Devil’s Kiss Read Online Free PDF Page B

the settee and glided toward John. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing the length of her supple, hardly clothed body against his. “Does that feel like an illusion? Or that?” He snapped his fingers again, and another woman swayed toward Whit.
    She held out a fig, ripe and purple, and his hand came up to take it. She smiled invitingly at him. He returned the smile, though he wished her hair was black, not blond, her eyes dark rather than blue. The fig felt very real in his hand, and he took a bite. Its sweet flavor flooded his mouth, the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.
    Women came to drape themselves against Leo, Bram, and Edmund, pressing offerings of cakes and fruit into the men’s hands. As each of them took and ate the offerings, it hit them all.
    This was real.
    The Devil—Mr. Holliday, as he preferred to be called— truly stood before them, released from a prison that had held him for likely over a thousand years. And Whit and his friends had freed him from that prison.
    “That is correct,” said Mr. Holliday. “Through the munificence of that act, you men have at last liberated me from that most hateful place.” He snapped his fingers, and one of the women darted forward to grab the parchment scroll from the ground. She handed it to Mr. Holliday before scurrying away. He held the scroll tightly.
    “For that deed alone,” he continued, “I must show my thanks. I must bestow a gift upon each of you.”
    That sounded promising.
    “What did you have in mind?” asked Whit.
    Mr. Holliday gazed at him, and his gaze held knowledge far beyond anything a mortal man could ever attain. “Your deepest desire.” Barely a whisper, these words, yet Whit heard them as clear as if spoken directly to his brain.
    For a moment, an image of the fiery Zora flashed into Whit’s mind, but he would not allow himself to think of her now.
    “It is but a small matter,” continued Mr. Holliday, “and I shall make it yours.” He strode toward him and shooed away the simpering woman. His diamond-white eyes stared hard into Whit’s own eyes, piercing and intent. As he fixed Whit with his gaze, the little will-o’-the-wisp flitted around Mr. Holliday’s head. Annoyed, the white-haired stranger swatted at it. The light retreated to a corner of the chamber and Whit thought it flickered angrily.
    After a moment, Mr. Holliday’s mouth curled into a smile. “For you, my dear Lord Whitney, I shall grant you the ability to control the odds. You can make them good or bad, as you require.”
    “If that were such a gift,” answered Whit, “I should have control of chance all the time.”
    “Ah, but no,” was Mr. Holliday’s amused correction. “For a true gamester understands that sometimes it is better to lose than win.”
    Whit could not deny this. If he won every round, took every hand of cards or cast of the dice, no one would permit him to gamble with them anymore. Yet with a judicious losing streak, he could build false confidence in his opponents, lure them into complacency as they wagered higher and higher amounts, and then Whit could win it all. A greater risk. A greater reward. A greater thrill.
    Mr. Holliday knew this, knew Whit, and all from a glance.
    As Whit absorbed the implications of having control over probability, Mr. Holliday strolled toward Bram.
    “Women,” Bram said immediately. He caressed the lush form of the female nestled against him.
    Chuckling, Mr. Holliday shook his head. “You already have women, Bram. There is no gift in that. No, for you ...” He stared again with that incisive gaze, this time holding Bram captive with that look. Mr. Holliday boldly stared at the scar that marred Bram’s face. “I shall bestow upon you the ability to persuade anyone to do anything. Including the demons who shout in your head. As well as any woman you wish to persuade into your bed.”
    Bram grinned, clearly liking that potential gift very much.
    Then Mr. Holliday ambled toward Leo, who