Excerpt: Flesh and the Devil by Devyn Quinn

Auguste Maximilian sat in a blue velvet chair dressed in the last of the night’s fading shadows. Stretched out with one foot resting on a matching footstool, he had a glass of wine in one hand and held cigarette in the other. The rich, scent of foreign tobacco mixed with just a hint of heady spices hazed the atmosphere around him. Lingering in a halo around his head, the opalescent smoke gave his frosty features an unreal, almost illusive quality.
Auguste Maximilian, sovereign of the vampyr legion.
Seeing him, fear knotted in the back of Líadán’s throat, threatening to steal away her breath. She could feel his gaze raking over her, examining her visually from head to toe. Auguste had been waiting for her return, waiting the way a predator waited for prey; patiently and with much anticipation. His penetrating gaze under half-lidded eyes smoldered with barely concealed ire. She was hours late, lingering when she should have hurried.
Líadán had danced. Now she would pay the piper.
Saying nothing, Líadán put aside her clutch and wrap, then simply stared at him, waiting. She felt as though her heart were squeezing inward, threatening to suffocate her. No matter how well one had been trained to submit, there was always the specter of dread looming behind the striking hand delivering the discipline. She should bolt, run until she found a small dark corner to hide in. The impulse died soon after its birthing. Of course, she could not run away. She had no other place to go. Auguste was the master who owned her, body and soul.
Auguste leaned back in his chair. His eyes had mocking glints in their depth as he studied her carefully. His face bore the imprint of cruelty, something hard and vicious lurking behind his wolf-like demeanor. A rough soldier of aristocratic stock and manner, he was a brutal and dangerous man, not only in looks, but in temperament. Taking a deep drag off his cigarette, he caught it between thumb and forefinger. “You are late, Líadán.” His accented voice held a trace of annoyance.
Líadán bit her bottom lip, turning her head briefly away. No. Auguste would sense something was wrong. She called on a reserve of icy calm, absolute control, to shield her fear. Armored in pride, she refused to surrender it.
Bringing her chin up, she leveled an unflinching gaze at him. “I had to feed.” A simple direct statement. Also, the truth. Long ago, she’d accepted the forces the occult had levered into her life. That didn’t mean she welcomed them. As she spoke, Auguste studied her face. The slight curve of his mouth at one corner mocked. I hate him. Tense, she waited for his reaction.
Auguste’s smile, so sinister and not entertaining a single ounce of mirth, chilled her heart. He nodded, as if turning over each word of her answer to examine it for truth or lies. “I am glad you have consented to take human blood again. The blood of animals is beneath us. Humans are our rightful prey.” His tone was a purr of silk across stone, low and hinting of menaces spoken and unspeakable. His tongue snaked out, stroking one of the razor sharp canines in his mouth, much longer than hers, more prominent.
Líadán indulged him with a taut smile. “I wish only to please you, lord.” She offered a short respectful nod of her head, as befitting a man of his rank and breeding. The frozen expression on his face made her cringe. She had aroused his ire. Her stomach felt as though a thousand tiny snakes were coiled within, wriggling and biting.
Minutes passed, each excruciatingly longer than the last. Auguste was taking his time, toying with her the way a cat played a mouse to exhaustion before coming in for the fatal strike. He enjoyed giving pleasure almost as much as he enjoyed inflicting pain. She dipped back her head and stared out the window past his shoulder, wishing she were someplace far away.
After what seemed an eternity, Auguste finished his cigarette then drained the last of his wine. He rose from his chair, his movements ophidian and effortless as he crossed his sitting room, the strength of a cunning stalker entwined as one within his being. His boots didn't make a sound when crossed over the expensive rugs covering the floor of his private sitting room. Dressed impeccably in a creamy shirt under a white silk vest, perfectly tailored white slacks and low heeled boots, his penetrating stare under thick brows was intimate. He didn’t conceal the fact he examined her closely, a slight smile and devious expression dancing in the depths of his gaze.
Stalking closer with feral grace, Auguste was the malevolence slumbering dormant in saner souls, the part of existence mankind wanted to deny—and feared. A hunter, a predator who harvested from the lost and devoured the proud, he would not be tamed.
Carrying himself stiffly erect, Auguste expected—demanded —absolute respect and utter compliance from those around him. Coiled, crouched like an untamed animal, muscles sinuous under his immaculate clothing, he made her shiver. His body was hard and brawny under his expensive tailored clothes; broad shoulders, narrow hips and muscular legs. The ages and much exertion to bridge them had honed his figure to a sharp and strong degree. If he had been the first man created, the gods would have been well pleased with their efforts.
Líadán licked her lips, drawing in a quick breath, her cheeks growing warm under his critical visual sweep. Auguste was breathtakingly handsome; from the rust shaded hair spilling in a tangle around his face to his honey dappled eyes guarding the answers to all the mysteries of the ages. His sideburns grew down his sharp jaw-line, assimilating into the thin elegantly trimmed goatee ringing his mouth; part of the look enhancing his old world manner and bearing. The long white scar angled at the corner of his left eye did nothing to detract from his looks, only serving to enhance the aura of danger enveloping him.
More than immortal, Auguste seemed everlasting—eternal. He’d bartered away his soul and in return had received the gift of the first jouyl to infect the earth. His eyes betrayed his heavenly beauty. A cold soulless creature lurked within the depths of his gaze, a feral beast of searing insanity he often unleashed to hunt and kill at will.
Were she any other woman, Líadán would have welcomed his attention, allowed herself to become easily mesmerized by his grace and charm. She, however, was neither. She knew the fiend inside him well, had trembled under its wrath more than once.
Líadán concentrated on standing very still. Unfailingly, he would somehow strike her down, be it mentally, emotionally or physically.
Auguste reached out, catching her hand in his. “Come to me, beloved. You have been away so long tonight.” His grip was iron, close to crushing her fingers.
Líadán was always unprepared for his touch. The effort to endure brought a wave of nausea as he pulled her into his arms. She fought the urge to pull her hand away, willing herself not to flinch. In her misery she barely noticed the icy pallor of his flesh. Head sinking back, she couldn’t help but look into his striking and cynically remote face.
Auguste studied through narrow eyes, his too-perceptive gaze piercing through her like the tip of a blade. “I smell another man on your skin.” He dipped close, inhaling her scent. His hand came up to caress her nape. “You enjoyed him, I hope.”