Passion Flames Read online

  Passion Flames

  The Demon Slayers Stories

  The Witchwolf Chronicles

  By

  Katherine Rhodes

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

  Passion Flames

  Copyright 2014 © Katherine Rhodes

  All rights reserved.

  Covers by JRA Stevens

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  Belle Ptolemny, the youngest daughter of the Demon Slayer family, has been sent on a quest: to find what happened to the Book of Tahat Sheol. It is the one book that might help her family defeat a demon on the rise.

  Raphale Astor is the leader of a clan of Others, who hide in the shadows of the world. He is the one man who may be able to help Belle find her book, and she is completely enamored with him instantly.

  Now, if only he weren't a demon.

  Contents

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  About the Author

  More from Katherine Rhodes

  Part One:

  It felt like a fairytale.

  Still, she had no reason to believe this wasn’t real.

  The masks, the gowns, the gorgeous swell of music accompanying the dance’s graceful movements across the floor all served to convince her she was awake and truly here in the middle of this masque.

  Even more, she could feel the warmth of the stranger who had her in his arms, whirling her around and around in time to the delightfully out-of-time waltz that stirred everyone to the floor.

  His words, carried on breath that was hot and delightfully fresh, whisked across her skin. “Are you enjoying yourself here, pretty one?”

  She laughed. “I am, sir. Thank you. May I have the pleasure of your name so I might fill my dance card with it?”

  He returned her laugh. “I am Raphale, pretty one. And your name, so I may seek out my card?”

  “Mirabelle,” she offered. “But most people just call me Belle.”

  “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

  “I’m wearing a mask, Raphale,” she said. “You can’t make that judgment.”

  “I was not talking about your face, but your heart,” he said.

  “You don’t know me,” Belle teased.

  “You are the only one here worth getting to know,” Raphale said. “I can see you have a beautiful soul.” Belle raised an eyebrow behind her mask and laughed. She could see the smile on Raphale’s lips. “The waltz is nearly over, pretty one. May I get you a drink?”

  “I’d be delighted,” Belle answered.

  As the music wound down, and the DJ took over again, Raphale—who was wearing the Phantom of the Opera’s red costume from the second act—led her to a small table for two. He held her chair out and she sat, her angel wings getting a little stuck as she did. She adjusted. “I’m so not used to those.”

  Raphale laughed. “But you should be! I’ll be right back.”

  Belle had no clue who this Raphale person really was, but he was certainly charming. She watched as he walked away, admiring the view from the rear. The bloomers didn’t stop the sexy shape from being visible. Several dozen naughty thoughts ran through her head and she decided that if she had the opportunity she would fulfill them.

  Belle adjusted herself in the chair again and scratched at the feathers tickling her nose. She knew she shouldn’t, but the mask was driving her batty. She slid it up to rest on her forehead and was instantly cooler and more comfortable. Looking around the room, she marveled at the fact that she was in a grand ballroom in London for a Halloween masque with some very wealthy and also very well known people.

  As she had been picking out her costume, there had been a rumor circulating that the duke or duchess might even show. She had dismissed it. They were too busy as new parents to come to a very adult masque that started at eleven at night.

  She pulled off the opera gloves she was wearing, and again, felt cooler and more comfortable. It was damn hot in the room, but most Londoners weren’t used to her weather—Montpelier, Vermont could be downright freezing most of the year.

  “My dear Belle, you aren’t supposed to take off your mask at a masque.” Raphale teased, offering her the glass of wine.

  She defended herself with a smile. “It’s warm and the feathers itch.”

  “I can imagine, since you say you aren’t used to them.” Raphale put his glass on the table and removed his mask as well—and Belle was very glad she was seated.

  He was handsome. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin and just one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen. It left her near breathless as he placed the heavy head piece on the table, against the wall and shook out his hair. He caught her glance and smiled. “What’s wrong? You weren’t actually expecting the Phantom, were you?”

  Shaking off the unbelievable sexual desire that coursed through her at the sight of him, Belle came back to herself as quickly as she could. “I was expecting the Phantom, thank you. Terribly disappointed in your totally non-disfigured visage, sir.”

  Raphale laughed. “You are definitely more the fire-brand than most other Yanks I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, Belle.”

  “Well, I’m probably different than most Yanks you’ve ever met.” She smiled.

  “Decidedly so.” He sat down as he peeled off the white gloves he was wearing. “So, Belle…what is a lovely American like you doing in a snotty London masque like this?”

  Belle laughed. “I’m studying at the University of Greenwich for a year. My parents made a donation to get me here. They wanted me to experience a real masque.”

  “So, gallivanting about the continent then?”

  “You saw right through me!”

  “I’m glad your parents didn’t.” The comment struck her as sincere, and it kicked her heartbeat up again. “I’m sure you’re an excellent student,” he said, apologetically, when he saw her stutter. “What are you studying?”

  “History and Sociology, combined degree,” Belle answered. “It’s fascinating to hear the same history from another point of view. You Brits are still bitter about us Yanks taking so long to get into the fray in World War Two.”

  “Well, it took you long enough.” Raphale was clearly poking fun.

  “We were busy being isolationists.” Belle nodded sagely.

  “I’m sure you hear enough of this at school.” Raphale picked up his drink. “Let’s have a toast. To you!”

  “And to you.” Belle rang her glass against his, and the sound echoed the feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was thankful she wasn’t completely lying to him about why she was here; her parents had given her that. She did love London, so far.

  But since her powers arrived three years ago, she was pulled more and more into her parents’ magical world—one she never dreamed they were a part of, even though she knew she was a witch. Her parents had never told her they were demon slayers.

  And while she was here—truthfully—to go to school, she was also on the hunt for some texts they needed. Demons were so rare in the world now, they were able to sense someone summoning one from hundreds of miles away. And someone, somewhere in the South Pacific, fancied themselves able to control a demon.

  What the summoner didn’t know, what Belle’s parents had painstakingly drilled into her, was that demons were summoned, but never controlled. More times than not, the summoner was killed by the summoned demon. Demons were beyond the control of any mortal and most witches. Most. Not all. She and her family were exceptions.

  The demon was rising, and the princess had found the Ptolemny family—the only remaining family of slayers. Eris and Ausar Ptolemny, mother and father. Kaur, Manfred, Yolinda, Elsa, and Mirabelle, the children. All the other families had long since disappeared, their arts and talents lost to the millennia.

  They were called upon to help with the rising demon, and this time, neither Ausar nor his wife could identify the demon. It was a long piece of sorcery raising the demon, so they had sent Belle to England to study—and to find the Book of Tahat Sheol. The book had been missing for nearly three hundred years and was last rumored to be in the library of the Rajil family. The last Rajil slayer had died and donated the library, but no one knew where. The records had been burned in a fire.

  And now, close to the last piece of the puzzle, Belle’s father had finagled her into the London Halloween masque to see if she could find the unknown person who claimed to know where the library had gone.

  Except, she didn’t have a clue who she was looking for, and worse—everyone was in damn masks.

  Raphale leaned in. “You look lost in your thoughts, my pretty one.”

  “That’s easily done. I don’t have a very good internal GPS.”

  He laughed, mightily. “Oh, but I like you.”

  “What are you doing here?” Belle asked, turning the question around.

  “I am here because I’m hoping all these stuffed shirts are going to open their wallets for my ch
arity.”

  Belle froze. “Oh. Oh, shit. Oh, God, and I cursed too!” Bemused, Raphale waited for her to continue. “You’re John Raphale Astor.”

  “At your service, as it were.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “You weren’t supposed to,” he said. “Hence this ridiculous costume.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’ve made an ass of myself. I’ll go.” She gathered her skirts and put a hand on the table to stand.

  “Don’t.”

  Raphale put his hand on hers to stop her from fleeing—

  And the world exploded in colors and swirls as the Touch slammed all of the information she ever and never needed about John Raphale Astor into her head. But it wasn’t the Touch she was used to. This was the touch of a demon.

  She tried to rip her hand away from his, but he held on. There was a horror in his eyes she knew was reflected in her own. She knew the Touch had told him she was a slayer. A young, inexperienced slayer with the power of a Hell’s Bane witch. His jaw worked for a moment, but finally he was able to chew out some words. “Pretty one, I mean you no harm. Come. Please. Let us talk on the roof.”

  “I…can’t…shouldn’t,” Belle stuttered, but stopped pulling away. She had seen behind his mask, both figuratively and literally, and she was still drawn to him. She knew she should run, fast and hard—but he was magnetic and worse, earnest. The desire she had felt earlier betrayed her. Instead of slaking off when she discovered his nature, it had shot through her and flamed her blood.

  “Please, Belle,” he said. “This is not what you think. Come, let’s talk above.”

  A moment and hard swallow later, trying to rein in her out-of-control desire for a forbidden man—demon—she nodded and allowed him to lead her away from the table. She desperately tried to follow the path they took to the roof so she could go back alone, but remembered there would be no need. Even with having her powers for three years, she often forgot about them and how powerful she really was.

  The door pushed open and they walked out into the moonlight. It felt delicious on her skin in its nearly full phase and shone brightly off the not-so-distant Thames. She could see the London Eye on the other side of the river, the Shard, and St. Mary’s Axe to the left, as well as the cluster of buildings at Canary Wharf.

  But as much as she wanted to really stand and admire the view, she had just found a demon. A demon she should slay, save for the fact that instead of killing him…she wanted to fuck him.

  This was not good.

  “Mirabelle, I mean you no harm. I am not what you think I am.”

  “You are a demon.” Her voice was hoarse.

  “No, please, I am not. I am not.” Raphale shook his head. “I didn’t think I would ever have this chance to talk to a slayer. We thought you were all dead.”

  “You killed us all!”

  “No, no!” Raphale’s voice was desperate as he held onto her wrist. “There were those who fell to the power tahat sheol, but not us. Not my people. We are not demons, though fire is in our souls.”

  “If you are not a demon, then what the hell are you?”

  “A daemon, an ob-theecian ohn. We do not serve the dark.”

  “A day-mon,” she said. “You think the pronunciation makes a difference?”

  “It’s the pronunciation which made you damned witches think we are of the dark. The ob-theecian ohn do not serve the dark, but fuck if we can convince you of that.” Raphale held her still but realized that his anger wasn’t putting her at ease. “Please, Belle. We have felt the demon rising as well. We know only the slayers or the princess can destroy it. And once it rises, it will take a damn miracle for my people to survive another purge.”

  “…let go.” Belle couldn’t even convince herself with that request.

  His grip released, but she didn’t really pull away. “You feel it too.”

  “Please, Raphale,” she whispered. “I’m a slayer.”

  “And I’m not a demon.” He stepped up close. “I am ob-theecian ohn, a durzon, Héafod of the Graedil Murder. I am a subject of the princess and prince as all ob-theecian ohn are. We are on the same side. And don’t want to lose my people to a purge that does not need to happen.”

  “How…how did I get the Touch with you.”

  “We are of the Witchlands,” he said. “Magical. The same as you.”

  “What magic?” Her voice was so quiet, so incredulous.

  The hand still weakly held her snaked around her waist, and he pulled her tight to him. His other hand appeared at eye level and a moment later, a warm yellow orange flame appeared. It was not hot, but merely a gentle light. It flickered and in that light Raphale’s handsome face was kind and soft, and his eyes twinkled with the fear of misunderstanding.

  He feared her.

  No true demon would fear a slayer. No demon would dare to let one get this close. There would have been violence long before they reached the roof. True demons did not fear slayers, because they were too cocky and confident to realize the danger.

  Certainly, Raphale realized the danger of holding a Hell’s Bane slayer this close to himself. He trembled against her, but she had the feeling it was more than fear that made him tremble.

  Because she didn’t fear him at all, and she was trembling.

  “I believe you,” she breathed against his cheek.

  The fire that sat oddly cool in his hand grew brighter, and a moment later it flared to an enormous size. Raphale leaned into her ear, whispering, “This flame is my desire. It started to burn when I saw you in this angel’s dress. It flared to life when I touched your hand. It is consuming me now that I have you pressed against me.”

  “I should not feel this way with someone I’ve just met,” Belle said.

  “Nor should I,” he said. “But I do.”

  “So do I,” she confessed.

  Raphale turned his head, capturing her eyes. “You are a true witch.”

  “I am a Hell’s Bane. The strongest of the strong,” Belle said.

  He whispered in her ear, “Then take us to my bedroom and let me show you how consuming this fire truly is.”

  Belle wanted to be scandalized. A demon—correction, daemon—wanted her to use her powers to get them to bed. But Belle realized there was no hope she could walk away. She could do no more good here with this sexy creature holding her. She wanted to let his flames consume her. She had been attracted to him with the mask on, now he was he bared to her. She didn’t want to resist him.

  Still she hesitated.

  “I know you seek something,” he said, stepping back from her but not losing their touch. “I saw it. I will help you find it. I know this city better than anyone. But, in the morning, Belle. In the morning. We cannot work like this and I don’t want to.”

  He pressed against her, and she could feel him hard against her thigh. Every instinct she had, everything she had learned at school and from her parents, was being tossed out the window by a very sexy, very forbidden man. And she decided she wanted this. She’d regret it in the morning.

  “Where do you live, daemon?” Her voice was barely a breath.

  “Twentieth floor, the Pinnacle.”

  She locked her eyes with his. “Show me.”

  Raphale wove their fingers together, and she saw the plush, lush layout of his bedroom flash through her mind. With barely a wrinkle or whisper, they were gone from the roof and now stood in his bedroom. Canary Wharf twinkled in the windows, but she was distracted by the man she had just whisked there.

  “I am not usually so forward,” Raphale said, circling her with a predatory glace. “I knew I wanted you when I saw you in this dress…but the Touch showed me who you are. Something else ignited in me. Please forgive me.”

  “Ask me again in the morning,” she said.

  He trailed his finger over her bare shoulders and everything in her clenched and tightened. A delightful, warm electric feeling tingled where his fingers had been, and suddenly his voice was next to her. “Have you ever slept with another of the witchlands?”

  “No,” she breathed. “Never. I am truly young.”

  “You feel the pull between us.” Warm, sweet words dusted across her shoulder. “You feel magic bringing us closer, bringing us into each other.” Raphale drew those same fingers down her arm, leaving the tingling trail again, and all Belle could do was nod lightly. “I have heard that when destiny leads you to your mate, you feel…this. I have never felt the magic pull like this before.”