Demon Lover: Fairytale Fantasies, Book 2

by Bonnie Dee

  “Your name?” She stared at him, torn between hope and outrage.

  “You wanted to know it. Find it out. You have at least ten months, after all.”

  A way out. It was what had gotten her into this mess in the first place. But she grabbed at the proposition eagerly. How hard could it be?

  With that most pressing problem alleviated, her wayward mind returned to her companion, to what they had done together and what she had offered. He had turned away from her, preparing, she was sure, to vanish.

  “I’m ashamed,” she whispered, hugging her sore hands to her breast like a talisman. “I believed you wanted me. I wanted to believe that. And I threw myself at you like a wanton.”

  He paused, without turning. “Some things we do because we want to. Others because we have to. There should be no shame in either. Not for you or for me.”

  He glanced back at her over his shoulder and she imagined she could see his eyes burning inside the cowl. “You need to live. I need your child. The rest…the rest was desire, both dark and sweet. And for all of it, we both must pay.”

  And yet you will marry the king. And I will break your heart. She hadn’t understood, hadn’t listened to his words. But even if she saved her child from him, it felt as if her heart were already broken, bound together only by her galloping hatred for him, beating still only through outrage at his deceit, at his abuse of her which was surely worse than the king’s.

  She opened her mouth to tell him so, but without warning, he erupted in front of her in a violent puff of sulfurous smoke. When it cleared he was gone. And the door of her golden cell was opening.

  Chapter Six

  And that was it. Those three strange days and even stranger nights were what brought her to this, to spinning through heavy blackness with her child to the demon’s surely terrifying lair.

  On discovering his third room full of gold, the king had been overjoyed and married her with almost indecent haste. Gwyneth’s feet hadn’t touched the ground as she’d spun into a world of dressmakers and designers, desperate to be allowed to make her clothes and her linen, to refurbish her bedchamber and her sitting rooms. Noblemen who despised her birth had kissed her hands with elaborate respect and undressed her with their eyes. The ladies of the court watched her with envy and vied to be her friends.

  Her father, now in charge of all the royal mills, had given up drinking apart from special occasions, like her wedding, and limited his boasts to “my daughter the queen.” There was really no more he could say.

  And Gwyneth herself had kept the promises she’d made to herself the night of her third encounter with the demon. She’d encouraged her father to diligence in his duties, had done everything she could to influence the king and bring to his attention the plight of the poor and the sick. With Midas himself, it must be admitted, she had limited success, particularly since her child had turned out to be a mere girl. But with those ministers and stewards to whom he’d delegated, she could often arrange things more to her liking and the people’s. It gave her some satisfaction to be doing some good in the end, but it couldn’t fill up the void in her life. Only Brea had done that, although from the instant of her birth, Gwyneth had lived with the fear of the demon’s return.

  Almost as soon as she’d conceived, she’d begun her investigations, seeking out anyone and everyone who might possibly have encountered him. Remembering that the subterranean chambers, along with the one in which she’d known him, were used to accommodate prisoners, she’d sought out such miscreants who’d survived and was delighted to find two who had indeed met her mysterious dark demon. One had actually escaped with the demon’s help, given in return for a box full of silkworms which the prisoner had duly delivered up. When the appointed time arrived, the demon had visited him to collect them. So she’d known he would come for her child. But neither prisoner had known his name.

  Neither had anyone else. She met with tales of fleeting glimpses, of a dark figure mysteriously appearing and vanishing, although those who told the stories, fearing him or his magic or both, were reluctant to give many details.

  Gwyneth had almost reached despair, contemplating flight from the king, from the entire country, to save Brea, when one of the soldiers she’d sent out to make enquiries had returned with the outlandish name, Rumpelstiltskin. And she’d been so sure, so trusting. The soldier had described him accurately, although, looking back, she’d first described the demon to the soldier when she’d sent him out looking. All he’d done was repeat her words and give her a ridiculous name to win her reward of ten gold pieces.

  She should have known. She hadn’t been able to imagine him dancing demonically around a campfire chanting, “The queen will never win this game, for Rumpelstiltskin is my name.” Again, she’d been grasping at straws.

  Terrified as she was, hysterical laughter rose up in her throat, threatening to consume her. She hadn’t laid eyes on the demon from the moment he’d left her in the room stuffed full of gold thread until his abrupt appearance in the king’s audience chamber. But she’d thought of him often, with both hatred and self-loathing. And in the long, lonely nights in her big, luxurious bed, she’d dreamed of him. Hot dreams full of sensual lips and hands that brought her to orgasm over and over. An unknown and mysterious figure she knew to be evil and yet whom she forgave because he loved her and pleasured her. Sometimes she woke up with her face wet with what could only be tears. And her lower body and thighs soaked with her own sexual moisture.

  That was frustration, of course. After Brea’s conception, the king never visited her. And even when he had, she’d found little pleasure in it. His touch lacked any tenderness, any finesse. He took and demanded, never gave. And although Gwyneth tried very hard to please him, she never knew whether she had or not.

  In the end, she stopped caring. He despised her for producing Brea instead of a son. And only this morning he’d visited her to demand if her monthly courses had returned. When she nodded dumbly, he’d asked for dates and informed her that he would visit her each night of her heightened fertility period until she was pregnant with a son.

  Gwyneth’s heart had sunk. Not that she would have objected to another child, although Brea occupied her affections so deeply. She just didn’t want the indignity of conceiving it. Another sin.

  A happy marriage could not be based on deceit, could not happen without love. And neither she nor the king felt the remotest affection for each other. That, too, had brought her to this…tumbling through the air, her only anchor the hand of her captor.

  When the whirling moments of freefall were over and her feet were suddenly planted on solid ground, heat and the smell of sulfur were the first things Gwyneth registered. Dry heat like that from a roaring fire on the hearth in winter, not like the sweltering humidity of a summer’s day. Her skin instantly felt sucked free of moisture. Her throat was parched.

  In her arms, Brea wiggled and screamed, flailing her way free of her blankets.

  “Sh, baby. Sh,” Gwyenth crooned absently as she jiggled her upset child. She tore her hand out of the demon’s black-gloved grasp, lifted Brea to her shoulder and rubbed her back. Then she glared at the cloaked figure who’d brought her so much fear and heartache. Don’t forget the pleasure, her disloyal mind whispered.

  “Where have you taken us?” she demanded, using the imperious tone she’d learned since acting as queen.

  “To my home.” His voice was a deep rumble—or was she hearing the sound of rocks grating against each other?

  Gwyneth looked around her in dismay. They stood in a dark cavern, which she could only guess was deep underground. The top was as high and vaulted as a cathedral. Stalactites dripped in a jagged, colorful fringe from the ceiling, some reaching all the way to their counterparts below, the jutting stalagmites that grew like thick, gnarled columns from the rocky ground. The vast chamber should by all rights have been dark, but it was lit with an eerie phosphorus glow that seemed to shine from some of the mineral formations themselves.

>   Beside the space where they stood rushed a dark river, which disappeared around a stony outcropping. From the other side of that outcropping, red light flickered and a hissing sound floated. A jolt of fear shot through Gwyneth as she pictured a fire-breathing dragon in the next chamber. She and Brea were to be a sacrifice to appease some horrible, underworld lizard-god.

  “What are you going to do with us?” Her imperious voice quavered this time, and she clutched her squalling daughter tighter.

  The demon paused. She felt him looking at her from the depths of his hood. “Do you honestly believe I would harm you?”

  Despite her present panic, memories of their three nights together, so long ago now, flickered like flames in her mind—the kisses, the touches, the moments of sheer ecstasy. No. He hadn’t brought her here to be some human sacrifice. And she didn’t believe he was evil enough to hurt Brea, either.

  “No,” she answered at last. “But what are we here for then?” She’d lost all of her queenly presence.

  “I will explain everything in time. Come now.” He offered his hand again, but she refused to take it as she walked by his side.

  He led her through the large, empty chamber, marvelous in its own twisted way. The columns of rock could have been tree trunks in a fantastic forest. She gazed in wonder at the softly glowing crystalline lights and the rippled reflections of the same lights in the water that flowed by the path.

  Gathering her wits, Gwyneth cast a glance behind her at the spot where they’d arrived, noting a silver-veined slab of rock. If there was a way into this underground world, there must be a way out, and if any chance arose for her to make an escape, she wanted to know where the portal between the worlds stood.

  As her escort glided at her side like a shadow, she studied the area carefully, looking for more memorable landmarks. Unfortunately, one dripping stalactite looked much like another. She tried to connect them to recognizable shapes in her mind and found one rock that looked a bit like an eagle with its wings outspread. It was near the entrance to the chamber, so she would use it to find her way back from the labyrinth of tunnels she was certain lay ahead of her.

  Then her guide led her around the bend to the mouth of the cavern, and Gwyneth stopped dead. She gaped in shock at the world that spread out before her.

  The space was enormous, a humongous hole in the pit of the earth. Far above, instead of the sky, was a rocky cover, but beneath it spread a land, a city made entirely of stone. Great slabs jutted up in regular intervals, and Gwyneth realized they were the fronts of buildings. Windows were carved in the stone and light shone from inside through crystals in a myriad of rainbow colors. The buildings themselves were studded with cut, polished gems that caught the ambient light and set it sparkling. Elaborate carvings also decorated the buildings.

  Between the edifices were flat, cleared spaces—streets. Veins of copper, silver and gold marbled the stone. A circular fountain crafted of what appeared to be emeralds sprayed sparkling clear water. The ornate fountain stood in the center of one cluster of buildings in what must be a village green, but without the green. No grass, flowers, shrubs or trees grew anywhere in this strange, exotic world—only crystals, minerals, rocks.

  But there were people—odd, unbelievable, bone-white, pale-haired people walking to and fro between the houses and businesses. A couple lingered, kissing by the fountain. A man swept pebbles and dust from in front of the doorway to what must have been a shop. An artisan was working on chipping words on a sign in foreign symbols. Vendors with carts trundled to and fro. The main source of light which illuminated this astonishing scene came from all around. At odd intervals were fissures in the rock and from those crevices flames flickered and sulfurous fumes rose.

  Gwyneth gasped and cuddled her now sleepily whimpering baby to her chest. She and her child were in hell. Their captor truly was a demon.

  Ragnorak cast another sideways glance at the queen as he’d been doing ever since they landed in Elohim. Why he was stealing glances when she couldn’t possibly see his face within the cowl, he had no idea. But he didn’t want her to know that he studied her every movement, her every expression. He didn’t want her to know how much she intrigued him or how much he longed to touch her.

  She feared him now. That shouldn’t be a surprise. Nevertheless, it hurt when she flinched away from his touch, refusing to take his hand. What a change from the grateful creature she’d been when he had something she needed.

  Now she was a queen and possessed all the riches the topside world counted as precious. Only one thing she didn’t possess—her child. The little one was his now and, by extension, so was Gwyneth. She belonged to him as long as he held the girl, and he would never let the child go. She would be the heir to his lands, not to that ridiculous topsider king’s.

  Gwyneth’s eyes were enormous as she beheld Elohim for the first time. He looked around at the vista before them and smiled, proud of the changes he had wrought in his world. He’d led his people from living in primitive dwellings to creating this mighty city. He’d instigated better lighting, fresher air exchange, improved sewage and water treatment. He’d inaugurated a tribunal government and court system to supplement his kingship, and he’d also copied hospitals, libraries and other useful topsider institutions, making the best the upworld had to offer available to his people.

  All this he had wrought through sheer willpower, fighting against those who reluctantly relinquished the old ways.

  “This is…” She fell silent, struck dumb with awe.

  “It’s impressive, isn’t it?” He couldn’t help the pride that flooded him. But it wouldn’t do to sound prideful, the very aspect he detested in the topsider king. “The people have worked hard to make this city great.”

  “We’re in hell.” Gwyneth’s eyes scanned the scene before them once more.

  It actually took him a moment to comprehend that it wasn’t awe or wonder but horror that froze her features with eyes wide and mouth open.

  “This is hell,” she repeated breathlessly. “And it’s full of demons.”

  Ragnorak knew what that meant. He’d read the topsider books and understood the concept. They believed horrible, grotesque creatures inhabited the underworld to rip apart the souls of those unlucky enough to be sent there after death. Such foolishness!

  He would have soothed her, comforted her, laid her fears to rest, but he was too angry and hurt. Striding forward to descend the path into the city, he beckoned her to follow with a commanding wave of his hand. “Come.”

  He didn’t look to see if she followed. There was no place she could run to. Of course she’d stay close by him. The thought filled him with mingled pleasure—she’s mine at last!—and disappointment—she’s only here because I forced her hand.

  Best not to examine his feelings too closely. She was here, and that was all that mattered. In time, she’d get used to it. Used to him and the way things must be.

  He might not have looked behind him, but he listened for her footsteps and heard her dainty slippers tapping across the stony ground. The child in her arms let out an exhausted whimper before falling silent at last. Asleep he assumed. He must learn more about the baby’s requirements, although he felt he’d done fairly well in setting up a nursery for her. He’d assembled all the items he’d seen in human dwellings or read about in books. His golden girl should find nothing wrong with the accommodations for her child or the bedroom he’d prepared for Gwyneth—just in case she came along with them.

  “What am I to call you?” she asked, suddenly near his elbow. “I think you may safely tell me your name now.”

  “Down here we keep our names to ourselves,” he retorted.

  “What? Then how do you refer to one another?”

  “We have names we call each other for everyday use, but our one true name is kept a secret and only given to those who’ve earned the right to know it.”

  “That’s ridiculous! I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  He stopped, tur
ned and stared at her. “Does every country up there have the same customs? No. Well, things are different here. A name contains power. We don’t throw ours around lightly.” Especially mine, he thought but didn’t add.

  “Oh.” She sounded chastened and dipped her head in acknowledgement. Or maybe she just didn’t want to meet his eyes. Not that she could see them, he reminded himself. At some point you’re going to have to reveal yourself to her.

  “In that case,” she continued. “What name may I call you by?”

  “Svartan,” he answered. “That is what my people call me.”

  “Your people? You’re a king?”

  Of course, that was the only thing that would impress this woman, the suggestion of power or wealth. She’d fallen for it easily enough with King Midas, swallowing her pride after the shameful way the man had treated her in order to accept everything he had to offer. She was not the woman Ragnorak had estimated her to be during those three nights which he must block from his mind. Desperate to be a queen, she was as shallow as any other human woman.

  Ragnorak didn’t deign to answer but walked faster, leading her along the main thoroughfare. Everyone they passed stared in jaw-dropped shock at the unexpected sight of him strolling with a topsider down the streets of Elohim. He should have escorted her to the castle by a more circuitous, private route. Stupid of him to put Gwyneth and her child on display before he was ready to explain his intentions to his subjects.

  At last they reached his home, which was no larger or grander than any of the buildings they’d passed. Ragnorak had made sure of that when he’d had it built. He wanted his monarchy to be understated, to be seen as a man of the people, someone who worked for the common good. That was the kind of government he believed in and was slowly establishing by setting up the tribunal, but it would take some time for the people to accept anything besides the autocratic rule they’d lived under for generations—even if their lives were improved by the changes.