Page 18 of Soul Redeemed

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.”