Raising Hell

By Julie Kenner

Copyright © 2006, 2014

Kindle Edition

Originally published in trade paper format by The Penguin Group

Excerpts from Hell Fire by Dee Davis, Copyright © 2006, 2014 by Dee Oberwetter. All rights reserved. Reprint only with permission from author. Please contact
[email protected]
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As the second son of Satan, Nicholas Velnias is certain he has no chance of stepping into his father’s shoes. But when his older brother fails to win the keys to hell, Nick is suddenly the favored son. And the task to prove his worth is so simple he knows that he can’t fail—all he has to do is steal the soul of a woman. How hard can that be? After all, Nick steals bits of soul every day, infusing them into canvas and pigment to add that panache to the masterpieces that have brought him fame and fortune.

But when Nick meets Delilah Burnett, the innocent daughter of a preacher who’s bad for the devil’s business, all hell breaks lose. Because while Nick may have set out to steal the girl’s soul, in the end she’s the one who steals his heart.

Title Page

About
Raising Hell

Dear Reader

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Excerpt from
Hell Fire

Julie’s Booklist

About Julie

We began critiquing together in early 1999, back when we were young (sort of), naive (not really), and unpublished (that part’s true). Since we were both determined to do something about the unpublished part of the equation, we committed to brutally and honestly reviewing and commenting on each others’ work (the brutality and honesty softened by the presence of coffee, tea, chocolate … and often wine).

Our standard ritual was to share a chapter of an ongoing work each week by email, then take turns critiquing the pages at the weekly in-person meeting. And it wasn’t long after this process began that we realized how successful the collaboration was, both on a professional and a personal level. Not only did we soon see our books bought by publishers (and then on the shelves!), but our friendship grew as well, eventually matching and overshadowing the ritual of critiquing (cue heartwarming music).

For years, we thought it would be fun to work on a book together, but we never had the opportunity or the idea. And then, one day …

We were sitting at a table during a conference talking about bad boy heroes. And who better to be the ultimate bad boy than a son of Satan? And if there were brothers … then maybe there were sisters, too, because writing wild child women is just as fun.

Needless to say we were excited about the idea. And, so Nick, Marcus, Lucia and Jezebel were born and, as such, gave us the chance to work together on a project, just like we’d been wanting to do for years!

We hope you enjoy reading the stories as much as we enjoyed writing them.

XXOO

Julie & Dee

‡
Chapter One

T
he evening sun
outside the window cast an orange glow over the inside of Nick’s SoHo loft, setting the bed on fire even more than the three women already there, their bodies slick and willing atop the satin sheets. Nick stood naked at the foot of the bed, paintbrush in hand, the canvas in front of him a perfect reflection of the hedonistic revelry of the women who now cooed and called to him, urging him to abandon his work as the day abandoned its light.

Not an unpleasant proposition, all things considered, and he felt himself harden in response to the women’s call. Soon he would take his pleasure, make no mistake. But first, he wanted to take a bit more from these women. Just a spark, just a glint. Just the tiniest morsel to flesh out their portrait and make the work come alive.

Almost reverentially, he dipped his brush into the paint, then dabbed at the canvas, which now came alive as the brilliant hues of the sun’s glow shimmered on the women’s oil-paint skin. In front of him, the women cuddled and giggled, tasting and suckling and urging him to join them.

But Nick was lost in his art, lost in the light. He’d always loved this time of day, an expression of his artist’s heart, he supposed. Or, perhaps the fiery glow simply reminded him of home.

He stroked the canvas, urging his brush to exalt the women. To lift them up and make them more than they were in life. He pushed and urged, teasing out the colors, the subtle shades, the very heart of the portrait as he struggled to lift it toward an almost celestial perfection.

By anyone else’s standard, the portrait would be considered perfect. Another Nicholas Velnias masterpiece. And yet Nick knew that it was flawed. That the depth of emotion—of beauty and passion—had yet to be plumbed.

He had yet to find her. A woman so beautiful that she could awe even his jaded heart.

Someday
, he thought.
Someday, his brush would grace her form…

“Nicky…” The woman’s pouting voice came from behind him, and Nick realized that he’d lost himself to his work once again. Now only two women were in front of him on the bed. The third—Nancy? Clancy?—stood behind him, her lips grazing his ear, her breath hot on his skin. “Nicky, baby, we miss you.”

And then her arms wrapped around him and her hands stroked his chest, easing down lower. Nick closed his eyes, prepared to lose himself once again to the touch of these women.

“Oh, Nick. It’s so big! Girls, you have to come look!”

Nick’s eyes flew open, and he couldn’t help the amused quirk of his mouth. He knew with perfect clarity what she was looking at, and he felt a twinge of pride. “You’re pleased?”

“Pleased? I’m… I’m astounded.” She took her hands off his abdomen as she moved closer to the canvas, meeting her friends as they all stood in awed wonder, staring at the larger-than-life image that filled the huge canvas. “We’re so big. I had no idea the picture would be so huge. And our faces … It’s almost as if the painting is alive …” She reached out, almost brushed the canvas with her fingertip, but he pushed her hand away. “How did you do that?”

He laughed, then kissed her fingertips. “That’s my little secret,” he said. He moved around the canvas, not wanting to look at the women’s images anymore. Not wanting them to ask questions. He’d thrown his entire being into painting their portrait, and the effort had exhausted him. But his devilish little secret was that he’d thrown a bit of them into the mix, too. Not so much that they’d miss it, but he’d captured a bit of their soul.

Stolen it, really.

Could he have become such a revered artist without that little trick? He didn’t know, and as the women tugged him into the bed and pulled him down between the sheets with them, he told himself he didn’t care. The trick served his purpose, keeping him in the spotlight. Couldn’t he have whatever woman he wanted whenever he wanted? Hadn’t his face graced
People
and
Time
and all those other magazines that claimed to reveal the richest, sexiest, most eligible men the world over?

He was one of those men, and he knew it. For that matter, he loved it.

He’d always craved the spotlight. In his younger days, he’d reveled in his heritage, using his familial connections to wrangle introductions to the most stellar artists of the day. He’d sat as the subject for such brilliant artists as da Vinci, Botticelli, and even Michelangelo. Today, a walk through the Louvre was like strolling through his own private portrait gallery, and a marble image of his own perfection stood in Florence under the false name of “David.” In truth, Nick was glad for the fictitious name. Michelangelo had taken certain artistic liberties, and one of Nick’s best assets had been decidedly reduced in his stone image.

The glory of the spotlight faded quickly for the subject, however, while the artist’s name lived on. That was a lesson Nick had learned soon enough, and in more modern times he’d been drawn to the flame of fame in the guise of an artist. Once again, he was the darling of the tabloids, caught up in the glare of photographers’ lights. Now, though, he was the artist and not the subject.

Now, it was
his
name that was known.

The truly remarkable thing about his newfound career was that he’d discovered a legitimate talent. Or, at least, he thought he had. So far, he’d not revealed a portrait to the public without first enhancing it with a bit of the subject’s soul. “A fiery rendition that seems to crackle with life,” one reviewer had said. And how very right they were…

Still, there were days when he wanted to ply his craft utilizing nothing more than his own skill. Perhaps one day. If he ever found a worthy subject…

A tug on his hand pulled him back to himself, and he smiled at the brunette, hoping he didn’t appear as uninterested as he felt. The women had obviously expected the bed to be more than simply the backdrop for a portrait sitting. And why not? That was his reputation after all. The bad-boy painter, dubbed by the press as the sexiest man alive.

Far be it from him to disappoint his fans.

As the brunette tugged, he went willingly, then slid under the sheets with the women. Above him, the blonde dipped a strawberry in chocolate, then passed it to the brunette’s open, moist mouth. She took it, then bent to share it with him, a sweet, chocolate kiss.

He indulged her, taking her mouth in his, succumbing to the pressure of her tongue in his mouth, slipping his finger down to caress the wet heat between her thighs. As he did, the redhead slid down under the sheet, her mouth leaving a hot trail of kisses on his stomach and lower abs, the trail becoming all the more heated the lower she moved.

The blonde pulled away, teasing him with her teeth on his lower lip. He made a rough growling noise in the back of his throat, but really, it was all for show. Already he was bored. Already his mind had wandered to the blank canvas prepped and stretched by the north window, a canvas waiting for the perfect subject, but which had yet to see a drop of paint.

“Tell me, Nicky,” one of the women whispered, “do you like that?”