Page 39 of Porcelain Grave

Robert begins to shake, his voice cracking. "What is this? Some kind of... feminist movement bullshit? Trying to reclaim your power or some shit?"

I step forward, the blade of my axe catching the dim light. "I'm not here for a movement, you cunt. I'm here for revenge. You raped Marguerite Hansburg in Thomas Sorrell's basement."

The mention of my mother’s name hits him like a physical blow. He lets out a strangled yelp and tries to bolt, but The succubus slams him down onto the concrete with a brutal efficiency. He hits the ground hard, gasping for air.

I walk toward him, my boots clicking slowly. I look down at the pathetic, shivering man and the piece of flesh he used to destroy my mother's life. "I want the part of you that you used to abuse her," I hiss.

Before he can even process the words, I shrug the axe from my shoulder. I raise it high, the weight familiar and comforting, and swing it down with every ounce of rage I've carried in my soul.

THWACK.

The blade bites deep, slicing clean through his manhood.

A scream rips through the alley—a high, piercing shriek of absolute agony that echoes off the walls and fills the night air. Blood sprays everywhere, hot and metallic, splashing across the pavement and my boots. Robert looks down, his eyes bulging, seeing his own severed cock lying on the dirty ground like a discarded piece of meat.

The succubus pins him down, her face a mask of cruel amusement. "Why are you screaming like a scared little girl, Robert?" she mocks, her voice dripping with venom. "I thought you were a big, strong man who takes advantage of girls. I didn't know you screamed just like them."

In a fit of blind, agonizing panic, Robert tries to slap her. "You bitch!" he howls.

The succubus doesn't even flinch. She counters the slap with a lightning-fast strike, driving the knife straight through the center of his palm, pinning his hand to the concrete. He screams even louder, a guttural, soul-shattering sound.

The succubus looks up at me, sounding bored. "This is no fun with all the screaming. He's not even fighting back anymore."

I smirk, stepping back and letting the blood drip from my axe. "He's all yours, The succubus."

She rips the knife out of his palm with a wet squelch, sending a fresh spray of blood across his chest. Robert begins to sob, his voice a pathetic whimper. "Please... please! I'll give you everything! All my money, my accounts... I'll plead guilty! I'll go to jail! Just have mercy!"

The succubus leans in close, her eyes shimmering. "Mercy? John Robert, mercy is for people who deserve to breathe."

She drives the knife deep into his chest. Squelch. She rips it out. Squelch. She drives it back in, again and again, a rhythmic, visceral butchery. She doesn't stop until the screams fade into a wet gurgle, and finally, into a heavy, oppressive silence. Robert stops moving, his eyes staring blankly at the dark sky.

The succubus stands up straight, smoothing her dress, and plants a spiked heel firmly on the man's chest. She turns to me, and we both burst into a fit of giggles—dark, manic laughter that fills the alley.

"I have to say," The succubus says, glancing at the carnage, "I never expected the scared little girl I had to babysit a month ago to be axing people's dicks off."

I wipe a smudge of blood from my cheek, feeling a rush of euphoria. "Turns out I have a dark side just like you, Angelika."

Angelika’s eyes go wide. She snaps her head toward Rhys. "You couldn't just wait until I told her my name myself in one of my drunken rants one of these days?"

Rhys walks closer, his presence enveloping me. He wraps a possessive arm around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. "You'll live," he purrs.

Angelika rolls her eyes, though there's a flicker of respect in her gaze. "Whatever. You two can go. I'll stay until the cleaners come to take this trash away and scrub the place."

"Goodnight, Angelika," I say, leaning into Rhys.

She smiles, a genuine, wicked expression. "Goodnight, darling."

Rhys and I turn and walk out of the alley, leaving the silence and the blood behind us, stepping back into the neon glow of the night.

Chapter 11

I feel the heavy thud of my axe hitting the floor outside the door, followed by the clatter of our masks and the soft sound of our shoes being kicked off. Rhys doesn't say a word; he just grips my wrist, his fingers like iron shackles, and pulls me into the Sandman room.

The air in here is thick, smelling of ozone and ancient dust. My bare feet sink into the black sand that carpets the entire floor, the grains cool and gritty between my toes. I shiver, not from the cold, but from the sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline hitting my gut.

"What are we doing here, Rhys?" I whisper, my voice trembling. "I thought we couldn't use the scorpions for at least six months. My head is still fucking reeling from the last time."

Rhys stops in the center of the room, turning to look at me. His eyes are dark, blown out with a hunger that looks almost feral, his expression twisted into that psychotic, possessive smirk I both crave and fear.