Page 4 of The Prospect's Succubus
Behind my eyes, Hell’s tide pushed up, insistent. Flavors of brine and iron and scorched sugar. The mark at my hip pulsed in time with my heartbeat, a rhythm I knew from centuries of pursuit, never quite sated, always greedy for one more. It was the only thing about me that was honest.
Someone inside me, maybe the girl who used to believe in something, was quietly aghast at my excesses, but I’d long ago learned to mute her. If she ever clawed her way up, she’d be the first to get eaten. I finished myself off too fast, too rough, a little undignified, and when the wave crashed back down, I lay there panting, body arched, one arm thrown over my face, the other hand sticky and trembling. If there was an audience, they’d have thrown roses or called the paramedics.
For a minute, maybe two, I let myself dissolve. No thoughts, no agenda, just the afterburn of sensation rippling through my bones. Even the clock paused, unwilling to tick too loudly in the charged air. This was the rarest of victories, a moment of pure want, untouched by Hell’s bureaucracy or Lilith’s diamond-hard expectations.
Of course, it couldn’t last. Satisfaction is just a stage of hunger, and when the emptiness came back, it found me grinning into the mirror, already plotting new sins.
I stood, let the dress settle where it wanted. Candles leaned in as I passed, flames licking at the air. My reflection in the mirror looked divine and bored—a queen waiting for the next war. I considered making the next move, lining up the kill, but no. I wanted to enjoy this part. Last finish line. Only one shot at it.
The phone on the desk shivered, then started to drift. I stopped it, checked the screen, and watched as the glass face glowed orange for a second, hellfire crawling just underneath. The message was waiting for me:
Time is running out. Results expected immediately.
Lilith never wasted words. I stared at the message, throat pounding. My face in the phone’s dark reflection was warped, like someone was trying to pull me through. A real flinch, deep in memory, a human tic I thought I’d misplaced.
I set the phone down slow. My hand trembled. Once, I caught it and hated it.
“Bitch,” I muttered, but there was no heat in it. Lilith was right, she always was. Time was currency, and she spotted shortfalls faster than anyone.
I closed my eyes, breathed in, and let the confidence settle. The nerves dropped away, leaving behind something even sharper. I opened my eyes, let the color go red. The room flexed around me, electric.
Tonight, I’d get the last soul, and Lilith would have to admit I was the best.
***
The closet was my favorite space. It ran the length of a city block, or felt like it, all slick wood and black velvet, lights tucked to flatter every scrap of fabric. If there’s a wardrobe in heaven, it would covet this. I walked in, trailing fingers over silk and leather, letting myself drift, looking for the right look to close out the hunt.
I stopped at a little black dress. Low enough to qualify as an arrest warrant, a scandal in fabric, the kind of thing that would get you tossed out of the Derby but immortalized downtown. I held it up, studied the line, and laughed. For a moment, my own image was less predator and more high-end escort at a banker’s gala. But that was the point; no one notices the dangerous animal until it starts to feed.
I draped the dress and went for the shoes. Custom, of course. Black patent, red sole, heels dangerously sharp. I slipped them on and watched my legs in the mirror. These legs were created from sin, and every step reminded me what they were really designed to do.
I stripped fast, silk pooling on the carpet, my body catching the light in a flicker of angles and curves. For a second, I didn’t see myself so much as the ghost of who’d been here before—the girl with brown eyes and a talent for survival. I didn’t remember her name, and doubted I’d have liked her, either.
I pulled on the black dress, shimmied it down, and checked the fit. Plunge in the front, nothing in the back. Straps adjusted, I scooped up my old self from the floor, hung the silk up again. I liked my rituals clean, even now.
I moved my hair over one shoulder, and ran fingers through for the shine, then started with the lipstick, an arterial red, the same color as the night I took Grayson’s soul. I popped the cap, leaned close to the glass.
For a flicker, the reflection changed. My face, but scaled, sharpened, the demon version looking back. “You sure you want this?” the eyes seemed to ask. I held the gaze, didn’t look away.
“What am I doing?” I asked, soft, almost lost in the velvet dark. Doubt, real and sour, just for a second. I set the lipstick down, gripped the vanity until my hands ached.
Then it was over. I straightened, shook out my hair, and put the smile back on. “You’re going to win,” I told the mirror, and this time I believed it.
The demon faded behind the flesh and the cosmetics. I painted my lips, blotted, and checked for perfection. One last look, then it was time.
I paused at the threshold and then practiced the walk, the smirk, the way a fingertip glides over a jawline. I bit my lip, not enough to bleed, just enough to remember how. The sway ofmy hips, each click of heel, was appetite given form. Men. The weakest of all species in the Above World. Dress up a pussy, add a pinch of seduction, and fuck the rest.
Clutch in hand, black and slim, just big enough for the essentials. A final spin in the mirror, the dress fitting like sin and success. In another life, I’d have died for this body. In this one, bodies died for me.
I paraded through the apartment, heels loud on marble, candles bowing as I passed. The phone buzzed, but I ignored it. I didn’t need more instructions.
The elevator was waiting, doors open, the hush-purr of expensive machinery. I stepped in, pressed the Lobby button, and watched my image multiply in the chrome, all with the same hungry smile.
“Tonight,” I said to the empty box. I pictured Foster, my target, those near-black eyes, the soul ready to be snapped up.
The doors closed like a secret. The apartment would be waiting, but I wouldn’t be the same when I walked back in.
As the elevator dropped, floor by floor, the focus locked in. Every nerve pulled tight to the night ahead.
