The Darkside of Venus (eBook)

Laurie Bowler (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
326 Seiten
Laurie Bowler (Verlag)
979-8-90046-920-1 (ISBN)

Infos

Invisible. Powerless. Until now. When an ancient spell breaks, one girl discovers she's caught between two worlds - and two loves. But her newfound demon powers come with a deadly price.

Venus has always felt like an outsider in Brooklyn, living a mundane life above her mother's flower shop. When her first date turns into a nightmare, she discovers her mother's devastating secret: she's been using magic to suppress Venus's true nature as a half-witch, half-demon. As Venus's dormant powers explosively awaken, she finds herself torn between two magnetic men: Marcel, her kind-hearted neighbour, and Leon, an intense demon prince who promises to teach her everything about her heritage. But time is running out. Her mother, the powerful High Priestess of the Brooklyn Coven, is preparing a ritual to permanently strip Venus of her demon powers. If Venus can't master her abilities and face her mother before the next full moon, she'll lose not just her powers, but possibly her life. Can she embrace her true nature before it's too late?

This spellbinding Young Adult Paranormal Romance is perfect for readers who love supernatural twists, forbidden love, and powerful heroines. If you enjoy dark magic, demon princes, and heart-wrenching choices, you'll be enchanted by this mesmerising story of self-discovery and supernatural romance.

Unlock this bewitching adventure today!

Textauszug

I lay sprawled across my bed, staring at the burgundy dress hanging on my closet door like some kind of beautiful but terrifying challenge. In just a few days, I'd be wearing that thing on my date with Marcel, and just the thought of it made my stomach do nervous flips.

The dress was way out of my comfort zone.

The neckline plunged deeper than anything I'd ever worn before, revealing cleavage I usually kept carefully covered. The material clung to every curve like a second skin, and the hemline stopped halfway down my thighs—at least six inches higher than I was used to. I wasn't a prude, but I'd always preferred covering up. I liked being modest, safe and invisible.

This dress was the opposite of invisible.

And my mother was going to have an absolute fit when she saw it.

I could already picture her face, with that particular expression of tight-lipped disapproval she'd perfected over the years, the one that made me feel like I was five years old again and had tracked mud through the apartment. The lecture would be epic. Something about self-respect, sending the wrong message, and how young women today have no sense of propriety.

I groaned and rolled over, burying my face in my pillow.

Maybe I should have gone with the pink dress after all.

The next morning, I woke to the familiar sounds of the shop opening below—the usual scrape of the door, my mother's footsteps on the wooden floor and the jingle of keys. I checked my phone: 8:47 AM. Four days until my date.

I dragged myself out of bed and pulled on my jeans and an old NYU sweatshirt I'd gotten at a thrift store. My hair was a disaster, a tangled mess of copper curls sticking out in every direction. I twisted it into a messy bun and headed to the kitchen.

My mother was already gone, downstairs in the shop. She was always downstairs in the shop.

I made myself coffee—strong and black, just the way I'd learned to drink it during exam weeks, and stood at the kitchen window, looking down at the street. The pizza place next door was receiving a delivery, the laundromat was already full of people, and a steady stream of pedestrians hurried past on their way to the subway.

Normal. Mundane. The same as every other morning.

Except my mother had spent all of last night lecturing me about the dangers of going out after dark with Marcel. She'd gone on and on until I wanted to scream. She lectured me about how I didn't know the city as well as I thought I did, how terrible things happened to young women who weren't careful and worst of all, how Marcel was still practically a stranger even though we'd been neighbours for three years.

"You barely know him, Venus," she'd said, her voice tight with worry. "You don't know what kind of person he really is."

"We've lived next door to each other for three years, Mother. I think I know him well enough."

"Three years of casual hallway conversations doesn't mean you know someone."

It had gone on like that for an hour, circular and exhausting, until I'd finally excused myself and locked myself in my room.

Now, desperate to escape the apartment before she came upstairs and started round two, I decided to help out in the shop. At least down there, she'd be too busy with customers to continue her campaign of maternal paranoia.

I finished my coffee, grabbed my phone, and headed downstairs.

The shop was already crowded when I pushed through the door at the bottom of the stairs. It was barely nine in the morning, but at least fifteen people were packed into the small space, moving between the flower coolers and display tables.

Except—and this was something I'd noticed before but never really thought about—they didn't seem particularly interested in the flowers.

Small groups clustered together, whispering with their heads bent close. They held cups of coffee from the place down the street, treating the shop like some kind of community gathering space. Some of them weren't even pretending to look at the merchandise. They just... stood there talking and watching my mother.

It was weird.

I'd thought it before, dozens of times, but never really let myself examine the thought too closely. Our shop made no sense. We were tiny and cramped, with limited inventory and no real advertising. Three other florists on this block alone had gone out of business in the last five years, unable to compete with the online delivery services and big chain stores.

Yet Sparks & Stems thrived.

We were never hurting for money. We lived comfortably—not extravagantly, but we never had to worry about bills. My mother always had cash when we needed it, like it appeared out of thin air.

I remembered when the boiler had broken down two winters ago. It was the middle of January, freezing, and we had no heat or hot water for three days while we waited for the repair estimate. Most people would have had to save up, take out a loan, and figure out a payment plan.

Not my mother.

When the engineer had given her the quote—something like seven thousand dollars for a full replacement—she'd simply whipped out her cheque book and written him a cheque. A blank cheque. "Get whatever's needed," she'd told him, like it was nothing.

The final bill had been well into the thousands, and she'd paid it without even flinching. There was no stress, no worry and no second mortgage. She'd acted like it cost a few hundred dollars instead.

Where did that money come from? We sold flowers. They weren't even fancy flowers—mostly roses, lilies and carnations, the standard stuff. The kind you could get at any grocery store for half the price.

It didn't add up.

Maybe we should just convert this place into a coffee shop, I thought, surveying the crowd of people who clearly weren't here to buy flowers. At least then I'd understand where the money came from.

I spotted my mother near the back of the shop, deep in conversation with the same couple she'd been talking to when Chasity had come over. The woman—middle-aged, with sharp features and perfectly styled silver-blonde hair—was speaking intensely, her hands gesturing as she talked. The man beside her—tall, broad-shouldered, with a stern face—stood perfectly still with his arms crossed.

My mother looked furious.

I could tell from across the room. Her posture was rigid, her shoulders pulled back, and her jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping. There was a vein on her forehead, a tiny one, that was right above her left eyebrow, and it only appeared when she was truly, deeply angry.

That vein looked like it was about to explode.

I weaved through the customers, wondering what could possibly have upset her this much. My mother was usually the picture of composure, especially in front of her customers. She prided herself on her hospitality and on making everyone feel welcome and valued.

But right now, she looked like she wanted to murder someone.

As I approached, she looked up and caught my eye. Her expression shifted instantly—the anger smoothing away and quickly replaced by a bright, false smile.

"Venus, dear, come and meet my friends," she called out, her voice artificially cheerful.

I continued walking toward them, utterly confused. Mother had never introduced me to her friends before. She had plenty of them—people who came to the shop at odd hours, who she'd disappear into the back room with for private conversations—but she'd always kept that part of her life separate from me.

"Hi," I said, offering a polite smile.

"Venus, I would like you to meet my special friends, Zanthus and Zina," my mother said, gesturing to the couple.

I extended my hand, ready for a professional handshake, though my mind was spinning with questions. Special friends? Why had I never met them before? And why did my mother look like she wanted to throttle them?

"Oh wow, she's absolutely gorgeous, Dahlia," the woman—Zina—exclaimed, ignoring my outstretched hand. "You've been hiding her away from us!"

"Nonsense, Zina. You've seen Venus plenty of times," my mother replied, her voice tight.

Before I could react, Zina grabbed my shoulders and pulled me into a hug. I stiffened in surprise with my arms awkwardly hanging at my sides.

"I prefer to hug rather than shake hands," Zina said warmly, her perfume—something floral and expensive—washing over me and nearly choking me. "And I've heard so much about you that it feels like I know you already."

My face flushed hot with embarrassment. This was the first time I'd ever met this woman, and she was hugging me like we were old friends. I patted her back lightly while trying to extricate myself without being rude.

"And this oaf beside me is Zanthus," Zina continued, releasing me and gesturing to the stern-looking man. "Say hello, Zanthus."

Zanthus nodded once—a curt, minimal acknowledgement—and made a grunting noise in the back of his throat. His dark eyes studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he looked away.

He seemed standoffish and deeply uncomfortable, like he wanted to be anywhere else but here.

"Venus, darling," my mother said, her hand landing on my shoulder with slightly too much pressure, "I was just explaining to Zina here that you're applying to join one of the most prestigious colleges in the country."

Zina's perfectly sculpted eyebrows drew together in confusion. Zanthus remained silent, his arms still crossed, but I noticed his attention had sharpened. He was listening intently now.

"Oh," Zina said...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 21.10.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-13: 979-8-90046-920-1 / 9798900469201