, most quickly lowered their eyes and scurried out of his sight.