Speak Of The Devil Book Novels & Stories

LAZZARO That girl. The way she stitched me, the way she looked at me while at it was fucking sexy. I had almost lost control, and it took everything within me to hold back. I never force my way with women. I might be a devil, but I wasn’t that monstrous.

His men tried to attack but my men already surrounded them. "The tables have turned Mr Rankins" I stood up and strodded around him. "I wanted to sell the drugs to you at such a fair price and you dared to get upset, but now....... I've decided to double the price " I stood behind him and brought out my gun from the back of my pants in a swift motion. "Tell one of your useless men to get the money or I would have to redesign these walls with your blood," I said in a cold demonic tone that bounced off the dark cold walls.

“Return to the world of men. Forget the blood. Forget the beast.” I reached for the obsidian stone. It was burning against my skin, but I didn’t pull away. I closed my eyes and stopped fighting the images. Instead, I dove into them. I didn’t look at the cellar as a prison; I looked at it as the place where I first felt the spark of the Devil. I didn’t look at the silver as pain; I looked at it as the price I paid to save my mate. I found the memory of Girard’s touch in the study—the way his hands had claimed me, the way his soul had recognized mine before his mind even knew my name.

The night that was slowly turning into a nightmare for me, my mother had said I had been talking in my sleep again last night. And Amanda was very wrong, the conversation most definitely didn't take five minutes. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The first thing my eyes went to when I got to work later that afternoon was a painting that hung beside the ancient wall clock behind the counter. It was a queer painting if I had ever seen any as it, it contained a man that apparently was supposed to be the devil with his charcoal black skin, pointy, black head horns and long spiky tail. The eyes were painted a bloody shade of red that were enough to give nightmares, as if I needed more of t

A wave of strong energy swirled around me before he spoke. "What’s the point of being a demon when you can’t use illusions to your advantage?" A devil’s smirk tugged on his mouth, and his eyes blazed red for a second before they went back to normal. "All they see is the sexy librarian helping a man look for books. They will never find out that the sexy library was about to let the man with her devour her perfect breasts."

He snapped a couple of pictures, and then he sat on the bed. “So what now? Should I get dressed?” He stared at me. His brown eyes looked dark and evil. “Yes, you should," he replied coldly. I watched as his fingers ran over the buttons of his phone. Who the hell was he texting? “What's wrong?” I quickly got dressed. He did not answer me. “Pebbles, are you in there? Open the fucking door!” What the fuck was the devil doing here? Chris got up and opened the door. “I'm sorry," he whispered as he left me alone to confront the devil.

A living scripture written in fire and bone. He had been forged in this work: in the breaking of souls and the shaping of terror. The title “Devil” was less a name and more a job description. So why did it all feel so… thin? Why did the silence between screams weigh heavier than the screams themselves? He finally turned his head.

Are they some kind of a big ass organization, where bastards like Cole gather? When I turned to look at the devil, my confusion grew. He was just staring at the in front silently, like he was afraid he’d lost his sight out of him. I wanted to ask him questions, but he looks like he’s going to implode at one touch. He’s standing completely still, while his eyes are fixed on the old man with an intensity I’ve never seen before. The casual, smirking Cole I know is gone. He’s looking deadly. The politician—or whatever he is—wraps up his speech with a practiced smile. “Please, enjoy the rest of the evening.” He stepped down, and the room erupted into polite applause.

Guilty of the crime of absolute stupidity. “Lilac, actually.” The tired-looking one is choking—oh, wait, that’s laughter. It sounds a bit painful and rusty, like a cat coughing up a hairball. Yikes. I’m not sure whether to laugh or call an ambulance. And then I see him again. “The devil speaks,” I announce grandly, because my brain is too drunk to control my mouth. “Go on, satan, confess your crimes to me.” The Tired One wheezes harder, but the devil just smiles— a slow, dangerous curve of lips and lashes.