3
I
took a deep breath, my hand still resting on Lucien’s heavy, wood door. I cleared my throat, preparing my little speech about who I was supposed to be. “I’m sorry? Were you . . .” I turned to make eye contact with my old flame, expecting to see a bag of wrinkles. Instead, Wills—
my
Wills from London—stood before me. He must have only been thirty at the oldest. The air sucked out of my diaphragm. I couldn’t speak, and it felt like that time I was swing dancing and my partner dropped me on my back, knocking the wind out of me.
“Wills . . .” I managed to whisper, frozen where I stood.
“There you are, Pocket.” He smiled, and these charming little wrinkles formed at the corner of his eyes. I hadn’t heard that nickname in decades—it sounded like a foreign language. If it was at all possible, he was even more handsome now than he was back in 1939 when we first met. He stood at about five foot ten with his hands stuffed deeply into his perfectly pressed gray dress pants. He was wearing a very proper suit vest with his grandfather’s signature gold pocket watch clipped to his vest. The watch itself was the same, but I recognized the chain as being new. An updated chain on an antique watch. His chestnut brown hair was parted perfectly on the left side and hung just slightly over his hazel eyes. Decades ago he had one crooked tooth, but it appeared he had that fixed, because the row of teeth in front of me were perfect in every way.
“I realize you probably expected me to be in my grave by now.” He rocked back on his heels and pulled his hands from his pockets, putting a finger to his lips. “Well, I’m a . . .”
“You’re a demon.” I stood there, shocked. The bar was full of demons, and Wills’s aura certainly wasn’t overly strong. But his demon signature was definitely there. Standing in front of me. “How? How did this happen? You were the perfect mortal—Heaven-bound and everything.”
“Yes, yes.” He rolled his eyes. “I was a good little British boy.” He paused. “Until
you
came along.” The accusation was like a knife in the gut, and my immediate instinct was to defend myself. Before I could, he gestured to the bar stool. “Come, sit, Monica, sit. Let me tell you what happened.”
I let him guide me to the seat. He gestured to T, “One scotch and water, please.”
“Make that two, T,” I said, still staring at Wills’s face. “Please,” I added as an afterthought.
“Actually, that one I ordered was for you.” He winked at me. It was the same wink from decades ago. “See, Pocket? I still know you after all these years.” He chucked me under the chin and laughed.
“Uh-huh,” I said, feeling rather numb. My drink arrived, and I pulled the glass up to my lips. Not so much because I wanted a drink; mostly I just wanted something else to focus on. The ice clinked against my teeth as I took my first sip.
“Well.” He took a sip of his own drink and savored the flavor before continuing, “As you recall, I joined the war. Initially my father had arranged it so that I wouldn’t have to fight—being the wealthy family we were, he could certainly afford the payoff. But I felt like only half a man. It was such a cowardly way to live my life. To turn my back on my country—on every country, for that matter. So I ran away and joined the fight. That was—let’s see . . . forty-two. It was awful. More horrible than the most horrible story you’ve heard.”
“I know.” I interrupted him. “After you joined, I became a nurse in the war. I was stationed in France.” I stared into my glass. “I guess I was hoping that somehow I’d find you.”
He nodded. “Ah. So you know what it was like.”
“Yes, I know.”
There was a moment of silence as we both remembered the atrocities of the time. “So, one day a giant piece of shrapnel caught me right here.” He gestured to his stomach. “Bloody thing essentially cut me in half. I lay there on the battlefield in a pool of blood. Some of which was mine, and some was my friends’ I fought alongside. I was screaming for the medic until I could feel my body twitching, my vision becoming a darkening tunnel.”
I had known this much already. Our last night together, I had seen him dying in battle in my last vision. It’s why I joined—with a slim hope I might be able to save him and defy fate.
Wills continued speaking, having no knowledge that I knew how he had died. “And all of a sudden, this woman was cradling me. And as she ran her hand from my forehead down to my wound, the pain disappeared.
You don’t have to die here, like this,
she said.
We can take your pain away and give you immortality.
The numbness felt so damn good after feeling so much pain. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Out of nowhere she pulled a piece of paper and told me to sign in blood. Wasn’t hard to do since my damn hand was covered in it, anyway. And I signed my soul away.”
I gasped. “Oh, Wills,” I wanted to cry. I wanted to find that demon—the one who stole Wills’s soul—and rip her limbs from her body. It was low, preying on the men who lay dying, battered, and twisted on the field. Offering them no pain and more years. What man would say no to that?
I took Wills’s face in my hands. I touched his cheeks, his eyelids—I ran my fingernails over his eyebrows and ran my other hand through his soft brown hair. He grabbed my hand and kissed my palm. “Why didn’t you come to me sooner?” I asked, a pleading tone to my voice.
He shrugged uncomfortably. “I didn’t know where you were, whether you were alive or dead. After the war, I thought it would be easier to stay away from all my family and friends. Everyone thought I had died, and it just seemed easier to let them believe that. Mourn my loss and move on. I never really cared enough for my family to reunite with them, and I had no idea what had become of you. I tried to find you in London. I searched for years and then gave up, not knowing your true nature.”
I nodded, my gaze falling somewhere past his shoulder. “It was a bad time.”
He nodded with me in agreement. “It was. I didn’t come to America until a decade ago. And then one day, about six months ago, I saw you. At first I thought I was hallucinating. I followed you to some little coffee shop. I sat out on a park bench and watched you through the window. As I watched, I thought maybe you were some sort of relative of Monica’s. A niece or a granddaughter. I came every Thursday morning, sat on that park bench, and watched you. It wasn’t until one day when you passed by me, talking on your cell phone. You were wearing this short skirt, and as you walked a little gust of wind blew your skirt up, revealing the birthmarks on your inner thigh. Two distinctive spots. And I just knew. You weren’t a long-lost relative of Monica’s—you were her. And after some research, I discovered who—or should I say
what
—you really were. I should have known sooner, really. Looking back at our years together. Of course you were a bloody succubus.”
I shuddered when he mentioned the marks on my thigh. They weren’t birthmarks, but I always just let everyone assume they were. I raised my fingers to my cheek, and it was only then that I realized I was crying. Silent tears streaming one after another down my face and neck, falling into the cleavage of my dress. “Wills.” I spoke softly, dropping my head. “I’m so sorry.”
“Shhh.” He wrapped his hand around the back of my neck and pulled me into him. My cheek pressed against his vest, staining it with makeup and tears. “I’m not here to get an apology. It just took me this long to gather up the courage to approach you.” He pulled my face away from his body, his large, soft hands cupping my jaw firmly. And he kissed me. I pulled away at first, stopping the kiss out of habit.
“Monica,” he whispered, “I don’t have a soul to steal anymore.” He kissed my jaw. “I don’t have a life to lose years off of.” He kissed my temple. “You don’t have to protect me from you.” He kissed my eyelid. “Now kiss me. I’ve waited almost sixty-five years for this day.”
I wrapped my lips around his, memories rushing back with each moment. His kiss—so foreign and yet so familiar at the same time.
“May I walk you home?” he asked.
I nodded, smiling. My Wills—ever the gentleman. “Well, this is Vegas, not London. We drive out here.”
He smiled, too. “I know that. I just meant—can I make sure you get home okay? No funny business. We’ll have plenty of time to get reacquainted.”
“So . . . you don’t want to . . .
you
know?” Oh Hell, I mentally smacked my head. I sounded like a friggin’ fifteen-year-old.
Wills laughed. “Of course I want to . . .
you
know. I just don’t want to
you
know”—he wiggled his eyebrows—“tonight. Let’s get to know each other again.”
I cleared my throat and finished the rest of my drink in one swift swallow. The amber liquid coated my throat and burned just enough to feel good. Turning my head so that he couldn’t see me, I swiped the remaining tears from my face and shifted my makeup back in place, and then turned my hair slowly back to its normal blond color. “Well, in that case, I’ll have another.” I slid my empty glass to the end of the bar as if I were some starlet in an old western movie. T, however, just barely catching my impulse, reached out a hand to grasp the glass just before it slid off the bar entirely. The alcohol was taking its effect already. My head spun around the seedy bar. “I was trying to channel Mae West,” I said, a bit of embarrassment rising to my cheeks.
He nodded. “Seems like you managed to channel your inner Annie Oakley instead.” A smile quirked the corners of his lips.
I pushed him playfully, and in doing so he grabbed my hand and pulled me in for another kiss. “Let’s just stay here, right like this for a while,” he said softly, his lips still on mine.
All I could do was nod, not breaking my mouth away from his. It’s not exactly how Mae West would have handled the moment, but hey, she was one of the most notorious succubi in existence. I can’t hold myself to her standards.
“I met Mae West years ago,” I said between kisses. “She was a total bitch. I’d rather be Annie Oakley than Mae West any day.”
Wills smiled during our kiss, and I realized my lips were on his teeth. He sighed. “Yep. Same ol’ Monica.”
We clinked glasses as soon as T refilled our scotch. Wills kissed my nose. “Lunch tomorrow? We have much to figure out. For now, we drink.” He lifted his glass higher. “Cheers.”
4
T
he next morning, I crawled into work with one of the worst hangovers of my life. Normally, I would just shift myself into looking amazing even if I felt like crap, but I was so worn down from those scotch and waters (how many
did
I have?) I could barely muster up a clean shirt and a ponytail. Hangovers were pretty rare for me; after a couple centuries of drinking, you sort of learn how to hold your liquor. Oh well, at least Drew would believe me this time when I told him I wasn’t feeling well. Normally when I claim to be sick, I come in looking perfect.
The bells above the door dinged as I dragged my feet into the coffee shop. In my brain the ding sounded more like a friggin’ fire alarm. Made me want to rip that fucking bell off the door. I groaned.
“You’re late.” It was stated as a greeting, not as a condemnation.
What else is new?
I sat down on one of the bar stools in front of the espresso bar and slammed my head down onto the hard, ebony wood. “I know.” I spoke into the bar.
A rough hand brushed the back of my head, stroking my hair. “Rough night, huh? See . . . this is why I quit drinking. Too many bad mornings. You can always join me at my next AA meeting.” He chuckled softly.
I managed a nod, my forehead wrinkling up and down against the wood grain of the bar. There was some rustling and clanking of coffee cups and the familiar sound of espresso grinding and milk steaming. One last clank happened right next to my head, and I could sense Drew standing above me.
“What now?” I snapped. So, I can be a bitch sometimes. I’m a succubus—what do you expect?
“I made you your favorite. Mocha caramel latte. Triple shot. If this doesn’t wake you up, you’re a lost cause.” I could hear the smile in his voice.
Well, shit. Now I
really
felt like a bitch. “I can tell you
now
—I’m a lost cause.”
“I’ve just never seen you look so—tired before. It’s kind of cute.”
“Shut up.” I didn’t feel so bad about my short temper suddenly.
A damp rag slapped my arm. “Just drink up. Then get to work.”
I pulled myself off the bar. I raised the coffee to my lips, took a sip of the delicious, perfectly mixed latte, and moaned a contented sigh.
“That good, huh?” Drew smiled, still putting away clean dishes. I simply closed my eyes and took in a long, deep breath. Drew continued talking, “So, what the hell happened? Booze? A man? Did you decide to take the café’s customer service to a whole new level? I could just as easily have given him a few coupons for free iced coffee.”
His voice had a playful tone, but there was something deeper than that. He refused to look at me . . . kept looking down at those dishes. His tone suggested something. A hint of—what? Jealousy maybe? An accusatory tone? In my current state, the last thing I wanted to do was defend my lifestyle. A lifestyle I had no choice in,
anyway
.
I slammed my coffee mug down onto the little plate with a loud clank. “I should go put my stuff away and start my opening duties.” I stood up from my stool, and though still a little dizzy, I powered through and walked toward the back room to my locker.
“Whoa, Monica.” Drew tossed his rag down and walked briskly over to me. “What the hell’s your problem? It was just a joke.”
I swung around, my shoulders rising to my ears dramatically. “Was it? Just a joke? You were clearly aggressive with him last night. You saw me give him my card. And what? You think just because I’m a stripper I also jumped straight into bed with him?” Okay—so that’s exactly what happened. Drew didn’t need to know that.
He stayed quiet another moment, lips pursed, eyes assessing. “Yes. Okay, yes.” He spoke calmly, but there was a danger to his words. Shaking my head, I turned to walk back to the lockers again. He reached out for my elbow and stopped me, but I didn’t turn around. “You know what? Sometimes after you leave for your club, I debate firing you. It would force you to actually do something more with your life. You could have an actual career—not as a barista. Not a stripper. But as long as you’re here, it’ll never happen.” He let go of my arm. “And sometimes, it just disgusts me.”
I turned around, my eyes narrow slits. “I disgust you?”
His jaw clenched, and he rubbed a hand across his blond stubble. “No. That’s not what I meant and you know it.” He took a step back and raised one hand defensively. “Just answer me something.”
I tilted my head in response.
“Why do you work here? You clearly don’t need the seven dollars an hour if you make one thousand on an average night at the club.” He took a step closer to me.
He knew the answer to this question. He
had
to know the answer. I swallowed, a lump forming in my chest, and held his gaze. He licked his top lip, his tongue running along a thin scar on the right side.
“Well?” His hands clapped down to his sides.
He was close enough to touch, but I resisted. Just like I always do. “I like it here. It feels like—home.”
He nodded slowly. “Home?”
I nodded, too. “Yes.” I played with my purse strap between two fingers. “I need something other than the strip club to keep myself sane.”
I need you.
A small smile touched his lips, and he lifted a hand to my face, wiping his fingers against the right side of my mouth. “You had a little bit of foam.”
Instinctively, I darted my tongue out, tasting the remnants of caramel mocha.
Drew sighed. “I just worry about you, I guess. Working in a place like that.”
I nodded and took a step back, reality beginning to set in again. “I’m not yours to worry about.”
His eyes looked back and forth between mine, thoughtful. “So you keep reminding me.”
I smiled at him, headed back to the barista bar, and let my head fall into my hand. “I honestly don’t know why I’m so hungover—I don’t think I had that much to drink. But you’re right. I did meet someone . . . or I guess re-met someone. He’s an ex—it’s been years since we’ve seen each other, and he was there at the bar. Without any warning, just suddenly in front of me.” Drew gave me a look, eyebrows wiggling. “Nothing happened,” I said through a smile. “We drank, we kissed, and he walked me to my door. That was it.”
“That’s nice—sounds like a good guy. Not taking advantage of the situation.”
“He’s definitely a good guy.” I took another sip of my latte, which was now cold.
Drew held my gaze for a few seconds before I stood, picking up my bag. “Well, you’re not paying me to sit here and gossip with you.”
“Who said I was paying you for this?” He turned and headed back to the dishes left in disarray around the counter. “Oh, and Monica?”
“Hm?”
“You look really nice today—dark circles aside.”
Dark circles?!
I glanced in a mirror before heading to the back. He must have just been teasing me. There were no bags under my eyes. But as I looked closer, there were a few fine wrinkles at each corner. I gasped—dark circles would have been better. Those go away once you get some sleep and hydrate. But wrinkles? I hadn’t seen a wrinkle on my face
ever
. I ran to my purse and dug around the bottom until I found an old makeup compact. It was dirty from being in the bottom corner of my bag for so long, unused. I opened it and the inside was cakelike and clumpy. I was pretty sure it had spoiled, but it would do for now. I put a little under each eye and stepped back to examine. It definitely looked a little better. I closed my eyes and mustered up as much energy as I could to flatten my ponytail and lessen the wrinkles with my power. A familiar tingle brushed along my body like a gently breeze, and when I opened my eyes, I definitely looked more like myself—but those wrinkles were still there. My energy should have been strong—replenished since Erik and I had sex just last night. After work, I’d just have to find another conquest a little sooner than I had hoped.
A couple of hours into my shift and I was ready to collapse. There was actual sweat breaking out across my hairline.
Sweat!
I haven’t sweat in—I don’t even know how long it had been. I barely even glisten when I walk around in this Nevada heat—let alone in an air-conditioned coffee shop.
“You don’t look so good,” Drew said from behind me.
I swung my rag over my shoulder and leaned on the table I had just finished wiping down. “Well, someone’s whistling a different tune. Wasn’t it just”—I checked my watch—“four hours ago you were telling me how beautiful I looked?”
He laughed and stuck both hands in his pockets. “I believe my exact words were ‘nice.’ I said you looked nice today.”
“Well”—I took the rag from my shoulder and ran it between two fingers—“if we’re going to get technical, your exact words were actually ‘really nice.’ Regardless, are you saying I’m
not
beautiful?”
“You
know
that’s not what I’m saying.” He spoke through a smile and lifted his coffee cup to hide it.
“Oh?” I turned my back to him and bent over the table, wiping it down even though it was already clean. “Do I?” I didn’t bother looking back at him—I knew where his gaze would be.
“Seriously, though, Monica . . . if you need to take a break, feel free to go sit down. You seem tired.” His fingers grazed my arm in an attempt to get my attention.
As our skin made contact, I heard it . . . a specific
zap
sort of sound and a tingly feeling that I’ve felt many times before. Somehow with our contact, I had just stolen some life from Drew. Probably not much. But even the tiniest bit would be too much. It was definitely not supposed to happen with nonsexual contact. I sucked in my breath and stepped away.
He withdrew his hand and cradled it in his other. “Ouch! I’ve always said there was electricity in you,” he said, clearly thinking it was just a typical shock.
I took a deep breath—maybe it
was
just static electricity. I’m so tired today, it’s possible that I just mistook normal shock for my powers. Deep inside, though, I knew better than to chalk it up to some sort of coincidence. Something was definitely off about me today.
Drew’s eyebrows knitted together in the center of his forehead. “You sure you’re okay? You just turned very white.” I took a step back from him, getting out of arm’s reach. His eyes, initially on me, traveled past mine and over my shoulder. I turned slowly, and standing behind me, practically breathing down my neck, was Wills. I touched his arm in lieu of a normal hello.
Fucking demons. They’re so good at sneaking up on people.
I looked back over at Drew. “You know, maybe I will sit down for a bit. You don’t mind, do you?”
He gave me a nod. “Of course not.” Looking over at Wills, he stuck out a hand. “I’m Drew, by the way.” Then, responding to Wills’s grim scowl, he qualified himself by adding “Monica’s . . . boss.”
While that might have appeased most men, Wills was no longer your typical mortal man. I was sure he could see right through to our chemistry. “Wills,” he said simply while grabbing Drew’s hand and giving it one formal pump.
After a thirty-second staredown, Drew gave me a look that seemed to say,
Who
is
this guy?
and left us alone.
After Drew walked away, Wills’s demeanor changed instantaneously, a wide grin spreading across his face. He kissed both of my cheeks and my nose. He looked around the cafe with an annoying British haughtiness. “This is where you spend your days, is it? I’ve never actually been inside. It’s a bit—cheery for the likes of us, isn’t it?”
“I know you’re still fairly new at this demon thing, Wills, but we don’t exactly all spend our days in a damp cave.”
“Let’s go get some lunch.” He took my hand in his, pulling me toward the door. “We have so much to discuss and figure out about, well, about us.”
“Wills—I’m working. I can’t just leave.”
His face dimmed, looking around again. “It’s a coffee shop. I think they’ll manage without you for an hour.”
“It’s my job. I can’t just walk out on my job.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “I have a few minutes though, if you want to sit with me on my break.”
He pulled out his gold watch from his suit vest pocket and glanced at the time. “Of course.”
“You should order something. Drew hates it when people use tables but don’t order.” Wills snorted but walked over to the counter and ordered tea.
I ran to the back to undress my apron and grab the coffee I had stashed back there. When I came back out, I saw Wills sitting in the darkest corner of the cafe, his back to everyone, looking at the wall. I joined him in the empty chair.
“So, what happened back there?” I gestured with my head over to Drew.
He cocked his head to the side. “What?”
“Oh, come on. . . .” I rolled my eyes. “I thought you two were gonna poke an eye out with your little testosterone sword fight.”
He laughed at that, then half stood up from his chair and leaned over the table to kiss my forehead. “Same old Monica. A little cruder—but it’s all there.”
“I’m only cruder these days because it’s more acceptable for a woman to speak her mind.” He didn’t respond. Just sat there looking at me with a lopsided grin. “Whatever. Just know nothing is there between Drew and me.”
His lips pressed together. “Mm.” He took a sip of his tea. I almost laughed as the dainty china touched his lips. Knowing Drew, he probably gave Wills the most feminine teacup we had as some sort of mind game.
I changed the subject. “I still can’t believe you’re here.” I shook my head. “And how you managed to not approach me for months—I’ll never understand how you did it.”
“Well”—the corners of his lips twisted up ever so slightly—“I wasn’t sure it was you for quite a while. I just thought I was observing your granddaughter or something. And then, even when I suspected it was you, I wanted to make sure I was correct. Didn’t want to approach a stranger speaking of World War Two and demons and such.”