Page 58 of Incubus

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Lilah

I COULDN’T BELIEVEmy eyes. It was Farrow, right in front of me. It was as if I were struck by lightning, incredulous that it happened but also in a delirious awe. Here he was, up to the same old tricks. All I could do was walk out into the lights, closer to the male to make sure it was actually him. After all these years.

I’d tried several times to track him down after I’d been exiled, intent on killing him and using his pelt as a rug. But I never came close to catching him. He was always on the move, able to flit among the three worlds—Earth, Olympus, and the Underworld—with an ease that bespoke some monumental connection to a god or, more likely for him, a goddess.

Now here he was, right in front of me. The true Farrow. Drunk, a vomit stain on the front of his shirt, and making an X-rated public display with two witches. My feet carried me of their own accord. Step after step toward the male who had ruined my immortal life, had taken everything away from me with his easy smile and cunning. The closer I got, the surer I became, until I was standing right in front of him, looking up into those seemingly guileless blue eyes, now bloodshot.

“Hi, sweetheart.” He disentangled himself from his current wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am victims. He unsteadily ran a hand through his hair, still the color of fine summer hay. “Long time, no see.”

The witches seemed none too pleased that I was distracting Farrow’s attention and began pawing at him again. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, girls, I’d uh, I’d like you to meet, uh, to meet—”

Un-fucking-believable.“Lilah.”

“Right, Lilah. Come here.” He draped his arm around me. I stood frozen to the spot, my past and present melding into the awkward mélange of same old Farrow and older and wiser Lilah. The wolf I’d hated for so many years, hated with the passion of the sun that burned off Icarus’s wings, was here in front of me. I could stab him and play in his blood, and I was certain the warlock at the door wouldn’t lift a finger to save him. I could cut off his wolfhood that he held so dear and run screaming through the streets of Paris with the goods held high over my head.

I could do any number of vengeful things—things that I’d had a century to perfect in my imaginings—but for reasons I couldn’t fathom, I didn’t feel hatred for him anymore. As his alcohol-laden breath wafted into my face and the witches began to get even more catty for his affections, all I felt for him was…pity.

“There’s plenty of Farrow to go around.” His words slurred into each other. “Let’s all four of us have a threesome.”

I almost laughed out loud. He was a pathetic creature who would never know love or feel a true bond with another person—mortal or immortal, fairy or demon.

I took a step back. “Listen, Farr—”

Farrow went sailing out into the street, only stopping when he hit a lamppost and broke it in two.

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