Page 21 of The Prospect's Succubus
I stepped closer, toes almost to the edge of the salt. The church was a fever dream now, the air packed so tight with intent that it felt like a living thing. Every breath scraped the inside of my throat, and the blood behind my eyes pulsed in time with his scars.
“Then do it,” I whispered. “Get it over with.”
He moved—fast, but not fast enough to scare me. He crossed the salt line, stepped up to me, close enough that I could see the flecks of silver in his stubble. His hand came up, not with a gun or a knife, but bare, palm open, as if he was about to touch my face.
Instead, he stopped an inch away. The heat from his skin made the world tilt.
“You’re calling me,” I said, suddenly breathless. “You’re the reason I can’t leave.”
He nodded, and it looked like it hurt.
The moment held, tight as a wire, neither of us willing to snap it first.
I should have screamed, or run, or spat in his eye. Instead, I just stood there and let the need crawl through me, sharp and sour, all the way down to the bones.
“Why can’t I stay away from you?” I said, and the question tasted like blood.
His eyes locked on mine, blue-white and endless.
“You already know,” he said.
And I did.
The church was supposed to be a two-player game. But the universe—Hell, specifically—loved nothing more than a good twist, and as the air tightened, I felt the new presence before it even hit the door. It started as a chill at the base of my spine, then a greasy pressure behind my eyes. Torch must’ve felt it too; the hair on his arms stood up, and the scars lit to a low simmer, brighter than before.
He turned, scanning the nave. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t reach for the gun yet. I edged one heel back, just in case, but it wasn’t him I was worried about.
The side door groaned open, the hinges giving up a scream. Something squeezed in sideways, hunched low, skin sloughing in wet folds that steamed in the old church air. It was tall, even bent double—seven feet, maybe, with arms too long and legs jointed the wrong way. Its face was a rubber mask stretched over a baboon skull, eyes wet and pink as peeled grapes. Every inch of it was wrong, a nightmare sopping in tar and willpower.
I recognized the signature. Lilith’s, right down to the pheromone haze that rolled out with it, all scorched honey and moldy velvet. An observer, probably. Sent to make sure the job was finished, or to record it for the home office.
Torch’s voice dropped, a growl ripped from the bottom drawer. “This one’s new.”
I kept my eyes on the thing, letting the demon inside have the wheel for once. “She’s not here to talk.”
The observer’s head twitched, each time too fast to track. It didn’t look at me, or at Torch, but somewhere in the space between us, as if that was the meal worth having.
It was still blocking the only good exit.
Torch shifted left, hand grazing the handle of the gun, and the creature’s gaze snapped to him. The lips peeled back, a row ofmismatched teeth shining, half of them canine, the other half a child’s baby teeth, small and pearly. It hissed, a wet, sucking noise, and one long arm uncurled to tap the floor with hooked fingers.
“Company policy,” I muttered. “Never let the bait walk out.”
Torch barely nodded. “We work together, or it rips us both.”
It wasn’t a question, and for once, I was fine with the answer.
The observer moved first—always the way with these things. It went for speed, a blur across the pews, claws shredding wood and leaving splinters flying like confetti. Torch dove, rolled behind a pillar, and the creature smashed through two rows of benches with a noise like a train hitting a piano.
I stayed still, let the thing come. At the last second, I sidestepped, let the momentum carry it past, then slashed out with my own nails, which had already started to blacken and curl. My hands weren’t the elegant blades I preferred, but they were good enough for this. I caught its shoulder, and my fingers sank up to the second knuckle in flesh that squirmed around the wound, then sealed over as if nothing had happened. The pain just made it madder.
Torch threw the first chain, and it looped around the observer’s ankle with a snap. Holy iron, burned with the names of a half-dozen dead saints. The thing howled, a noise that almost split my ears, and jerked backward, dragging Torch across the floor. He held on, boots skidding, then planted a heel and yanked. The demon toppled, momentum carrying it face-first into the stone, but it didn’t stay down.
I went for the eyes. A rookie move, but I was angry and I wanted to hurt something. The thing caught my wrist mid-swing and twisted, hard enough to pop the joint. My bones healed fast, but the pain was real. It threw me into the altar, splintering the old wood and sending the arsenal clattering to the floor.
Torch was up in a flash, the chain in one hand and the 1911 in the other. He fired three times, and every shot hit home, the rounds punching through the observer’s chest and trailing ribbons of thick, black smoke. Each hit slowed it a little, but the wounds closed almost instantly, sucking in air and spitting out the holy metal.
“Try the salt!” I yelled, scrambling to my feet. The left hand was useless, but the right was already growing a new nail.
