My Demon's Kiss Read online

  BLOOD LUST

  “Well met, cousin,” the girl said, stepping forward. “I am Isabel.”

  “My lady.” Simon smiled. The cold, ethereal beauty he’d seen on the battlements was real after all. Her astonishing red hair framed a pretty face with hazel eyes and a pert little nose sprinkled with freckles.

  “Your cousin,” she corrected, smiling back. She took another step forward and embraced him as a kinsman, and for a moment he thought he was lost.

  In a single instant, with one innocent touch, the vampire hunger he thought he had learned to control leapt up inside him. As she pressed her warm body to his, he could feel his eyes changing color from brown to greenish gold, feel the fangs grow sharp against his tongue. Not since his first night as a vampire, his first terrible kill, had he felt such hunger and horror. He wanted to destroy this woman, to devour her, innocent or not. He could already taste her….

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2005 by Jayel Wylie

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

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  ISBN: 1-4165-0007-3

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  Acknowledgments and Thanks

  Many thanks to the following for their talent and assistance: Timothy Seldes, nature’s most perfect literary agent; Lauren McKenna, senior editor, Pocket Books, whose art and intelligence are only surpassed by her patience; Megan McKeever and Kirsten Ringer, who in addition to their other gifts and graces never fail to put me in touch with Lauren and Timothy; my much-loved family and friends, who are kind enough to still love me back even now; Howard Shore; and Johnny Depp.

  My Demon’s

  Kiss

  Prologue

  Simon stood at the edge of the cliff, shivering in the wind, awestruck by the beauty of the sunset. The burning desert they had crossed just yesterday now lay what seemed a hundred miles below the spot where he now stood, its folds and valleys painted red and purple by the dying sun. Behind him rose the Urals, a range of cruel, cold mountains that seemed to climb forever. Mist curled around his boots, rising from the mossy turf and clinging to the rocks that fell off sharply just in front of him. “Well, Sascha, this is it,” he said, smiling at the joke. “We’ve come to the end of the world.”

  “No, boy, we have not,” his companion grumbled as he fumbled through his pack, obviously unimpressed by the view. “The world goes on forever.” He pulled out a bottle and uncorked it with his teeth. “You find the end, the damned thing starts all over,” he finished, taking a long swallow.

  “Do you think?” Sascha was a Russian, a seasoned mercenary hired by Simon’s lord, Francis, the duke of Lyan, in Damascus to assist his English army in their latest, and hopefully last, Crusader’s quest. Sascha’s accent was so thick, Simon was the only one of the duke’s men who even bothered trying to understand him. But then Simon was a foreigner himself.

  “You’re very wise, I’m sure,” he said now to the Russian as the sun disappeared behind the faraway dunes. Flopping down on the grass beside him, he took the bottle and had a drink. “Still, when I was keeping cows in Ireland, I never thought to see a caliph’s garden or a desert either.”

  Born an Irish slave to a Saxon chieftain, six-yearold Simon had rejoiced to see his master slaughtered by a Norman knight of the great bastard king, William. That knight, Sir Francis, had been made a duke for his success and rewarded with the Irish estate, and in turn he had made Simon’s father, Seamus, his castellan. Simon himself had been made a squire of the duke at the age of twelve, and at sixteen he had been knighted for his service in the wars against the Saxon hordes that still raided the Irish coastline. Now, at twenty-six, he was a Crusader in the Holy Land because that was what the duke wished him to be. He was a Norman in his habits but still Irish in his heart. “Black Irish,” the girls at home all called him for his dark brown hair and eyes, but his skin was so pale it still glowed white even after three years in the desert.

  “None of us should be here,” Sascha said. He took off his ragged boot and shook it, emptying pebbles. “That duke of yours is mad.”

  “Now why would you say that?” Simon said with a grin. “An entire province to be won to Christ without bloodshed—I call that wisdom indeed.” He handed Sascha back his bottle. “And Francis is fifty-five years old, you know. It’s time he was taking a wife.” He looked back at the caliph’s mountain fortress and tried to see it as a cheerful home, but it was quite a stretch. Hunched against the cliffside with its windows glowing yellow in the gloom, it looked more like a mausoleum. “Heathen or not.”

  “A heathen bride is no great burden,” Sascha spat, relacing his boot. “Every woman is a heathen in her heart.” He looked back at the palace as well, its jagged towers black against the purple sky. “But there is evil in this place, these mountains—there are stories.” He broke off, seeing Simon’s face, and laughed. “You think me an old woman, don’t you, boy?”

  “Aye, I do,” Simon answered, smiling back. “I always have.” But Sascha’s words had awakened a doubt that had been sleeping in his mind ever since they left Damascus. Why should such a powerful caliph as Lucan Kivar have offered the duke his own daughter in marriage, offered to make this foreigner, this heathen in his eyes, heir to his rich estate? “But tell me anyway— what is wrong with these mountains?”

  “Simon!” Alan, one of the duke’s other knights, was calling to him from the terrace. “Come! It’s time.”

  The main hall of the caliph’s palace was so fine it stole the breath, a cavernous room bursting with treasures. A double row of columns down the center were twisted to look like vines. They were painted gold and studded floor to ceiling with precious stones arranged to look like flowers, ruby red and sapphire blue with leaves of glittering emerald. Rich hangings of velvet hung from the windows that lined both sides of the hall, their golden shutters thrown open to let in the cool evening breeze. Golden sconces held torches between each window, the light they cast dancing and writhing on the gold and jewels until the eyes were dazzled. Simon saw Francis at the dais, gazing around at this splendor with the smile of a man in a dream, and he knew what his lord must be thinking. By midnight, all of these treasures would be his. But Simon still couldn’t shake the feeling of dread Sascha’s mutterings outside had given him. What sort of marriage rite was celebrated only after dark?

  All the other English knights were smiling—after Damascus and the desert, this hall must seem like paradise indeed. The caliph’s household was present as well, men in rich robes, some in turbans like men of the East, some bareheaded and pale as the English, and women veiled in brightly colored silks drifted among them, graceful and silent. Tables were laid with a banquet as yet untouched, and incense burned among the columns, filling the room with its intoxicating scent. But as he took his place among the English, Simon could have sworn he smelled something far more foul beneath the smoke, a thick, wet stench of decay. He turned to speak to Alan, to ask him if he smelled it, too, but suddenly a ripple of silver bells rang out from the dais, and the whole crowd turned as one.

  The caliph emerged from the curtains, as magnificently dressed as his hall. His people b
roke into applause, and some of the Englishmen joined in, caught up in the moment. Tall and thin, their host wore cloth of gold that shimmered in the torchlight, its folds embroidered all over in red, queer symbols Simon did not recognize. “Welcome, friends,” he said, smiling on the crowd. “I am Lucan Kivar.” His head was bare, revealing pale red hair that fell past his shoulders, and he wore a mustache and beard, long and narrow, trailing over his chin. His eyes were brilliant blue.

  “He doesn’t look much like an Arab, does he?” one of the squires murmured.

  “He isn’t an Arab, idiot,” Alan hissed back. “The heathens in these mountains are as white as you are.”

  “Well met, my lord,” the duke was saying as he stepped up onto the dais. “I am Francis, duke of Lyan.”

  “Your grace.” The caliph nodded, making a deep bow. “You honor us by your presence and your mercy.”

  A door slammed somewhere behind them, making Simon turn with his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Release me!” a woman was shouting, a black-haired beauty in a blood-red gown who struggled in the grasp of a pair of guards who seemed intent on dragging her down the aisle. “What is this?” she demanded as the crowd parted before them, her eyes meeting Simon’s for barely a moment as they passed. “What have you done?” she demanded as they reached the dais.

  “Your grace, I present you your bride,” the caliph said with a thin, amused smile.

  “No,” the girl said, shaking her head. “I never agreed to this.” She looked around at the English knights, horror dawning in her dark, brown eyes. “I will not. I cannot.”

  “You will.” Kivar cut her off. He looked toward an alcove to one side, and for the first time, Simon noticed a small boy dressed in white satin standing there watching the dais. “You must, Roxanna.” Another guard stood behind the boy, and at this, he put a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “Roxanna,” the duke repeated in an over-hearty tone, oblivious to the child. He was staring at the girl the same way he had stared at the jewels, as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune. “What a beautiful name.” He held out his hand, and glancing once at Kivar, she took it, her guards letting her go. “You must not be afraid,” the duke said kindly. “Whatever you may think of Christians or Englishmen, I promise you will never be abused.”

  “You are too good, Christian,” she said, looking at her father, who still smiled his thin little smile. “I am not afraid.”

  I am, Simon thought with bitter humor, his heart beating faster. The girl feared her father, not the duke; the little boy was a hostage. But why did Kivar threaten his own daughter? He moved closer to the dais, pushing past his companions, trying to reach his lord.

  “Your letter offered full surrender,” Francis, the duke of Lyan, was saying.

  “And so you shall have it,” the caliph agreed. “You see that my guards are unarmed.” He looked down at Simon as he drew closer and smiled. “Unlike your own.”

  Another figure slipped from behind the draperies— another child, Simon first thought. But while this one stood no taller than the boy in the corner, he was still a man, with a bearded face and thickly muscled arms. From the look of him, he was older than Simon was himself, much older. He hung back in the shadows as if he didn’t care to be seen, but when Simon caught his eye, he winked as if they shared a secret.

  “Have you brought your Christian priest, as I requested?” Kivar asked the duke.

  “Yes, of course,” he answered, still watching Roxanna. The wizened friar they’d found in Damascus hurried forward, his black robes fluttering around his skinny ankles. The bride looked horrified, her dark eyes going darker, taking on a reddish cast that made Simon’s flesh crawl with a sickening fear. She was crying, he realized, but the tears that spilled down her cheeks were not clear; they were red. Her tears were blood.

  “Shall we begin?” the priest said, opening his prayer book.

  “No!” Simon took the last step forward and grabbed the duke by the arm. “Your Grace, look at her—look at her face!”

  The duke turned to him, obviously angry, but before he could speak, his expression went blank, his eyes wider but empty. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he fell forward into Simon’s arms. “Forgive me,” Roxanna said softly, the bloody dagger still clutched in her fist.

  “Your Grace!” Simon shouted, sinking to his knees beneath the duke’s dead weight as chaos erupted in the hall. “Francis!” But the duke was past all hearing.

  “Stupid girl,” Kivar said, slapping Roxanna as behind them his subjects attacked the English knights. Simon dropped the duke and lunged back to his feet just as a heathen guardsmen lunged at him. The man’s lips curled back, and Simon saw his cruel teeth, long and curved like the fangs of a wolf. He clutched at Simon’s throat, still coming even as the Irish knight plunged a sword into his side.

  “The head!” Roxanna was shouting. “You must take off the head!” The creature laid a hand under Simon’s chin to push his head back, exposing his throat as Simon hacked at him with his sword, clumsy but determined. The blade finally made contact with the monster’s throat just as it drew back to bite him, cleaving his head from his shoulders.

  “Kill him!” the caliph roared as Simon straightened up again, and the knight turned quickly, ready for a new attack. But Kivar had other prey in mind. The guard who held the little boy snatched the child up in a grotesque parody of an embrace, baring his fangs to tear into the tiny throat.

  “No!” Roxanna screamed, and Simon saw she had fangs like the others, and her eyes glowed just as red as she turned on Kivar. “Monster! You promised!”

  “You betrayed me,” the caliph answered, moving toward her, stepping over the fallen duke with barely a ripple of his gold and scarlet robe. “You left me no choice.”

  For a moment, Simon was paralyzed, a man trapped in a nightmare, powerless. His lord, the man who’d raised him and his father up from slavery to knighthood, lay dead and bleeding at his feet; his sworn companions were being slaughtered all around him, their throats torn out by red-eyed demons from hell. Even the priest was dying, gasping, on his knees, blood gushing through his fingers as he clutched at the wound in his throat. A vampire in a woman’s shape crawled toward him, fangs exposed, her torn veil soaked with blood. She caught hold of the cleric’s robe and climbed him like a cat, lapping the blood from his skin as she held him, his eyes glazed and desperate with fright.

  “No!” Simon barely heard the roar from his own throat, barely realized what he meant to do as he moved toward them, raising his sword. He beheaded

  the creature with a single stroke, the blade passing through her to cleave the priest as well, but the man of God barely shivered, his broken body sinking to the floor, dead as the duke.

  Lucan Kivar was laughing, a high-pitched, lunatic giggle that carried to every corner of the hall over the screams of the dying. “Did I not promise you, my children?” he cried out, arms spread wide. “Behold, I provide you fresh blood!”

  Simon felt a snap inside his head, one final shred of reason giving way. He raised his sword like a man in a trance, moving through the pandemonium, and though inside his head he seemed to barely move at all, in truth, he struck like lightning. The guard who fed on the boy looked up, blood smeared across his mouth, and Simon cut him like a blade of grass, his torso falling, split in two, then his head flying upward with another deadly stroke. Barely seeing, Simon whirled around, his blade stabbing up into the belly of another monster, female this time, as she sprang at him, hands outstretched like claws. This one screamed as Simon butchered her, the blood she had just stolen from an English knight bathing them both. Her lips drew back, exposing her fangs, and Simon jerked his broadsword free, pushing her back with his knee. The vampire staggered, clutching her belly, and he brought the blade down like an executioner’s axe, slicing off her head.

  “That one,” Kivar said, laughing with delight as he pointed at Simon. “Forget the others; that’s the one I want.”

  “Then co
me and take me!” Simon shouted back, his voice hoarse in his ears. “Or must I come to you?” He advanced on the caliph, cutting through the others as they struck at him, barely slowing. One sank her fangs into his wrist, and pain shot up his arm, a freezing fire.

  “Take him, children!” the ruler of these undead monsters ordered, laughing still. “Take all but his heart!” Simon struck the head from the woman feeding from his wrist, and another creature clamped on to his leg, teeth tearing through his leather leggings to reach his flesh. Looking down, he saw the boy the guard had killed, his baby’s mouth stretched in a leer.

  “Holy Christ,” Simon said, breathless with horror, frozen at the sight.

  “No!” Roxanna struck the child first with her open hand, and he let Simon go with an offended cry, then she struck his tender throat with her dagger, cleaving off his head. “Don’t stop,” she ordered Simon, her own eyes glowing scarlet like the others but tears of blood still streaming down her cheeks. “Kill us all—pierce the heart with wood or take the head.” One of the other women leapt at her with a scream, and the two of them went rolling, fighting like cats. His paralysis broken, Simon raised his sword again, cutting through the vampires like a reaper cuts through wheat, his own blood flowing from a half a dozen gashes in his flesh.

  Their leader was not laughing anymore. His pale blue eyes glowed red, then green, as his own fangs were exposed. They were longer than the others and more deadly, more like the fangs of a poisonous snake than of any warm-blooded creature. Simon stepped onto the dais, tossing his sword into the air and catching it upside down, his hands wrapped tightly around the hilt, the tip pointed downward. “You wanted me,” he said through gritted teeth, driving it with all his strength straight into the vampire’s heart. “Here I am.”

  Kivar smiled, fangs glistening ivory white. “So you are.” He seized the knight by the shoulders, his fingers like talons as they dug into his flesh, and as the sword plunged deeper, he yanked Simon closer in a deadly embrace. Simon twisted the blade, and Kivar screamed in pain, but his eyes still glowed with triumph. Smiling as they fell together, he plunged his fangs deep into Simon’s throat.