Silken Rapture (Princes of the Underground 2)

Prologue

Human beings live in ignorance of the fact that they are dependent on the earth’s energies to nourish and sustain their spirit. But the planet’s soul is affected by the spiritual cataclysm of powerful living beings as well.

At the same moment that Chicago’s underground tunnels shook with the final battle of the Iniskium warriors and the bloodthirsty Scourge revenants, the earth also heaved beneath the city of London. The earth exposed a vein in offering—an ancient, powerful crystal obelisk thrust through the dark world of underground London.

In the moment Saint Sevliss earned his soul, he won that same potential for one of his brothers as well.

Blaise Sevliss—Lord Delraven—has been given the chance to claim his humanity if he possesses the strength to win the one woman who can grant him a soul.

Chapter One

Morshiel’s eyes remained glued to the mortal woman as the ghost fellated him. It was a little like staring at the brilliant, blazing sun while the moon made love to you. He lay on the plush carpet gazing fixedly at the captive female.

Life, he thought greedily. For Morshiel, life and the woman were one and same.

The ghost who pleasured his cock was named Shirian, and she was the conduit between life and death. Her lithe, golden-brown body stretched between the woman and him, the sole of her foot pressed to the captive’s ankle, her belly flush against the carpet the human drudge had laid on the platform. Shirian’s mouth kissed him to life. Unimaginable energy surged into his cock and up his spine. His flesh sang like a harp plucked by an archangel.

Shirian was a petulant Princess of Egypt who was doomed to wander underground London as a shade after her coffin had been jarred loose in a defunct Tube tunnel near the British Museum. Morshiel had long admired her, but until tonight, she’d only been beautifully shaped vapor to him.

He’d always approved of Shirian’s keen intelligence and ruthless ambition. He’d been doubtful about her plan to kidnap the psychic who was touring English universities. But then Morshiel had caught sight of the stunning human female and he’d become obsessed with Shirian’s plan.

Isabel Lanscourt.

Unfortunately, Shirian was not pleased that he focused all his attention on Isabel, and not her.

“Stop staring at her,” Shirian snapped.

Morshiel dragged his eyes off the frozen essence of beauty. When two of his human drudges had forced Isabel into contact with the gigantic crystal obelisk, the psychic’s body had jerked and then frozen into immobility. She’d begun to vibrate subtly, unable to move while vast amounts of energy poured through her. A low, melodious hum—an amplified version of the earth’s song—filled the underground chamber.

It was the most sublime sound Morshiel had ever heard in his centuries of existence.

Isabel had begun to glow, emanating massive amounts of vitessence, the energy that surrounded and resonated from all living beings, the energy Morshiel lacked and must steal from humans in order to live. He typically absorbed the energy first through the sex juices and later through their blood as he drained them of life. Humans were merely put on this earth to serve him, after all—cattle to satiate his hunger.

But Isabel Lanscourt was no typical human. Most would have been killed by the shock of massive energy the crystal obelisk provided. Isabel’s body channeled it, amplified it exponentially. She would be Morshiel’s personal, private generator of vitessence. He bathed in the life force, became drunk on its potency.

“Do you want me to stop?” Shirian asked, irritation spiking her richly accented voice. When he didn’t respond, but merely continued to stare at Isabel, enraptured, Shirian moved her naked foot off Isabel’s ankle.

One second, he bathed in glorious vitessence. The next, he was left empty and hollow as a tomb. It was a pain unlike anything he’d ever known.

“Put it back, bitch.”

He saw Shirian blink, even though she’d altered from flesh to a bluish mist in a second. He could barely make out her misty features, but he knew Shirian had been surprised—and yes, intimidated—by the strength of his anger. How dare a weak, ephemeral little phantom deprive him of his legacy?

A second later, Shirian’s foot came back into contact with Isabel’s leg. His head fell back on the carpeted floor as energy jolted through him, the nirvana of it making him want to forget everything else but Isabel.

But he couldn’t be so foolish. Not when Shirian threatened a pout.

He lifted his head and met the sloe-eyed beauty’s gaze. Her lips appeared puffy and red from sucking his cock so vigorously. Her cheeks had grown pink from arousal. He touched her flawless face and felt heat.

“Blood flows through your veins, Shirian?”

“I know not,” she whispered, her throat roughened from taking his cock deep. “I only know that I have not felt so alive for four thousand years and more.”

He ran his fingers through coal-black hair and palmed her skull, urging her back to her task.