The Demon Lover: A Novel by Juliet DarkThe Demon Lover: A Novel by Juliet Dark

The Demon Lover: A Novel

byJuliet Dark

Paperback | December 27, 2011

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I gasped, or tried to. My mouth opened, but I couldn’t draw breath. His lips, pearly wet, parted and he blew into my mouth. My lungs expanded beneath his weight. When I exhaled he sucked my breath in and his weight turned from cold marble into warm living flesh.
Since accepting a teaching position at remote Fairwick College in upstate New York, Callie McFay has experienced the same disturbingly sensual dream every night: A mist enters her bedroom, then takes the shape of a virile, seductive stranger who proceeds to ravish her in the most toe-curling, wholly satisfying ways possible. Perhaps these dreams are the result of her having written the bestselling book The Sex Lives of Demon Lovers. Callie’s lifelong passion is the intersection of lurid fairy tales and Gothic literature—which is why she’s found herself at Fairwick’s renowned folklore department, living in a once-stately Victorian house that, at first sight, seemed to call her name.
But Callie soon realizes that her dreams are alarmingly real. She has a demon lover—an incubus—and he will seduce her, pleasure her, and eventually suck the very life from her. Then Callie makes another startling discovery: Her incubus is not the only mythical creature in Fairwick. As the tenured witches of the college and the resident fairies in the surrounding woods prepare to cast out the demon, Callie must accomplish something infinitely more difficult—banishing this supernatural lover from her heart.

“Vivid and enchanting . . . Dark’s letter-perfect gothic style is a satisfying tribute to previous gothic novels, and the paranormal elements, including incubi, fae, vampires, and witches, make this a stellar romance.”—Booklist (Top 10 SF/Fantasy)
“[Juliet] Dark develops a complex, detailed world where magic, reason, and gothic literature enjoyably intersect.”—
Publishers Weekly 

Juliet Dark is the pseudonym of an award-winning and critically acclaimed literary suspense writer.
Title:The Demon Lover: A NovelFormat:PaperbackProduct dimensions:448 pages, 8.01 × 5.16 × 0.95 inShipping dimensions:8.01 × 5.16 × 0.95 inPublished:December 27, 2011Publisher:Random House Publishing GroupLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0345510089

ISBN - 13:9780345510082


Rated 2 out of 5 by from Meh! I have really mixed feelings about this one. I had purchased either the second or third installment in the series at used book sale without realizing that it was part of a series. So, I purchased the remaining books and finally started the series. Firstly, the title is terrible. It sounds like some trashy harlequin romance novel, which is a put-off before even beginning. Secondly, there are multiple editing mistakes. Thirdly, there are mistakes that should have not only been caught by editors, but also should never have been made by the author in the first place. The most annoying example for me was the author's use of "ya" instead of "yeah". Now, granted, both of these words are colloquialisms, but that doesn't mean that they are interchangeable - they are not. "Ya" is a slang word for "you" while "yeah" is a slang word for "yes". Goodman/Dark doesn't seem to have realized this, and neither has her editor. When you can't even get slang right, it doesn't really do much for my faith in you as a professional writer. Fourthly, this story could have been so much more interesting. There was so much potential here! But everything was kept rather superficial. And then entire thing ended up being predictable - and the second Liam Doyle was introduced, it became painfully so. Fifthly, the characters lacked depth and realism (and yes, I say this even within the context of fantasy fiction). No one wants to hear about a 26-year-old who has a PhD (28-30 would be the average age for this) and who is already on a tenure-tracked professorship (30 or older would be the average age for this one), who can afford to buy a beautifully-maintained, historic 5-bedroom Victorian house while still being able to afford Louboutin shoes on a whim. She treats her boyfriend like he's disposable, judges others fairly harshly while claiming to like them, and just seems rather useless overall which has a special kind of irony to it because she's claims to deplore the helplessness that's seemingly inherent to the characters of gothic fiction. I kept reading it, convinced that something would redeem it, but nothing did. Now, it wasn't the worst book I've ever read, but I certainly wouldn't recommend it to anyone. It's like Twilight fluff for adults. The author doesn't even try to interject any humour anywhere. Like, no one in this novel got me to crack so much as smile. Miserable characters. That being said, the other two books in this series are sitting there, staring at me so I do feel compelled to read them (and they do have slightly better overall reviews, so here's to hoping!). But I've read other romantic-esque fantasy novels that don't take themselves anywhere near as seriously as this one seemed to that were much more entertaining.
Date published: 2017-11-28
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Unique, sexy paranormal read 3.5 - 4 stars The Demon Lover was much different than what I expected. It didn’t feel like your typical paranormal book - it was like a mixture of paranormal, fantasy, erotica, and romance. The author builds a fascinating world of supernatural creatures, along with a story that kept me guessing while madly turning the pages to find out what happened next. In most respects I liked Callie as a main character. She was believably flawed - often so wrapped up in her own dramas that she didn’t see that the people around her were suffering or having problems, and she often missed things that should have been obvious. However, there was something relatable about her that drew me to her and made me accept her, flaws and all. Her voice was very authentic, making it feel like a friend was relating a story to me. Even though the plot was slow moving at times (my only complaint about the book is that it was too long), I don’t think the story dragged. I kept wondering where the story was going and found myself thinking ‘I can’t imagine how it goes on for another 200 pages…100 pages…50 pages…’ etc., but there was something compelling about it that made it nearly impossible to stop reading. It was captivating and unique, and while I had a couple things figured out, I was anxious to see how it all played out and figure out the mysteries that eluded me. One thing I’d like to point out: this story was HOT. If you’re easily offended by graphic sex scenes or don’t enjoy a lot of sex in books, you’re going to want to skip The Demon Lover. The sex scenes start from the very first chapter and get hotter and hotter throughout the book. I’m sure some people will argue there was too much sex, and while it did seem a bit gratuitous at times, at least it was well-written and fun to read! I think I’d rather read a book like this than straight-up erotica because the story itself was so good. Overall, while The Demon Lover is hard to peg down and even harder to describe, I enjoyed it very much. An interesting cast of characters, great setting, unique spin on supernatural creatures, beautiful yet simple writing, and a romance that leaves you yearning for book 2; I would recommend The Demon Lover to any fan of the paranormal.
Date published: 2013-01-05

Read from the Book

THE DARK STRANGER  —Dahlia LaMotte, unpublished ms.   Best keep your door locked, Miss.   The housekeeper’s words came back to me as I readied myself for bed. It seemed a strange warning in a house as isolated as Lion’s Keep, where our only neighbors were sea and heath. Had there been trouble with one of the servants— perhaps with that impertinent groom with the roving eyes?   Or could it be the Master that Mrs. Eaves was worried about? Haughty, remote William Dougall, who had looked down at me from his horse with such icy condescension— a cold look which had paradoxically lit a spit of fi re from my toes to the roots of my hair. Surely not. The great William Dougall wouldn’t deign to bother a lowly governess such as myself.   I locked the door all the same, but left the windows open as it was a warm night, and the breeze coming off the ocean felt deliciously cool as I slid between the crisp lavender- scented sheets. I blew out my candle . . . and immediately noticed something odd. There was a crack of light at the bottom of the door. Had Mrs. Eaves left a candle burning in the hallway for my benefit? If so, I ought to tell her it wasn’t necessary.   I threw the sheets off and swung my legs over the side of the bed, preparing to go investigate, but froze before my toes touched the floor. The bar of light at the bottom of the door had been split in two by a shadow as if someone were standing there. As I stared at the door, seeking some other explanation, the brass knob silently began to turn. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. My throat was frozen with fear, as were my limbs, powerless to run from whoever was at the door. All I could do was watch as the knob turned . . . and stopped.   The door didn’t open. It was locked. The knob paused there as if whoever was turning it was deciding what to do next. Would he break the door down? Would he force his way in and then . . . what then?   But he must have decided that breaking down the door would make too much noise. The knob silently revolved back. The shadow disappeared from beneath the door and the light slowly faded.   I let out a shaky breath, my limbs reduced to quivering jelly now that the moment of crisis was over. Should I go find Mrs. Eaves and tell her what had happened? But tell her what? That I had seen a light, a shadow, a turning knob? Already I mistrusted the evidence of my own senses and I had no wish to look an hysterical child on my first day of service.   So I crept back into bed, pulling the sheets over me, but kept my eyes on the door. What if he had gone to retrieve a key? I lay like that, rigid beneath the crisp sheets, all my attention riveted to the door, for I don’t know how long. I was sure I would not sleep, but it had been a long day of weary travel and learning new faces and new duties, and the sound of the waves crashing on the shore below the cliff and the scent of saltwater mingled with honeysuckle from the garden were hypnotically soothing . . .   I must have drifted off because when I came to, the room was bright with light. I startled awake, thinking the light in the crack below the door had seeped into the room, but then I saw that the light came not from the door, but from the open window. Moonlight spilled in, white as cream, soaking the sheets and my nightgown—I was wet, too, from the heat—drenching the whole room except for a pillar of shadow that stood at the window . . .   A pillar shaped like a man.   For the second time that night I opened my mouth to scream, but my throat was as frozen as if the moonlight was a carapace of ice. I could not see the man’s features, but I knew it must be William Dougall. I recognized that arrogant bearing, those broad shoulders, the slim agility of his hips as he moved forward . . .   He was moving forward, slowly, gliding across the floor so as not to make a sound. He must think I was still asleep. I must let him go on thinking I was asleep. If he knew I was awake he might become violent.   The Master has his moods, Mrs. Eaves had said. Best not to get on the wrong side o’ them.   I clenched my eyes shut. Perhaps he had only come to look at me, as he had stared down at me from his mount earlier today. Perhaps I could bear it if he’d only come to look . . .   I felt a tug on the sheet that lay over me, a minute movement as if the breeze had lifted it, but then it began to slide down, dragging across my breasts, tugging the placket of my nightgown, which I’d left unbuttoned because of the warmth of the night. The cool air tickled my bare skin and to my acute embarrassment I felt my nipples harden beneath the thin cloth. I could feel his eyes on me, a prickling sensation that made the hairs on my legs stand up . . . my bare legs! My nightgown had ridden up around my hips in my sleep. Cool air licked at my thighs, my calves, and finally, as the sheet slipped away in a soft swoosh that sounded like running water, my toes. I lay still, barely daring to breathe, alert for the slightest sound or movement. If he touched me I would scream. I’d have to. But nothing happened. The breeze played across my skin, teasing the bare places— my breasts, the crook of my arm, the inside of my thigh. At last I couldn’t bear it— I risked a peek through slitted eyes . . . and saw nothing. The room was empty.   Had I imagined the shadow at the window? Perhaps I’d tossed the sheet off myself . . . but then I felt something touch the sole of my foot. A breeze warmer than the outside air, warm and moist as breath. The shadow was still there, at the foot of the bed, crouched by my feet, but whether man or dream I could no longer say. The pull it had on me seemed otherworldly. Why else would I lie silent as it breathed on my calf, its breath hot and wet? Why else would I stir only to widen my legs as its breath traveled up my leg? Why else would I close my eyes and give myself over to its rough warmth lapping inch by inch up my thigh? Like a wave lapping at the shore, leaving wet sand as it retreats, and traveling a little farther each time it returns. Insinuating itself into the cracks and crevices, wearing away the stony shore. I felt my own stoniness wear away as the warm tongue found its way into my very center and then licked deeper into the depths I didn’t know I had . . . deep underwater caverns where the surf rushed and boiled, retreated, lapped again, and fi lled me. Retreated, lapped again, fi lled me. I was riding the waves now, borne higher and higher. The room was fi lled with the smell of salt and the roar of the ocean . . . and then the wave dashed me down to the strand.   I opened my eyes and watched the shadow slip away like a retreating tide, leaving me wet and spent as a woman drowned. I knew at last what had happened to me. I’d been visited not by William Dougall— or any other mortal man— but by an incubus. The demon lover of myth.

Editorial Reviews

“Vivid and enchanting . . . Dark’s letter-perfect gothic style is a satisfying tribute to previous gothic novels, and the paranormal elements, including incubi, fae, vampires, and witches, make this a stellar romance.”—Booklist (Top 10 SF/Fantasy)
“[Juliet] Dark develops a complex, detailed world where magic, reason, and gothic literature enjoyably intersect.”—Publishers Weekly