Читать книгу Hotter Than Hell - Jackie Kessler - Страница 11

The first thing to hit me when I stepped out of the nothingness between realities and into Pan’s antechamber was the smell of trapped sweat and deep earth. Any incubus worth his horns could distinguish the kinds of sweat—the citrus tang of fear, the pumpkin spice of sex. Me, I could assign a body part to the sweat, and what position (or instrument) was used to set the mood.

Hmmm. Cat-o’-nine-tails…across the back of the thighs. Pan must be in a BDSM phase.

Beneath the heavy odors of flesh and loam, a pungent scent beckoned—a heady bouquet, like truffles, that awoke every nerve in my body. It was the raw smell of unbridled desire. Animal passion. Grrrrrowl.

I breathed in and held it, let the musky aroma tickle my nostrils and dangle by the back of my throat until it faded like a dying scream, leaving my mouth parched and my lips tingling with blood. The smell sent “fuck now” signals to my brain, and my body practically vibrated with need. Hellooo, erection. I didn’t bother trying to adjust myself; meeting Pan with a raging hard-on was par for the course. Arousal was to the god of carnality and sensuality what belching was after a particularly fine meal: a sign of appreciation and respect. And unless you wanted to insult the King of Lust, you showed your respect. (In my case, thirteen inches of respect.)

After the smell and the mad urge to copulate with the nearest creature washed over me, I took in the utter darkness—obsidian so complete that the concept of light seemed like a bad dream. In the maw of Pan’s stronghold, there was no color but a suffocating black. And with it, a patient silence. Cave darkness, cave quietude; the stillness of impending madness. A perfect waiting room for the creature who inspires panic. Me, I like the dark. It makes me horny.

The solitude heightened my senses, turned up my heartbeat until it rivaled the gunshot sound of an orchestra pit’s bass drum—boom BOOM!!! boom BOOM!!! My blood thrummed, making its own melody as it crashed through me, heated me, revved me until I was ready, steady, go. Caught in the backbeat of my body, I remembered green eyes and an eager smile, imagined curly black hair that no brush could tame. And then I pictured her: short but far from small, moving her lithe body in time to music, dancing more seductively than Salome with all her seven veils.

I love him, Daun.

Him.

The flesh puppet with the stupidly big shoulders. Him, named after the prude Apostle who claimed it was better to marry than to be set aflame with passion.

What could a mortal like him know of lust?

Her voice insisted: I love him.

Love? Demons don’t love, babes. Whatever you think you’re feeling, you’re just fooling yourself.

So what if I wasn’t really talking to her? The message still worked: the memory of her voice faded, blended into the complete silence of Pan’s antechamber. It took another moment to banish her face from my mind; even after her words stretched into empty ghost whispers, the image of her dazzling eyes, gemstone eyes, winked at me—the deep green of emeralds, vitreous, sparkling with mirth.

Damned flirt. I poked those eyes with mental fingers. Get out of here, babes. You’re not welcome. Before my treacherous memory could toy with me further, I announced: I’m here.

ABOUT FUCKING TIME.

I rolled my eyes. Pan was a master of bitching and moaning. If he’d really wanted me that badly, he could have just summoned me directly into his receiving room. But if it wasn’t urgent, then the King of Lust obeyed our Sin’s unwritten rule: give a Seducer a time to complete current business. To creatures like us, clients came first. Always. Pan had given me time to finish up with the angel; therefore, his summons was merely important, not life-threatening.

The flesh puppets, they were to kill you.

I shrugged away the Berserker’s words. Humans can’t kill demons, not without a lot of help. Good thing I’d destroyed that particular demon of Wrath; he’d been too stupid to live.

Through the psychic link that connected all Seducers, I said to Pan, I got here as soon as I could.

WHATEVER. GET IN HERE.

Sure thing. Where’s the door?

NEVER MIND. I’LL SHOW YOU IN.

Strips of nothingness wrapped around me, papered me like a mummy and hefted me up. Oh, fuck me, I hate this part…

I tumbled backward as invisible hands scooped me up, spun me in a windup. All I could do was snarl and bear it. But flashing my fangs did little good; now I was careening through the darkness, flying like a demonic fastball. Sensations battered me as I tore through the boundary of Pan’s antechamber: the stench of sewage and charred meat coated my nostrils; damp coldness smothered me, drowned me in brackish water. A crushing weight splintered my ribs, squeezed my heart until it was a pulpy liquid mass in my chest. From the blackness around me, a low rumble sounded, growling, stretching into a hungry snarl.

He’s such a Goddamn showoff.

I landed in an unceremonious heap on the ground, only slightly buffered by a thick rug—wool, still holding the stink of the sheep from which it had been shorn. I spat the fabric from my mouth and sat up, only to be assaulted by an overpowering stench of greenery and woods. Pfaugh!

My eyes watered, and I waved a hand in front of my nose. No luck—the thick smells of foliage and fertile soil coated the roof of my mouth. Not breathing did nothing to dissipate the smell. If I hadn’t known better, I’d swear that I’d materialized into the heart of some Athenian nighttime paradise. I snorted, expelling the odors of cedar and pine. It fucking reeked of forest. I half-expected to see a cartoon deer with obscenely huge eyes come traipsing out, swishing its obnoxiously cute tail like it was cruising for a piece of ass.

But as I looked around, no woodland scene unfolded before me. Just a freakishly huge bed—far past king size; this was god size—atop a stone altar, surrounded by various short tables that overflowed with incense, lava lamps, and bowls of jelly beans. (Pan insisted that the candy was an aphrodisiac. I’ll stick with oysters and all-consuming fear.) The room was lit by multi-colored spotlights from somewhere up on high. All it needed to complete the mood was a soul man crooning in the background about getting some sweet lovin’. This definitely wasn’t what I’d expected from Pan, who was known across the Heartlands for his penchant for duct tape and ball gags.

“Finally, he arrives.”

The deep voice of my liege-lord reverberated through the room. I looked up at the gigantic bed, saw humped shapes lolling beneath the vomit-green cover and at least seven women, all naked and unconscious, sprawled atop the blanket. If there were any less than a dozen people in that bed, I’d eat a horseshoe. And the horse still attached to it.

The source of the voice was farther back, reclining against a small mountain of pillows by the headboard. Curly brown hair, from the top of his head down to the goatee on his chin, framed a face of leather and hasty seams, a tribute to ugliness that even the gorgons would have appreciated. Ice-blue eyes regarded me, their pupils elongated, rectangular. Goat’s eyes. He smiled, tight-lipped, and settled back on his throne of pillows. Watching me. His chest gleamed with sweat or oil; tawny curls covered the expanse of his torso, led the eye down the plane of his stomach, down to the thick mass of hair that started just over his hips. His erection was a thing of epic poetry—grotesquely huge, ready to be sheathed in the nearest available flesh.

With at least a dozen juicy women around me, I’d have a huge boner too.

One bulky leg, swathed in a curly pelt, lounged insolently over a feminine shape beneath the blanket; his other leg was shrouded from hoof to thigh by the bedcover. His sinewy arms splayed out to either side of his body, his right hand cupping the breast of a nude woman, his left stroking another woman’s inner thigh. Neither lover responded to his touches, but that didn’t halt his caresses.

Behold, the great god Pan, original party animal and current Lord of Lust, answerable only to the King of Hell. Wonder of wonders, gigolo of gigolos.

Pan grinned hugely, slicing his face in two. “The incubus Daunuan is come. Can you give me a hallelujah?”

I’d never understand his humor. Bowing low, I touched my forehead to the carpet. “Sire.”

A pause, then he asked, “Who’re you supposed to be? Johnny Cash?”

“Last client was into it, Sire.”

“Taking the Tall, Dark, and Handsome thing literally, huh? Still, worlds better than the pastel shit that was all the rage a few years back.”

Decades, but whatever. Time tends to blur for creatures like Pan.

“Oh, get up already. We go back way too far for all this bowing shit.”

I unfolded my body and rose to my feet, sure to remain at a respectful distance from the bed. We did go back a ways; Pan had been my contemporary for most of my existence. Recent events (known far and wide as the King of Hell’s poor temper control) had placed him as a Principal of Lust, but that was a thing of the past; just two weeks ago, he’d been tapped to be the new dread ruler of the Seducers. Not too shabby for an entity that used to entertain himself by scaring the piss out of shepherds and then fucking all the sheep.

Snorting out fumes of pine, I said, “Love what you’ve done with the place, Sire.”

“Yeah?” He stroked his goatee as he glanced around the room. “I’m thinking of going S&M once I’m done auditioning the girlies. It’s been forever since I was into the nature scene, but they seem to like it. Makes them think of cute and fluffy bunnies frolicking in the meadows, or some shit like that. I say fuck the meadows, give me the masochism.”

Eloquent, as usual. “Auditioning? What for, Sire?”

“I need me a new Queen of Lust. Our esteemed leader went and destroyed the last one.”

Couldn’t help it: I shuddered. Even Lillith, bitch that she was, hadn’t deserved such an indignant end. “So you put out a casting call?”

“More like a cattle call.” He smacked the closest rump, belonging to the sacked-out female on his left. She didn’t respond. Definitely dazed or dead—the latter being quite the trick, considering we were in Hell. Pan chortled, slapped his palm against the woman’s bottom hard enough that the CRACK! resonated through the room. “Fuck me, these cows here are quite the slice of Heaven.”

I peered closer at his companions. “Angels?”

“Yep. Got me a halo of them, all for my very own playthings.” His grin was sharp enough to slice off his pointed ears. “Whatever else our dread ruler’s shortcomings, Him declaring that cherubs were the new succubi was a thing of genius. I’ve wanted to bang a celestial since the Beginning. And now I can, whenever I want.”

The closest of his fuckbunnies was in sorry shape: bloody and bruised…and, based on the teeth marks on her body, it looked like Pan had a habit of snacking in bed. And she was the least damaged of those I saw. Me, I preferred giving my lovers a different kind of love bite. “Getting your fill of angel food cake, Sire?”

His grin stretched wide. “And then some. At this rate, I’ll be palling around with the Gluttons.”

I couldn’t smell the telltale odor of anything good—that chilly, snow-sky smell of arctic purity—but that could have been due to the nauseating incense clouding up the room. I squinted, tried to look past the women’s outer forms. Nothing. All I got were their human shells; if there was anything deeper to them, it had been warped far past my ability to sense. No, that wasn’t quite accurate; there was something there at their cores, something vague and sickly, that filled their otherwise empty forms. It was like they’d been scooped out, then inflated with poisoned air.

Frowning, I said, “They don’t register as angels.”

“Maybe that’s because they’re full of dark meat now.” Pan chuckled, a vicious sound. “Not that any of them knew what to do with me. Boring lays, the halo of them. I need me some maenads. Fuck, even a water nymph’d be more responsive.”

If these women really had been angels once, there was no way to tell. Pan had slaughtered them with his own brand of lust. I wondered if they had at least experienced pleasure before their existences had been snuffed out. “How’d you seduce them? The angels I’ve seen are so frigid, they consider the South Pole a nude beach.”

“Daun.” He shook his head like I’d disappointed him. “I’m their King now. They can’t tell me no. They can’t run from me. And they come when I call—whether they want to or not.” Eyes gleaming, he said, “Angels, reduced to the playthings of Lust. I do so love the cosmic irony.”

I hid my distaste by grinning. I wasn’t into rape. I liked my lovers to come willingly—literally as well as figuratively. Sure, my power helped them relax their inhibitions, let them acknowledge the passion they tried to keep under lock and key. But not once in all of my existence had I ever forced myself on anyone, client or no. I’m evil, yes. And the best way to be evil is to encourage and entice others to follow suit. Why steal the milk when the cow would follow willingly?

I love him, Daun.

The memory of my own words whispered in my mind: If I gave you the choice, right now, would you stay with me? Answer me true.

And her reply, as final as Atropos cutting someone’s lifeline short: No.

This was bullshit. I refused to think about a former succubus who’d willingly gone the way of flesh and decay. I cleared my throat, then said to Pan: “Looks like you broke some of your toys, Sire.”

“Yeah.” He snorted. “You’d think they’d be tougher.”

“Why? How hard is it, flying around with the clouds and the birds?”

“You’ve got a point.” He poked the grounded angel to his left, and her head rolled to the side. Pan said, “These must’ve been bottom of the barrel. I’ll have to get me some new ones.”

“I have to admit, Sire, I’m surprised you want an angel to rule by your side.”

“Someone’s got to keep the new succubi in line, and it sure as Hell won’t be me. I’m not into all that female girly-girl shit.” Pan wiped his hand on the fallen angel’s arm, then shrugged. “Besides, the new Queen of Lust doesn’t have to be a cherub. I just thought I’d start there. I’ve still got me tons of minor goddesses and a handful of demons eager to slide down my pole. Nothing I haven’t done before, but who knows? Maybe one of them’ll feel right.”

“A little bit of lubrication will do wonders.”

“Screw that. If they can’t juice up to handle all of me, they’re not meant to be my Queen. Maybe I’ll try something different, audition some of the damned. Get me a mortal mortem piece of flesh.”

“Creative.” Stupid, too, but I didn’t say that. What would a one-time human know about ruling the succubi? And then there was Pan’s godly stamina to consider. Unless said humans had been porn stars in life, I didn’t think they’d stand a chance. Whatever. Not my problem.

“See, this is why you’re going to be a great principal. You’re open to possibilities that others don’t even consider.”

The grin slid off my face. “Principal?”

“Specifically, my number one.”

Fuck. I sucked in a breath of pine-tinted air, wondering how to talk my way out of this.

There are two ways that demons descend to the ranks of the lower-downs. The most common is to hoard power. Mortals claim that power corrupts. In the Pit, the saying is different: Corruption empowers. The better you are at your affiliated Sin, the stronger you become. And once you’re strong enough, you leave the ranks of the lesser demons and become one of the elite: Hell’s barons, dukes, marquises…and principals. The other way the nefarious get promoted is to be appointed by one of the Kings. That’s how Pan had taken over as Lord of Lust.

And now it looked like that was how I’d become a principal. And not just any principal; I’d be the Prince of Lust, First of Principals.

Problem was, I didn’t want to be one of Hell’s elite. Sure, there were upsides. Who didn’t like a title change after working at a company for a long time? And along with the title would come the increased benefits: the raw power, the respect from the greater demons and minor gods, the fear from the lesser demons. The downside? The elite were all assholes, no matter what their affiliated Sin. That included Pan, who at least knew how to have a good time. I still don’t know where it’s written that the more evil you get, the more of a jackass you become, but that’s a rule the elite seem to have taken to heart.

Worse, being Prince meant going to Court and dealing with our sovereign ruler, the dread Lord of the Abyss. And He was certifiably insane. Lucifer, for all of His faults, had been a fine King. But the current Overlord of the Underworld was destroying Hell piece by piece: changing our Rules, softening the boundaries between the Lands of Sin, nearly provoking the nefarious into open warfare against one another. He destroyed all who offended Him, or annoyed Him, or looked at Him the wrong way. Or, for that matter, the right way.

Bishop’s balls, I didn’t want to be a principal, let alone the Prince.

I realized that Pan was waiting for a response. “I’m…flattered, Sire.”

“As well you should be. I’ve passed over Callistus and the others to give you this honor.”

“You shouldn’t have.” He really, really shouldn’t have.

“No?” He smiled thinly as he looked at me, his goat’s eyes glinting. “You’re one of the best Seducers I’ve ever known. Who better to be my go-to guy?”

Think, incubus, think. Put your tongue to better use than licking a lover to orgasm. What could talk Pan out of this idiotic “honor”? Stalling, I said, “Cal will have a fit when he hears.”

“He did. Who gives a shit? Callistus can go fuck himself until his cock falls off. If he were half the demon you are, he’d be the one standing here now.”

I hissed a surprised breath, shattering my demonic stoicism. “He knows? You told him?”

“Of course. There’s a certain decorum to be followed.” Pan’s teeth shone wetly in the spotlight. “I’ve already made my choice known to all the elite, across the Sins and Land. All the lower-downs of Hell know that the King of Lust wants the incubus Daunuan to be his Prince, First of Principals.”

In other words, there was no way I could turn down the so-called honor. My head throbbed, and a high-pitched whine buzzed in my ears as I fought to disguise my horror. This truly sucked angel feathers. “Thank you, Sire.”

“All you have to do is prove yourself. And then the rank, and the power that goes with it, are yours.”

Knowing the answer, I still had to ask, “And if I don’t adequately prove myself?”

“Then you’ll be destroyed,” Pan said, bored. “Can’t have a mistake wandering around the Heartlands, reminding the nefarious that I’d been wrong to have selected you.”

Nothing like a little pressure.

He chuckled softly, the seams of his face creaking like old leather. “No worries, Daun. I’m confident you’ll do well. And if you screw up and don’t pass the test, I’ll make sure your death is quick.”

I bared my teeth in a false smile. “You’re too kind, Sire.”

“Don’t tell anyone. That’ll fuck up my rep.”

Not bloody likely. This fit right in with Pan being a sadistic son of a nymph. “So how am I supposed to prove my mettle, Sire?”

“All you have to do is lure a pure soul into an act of lust.”

“Terrific,” I muttered, “another game of Tempt the Nun.” Boring, boring, boring. The clergy is the one loophole about not seducing the innocent; any human who insists on flaunting his purity is fair game. It falls under the “no light without darkness” category—if people of the cloth successfully resist temptation from one of the nefarious, then Heaven can have them, with our infernal blessings. Lucky for Hell, many so-called men and women of God were easy to lure Downstairs, especially when it came to lust. Take nuns: dress yourself up like their idea of Jesus, boom, they’re putty in your claws. Amazing how quickly those brides of Christ learned to go from tight end to wide receiver. Yawn.

“Nothing like that,” Pan said. “I’ve got something special for you.”

Lucky me.

“Until now, your clients have all been marked for Hell—evil people who you killed and brought to the Abyss for damnation. Easy shit. This will be different. I want you to tempt someone meant for Heaven, a truly good person, into committing an act of lust. One big enough to damn her to Hell.”

“In other words,” I said, “she needs to fuck a Seducer.” That’s one offense Heaven would never overlook. Willingly screwing a demon was an automatic sentence to Hell.

“Think of it as just another client run,” Pan said. “With a few strings attached.”

Uh-huh. “Such as?”

“She needs to spread her legs for you, not for some possessed meat she knows. And no morphing into a familiar mortal shape, for the same reason.” He smiled toothily. “She’s got to give herself to you, Daunuan, and know what you are when she does so. She’s got to call your name knowing you’re going to suck her soul and spit it out in the Bonfire of the Heartlands.”

Just another client run, he said. Hah.

But still…Part of me hungered for the challenge. Seducing corrupt humans is always fun, but that usually requires creativity, not effort. And even the creativity gets easy after thousands of years. Pan’s assignment promised to make me work for the prize.

Thinking how sweet that would be, I nearly salivated. I hadn’t known how much I’d been hungering for such a challenge. I grinned, imagined the taste of purity on my tongue. Yes: definitely sweet. Sweet enough that I didn’t bother worrying about the possibility of failure. No human—no normal, born-to-skin human—could resist me, not when I set my mind to my job. I was better than damn good at my role; I was one of the best. I’d bet my libido on it. Hell, Pan had already bet my existence on it. If I had any doubts at all, I’d be sweating. One thing about being a creature of the Abyss: we don’t sweat easily.

Yes, this little test was just what I needed. And maybe being the Prince wouldn’t be all that nasty. Maybe being royalty had its privileges. Like concubines. I thought of green eyes, of achingly soft flesh. Yes, I bet she’d go gaga over Prince Daun. “So who’s the mark?”

Pan’s smile stretched into something obscene. “I have just the person for you.”

The city block we materialized onto glittered with people moving from place to place—some rushing, most strolling, all catching the gleam of the full moon and the illumination of streetlights reflecting their clothing, their hair, their eyes. Their desires. The mortals ignored Pan and me as they walked, laughed, lived. No surprise there; it was only the rare human who could perceive the nefarious when we chose not to be noticed. Wind brushed my hair, danced with the hem of my trench coat. Cold night, but the temperature didn’t touch me. If I was riding a mortal body, I’d be able to smell the people and their city the way they did, would feel the bite of the wind on my face. But barring possession, my senses on the mortal coil were dulled. Limited.

That would change as soon as Pan showed me my intended. Once I focused on a client and marked her (or him), no matter what form I selected, I’d sense my target, bask in the glorious aromas she took for granted, taste sweetness when our tongues met…

…sweetness spiced with hints of the soul within the mortal shell…

Mmm.

I took a shuddering breath, forced my body to relax. No sense in getting all revved up before I met the one who’d make me Prince Daun. Plenty of time for that.

“Let’s get this party started,” Pan said. He pointed with his goateed chin to a pub across the street. “Your lady’s in there. You sticking with the Johnny Cash look?”

I glanced down at my raincoat. While it had been suitable for a Seattle evening with my former client, it was out of place for a mid-December night in Saratoga Springs, New York. And I had to dress to impress. I could wait to fashion my costume until I saw my intended, but after eons of working with Pan, I knew his style: he wanted me to put on my work clothes before starting the job. “You giving me anything to go on?”

“Not a maiden, not a crone.”

“A mother?”

“Minus the children.”

Translation: a woman of childbearing age who’d given her virginity to another. These days, that narrowed it down to a female between the ages of twelve and fifty-one. Based on my intended being in a bar in the United States, I tightened the range to between sixteen and forty-five. No, she was a pure soul; a fake ID wasn’t in the picture. Make that between twenty-one and forty-five. “Race?”

“Human.”

Funny guy. “More specific.”

“Caucasian.”

“Anything else?”

“You want it easy? Go to a cathouse. You got to work for this one, Daunuan. No more hints.”

Without any more information on what would Hook the client, I needed to outfit myself in something conservative. Not a problem. Time to get dressed for work.

Power washed over me, whisked away the Tall, Dark, and Handsome shell my previous client had found so enthralling and replaced it with Former High School Football Hero: well built, blond and blue, clean-shaven, screamingly white teeth. Over the cake came the icing: thin-striped white shirt, charcoal slacks, black toggle coat. Leather gloves, leather boots. Cover-model perfection.

Pan’s eyes gleamed, reflected the false light of the street lamps. “White Bread, huh?”

Everyone’s a critic. “Give me more to go on, I’ll change.”

“What are you, a girl?”

I spread my arms wide. “Why? Does this outfit make me look fat?”

“Wiseass. Come on, let’s go.”

We marched across the street, ignoring the oncoming traffic. Around us, cars swerved and halted, their drivers reacting to something they felt but couldn’t see. Being evil has its privileges; in this case, Malefic Presence. Unless we choose to hide our auras, most humans automatically avoid us. Helpful when you don’t want to wait for a traffic light. Getting hit by a car wouldn’t kill me, but it would still hurt like a bastard. As we crossed, drivers cursed at one another, flinging profanities and insulting at least two major deities. Words blended, weaving a tune of threats and promises. Buzz, buzz. A screeching of tires, then a thump announced a minor crash. The stench of fury, smoky and sharp. I inhaled, relished the smells of such primal human emotion. Desire was best, and fear a close second, but I would happily take the aroma of rage.

Call it what you want, anger was still a form of passion. And that always put a shit-eating grin on my face.

We trotted up the stairs to enter the pub. Inside, the sounds and smells of humanity hit me in waves—first the day’s grime, then the night’s desire; an undertow of promises and words as solid as the alcohol fumes that rode the air. I pushed my way in, glanced around. Decently packed for a weeknight: enough people to drown out the music playing in the background, not so many that it was impossible to hear individual conversations when I concentrated. Talk of stocks, of the latest war, of disappointments and triumphs that all balanced out in the end.

Boring. These people needed an enema.

As I passed a particularly uptight pretty, I let my fingers brush her rump, pushed. She swayed, then let out a drunken giggle before she launched herself into the arms of the nearest man. He might have done the decent thing, except I touched him, too, as I walked; leering, he scooped the woman into his arms and sucked away her lips.

Much better.

Pan steered me through the crowd, and I left a trail of sex-happy humans behind us. At the back of the long room, we turned left to enter a small lounge laden with the faux-elegant trappings of mahogany and leather. Clusters of patrons were sprinkled liberally in the small room, squished onto sofas, overflowing the plush chairs. Lamps on end tables cast a warm glow around them, unlike the dead fireplace in the far wall that slummed as a chintzy stonework decoration. A cigar room, without the pleasure of cigars. I rolled my eyes at the idiocy behind the intent. It was like trying to seduce someone without foreplay. I swear, I will never understand humans, not in a million years.

A puff of musk and goat: Pan’s breath in my ear. “Your dolly is in the corner over there.”

I glanced over to where he motioned. Seated around a square table, four women were chatting in the overly animated way of the drunk and the desperate. Two blondes (one natural, one bottled); two brunettes, one of whom had her back to me. “Which one?”

“The short one, with the curly ebony locks.” Pan chuckled softly, the inhuman sound very distinct amidst the mortal chatter. “I know how you like the type.”

The one whose face I couldn’t see. Of course.

Approaching slowly, I worked my way around the other patrons so I could get a better look at my intended. Thick black hair, masses of curls spilling over her shoulders, down her back. A glimpse of pale skin—full cheeks, a pointed chin. Heart-shaped.

Familiar.

I heard myself gasp, and the sound filled the room, muffled everything save the wild thumping of my heart. Even before I caught her profile, I knew I’d see wide eyes framed in sooty lashes, eyes the dazzling green of emeralds.

My voice strangling in my throat, I whispered her name. “Jezebel.”

Pan chortled, and for a moment I considered ripping out his larynx. Then self-preservation kicked in. Tuning out the King of Lust, I watched her as she laughed with her companions, a rich melody of amusement. No—it wasn’t Jezebel, not even in her current form as the mortal Jesse Harris. On second (or third) glance, I saw the differences: this woman was shorter, plumper, older than Jezzie’s mortal self. Maybe thirty-five. More naturally beautiful. This woman wore no cosmetics that I could see; the sheen on her lips was from alcohol, not lipstick.

Not Jezebel, no…but the similarity couldn’t have been a coincidence.

Pan snorted laughter. “Have fun, Daun.”

A pop, a flash of burning sulfur, and he was gone, leaving me to stare at the woman I needed to seduce, the woman who looked so much like the succubus who’d chosen to stay with the prude Apostle of Shoulders.

I felt a grin slash across my face as I thought of Jezebel.

Oh, babes. You don’t know just how big a mistake you made. But you’ll learn.

Because once I’m done with your poor-man’s doppelganger here and I’m the Prince of Lust, I’m coming for you.