Or one very unlucky incubus.

  Was I unlucky, though?

  For a sex demon, it should have been a treasure trove. An abundance of accoutrements ready to be used in the pursuit of pleasure. I could turn that room into a lust buffet. I should have wanted to.

  Instead, I stood there in shock, unwilling to touch anything while casting over-the-shoulder glances at the video camera’s steady red light.

  After that, I scurried to the dressing room, where Darby was preparing for tonight’s show. Our resident makeup artist had an airplane policy when it came to his services: put your own oxygen—or in Darby’s case, your own beauty marks—on before helping others. Because of that, he tended to arrive early.

  Capping the gloss, Darby tossed it onto the table in front of the bulb-rimmed mirror. Then he grabbed the back of my chair and spun me around so I could see my reflection. Dark liner ringed my eyes and swept out toward my temples in dramatic strokes. The blush dusting my cheeks gave my otherwise pale visage a touch of pink, and the gloss on my lips made them look freshly kissed.

  Darby bent over my shoulder to survey his handiwork. Warm brown skin set off his white hair, which I’d first assumed was a wig or dye job. I’d since decided otherwise since he had white eyebrows and lashes to match. A pair of ram’s horns curled around his ears, and his barbed black tail waved idly through the air.

  “Green’s a good color on you.” He tapped my shirt to indicate the shade of drab olive. “Makes you look like Poison Ivy.”

  I tilted my head, and my nose crinkled. “The plant?”

  “The supervillain.” He turned toward the makeup bag on the vanity counter. “The hot one.”

  The dressing room door swung open, and the usual suspects filed in.

  Colt led the pack, cackling at some joke while his brother, Callum, rolled his eyes. The twins would have been difficult to tell apart if not for one defining trait: Callum had horns and Colt did not. I’d never asked why. It didn’t seem like something I should question.

  Horns aside, their similarities began and ended with their matching brown hair, smattering of freckles, and verdant green eyes. Colt was brash and bold, hard to miss and harder to ignore, while Callum hung in his brother’s shadow as a quiet, unassuming presence.

  They were picking at each other now, whipping their tails around and throwing elbows until Callum snatched the cowboy hat off his brother’s hornless head and sent it sailing toward their shared dressing table.

  Behind them, Oz tromped across the floor while tugging out of his shirt and mussing the sandy-blond locks around his nubby horns. He waved at Darby and me, no doubt catching me staring at his well-defined chest and arms. Those muscles were earned fair and square since the guy practically lived in the onsite gym. Though calling it a gym was a bit much considering all it contained was a singular Bowflex machine, a punching bag, and a rack of weights. When we weren’t sleeping, eating, or rehearsing, Oz was in there, watching his bulk increase in the full-wall mirror.

  Elliot slunk in behind the rest, barely making it through the door before it snapped against his heels. His tail curled around his leg as he went straight to his table and sat down, hands in his hoodie pocket and face curtained by chin-length black locks. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips.

  Darby grinned after him. “Is today the day, Ellie? You finally gonna let me paint you pretty?”

  Elliot pulled a gloved hand free long enough to flip his middle finger at Darby, who snickered in response.

  “Crabapple,” he teased, then dove into his supplies to pluck out a brush and hair tie. He set to work smoothing my red locks into a half-pony while the sounds of the other dancers’ chatter filled the air.

  I listened and tried to watch in the vanity mirror while clothes were shed, exposing the bare bodies I felt inclined to study. We were all demons here, but I was different. With my notable lack of horns or a tail, I appeared nearly human. My ruby hair and purple eyes could be dismissed as box color and contacts, which left an extra set of fanged canines as my only abnormal trait.

  Coming into a demonic fraternity five years in the making was hard enough, and standing out as decidedly mundane made it more difficult. Maslow’s special treatment was the third strike against my chance of earning their acceptance. I was easy to single out without our boss making a spectacle of me, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the other guys thought I reciprocated the wraith’s interest, which couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  Darby, though, had been gracious from the start. He’d welcomed me on day one and made it his business to mind mine. Because of that, it shouldn’t have surprised me when he asked, “Where were you earlier? You missed rehearsal.”

  The general din quieted as the room tuned in to what I would have preferred to be a private broadcast. Elliot shot us a glance from down the wall. He held the now-lit cigarette in the same hand he was using to apply his eyeliner. The sharp black lines made him look even more critical than usual.

  “I uh…” I swallowed. “I had to talk to Mazzy.”

  Someone made a scoffing sound, and I cringed.

  Darby moved behind me, tugging on my hair while the frilled front of his shirt tickled my neck.

  “He wanted to show me something,” I explained, though no one had asked.

  “You can just call it a dick, Cherry,” Colt drawled. “We ain’t shy.”

  “It wasn’t… not his dick,” I sputtered, feeling my face flush. Thanks to the mirror, I could see it too. It was extra mortifying to watch my shame splotch across my cheeks in real-time.

  “Did you show him yours, then?” Colt asked. “He’s been gagging for it for weeks.”

  Callum punched his brother’s arm at the same moment Darby snapped, “Knock it off, Colt.”

  I slouched in my chair. Maslow wanted my power, not me. He thought we were equals. Predators-in-arms. Something like that.

  The mood in the room grew somber, and quiet swelled until Darby asked in a softer voice, “Did he touch you?”

  A sigh petered out of me. “No more than usual.” And no more than he touched them. It was possessive, the way he brushed his fingers over each of us in passing, taking any excuse to grab or grope like he was tasting us with his hands. We were his food source, after all, and while I was always hungry, I doubted Maslow ever was.

  Darby paused in his preening and pinned me with a frown. “Then what⁠—”

  “He built a sex room,” I blurted. “And he wants me to use it. Tonight.”

  I’d never thought quiet could be deafening, but it was. The lack of sound filled my ears, making my head feel like it was swelling with silence.

  “A sex room?” Oz echoed.

  I found the big man’s face in the mirror, but I couldn’t discern his expression. It might have been intrigue, or maybe he was as baffled as I was.

  “Like a dungeon,” I explained, not only blushing now, but sweating too. Darby would have to powder my nose again, for sure. “There’s a bed, and furniture… toys…”

  “Aw, shit.” Colt slapped his thigh, making a crisp sound when his palm collided with his leather chaps. “I know where I’m going tonight.”

  Darby waved his hairbrush at the hornless cowboy in warning. “Colt…”

  Colt raised his hands in surrender, but I didn’t miss the way he bounced his brows at Callum, who shook his head.

  Down the wall, Elliot ashed his cigarette into a melamine dish piled with spent butts. “Real thoughtful guy, Mazzy,” he grunted.

  “El, put that shit out.” Darby referenced the cigarette. “You light up in here again, and I’ll use the ash to highlight your cheekbones—permanently.”

  Elliot’s nose crinkled. He stuck out his tongue, then dabbed the cherry of the cigarette onto it with an audible hiss. Then he flicked the snuffed cig into the ashtray.

  “Gross,” Darby grumbled, then frowned. “Kinda hot? Mostly gross.”

  Satisfied with my hair, he tossed the brush into his makeup bag, then crossed his arms across the corset that cinched his slim waist.

  “You don’t have to use it, you know,” he said, and I was puzzled until he clarified. “The room. Mazzy can’t force you.”

  It should have been a comfort coming from someone who knew our boss better than I did, but whether Maslow could force me to sell my body to feed both our appetites wasn’t the point.

  “Even if he does, it’s better than the alternative,” I said.

  “Which is?” Darby prompted.

  “Going back to Hell.”

  It was like I’d spoken a curse. A breath hissed out of one of the twins, and Oz visibly flinched.

  “Ain’t nobody going back to Hell,” Colt said, sounding more serious than I thought possible. Beside him, Callum had paled with his lower lip nipped between his teeth.

  Darby appeared similarly flustered by my statement, and he gave an all-over shake that made the frills at his neckline rustle. “Did Mazzy tell you that?” he asked.

  “No.” But I felt it. That threat loomed over our every encounter. The unspoken “or else.”

  Or else I’ll put you back where I found you, dumped on an infernal doorstep or traded away to another, crueler demon. Those were plentiful on the lower plane. Towering beings with horns used to gore and spear and tails that struck like whips. The cracking sound was etched into my memory, along with a palpable sense of fear. I was more afraid there than I’d ever been here, and I would do anything—or anyone—not to be sent back.

  Despite it being our greatest commonality, Hell was not something we discussed. Maybe the others got that nastiness out of the way years ago, before I showed up. Conversations around here were solely about the club. No one mentioned human lives or deaths, and we certainly didn’t acknowledge the dark, painful place that came between our pasts and the present.

  We wouldn’t be talking about it today either. That much was obvious when Darby bobbed his head and said simply, “That’s good, at least.”

  Stepping around the side of the chair, he shooed me to standing. “Up with you. We can’t be the only beautiful people in this club.” I’d barely vacated the seat before he patted it and waved Oz over. “You’re next, Ozzy.”

  Oz took my spot, and Darby dropped the chair as low as it would go, bringing himself to head-level with the much larger man.

  “I told Zeph he looks like a supervillain with the red and green,” Darby said.

  “Poison Ivy for sure,” Oz agreed.

  Darby ticked his finger. “That’s the one. And who are you tonight, Mister Marvel? Standard Clark Kent special?”

  Oz leaned back and stroked his chin while considering. “How about Cap?”

  “Which one is that?” Darby squinted.

  Spinning the chair, Oz pointed to his own dressing table, where the mirror was plastered with pages from various comic books. An array of musclebound men in masks and tights were represented, and he could have meant any of them, which he seemed to realize before he tagged on, “Steve Rogers? Captain America.”

  When Darby’s puzzled look persisted, Oz tried again. “The guy with the shield.”

  Darby gave a staccato nod. “Shield. America.”

  “He was in the army too,” Oz offered, and Darby’s orange eyes flashed.

  “God, I love a military man.” He leaned against his table in a mock swoon. “Something about camouflage…”

  “Cap mostly wears red and blue, though,” Oz said, clearly concerned he was about to get a completely different kind of face paint.

  Darby recovered himself with a toothy grin. “That I can do.”

  Rummaging in his tote, Darby pulled out a smaller bag with the name OZ stamped on it in glittering gems. He laid pots of powder and a tube of concealer on the counter, then glanced at me.

  “Zeph? Why don’t you shadow me tonight?”

  “In VIP?” I asked.

  He nodded, causing paper-white curls to sweep around his horns.

  While the rest of us performed predominantly onstage, Darby did the bulk of his business behind closed doors, catering to the club’s most exclusive clientele. Executives booked his services all night, every night. It might have been enviable, imagining him lounging in posh suites, sipping cocktails and nibbling on the tray of sensual foods that came with the pricey bottle service. There were reasons people paid thousands for his company, and they only had a little bit to do with his charming personality.

  Still, it was a kind offer, and not one I was in a position to refuse, so I bobbed my head. “Thank you.”

  Darby flashed a smile and dipped in to apply foundation to Oz’s jaw.

  “Maybe you’ll meet someone nice,” he mused, and his eyes flicked up to meet mine. “It doesn’t have to be sex, you know. Plenty of people would pay just to have their hands on you, Cherry. On your terms.”

  Sampling lust wasn’t enough. I knew that, and Maslow knew it too. I needed more. Craved it. Lay awake at night with my gut grumbling and my heart clenching in my chest.

  Sex was an appetite that couldn’t be sated by anything less. So, I would make it my mission to meet someone. Nice was optional. I would settle for tolerable. Or efficient. It didn’t need to be a production, just a physical act with no feelings or expectations involved. Ultimately, I was a vessel, and I needed someone to fill me.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Beck

  The world had changed since the discovery of demons. Or, more accurately, since demons made themselves known. It wasn’t a group effort. More like a single, power-hungry asshole went on a phoenix hunt and turned Hell inside out. Spoiled a millennia-old secret and ruined a good thing for the rest of us.

  I knew times were different, but I was made keenly aware of it when the Fortune 500 CEO on the limo seat beside me leaned over and said with a wink, “I like pretty boys.”

  He didn’t mean me.

  Six feet tall and stubbled, I was more rugged than pretty. Polished, maybe, in my Armani suit and Louboutin loafers. The goal was refined. Professional. Trustworthy. The kind of guy you would gladly shake hands with. I did a lot of handshaking.

  Ewing Livingston, my client of the night, had made a confession that was hardly out of the ordinary. I heard that shit all the time. But usually, it was announced after a bottle of wine and some worrying of a wedding ring like they were afraid I’d run and tattle to their wives. Like I didn’t know as well as anyone that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

  But Livingston was bold. Brash. Wearing a smug smile and waiting for me to give the chauffeur directions.

  I knew every inch of Sin City and had sampled the eye candy at clubs and bars on both sides of the Strip. But for Livingston’s appetites, one destination stood out above the rest.

  “Hey, Coll?” I signaled my business partner from her position in the driver’s seat.

  Colette’s dark brown eyes flashed in the rearview as she cocked an eyebrow. She was wearing that stupid hat tonight and the gloves I thought we’d left in the 1800s. And don’t forget the shit-eating grin because her hellhound ears missed nothing. She’d heard every word of the conversation between Livingston and me, and she knew what I would say next.

  “Take us to the Dollhouse.”

  I could have tried for a bit more enthusiasm, but frankly, I was tired. This song and dance was as old as I was. Schmoozing and smiling and shaking so many damn hands. Making deals. Playing the game.

  Livingston cracked a wide grin like I’d said something salacious. It certainly sounded that way. The Devil’s Dollhouse was one of many strip clubs catering to the Vegas elite, but it had a curated cast. Boys. Pretty ones, like Livingston had asked for, and they were demons to boot. I hadn’t asked my client about his preferences when it came to horns and tails, but I supposed we’d find out soon enough.

  Despite the specificity of Livingston’s request, my choice of destination wasn’t entirely for his sake. Maslow Umbric, the club owner, had been begging me to come over for weeks. He had a new act. Some kind of aerial circus performer. Oh, and he was an incubus.

  It sounded like a lot to me. Like Cirque du Soleil gets stripped. Maybe there was a market for that, but I wasn’t it. And besides, I didn’t waste time on sex demons. They were a sordid bunch, flirting and flaunting every asset to stoke the lustful fires that kept them warm. Parasites, really. Cock-sucking ticks.

  Even if it had been a while since my last dalliance—and it had been a while—they were not the kind of honeypots I had any interest in sticking my dick in.

  But Livingston might enjoy it. Ideally, he’d enjoy it enough that he’d be amenable to my terms. Few things loosened a man’s purse strings as effectively as liquor and lust, and the Dollhouse offered the best of both.

  While we drove, Livingston droned on. He’d played it cool since Colette and I had picked him up at the airport. His placid behavior made a stark contrast to his borderline frantic messages yesterday, peppering my inbox with his flight details before I’d even agreed to meet him.

  From the airport, Livingston had given specific instructions: dinner, cards, drinks. I’d had too much of all of it, which left me massaging my temples while he monologued about stock trends. When the limo rolled to a stop, I nearly hit my head in my haste to clamber out of the car while Colette held the door for us to exit.

  He drew to his full height beside me and scanned the club’s painted brick exterior where the sign buzzed in classic Vegas neon. They were going for a retro look despite having only opened for business five years ago. It sprang to life shortly after the news about the existence of demons broke, sinking its hooks into the city and establishing itself as a spectacle for voyeuristic humans everywhere.

  Hot bodies on stage never failed to draw a crowd. Sexy, otherworldly beings held an entirely new appeal and, judging by the clutter of vehicles in the lot, the novelty had yet to wear off.