Page 16 of Wicked Succubus

We head inside, cautiously making our way up the dingy stairwell to the top floor. The scents of cooking spices, incense, and lived-in humanity mingle in the air. I push away thoughts of this place’s rough exterior as we focus on the strong aroma drawing us in.

The scent grows stronger on the third floor. We follow our noses, not even needing the apartment number now. Just before we reach the mystery door, my phone rings, interrupting the moment. I exchange a look with Rhett, whose raised brow mirrors my own curiosity about who could be calling.

“It’s Banks. ” I ignore it and shove it back in my pocket. It’s not the first time I’ve ignored his call, but he usually hates it when I do it.

I knock softly, but when there’s no response, Rhett pushes me out of the way and slams one heavy foot into the center of the door with a crack of splintering wood.

The smell wafting out of the gaping doorway assaults me, and as we climb over the broken door, it becomes obvious that the spicy scent belongs to a woman. She left a shirt on the dining table, and after lifting it to my face, I tuck it into my back pocket for later.

“She has a man.” Rhett holds up a man’s hoodie and throws it back down on the table. This stops me in my hunt for another piece of her clothing. He growls so loud, and I find myself doing the same. “We need to find her.”

I move to the bedroom, the air here is cooler, her scent less pronounced, suggesting she hasn’t been here for a couple of days. The bed is neatly made with no signs of a speedy departure. Despite the orderliness, there’s an undeniable wear to everything. The drawers, though neatly arranged, show signs of frequent use, the paint chipped at the edges, and the handles slightly tarnished. My eyes sweep over the room, landing on nothing out of the ordinary until a small gleam on the carpet catches my eye.

“If she isn’t here, then where is she?” Bending down, I pick up a business card. The light catches the glossy surface as I turn it over, reading the name printed in bold letters. Special Agent...Cooper. I tuck the card into my pocket, mind racing.

Is she under investigation by the feds? If they got to her already, who knows what they’ll do. She could be imprisoned or worse. The thought makes my blood boil. I meet Rhett’s gaze and see my own resolve reflected there. We aren’t leaving LA until we find her. I don’t know where she’s gone or why, but I swear we’ll track her down. We can’t let Agent Cooper and the FBI get their hands on her. The Arcana Society has ways of hiding people when needed. We’ll keep her safe, I vow silently. No matter what it takes.

Cooper. If he wants a fight over her, he’ll damn well get one.

Chapter 9

Cooper

Zelyah is holding onto her secrets tightly, and I’m going to make it my mission to uncover them all. Her face drains of color as she looks at the victim, but she quickly composes herself, stands straighter, and puts on a neutral face. Her expressions may fool most people, but I can tell she knows something about this girl.

The magic in the air is still going strong. I didn’t notice it at the last crime scene, but I noticed at the first one. I was so distracted by finding Zelyah covered in blood that I missed the smell of dark magic. It leaves a bitter taste in the air. This one is stronger. Some of the supernatural officers and FBI agents had to leave because it’s so pungent it made them sick. There are only five officers left at the scene and six FBI agents.

The living room has been completely ransacked. The brown floral print sofa is pulled apart, and the old heavy drapes have been ripped from the windows. It doesn’t look like any part of this house has been changed since the seventies. The wood-paneled walls hold family photos that have been viciously scratched out in pen, obliterating the subjects’ faces and identities.

This seems like the kind of place vampires would bring their human victims for an addictive fix, away from prying eyes. According to the blood-addled humans I’ve interviewed, a vampire’s bite contains an intoxicating euphoria. But the secrecy of the act means run-down venues like this.

Next to the trashed living room is the kitchen which looks gutted by fire. Charred cabinets hang off hinges. The whole room probably went up during a meth explosion from the looks of it. Surprisingly, the flames didn’t engulf the entire structure. Graffiti tags blanket the remaining walls between obscene drawings. Nothing about the decor evokes a sense of home or care, just filth and neglect. The perfect spot for junkies and bottom-feeders to congregate.

“Who does this place belong to?” I ask.

“I checked into it, Agent Cooper, and records show it’s been abandoned for years. The homeowner died a few years back, and it was taken over by junkies,” Milo, one of our techs, replies.

I nod, gazing around the room. Syringes, broken glass, and filth litter the floors. What a depressing ruin of what was surely once someone’s pride and joy. I come back to the living room where Zelyah and the rest of the agents are standing near the body.

“Did they summon anything?” Agent Rodriguez asks, crouching to examine strange symbols etched into the rotting floorboards.

Beatriz, our occult specialist, closes her eyes, sensing for dark energies. After a moment, she opens her eyes and says, “There’s nothing to show that there’s a high demon being summoned.” My body relaxes. That’s the last thing we need on our plates.

Some high demons are allowed in this world, but the most powerful ones, the ones that are talked about in horror stories, stay in their realm. We don’t allow them to pass. They only wreak havoc. If you think the fae are bad for stealing humans, the demons are worse with their cruel ways. The only way they can show up in a realm is with spells and sometimes sacrifices. It would take someone with a lot of very powerful magic to summon them. Expelling them would be twice as difficult.

Zelyah stands silently rooted in the same spot across the room, staring at the corpse.

“Do you know her?” I watch her movement closely.

She drags her dark brown eyes from the scene and stares deep into my soul. I want to look away, but I can’t. She draws me in. What is it about her?

Her eyes flick back to the corpse before staring at me again. “I met her earlier today—well, last night.”

“So, you’re the last person to see this woman alive?”

She shakes her head, her long coppery hair swaying. “I don’t know. She had a friend with her when we met.”

Her voice is so small and sad that I find myself believing her. If she knew the woman well, there would have been more emotion in her eyes. Heck, when she killed her boyfriend, she looked absolutely sick. Right now, her shock is evident, but she’s not grieving.

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