Page 7 of The Prospect's Succubus
“Nice night for a date,” she said, voice velvet on the edge of a blade. “Or are you working?”
I didn’t blink. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
She cocked her head, eyes drilling into mine, as if she could see every fucked-up thing I’d done in the last five years. “You always stalk your marks, or am I just special?”
I felt my lips twitch. She wanted a reaction, and I wasn’t about to give her the one she wanted. “You stand out. Even here.”
She laughed, low, genuine. “I try.”
A breeze cut between us, and for a second, the crowd noise dropped away. It was just the two of us, staring each other down across a gulf of old sin.
I could have shot her. My finger was already curling against the trigger. But I didn’t. She watched my hand, saw the tension, and bared her teeth. It wasn’t a threat but more like a dare.
“You’re not like the others,” she said, quiet. “You actually know what I am.”
I shrugged, but my throat was dry. “Doesn’t mean you get to walk away.”
She smiled again, a little softer, and her eyes did that thing where they went from violet to crimson, like a signal flare for the damned. “Maybe I’m not trying to.”
The space between us was all sulfur and fire. I felt the pull, more honest than I’d ever admit. The scars on my arms pulsed so bright the light bled through the sleeve, blue against the night.
She leaned in, close enough for me to see the tiny gold flecks in her eyes. “What’s your plan, soldier? Shoot me in the middle of the crowd? Burn down the carnival?”
“If I have to,” I said. My voice was steadier than I felt.
She grinned, sharp and perfect. “You could try. But I like you. You should know that before we dance.”
For a second, I was lost. Actually lost, like a private falling through a floor in a blackout. She was the enemy, the thing I’d spent every night prepping to destroy, but looking at her, all I felt was the hunger. Not for her, no, not exactly. For the end, whatever it was. For the moment when all the tension snapped, and I could finally let go.
She saw it. She leaned closer, lips at my ear. “Don’t follow me tonight,” she whispered. “I want you to come find me tomorrow. When you’re ready.”
Then she was gone, slipping into the crowd, a ripple of black silk and impossible grace. I watched her go, unable to move, unable to breathe, until the last trace of perfume was swallowed by the stink of fried dough and spilled beer.
I stood there, rooted to the ground, feeling the afterburn in every nerve. The scars on my arms faded down to a soft, sullen glow. For the first time since I crawled out of my grave, I felt alive.
I let my hand drop from the gun. The hunt was on, but for the first time, I wasn’t sure which of us was the predator.
Hell had given me something to chase.
Jasmine
When the penthouse door latched shut, I exhaled a breath I’d been holding since the moment our eyes met. The security system whispered a confirmation beep, but it may as well have said, “You’re not safe, even here.” The city glared in through floor-to-ceiling glass, high enough that the carnage of street level was academic, the bourbon lights smearing the horizon and licking up the glass in greasy ribbons. I kicked off my heels at the threshold, first left, then right, and each one spun once before skidding to a stop on white marble. For a second, I considered leaving them there. Instead, I picked them up, lined them up like good soldiers, and tried to shake the tremor in my hand.
The foyer was intentional with its black marble streaked with fossilized gold, custom lighting that cut every edge like a blade, and a hall table where I’d arranged a sacrificial display of rare orchids, all magenta and venomous, their perfume somewherebetween sex and violence. The effect was deliberate. Most guests tripped on the threshold and caught themselves with an apology, but I’d designed this space for predation, not hospitality. I loved Hell but didn’t want that type of decor in the Above World.
I stalked past the orchids, down the hall, past the guest bath (never used), and into the main chamber, which opened like a mouth, everything clean, cold, and expensive, except for the tangle of candles on the coffee table and an expensive rug, crimson and wild. The city was a dead thing behind the glass, neon and LED pulsing on the surface, but nothing alive in it. I set the clutch down, fingered open the zipper, and felt for the old brass lighter nestled between a lipstick and a spare pair of earrings. The lighter was a trophy, stolen from a corpse who’d begged for mercy in three languages and died in all of them.
I flicked it open and set flame to the first candle, then the second, then all the rest in a line. It was a habit, not a necessity; demons don’t need light to see, but we prefer to do our dirty work in full illumination.
I collapsed onto the sofa, legs splayed, and stared at the mirror wall opposite, ten feet by twelve, beveled and merciless. My reflection stared back, glassy-eyed, dress still painted on from the carnival, hair in disarray, lipstick slightly smeared at the right corner. For a moment, the illusion faltered. Beneath the flush and the sweat, the outline of my true form pressed at the surface, showing scales like oil on water, violet iridescence crawling up my neck, a hint of fangs just behind the lips. I blinked, steadied my breathing, and watched as the face in the mirror smoothed itself back into perfection. Old tricks, well practiced.
The memory of Torch’s stare hit me low, just under the ribs, as if someone had twisted a wire there and then walked away, leaving it humming. It wasn’t just recognition, though that was rare enough; it was the way he’d looked at me, like he knew everybad thing I’d ever done and wanted to add a dozen more to the list.
I felt a chill, which was almost funny, given the heat he radiated.
The dress was an issue, clinging to skin gone too tight. I peeled it off, careful not to rip the silk, and left it draped over the arm of the sofa. The cold was good; it focused the mind. I reached for the bar cart and poured a glass of Pinot, the kind that cost a week’s wages for a normal human. The glass was thin enough to shatter if you looked at it the wrong way. I tilted it, watched the wine crawl up the sides, and took a sip.
It tasted flat. I set the glass down and didn’t bother wiping the smear of lipstick from the rim.
