“I’ll see you in hell,” I mutter as I yank my blade out and watch him fall. With a disgusted sneer on my lips, I grab my bag of goodies, dousing them in petrol before setting them alight, the only way to be sure they’re truly dead.
A groan escapes my lips as I feel my face slipping. I’ve been in this one for too long. I need another, any will do. I don’t care what I look like, no one will ever see my true one, and I have no need to be attractive to anyone—those needs fled the first time I locked eyes with the one bright blue and one black eyes of my mate all those years ago.
As the fire burns, I hoist up my bag and whistle as I wander from the alley. I grab the closest man who passes by and drag him inside. I just need to have my hand on his bare skin. I drain him just enough, never killing, and then put him to sleep and leave him on the ground. He will wake up with a headache but no memory. Me? I fall back with a grunt. Each time is the same, though it’s gotten easier over the years.
In a blink, I am someone else, his skin crawling across mine. My hair is changing, growing, and shifting to his. My face is widening, paling, and becoming an exact replica.
Just another pretty face in a long line of them.
REMI
Tugging down the suit jacket, I roll my eyes at the bouncer of the high-end club where I’m waiting to be let in. Fuck wearing a dress, you can’t fight in them, but you have to be chic enough to be let in here, so a suit it is. I have no shirt on underneath the tailored jacket, which cinches in my tiny waist, accentuating my curves. My long legs look even longer in the matching pinstripe trousers, and the heeled boots I’m wearing finish the outfit—not to mention, the points of the heels can be used as blades.
Everything I wear is functional, like the weapons sewn into the pockets or hidden in the spikes in my ears. My long, wavy, dark brown hair is held back with black and red chopsticks—making my blonde highlights stand out—which can be used as daggers. Overall, I’m covered in weapons…and no one is the wiser. Idiots.
My tits look amazing, and I use them now when it’s my turn to step up to be checked. The bouncer’s eyes lock on my cleavage. My breasts are nearly completely out, except my nipples, and he’s entranced. Flicking my light brown and orange flecked eye and my black eye behind him, I search for my mark.
“You’re not on the list,” he murmurs, his voice gruff.
I lean farther in, dragging my pointed nail down his chest and cupping his cock through his slacks. “Aren’t I?” I inquire sweetly.
He groans, his cock hardening in my hand. “Shit, I mean go in,” he rasps, and I squeeze before releasing. On my way past, I stroke my hand across his arm and shoulder. I feel his eyes locked on me as I move into the lavish, upscale bar.
It’s hidden in an old museum, only the super rich know of it…and there’s a supernatural here, a supe the council wants killed for his crimes. I didn’t even ask what he did, I don’t even care anymore. It’s just another death, another tally to add to my black soul. The money is good though, and no one fucks with a council hunter.
No one.
I walk under a gold arch that surrounds a pair of glass and gold double doors, which open into a luxurious space. There is a band playing up on stage, the song slow and sensual. Waitresses, women in tiny bras and thongs with bunny, cat, and other animal face masks on, work the room. Men sit around in business suits, while women pose in their finest clothes—some of the patrons are even fucking the waitresses on the gaudy tables.
The stage is on the right, and tables surround it, while booths run along the back black wall next to it. To the left is the circular bar with two men in three-piece suits and slicked back hair manning it, and all of the stools are occupied before it. At the back is the VIP area, cordoned off with a rope and two bouncers.