Chapter 1

“Thank you,” the man said, shrugging into his coat, a dreamy expression on his face. “This was definitely…” His gaze focused on Flynn, who sat on the edge of the bed in nothing more than a pair of leather pants. “Would it be alright if I come again?”

A sly smile, one without any real emotion, tugged the corners of Flynn’s mouth. The demon gave a subtle nod. “Of course, you’re always welcome. But let’s make your next visit after the holidays.” The man stood before the door, suddenly crestfallen at the idea of having to wait what must have seemed like a long time. Flynn stood, closing the distance between them. Casually he slipped an arm around the man’s shoulders, turning the now unwanted guest to the door. “Trust me, it will pass quicker than you can imagine.”

“Are you sure…” the man hesitated in the doorway. He was trying Flynn’s patience. “I mean…”

Flynn gave him a bit of a nudge out the door. There seemed to be more the man wanted to say but Flynn had no desire to hear it, making sure to slip the lock into place once the door was firmly closed. Finally alone, Flynn turned to face the room, back pressed against the door. The only sound was the ticking of an ugly cuckoo clock on the wall adjacent to the bathroom door. There was no sentimental value behind the piece, just another item used to cast the right spell, to set the mood, so to speak. For some strange reason, mortals found the ticking to be soothing. Flynn long since stopped questioning it, loving how it lulled victims mentally into the right state of mind.

The power of suggestion, it was a beautiful thing.

The man he had just ushered out was convinced they’d had a very romantic evening, one filled with building lust and ending with the greatest sex the man had ever experienced. A lie, every single bit of it, not a single grain of truth in any of it. There used to be a time when he loved to actually play more than mind games with his victims, taking them to bed and enjoying the pleasures of the flesh. Nowadays, though, he just spoke to them in a soothing voice, a tone he used to hypnotize the weak, to infiltrate their mental barriers and plant false memories.

It might have taken a touch more finesse, but in the long run it was all he wanted. While they were busy thinking about sensual touches and passionate kisses, Flynn was busily feeding on a bit of their soul. A tiny portion of their life force. It helped to sustain him, keep him going until the next victim. And he found plenty of victims in Vegas, a cesspool of sin and want and greed and all the things that used to make him feel so alive.

Sighing, he moved across the padded carpet and ran his fingers along the smooth wood of the dresser. Everything he owned belonged in the single room that was neither here nor there. Nobody could find it unless he wanted them to as it wasn’t really part of the mortal realm. One more trick up his sleeve, one more piece that helped set the right mood. It made feeding so much easier and the fun…

He stopped before the twisted metal that hung on the wall, the surface acting like a funhouse mirror and distorting the reflected image of the bedroom. Even his own demonic image had been skewed, brown horns sprouting from a thicket of brown hair. There was a touch of melancholy in his eyes, one that he had been steadily watching grow over the past months. Where was the happy demon that lived and breathed the very sin of Vegas, reveling in the feel and taste of flesh? Where had that lust demon gone?

The answer was an easy enough one to find.

Pulling open the top drawer, he retrieved a simple box of blackened burnt wood. The symbol engraved on the top ensured that none but himself would be able to pop it open. He returned to the foot of the bed, tracing the symbol with his fingertips, knowing what rested inside. Slowly he pried up the lid and beheld his most treasured possession. There, resting atop a bed of red crushed velvet was a dazzling feather. Flynn took it from the box, setting the contraption aside, all attention now on the solitary feather.

Bigger than his palm, bigger than what one might get from an eagle. A beautiful shade of dazzling, sparkling white with just the faintest hint of black along the spine. With a delicate touch, he ran the feather over his other palm, loving the way it felt against his flesh. It sent a tingle down his spine. Nobody knew he had the feather, not even the original owner. He had found it after one of their encounters, plucking it gently from the bed and knowing it came with great power. Though now it was no longer power he concerned himself with, who cared what could be done with the feather? What mattered was that it belonged to the one man, the one creature he could not manage to escape.