“That’s better,” I say.
She wants to speak, but she’s too hypnotized to think.
“It’s okay,” I say, pressing a finger against her lips. “You don’t need to speak.”
Slowly, I lead her backward until her legs catch the sofa and she falls into a seated position.
“Lie down,” I say, and she lies across the sofa with one arm above her head and her legs slightly parted. I can hear her racing heart from where I stand. This woman has wanted nothing more than this in her entire life.
Smiling, I climb on top of her, my thigh slipping against her wet kitty. She breathes out hard, digging her nails into my back as I retract my claws and spread her legs apart.
I kiss her neck, her jaw, her erect nipples.
“What do you want?” I breathe, my tongue sliding down her abdomen.
“You,” she moans.
While I’d much prefer to play with my food before feeding, I don’t have the luxury of time. When I’m on a mission, my goal is to get in and get out—no pun intended.
With two flicking fingers, I tease her, but it’s obvious she can’t handle it. She grabs my hair, pulling my body closer to hers, and I turn my face sideways to spot Adam on the sofa, stroking himself.
“I want you to fuck me, Adam.”
I spread my legs and he grabs me by the waist. As he slips inside me, I slide my fingers inside his date, warming them instantly. Curving my fingers, I hit the right spot and she arches her back and lets out a high-pitched cry—one that translates to, Holy fuck, don’t stop.
I repeat this motion over and over again, reaching deep inside her as Adam fucks me from behind. My arm jerks back and forth, as do my hips, and the three of us move together so perfectly it feels choreographed.
“Faster,” she breathes.
I pump harder, as does Adam.
He feels fucking amazing, and for a moment, I forget that I’m working a mission. Sex as and with a succubus is a mind-blowing sensation that can only be described as euphoric. Those who have survived to tell about it often equate it to having sex on ecstasy… tenfold.
Adam thrusts hard again, my ass slapping against him, and at the same time, I push my fingers deep inside his date, curling them to hit the spot. She arches her back, wordlessly begging me for more.
With my teeth inches away from her neck, I get rougher about it, causing her supple breasts to bounce on her chest. I may not be a vampire, but sex brings out the most primal side of me. It takes everything in me not to hurt someone during sex. I need to consciously remind myself that my teeth and my claws are powerful enough to kill a feeble.
The biting and the tearing of skin are reserved for fae only.
She thrusts her hips as if trying to get me to go even deeper and digs her nails into the skin of my back.
“That’s it”, I say, feeling it coming.
Behind me, Adam grunts with pleasure, his grip tightening around my waist, while under me, the woman screams so loud I’m forced to turn my head away. Our movements slow as the three of us experience unearthly euphoria… our bodies drenched in sweat and our skin hot to the touch.
When it’s over, I slip my fingers out and smile down at the woman’s red face. Her eyes roll up at me, but it’s like she doesn’t even see me, which is typically what happens after sex with a succubus—my victims fall into a drug-like state. She beams as if she’s had sex for the first time in her life, but the joyous look on her face doesn’t last long, and I know why—my true self is coming out.
After sex, I can’t help it; my succubus can’t be contained.
Out of my head come curved black horns, and out of my back, massive dragon-like wings. My long black hair lightens to a platinum white, and my blue eyes do the same.
The look of horror on her face makes me feel guilty, but I can’t control my urge to feed. Cupping her jaw with my claws, I lower my lips against hers and breathe in deep, pulling from her mouth an indigo purple mist. As it fills me, I’m energized.
There’s no feeling in the world more satisfying than feeding. If I were to describe it, I would equate it to the feeling feebles might experience when I fuck them.
For her, however, my feeding causes the opposite effect.
Her skin lightens in color until it looks as though she’s on the verge of decaying. Her eye sockets sink as squiggly black lines run across her skin, her neck, and her chest.
“What the fuck—” comes Adam’s voice.
If I don’t stop now, I’ll kill her. But she tastes so goddamn good. I suck harder and harder as her cheeks begin to cave. I may have learned to control myself, but stopping midfeed isn’t something that gets easier over time. Though I’m not proud of it, I’ve slipped up a few times in the last decade.
She isn’t your mark, Alexis. Adam is.
Suddenly, I’m reminded that I have a real meal at my disposal.
Digging my claws into the sofa’s cushion, I pull away. Her lifeless eyes roll into the back of her head as she falls into a comatose state. There’s no telling when she’ll recover. Sometimes, it takes hours, though I’ve seen feebles require several days for a full recovery.
What matters is that she won’t remember any of this.
“What… What are you?” says Adam.
I turn around, my wings sweeping through the air. At the sight of my demon self, he stumbles backward, his skin blanched.
He stares at me, mortified, and before he has the chance to figure out what’s going on, I throw myself at him. Our lips lock, and I inhale his life force. It fills me up, energizing me completely. When I finish feeding, his head rolls to the side and he gazes into nothingness.
Mission complete.
And holy fuck do I feel amazing.
I jump up with a bounce and make my way over to the small purse I dropped earlier in Adam’s foyer. From it, I extract an earpiece and spy camera, which I tucked away en route to Adam’s house. Jamieson doesn’t get to see how I go about doing my business—all he gets to know is when I locate my mark and confirmation that the job’s been done.
Turning the camera on, I crouch next to Adam’s dead body and aim it at his face. Then, I spin my lip ring—a secret microphone—and say, “Target down.”
“How’d you pull that off?” Jamieson says through my earpiece.
I turn off the camera. “How many times do we have to go over this?”
I’m being polite. We’ve talked about this many times, and what I want to say is, Would you stop fucking asking me that? I don’t ask him questions about who he wants taken out, and he doesn’t ask me questions about my methods. All he gets is a one-second glimpse of the dead body for confirmation.
“All right, all right,” he says. “Good work, Alexis. I’d say thank you, but I think you’re the one who should be thanking me.”
God, he’s such a jackass. What does he want? For me to climb on his lap and call him Daddy? Thank him for giving me such an incredible opportunity? I’m not that kind of woman. I was asked to do a job, and I did it. Sure, I want the money, but he needs me as much as I need him.
“Contact me when you have another job,” I say, and before he gets the chance to slide in another snarky remark, I twist my lip ring to turn off my microphone.
Chapter 3
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I flick the syringe a few times to get the bubbles out and stick the needle into Adam’s median cubital vein—the big blue vein inside his elbow. Inside this syringe is a lethal dose of heroin, which means when the cops find his body, they won’t suspect foul play. Instead, they’ll think he overdosed.
His date gets the second injection, but hers is microdosed. It’s a tactic I’ve been using for several years now, and it hasn’t failed me yet. Not only will she not remember who I am, but on the microscopic chance that she remembers a third party being present, well… her testimony won’t be reliable. No one’s going to trust a witness who was on heroin the night of Adam’s death.
I stretch my neck t
o the side, a satisfying snap echoing across Adam’s mansion.
“Look at this place,” I say aloud. “You’re one rich son of a bitch.”
I glance over at Adam’s lifeless body, knowing he isn’t going to respond.
As I examine his house with curious fascination, I realize I could earn a lot more than $50,000. Should I feel bad for robbing a dead guy? Of course not. He was an asshole. Besides, I’m a murderer. Being a thief on top of it won’t make me any more of a criminal.
I cross his dining room and enter his kitchen, jealous of his enormous fridge.
A thing like that could fit hundreds of beers.
I’m about to make my way into his bedroom—the one place I know he keeps countless brand name watches—when I spot a bottle of 1952 Dragon’s Tear whiskey. It sits enticingly, its rich golden hue shimmering beneath the kitchen’s overhead light. The bottle is shaped like a dragon with an ornate tail twirling around its body.
That limited-edition whiskey sells for over $60,000, but that’s not what has me slack-jawed. What confuses me is that everyone knows that vampires own the distillery that produces this stuff, and they’re uptight about who’s allowed to purchase it. So why does Adam have a bottle sitting in plain sight? It’s been said that the alcohol isn’t intended for feebles… they aren’t even supposed to know about it. Some people have even said it was distilled using feeble blood.
I peer into the living room at Adam’s colorless body, wondering if maybe my senses are off. As of late, they have been. Is he fae? He can’t be. I’ve been following him for months.
I know my mark, but… what if I missed something?
Closing my eyes, I inhale a deep breath.
There’s no scent of fae whatsoever here, but something’s up. Without thinking, I snatch the bottle and make my way upstairs and into his bedroom. Placing the bottle of whiskey down on his mahogany dresser, I slide my fingers across the very same box I’ve seen him open numerous times during those nights I observed him from his bedroom window.
His watches.
Adam may have been a dick, but he wasn’t a moron. This box isn’t simply a storage box—it’s a safe, which means I can’t take it and run. As I stare at it, wondering how I might go about taking the watches without leaving any indication of a robbery, I catch a glimpse of myself in his bedroom mirror.
My torn dress clings to my body, and my long black hair drapes down my back. While I may be beautiful on the outside, I’m still adjusting to my new appearance. Taking a step toward the mirror, I reach for the pale skin of my cheek and stare into my sky blue eyes.
I’ve changed appearances so many times I’m losing sight of who I am.
Three years ago, when I became Alexis Rayne, I let go of my wavy blond hair and green eyes along with a city I’d come to think of as home. I lay in bed for weeks following my morph. Despite how many times I’ve tried to explain to my best friend, Draxomus (I call him Drax), that morphing my physical appearance takes an immeasurable amount of strength, it’s as if he thinks I’m exaggerating, and that no matter what happens, I’ll always be able to change my appearance, my name, and my town.
While he may not have minded uprooting his entire life and starting anew in a different city, it was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do in over a century.
I stare at my reflection, thinking back to my old life and my old home tucked away on Aspen Private at the center of Jormane—a small town on the outskirts of San Halos. As I tour my home within my memories, it isn’t my rich red oak flooring I think about, nor my $10,000 leather sofas.
What lingers in my mind are colorful crayons spread out across the kitchen tiles, sketches posted on the refrigerator, a lunchbox sitting on the kitchen island, and laughter bouncing off the walls as Mr. Mushroom prances around with a small sneaker in his mouth.
What I wouldn’t give to go back in time.
Sighing, I turn away from the mirror, grab the bottle of Dragon’s Tear whiskey, and crack it open. As I tilt it, the fluid slips down my throat, burning my insides, and a sense of relief washes over me.
I may be breaking my own rule by drinking on the job, but the job’s finished, and the only thing I want is to not feel my pain. I want to forget.
I pace back and forth in Adam’s bedroom as the alcohol burns my throat, focusing my energy on figuring out how to break through his safe without leaving evidence behind. I may not have fingerprints anymore—I burned them off in the late eighteen hundreds when investigators started using forensic science to identify criminals—but I’m a professional, and I refuse to leave any evidence that may cause suspicion. I’ve never been one to worry about my hair falling out; my succubus DNA always turns up inconclusive. Feebles don’t realize it, but demons are often the reason so many murder cases become cold. Our DNA doesn’t show up the way feeble DNA does, which makes it impossible to track us down.
As the alcohol swims through my blood and my inhibition fades, I stare at the safe full of watches.
Would it be so bad to smash it and run?
What do you care, Alexis? It’s not like they’ll trace any of this back to you. No one saw you come to Adam’s house. You were careful. Besides, these watches, along with Jamieson’s paycheck, could get you out of your shitty apartment.
Fuck it.
I crack my neck, form a fist, and smash the top of the small safe. The wood snaps and the metal of the box warps, leaving a space between the lid and the frame.
The joys of having super strength.
With my index finger, I widen the crack of the box until the lid snaps off. Inside are a red velvety material and six glistening watches—all of which look more expensive than Adam’s car.
F. P. Journe.
Richard Mille.
Vacheron Constantin.
Holy fuck. These watches are worth thousands.
I slip my claws through each watch and shake my wrists until they slide down my forearms.
“Thanks, Adam,” I mumble, grabbing the bottle of whiskey by the neck.
With a wobble in my walk, I head toward the bedroom window and pull at the latch. It doesn’t open, which makes me feel like a total idiot. Am I that drunk? I tug again, and this time, something clicks.
The problem is that the window is still locked, which means the clicking sound didn’t come from the latch.
The sound of someone clearing their throat resonates behind me.
I swing around, Adam’s watches clinging against each other on my wrists, only to find myself standing face-to-face with a man carrying an automatic rifle. He stares at me from behind the gun’s barrel, his eyes dark and menacing. His hair, a cool jet black, sits messily atop his head, matching the short unkempt scruff on his face. Black tribal tattoos run down his neck, his arms, and even his knuckles.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asks, a thick gangster accent rolling off the tip of his tongue.
I’m tempted to try to seduce him, but with how much alcohol I consumed, it might interfere with my powers. What the hell was I thinking? This is why I don’t drink on the job. Shit can get messy.
He jerks his gun in the air as if to say, Well?
I could attack him and tear off his head, but I don’t exactly feel like getting shot in the face, even if I’m immortal. So, I do the one thing I can think of. With the bottle of whiskey gripped in my hand, I dive headfirst through Adam’s bedroom window. Glass shards explode all around me as I tumble from his second story, but right before I land in his perfectly trimmed courtyard, I spin my body around, expand my wings, and blast myself toward the full moon.
Chapter 4
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“You shouldn’t have taken those,” Drax says like he’s my dad.
Rolling my eyes, I flick my wrists, sending Adam’s watches flying onto my living room sofa. “I don’t need a lecture, Drax. The guy was filthy rich. Look at me—” I swing my arm out, pointing at the inside of my apartment. “Don’t you think it’s only fair that I get some of those
riches?”
My apartment looks like something that was thrown together using materials found in an overflowing garbage bin. The walls are torn to shit. In certain spots, drywall is missing entirely and in its place are insulation and wooden support beams. My couches are probably a century old (that’s a bit of an exaggeration, and I would know) with their frayed cushions and ugly mismatched colors. My floors, nasty yellow parquet wood, are so chipped and scratched you’d think I keep a lion here as a pet.
The floor damage is my fault, though. I’ve spent more drunken nights than I can count throwing anger fits with my succubus claws out. Okay—the shitty apartment is also my fault. I haven’t exactly been careful with my money lately.
In one hand, out the other.
Drax shakes his green-skinned head and slaps a hand on his forehead. It’s obvious he wants to give me shit, and if I were to guess, he probably wants to say, Well, maybe if you didn’t drink so fucking much and spend your money God knows where… but Drax’s too nice for that. Instead, he says, “That’s not the point, Alex. The police are gonna be all over this. Adam wasn’t some no-name. You should be keeping your head low. And holding on to a bunch of his watches that only someone like that prick could afford won’t do you any favors. It’s not like you can sell them right now, anyway.”
I scoff. “Why not? You think some black market criminal gives a shit where I got these from?”
Drax stares at me the way he always does after I finish a job—a look that says, Why do you tell me everything if all you’re going to do is shit all over my advice?
Part of me knows it’s stupid to talk to him about my marks, but he’s like a brother to me and I trust him with my life. He isn’t much older than I look, which is like a thirty-year-old despite my true age, but sometimes he treats me as if he were my dad.
I don’t blame him—I’ve caused this. I haven’t exactly been myself lately.
“Would you stop looking at me like that?” I say.
Tightening his lips, he refuses to look away and instead narrows his yellow eyes and plays with his right horn.
Mortal Blow: An Urban Fantasy Series (Succubus Hitwoman Book 1) Page 2
