Page 13 of The Prospect's Succubus
I kept scanning, letting the headache steer me. When the pain spiked, I knew I was getting close.
The bearded lady was gone from her tent, replaced by a juggler with a skin condition that looked contagious from fifty yards. I ignored the acts, the barker, the crowd, even the smell of food, which now, thanks to Jasmine’s brain virus, reminded me of the kitchens in Hell, all rot and caramelized despair. I scanned for exits, shadows, and places a succubus would go to reload after a near-miss.
That’s when I saw her.
She was at the far end of the carnival, striding through the muck in bare feet now, shoes abandoned. Her hair trailed behind her like spilled oil, her dress streaked with blood and dirt. She moved slow, not from injury, but with a confidence that dared you to follow. I did, of course. What else was I good for?
She ducked behind a funhouse, then crossed the path to the fortune teller’s tent, a gaudy canvas job staked at the very edgeof the parking lot. The sign above the flap promised answers, futures, closure. What it didn’t mention was that the only thing you got inside was a good con and a lighter wallet.
I watched her slip inside, then counted to ten. My arms burned, the sigils on my skin flickering under the blacklight. I rolled my shoulders, tried to shake the fever. It didn’t go away. If anything, the need got worse. Not just the need to kill her. Something deeper. A hunger I didn’t want to name.
I crossed the path, ignored the carny in the turban out front, and ducked through the flap. Inside, the air was thick with incense and dollar-store mysticism, but under it, I smelled her—sweat, perfume, and that coppery tang of something not-quite-human.
She sat at the round table, legs crossed, arms folded, eyes closed like she was meditating. She looked up when I entered, and for the first time, the mask cracked. Just a flicker, but it was there, her fear.
We stared each other down. Neither of us spoke.
I raised the gun, kept it pointed at the dirt floor. "You run out of party tricks?" I asked, voice sandpaper.
She smiled, sad and sly. "Not yet."
I felt the headache spike. For a split second, the room warped—torches on the walls, a throne in the corner, Lilith’s face swimming up out of the shadows. I blinked, and it was gone.
"Why me?" I asked, before I could stop myself.
Her smile twisted. “Because you’re the only one here who knows what the fuck I am.” She pressed two fingertips together and let her chin drop to them, studying me like I was a lottery ticket she didn’t know whether to scratch. “That’s rare these days. Usually, I have to pretend a lot longer.”
The air in the tent crawled. “You don’t strike me as the sentimental type.”
“I’m not.” She flicked her eyes to the curtain behind me, as if making sure no one was about to jump in and spoil the moment. “But I am a scientist of sorts. I like to test the limits.”
“So that’s what I am to you. A lab rat?”
“You wish,” she said. “You’re the last one on my list. That gives you a kind of… significance.” She paused on that word, tasting it, then flashed her teeth. It wasn’t a nice look. “You could be special, Torch. But you’re also predictable, and predictable things are boring in the end.”
The longer we circled around each other, the more familiar this all felt. The small room. The scent of candles. The sense that I’d seen every angle before, but still had no idea who would walk out alive. The only difference now was the ache under my skin, the insistent, searing buzz of her in my blood.
I kept the gun aimed low. “Why don’t you just do it? You had your chance, three times over. So what’s the holdup?”
She shrugged, rolling it across her bare, blood-streaked shoulder like she was trying it on for size. “I guess I want to see if you’ll surprise me.”
I weighed her response and found too much truth in it. “You ever get surprised?”
She thought for a second. “Not for a long time.”
“You about to?”
“That depends,” she said, sitting straighter. “Is the gun for you or for me?”
Both, I almost said, but instead, “Why the carnival?”
She snorted. “Please. It’s a buffet for my kind. Where else do you find that much weak willpower, desperation, and sugar-rush in one place? But it’s more than that. People come here wanting to be scared. They want to be changed. You should know, you’re the same way.”
I felt myself bristle at that, but she was right. I’d picked the club. I took the hits, again and again, until I couldn’t tell where Iended and the scars began. I was as much a feature attraction as anything else under these gaudy lights.
“You’re not making a good case for your survival,” I said.
She closed her eyes, and the lines of her face changed, remorse and exhaustion crawling through, just for a second. “I’ve been alive a long time, Torch,” she murmured. “If you kill me, someone will just take my place. Or someone worse. That’s how Hell works. We’re just cogs in a very ugly machine.”
