Page 35 of The Prospect's Succubus
“You’re not leaving,” I said, slow. “We end this together, or we don’t end at all.”
For a second, I thought she’d fight me. She was strong enough to break the circle, if she wanted, and we both knew it. But instead, she slumped, all the fight gone.
She let her head rest on my knee and closed her eyes. “You never give up, do you?”
I stroked her hair back, just once. “Not in the job description.”
Outside, the city howled. Even through the double-glazed windows and reinforced steel, I could hear the sirens, the distant shatter of glass, the low thump of something big moving down the avenue. I checked my phone and found twelve new messages from Vin, all variants of get ready, it’s coming, hold your ground.
I scrolled through the reports, then held the screen up to Jasmine’s face. “See? We’re already famous.”
She squinted, then laughed. It was a broken sound, but it still counted.
“So what now?” she asked.
“We wait. We prep. And when she comes, we fight like hell.”
She grinned, teeth streaked with blood. “I always did want to go out in a blaze.”
I nodded. “We’ll make it memorable.”
The candles flickered, guttered, then flared. For a second, the shadows on the wall looked like wings—huge, black, and hungry.
Jasmine squeezed my hand, hard.
I squeezed back.
Outside, something scraped along the brick. A sound like claws, or knives. The smell of cinnamon grew stronger.
Jasmine met my eyes, and for the first time, I saw the fear was gone. Only the hunger remained.
“Ready?” I asked.
She bared her teeth, and it was beautiful.
“Ready.”
Jasmine
Torch was a one-man MASH unit, and I was the only patient. He’d scavenged the best of mortal medicine and Hell’s worst field remedies and turned his safe room into a demon ICU, all tin foil, chalk, and enough opiates to sedate an elephant. He wouldn’t let me have any, though. Not yet. “You gotta stay lucid,” he kept saying, as if clarity was ever my strong suit.
The room was a bomb shelter for souls on the run. Every inch was layered with symbols like paint, ink, cheap stick-ons from party supply stores, some glowing with power, some flaking to reveal the battered drywall beneath. The mattress he’d hauled in was set dead-center, like a sacrifice waiting for the knife. Overhead, the naked bulb flickered, strobe-lighting the air so every time I blinked, the world reset in a fresh hell.
I lay on my side, clutching a pillow that smelled like blood and expensive whiskey. The brand at my shoulder was the size of a palm print now, hot enough to melt ice through the skin. Itpulsed at random intervals, each one sending a jolt straight to my jaw. I wanted to scream, but Torch had threatened to gag me with a chunk of bar soap if I woke the neighbors again.
The only thing worse than pain is boredom, and the only thing worse than boredom is having Torch hover in full triage mode, muttering to himself while he triple-checked every line and lock. He’d been at it for hours, building the fortress higher while the fire inside me grew.
“You missed a spot,” I rasped, my tongue the texture of sandpaper. “There, by the light switch.”
He didn’t even turn. “You want to draw it yourself?”
“I’m on bedrest. Doctor’s orders.”
Torch grunted, finished his Latin chant with a flourish, and slammed the salt canister down on the shelf. He turned to me, expression all dark humor and shark’s patience. “If you want to die pretty, you better start cooperating.”
I peeled my cheek off the pillow. “How’s your bedside manner with children?”
“Worse.” He checked the brand, pressed two fingers to it, and I bucked so hard I almost sent the mattress through the floor. “Looks like hell,” he said. “No surprise.”
