The building that stood in front of Zayne looked like it had been stretched through lenses that gave a soft and fuzzy blur to the edges. The hit of Abyzz, paired with the Elysia he’d taken before leaving his hotel room, would’ve probably killed any other demon. At least knocked them the fuck out.

Zayne feared his lack of full-on fucked-up-ness might mean that he’d become totally immune to the drug. Turned into a straight-up junkie. Nothing would kill his reality anymore.

And nothing would give him the brass balls to walk into a place like Pandora, asking about a young succubus.

But that was exactly what he planned to do, as he stumbled forward, making his way toward the front door. The bar, owned by the Fallen, had certainly seen its fair share of strung out supes, which is why Zayne had sought it out.

Drug deals, prostitution, mind-jacking—all that shit went down in the place that had a cold industrial front on the outside, made up of steel and concrete. Etched with the same swirling demonic design as the box on the sign out by the road. To the human eye, it’d be just another club like any other in the city, but those etchings told demons all manner of debauchery was welcome.

The dark hallway swallowed him as he entered the club and made his way toward the main floor, with the pounding of bass beating against his skull. He hated the techno shit, much preferred alternative, or even heavy metal, over it. Laser lights bounced off a throng that’d gathered in the center, creating designs on the ceiling. The crowd swayed beneath a flashing strobe light, and when Zayne eyed the Nephilim at the opposite side of the building, sitting in a booth alone, he made his way through a sea of vibrating bodies, until he reached the person he’d specifically come to see.

The guy across from him looked to be about twenty-five, wearing a hoodie pulled up over his head, with black curls peeking from it. Scanning down to his throat showed the signature track marks of a slave—the scars, equally spaced, where a spiked collar had been drilled into his throat. Sexual fetishes and torture happened to be two prominent ingredients in a Nephilim’s diet, and if Zayne had to guess, the guy’d probably enjoyed his time as a slave.

“You look like shit,” he said, as Zayne fell onto the leather seat and leaned back in the booth. He slid a palm across the table and flicked his fingers, eyes on Zayne’s hand.

Zayne reached forward, and the guy slipped an object beneath his palm that felt like the familiar small glass vial.

“They’re cracking down on this shit,” he said, explaining his covertness. “Apparently, the Lords don’t like synthetics.”

“Synthetics?” With a slight lift of his hand, Zayne eyed the glass vial, in which the usual black liquid he’d grown to crave glistened back in a pearly dark burgundy.

“So, Abyzz is made of Abicere plants and black souls, right? This shit? Contains the blood of the succubi.” His ice-blue eyes stared up at Zayne, while his lips tugged into a smile. “Fucks you up. Literally. Those hallucinations you get? You could stay in that shit forever. Basically live in a world with every bitch you’ve fantasized about wanting to fuck you.”

A tingle hit the back of Zayne’s neck. For months, he’d had dreams of his dead mate, Shey, that’d damn near felt real, until he’d tried to touch her and couldn’t. The alter-realm he’d fallen into, back at Denya’s apartment, was about the closest he’d ever gotten to physically feeling her again, but even that had been chimera. “I get that every time I go to the club, asshole. What makes this shit so special?” His words were arrogant, but mostly filled with skepticism.

The Nephilim’s lip stretched to a wicked grin. “You never have to go back. Asshole.” He nudged his head toward the crowd dancing below them. “That woman.” A blonde stood out from the crowd, in her tight mini skirt and thigh-high boots, sipping on some fruity-looking drink. A wily smile danced across her face as she turned away from them and stole a glance over her shoulder, toward the Nephilim. “I killed her last week. Fucked her for three days and killed her.”

His confession had Zayne frowning, and he concentrated on the guy, digging into his conscience—a gift Zayne had been born with that allowed him to see the purity of another’s soul. Shitholes like the club, he did his best to turn it off, or he’d be bombarded with the sins of everyone around him. As the Nephilim stared back at her, though, images passed through Zayne’s mind.

One after another, the macabre scenes of picking her up at the very club they sat in. Feeding her a drug in the car on the way back to some dark and empty building in the city. His body railing into her as she lay passed out. Feeding her drugs. More drugs. Every time she woke, another pill was popped into her mouth. Every time she passed out, he took his pleasure in her. Never feeding her. Never giving her anything more than his violent indulgence.

Zayne’s hands curled into fists at the visions, and a soft red glow hung on the fringes of his eyes, as the urge to strike out stiffened his muscles.

When the Nephilim turned his attention back on Zayne, his eyes widened, and he threw his hands up. “Chill the fuck out, man. She’s my girl now. I take care of her. I’m bonded to her.” Sticking his wrist out showed the bands across his flesh, made of skin. Soul-binder. “You kill me, you send her soul to Stygius along with mine.”

“How the fuck am I seeing her?” Zayne’s voice carried his seething anger, and he had to will the images away that taunted him to tear the Nephilim into a thousand pieces.

“The juice. You inject that shit enough times, you can bring them back.”

“The girl. She isn’t real. She’s a fantasy.”

“So, what? You see her, right? You see what I’m projecting.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “That shit’s so potent, your fantasies become real.”

“Why kill her? Why didn’t you just charm her? You fuck-twats are good at the illusion bullshit.”

“That’s just it. It’s bullshit. I charm her, and she’s nothing but a zombie fuck-toy. Yeah, she’ll do what I say, but that shit’s boring. With this? She wants me every time I look at her. Because that’s what I fantasized. I saw that bitch dancing with her friends, and I wanted her to want to fuck me. She was a virgin. Some goodie-two-shoes, and now, she’s everything I fantasized.”

“And what will you do when you tire of her?” Zayne asked, glancing over at the girl who kept stealing glances back at the Nephilim. As if no one else in the club existed. “What happens to her when the fantasy comes to an end?”

“What does it matter? She’s a fucking human?”

Zayne leaped out of the booth, across the table, and slammed his palm into the Nephilim’s throat.

Eyes like saucers, the Nephilim stared back at him, mouth gaping, as Zayne throttled his neck. Could’ve killed the bastard right there in the booth, and not a single one of the assholes around him would’ve taken notice, or given two shits about some dead Nephilim. It’d be nothing more than an open booth in the cluster-fuck, so long as someone was willing to drag his ass out of the seat afterward.

At a brush of skin against his arm, Zayne snapped his head toward the woman who stood beside them, eyes glistening with tears. “Please,” she beseeched.

Lip peeled back, Zayne set his gaze back on the Nephilim. “You think turning her into a lost fucking puppy is going to keep me from killing you?”

“You … kill … me. You … kill … her.”

“You’ve already killed her.”

“I … got … information. You … might … want.”

“What information?”

“The … succubus.”

He released the Nephilim’s throat and fell back into the seat, watching the little prick rub his neck. Zayne had almost forgotten what he’d gone there for in the first place. The guy had been a long-time supplier but he also had information that most supes weren’t privy to.

The female darted toward the Nephilim, running her fingers through his hair and speckling his face with red-stained kisses.

“’Sokay, baby. Go dance. We’re almost done.”

Without giving Zayne so much as a glance, she walked off.

“You got a lot of nerve, Mister Fucking Righteous.” The Nephilim leaned forward, setting his hands flat on the table. “Coming up in here asking about virgin succubi.” He lowered his voice, and good thing.

Asking about a virgin succubus would have him fitting right into the depraved shit-fest. The only succubi known to be virgins were generally under the age of fifteen, which would make Zayne look like a damn predator. If he didn’t happen to be interested in the only college-aged virgin succubus in the whole damn city. Hell, Denya was probably the only virgin succubus in the world over the age of eighteen.

Not even the asshole across from him would believe a twenty-something virgin roamed the city somewhere.

“What’s the news?”

The Nephilim rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat. “I hear the authorities are after a female. Fallen.” By authorities, he referred to the angels who hunted The Fallen. Sentinels, they were called. Fiercest goddamn supes in the underworld. Had to be, to watch some of the shit that went down when they worked undercover. Shit not even a Wrath demon could stomach.

“And?”

“She’s wanted for practicing black magic. Like, the dark shit. Apparently, she escaped a compound where they had a bunch of succubi. All virgins.”

Zayne’s eyes narrowed on him, and he leaned back into the booth, casually pulling a blade from his holster, his focus on the Nephilim who tracked his every movement. “And just how do you know this?”

“My supplier. Learned from some dude on the inside. That’s where this shit comes from.” He nodded toward the vial still clutched in Zayne’s palm. “Virgin succubus blood is the best shit. I ain’t no vamp, but it’s potent. And the older they are? Like a fine fucking wine, man.”

“Where is she? This Fallen angel?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you. But unfortunately, no one knows.”

“Then, this information is useless.”

“Maybe. But you find that woman. You find a whole lot of virgin succubi. Otherwise, you’ll just have to watch the snuff shit like the rest of us.”

“You like to watch young girls, huh?”

The Nephilim sneered and stretched his arms across the back of the booth. “I’m an equal opportunity offender. I do not discriminate on the basis of race, sex, or age. Now, I think you owe me something for that shit you got in your hand.”

Zayne stood up and drilled his fist in the bastard’s face. Not once, but twice. Three times. Bone cracking against bone, as his skin split with the punch. And another for good measure. Blood sprayed up from the Nephilim’s lip and nostrils, until his head kicked to the side and he fell forward, smacking his head against the table, motionless.

“There’s your payment, shithead.” Zayne strode past the woman who rushed toward the Nephilim, and without a single glance back, he exited the club.