Page 18 of The Prospect's Succubus
After Vin left, the apartment shrank to a single point, every candle wick down to the last black twist. I stalked the perimeter, checking every ward, every lock, every pinch of salt. There was nothing left to fix, but I did it anyway. If you’d asked me, I’d have said it was about discipline, about not letting my guard slip for even a second. But the truth is, the real monsters are the ones that make you second-guess your own shadow.
Even someone spat out from Hell needed rest, so I headed to the bedroom and lay on the bed, placing the 1911 on the nightstand, before killing the light. I closed my eyes, and when I fell into sleep, she visited my dreams.
She found me in the only bar in Hell that pretends to serve you twice. I’d been here before—call it purgatory for the thirsty—with a countertop so scorched that the wood curled in on itself, and a mirror behind the bottles that only matched your face if you were in the mood to lie. The place was practically a waiting room for missed chances. And that was where I saw her, arms splayed across the sticky lacquer, eyes fixed on the glass in front of her as if it might pour the next move straight into her hand.She wore the same dress as the night at the carnival, only now it looked less like a performance and more like a last stand. The straps slid off her shoulders, the fabric clung where it should've let go, and the hem rode up her thigh like it was trying to run for its life. Her hair, a tangle of black desperation, trailed down her back and dripped over one half-open eye. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was waiting for me, but succubi didn’t wait for anything they could have right now.
I considered turning around, but my feet didn't get the memo. I took the stool beside her, letting the air collapse between us. She didn’t look over, just pushed her glass toward the bartender, a lump of a man whose left hand was made of something that looked, and probably was, bone.
“Two,” she said, voice flat. “Make it the house special.”
The bartender grunted and poured something thick and black from a bottle with a label I couldn’t read. I watched it curl into the shot glass, absorbing the light around it.
“You're persistent,” she said, finally glancing at me, her eyes catching the bar’s red neon and spitting it back out like a warning flare. “Not a compliment, by the way.”
“Not looking for one.”
She smiled, but not like it was funny.
The bartender set down the shots. I downed mine. It tasted exactly how I expected: asphalt, old regret, the rubber band snap of pain just before your vision whites out. She drank hers slow, rolling it on her tongue.
I leaned in, elbows on the bar, and pushed the glass back. “Should I be flattered, or just pissed you’re haunting me now?”Jasmine’s laugh was a low hum, all vibration and no joy. “You weren’t supposed to make it this far.”
“Either of us?”
“I’ve made it plenty far,” she said, twisting the glass in her hand. “You, on the other hand, were supposed to go home. Or, if you couldn’t manage that, fuck off long enough for me to finish what I’m here for.”
It was almost domestic, the way we sat there. Two tired souls at last call, working through a script neither of us believed in. Around us, the rest of the bar was a blur, glass-walled and out of focus, every patron locked in their own loop of nothingness. It was just us at the center, every other body retreating to the edges like we were a nuclear event about to go critical.
“So tell me,” I said. “What is it you’re here for?” I made it sound like I was honestly curious, but the truth was, I already knew the answer. She was here for me.
“Does it matter?” She reached over and plucked the shot glass from my hand, rolling the rim along the inside of my palm. “If I told you, would you believe it?”
“Try me.”
Jasmine leaned in, her voice a whisper that fluttered like moths inside my skull. “I’ve had a thousand jobs, Torch. But you—” her eyes locked onto mine, and the rest of the bar fell away “—you’re the only thing on my report card. That’s what’s funny about Hell. Even if you do everything right, there’s always one last test.”
I could see the pain behind her bravado, the fatigue of centuries ground down into ash. I wanted to say something clever, something that would paint me as the predator, but I couldn’t. I was just another ghost waiting for a chance to move on.She let go of the glass and slid her hand up my arm. Her nails were painted black, chipped at the tips, and the touch was both a promise and a threat. “Do you want to know how it ends?” she asked, her breath hot against my ear.I nodded, words failing me.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then Jasmine’s hand left my arm and dropped into my lap. She squeezed, her grip more possessive than seductive, and I realized I had no more control over this than she did. Here in the dead bar, she was the only real thing left.
She stood, dragging me up with her, and the rest of the world flickered and collapsed. There was only the back hallway, a door with no sign, and a flight of stairs that wound down into black.
I followed, resisting the urge to count the steps. The walls pulsed with a red light that wasn’t coming from anywhere I could see, and the shadows curled around my feet, slowing me down, daring me to run.
At the bottom, the hallway opened into a room that looked like it was meant to be a sex dungeon, but had been abandoned after the first murder. There was a bed with metal posts, a table covered in rusted shackles, and a rack of whips, canes, and implements designed to make you beg for forgiveness.
She pushed me onto the bed. The springs groaned, ancient and exhausted, but the mattress was soft, almost inviting.Jasmine climbed onto my lap, straddling my thighs, her knees pinning me in place. She cupped my chin in her hand, forcing me to look up at her.
“You could kill me,” I said, and meant it. “Or fuck me. I’m not picky.”
Her smile went sharp, lips curling back to show the edge of her demon. “Why not both?”
She bit my lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, then sucked at the wound, tongue flicking over the split skin. The pain was electric, rerouting every nerve in my body. She reached between us, her hand slipping into my jeans, fingers finding cock as if she’d known it her whole life.
I hissed, knees shaking, but she wouldn’t let me move. She stroked me once, twice, slow and deliberate, then unbuttoned me with her free hand, working the zipper down in one smooth motion. She pulled me out, already hard enough to ache, and let me throb against the cold air.
“You smell like guilt,” she said, palming my cock between her hands, working the length like a prayer bead. “It’s my favorite flavor.”I reached for her, but she pinned my wrists above my head with a single hand, nails digging crescents into my skin. Someone else might have called it violence; I called it foreplay.
Jasmine grinded down, her heat soaking through the thin strip of silk that pretended to be underwear. She peeled the dress up and over her hips, exposing the lines of her body, the impossible symmetry of her curves. The mark at her hip glared at me, an ugly signature from below, and for a second I thought about tearing it off with my teeth.
