Page 1 of Burn for the Devil

1

Ramone

Just over a year ago

A woman walked into the art exhibition. I was standing in front of an exquisite painting displayed in a gilded frame which stretched thirty feet along a wall when I knew something had changed.

The image before me showed Satan on horseback, his cloak flowing in the wind, trampling the corpses of the saints. The depiction was accurate—mostly—despite the figure’s lack of correct identification. The shades of red and yellow fascinated me, as did the cellular matter embedded in the oils, relaying a brief story of the artist. The painter had injected enough passion into this one work that he’d left behind a signature few could detect.

I’d sensed the soul before I could see it, her golden aura trailing lightly through the ether, thin tendrils reaching, seeking, but not finding. The glow surrounding her shimmered as if bestowed upon her by the higher gods. My hands slid into my dress pants pockets as I glanced over my shoulder to see what had interrupted me.

The dress she wore was elegant, the hem sliding against her calves, with sapphire satin draped around her long neck. Her deep brown hair swept over one shoulder, and her ocean eyes sparkled at the man whose forearm she’d hung onto. Lips stained a ripe cherry curved into an enigmatic smile as she gazed at her companion.

She never saw me, but I sawher. The tiny pinpricks of light complementing her lightly tanned skin stood in stark contrast to the piece of shit in a cheap suit who clung to her every word. The man’s energy was abysmally below hers. He’d never be worthy of her; he was the decaying matter beneath her well-heeled feet. Knowing I was no better in many ways, I smiled to myself. Her spirit was seeking mine, not his, as if we were two halves of a whole.

At that moment, I decided I’d poison him…or dispose of him in another fashion.

The couple slowly traversed the room, barely appreciating the finest examples of their species’ creative talents. They completed the room in thirty minutes before moving on to the next, while I unobtrusively followed behind, the female’s siren call increasing my thirst and instigating an obsession.

Samantha. Friends had joined them now, addressing her by name. Another couple, Julia and Clint. Samantha Fern was from Savannah, Georgia. I eagerly took in every word while I eavesdropped.

Fitting, as Savannah was certainly as haunted as the presence of this ethereal flower who I would do anything to obtain. She was crafted like the finest bloom, elegant, soft, and graceful.

They were visiting Boston; I heard my woman state their plans. They would return to the south briefly, for reasons I decided I needed to uncover. Then, they would relocate to this area.Good.

They had already secured a home and would be staying there soon.I was a huge fan of convenience, and if she wasn’t planning on doing so already, I would make the decision for her.

The couple abruptly stopped walking, causing my arm to brush Samantha’s shoulder. The action efficiently ended my surveillance.

“Excuse me,” I whispered, quickly swinging my head in the opposite direction, but not before I’d caught a whiff of her scent. It enflamed me. Her fragrance was that of sharp, blood-red roses, just as I’d envisioned it would be.

The draw toward her was overwhelming and powerful, as if I had always known her, had been waiting for her. My soul reached for her spirit as a vine reached for the sun, the sensation strangling me.

Shuddering, I rushed away without glancing over my shoulder. This wouldn’t do. The compulsive urge was there, to take her and feed. But I’d never let her go, not on pain of death. Had I indulged, it would all be over. I couldn’t do this, not now—not ever. I had Kiara, my very own personal blossom, my own brand of heroin. She was mine and I was hers. She wasn’t supposed to be mine, but nothing had ever stood in my way. Kiara loved me, she counted on me—however misguided her trust was. Fulfilling my duty was the correct course of action.

My priorities needed to remain focused on the birth of the rare, magical source, which the slight wisp of a girl in my custody was. If I let her go, she’d be taken away instantly, drained of all power. I couldn’t let that happen. I owned her.

I’d already failed. My father, Julian, had demanded I deliver her to him. I hadn’t, yet. He was a hard man to please and I defied him often, entertaining humans and working on building a sustainable industry to keep my kind fed. Julian preferred death and destruction, obliteration of life. I preferred to use and enjoy humans although I couldn’t say I didn’t enjoy the release Ifelt draining the lifeforce from a body. He wanted Kiara’s power, which could be obtained via feeding on her. Her light was so bright it was blinding, and she had the power to change worlds. I’d taken some of her magic for myself, much to my father’s chagrin. No one could blame me though.

The fact Kiara’s family was likely responsible for my wife Samara’s death was a thorn in my side. There was some debate over who plunged the knife into her heart—intomyheart. It was my right to take possession of her and keep her if I so chose. In my position as Julian’s heir, no one had challenged me other than my friend, Ilya. The reminder of my fellow demon filled me with a bitterness that coated my tongue. He was supposed to be my friend, and I needed him for my business, but he was working against me when it came to Kiara. I cleared my throat, willing away the sour taste.

Ilya would take what was mine over my dead body.

Between my father’s threats to disown me and remove my birthright and Ilya’s machinations, fury was a familiar feeling.

The acrid flavor in my throat dissolved as anger flowed through my veins. I twisted one of the rings on my fingers, straightening it, and walked out of the gallery.

Samantha’s new home was situated in a high-end neighborhood in the south end of Boston. I sat in my Bentley, the blacked-out windows keeping me out of public view, watching and waiting. I’d arranged for her fiancé to be away via a strategically placed phone call. He believed he’d be climbing the social ladder, hob-knobbing with bigger players than himself. He would dress himself in his finest Armani suit, not yet having reached the bespoke tailors’ financial requirements. I chuckledto myself. If he had, I would have my contacts bring any arrangement or condition of the sort to an instant demise.

A low-end Mercedes Benz pulled out of the cobblestone driveway just up ahead of where I had parked. Tim was leaving. He preferred Timothy, but he was aTim. Tim’s life was about to change. There wasn’t a damn thing he could ever do about it.

Reaching behind the seat, I then dragged a leather bag to the front of the car. Unzipping it, I grabbed my cloak and a mask and then donned them. I pulled the hood up over my hair and left my eyes unobstructed.

Softly, I closed my car door behind me and strolled across the street. As I approached the front door, I unlocked the mechanism and the entry sprung open without any contact. Flicking my hand again, it shut soundlessly when I stepped inside.

Pausing, I inhaled while I listened and surveyed my surroundings. Soft music played from above and Sarah Brightman’s bewitching voice filled the air. I nodded in approval at the heavenly tunes, noting that my woman had exquisite musical tastes. Samantha’s beguiling scent filled the air, making the house a home. She and the cockroach hadn’t been there long, but already their combined essence was making itself comfortable. This wouldn’t do, not the combination of the two.

The living room was off to the right and I entered the space, eyeing the boxes and sheet-covered furniture. Glancing at one of the cardboard squares, I popped open a lid and peered at the contents. Nestled in packing paper lay candles and incense.

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