Page 36 of The Prospect's Succubus
“That’s the general theme,” I said, voice thin. “This isn’t normal. She’s pushing more through it every hour.”
Torch nodded, more thoughtful than surprised. “She wants you alive, at least for now.”
I snorted. “That makes one of us.”
He didn’t smile. “She’ll come in person once she’s sure we’re cornered. I say we use the time to set a trap.”
“Ever consider that maybe she’s setting one for you?”
He shrugged. “I like my odds better than yours.”
I almost laughed, but the next pulse from the brand turned it into a cough. Torch’s eyes tracked every twitch and flinch, but Icould tell he was half-watching the door, too, waiting for the next level of disaster to walk in.
The room vibrated, a deep drone that set my teeth on edge. At first, I thought it was another psychic seizure, but then Torch’s phone buzzed on the shelf. He grabbed it without breaking eye contact.
“Vin?” He switched to speaker before the other side could get a word in. “Report.”
Vin sounded like he’d just run a marathon through a burning chemical plant. “Something’s wrong, Torch. It’s the carnival. Carlisle’s on fucking fire. Not regular fire, either. People are disappearing—literally. Booth workers, drunks, a couple of security guys. The air smells like a barbecue.”
Torch’s jaw flexed. “Containment?”
“Shit,” Vin wheezed. “What’s there to contain? It’s like the whole fairground’s alive. Rides are moving on their own, the lights keep spelling out weird messages. Half the time, I can’t even find the exit I just walked through. Sera and I are holed up in the duck pond booth. She’s scared. I’m just pissed.”
Torch grunted. “Hold your ground. I’ll call you back.”
“Don’t bother,” Vin said, voice dropping to a whisper. “If you don’t hear from us in twenty, assume we’re dead. Or worse.”
The line cut. Torch pocketed the phone, then stared at me like I was the source of every bad omen in the city. Which, in fairness, I was.
“Carnival,” I managed. “That’s where she’ll do it.”
He moved to the bed, crouched until his eyes were level with mine. “What, Jasmine. What is she doing?”
I tried to focus, but the brand throbbed, white-hot, and the pain telescoped the whole world down to Torch’s face and the ugly blue glare in his eyes. I grit my teeth, let the agony ride out, and then spoke through the trembling.
“She’s using the carnival as a battery,” I said. “All those people, all that old joy and disappointment, she’s draining it to fuel a gateway. When she gets enough, she can open it wide enough for anything to come through.”
He blinked. “Hell on Earth, then.”
I grinned, lips splitting. “Don’t act so surprised. You’ve been there before.”
He stood, scanned the room as if the answer was written in the air. “If she gets the gateway open, she doesn’t need you anymore.”
“Bingo,” I said. “That’s when she’ll kill me.”
Torch’s hands were already moving, grabbing the bandolier of flares, tucking a fresh magazine into the 1911. He glanced at the wards, then at the failing seams where the paint had started to peel from the heat. “We need to move. Now.”
I tried to sit, but the pain dropped me flat again. Torch slid an arm under my shoulders, hoisting me up like I was a sack of wet towels. I didn’t complain; if I’d let him, he would’ve just thrown me over his shoulder like a fireman. Maybe I wanted that.
He made it as far as the door before the next tremor hit. The sigils on the frame went from blue to red, and then cracks split the paint like spiderwebs. The temperature shot up ten degrees. My skin prickled, and I heard the faintest whisper, almost a song, threading through the walls.
“She’s close,” I said, heart pounding. “She’s using the brand to find me. She’s using me as a goddamn bloodhound.”
Torch didn’t slow. “We’ll double back through the service tunnels, then—”
He stopped. The air behind us shimmered, and a thin line of black smoke curled from the fissures in the plaster. A finger, all white and perfect, poked through the crack. Then another.
Torch dropped me on the couch, pulled the 1911, and pointed it dead center at the wall. “You ready?” he asked, voice like ground glass.
