Page 3 of The Prospect's Succubus
I swept the files into a manila envelope and tucked it into the inside pocket of the jacket. No one else was going to join their little photo club if I had anything to say about it.
The final step was the blade. I kept it in a sheath behind my left hip, an old habit from my deployment days. It was a combat knife, but modified, the tang inlaid with thin bands of silver, the edge sharp enough to shave skin from bone. It had a name, but I never said it out loud. Didn’t want to give it ideas.
I grabbed the helmet, considered it, then left it on the desk. Tonight wasn’t about safety.
The city outside was shrouded in dying light, and the sound of distant laughter was audible. I locked the door behind me and walked down the stairwell, boots echoing off the concrete, each step a countdown.
At the street, I fired up the Harley and let the engine shatter the silence. The wind stung my face, but I barely felt it. The scars were singing now, brighter and hotter than ever. By the time I reached the edge of the carnival, the blue-white lines on my arms were visible through the jacket, casting flickering shadows on the gas tank and my clenched fists.
I stopped a block short and killed the engine. The smell of popcorn and fryer grease mingled with something feral, something that curdled the air and made the back of my throat itch. I lit a cigarette with a flick of my fingers, flicked the ash, and stared down the carnival lights.
Tonight, I was the monster in the dark. And if the succubus wanted a dance, I’d make sure it was her last.
I rolled my shoulders, took a long drag, and started walking.
Let the hunt begin.
Jasmine
There’s nothing pure about a blank canvas; even less about a white leather sofa that cost more than a Kentucky mortgage and looked better decorated in blood. This was furniture that didn’t ask, it ordered, and I stretched out across it like the world’s most expensive centerpiece, striking a pose worth at least some minor sin. One heel dangled from my toe, the slow arc and swing of it suggesting either laziness or calculation, maybe both. My eyes went violet for the afterglow, but let someone knock on the door without warning, and the color would go blood-deep, a warning flare straight out of nature’s playbook.
The penthouse spread out around me, edges sharp and clean, light catching on glass and steel, but the shadows in the corners huddled together like little conspirators. The windows were cut from floor to sky, city on display, carnival lights blinking, but I didn’t care about the spectacle outside. My attention was on thegiant mirror across from the couch, custom glass, ten feet wide, beveled like a blade. You could fall into that reflection and never crawl out. I checked myself in it and grinned, pleased.
Let’s do a little self-inventory. Hair black, long, and tangling itself into knots that could keep a lover busy all weekend; skin flawless, not technically my own, but who’s counting, and perfect enough to scare an Instagram influencer; the dress, silk, color of wine right out of the vein, barely covered enough to count. The look was dangerous and deliberate, a warning label in the language of temptation.
I flexed, stretching one bare leg along the cold white leather, the kind of shiver that makes you appreciate being alive (or something close). The room was more like a stage than a home. Candles were everywhere, a dozen at least, flames sharp and steady, not an inch of wax lost; a fireplace that flickered just for show, never fed but always hungry; the grandfather clock outside with a tick-tock so steady it could pace out the end of the world.
Across the room, the mirror trembled. Most people wouldn’t notice, but I did, and I liked it that way. My little glitch in the fabric, a signal that in this apartment, reality was more guideline than rule. Sometimes visitors noticed and went pale. Sometimes they noticed and started to beg.
I reached for the cut-crystal decanter and filled a glass with two fingers of bourbon. The glass cost most of somebody’s paycheck, and the ice cubes were hand-cut, imported. I drank, let the whiskey burn off the leftovers from the last soul I’d eaten.
Three delivered clean to Hell, not a single one lost to Heaven’s customer-service department. That was my streak, and I planned to run it up.
I set the glass down, careful not to leave lipstick, and let myself wander back through the highlights. Grayson was beautiful, dumb, and as easy to steer as a sports car on a wet road. Vargas,who actually tried to win but didn’t know where the finish line was. Walters, whose secret kinks I’d mapped out before he’d finished his confession. Picked them all at peak ripeness, made sure they matched the order slip from the Third Circle.
Lilith would be impressed, but with demons, approval always felt like something between a compliment and a loaded gun. Promotion was already on the table, which meant whoever I picked next was either a formality or the world’s nastiest job interview.
I ran my fingers through my hair, catching a snarl that hadn’t been there a moment ago. I tugged it free, sharp and sweet and a little bit nostalgic. Maintenance, even for something this perfect, took work. For a second, I thought about my own first time, the taste of fear and sex and power, salt in chocolate. I wondered if my marks knew, when I leaned over them in the end, that their hunger was a mirror for mine.
The clock hit the hour. I watched for a new ripple in the mirror. Nothing. The apartment was quiet as a tomb at sea. My phone sat black and patient, already waiting for Lilith to check in.
I hiked my dress, let a hand trace up my thigh, and admired the skin, flawless enough to break the internet if I wanted it. Some nights I missed what it was to chase and seduce. But tonight, with the line in sight, I felt almost calm. Dangerous kind of calm.
My hand found the brand at my hip, the mark only demons see, and invisible to mortals, but always burning when I remembered my place. Tonight, I was the one who hunted. Tonight, I was the fucking prize.
The bourbon was gone. The ice was an afterthought, melted to one neat little droplet. I tipped the glass, played with the light, and thought about the last soul I’d need to finish the set.Man? Woman? Maybe a real challenge next time. Hunt a hunter, someone who might even get close?
The idea made me laugh, short and cold and sharp.
I parted my legs, thinking about the possibilities, and let my fingers slip between my wet cunt.
My nails, lacquered a lascivious violet, flashed in the low light as I drew a lazy line through the slick heat. I pictured the faces, every one of them. Grayson’s dopey drunken smile, the giddy awe on Vargas, the terror trailing Walters’s last hard gasp. How easily they opened to me, how neatly their secrets spilled out, sticky and sweet. I moaned, just a little, just enough to fog the glass of the coffee table. If there were angels in earshot, I wanted them to hear.
This was my ritual, the closest I had to prayer. If I’d believed in gods, I would have called it an offering. Instead, I treated it like a business meeting. My thighs tensed; my hips curled up, presenting an invitation to every voiceless ache hanging in the penthouse. I found my rhythm, slow, then mean, then slow again.
I let myself imagine the next candidate, the one I’d save for last and savor like the last smoke before an execution. I could try for a bishop, but the clergy was oversold, supply chain issues in Hell, apparently. A socialite sounded dull; they were just flesh-wrapped black holes, nothing left to tempt or twist. Maybe a rival demon’s pet project?
Why stop there? I thought about the lesser celebrities of my own acquaintance, mortal and immortal. The geek from the carnival who’d tried to mansplain tarot to me over a burnt corn dog; the hedge fund manager who spent weekends at the local dungeon and thought his secrets were safe. I could take them both, devour their pride and deli-cold shame, and make it last for days. The thought made me shudder, and I pressed harder, knuckles whitening against my own thigh. My reflection in themirror was hungry and close to deranged, hair spilling like oil over my shoulders, jaw slack with the promise of satisfaction.
