Mortal Blow: An Urban Fantasy Series (Succubus Hitwoman Book 1)

by Eliza Hendrix

  Drax’s fae, too, or more specifically, a reptilian humanoid. He’s slender with scaly skin, and sticking out of his forehead are two small brown horns that look like something off an unusually small water buffalo. His nose isn’t even a nose—instead, two nostrils sit on his face like a snake’s. Underneath his smeller are sharp carnivorous teeth that make him look pretty freaky when he smiles. It’s a good thing feebles can’t see fae in their true forms. If they did, they’d likely die of a heart attack.

  But I know Drax—he’s a nice guy. So nice, in fact, that his entire demon family cast him out as a kid for not wanting to eat children. If there’s one line I won’t cross, it’s kids. That, and animals. I’ll slit a guy’s throat and make him drink his own blood as he dies, but lay a hand on a dog? Hurt a cat? No way. I’ve killed more guys than I can count for abusing their dogs, and I didn’t even get paid for that shit.

  I didn’t seduce them first, either. It was more of a kidnapping and torturing situation, but I won’t get into that. Otherwise, you’ll see me as a monster. And I wouldn’t want that.

  One time, I caught a crazy bitch throwing cans of soup at her dog’s face. Well, I turned her face into soup and took the dog.

  Mr. Mushroom, no doubt sensing that I’m thinking about that awful day, jumps up onto my lap and licks my face. He’s a beige French bulldog, and yes, I named him after the soup incident; they were cans of mushroom soup. What can I say?

  “Hey, little man.” I scratch him along his snout with my index finger. He pants and grins, revealing a slobbery pink tongue. I grab the loose skin of his face and playfully tug at it, but stop myself before my cute aggression (it’s a thing, look it up) takes over and makes me pull too hard. Instead, I breathe out through flared nostrils and kiss him hard on the forehead. “God, I could eat your face!”

  Drax looks at me like I’ve morphed into my full succubus self.

  “Until you have a dog, keep your opinions to yourself,” I say.

  He blinks. “I’ve had plenty of dogs, including Lilac. You know I lost her last month.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, feeling slightly insensitive.

  Drax plops down on the couch across from me and stares at the watches between us.

  “Something’s up,” he says.

  Drax knows me too well. Maybe if I say nothing, he’ll let it go. I kick my feet up onto the table, causing the pile of watches to bounce, and close my eyes.

  Something soft smashes me in the face.

  “What the—”

  Drax glares at me with another cushion held up next to his face. “Something’s wrong, Alex. You gonna spill, or am I gonna have to hit you again?”

  When Drax gets the couch cushions involved, I know he means business. Besides, he’s right—something is up, and that something is the guy who saw me at Adam’s place.

  How did this even happen? I’ve never had a witness before. The few times I was spotted, well… I took care of it. But now, someone out there knows who I am and knows what I did. Why did I run? Why didn’t I try to kill him? Fucking whiskey. I need to pull myself together. It was a moment of stupidity and I feel like a complete idiot for how things went down. I’m supposed to be tougher than this. I’m supposed to be a professional.

  “Alex,” he says, slanting his hairless eyebrows.

  Shrugging, I point at the bottle of Dragon’s Tear on the coffee table between us. “You should try it.”

  “How the hell did you get your hands on that?” A hint of excitement flashes across his face. “Some people say the buzz is like—” Likely realizing that this isn’t the time to get excited, he straightens his posture and clears his throat. “What does this have to do with anything? You must’ve fucked up royally if you think I need to be inebriated for you to tell me what happened.”

  Without looking up at him, I say, “Someone saw me.”

  His eyes pop out—and when I say pop out, I mean pop out. Maybe it’s the reptilian in him… It’s almost as if some hidden frog ancestry comes out when something startles him.

  “Who? Who saw you, Alex?” He leans forward, dropping his elbows on his knees. “Where? In the house? Did they say anything? Was it a guy? A girl?”

  His interrogation isn’t helping my stress level. If anything, it’s making me want to light a smoke, and I quit three months ago. Not for health reasons, but because I was sick of waking up drunk with the taste of cigarettes in my mouth.

  I’ll be damned if all my hard work was for nothing. With a swing of the arm, I snatch the Dragon’s Tear off the table, crack it open, and take a swig. As I breathe out, the smell of whiskey fills my nostrils and a sense of calm washes over me. “I don’t know who it was. Maybe his bodyguard. Maybe his fucking drug dealer. I don’t know. I jumped out the window.”

  His jaw hangs loose, revealing a bunch of tiny incisors.

  I take another swig of the whiskey before slamming the bottle down on the table. Mr. Mushroom jumps at the sound, so I pat his head and tell him it’s okay.

  “The last thing I need is a lecture, Drax. I need to know what to do.”

  Grumbling, he crosses his arms over his short-sleeve hoodie, leans back into my bacteria-infested couch, and breathes out through his slits for nostrils. “Did he see you morph?”

  I shake my head. “Don’t think so. I broke through the window before pulling my wings out.”

  He pets his scaly, hairless head. Shrugging, he looks up at me as if the answer is obvious.

  “What?” I ask.

  His eyelids go flat. “What do you mean, what? The guy knows what you look like. He can identify you at the time and place of the murder. I don’t understand why you didn’t deal with the situation—”

  “I don’t know, okay? To be honest, I don’t remember much after that Dragon’s Tear.”

  He gives me the look he always gives me when booze gets me into trouble, which has been happening quite often as of late. It’s an unimpressed look that translates to, When are you going to deal with your issues?

  “Maybe next time don’t drink a vampire liquor.”

  I flick my wrist at him. “I’m sure it’s no big deal. If I get taken in for questioning, I can easily say I don’t remember anything because we were all fucked up on drugs.”

  “You jumped out the window, Alex. You don’t think that’ll look suspicious? Look… I know you swore not the kill innocent feebles after—” but he stops himself, knowing full well that if he wants to stay on my good side, he won’t talk about what happened.

  I make my eyelids go flat. “What do you want me to do? Track him down and make him disappear?”

  He shrugs. “You could threaten him. Scare the shit out of him.”

  Throwing my head back, I let out an irritated grumble. “Whatever. I guess I could just kill him. No one associated with Adam is innocent.” I know it’s the booze talking, but I don’t care. “So, yeah… Maybe I’ll kill him to be safe. Later, though. I’m tired.”

  He points at the half-empty bottle of whiskey. “You aren’t tired, you’re drunk. Quit your whining, stop drinking, and go kill the bastard.”

  He’s right. I am drunk, and apparently, pretty fucking argumentative when drunk off Dragon’s Tear. Thanks to my good fortune, I don’t get hangovers, so it isn’t hard to maintain a constant state of oblivion. I let out another roar under my breath, chug back another mouthful of the mouthwatering whiskey before Drax can protest, and slam the bottle back on the table.

  I get that Drax hates to see me like this, but I’m a grown-ass woman. If I want to drink to take the edge off, that’s my prerogative.

  Mr. Mushroom jumps again, but this time, I shoo him off my lap. “Sorry, cutie-patootie-little-munchkin-baby. Mommy’s gotta go kill someone.”

  “You’re a fuckin’ weirdo,” Drax says, reaching for the bottle.

  Shrugging, I slip my leather boots on, pluck my leather jacket off the back of the couch, and slip my arms through its sleeves. I glance at Drax before leaving my apartment, wanting to tell him,
Thanks for your help, Drax. You’re always here for me when I’m at my lowest. Honestly, I think of you as a brother and I love you. But what comes out instead is, “Takes one to know one, asshole.”

  Chapter 5

  ──────────

  How am I supposed to find some random dude I’ve seen once and while intoxicated at that? The city’s up to a million in population, and there are tons of guys who look like the one I saw—dark features, short black hair, and tattoos running down his neck.

  With a sigh, I remind myself that this is what I do for a living. Maybe Drax was right—I should have laid off the Dragon’s Tear. Why can’t I shake this off? I blink hard, wishing my horrendous memories away. What I wouldn’t do to go back in time…

  Focus, Alexis.

  Closing my eyes, I think back to last night and replay the scenario in my head. Those tattoos… They weren’t only on his neck; they also ran down his arms and over his knuckles. I need to remember specifics. I squint harder behind my aviator sunglasses, trying to get a closer look at the image building in my mind.

  Dollar symbols.

  Okay.

  What about the neck? I alter my perspective and try to zoom into his neck as if looking at a computer screen. For someone who drinks as much as I do, my visual memory’s pretty damn good. Slowly, it comes back to me. A green dragon with a clock in its mouth. That’s a great start. Now, what other details were there?

  Focus, Alexis, focus.

  Out of nowhere, something hard hits me on the shoulder and my sunglasses make an escape attempt, almost falling right off my face.

  “Watch where you’re walkin’, lady!” a man shouts in my ear as he passes by.

  Fucking prick.

  I’m about to shout back, “You watch where you’re walking, jackass!”

  But then I realize I was the one walking with my eyes almost closed. I can be a coldhearted bitch, but I’m not an irrational one—I know when I’m in the wrong, and I refuse to become like one of those road-raging fucktards who flip you off when you honk at them despite clearly being in the wrong. San Halos has enough of those already. So instead of biting this guy’s head off, I bite my tongue and keep walking down Relik Street, one of the busiest streets in downtown San Halos. It also happens to be one of the most dangerous ones, especially at night.

  Maybe that’s why I like it so much.

  I’ve spent hours sitting on street benches and staring at that neon-green street sign.

  Relik Street.

  Did the city do that on purpose? Did they somehow plan for more than 80 percent of the city’s criminal activity to take place here? In the depths of my twisted imagination, a round-shaped man wrapped in a suit too tight for his body sealed the deal. From his tight pocket, he pulled out an overpriced brand-name pen, scowled, and signed the paper as if finalizing a billion-dollar deal. Then, with an unfittingly feminine and throaty voice, he shouted to the rest of his sheep council, “The police will always know where to look! Relik says Killer backward. It’s brilliant. Brilliant, I tell you.”

  I suck in a deep breath through my nose, taking in every scent Relik Street has to offer.

  Did I mention I have a keen sense of smell? It proves to be both beneficial and highly disadvantageous at times. For example, I once screwed a guy who was coming back from a long day at work and two hours at the gym. Don’t get me wrong… some ladies might be into that, but imagine the smell of sour balls, three-month-old fish, and fresh dog urine thrown into a mix and spread inside your nostrils every few seconds.

  Yeah, my senses are that heightened.

  At the moment, I smell over a thousand distinct smells. Like a dog—I’m more of a fierce tigress, but for this example, I’ll allow a dog comparison—I’m able to focus on one specific smell.

  And that guy had a smell. I remember it now.

  It isn’t something I can place or describe. Everyone has scents unique to them. Some are sweet, others spicy, and some downright nauseating. Feebles have a certain smell, too, and that guy was undeniably a feeble.

  His scent was a mixture of tangy and spicy, which is like describing a dish cooked by a world-renowned chef as simply, Yummy. There’s so much more to it, but it’s difficult to explain. What I do know is that I’ll be filtering through thousands of smells for the next few hours, if not days, trying to track the bastard down.

  I’m about to continue marching down Relik Street when I spot a woman stepping out of a Stardust Coffee Shop grasping a massive latte with both hands.

  God, what I’d do for a coffee right now. But I remember: I’m not poor. At least not for the next few weeks. I’ve got plenty of cash sitting in my account. Inhaling an abnormal amount of air through flared nostrils, I attract the what a nut job stare as I walk past the woman and sniff her coffee. As I whistle a tune, I make my way inside the shop and come back out with a $10 coffee in hand.

  Highway robbery is what that is. I suppose after robbing a dead man, I deserve it.

  I chug it down and toss the empty cup into the nearest garbage can. I may be a murderer, but I won’t stand for littering. With the taste of hot coffee still in my mouth, I cross the street toward one of the twenty cell phone shops on the street.

  The store’s bell rings as I make my way inside. Behind a counter cluttered with wires, gadgets, and broken switchboards is a dark-skinned man with a bulb for a nose and a huge septum ring that hangs over his mouth. Underneath this are two sharp fangs that come out of his lower jaw and curl over his upper lip.

  Great. A Gorton.

  His eyes—all three of them—turn my way the moment he sees me enter. He doesn’t smile, likely because he can sense that I’m not a feeble like everyone else in his store. What they see when they look at him is a slightly overweight, brown-skinned man with a grumpy scowl on his face. What I see is a greedy demon known for trickery, thieving, and lying.

  While there are tons of different variations of Gortons, they’re typically all the same—bad.

  More often than not, they keep to themselves and avoid social interaction unless it somehow benefits them. They’re usually frowning, too, like this guy. But what gives them away is their scent—aged cheese and dandelions.

  His large head appears to expand as I move closer. He watches me but doesn’t bother welcoming me into his shop.

  “Can I help you?” he finally says, his voice monotone.

  I pull off my sunglasses and stare at his name tag. “Is that how you greet a customer… Tony?”

  He grunts.

  Typical Gorton. Dumb and lacking basic social skills. I’m about to ask him for a cell phone when the television above his head catches my attention.

  A woman with yellow hair in the shape of a beehive and a purple button-up shirt talks to the camera as if capable of seeing her audience through every television screen in San Halos. The volume’s been muted, but it’s hard to miss the white text scrolling across the screen.

  Adam Shaw Found Dead in Own Home.

  Fuck.

  I wait for a sketch of me to pop up on-screen, along with bold text that reads, WANTED. But to my surprise, nothing like that appears on the screen, which means the guy who saw me never called the cops. There’s only one explanation for that: he isn’t a good guy. And what about the woman? Adam’s date? There’s no mention of her, either. She’s probably a suspect, not that it matters. She won’t remember anything that happened and will be useful to the investigation.

  When the shop’s Gorton grunts, I shift my focus to him and clear my throat. “Oh. Um, sorry… I need a cell. Basic.”

  He stares at me, a look meant to signify, Look around, there’s plenty here.

  “Okay, wise guy,” I say. “Give me your best deal on a burner and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Without averting his gaze, he reaches under the counter and pulls out a box of old flip phones.

  “Nothing like old school,” I say, though what I’m thinking is, Nothing like old technology without GPS.

 
No response.

  “How much?”

  He rolls his eyes toward the stained box. Barely hanging on is a yellow Post-it Note with $50 scribbled in black. I whip out my wallet and dig around for cash—my preferred method of payment—but come out empty-handed. I must have spent the rest of it at the bar the other night. Sighing, I hand him my debit card. Again, not my first choice. I’m not a fan of anything that can be traced.

  “No cards,” he says, his deep voice making the glass counter vibrate beneath my palms.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  I make a habit of going to different shops every time I need a new burner phone. If I were to go to the same place all the time, well… people would wonder why I’m going through a dozen phones per year. Most shops are run by arrogant pricks. Then again, almost everyone in San Halos is an arrogant prick.

  The Gorton points at the dirty chipped sign hanging by a rusty chain above his head.

  CASH ONLY.

  So Gorton-like. Also not a fan of traceable expenses. They are greedy, after all, and they’re known for tax evasion. But that isn’t my problem. I’m about to snatch one of the phones and tell him to go fuck himself when I spot a camera sitting at the top left-hand corner of the shop. To further discourage me, Gortons are known for being pretty damn strong. Even against my super strength, he’d put up a good fight.

  Not that I’d die.

  But that’s not the point.

  “Tell me you guys at least brought an ATM in here.”

  He shakes his head and I clench my fist against the counter.

  I know punching this asshole in the face is tempting, but don’t do it, Alexis.

  “I need a fucking phone,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Get cash.”

  Keeping my mouth shut, I storm out of his shop, opening the door as hard as I can to make a scene. The bells jingle hard and the door’s handle smashes into the wall. A young woman with a boy who looks around two years old steps inside. The kid looks up at me like I’m a monster.

  He’s either fae and can sense what I am, or I’m that scary-looking when I’m pissed off.