Candy talked as she shimmied into her PVC shorts. "Now, as I was saying, there's a lot of men out there. Men with too much money and too little female attention. You want to get back at your man? Go out there, have a fucking killer set. Line your G-string with dead presidents."
"That'll get back at Paul how?" I asked.
She grinned at me, nearly blinding me from the flash of her teeth. "Honey, you'll be so busy counting your money, you'll be asking, 'Paul who?' "
Good point.
A rap on the door, then Joey's voice: "Jezzie, you're on."
"Thanks, sweetie," I called. I grabbed the bottle of hair spray and quickly cemented my tresses in place. Then I stood up, knotted my sleeveless black rocker tee at the waist, and adjusted my Daisy Dukes so that no ass cheeks peeked out. Then I blew my reflection a kiss.
Showtime.
I boogied down the hall, my heels clacking on the floor in time to the ending refrain of Prince's "Cream." Another dancer, Tori, headed my way, probably en route to the dressing room. As we approached each other, my pace slowed. She riveted me with red-rimmed eyes, her lips fixed in a knowing smile. My throat constricted, and suddenly I couldn't breathe.
Lillith smiled, opened her mouth—
—and sneezed.
Huh?
Tori sniffled, wiped her nose. "Fucking allergies," she muttered, walking past me. "Love your shirt, J."
"Thanks," I said, able to breathe again. My head felt swimmy, and my legs wobbled so much that I nearly wiped out. Pit swallow me, I was losing my mind. Get a hold of yourself, Jesse. Drooling men await.
By the time I arrived backstage, I had barely a minute to loosen up—I rolled my shoulders, rocked my head back and forth. Prince faded, and Kelly jiggled up to me, glistening from her time on stage, clutching fistfuls of money to her naked chest. We did the "Hey" thing, filling an entire conversation with one word:
ME: Hey. (Meaning, Hi, did you have a good set?)
HER: Hey. (Meaning, Yeah, pretty good, but you have to work it to see real tips.)
ME: [Eyebrow quirk.] (Guys're stingy today?)
HER: [Shrug.] (Tightwad losers, the lot of them.)
She dashed past me, and then from the DJ booth Jerry's voice filled the club. He called my stage name—my real name, the sum of who I was, and who I would ever be.
The temptress of Spice: Jezebel.
Hell yeah.
I stepped on stage, the first notes of AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long" blending with the loud applause from the audience. My men, they likee the Hard Rock Whore thing. Over the cheers, electric guitar strummed from the speakers, sassy, playful, hinting of wickedness. Grinning as the melody seeped into my skin, I sashayed forward, taking stock of the men seated in front of me, around me—watching me, wanting so desperately to touch me. Sweaty faces, hungry eyes.
Uber cool.
The drums lacked in, working with the guitar to form a seductive rhythm. Hands on my thighs, I rolled my hips to the beat. My hands moved up my torso, tracing the outline of my breasts before they stretched up and up, ran through my hair as they reached for the sky. Brian Johnson's voice rang out, gravely and so damn sexy, and as he sang I danced—big movements, unabashed, inviting the audience to fuck me with their eyes.
The barest pause at the end of the song, then the pounding drum intro to ZZ Top's "Sleeping Bag" thumped out. Thrilling in the way the music battered my body, I untied the end of the rocker shirt before I peeled it over my head. Strutting to the stage's edge, I winked at the flustered businessman at Table 2 and let the garment fall into his lap. Not a good idea to throw away outfits, but today I didn't mind—the shirt had been Paul's.
Gyrating in the spotlight, I tore the shorts from my body, the Velcro making a satisfying ripping sound. Ah, fuck it. I tossed that out too, causing a minor fistfight by Table 3.
That's right, boys. Show me your love.
Stripped down to my black mesh bra and G-string, I sauntered to the brass stripper pole in the middle of the stage. Gripping it with both hands, I swung in time with the song, kicking up a leg and whipping my hair around in a frenzy. All to the beat: the music pulled me under, and I let it take me away.
Soon ZZ Top melted into Poison telling the audience to "Talk Dirty to Me." I ditched my bra. My breasts, all too happy to be free, jiggled as I danced, my nipples erect from the air conditioning and the avid stares of the customers. My shoulders rolled and my ass wiggled as I drank in the music, sipped the sound of Bret Michaels' throaty vocals.
Purr, baby.
Dropping to the floor, I crawled my way to the tip rail, my body undulating to the guitar lead. Tits-first, I said hello to all the lovely men with all their lovely money. Ones and fives slid next to my hip, thick fingers lingering on my thigh after they tucked the bills into my barely-there underwear. The new owner of my shorts offered me a twenty. Smiling over my shoulder, I showed him my ass, wiggling my intention. I felt his nervous fingers touch my flesh as he nudged the money beneath the strap of my G-string. Turning, I blew him a kiss, knowing that at that moment, he would have given me his soul to feel my mouth on his.
Yes, sweetie. I would suck you down, swallow you whole, make you explode with pleasure.
Flush with tips, I rose to my feet and pranced to the middle of the stage for the rest of the song, dancing for my posse. The music gave way to a crash of applause and whistles, and I basked in the attention, feeling their desire pour over me, thick and sticky as blood on my skin.
Grinning madly, I waved to all the yummy men. Who needed Paul Hamilton?
Before I picked up my discarded bra, I caught a glimpse of long blond hair, of legs that stretched from here to Omaha.
Seated at the bar, the angel raised a glass to me.
"I still don't understand what you're doing."
Fumbling in my purse, I said, "What I'm doing is standing outside of Paul's apartment as I look for my key."
"Yes," the cherub said, "but my concern is why you are here in the first place."
"I need to get my stuff." I'd been so busy not stressing after Alecto's return that I'd accidentally left my suitcases at the apartment. Now I needed to retrieve them before Paul came home. I didn't know where I was going next, but that didn't matter. I could do the hotel thing for a few days, maybe slum at Faith's for a couple while I figured things out.
Angel said, "I think what you need is some time to think before you do anything rash."
"What are you, my mother?"
"Demons don't have mothers."
"It's something the humans say. And I'm not a demon anymore." Crap, where was the key? "I don't suppose you could open the door for me."
"Of course I could. But I won't. Entering an abode without permission would be wrong."
"Yeah? Where was this sense of righteousness earlier, when you just zapped yourself inside and nearly scared me to death?"
"That was different," she said. "I needed to speak with you."
"Well, I need to get inside."
"Then you should use your key."
Bitch.
After some more fruitless rummaging, I upended my purse, scattering the contents onto the floor. Lipstick, tissues, loose change, more tissues, three sticks of gum, wallet, half a chocolate bar. Some funky stuff that I assumed was a purse's equivalent of belly button lint. But no key.
Crap.
"Maybe this is a sign," Angel said. "Perhaps you're not supposed take your things and leave. Perhaps you're supposed to make amends with your man."
"Perhaps I should learn not to lose my flipping key." I leaned over and thudded my forehead against the door, the wood cool against my skin.
And from inside, I heard voices.
Oh, terrific. My soon-to-be-ex-lover was home. Maybe he'd be kind enough to let me in so I could tear him a new asshole before I kissed that ass goodbye. Maybe—
A woman's laughter peeled out, the sound as ripe as freshly plucked fruit.
Frowning, I pressed my ear against the door. Maybe I'
d left the television on?
No, there was Paul's voice, muffled, yes, but his voice all the same.
My chest felt too tight, and something lodged in my throat. Swallowing thickly, I listened, hoping I was wrong, knowing I wasn't.
More laughter, followed by a feminine voice cooing. And now Paul, letting out a groan…
"Unlock this door," I said to Angel.
"Jesse Harris, that would be—"
"Unlock this fucking door," I said again, my voice a strangled growl. "Now."
Either my urgency or my demonic nature must have convinced the cherub not to screw around, because she replied, "It is done."
I threw open the door and stormed inside. And there, in the living room, on the cheap Ikea sofa that was falling apart but Paul couldn't bear to part with, there was Paul himself, his button-up shirt unbuttoned and hanging off him like a dead thing, Paul's head thrown back but not so much that I didn't see his blissful smile, Paul's hard torso and chest and shoulders glistening with sweat and scratches from nails that weren't mine, Paul moaning in ecstasy, Paul with a woman straddling him.
Paul with some nasty skanky lily-assed cocksucking festering rotting piece of trash whore on top of him. Fucking his brains out.
Right. Now. In front of me.
She faced away from me as she rode my man. Her body moved sinuously, flowing like white water. She moved, he followed. Her ass rose, and Paul's crotch rose with her; down they came, her ass, his crotch, locked together like a Chinese finger trap. Naked, her flesh gleamed, pearls of sweat on her pale skin. His jeans and underwear puddled around his knees, forgotten. The musk of their sex rilled the room, filled my nose until all I could smell was her body on his.
I must have made a sound. I must have, even with my blood roaring in my ears so I couldn't hear anything but the mad boom! boom! boom! of my heart about to explode in my chest. I must have made a sound, because she turned, looked over her bare shoulder at me.
And grinned.
Unholy Hell, that's me.
That's my face. My big green eyes, sparkling with mischief and delight. My mouth, set in a wide grin with a slight over-bite. My round cheeks, my pointed chin. My black curly hair that hated to be tamed with a brush. That's my body on top of Paul's, my legs sandwiching him.
"Heya, Jesse," she said, that fucking smile still on her face.
My voice.
My twin sister.
Caitlin fucking Harris.
Something popped in my ears, and my vision narrowed to a red pinpoint until all I saw was her smile. Yes, focus on the smile. Keep those teeth in sight. Because I am so going to punch those fucking teeth right out of your fucking head, you little scum-sucking ho of a sister.
I took exactly two steps before the bolt of power slammed into me, threw me backward. Heat—sizzling through me, enveloping me in a magical inferno. I screamed as my insides cooked and my bones melted, screamed as the stink of burning meat assaulted my nostrils, screamed until the sound cut off with a grunt when my body crashed into the wall.
Pinned.
Can't move.
Unholy Hell, can't even think.
"Better," Caitlin said. "I do so love an audience. Succubi, both present and past. How nice."
Her gaze on mine, she moved her hips faster. Beneath her, Paul groaned. His arms reached up, circled her waist, lifted her up and pushed her down, impaling her on himself. And up. And down. With every lift up, she gasped in delight. With every stroke down, she purred his name.
And grinned at me.
Stuck on the wall, I hung like a smoking picture. I couldn't look away, couldn't even close my eyes.
Please. Stop.
Don't let me see this, hear this. Smell this.
Paul's groans gave way to harsh panting. His breathing increased, and with every thrust he grunted, a primal sound of male pleasure. "I," he said. "I. I'm—"
Black smoke, seeping from his eyes, his mouth.
"—going to—"
Blackness pulsing around him, through him, eating him alive.
"—come—"
No! He can't die, not like this, not like this…
I heard her next words as if she'd hissed them directly into my brain: "Say my name."
Oh.
Oh no. No no no.
Not Caitlin. Not Caitlin at all.
Beneath her, Paul hitched in a breath. Gasping, he called her name.
"Lillithhhhh—ah!"
The orgasm took him completely, his body jittering beneath hers. And she smiled, content, her eyes sparkling as she looked at me.
"There now," she said to him while she stared at me, "was that the best sex you've ever had, lover?"
"Yes," he whispered, then his arms dropped and his head lolled and his voice faded into a small hiss until the word leaked away.
"You know how to make a girl feel special." She grinned at me. "Now, how can I show my appreciation? Oh, I know."
No. Oh by all that's unholy, no.
She bent down and kissed his lips.
NO!
I screamed myself raw, but my mouth was frozen, and I didn't make a sound as she sucked out Paul's soul.
When she pulled away, the black aura around him winked out, leaving Paul's body empty, spent. Lillith turned to me, and as her form shifted into something else, she licked her lips. "Your man tastes like apples."
You bitch.
I swear to any god listening, to my King and my Sire, to the Almighty and the Nameless Evil. I swear I'll see you dead, you thieving whore.
Her body rippled, washed itself of my shape. "Jezebel, you've always had a flair for the dramatic. He's just a flesh puppet, after all. Well, was."
Cunt!
She chuckled, low and throaty. "Ah, love. It makes you mortals do the most interesting things. You want him so bad, Jezebel? Come and get him."
Lillith blew me a kiss, then disappeared.
Chapter 12
Paul's Apartment
As soon as Lillith vanished, my body collapsed to the floor. A sound like a twig snapping, then a blinding pain in my arm.
No, don't think about that. Don't think about how the room is tilting to the left, how I'm finding it difficult to breathe.
Don't think.
I scrambled to my feet, even though the room kept rotating and the floor tried to slip out from under me. Left arm cradled to my chest and my right arm out for balance, I tottered over to the sofa. And there I crashed to my knees.
Paul.
He could have been sleeping. A rebellious lock of sandy hair dangled over his left eye like a question mark. Eyes closed, his brown lashes feathered out, leading the eye down to his sculpted cheeks, dotted with stubble. The rugged look. His strong jaw was relaxed, his lips parted as if waiting for a kiss.
He wasn't breathing.
I heard a high-pitched sound, like a kitten calling for its mother. My throat tightened, and the mewling took on a panicked note.
Paul wasn't breathing.
My Paul.
You were going to be so very sorry you'd made me feel so bad. You were going to miss me, want only to kiss me, hold me, love me. You were—
You are—
Paul.
Reaching out, smoke wafting from my burned flesh, I touched Paul's cheek. Cold. My fingers left smudges of black on his skin. No, that's not right. He shouldn't be dirty. I tried to rub the spots away, but all that did was streak the soot on his face.
"Jesse Harris," a soft voice said. "Please, Jesse Harris. Let me."
A gentle hand touched mine, moved it away from Paul's face. I opened my mouth, tried to say that he shouldn't be dirty, but all that came out was another tiny mewl.
The soft voice said, "Be calm, Jesse Harris."
Warmth pulsed from the hand covering mine, and that warmth traveled up my body, wrapped me in a thick cocoon. A wave of comfort rolled over my chest, and I took a deep, shuddering breath. Then I sagged, my arms dangling, hands limp on the ground. I tried to lift my hand, to touch Paul a
gain, but my arm wouldn't move.
"I have healed your arm and your burns," Angel said, removing her hand from mine. "But you need rest. Come, let me take you to your bed."
Swaying, nearly falling to the floor, I shook my head. "No." My voice cracked, turning the word into broken glass. "Heal him."
"I cannot. He is dead." She sighed, said, "There is no healing from death."
I wanted to scream, to insist that bless it all, she had to heal him. But my mouth didn't work properly, and the weight of a thousand despairs dragged me down. I slumped to the ground. Fighting the exhaustion claiming me, I gritted my teeth, forced myself to look the cherub in the eye. "You," I said, pushing the word out of my mouth. A breath, another word: "Owe." And again: "Me."
Angel frowned at me, then turned to look at Paul. Shaking her head, she rested her left hand on his bare chest. "I saw his soul," she said, her voice like spring rain. "It was clean. White, with streaks of gold and silver. Even the webs of red were pure. Any lust had long since been altered by love. It was beautiful."
Tears spilled down my cheeks. Of course it was beautiful. I hadn't seen it, but I'd felt it. Known it. Loved it. Paul's soul was a thing of symphonies, of swirling crescendos and magical progressions. His soul was music. And Lillith's theft severed that music in a violent finale.
"She had no cause to bring him to Hell," Angel said, her brow crinkling. "What she did was wrong."
"My fault." My love had gotten him killed.
"No, Jesse Harris." Steel glinted in Angel's blue eyes, knives slicing through the sky. "No matter her hatred for you, there are still rules. She overstepped."
"Old rules," I said, remembering what the Arrogant had told me just yesterday. "Bending. Breaking."
Angel nodded. "They are. The King of Hell has changed much. But some of the old rules remain. The innocent cannot go to the Abyss. That is still a rule, even if unwritten." She looked at Paul's empty form, something close to a sneer playing on her lips. "This isn't right."
Beneath her touch, the color leeched from Paul's skin, fading until his form was an alabaster shell.
I whispered: "Heal him?"
"I cannot," she said, sighing again. "I hoped that perhaps I could call back his soul. But it is linked to your former Queen, and thus trapped. It cannot return to the flesh, no matter how I beckon." Her shoulders slumped. "He is dead, Jesse Harris. All I can do is preserve his form. Without his soul, his body is dead. I am truly sorry for your loss." She started to remove her hand.
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