“I call upon the Lord of Lightning to give me the power to strike with the force of vengeance those who seek to do harm to me and mine. Oh great ancestor, forebear of my warrior queen mother, I offer my body as a temple to channel this energy.”
A streak of lightning flashed in front of him striking a tree, cleaving it in half like a warning. Agrat maintained his stance and prepared himself. When the lightning struck the crown of his head, his whole body arched as the paralyzing force flowed through his core and out through the bottom of his feet, setting the grass alight around him. He focused on absorbing the energy of it into his cells, along his arms, down his legs, growing in power, using the ancient knowledge of his ancestors.
A searing pain pierced his side disrupting his concentration as the fearsome force escaped through the wound, scorching a bush nearby so that it exploded into fire. Agrat lost control of the power and his body jack-knifed. He landed on the ground convulsing. The energy departed as quickly as it had come, leaving him in darkness.
He lay staring, unseeing into the mist. He’d played with earth, wind, fire and water when he was a boy, practiced his skills by warring with Galaden who’d hated the war game, especially fire, but Lightning was a damned unruly beast. If it took dealing with Lightning for a fast recharge to get strong enough to look after Phoebe, then it was worth the risk. He groaned and tried to move. Not a hope. He'd never absorbed so much energy before.
Shaking with the pain in his side, he focused on healing the wound using his new energy. He called on the wind to send a cooling breeze to soothe the injury and the wholeness of earth’s power to knit the structure together. When he was ready to stand, he edged himself onto his hands and knees, forcing himself to his feet though his spine felt as if a thousand anvils had chipped at it.
His whole body jerked with what the cop would call “electricity” yet it was anchored in his body, like a dangerous weapon ready for use. He climbed the stairs, making his way to the bedroom. Sparks flew off his feet. The smoldering smell of charred wood and bush lingered in his nostrils, but grim satisfaction fueled him because he knew the land was protected and, more importantly, he was ready to fight.
Yet the whole experience had left him aching, restless and horny as hell. Only sex would settle him. Agrat reached the bed and threw himself on to it making it rock with his weight. He looked longingly at Phoebe as she slept peacefully then reached out and stroked her cheek. Her whole body started when he touched her, so he withdrew his hand. But not touching her was impossible. Her glossy blond hair spread across his pillow as if beckoning him to run the long strands through his fingers. He could imagine fisting it and holding her in place while he lay on top of her and buried his cock into her.
Her peaceful expression called to him, inviting him to embrace her. He reached out again. The skin of her cheek felt smooth, begging for more contact, intimate contact.
“Oh, yes,” she moaned, her voice thick with sleep.
Agrat clenched his fingers into a fist, fighting the urge to keep caressing her face. Would it be crazy to move closer to her? He was wired with raw lust and a growing erection. He touched her soft lips with longing.
Temptation. It was cruel.
Phoebe sighed. She took his hand in hers and her eyes flicked open. She gazed at him, yet Agrat knew he’d put her into a deep trance, so she was seeing him, yet not seeing him.
“I want you,” she sighed, dreamlike. “I’m ready.” She slid his hand inside the front of her jeans.
Agrat jolted. She was wet beneath the silky fabric that encased her hips.
Desire wracked his body. Agrat gasped, unable to fight his arousal. For a long moment, he let her keep hold of his hand. Let her do what she wanted with it.
Phoebe rubbed his hand over her, before guiding his fingers under the fabric, between her legs and rocked against them.
Agrat’s cock thickened, until he was desperate.
Swearing, he snatched his hand away, climbed off the bed and stood. He paced the room unable to take his gaze off her. The trance meant that she was tuned to his thought patterns and liked them. If she weren’t attracted to him, she wouldn’t be acting this way. Yet, somehow he didn’t think Phoebe would be happy when the state wore off.
“Have me,” she moaned. Eyes heavy-lidded, she writhed on the bed like a woman possessed. She peeled off her tee-shirt and the black see-through slip of fabric that encased her breasts and her hands began caressing them. Agrat searched the cop’s memory bank and came up with a new vocabulary for women’s undergarments; one word “bra”, another “gee-string”, objects worn by women to “cock tease” men.
It worked.
The pink nipples he remembered kissing and licking when they’d last made love over three thousand years ago were hard and puckered. Yet the memory was like yesterday. There was no other woman for him, but her.
“Agrat!” She stared straight at him. For a moment he thought she had awakened, until she blinked, her eyelids heavy and slow. She unclasped her jeans, pulled down the zipper and hauled them off. Underneath she wore a sheer, lacey G-string that was in a finer fabric than anything he’d seen from his time. When she slid them off he saw that she was glistening and ready for him.
Then her fingers sought the delicate folds between her legs.
“Please,” she begged.
Agrat breathed in deep, her delicate scent reaching his nostrils. He licked his fingers and the blood boiled in his brain. His cock was so damn hard, it was unbearable. He reached down, pulled the sheet up and covered her.
“No,” she groaned. “I’m too hot.” She pushed the sheet away. Her hands moved back between her legs and she began to stroke herself before sliding her fingers in deep. “Oh,” she sighed, looking up at him with languid eyes. “I love you. Why won’t you touch me?”
Her pupils were wide and unfocused.
Agrat swore. He couldn’t take his gaze off what she was doing to herself. He’d never seen a woman touch herself before.
“Please take me.” She moved her hips in a rhythmic motion. “I need you,” she moaned.
Take her? He would take her. If only she were in her right mind.
Phoebe stretched out her legs wide, her long fingers stroking herself.
He could feel small beads of sweat on his temples.
Mentally, he tried to switch off every nerve ending that seemed to zero down to his cock. Impossible. He grabbed the sheet again and tucked it under her body, encasing her, trying to ignore the way her curves made his hands tingle with anticipation.
He wanted to touch her.
She reached up and stroked his lips with fingers scented of her.
Agrat’s whole body trembled with an animal hunger so instinctively deep he had to fight not to cave in to his desire and bury his cock up to the hilt.
Her eyes were glazed. He had to make her stop. Had to control his thoughts.
Yet not even an ice bath would be enough to cool his blood. Agrat strode over to the other side of the bed and leaned against the wall. He turned his face to the wall and slapped his hand against it. It had been too damn long since he’d bedded Phoebe, but he had to do something to calm himself and Phoebe down.
She’d hate him if she woke up and found herself like this.
Closing his eyes, he counted to ten to steady his blood.
“Agrat, please,” Phoebe cried, looking straight at him. She reached up with one hand and began pinching her nipples so that they peaked. Her other hand had a rhythmic flow between her legs. “Help me. I need you,” she begged.
Agrat lost it. He strode toward the bed, knowing just what kind of help he wanted to give her.
Chapter 6
Rachael raced through Phoebe’s open front door into her studio. In the dim light of the morning, the place looked like the aftermath of a bomb strike as a thick haze hung in the air. Chunks of marble littered the floor; fallen statues, a head here, a foot there lay silent like broken bodies. Shards of stone were embedded in the walls as
if thrown by an incredible force. Panic made Rachael’s heart hammer. Where was her best friend in all this?
“Phoebe?” She called out her name, her heart sinking when she was met with silence.
There was no way that Phoebe would ever have left the front door of her precious sculpture studio open to the street.
Rachael gnawed her fingernails wondering what to do. Getting police help sucked. Despite her insistence that Phoebe was in danger, the cop who’d come to the studio earlier wouldn’t listen. Nor would he admit to having seen the angel or the demon. Instead, he’d driven her out of the city, telling her that she was in danger. Was she going crazy? She didn’t think so. She’d always known other realms existed due to her psychic ability, but she hadn’t expected to be confronted by it like this. Was the cop the one who was nuts? He’d dropped her in New Jersey. It had taken her hours to get back to the Meatpacking District.
Too late.
She gripped her head in her hands and pressed her fingers to her temples. What to do? To her right she heard a scraping sound like stone rubbing against the floor. Jerking her face in the direction of the noise, she noticed the large gargoyle-type statue with the head held under its arm was no longer in the corner of the room. Her spine prickled. The statue always gave her the creeps; even though the gargoyles made popular garden sculptures for clients, she’d never taken to them. The eyes seemed to be staring at her and she quickly looked away. She could smell a rotting sulfurous scent, which clouded the studio in the haze she’d noticed earlier. The tiny hairs on her arms stood up. Instinct told her to leave the way she had come, but she had to check Phoebe’s apartment at the back of the studio.
What if Phoebe was hurt and couldn’t respond?
Malodorous intent reverberated in the studio. Rachael could feel it throbbing with every psychic sense in her body.
Keeping her psychic awareness on the giant gargoyle, she picked her way over the fallen statues and opened the door to her friend’s one bedroom apartment. Off the living room, the bedroom door was open. She gasped. Lying on the bed with wings spread out like glistening cream and silver fans was Galaden. His eyes were closed in his pallid face as he took in deep, shuddering breaths. Rachael’s gaze dropped to his throat. A raw gash oozed blood where the demon, Agrat, had driven his blade. More blood lay dried on his chest and ribcage, the red color like a slash of sickly, vivid paint on his pale torso. Even in this dire state, with his feathered blond hair, high cheekbones and wide mouth, the angel was perfect like a carving on a sarcophagus.
“Galaden?” she said, a whorl of worry confronting her. She’d loved the statue from the moment of its creation; it felt like he belonged to her and here he was alive, barely.
His eyelids flickered and opened. Pain wracked their crystal-blue expression.
Before she could go to him, a noise behind her made her turn. She screamed. The sound bounced off the walls as terror sent her heart to her throat. Standing at the doorway was the enormous gargoyle statue with its head under its arm. The red eyes stared at her, and its gaping mouth breathed fire.
She backed away, stumbling over her feet, falling to the floor. Her handbag fell from her arm, its contents clattering on the floor. “Please, Galaden. Don’t let it kill me.” She clutched her head as the sensation of intense fear consumed her and she thought she was losing her mind.
White light zinged across the room. The apartment door slammed shut in the gargoyle’s face, rattling with the force of it.
Rachael scrabbled off the floor, ran into the bedroom to the angel’s side and fell to her knees, her legs too shaky to support her.
Galaden had risen to a sitting position on the bed, his face intense with concentration, his hand held up, palm flat. White energy left his palm, flowed across the room, sealing the door. When he finished he flopped back on the bed as though the act of protection had exhausted him.
He beckoned her closer with a jerk of his fingers. “You are safe with me. I have it under my control. It guards my door,” his voice rasped. Fresh blood bubbled at his throat wound.
“What was that thing?” Rachael asked.
“The demon, Envy, a soldier in the entity army. I have commanded him to serve me. I will locate Agrat using his own kind. Don’t be afraid, I offer you my protection, Rachael, merchant daughter of Ezekial.”
He knew her name but clearly he was delirious. Entities? Merchant daughter? She had no idea what he was talking about. From the look of the wound, she wondered how he could even talk let alone be alive. “You need medical help. I have to call 911.” She glanced over her shoulder at the door. How long before that thing outside broke in? The angel looked like he was about to die. She crawled over to her purse, which lay on the carpet in the middle of the living room where she had fallen.
“Call no one.”
Grabbing her purse, she forced herself to her feet and strode over to the bed. Get a grip, Rachael, she told herself, though she kept looking at the door, which appeared to be sealed, the hinges and doorframe no longer visible. Galaden needed a doctor and she had to get her act together before that gargoyle broke in. This was no time for weak knees.
She opened her bag and extracted her phone.
Galaden’s eyes became hard. He raised his hand and the phone left her grasp, flew across the room, smashing against the wall.
“Hey!” Rachael cried. “You can’t do that.”
“Do not call for help. Humans cannot see me unless I wish them to do so.”
“But I can see you.”
“You have the gift of the sight,” Galaden said.
“But Phoebe saw you, too.”
“Phoebe is descended from Freya, the goddess of love, war and death. Whoever owns her develops great strength and power." He grimaced. "Agrat will become unstoppable when he learns this.”
Since when were humans descended from mythical gods?
Rachael didn’t know what to believe. Instead, she put her hand on the angel’s forehead, which was hot and feverish. Did angels suffer delirium? He sure wasn’t talking sense. If he didn’t want medical help, that was his right, but she had to do something. “Don’t speak anymore. Phoebe has a first aid kit in her bathroom. I’m going to clean you up.” She ran to the bathroom, pulled down the first aid kit from the top of the bathroom cupboard and a fresh towel from the rack, grabbed a plastic bowl from under the kitchen sink, then filled it with water and added a few drops of antiseptic.
She wet a sponge and gently wiped his chest, clearing it of blood down to his hips. A linen robe covered him there, which was belted by a shiny metal binding to hold it in place. In the early morning light that shone through the sheer blind, his body looked silvery. As she cleaned off the blood, she allowed herself the pleasure of observing the contours of his torso. He wasn’t stacked with muscle; just shy of six feet, he was lean like a runner, beautifully formed with long musculature.
She had the strangest sensation that she had tended to this angel before.
Picking up the plastic bowl, she rinsed it out, washed her hands and brought the bottle of disinfectant over to Galaden. “I can clean your throat wound, but it’s severe. You need surgery.”
His eyes flicked open. “I will heal.”
How could he survive a wound like that? Helpless, she wondered what to do. “I’ll pray for you.”
“No!”
Rachael frowned, uneasy. Angels should love prayers. When she was a child, she’d said them every night and they’d given her so much comfort; she still prayed on a daily basis. She dabbed at the wound, cleaning it of blood, her hands shaking as she did so. The weapon had penetrated the throat just above his collarbone where the demon had driven it, leaving a hole. Galaden had to live. He was the only one who could help her save Phoebe.
Sick with worry about Phoebe, she lifted her gaze heavenwards and offered a quick prayer. “Please God, don’t take Galaden.”
“Stop!” he ordered, his voice stern. “I assure you, the Almighty will not take me to heaven.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I have work to do here.”
“I…I’m sorry.” He must have good reason for not wanting her prayers. She rested her hand lightly on his, realizing she had offended him. His skin had cooled and she enjoyed the sensation of his hand under her own.
Galaden sighed and shifted slightly, turned his hand over and clasped hers.
“How are you feeling?” She looked at his face. In repose, the lines of pain had softened so that he appeared relaxed. His blond hair was cropped short but the front held a curl, which she wanted to stroke. His eyes were a startling blue, so that when he talked, she couldn’t stop staring at him.
“Do not fear for me, Rachael. Already daylight is healing me. It is when I’m strongest and can best the demon. Open the blind and let me bathe in it.”
She stood and pulled up the Roman blind. Light spilled across his body, so even the dust motes took on a silver sheen like a hundred thousand glistening specks gathering around his body. She watched as he took a deep breath. The specks began to glitter, congregating around his wound. She blinked. The angel’s whole body started to shine and pulse. The gash on his throat knitted in front of her eyes. Instead of a red gouge, a pink scar remained and then the flecks of light winked out.
Rachael put her hand to her mouth. “I can’t believe it. You’ve healed. There’s almost nothing left of the wound.”
Galaden’s gaze moved over her body and then he shifted across the bed. “Come to me, Rachael. Lie with me. It is hours until the sun will be strong enough to warm me. I am in need of your body heat.”
Even standing by the bed she felt the pull of him and the intense urge to shed her clothes. She shrugged off her coat. She just had to know what it would be like to feel the length of his body against hers. Taught in bible class that angels weren’t sexual creatures, she wondered if her teacher had got that right because Galaden was irresistible.
Sliding down, she lay beside him, looking into his face. Underneath her, she could feel his soft feathers from his spread wings, which smelled of fresh, morning dew. Part of her trembled with fear over what she would do if he touched her. Part of her wanted him to. Lying there with the soft feel of his skin against hers, she wanted to reach out and explore him.
Her Demon Prince (Forbidden Fantasy) Page 6