Page 10 of The Prospect's Succubus
The phone buzzed on the nightstand, a staccato vibration that made my skin jump. I flinched away from it, as if the thing could see me like this. I rolled out of bed and stalked naked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me with more force than necessary.
I stared down the mirror. I dared myself to look, but didn’t. I turned on the tap and let cold water run, then cupped it in my hands and splashed my face again and again. The shock of it brought me back, at least a little. I grabbed a towel and dried off, then forced myself to meet my own gaze in the glass.
The eyes were wrong. Too bright, too hungry, irises flickering red then blue then red again, like a code being sent out into the void. I remembered, for a moment, what it had been like tobe human. The shame, the confusion, the way your heart could betray you at the worst possible moment. Not just once but dozens of times in a lifetime.
I’d thought I was done with all that. But no, here I was, dripping and feral in the pre-dawn bathroom, replaying the details of a dream fuck so violent and perfect that my legs were still shaking.
I laughed again, softer this time. Then I looked away from the mirror, as if it could rat me out to the higher-ups.
The city outside was still dark, but the first hints of blue crept over the horizon. I padded back to the bedroom, not bothering to cover myself, and paced a line between the bed and the glass wall. My mind spun—anger, need, fear, the heady intoxication of knowing there was someone out there who could ruin me if I let him.
I paused at the window and looked down at the carnival grounds, still lit up in the distance, every bulb a tiny memory. I pressed a palm to the glass and imagined his hand meeting mine from the other side. I felt stupid. Then I felt powerful. Then I felt nothing at all.
That’s when the answer hit me.
Of course I could use this. Of course I could make it work. Desire was the only weapon that ever mattered, and if he wanted to chase me, I’d make sure he chased me all the way to Hell and back. The feeling wasn’t a weakness; it was an invitation.
I stalked back to the bed and collapsed on it, arms outstretched, face turned up to the ceiling.
“You think you can hunt me?” I said, voice hoarse but steady. “Let’s see who catches whom, Torch.”
The words hung in the air, bold and desperate and a little bit terrified. I liked the way they sounded. I liked the way they made me feel, like I had teeth again.
I closed my eyes and let the last scraps of the dream curl around me, sweet as rot.
Jasmine
The sun set like a snuff film, last streaks of gold bled out by the clouds over the city. I watched the dark take its slow, greedy bite from the skyline and let the urge pulse through me, harder with every passing shadow. I didn’t bother with pretense or ceremony, just tossed the ruined sheets into the bin, brushed a coat of gloss onto my lips, and found the stilettos that looked like murder weapons. The dress was black again, this time sleeker.
The air outside my building cut right through me, a shock of real cold after too long inside climate-controlled glass and artifice. The carnival sprawled on the other side of the city, a dozen blocks of cheap lights, puke rides, and a population density higher than Hell’s lobby on tax day. I traced a finger over the clutch, feeling the ticket stub from last night folded inside.
I could have taken a car, could have just willed myself there, but I preferred to walk. There’s something about stalking thestreets in heels that makes the power sing under your skin. Every step was a click of the countdown, every block a little blood pressure spike. By the time I reached the fairgrounds, I was already riding the edge, the world tuning itself to a sharper, nastier frequency.
The entrance hit like a wave. Carlisle Carnival was lit up so hard it almost erased the stars, the arch of lights blinking in migraine rhythm. The stink of fried dough and spilled beer slammed into me first, then the layered sweetness of cotton candy and candied apples, then—just under the surface—a thin, almost invisible thread of blood and cold steel. I breathed it in, let the flavors coil through my head, and smiled. It was the best kind of hunting ground: noisy, dirty, everyone running from or toward something.
The crowd was already thick, the kind of chaos that’s designed to drown out conscience. Teenage girls trailed packs of nervous boys, clinging to each other and pretending not to look. Parents steered strollers with military precision, eyes everywhere and nowhere at once. The carnies worked the games with practiced sneer, more predator than prize. Underneath it all, I picked out the beats of a dozen small-time desires, each one a perfect, tiny heat signature.
I wove through the bodies, my presence parting the crowd without effort. I didn’t have to work the charm. The dress did enough heavy lifting on its own, and the rest, well, most men had no defense for the way I looked at them. They just opened, soft as overripe fruit, leaking little secrets with every second of contact.
I stopped at the beer tent because it’s always the richest vein. The frat boys had started early, shirts untucked, faces red, hair greased into helmet shapes. One was already at the stage of shouting, each syllable a dare to the gods or to anyone nearby who’d throw a punch. I slid up to the bar, let my arm brush his, and felt the anticipation ripple through him like static.
“Buy you a drink?” he slurred, already pocketing the cost in the story he’d tell later.
“Only if you can keep up,” I purred back, tilting my head just enough for the light to catch my eyes. The effect was immediate. His pulse went double time, the flush moved down his throat, and his friends all leaned closer, the pack instinct kicking in. I could have drained him right there, and he would have thanked me for it. But I wanted better. I wanted more.
I let him buy the drink, some neon-blue poison in a plastic cup. I didn’t sip because it was never about the drinking. The moment he handed it to me, he took possession of a possibility, and I made sure he saw it. He had a tan line at his wrist and a nervous habit of licking his bottom lip that’d be embarrassing under full sun. In this light, it was sexy in a pathetic way. Maybe desperation really was the universal solvent.
“So what do you do?” he asked, trying to sound casual, but his eyes were glued to my clavicle. I bet he’d rehearsed this in a mirror that morning, hoping for a different target but too polite to admit he’d settled for me.
“Consulting,” I lied, flashing a smile with a little sharpened edge. “I help companies optimize their assets. Sometimes people, sometimes things.” The innuendo sailed right by him; he was already picturing my dress in a puddle on the floor of his dorm room.
He grinned, showing a row of expensive teeth. “That’s so wild, my uncle does mergers and acquisitions for private equity. I was pre-business for, like, a semester? Fucking hated it, but my dad said—” He lost the thread, shaking his head, then tried again. “Hey, you wanna hit the Gravitron?” His hand floated up to my lower back, tentative at first, then settling with slightly more confidence. His friends were already nudging each other with that gross, smug “you got this, bro” grin all college boys inherited with their first jockstrap.
I gave him a once-over, up and down, then flicked my gaze to the friends. “Maybe. You going to introduce me, or should I guess names?”
He looked startled, as if women usually responded with either slaps or silence, then gestured toward his pack. “Uh, yeah. This is Cooper, Travis, and—” He looked at the last one. “—Brooks?” The question mark hung in the air, like maybe the guy would chime in with a real name.
Brooks raised his plastic cup in salute, already drunk enough to have lost most of his vowels. “To the beautiful talent at the bar,” he drawled. Cooper and Travis tried not to look like they’d been waiting all night just to meet me.
