Inferno of Darkness (Divisa Huntress #2) - J.L. Weil Page 0,20

to make that very clear.

With the wheels set in motion and my mind exhausted from planning and packing, I fell asleep with ease, but the peacefulness didn’t last. Like the night before and the one before that, I awoke panting and shivering. It was becoming a nightly ritual, as if in sleep I opened my mind to slip into Ashor’s. The dreams were the same. Slashing darkness. White-hot pain. Cracking bones. Torrential agony.

The sounds, the torment, the anger and fear all stayed with me long after the dream faded to blackness. Seeing through Ashor’s eyes left me confused. How was it just days ago I’d seen him in his home in Brimstone, but when I closed my eyes, I was dragged into the dream as though caught in an undertow and tossed into a nightmare?

This last one, I’d been sliced and diced with a blade. No. Not me. Ashor. Bare chested and strapped to a slab of stone, he’d been splayed out like a piece of meat ready for carving. Each slash burned his flesh but was never deep enough to puncture or cut any vital organs. Cayden was very good at his job. How they remained friends, I’d never understand, because when I glanced up at the fair-haired demon with emerald eyes, I wanted to skin Cayden alive and roast him for dinner.

I was at the point where I didn’t know which of my visions to believe. The dreams in which I was Ashor or the mirror reflections? Which one was real? Or was it possible they both were?

New Orleans, the birthplace of jazz, the city of a million dreams, Old Swampy, and the land of Dixie. Whatever nickname you gave the Louisiana city on the Mississippi River, it was a melting pot of history that I was intrigued to explore, but touring the city wasn’t why I was here. Strolling down Toulouse Street, I followed the map on my phone. I was on a different sort of investigation.

My succubus mother was currently charming the men and women in New Orleans, because every night was a party. The city was alive, vibrant, and brimming with culture. Demons of her nature blended right in.

Hooking a left on Royal Street, I kept getting distracted by all the shops and spicy smells drifting out onto the road, inviting me in, so it took me twice as long to locate Mom’s building. I was absolutely taken with the French Quarter of New Orleans, and my credit card was singing at me from inside my bag. Not to mention, my stomach was growling. The flight had been two and a half hours, which meant the little snack pack of cookies served on the plane was the only thing I’d eaten all day.

I checked the time on my phone and sauntered into one of the cafes to grab something quick to eat. The devil only knew if my mother had any food at her place. She was a demon, after all, who didn’t have quite the same nutritional needs humans did—souls were her main source of diet, and she had many ways to obtain a human’s life source outside of the bedroom. Striking a deal with a demon was often more harmful than having sex with one—unless you got her pregnant, of course, but that was a rarity.

Mom lived in a quaint apartment in one of the oldest neighborhoods in New Orleans, right above a gift shop. The buildings in the area were interesting, many with Spanish influences. Local artists and their work lined along the roads, hunging on fences in a beautiful display of traditions and emotion.

With my toasted bourbon croissant in hand, I counted down the street numbers until I was standing in front of a gray brick building, chewing on my last bite of heaven. Lush green ferns hung along the second story balcony that overlooked the bustling streets below. After licking the crumbs from my lips, I smoothed a layer of lip gloss over my lips and pushed through the back door that led to the stairwell.

Inside the building, I passed a brick courtyard with a small pool framed by ornate potted plants. A row of lounge chairs sat under a cluster of full trees, offering both sun and shade. The scents of chlorine and suntan lotion blew in the air, and I was glad I remembered to pack a swimsuit.

A minute later, I was staring at a white-painted door with her apartment number on it—3A. I chewed on my lower