LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      Chapter 4

      And the Holy Kept Rolling In

      Los Angeles, April 1906

      “This?” I glanced at the decrepit warehouse across the street, took in its slipshod paint and sagging wood, its air of decay and neglect. “This ramshackle building houses base delights?”

      “Yep.”

      “Interesting. From how you described it, I expected the harem of the Topkapi Palace.”

      A low chuckle, throaty and distinctly feminine. “You, Daunuan? Judging by outward appearances?”

      “Me? Never. But admittedly, it lacks a certain razzmatazz.”

      At my side, Jezebel pursed her lips at me, inviting me to watch them sparkle with her saliva. I did so, hearing my heartbeat quicken as I yearned to taste those lips again, to feel her tongue duel with mine. And then she blew out a raspberry.

      “Such a mouth on you,” I said with a grin. “I can think of other things you should be doing with it.”

      I wrapped my arm around her waist, pulled her body closer to mine. Her ample curves mocked me, even as they flaunted the latest fashion: an embroidered blouse that fit snugly around her torso and emphasized her bosom (albeit a mono-bosom, as if individual breasts were something unseemly); a voluminous skirt with a tiny waistline that displayed her hourglass figure to full effect; a lace collar that swathed her long neck right up to the chin, drawing my gaze up past her face to the chestnut hair piled magically atop her head in a mountain of curls; kid gloves and boots wrapped around her impossibly small hands and feet. Dressed to the nines. It was a look that mortal women attempted to achieve through a painstaking process involving a multitude of boned bodices and corsets that were, in turn, lost in a sea of hooks and wires. They were also a blasted pain to remove, especially in the heat of passion. Luckily (for me), they were easy to tear. Or burn.

      The humans responsible for such damnable mortal fashion would easily find a place amongst Hell’s elite—and they’d possess the best-dressed entourage in all the Abyss.

      Jezebel smiled pertly at me, nothing like the aloof Gibson Girl she otherwise embodied. How I longed to shred the fabric from her human form, run my hands along every exposed feminine swell, explore deep within her most intimate crevices. No matter what guise she wore over the millennia, I was constantly confounded by her beauty, and by my own ceaseless hunger for her. She was the finest opium, the meanest drink; like all of her ilk, she oozed sex and scandal.

      My sweet succubus, dolled up like a flesh puppet. As was I, at her insistence. Clad in a dark overcoat and pants, clutching a silver walking stick in one gloved hand, I stood with a bowler hat perched upon my head, a high collar and bow tie wrapped around my throat, and too-tight boots upon my feet. To say nothing of the pants. Obscured by my coat, my erection throbbed, pushed against its confinement. Just being near Jezebel did that to me. All I wanted to do was throw her in the bushes

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