Hotter Than Hell. Jackie Kessler
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