Page 31 of The Prospect's Succubus
I clutched the stone in my fist, squeezing until it left an imprint on my palm. The urge to call him, to confess, to beg for help, rose up like bile. I pressed it down. I was not that girl, not that demon, not that anything. I was Jasmine fucking Fairchild, and I would not give Lilith the satisfaction.
I let the water run until my hands shook, until my knees buckled, and I sat hard on the edge of the tub, staring at the sigil as if I could will it away. Instead, it flared—brighter, sharper, casting a shadow on the far wall. I watched it crawl across my skin, watched the edges seep and ooze, watched the blood run in slow, perfect lines.
I should have called Torch. I should have called anyone. But the only thing I could do was sit there, burning and bleeding, and watch the drops hit the white tile, each one a tiny, perfect reminder of how far I’d fallen.
Torch
I jolted awake with the taste of blood in my mouth and a sunburn on my chest. The room was pitch-black except for the ember-glow under my sternum, where the obsidian pendant Jasmine had slipped me burned through the T-shirt and straight into my skin. For a second, I thought I was having a heart attack, but then the pain shifted—up my neck, down my shoulder, into the meat of my right arm. Not the old Hell scars, but something new, something personal.
I rolled out of bed, sweat-drenched and gasping, and staggered to the bathroom. The mirror showed a roadmap of raised, angry welts tracing the same pattern as the talisman. I touched it and flinched; the pain wasn’t just physical, it was emotional, as if someone had nailed a tuning fork to my soul and set it ringing.
I knew the cause. Jasmine. She was in trouble, or worse. I didn’t know how I knew, just that I did. The connection was as real as the sigils on my arms, as inevitable as gravity. I’d been marked the moment our blood mixed on the altar, and now I was reaping the interest.
I tried to ignore it. Popped two Tylenol, washed them down with whiskey, paced the apartment for an hour. It didn’t help. The burn persisted, eating away at the edges of my willpower until finally, I broke. I dug the burner phone out of the desk drawer and punched in the number Vin had given me, the one reserved for emergencies that couldn’t be solved with a bottle or a bullet.
He answered on the first ring. “You alive?”
“Define alive,” I said, voice gravel.
Vin didn’t laugh. “You need backup?”
“Not yet,” I said, lying through my teeth. “But I need a care package.”
There was a pause, filled with the sound of Vin weighing his options. “You going to tell me why?”
“Because I think I’m about to do something really fucking stupid.”
He grunted. “That’s your brand. What do you need?”
I ran the list: consecrated salt, holy iron, a bottle of graveyard dirt, and three feet of chain marked with the names of saints. “And whatever you’ve got left of the runed plates,” I added. “The heavy ones.”
“Jesus, Torch. You planning a crusade?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Just get it here before midnight.”
He hung up. I slammed the phone on the counter and went to work.
The apartment was already half a panic room, but tonight I went full bunker. I taped salt lines along every window, every threshold, doubled up on the Enochian wards above the door. I bolted the runed plates behind the couch, under the bed, even taped a pair to the underside of the kitchen table. The iron chains went across the entryway, tight as a tripwire. I checked and re-checked the guns, the knives, the ammo—all modified, all loaded.
Every few minutes, I’d stop and clutch the pendant, the burn still there, pulsing in time with my own blood. Each wave brought flashes, not visions, not memories, just sensations. The cold sting of marble. The taste of ash and iron on my tongue.
I thought about Jasmine, and how she’d looked the last time I saw her, her hair a mess, dress torn, eyes shining with something I couldn’t name. I tried to hate her for what she’d done, but all I felt was the itch to see her again. To fix her. To protect her, even if it meant selling out everything I believed in.
By midnight, the supplies arrived. I opened the door just wide enough for the prospect to slide the crate through, then slammed it shut and double-locked it. The contents were exactly as ordered: holy iron, salt, dirt, and a set of heavy brass plates,each one etched with protection spells and the names of every dead RBMC member who’d ever fought a demon and lost.
I spent the next hour wiring the plates into a makeshift vest, soldering the edges together with a butane torch. I laced the inside with salt, poured a line of graveyard dirt along the seams. When I strapped it on, the weight was comforting like armor.
At two a.m., I sat on the couch with the 1911 in my lap, staring at the door. The pendant still burned, but the pain had become familiar, almost companionable. I wondered if Jasmine felt it too, wherever she was. I wondered if she was suffering, or if she’d already given in.
I realized, then, that I didn’t care about the mission. I didn’t care about the contract, or Lilith, or even the club. All I wanted was for Jasmine to survive. Even if it meant breaking the only rule I’d ever lived by.
I grinned, despite myself. “You’re a real mess, Torch,” I muttered. “But at least you know what you want.”
The sun started to rise, painting the city in soft pinks and golds. I checked the wards one last time, loaded a fresh mag into the pistol, and waited for the next move.
Whatever happened, I was ready.
Torch
