Incubus Honeymoon Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  More from August Li

  About the Author

  By August Li

  Visit DSP Publications

  Copyright

  Incubus Honeymoon

  By August Li

  Arcana Imperii

  As the so-called magical creatures go, I’m low on the hierarchy, and my powers aren’t much good to human mages. I’m a lover, not a fighter, through and through. I’m also selfish, lazy, and easily bored. But I’m damned good at what I do.

  Too bad that won’t get my arse out of this sling.

  Do one—granted, uncharacteristic—good deed, and now I’m held hostage to an arrogant faerie prince, trying to track down the one who summoned him while dodging gangbangers, gunrunners, and Nazis. Add the powerful mage guilds scrambling to gather firepower for some doomsday event they’re sure is around the corner, and my cushy life of leisure might be nothing but a memory. On top of that, something’s compelling me to change on my most fundamental level. I’m not sure what I’ve got myself mixed up in, but nothing will ever be the same.

  Bloody hell.

  Featuring a new twist on urban fantasy combined with fast-paced action and intrigue, the Arcana Imperii series books are standalone adventures, each completely accessible to new readers.

  For the lovers who know when it’s time to fight.

  Acknowledgments

  MY GRATITUDE to Ann Attwood and Rebecca Cohen for hunting down plot holes, polishing up the British dialogue, and encouraging me to stay true to my vision.

  While working on this book, I lost one of the best friends I’ve ever had, Merlin, who was by my side for over eighteen years. Anyone who has ever had a cat knows that the love he gave me when I was less than my best, and in spite of my many flaws, cannot be exaggerated. Though he won’t know and it won’t bring him back, I’d like to memorialize him here. He’s left a void in my life and my heart that will never be filled.

  And not to leave out two other fine cats, Charles, the inspiration for Charlene, and Spooky Mulder, a good man if ever there was one.

  ~Gus

  Chapter One

  I AM quite literally the stuff dreams are made of.

  As swellheaded as that might sound, it’s a simple fact—I am everyone’s dream come true, no matter who they are and no matter what they dream. It’s how I survive: discovering someone’s deepest desires and fulfilling them beyond their expectations. It’s a process I relish, and one I can say with absolute modesty that I have become damned skilled at over the years. I’m no good at confrontation, and I don’t like conflict. Fighting of any kind goes against my nature.

  But this hunk of knob-snot was starting to chafe my tenders, and not in a good way.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but the shop is closed for the day.” The big bald guy in a black T-shirt that stretched almost translucent over his chest graced me with a smile so saccharine it made my teeth wiggle.

  He might be bigger, but I wasn’t going to let him intimidate me. Probably he knew the deal here, but he had no power of his own beyond those veiny biceps he was so obviously flexing. It had to be a bugger to understand the real power that moved the world but not be able to take part in it. Like a guy who couldn’t get laid watching porn. Thinking life fucking owed him something. My judgment might seem harsh, but he was fucking with me for no discernable cause. Besides, I could tell. It was easy to sense what he wanted, but it wasn’t anything I could offer.

  My powers are impressive, but they fall short of curing someone of being a muppet.

  “The shop’s always closed,” I said. “Because there is no bloody shop. Look, mate. I’ve been here before. Don’t give me a ration of shite.”

  Hecht’s Engine Repair and Machine Shop sits on a run-down corner of North Philly’s Strawberry Mansion neighborhood. Sounds pretty, yeah? Fields and fruit and flowers. Beautiful three-story manors—old brick Colonials with white Doric columns—with window boxes and garden paths.

  It’s not.

  Sure, it was at one time, and some of the Victorian mansions near the park still stand, though they probably won’t for much longer. Here, farther to the east, the urban decay crept in quicker.

  There was a KFC across the street, and the rancid grease mingled with the more appealing smells of a Chinese place a couple blocks over and the persistent stench of garbage. Even in the face-numbing cold, when piss and puke froze as soon as they hit the asphalt, the eggy odor of refuse remained. I was tempted to pull my black wool scarf over my nose.

  “Come on, mate.” I pushed my shoulders toward my ears so my secondhand peacoat would cover my neck. “It’s fucking freezing, and neither one of us wants to stand out here. I just want to go in for a drink.”

  The man looked at the Pennsylvania Dutch hex symbols screwed into the cinder block wall. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, sir. This is an engine repair shop, and we’re closed.”

  The rows of dusty half-assembled lawnmowers, the couple of dirt bikes, and the shelves of metal parts with their patinas of grease might’ve convinced the casual shopper. But then, Strawberry Mansion didn’t get a lot of casual shoppers. Anybody who did business here did it because they couldn’t get anywhere better—or, like me, they had another objective.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. If you’ll come back tomorrow, we can discuss your small-engine needs.” Even as he said it, a couple of guys in those puffy parkas with the iridescent shells moved past, with no more than a nod from the doorman. One of them pushed a button, and the garage door set in the back wall rattled and screeched its way open. Before it closed again, honey-colored light and a few bars of music spilled into the chilly gray shop.

  Even I’m not immune to the cold, and shoving my hands in my pockets wasn’t returning much sensation to my numb fingers. I never hung out at mage bars. Too dangerous, too much drama, too many pretentious twats to suffer. But tonight something pulled me in, a scent on the wind that had me salivating, like when someone’s having a barbeque in the neighborhood and the smell sets your stomach complaining.

  You can’t rest until you sink your teeth into a plate of ribs, not after that smell has put the idea in your head. You don’t even have to be hungry to start with.

  Except this was more a spicy, vegetal smell—red clover and white peppercorns. Now I have a way of finding what I need, a sort of instinct that pulls me in the direction of somebody who might find an association… mutually beneficial. I couldn’t say this felt quite the same. Maybe it was more curiosity, a sort of compulsion, but for whatever reason, I couldn’t let it go.

  Felt like I�
��d be shortchanging myself if I walked away now.

  I turned to the man again, deciding to give it one more try. I knew my limitations, and I’ve never had much of an attention span. “Look, brother. I just want to sit down someplace warm and have a quiet drink. What’s it going to take?”

  His brown eyes moved slowly from my face to my scuffed Chuck Taylors and back up, but I couldn’t sense even a flicker of what I usually look for in humans in his expression. He was just bored, wishing he was somewhere else, and being a petty tyrant was giving him the only hard-on he was going to get. “I am sorry, sir.”

  “Wanker,” I muttered as I turned to leave. In the doorway, I bumped shoulders with a guy heading in. He mumbled an apology even though it was my fault, and when I lifted my head, our eyes met. His were soft, teddy-bear beige with a burst of gold around the irises, like sunflowers. A few strands of auburn hair, glimmering with frost, fell across the left one and over his cold-pinched pink cheek.

  “Leaving?” His voice was a crackling fire when you’ve just come in from the cold, shaking the snow from your hair and grinning because you’ve just cut down the perfect Christmas tree. Hot cocoa, and not the kind from a packet.

  “Seems like,” I said. “The fine gentleman tells me the machine shop is closed.”

  He patted me on the arm just above my elbow, and his energy soaked into me. Pumpkin spice. A strong hint of cinnamon. He was the prairie, endless fields of buttery corn growing so fast you could almost see it. But he hid it behind high walls, walls topped with razor wire. He didn’t want to share, possibly didn’t know how, which meant he held nothing useful to me. Except maybe a ticket inside.

  If I could convince him to help me out. Wouldn’t be as easy as usual, given he didn’t seem to want what I had to offer. Or was he deliberately shutting me out? Could these mages do that?

  I shook off my distraction and met his eyes. “I’m not looking for trouble here, mate. I’m a decent bloke what just needs a drink. I can’t say what’s got this guy’s knickers in a twist. Doesn’t seem fair.”

  Something told me this kid might be swayed by a lack of equity, sympathy for an underdog. He had the look of somebody who’d never walk away from a stray puppy. I tried my best puppy dog eyes as I waited to see if I’d read him right.

  “It’s bloody cold,” I pressed.

  The young man turned to the doorkeeper. “Really, Maurice?”

  The big guy shrugged, grinning like a kid who’d broken his mother’s favorite vase but thought he was cute enough to get away with it. “The regulars don’t like new faces in here, Em. Makes ’em jumpy.”

  “Well I’m a regular, and I’m bringing him in as my guest. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “No! No, sir. Go right ahead.” Maurice hurried to press the button, and I could almost see his dick shrivel. If he’d been a dog, we’d be wading through a puddle of piss that marked his submission. Without wasting another second on the impotent prick, I followed my benefactor through the rusty metal door.

  We entered a narrow hall paneled in warm cherry. The young man shook his head. “I don’t like bullies. Just don’t make me regret this.”

  I held up my hands in surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  He regarded me, looked a little harder this time. “So… incubus?”

  “I don’t like that term,” I told him, stopping before we reached the archway into the bar and trying to get a better sense of him. As always, it was easiest for me to read his… not desires, exactly, but yearnings, wants, and they were beautiful: sharing a handmade quilt in a window seat with an upholstered mat, watching the snow fall… tea: English Breakfast with lemon and lavender… the smell of books… mornings when the woodstove has burned down and it was freezing everywhere except under the blankets so you resisted getting out of bed… pancakes….

  Em nodded. “But I’m close enough?”

  “I guess.” We went inside and took seats at the bar.

  When most people imagine a mage bar, it isn’t Hecht’s—Hex—whatever. No black lights here, no fishnet-clad girls dancing in cages, no patrons milling about in leather corsets and too much eyeliner. No whips and chains—at least not in the main area. If memory served, they had some rooms downstairs….

  Behind the bar, an older woman in a Flyers sweatshirt smiled at Em and pulled a Yuengling from the tap.

  “Glenlivet,” I said when she turned to me.

  While she went to pour my drink, I focused on him. Rogue mage—I’d bet my life on it. Despite his homey charm, he had sharp edges, a defiant streak and the ability to back it up. His power crackled between us, leaving an ozone taste on my teeth. Plus he’d done that blocking thing, only letting me see the surface ripples of his wants, and I’d never encountered that. As we watched each other, I unbuttoned my coat and he unbuttoned his.

  “But you are one,” he said, swirling his hex-marked glass between his hands. “I’ve read about creatures like you, but I’ve never met one. Is it true you can sense what I desire?”

  I closed my eyes. I had to concentrate to get at it, and I wasn’t used to putting in effort for shite. “A house in the country, miles from anyone. Worn fabric… quilts fraying around the edges and hot pads with burn marks…. Cats. A pantry full of meals in mason jars that you can put in the Crock-Pot. To… to be left alone?”

  With a slow blink, he took a gulp of his beer and licked the foam from his lips. “I guess it’s true.”

  “There’s more.” I felt it, hidden away behind his barbed wire fences.

  “Don’t trespass, incubus.”

  “I’m not what you think,” I told him as our bartender put my scotch down on a napkin.

  “Then what? Explain it to me.” Em lifted his beer in a mock toast. “Price of admission?”

  “Tell me your name first,” I asked him.

  “Emrys Rathburn.”

  I hadn’t heard of him. I looked down at my hands, but weirdly, they weren’t any different than when I’d come in. He had no desires that could affect me. I moved my attention up his homemade-looking striped scarf and to his eyes. They still danced with that cheery glow, but fire was only comforting until you got too close. He arched a brow to remind me he was waiting.

  I decided to try, though I’d never been asked to explain my existence before. Who was? “The ancient storytellers had it all wrong. They liked to paint me as some sort of predator, finding a human host and sucking him—or occasionally her—dry.

  “Well, I guess they didn’t completely miss the point. I like to leave my lovers sucked dry, but not in the way the old bards and minstrels imagined. They claimed I ensnared mortals with my charms and drained their life force. They thought I needed that energy to sustain myself. But what they don’t understand is that I feed off fascination. The heat and imagination that sparks to life when a mortal looks at me and imagines the possibilities… that’s what keeps me going. And the more creative the fantasies, the more satiated I am.”

  “So you prefer the kinky stuff?” Emrys asked, leaning a little bit back from me. “The, uh, downstairs kind of thing?”

  “That’s not what I mean by creative.” I sipped my scotch and rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. It was hard to explain, and his lack of physical desire threw me out of my element. “I mean, the more a human is inspired, the more he gains from our time together, the more energy he produces for me.

  “But I give as good as I get. It isn’t easy inspiring the kind of dreams that taste like delicacies on my tongue. Those I touch usually lead brilliant lives of prolific creation.”

  “Right.” Emrys looked bored. “So how do you benefit, exactly?”

  “In exchange, I get to bask in the adoration. That energy… damn. It’s hard to describe if you’ve never felt it. Champagne bubbles in your nose and a bump of coke… but better. Fireworks. The sky exploding in color.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hasn’t anyone ever looked at you like you’re the whole universe?” I asked him. “Like just y
our touch would be enough for them to die happy? Wanted you so much you could feel it rolling off them like heat?”

  “Sorry, but that sounds ridiculous. And like much more trouble than it would be worth.” He picked up his beer and carefully wiped the condensation from the outside of the glass with his napkin. Then he stood. “It was nice to meet you, but I should be going. I need to meet someone.”

  “All right, then.” What else could I say? Contrary to the mythology, I’m not in the habit of inflicting my presence where it’s not wanted; I don’t have to. I watched him weave through the sparse crowd, toward the pool tables and jukebox at the back of the building, and I felt sad for Emrys, and not at all because he didn’t want sex. Some people don’t. But twenty-whatever and incapable of being fascinated? That was bollocks. Still, I sensed he wasn’t for me. I’ve been around a long time, and I can tell. But it didn’t stop me from hoping something would happen for him, something that would envelop him so totally that he forgot his own name, forgot he even existed outside the awe of it. Just so he could know how it tasted.

  Then I caught that grass-cayenne-lily scent again, and I stood to follow it.

  Chapter Two

  HEX WAS like a warren. Unsurprisingly given the age of the building, the rooms were kept small so they were easier to heat. Cozy, private, and mismatched. I wandered down the narrow hall, pushing past a few patrons who leaned against the crumbling plaster and brick walls. To my left, salvaged tables and chairs filled some small rooms, empty cups and napkins littering the scuffed wooden floor the only indication they’d held patrons earlier in the evening. I finished my drink and left my glass on a shelf beneath a calendar, something with Romanian priests. It hung from a single thumbtack.

  Finally I reached the open area at the back of the building, where half a dozen round tables surrounded the jukebox and a pair of pool tables. Some absolute bastard had queued up a string of Justin Bieber and Taylor Swift songs, and I winced. I thought the goddamn sadists hung out below. Manufactured crap with about as much substance as cheese dip in a fucking jar. I would’ve kicked the machine, but it was one of those digital jobs, and it wouldn’t have done shite.