Hotter Than Hell. Jackie Kessler

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      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 street lamps. “White Bread, huh?”

      Everyone’s a critic. “Give me more to go on, 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

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