Page 5 of The Prospect's Succubus
I walked into the city, alive to the rain and neon and the promise that tonight, I’d win. The penthouse sealed behind me, the sound almost gentle.
It almost made me feel human.
Torch
The entrance arch of the Carlisle Carnival was a skeleton of LEDs, flickering hard enough to give a lesser man an epileptic fit. The “C” in “Carnival” spasmed like a dying insect, which felt like an omen, but I’d long ago stopped believing in warnings.
I ditched the bike two blocks away and walked in, helmet swinging at my side, eyes high-alert. The crowd was already thick—families with strollers, packs of teenage locusts, couples pretending not to loathe each other. Every face was lit by the pink-and-green cast of the overhead bulbs, a wash so artificial it made even healthy skin look two days dead.
The first thing that hit me was the music. Not the funhouse calliope you’d expect, but something sour and disjointed, like the soundtrack to a snuff film scored by a drowning clown. The speakers were blown; every note came out a little warped, thebass underneath it just a heartbeat too slow. It got into your head, right behind the eyes, and started to scrape.
The second thing that hit me was the smell. Carnivals always reeked, but this was new, something like caramel and burnt sugar on the surface, a top note of fryer grease, but underneath it all, a sharp tang that made my tongue dry out. Like wet pennies, or the inside of a mouth after a dentist visit. Metallic, unmistakably so. The scent of fresh blood poorly hidden by cheap disinfectant.
My scars woke up before I even cleared the ticket booth. Every nerve under my cut twitched, blue-white lines pulsing in time to the rumble of the crowd. The guy manning the booth gave me a lazy once-over, noticed my cut, and immediately lost interest. People respected the RBMC patch in Lexington, or at least, they were smart enough not to start anything in public.
I did my own scan, moving left, right, then up, mapping the sightlines and exits. You could run a successful paramilitary operation out of this place, no problem. Rides were clustered in rings, each one a choke point. Food stalls were arranged like bunkers. And every single fucking trash can was nailed down, so you’d have to get creative if you wanted to improvise a weapon.
I slipped into the current of bodies, keeping my shoulders loose, letting the crowd carry me forward. The game booths were manned by a rogues’ gallery of ex-cons and chain smokers, their voices raw from shouting over years of crowds. Every so often, a barker would call out, “You there, tough guy! Think you can win a prize for your girl?” I kept my eyes down, ignoring the bait. Most of these assholes wouldn’t last a minute against what I was hunting.
I stopped at a popcorn cart, pretending to check my phone while I studied the main drag. This was the killing floor, no question. It was the center of mass, easy visibility, just enough darkness between the bulbs to hide a quick extraction. I trackedevery face, looking for that signature vacancy you get right before a soul gets ripped out. Nothing yet, but I could feel the atmosphere straining.
The presence was getting closer. The taste on my tongue sharpened. My hands itched for the grip of the 1911. I flexed my fingers, feeling the edge of the tattooed sigils stretch across my skin. Even through the jacket, the ink burned cold. The special rounds were loaded, waiting, little prayers engraved in brass.
I kept moving. The midway narrowed here, flanked by mirrors on one side and a shooting gallery on the other. The mirrors were warped, funhouse quality, but I caught a dozen reflections of myself as I passed. In each one, my scars glowed a little brighter. I looked like a haunted man, or maybe something haunting the man.
I drifted toward the far end, past the games and into the rides. That’s where you’d expect a succubus because of the high foot traffic, lots of easy prey, and plenty of noise to mask the kill. The crowd thinned out, just a little, as I slipped behind the Ferris wheel’s access gate. A worker in a neon vest started to protest, then saw the patch and thought better of it.
I stopped in the shadow of the Ferris wheel and let my eyes adjust. From here, I could see the whole field, every booth, every cluster of drunks, every possible approach.
And underneath it all, the wrongness.
It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t been there. Imagine walking into your childhood home and finding it an inch too small, all the angles just off. That’s how it felt, standing in the heart of this carnival, like the world was being poorly imitated by something with no real interest in getting it right.
The longer I stood there, the more I felt it. The way the shadows bent around the base of the rides, the way people’s faces blurred when they turned too fast. The way the noise never quite matched the movement. I ran a finger along the edge of mycut, found the lump of the revolver, and let it ground me. I did a sweep, every thirty seconds, slow and steady. Nothing moved without me noticing.
A voice barked out from the ring toss. “Hey, soldier boy, win a teddy for your honey?” I ignored it. Kept my eyes on the prize. In the distance, the House of Mirrors pulsed with a dull red light, out of sync with everything else. That was where I’d go next.
I took a breath, deep and slow, filling my lungs with the rot and sugar and static. I stepped out of the Ferris wheel’s shadow and let the crowd absorb me. This was how you hunted, not as a predator, but as something more patient. Something that could become invisible, even when everyone was looking.
I slid through the crowd, keeping my posture casual, but every muscle was tight, ready. If she was here, she’d feel me the same way I felt her. Hunters know each other by scent. By heat. By the itch in the scars. My cock hardened as she was a seductive whore.
I circled past a funnel cake stand and caught a whiff of sulfur through the powdered sugar. My pulse ticked up. The air got heavier, charged. Somewhere nearby, a couple started to argue, the words escalating from playful to poisonous in three seconds flat. That was another sign. Succubi liked to stoke chaos before a feeding. It made the kill sweeter.
I drifted closer, ears tuned to every argument, every laugh that got too loud. A man in a varsity jacket was red in the face, spittle flying as he screamed at his girlfriend. She just smiled, cool as a glacier, and walked away, hips swaying like a slut in heat. I checked her for signs, color shift in the eyes, distortion in the air, but she was just human, which meant she’d be prey, not predator.
The music from the House of Mirrors got louder as I approached. The building was a prefab nightmare, all glass and flickering LEDs, but something about it drew the crowd in likemoths. I walked the perimeter, noting the exits, then slipped through the entrance without paying.
Inside, the air was at least ten degrees hotter. The maze of glass started immediately, every pane angled to disorient and confuse. I kept my left hand low, brushing the wall, and my right hand near the holster. My scars flared with every step. I could almost hear them, sizzling.
Halfway in, I caught a movement in the corner of my eye. A girl, maybe nineteen, standing dead still in the center of the maze. Her dress was pink, her hair a mess of curls, but her eyes were locked on me. Wide. Too wide. I stepped closer, slow.
“Are you lost?” I said, soft. The voice that came out wasn’t mine—it was something from the barracks, something you used when you didn’t want to spook a live grenade.
She didn’t answer, just stared. Her face was wrong, and as I closed the distance, I saw why. She was already dead. The color in her cheeks was too bright, the lips painted over, the eyes starting to haze. I checked the corners, but there was no blood, no sign of violence.
The kill had been clean. She’d just stopped, right there, in the middle of the funhouse, and never started again.
I felt the cold start in my hands, spreading up my arms. I wanted to close her eyelids, but something told me not to touch. Instead, I backed away, careful not to make a sound. I did a slow circuit, checking the mirrors for movement.
