Page 12 of The Succubus's Song

“Hey, hey.” Emmett held his hands up in defeat, a mischievous smile on his face. “So I did. If you must know…” Emmett paused. “Mara demanded to be personally responsible for keeping your ass out of trouble.”

Finley’s heart stopped. “She… She what?”

“I know.” Emmett looked equally surprised. “She wanted to make sure I knew.”

“She wants to protect me?” In that moment, Finley’s entire body was lighter than air.

“That’s what she said.”

“From her family?”

“Well, I don’t think she wants to protect you from kelpies,” Emmett chuckled to himself as if this were a grand joke, although Finley didn’t entirely understand it.

“She’s reacting this way just because she saw her sister last night?”

Emmett sobered and motioned in the direction of the exit. He sighed as they started to walk out together. “It’s a complicated story. What you need to understand is that Mara feels abandoned by her family, and seeing her sister again probably brought up a lot of painful memories.”

“What painful memories?”

I’ll kill them. Finley’s thoughts were uncharacteristically violent, and the strength of them surprised him.

“That’s for a different day,” Emmett huffed as he pushed the library door open, and they stepped into the fresh air, “but it means Mara is going to bring all of ‘er sheep home.”

“Uh…” Finley paused on the steps. “Her what?”

“Her sheep, you know, her herd. Flock?”

“I’m a sheep?”

“Fuck it,” Emmett grumbled. “It means Mara is feeling incredibly protective over who she feels is her real family now. And Finn… Today we both learned that means you.”

CHAPTER SIX

Mara walked into The Devil’s Advocate in a sour mood. After leaving Emmett’s office, she’d ignored his warnings about feeding. She kept the equivalent of a small blood bank in her apartment fridge for times such as these, but seeing her sister was triggering enough. She was desperate to keep her nature at bay, and feeding at a time like this would only serve to remind her of her own self-loathing.

The Devil’s Advocate was a brick-lined pub, not too far away from the university. The ceilings were low, laden with heavy wooden beams, and the rooms were small. The building itself was an old Victorian pump house, which was apparent in its mismatched stone and mortar walls. A black iron fence covered in ivy half-obscured the front entrance and most natural light. Every table had a wine bottle that served as a candle holder, dripping and covered in wax, and barrels lined the walls.

Mara had been coming to this same restaurant since 1915, after it was converted from a pump house to a pub. It’d changed hands several times, but she was rather fond of its current face. It was dark, moody, and no one bothered a woman who came there to sit alone.

If someone is in my fucking seat, I swear, today is not the day.

The hostess nodded at Mara in recognition and pointed towards the back, signaling that her preferred table was available. Mara walked in and out of the small crowds milling about the restaurant like smoke, feeling a sense of relief and gratitude wash over her when she sat down at her favorite table. It was in the farthest corner of the pub, allowing her to keep an eye on all the patrons without a blind spot.

Try as she might, it was impossible for Mara to be anything but a predator.

She struggled with the amount of strength it was taking to keep her glamour in place. A pair of sunglasses were perched on her head just in case, and she attempted to distract from her feral expression by wearing the tightest dress she owned. It was a slinky, spaghetti-strapped, black cocktail dress that stopped just above her knee, and judging by every man’s expression when Mara walked by, none of them were focused on her face.

Or the fact that her fingernails kept changing length.

Mara cursed when she saw her waiter approaching her. She’d been hoping for a waitress—there would be less temptation. Not zero, but less. The server approached Mara, and she forced herself to take shallow breaths. The headache she was battling was dangerously close to a migraine.

“What can I get for you this evening, ma’am?” he asked politely, but Mara could smell his fear, and she noticed how he stood a little too far away.

Good. Be fucking afraid. Those are your instincts, foolish mortals.

Mara crossed her ankles underneath the table and tilted her head to the side, giving the waiter a sly smile.

“Two fingers of Ardbeg 5 Wee Beastie, and the ribeye, please.” Mara smirked at the waiter’s shocked expression.

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