About Demon Princess
Written by Kathleen Dale
105 pages / 31,500 words
ISBN: 1-933389-51-6
Available file types - html, lit, pdf, prc
Atreya is a woman with a secret. King of the beautiful white city, she knows that no one must know that she’s really a woman. Bittera is a demon in disguise and knows Atreya’s secret. She believes that she can force the King’s hand in marriage and through Atreya, rule the city herself.
War wasn’t in either of their plans, neither was capture and peril. And they certainly didn’t plan on falling in love and discovering some things are worth more than kingdom and power.
Review
Catherine Lundoff, author of Night's Kiss, writes: Kathleen Dale beautifully negotiates the balance between hot and tender in The Demon Princess. Atreya has been passing as a man for her entire life, unable to let another touch her lest they discover her secret. Her deception has been so successful that she has inherited her father¹s throne and become her country¹s greatest general. But the cost has been high and she has surrendered all hope of being loved.
Bittera is a gorgeous demon with a yen to become Atreya¹s Queen. But first she has to convince Atreya that she can be trusted with her secrets, her body, her heart. To do that, she must learn to fall in love. Dale¹s sizzling description of Bittera¹s seduction of Atreya will seduce readers as surely as it does her King. The writing is gorgeous and engaging, the story is timeless. So what are you waiting for?
Sample
Prelude
Black smoke poured from the temple for the twenty-first day in a row; soot covered the white city.
The good king was dead.
All mirrors in the city were covered, only the most vital of businesses opened in the dark moments before dawn so that the women might feed their children, the farmers their stock.
The cobbled streets were particularly empty this final day of mourning. The king's body would be taken by his only heir, the Prince Atreya, down to the sea, the body sent to ashes. It was the blackest of luck to look upon either the dead king or the future ruler on this day, so all the shutters were closed tight, all the citadel quiet, barring the ghostly pale seagulls that flew about the city walls.
It was only one of these pale seagulls that saw the prince -- lean and dark, eyes as dark as holes burned into a tapestry -- slowly draw the wrapped body down toward the sea. The prince was dressed simply, hands sure as they navigated the wagon down.
The prince had been gone from the citadel for most of his young life, leading a massive army against the Peline hoards, driving them back into the Spider Mountains, returning in the dead of winter victorious, only to find a dying king, a kingdom in disarray.
Even the birds had heard the rejoicing when the prince returned. The order could be returned. The line continued.
That joy could not be silenced, even as the king slipped away in the first blush of spring.
The prince drew the wrapped body onto the pyre, the seagull watching, blinking from the branch of a stunted tree. The prince pulled a small, sharp dagger from his belt, looking all about carefully before unlacing the heavy tunic.
The lean chest was wrapped in a fine cream cloth, the prince tugging the binding down to expose his heart, one firm, full breast which was pricked, the blood gathered on long fingers, a sigil drawn upon the king's wrapped face.
''I love you, Baba. Rest well and await your Atreya in the heavens.''
The soft sob startled the bird and he flew off over the sea, keeping the secrets of all he had seen.
***
The cave was damp and cold, the stone wet with water and slime. A tiny fire sat deep within it, sheltered from the elements outside. Over it lay a cauldron that bubbled darkly.
The demoness muttered as she put in ingredients, saving the best for last.
She limped over to the young man chained to the wall, head lolling. Still drugged, good. She was far too old and decrepit to do this if he fought.
She held an ewer beneath one wrist and slit the skin, capturing the dark, warm blood in the vessel. Eventually the boy's blood was drained, her ewer full and she returned to her pitiful fire.
She stripped out of her simple tunic, her skin wrinkled and sagging over twisted bones. Dipping her hand into the ewer, she began to anoint herself with the virgin blood, painting her face, her arms and legs, her belly.
She traced sigils on her sagging breasts, her dried up sex, slathered her aching hands in the sticky, red liquid.
The balance of the ewer she poured into her cauldron, watching the bubbles there hiss, the liquid going dark. Then she poured herself a cup and drank, tossing the rest into the fire.
The walls of the cave changed first, rough stone becoming hewn, the low ceiling becoming a thatched roof. Her fire became a hearth, warmth replacing the cold that had made her bones ache so. Or perhaps it was just that the bones themselves had changed, straightened, the skin over them becoming smooth and soft, supple.
Her fingers straightened as she watched, her hair going a deep, dark red and lengthening, thickening.
Her breasts became firm, nipples peaked, her sex warm and damp, inviting.
A look into the glass that had appeared along one wall confirmed that she was beautiful, her virgin sacrifice’s youth and beauty becoming her own.
The newly born wardrobe yielded her a forest green robe that fit her form perfectly.
Matching slippers and a cape lined with golden material completed her outfit. She stepped out onto the hillside. The windows of the temple were finally empty, the time of mourning passed.
There was a skip to her gait as she made her way down the hill toward the city.