The Demon King

by Heather Killough-Walden

  As if to defy him in the smallest way, Dahlia turned her head, now free of his capturing gaze. He watched her close her eyes, shutting them tight.

  A spike of meanness went through him, and he lowered his head to her beautiful breast. Her nipple had hardened long ago in the night air. It waited, erect and tight, for his torture. He wasn’t going to disappoint it. The heat of his mouth closed over her nub and latched on, sucking hard before he pulled her nipple between his teeth and bit down.

  Dahlia bucked beneath him and cried out, her hands flying to his shoulders.

  He immediately released her breast and looked up, meeting her gaze. “You moved,” he scolded gently. But then he lowered his head again and flicked her nipple with his tongue. She gasped and squirmed, and he responded by brushing his thumb against her clitoris as he continued to fuck her with his fingers.

  She raised her legs, bending them around him, disobeying him all to hell. And he smiled. His fangs, long, sharp and gleaming, no doubt shone eerily in the parking lot lights.

  He felt Dahlia’s fingers squeeze the tops of his shoulders when he pulled the taut little button of her nipple between his teeth once more and bit down a second time. He could taste the redness in it now; it was swelling under his attentions, and Dahlia rose to meet his mouth, her body controlled by pure instinct.

  But there was a new ache awakening within Laz. He was in pain with need, so hard he felt a punishing throb with every beat of his heart. But that wasn’t all… there was something more.

  He let go of her breast, slowly releasing it with a last kiss that had Dahlia tossing her head to the other side in frustrated need.

  He had a need too.

  He rose above her again, and spoke a simple command. His words rang out in an ancient language, one that moved through him now as surely as did his blood. His clothing faded away, falling to scraps that turned to wisps of smoke that were then caught on an unseen breeze. They mixed and mingled with the red scraps of smoke that had once been Dahlia’s dress and rose into the night oblivion above them.

  Then he took Dahlia’s wrists in his hands and held them to the hood of his car. “Dahlia, look at me.”

  She hesitated, defying him by shutting her eyes tightly. So he let go of her wrists and took her face in his hands, turning her head. He gave the command again, this time with more magic lacing his words. “I said look at me.”

  Now her lids flew open.

  When she looked into his eyes, she grew still. Her pupils expanded and her eyes widened. He could only imagine what she must have been seeing. What he must have looked like as he peered down at her through a reddened haze of lust and craven need. He knew she saw his teeth. And he knew that she was well aware he was going to use them.

  On her.

  “Tell me again what you will give me, Dahlia,” he commanded. It was a soft command, spoken in a whisper. But it was deep and it was dark and he would have his answer.

  She licked her swollen, bitten lips and winced. And then she took a quick shallow breath and, pressing her hands to his shoulders, she said, “Anything.”

  He held that gaze as he lined up his aching cock with her entrance. “I want you, Dahlia. Will you give that to me?”

  Dahlia gasped when she felt the heat of him against her. His kind burned hot – so very hot. His blood, like lava, heated his entire body and engorged his cock with fire. He rested like a brand against her, threatening, promising.

  “Oh gods…” she whispered, closing her eyes out of pure instinct.

  “No,” he said firmly. Her eyes flew open again. “You will look at me, Dahlia.”

  She breathed raggedly in response, but did not look away.

  “Now answer me.” He pressed forward into her, ever so slightly, breaching the boundaries of her slick, tight defenses with his incredible heat.

  Dahlia made a surprised sound beneath him, her eyes widening further. He knew it hurt. And he knew it was pleasure incarnate. It was that place where rapture and agony met, that red hot border between love and hate. He was going to take her there – and she was going to ask him to.

  “Will you surrender yourself, Dahlia? Will you give yourself to me?”

  Dahlia stilled again. And then, against all odds, she moved her hands from where she had been squeezing his shoulders in desperation, and instead gently cupped his face. Unlike his, her touch was cool and tender, and it awakened something different inside Lazaroth.

  She looked deeply into the hell of his gaze for a long moment as he pulsed just inside her and he ached in magnificent misery. And then she said, “Yes, Steven. I give myself to you.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Lazaroth heard her words and embraced them with his entire being. It took a split second for them to register, for their musical beauty to infiltrate his system and his soul – before he slammed his hands down onto the hood of the car and shoved into his queen with everything he had.

  The overhead lights in the parking lot flickered and zapped, going on and off as Dahlia threw back her head and screamed into the night. He pressed in to the hilt, sliding past every precious inch of resistance like a dark, dark prayer until he filled her completely. A madness was climbing up inside him. He felt it rise, a sense of urgency, of untold desperation.

  Another low growl rose from the depths of his throat, vibrating the car and the ground around them. He bared his dangerous teeth as he pulled himself slowly out of her gripping, heavenly sheath and then pressed hungrily into her again, every hot inch of his manhood burying itself readily in her tightness. Dahlia cried out in synchronicity with his plunder, her fingernails at last finding purchase in the muscles of his shoulders.

  They drew tiny half moons of blood that welled up and steamed in the cool night air, further testament to his demonic heritage. Dully, he wondered if they would scar.

  But they were no more than foreplay to Lazaroth. The demon growled again, his movements becoming more feverish, his need more demanding. He pulled out of Dahlia, nearly all the way, and thrust madly into her to the point of pain. Dahlia’s head tossed to the side, her hair flying, and Lazaroth’s red world suddenly and briefly saw bits of color.

  Steven….

  He wasn’t even sure he’d heard it right, this passing realization and tiny, almost insignificant word. His mind was too far gone, his body in complete control. He shoved his hand through Dahlia’s hair, fisting it tightly in his fingers, then pulled. Her head fell back, exposing the long column of her white throat. She gasped loudly, but her cry was cut short when he violently thrust into her again.

  Magic began to leak off of Lazaroth. He felt it like steam, like sweat, purple and mystic as it coiled around the lovers in the darkness, two writhing bodies on a black car on a black night. The lights again flickered in response. In the far corner of the lot, one of them exploded.

  Steven….

  Again, the color of something vital sliced through Lazaroth’s madness. But it was gone as fast as it had come, and the monster was again in control. It knew what it needed. It would have it.

  “You’re mine, Dark Angel,” he told Dahlia plainly. His voice was hoarse and harsh with lust and need, but it was a spell and a curse and it wrote Dahlia’s fate out like blood on a contract. Lazaroth lowered his lips to her vulnerable throat and kissed her, just once, with outright tenderness.

  Then he bared his long, sharp fangs and drove them deep into her neck.

  This time, she couldn’t scream. Not a sound came out of Dahlia’s mouth as her eyes flew open and her body arched against his. The magic surrounding them swelled and expanded, darkening in color as Dahlia’s power began to join it. The light at the end of the lot zapped back to life, and then every one of them turned bright purple.

  A wind picked up in the parking lot as Lazaroth’s soul reached out to its mate for the life only it could give.

  Steven….

  He shut his eyes tight as his body moved. In his mind’s eye, he was moving in a dark room. He stretched and grasped. So
mewhere, there was a light. A candle’s flame in the blackness. Come to me, he thought. He felt his teeth gripping tight, holding Dahlia fast. Give in to me.

  For it was not only her body he needed. It was her mind. Her spirit. Her dark, purple fire. It was her life he so desperately needed, beside him always, around him forever, his and only his. Her life… her very soul.

  Steven.

  This time, the word was a name. And he recognized it. In that room of black, in that yawning darkness, he heard her beautiful voice speak two precious syllables. And he realized the beginnings of something that threatened to change everything.

  The demon in him, the Curse in him, rebelled. It wanted control. It needed control. It was power and respect and revenge. It was the sharp edge of a sword, the business end of a gun. It was the signature on an assassin’s contract. It was him – it had him. It didn’t want to let go.

  But….

  “Yes, Steven.”

  That was what she had said.

  Lazaroth plowed into his queen with the demon mad thrusts of a man on the edge. But Dahlia did not fight him. Instead, she wrapped her long legs around his waist and ran her fingers through his thick black hair. She gave herself to him as if she wanted him just as badly. As if she trusted him just as much.

  “I give myself to you.” He recalled her words.

  Color sliced through his darkness, a light in the dark room. He spun in his mind, reaching, yearning. A candle flame flickered, precious and delicate in the slightest breeze. He held his breath and gazed at it. It was everything. It was his life. Her life. It was them, together, forever. Connected.

  “Yes, Steven. I give myself to you.” That was the magic word she’d uttered. She had called him Steven. Dahlia had called him Steven. Not Lazaroth. Not Detective. But Steven.

  Because that is who I am to her.

  Laz’s body was climbing. He moved fast now, his fingers pressing so hard into the hood of the car, they left furrows in the paint and metal beneath.

  That is who I am….

  In the room in his mind, the candle flame grew, becoming stronger. It shed light into the darkness of the room and beckoned him closer. He reached out, tentative and frightened. But hopeful. He knew the path now. He’d found his way out of the dark forest.

  That is who I must be. Steven Lazarus. For her.

  He stepped back onto the path.

  For us.

  The candle flame exploded into a bonfire, completely enveloping him in its warmth. He felt the demon connection between them at last, the flame that would never burn, but always keep them warm, as long as they were together. Engulfed in those comforting flames, he came to a sudden realization.

  Dahlia hadn’t done this to save any other man – but to save him. She’d brought him back from the realm of monsters, pulled him out of the forest, and reawakened the half of him that was his mother’s soul. The half of him that was Steven.

  The demon would always reside within him. But now he would be both halves of the coin, as any man was. Good and bad. Right and wrong.

  And Dahlia had given him everything to make this happen. This knowledge, this truth, was a salve on the burning fury that had nearly taken him, heart and soul.

  In the parking lot, he withdrew his fangs from her throat and threw back his head to roar into the night as he came inside his queen. Again and again, he throbbed and pulsed inside her, painfully and wonderfully and hellishly. Dahlia screamed with him, clutching him tight and convulsing around him as she reached that summit along with him and they went over the edge together.

  It took forever for him to ride it out. They rode it out as one. And when they finally came down from that high, it was to find the world quiet but for the crackling sounds of a fire. Steven blinked and turned his head, holding himself up with his arms.

  They were surrounded by a ring of sparkling, purple fire. The dark blaze formed a tall burning circle around the car, shutting out the rest of the world. It wasn’t hot, only warm.

  Dahlia turned her head to take it in, then looked back up at Steven. “It’s Stale Fire,” she said softly. Her voice was hoarse from screaming. It sounded well used. It was fucking sexy. He wanted to take her again.

  “What is Stale Fire?” he asked, only half caring. The other half of him was entranced by the beauty he was still firmly embedded in.

  She smiled. “It’s my fire,” she said.

  Steven thought about that for a moment. Then, knowing she would explain it all in good time, he simply smiled. For the first time in Steven’s life, he was comfortable in his skin. Especially where it was right now.

  “And you,” he told her before he lowered himself over her and brushed her lips in a tender, teasing kiss. “Are my fire.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Astaroth gazed at his reflection in the mirror. It had been a while since he’d cared about his appearance. But he cared now.

  He was going to see her at last. Every second he’d spent torn from her side had been like living half a life. He was separated and incomplete. The night was gray rather than black, the stars blurry rather than bright, firelight flickered dully, the moon was never quite full. But now… there was hope. This period of torture had come to an end.

  He felt a rush of something unfamiliar move through him, pleasant but unpleasant. Nervousness? Anxiety? He laughed at himself, the sound of course beautiful. He wondered what she would say when she saw him. That reaction, that pivotal moment was why he cared. It was why he peered into that gold gilded mirror and studied his reflection. He wanted everything to be perfect.

  It was fortunate for him that he was who and what he was because it meant his appearance hadn’t changed. His eyes were still bottomless black, ringed with the hellfire that burned in his veins when he was angry. His skin was flawless, his long wavy hair a shining pitch black but for the single stripe of gray that had appeared when his son was born. As if to demark the occasion, and his status as a father.

  It had been thirty years.

  Thirty long years, Astaroth thought as he closed his dark eyes and felt the pain in his back and knew that in a few short moments, the pain wouldn’t matter any longer. He could endure anything if he was with her. If he could hear her laughter, listen as she went on endlessly about the physical nature of the multiverse, taste those ridiculous peanut butter and honey sandwiches she had once made for him. He would and could forget any pain, all agony, and take anything life threw at him as long as he was in her arms once more.

  Thirty years.

  Thirty years ago, Astaroth had looked into his baby boy’s eyes and known that the power to kill demon royalty had been transferred to the infant. Astaroth no longer possessed it. Lazaroth had that power now.

  He’d known this was the case and he’d realized what he had to do. He had enemies. He was a king; this was natural, and new enemies cropped up all the time. Should anyone from the royal bloodline come after him or his family, he would not be able to protect them. Lenore was only human. Lazaroth was only a child. There was no hope for it but to use what power he had to protect Lenore and the baby – and then disappear.

  Three decades. That was how long it had taken for his son to grow into the man he was now. The king he was now. The time had given Astaroth what he needed to heal from the protection spells he’d placed upon Lenore and the child. Lazaroth was powerful now. There was no longer any reason for Astaroth to hide. His son could protect his loved ones from the envious rage of his fellow demons. He could kill Apollyon.

  “Wouldn’t you rather kill him yourself?” came an unseen voice.

  Astaroth turned from the mirror he had been looking into. The room was empty, but it had suddenly grown cold. Very, very cold. Astaroth exhaled, watching his breath condense in the air in front of his lips. The lights in the chandelier overhead flickered.

  They went out and he was cast into darkness.

  There was an abrasiveness to the air around him that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. It felt like brushi
ng up against the sound of static, sharp edged and prickly. Silence stretched, a quiet that bordered on unnatural.

  Astaroth sent out a tendril of magic, attempting to pierce the darkness enough to see the intruder. But his magic seemed to fizzle around him, as if the air were so cold, the power solidified and fell as useless ice crystals to the plush carpet below.

  Astaroth rolled back his shoulders and considered his options. Someone or something had breached the magical defenses he’d put into place and was now with him in the living room of his two-story Connecticut home in the mortal realm. The opposite end of the room was composed of floor-to-ceiling windows that afforded him a millionaire’s view of the forest and night beyond. There was no moon, but there was enough ambient light from those windows that little by little, a gray illumination spread into the room.

  In that illumination, the shadowy outline of a very tall and exceedingly thin figure was revealed. He must have been wearing black, for all Astaroth could truly make out was the white of his face. Not even the man’s facial features could be discerned in the dim. But there was something so highly unsettling about the figure’s sudden appearance, it was disturbing.

  “Tell me,” the figure said in a voice that slithered and coiled and reached into every crevice of the room, filling it with further darkness. “Wouldn’t you like to be able to protect Lenore yourself?”

  Astaroth’s ancient heart beat hard, a pounding of volatile recognition at the mention of Lenore’s name. His demon instincts reared their head, and magic flooded his arms and hands in preparation for a fight.

  Laughter greeted the reaction. The stranger chuckled, emitting the sound that must have been the one to cause Cthulhu’s insanity. It was the grating, deep and wrong noise that formed madness in the first place, long ago in the primordial ooze that would one day line the pockets of psychiatrists and therapists around the world.

  As the creature laughed, Astaroth could just make out the thing outlined by the windows shaking its head. “I am not your enemy,” it said. “You and I have much in common. We are both very old.”