Page 20 of The Prospect's Succubus
He was kneeling at the edge of the altar, leather jacket creaking every time he shifted. His scars glowed faintly under the ruin of the church’s main window, blue-white and alive, like he’d tattooed his nerves on the outside to save time. His head was bowed, but I could tell he was tracking me—every footstep, every shiver in the air. If I so much as sneezed, he’d have the 1911 on me before I finished the exhale.
“Are you expecting company, or just planning to redecorate?” I called. My voice sounded too loud, too brittle.
He didn’t look up. “You made good time,” he said, voice slow and thick as bourbon molasses. “Didn’t think you’d come.”
“I’m not here for you,” I lied. “It’s the beacon. You’ve been broadcasting your location like a Chernobyl test run.”
He snorted, but it was a joyless sound. “Figured it’d work. You never could resist a straight line.”
“Careful,” I said, letting the demon seep into my words. “I could surprise you.”
“Not tonight.” He finally looked up, and it almost knocked me flat. The eyes were too clear, too sharp, not a trace of fear or hope in them. Just the hunger, and the certainty that this was going to end badly for someone.
I drifted up the aisle, keeping one heel outside the salt line just in case he’d loaded it with explosives. My skin itched everywhere the light touched. Some idiot priest must have blessed this place three times over, and the residue still buzzed like an old electric fence. The closer I got, the worse it stung, but I forced a smile. Never let them see you sweat.
He stood, slow and deliberate. Even with the scars and the haunted eyes, he moved like a soldier with no wasted motion, all muscle and math. The jacket made him look even bigger, as if he’d layered on the world’s regret as body armor.
“You want to tell me why I can’t stay away?” I asked. “Or are you hoping I’ll figure it out before you set the trap?”
He ignored the jab. “You ever been to confession?”
I blinked. “You really want to go there?”
He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “You ever wanted something you knew would ruin you? Not the usual demon shit, but real want. The kind that makes your teeth ache?”
I felt my mouth go dry. “Yeah. Once or twice.”
He nodded, satisfied, as if I’d confirmed something he’d suspected since the first kill. “That’s what this is. You keep coming because you want to. I keep letting you because I need to.”
“How was last night’s dream?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Too real.”
“You didn’t enjoy it?”
He chuckled again. “It wasn’t enough, Jasmine. I want so much more that I can’t think straight.”
I looked around the room. “Looks like you’re mind is pretty clear.”
“Fuck, Jasmine. I gotta do something. We can’t keep going in this direction. The road has to fork or some shit like that.”
“So what’s the plan, Torch?” I spat his name out like a challenge. “You tie me up, drag me back to Hell, and hope Lilith sends you a fruit basket?”
He flinched at the name, just a flicker, but it was enough. I filed it away for later.
“I’m not here to collect you,” he said, and for the first time, I heard the weariness under the anger. “I just want it to stop.”
I laughed, and it was so bitter it gave me heartburn. “You think killing me ends it? There’s always another Jasmine. Always another girl with a quota and a clock.”
“Maybe I want it to end for both of us.” His eyes burned brighter than the window behind him.
The air in the church thickened, every atom charged. I watched his hands, waiting for the flicker that meant a weaponwas coming, but he just stood there, letting the scars do the talking. My own marks throbbed, the tattoo at my hip searing like someone had jabbed it with a cattle prod.
“I’m not here to play martyr,” I said, soft but sharp. “You could have finished this a dozen times. So why wait?”
He smiled, and for a second it was the old smile, the one I’d dreamed about every night since the carnival. The smile that promised violence and absolution in the same breath.
“Because I wanted you to see it coming,” he said.
