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

by Eliza Hendrix

  With a swing of my body, I get up and Mr. Mushroom starts scratching at my legs.

  “He has to pee,” Drax says.

  “Can you let him out?” I reach into a pile of clothes behind the couch and pull out a black baseball cap. From it, I pluck off a piece of dry apple and throw it into Mr. Mushroom’s mouth.

  What the hell have I become? I used to pay people to do my laundry.

  “Consider pee duty your new job,” I say. “It’ll count as your rent paid to stay here.”

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  I put my hat on, slide my arms into my leather jacket’s sleeves, slip on my boots, and blow Mr. Mushroom a kiss.

  “To finish a job.”

  Chapter 9

  ──────────

  Police cruisers sit on the side of the road, some with their bright blue and red lights flashing, others without. A few black SUVs are also present, and it’s hard to tell whether they belong to the police or someone else.

  Yellow crime scene tape borders Adam Shaw’s property. It starts at his front iron gates, runs along his perfectly trimmed cedar hedges, and leads all the way to the back of the house. How much tape did they put? The guy’s property is huge. Talk about a waste of taxpayer dollars.

  I flew over his backyard last night—the bastard owns (well, owned) a tennis court, a basketball court, an in-ground swimming pool the size of a house, and too many other things to list without getting pissed off about it.

  Keeping my head low under the shade of my hat, I join the crowd that’s formed behind a metal barrier. People bicker, some pointing fingers, while others play aggressively on their phones. What do they think they’ll find? Some Instagram photo that somehow becomes evidence?

  Please. I took his phone and wiped all of his accounts.

  Sweeping through the crowd of curious bystanders, I poke my head over their shoulders, trying to catch a conversation worth listening to.

  “Do you know what happened?” a young man asks.

  The middle-aged woman standing beside him places a hand over her mouth and shakes her head somberly. “The police aren’t revealing anything.”

  “Was he murdered?”

  “I heard something about a suicide.”

  “Nah, I doubt that. The guy was living the dream. I bet someone was hired to kill him.”

  I scoff so loudly that several heads turn my way. Quickly, I lower my baseball cap until it touches the top of my sunglasses and walk away from the group of gossipers.

  There are too many smells here, making it close to impossible to track Clock Dragon’s scent. But it has to be here somewhere. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet, so I’m bound to find something. All I need is a whiff, and I should be able to trace it back to him.

  One woman chewing gum plants a hand over her belly—a belly so large it looks like she ate a donkey. She smacks her lips, sucking her saliva, and swallows whatever taste remains in her piece of gum.

  Her half-toothed mouth opens wide. “Ain’t make no sense. He was fine yesterday. Get those damn cops over here. You! Yeah, you! Y’all need to tell us what the hell’s goin’ on here.”

  America’s finest.

  Her hot breath floats through the air and slips up my nose, causing bile to creep up my throat.

  She should request a refund on that gum.

  Holding my breath, I turn away until it’s safe to breathe again.

  Finally, I catch something. The smell is faint… so faint it’s barely there at all. But it is there. It’s him—the Clock Dragon guy. Where is that son of a bitch? He didn’t stay long last night. Otherwise, I’d have a better scent. I start twirling in circles, following my nose like a brain-damaged hound.

  People must think I’m drunk.

  Nothing new there.

  At last, I catch a trail and start following my nose. It leads me away from the crime scene, down Apple Hill Road, and across another dozen million-dollar homes. It still isn’t overly strong, which means he isn’t anywhere near here.

  So I walk, and walk, and walk… wishing I’d brought a bottle of tequila with me. The trail leads me back into the city and toward a neighborhood I tend to avoid—Estreenos. By the time I get there, the sun’s already starting to set.

  How long have I been walking? It’s not like my feet get sore enough to provide any sort of measure; I’ve been alive far too long for that.

  Oh God. Is this where he lives? As I enter the neighborhood, little Latino kids carrying basketballs and rocks look at me like I’ve lost my way. Keeping my head down, I continue to follow the trail. It leads me to a shoddy old house with a busted window, crisp yellow grass, pieces of garbage across the lawn, a short chain-link fence, and a beaten Honda Civic without tires.

  On the front concrete steps, a young Latino boy rests his face in his palms. He looks up at me as I continue down the road, careful not to draw too much attention to myself.

  No question, the smell is coming from that house.

  So who’s the kid?

  “Pedro!” comes an angry woman’s voice.

  The kid’s eyes bulge, but he doesn’t move.

  Then, out through the screen door comes a young Latina woman with hoop earrings, too-long pink fingernails, a very pregnant belly, and tattoos running down her left arm. She pulls her wavy chocolate-brown hair over one shoulder, chews a piece of gum with her mouth wide open, and grabs at her curvy waist.

  As she chews, she yells at the boy in Spanish, and although I can’t make out what she’s saying, it’s obvious she’s telling him to get back inside. When he doesn’t listen, she grabs him by the arm and pulls him up. As much as I want to barge in there and demand information, I can’t do that. She might not know anything. So instead, I make a left turn, cut across someone’s tiny yard, and head toward the back of the affordable housing across the street.

  If I can’t go inside, I’ll have to find a spot to hide out until I see the guy. The smell’s pretty strong, so he’s either inside, or he left not too long ago. Beside the house across from his stands a massive maple tree—the perfect hideout.

  I glance around quickly to make sure no one’s watching this lunatic climb a tree, then dig my claws into the bark and propel myself into the air. The leaves shake all around me, and if anyone is looking, they must think a couple of cats are fighting on a branch.

  I find a good vantage point and straddle one of the largest branches. Having it between my legs isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s keeping me in place, and it’s also helping me ignore the need to piss badly.

  So I lean forward, resting my chest along the branch, and drop my chin onto my palms.

  This could take a while.

  “Where are you, you son of a bitch?” I whisper to myself.

  The sky above darkens to an indigo blue, and the children of the neighborhood scatter throughout the streets, playing with sticks and holding them up like they’re guns. A few adults walk along the sidewalks—mostly young men with baggy pants, tattoos on their necks and faces, and bandanas around their black-haired heads.

  Everyone knows to stay away from this neighborhood.

  Aside from Relik street, it’s one of the city’s most dangerous places to be a night.

  The sound of gunshots in this neighborhood is as common as the sound of lawnmowers in suburbia.

  Criminals roam the streets, fighting each other in one of the city’s biggest and most recent drug wars. Some of Estreenos’s street gangs work for the vampires, supplying both live and packaged blood in exchange for some of the most hardcore drugs available on the streets.

  And feebles think the war on drugs is bad… They have no idea how bad it is and how many people are involved.

  Estreenos is the kind of place that the municipal government views as toxic but does nothing to fix the root of the problem. Maybe if they brought good schools to the area and worked on fixing the drug trafficking problem, the kids would stand a chance.

  As the sun sets, a cool breez
e sweeps through the air and kids run back inside their homes. That’s when the big fancy drug trafficking cars make their appearances, the overhead streetlights reflecting off their shiny hoods.

  One black car with tinted windows and a blue underglow rolls in with loud music blaring from what I can only assume is an expensive aftermarket audio system. It drives slowly as if inspecting the area.

  Is that how Clock Dragon’s window got busted? Was it a drive-by shooting? Because it looks like that’s what these guys are about to do. But instead of pulling out a gun, they suddenly take off with squealing tires.

  I’m left disappointed, having wanted to see some action.

  A few minutes later, a black, silver-rimmed Escalade rolls in. The music stops when it reaches the front of Clock Dragon’s house (or at least what I’m assuming is his house) and out of the passenger doors comes a gang with blue bandanas on their heads and guns in their grips.

  When the driver steps out, I clench my fists.

  That’s him. Clock Dragon. Although his tattoo is hard to see in the dark, there’s enough light being cast from above to make it visible.

  Apparently, he has an entire crew.

  Awesome.

  Does he even give a shit that Adam Shaw died? Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I did this guy a favor. Adam must have been involved in drugs or something, and maybe he owed one of the gangs some cash.

  That’s a possibility, right?

  Although tempted to climb down and head home, I wait.

  Suddenly, a light turns on through the busted kitchen window, and out comes the woman from earlier—the one who yelled at poor little Pedro. She throws her arms around Clock Dragon’s neck and kisses him hard.

  So they’re together… And she’s pregnant. That means if I kill the bastard, I’m leaving not only a sad boy without a father but also an unborn child.

  Although I can’t hear anything they’re saying, Clock Dragon waves his arms around animatedly, and his girlfriend, or whoever she is, seems to be getting excited. She covers her mouth and presses her face into his chest.

  Good news? Bad news?

  He kisses her one last time before turning around, tells his buddies to get back into the SUV, and climbs inside. His tires squeal as he takes off.

  Where the hell is he going now?

  Father or not, I can’t let him get away. He’s seen my face, and if he describes me to the cops, I’ll have to change my name again and leave the city when I finally found a place I like.

  No way.

  So I do the one thing I can think of—I blast myself upward and out of the tree, causing several branches to snap. With my wings fully expanded, I propel myself into the sky and follow the gang’s Escalade from above.

  Chapter 10

  ──────────

  Clock Dragon steps out of his Escalade and hands his keys over to some dude at the front of the club. Everyone knows this place—Rova Nightclub. It’s San Halos’s most exclusive nightclub; it fills up with models, celebrities, and entrepreneurs from all over the states.

  They’ll never let me inside.

  No one gets in unless they’re on the list. And that means there’s no way I’m sneaking past the two huge bouncers standing at the front.

  If Clock Dragon’s going in there, it means he’s a somebody… It means he has power in this city or he’s working for someone who does. Either way, this isn’t good.

  I glance up at the roof, wondering if maybe I can somehow slip inside from a different entrance. A window? Unlikely. There are guards all around the place, and I highly doubt anyone would leave a rooftop entrance unguarded.

  The only way inside is through the front door, and the only way I’m getting in there is if I use my Lure to convince the bouncers to let me in. The baseball cap on my head feels heavy, as does my leather jacket. Compared to all the hot girls going in there, I’ll be mistaken for a homeless chick.

  I need a new wardrobe.

  Leaning forward on the rooftop, I glance into the dark alleyway, making sure no one’s around. When I’m certain no one will report me to the vampires for flying, I lunge off, expand my wings, and land in the alley, my powerful gust causing loose garbage to fly about sporadically.

  Alleys are often the best place to land inside the city because no one’s around. Well, for the most part. Last year, a homeless guy popped his head out of a dumpster with a half-eaten burger hanging out of his mouth. He pointed a crooked finger at me and started accusing me of being one of Satan’s angels.

  So I played along and told him that if he told anyone what he saw, I’d send him straight to hell. Although amusing, it was unnecessary—no one will believe him anyway.

  Little by little, I step out of the alleyway and into the lights of downtown San Halos, where music blares every time someone opens a door.

  “Where are you?” comes a woman’s voice. “You said you’d be here, Max. I’ve been waiting for, like, five minutes and I’m not waiting much longer.”

  The woman is wearing nine-inch heels, a blue velvet dress so short I can see her butt cheeks, thousands of dollars’ worth of gold around her neck, and large hoop earrings so heavy they’re causing her ears to droop.

  Now that’s a dress.

  And she’s all alone.

  This is perfect.

  “Excuse me,” I say, walking up to her.

  “Just get over here,” she says quickly into her phone. She lowers it and gives me a full up-and-down look that translates to, Which dumpster did you climb out of?

  She even goes as far as to take a step away from me, which is insulting. I may not be dressed to the nines like she is, but this leather jacket took a lot of work to steal.

  “Can I help you?” she asks, her voice nasal.

  God. The epitome of a rich, entitled snob.

  I almost repeat, “Can I help you?” in an even more nasal voice to mock her, but I bite my tongue. The better part of my brain tells me how immature that would be.

  Besides, I need her. So instead of insulting her, I bring out my friendly, extra chipper voice and say, “Oh, yeah, I’m so sorry to bother you—”

  And then I trip over my feet on purpose and throw my hat off my head. It lands by her feet, right where I want it to.

  “Oh shit,” I say. “Sorry about that.”

  She takes another step back, her hands curled up next to her tits as if I vomited on the sideway.

  “What’s your problem?” she says.

  Instead of answering, I bend down, grab my hat, then gently wrap my fingers around one of her ankles, admiring her leather-strapped heel. “Wow. These are gorgeous.”

  I can activate my Lure from a close distance, but it works faster with touch.

  This time, she doesn’t pull away.

  “Like, really stunning,” I add, now gliding a gentle finger along the leather, around her ankle, up her calf, and close to her inner thigh. She instinctively parts her legs, her heel scratching the cold asphalt.

  “I-I… Um… Thank you.”

  Slowly, I rise back up, gliding the tip of my finger across her soft, shaven thigh and up the side of her hip. We stand face-to-face, and I smirk, focusing my gaze on her lips.

  “They suit you,” I say.

  She gasps, but it’s obvious she’s too excited to say anything.

  Good. She’d better be excited. I want her to beg me for it.

  I reach for her shoulder. “You look tense.”

  The moment I squeeze, she closes her eyes and her skin bubbles with thousands of little goose bumps.

  “You need to relax,” I say, massaging her muscles.

  She nods, her head rocking back and forth.

  My Lure is working full force.

  Saying nothing, I grab her hand and lead her into the darkness of the alleyway. She doesn’t hesitate—she’s so exhilarated that she drops her purse along with her cell phone and follows me, her heels ticking fast and hard against the asphalt.

  The moment we disappear into the d
arkness, I turn around, wrap my fingers in her hair, and pull her backward until her back goes flat against the brick wall. She winces as if it’s hurting her, but in reality, she’s loving it. The corner of her mouth pulls up with excitement, and her eyelids flutter.

  “You like that?” I say, wanting nothing more than to spread her legs open and give her a taste of heaven. I let go of her hair and instead reach for her throat. Her breath quickens, as does her heartbeat against my palm, and she licks her lips.

  You want it rough, don’t you? I say in my mind.

  Although she can’t hear me, she nods and grabs my wrist as a way of telling me to squeeze tighter. Next, her frightened, honey-brown eyes meet mine, and her desire becomes obvious to me. Fear turns her on.

  With my boot, I kick one of her ankles to the side to spread her legs apart. Her heel scrapes against the alley’s cobblestone, and she digs her nails into my forearm. It’s apparent she doesn’t understand how I could be this strong, but she likes it. In fact, she wants more. She wants to feel overpowered, making me want to ravage her.

  I’ve fed off my share of submissive women before, but this one’s different—she craves aggression so much I have to consciously stop myself from crushing her throat. With my Lure in full force, I’m about ready to chain her down and fuck her until she climaxes so hard her soul detaches from her body.

  Breathing out through clenched teeth, I tighten my grip around her jugular—not too tight, but tight enough that she struggles to breathe. Her clawing turns into slapping, and although from anyone else’s perspective it would appear I’m abusing her, this is exactly what she wants.

  “Just fucking take me,” she says, her voice constricted.

  I pull her dress up hard and slip her panties to the side. Delicately, I reach for her kitty, my fingers gliding along her wet, smooth lips. With eyes rolled back, she moans and bites her bottom lip, then reaches for the brick above her head and claws at it.

  Without warning, I shove two fingers inside, reaching as far as I can, and she cries out as if being touched for the first time. “Oh, fuck…”

  There it is.