“I bet you boys are thinking about fucking me, aren’t you?”
They nod so fast that a refreshing breeze tickles the sides of my face.
Fuck it. I’m done playing.
Without warning, I grab the Gorton by the neck and lick his jawline. He lets out a rumbly moan, one that tells me he might explode in his pants before I get the chance to feed.
Smirking, I plant a firm hand on his chest and push him toward the nearest sofa. He lands against the cushions, his hungry eyes fixated on my body. I unzip his pants and reach inside. He rolls his head back and opens his mouth with pleasure.
Behind me, the Crimmus growls, no doubt fighting the primal urge to spread my legs apart and have his way with me. But until I give him the order, he’ll have to stand there and watch me pleasure the Gorton, all the while torturously fantasizing about how amazing it’ll feel when he’s inside me.
Bending the upper half of my body, I grab the Gorton’s erection and teasingly breathe out all over him. It’s enough to cause thousands of goose bumps to erupt all over his skin.
“Here’s how this is going to play out, boys…” I squeeze him gently without stroking and he moans. “So long as he”—I turn my head toward the Crimmus behind me—“pleasures me right, I’ll do the same for you.”
I squeeze him again, harder this time, and his eyes roll into the back of his head.
I spread my legs apart and the Crimmus wastes no time grabbing my hips. He doesn’t even try to be gentle about it—I’ve tortured him so long that he grabs my ass and shoves himself inside of me. But I’m so wet that he slides right in, hitting me deep enough to make me moan out loud. I spit Lure-laced saliva into my palm and grab the Gorton’s muscle, stroking him over and over again to the rhythm of the Crimmus’s thrusts.
As we move in unison, my tits bounce up and down in front of the Gorton’s face. As the Crimmus’s thrusts get harder and more aggressive, the sound of skin slapping skin fills the room. I squeeze the Gorton harder and harder, and his groans louden as the pleasure intensifies.
The Crimmus feels so fucking good that I don’t want it to stop. But without warning, the Gorton groans out one last time before exploding all over my stomach.
Letting him go, I arch my back to raise my ass even higher for the demon behind me. “Harder.”
He does as he’s told, pumping so hard that I’m almost thrown on top of the Gorton.
“Right there,” I say through heavy breathing.
As a sensation of ecstasy fills me, I climb on top of the Gorton with my knees on either side of his thighs. As the Crimmus continues to fuck me from behind, I grab the Gorton by the face and kiss him hard.
If there’s one thing more satisfying than feeding, it’s feeding while continuing to fuck.
Then, the magic happens.
As my horns emerge, I suck on the Gorton’s lips to extract my favorite purple mist.
He’s so out of it he doesn’t realize what’s going on. Neither does the demon behind me—he’s on the verge of exploding himself.
And so am I.
Just as I think I can’t handle any more pleasure, the Crimmus thrusts hard one last time and releases himself inside of me. With my lips still against my prey, I cry out and dig my claws into the sofa’s cushions, feeling like I’ve ingested every drug known to mankind.
My wings burst out on either side of me and I spin around, grab the dazed Crimmus by the throat, and presses his lips against mine. I suck hard, feeling a vibrant power course through me.
But as squiggly black lines spread across his face, I pull away and throw him onto the sofa next to the other guy.
I breathe in hard, feeling high as fuck, and grin from ear to ear. “Now that’s what I call a good meal.”
The two of them sit without responding, obviously too dazed to understand what happened. Whatever. They’ll get over it.
Besides, unlike feebles, shadow dwellers recover much faster from this. That’s not to say the recovery is pleasant, but after what I gave them, they have nothing to complain about.
Drawing in a deep breath, I elevate my chin as a tingling sensation spreads throughout my body.
I could stand here for hours, enjoying every second of my high, but I have shit to do.
Without wasting time, I slip back into my clothes, put on my boots, and pull my hair back into a high ponytail. With my stiletto heels clicking against the floor, I move toward the hotel room’s entrance, but right before exiting, I glance back at the two demons and wink. “Thanks for the pick-me-up, boys.”
Chapter 7
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As much as I want to find Devania Arkis, or whatever her name is, the issue with Rachel and that stupid Book of Origin is more important. Do I want to put an end to Lucius’s reign? Of course. I also want to kill the son of a bitch because I don’t want his hands going anywhere near Veerka.
But at the end of the day, what good is getting Veerka back if we’re all dead?
If those book pages get into the wrong hands, we could all be done for. I still can’t believe Rachel lost half the book to Lucius’s goons, but there’s no use dwelling on the past. I have to focus on finding Zerachu—who I now picture as a Pokémon thanks to Rachel—and ask her for help.
I can’t think of a more powerful witch than her, and I know exactly where she is.
Strutting down the hotel corridor, I whistle a tune. I fucking love this feeling—it’s better than doing coke and ecstasy at the same time. I’d say it’s better than heroin, too, but what kind of role model would I be if I said something like that?
I form white-knuckled fists to contain the crazy amount of energy I have and make my way down to the Red Lounge. This is where Zerachu is, or at least, where she should be. She’s famous around here, and everyone and their grandmother knows that if there’s one person you want magical advice from, it’s Zerachu. She also happens to give card readings—something I’ve had done once and refuse to do again.
I’d rather not rehash the whole thing, but she ended up being right, and I ended up binge-drinking for six months only to wake up on the side of the road soaked in my piss.
Classy, I know.
If I’m right, or if Zerachu’s still in the business, she should be located at the back of the Red Lounge Casino, right next to the Blood Fang blackjack table. It’s hard to miss, and it’s the first thing I see as I maneuver my way through slot machines, poker tables, and weird betting games with slimeballs and boxes of fur.
Her tent is purple, and at the top of it is a wooden plank with a creepy symbol on it—an eye surrounded by little blue speckles. Long black drapes with celestial designs hang over the tent’s opening, and through the crack is a bright green glow.
What’s she doing in there? Magic? Zerachu isn’t one to perform any magic out in the open. She’s private, and despite how talented she is, she doesn’t flaunt it. As I get closer, a young group of vampires walks across her tent, pointing and giggling. The tallest of the bunch, a scrawny guy with uneven fangs that don’t seem to have settled in properly, bends forward, pokes a finger through the crack, and presses his eye up to it.
What a fucking idiot.
I’m about to blurt this out loud, but I don’t even have the time.
In an instant, he disappears, and a giant flash of blue light replaces him. Around its edges are white lines that spit out like bolts of lightning. The whole thing happens so fast that it looks like a camera’s flash. The moment the light disappears, he’s gone.
Where he stood seconds ago is a little black kitten with cute, overhanging fangs. Its eyes bulge and its ears go flat as people start freaking out around him.
He tries to meow, but it comes out sounding more like a squeal.
One of his friends shrieks—a high-pitched noise that makes the kitten’s hair stand on its back.
If I didn’t know Zerachu, I’d be freaking out. Who does something like that to a teenager?
She does.
H
e’ll be back to himself in twenty-four hours, and that’ll teach him to keep his nose out of other people’s business. It’ll also teach anyone nearby to read the giant sign positioned in front of her tent:
If curtains are closed, KEEP OUT.
Beside the sign is a ticket-dispensing machine. Well, I say ticket-dispensing, but it doesn’t dispense anything. Instead, it’s a little wooden box with a yellow button that says, RESERVE MY SLOT. The wood is so old it looks like it came from the Middle Ages, and for all I know, maybe it did.
I’ve pressed this button before, so it doesn’t come as a surprise when a cloudy blue digit appears on the back of my hand: 69.
I’m about to deliver an immature joke to an old demon with silver hair as she walks by me, but she’s frowning so hard you’d think her face was melting. So instead, I smile to myself and glide my finger across the number.
Under the slot reservation box is cursive writing floating in the air: Now Serving 14. I roll my eyes so hard it makes a sound. “Oh, come on!”
Countless heads turn my way, but I don’t care. This is fucking urgent. How am I supposed to wait for my number? What if by the time it’s my turn, Lucius and his goons have already figured out how to decipher some pages from the Book of Origin?
“Zerachu,” I say aloud.
When nothing happens, I clear my throat. “Zerachu! It’s Alexis. I can’t wait for my turn and I promise I’m not wasting your time.”
Zerachu and I aren’t best friends—I’ve seen her maybe a handful of times. But the few times that I have seen her, the moments were memorable, so I’m certain she remembers me, too.
Taking a step back, I squint. While I might not be touching her tent, nothing is stopping her from casting a spell from the inside. The last thing I need is to turn into a cat.
A shuffling sound comes out of her tent, followed by an irritated grunt. Out through the crack comes a hand full of rings, bracelets, and nails, and then the curtain flies open.
The moment she steps out, I blink.
The woman looks the same as she did four years ago—long scraggly blond hair that hangs over her shoulders and down her back, emerald green eyes surrounded by hundreds of thick black eyelashes, and a twisted frown that translates to, This had better be important.
“What happens after?” comes a shrill voice.
Zerachu rolls her intimidating eyes. “You find out after.”
Every time she speaks, I can’t help but feel the size of a pea. It might have something to do with her thick Russian accent, or maybe it’s that Zerachu has been around for thousands of years—even longer than I have. Her history is impressive, especially the part about having worked for Dracula. Few people can say something like that without lying.
Demon history is like religion these days—there’s always been conflict and war between different groups, and there are always some exceptions who don’t believe differences should interfere with friendships or work collaborations.
What most people don’t know, however, is that countless religious wars stemmed from underground conflicts between fae, vampires, and witches.
It was all hush-hush back then, and it still is.
“B-b-but you can’t. You can’t tell me something like that—”
A scrawny, middle-aged man comes stumbling out of Zerachu’s tent. Thin, frail-looking glasses hang on the bridge of his nose, and an unkempt goatee covers the lower half of his face. His shoulders, sharp and bony, make me think that perhaps he has a set of wings hiding under there.
I sniff the air, catching the scent of dandelion and raw meat.
Yep, a Strikken Lussar. Whoever came up with that name must have been smoking crack, but then again, hundreds of fae names make you feel drunk when you say them aloud (I shouldn’t make statements like that seeing as I’m almost always drunk).
Strikkens are known for being two-faced—literally—and having serious anger problems. On one side (the side I’m looking at), they’re weak, pathetic, and whiney. That’s the side people refer to as the Strikken. When they get angry, though, the Lussar makes an appearance. Admittedly, it’s freaky to see, which is why most people try to talk Strikkens down when they get worked up, otherwise—
“Why are you ignoring me?” the Strikken says, his hands now shaking.
Zerachu gives me a bored look with flat eyelids—a look that tells me she isn’t in the mood to deal with a Strikken’s mood problems. If she were anyone else, I’d fear for her life, but that woman can handle any bullshit thrown her way.
She lets out a heavy sigh and flicks a wrist in the air. “Like I told you, come back later and I finish reading for you.”
But the Strikken keeps at it. “I don’t want—”
His body convulses, and in a split second, he turns around like he’s about to reenter her tent. The back of his head, where you’d expect to find hair, is a face with closed eyes, tight gray lips, and scaly blue skin. Everyone nearby takes a step back; they all know what’s about to happen.
In seconds, the face on the back of his head wakes up. Its highlighter-yellow eyes pop open, and the second it looks at Zerachu, the Lussar frowns so menacingly it looks like its hairless brows are going to crush the bridge of his nose.
That’s not even the freaky part.
What’s disturbing is how his arms and legs reverse positions, making his back now his chest, and his ass now his crotch. Bones snap and ligaments tear. It happens so fast that it sounds like someone stepping on Bubble Wrap.
Without warning, he extracts his two-inch claws and lunges straight at Zerachu.
Several people nearby shriek and scatter, but Zerachu isn’t having it. Without so much as blinking, she clicks her fingers and the Lussar explodes into rainbow-colored Christmas tinsel.
Squeals and gasps spread throughout the casino, and a crowd of horned demons wearing security uniforms rush toward the scene, their triangular red eyes darting from side to side. They have no idea what’s going on—all they know is that people are freaking out.
When they see her, however, they stiffen their postures and clear their throats. The bulkiest of the group presses a button on his radio. “Cleanup in section D. I repeat: cleanup in section D.”
Barely making eye contact with the witch, he adds, “I hope he wasn’t too much trouble.”
Zerachu rolls her eyes and jerks her chin out at me. “This had better be good.”
Without saying a word, I follow her as she raises the bottom of her long mauve and forest green dress over the Lussar’s tinsel remains. She doesn’t even seem bothered that everyone’s staring at her like she’s a monster. I bet she does this all the time, and everyone knows not to get involved.
“He’ll bounce back soon,” she says, glancing sideways at me. “Dey alvays do.”
What she doesn’t mention is that despite her being the one to attack him with magic, he’ll be the one banned from the Dark Hall.
As we enter her tent, two diminutive men with ball caps and long green tails come scurrying toward the pile of tinsel with brooms in their hands.
I can only assume this tinsel will be put in a holding cell until the Lussar comes back to life. What if they drop tinsel on the way there? What if that one tinsel happens to be the dude’s—
“Sit,” Zerachu orders.
I do as she’s told me and slide the metal-framed chair toward me. On her black wooden table are cards laid out sporadically, one of which has a figure of Death on it. Most people freak out over this, but it isn’t always a bad thing. All the best outcomes I’ve ever had have come from the Death card. It’s the card with the clown face that’s giving me the heebie-jeebies.
The second she sits down, she drops her wrists on the table, ticks her nails against the wood, and makes her eyes go big.
She doesn’t have to say anything for me to know that means I’d better start talking.
“Book of Origin,” I blurt.
She pulls her face back, rolls forming around her jawline.
This cau
ght her attention. “I-I have it,” I say.
I’m not the type of person who gets intimidated—not after several hundred years of being on this planet. But Zerachu… she’s something different. There’s an ice-cold look in her eyes that makes you feel like she could send you straight to hell with a click of her fingers. And in all fairness, the woman isn’t even mean—her intentions are good, but she lacks interpersonal skills, which might have something to do with her spending countless years living in a shack.
“Vat do you mean, you have it?”
The last few words come out like she’s spitting them at me.
“Well, I don’t,” I correct. “There’s this witch—”
“A witch has the book?”
I can’t tell if she’s interested or downright pissed off.
“Listen, it’s complicated. The kid’s name is Rachel—”
“A kid?”
I can’t tell if she’s shocked or pissed off.
“It was her grandmother’s, and she passed. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal to give it back to her—”
“You didn’t think?”
Okay, she’s pissed.
I knew this was coming.
Throwing her hands over her head, she bursts out laughing. It isn’t a laugh that tells me she’s having fun; it’s the kind of laugh that tells me if she doesn’t let it out, something else might come out in its place.
I’d much prefer the creepy laughter over sparks and spells.
“Were you drunk again, Alexis? Is dat vut happened?”
She narrows her glowing green eyes on me, and I swallow hard. So she does remember who I am.
“I fucked up, okay?” I say.
She drops her hands back onto the table, sending several cards swooping through the air, and lets out a long breath through flared nostrils. Then, digging her nails into the wood, she closes her eyes.
“Vhere’s da book now?”
“Which half?” I say.
Her nails dig so hard the table splits in half.
Holy shit.
“Vhich half?” She cocks an eyebrow like she’s trying to look at me through a magnifying glass. “Vhich half?” she repeats, this time, her voice jumping an octave. “Do you have any idea how dangerous dat book is?”
Lethal Blow: (Succubus Hitwoman Book 2) Page 4
