Chapter One
The blood-orange moon hung high in the sky, casting an ominous glow over the brick roads of New Orleans. Skye knew better than to interpret it as the end of times. There was no merciful Lord coming to save those who called.
A chilled wind snaked its way between the Creole townhouses.
Their cast-iron balconies were empty of the usual party-goers.
It might not have been the end of times, but dread shivered down Skye’s spine.
She couldn’t help but feel the impending doom lying heavy over the city.
She put her hands in her pockets, pulling her leather jacket closer to her body.
The air was warm, but never as warm as it was in Hell.
It always took a few days to adjust. She called upon the flames that lived in her veins to heat herself up and walked faster down the sidewalk, the heels of her thigh-high boots clicking on the cement.
Instinct drove her forward, the call of her prey.
It’d raged hot under her skin when she read the band flyer stapled to a telephone pole outside the hotel she was staying at.
In most respects, it was just like any other flyer. It would have been torn down in a few days, only the corners left stapled to the pock-marked wooden pole.
Tilted Haze was scrawled on the top in a violent cursive font.
The date and location of their show was laid out on the bottom, and in the middle, there was a hand-drawn image of a demon woman, a demoness.
Her black wings peeked out from behind her shoulders.
A long tail curved up from her voluptuous ass.
Tiny black horns poked through her hair.
She smirked at the poster viewers, her twinkling eyes daring you to keep looking.
She was a horny guy’s homage to a pin-up girl dressed-up for Halloween. Not so unusual for a rock band.
Except she had Skye’s face.
Skye yanked the grimy bar door open and walked into Mike’s. She slid into a chair at a high-top table near the back and flagged down a waitress to order a whiskey neat.
While she waited for her drink, she fingered the flyer in her pocket, the pads of her fingers folding and unfolding it until the paper became soft and malleable.
The drummer was already on stage, his back to the crowd as he adjusted the position of his cymbal. The bassist hopped up beside him, and they both worked in a quick but efficient style to set up the rest of the stage.
It definitely wasn’t Tilted Haze’s first show.
The band had been playing rinky-dink bars in and around New Orleans for over five years.
The waitress reappeared and set Skye’s drink on her table. Skye mumbled her thanks, but she didn’t take her eyes off the stage.
The guitarist jumped onto the stage and plugged in.
Skye’s blood sang as she blinked and allowed her demon vision to pierce the band members.
They all had bright, shining souls, more powerful than most, which typically only gave off a muted glow when Skye let the red haze of her vision move over them.
Any one of the members of Tilted Haze would have been good enough for Skye to mark as her target.
The drummer, Liam, sat behind his drum set and did a short sound check, tapping out the tune of a familiar rock classic just to make the crowd laugh.
He tossed his head back, his dark blonde shoulder-length hair swayed, only held back from his face by a bandana tied around his forehead.
He would have been the easiest target. Goofy and carefree, he’d have probably thought Skye’s proposition was just a joke until it was already done.
The low thrum of the bass rang out through the bar.
The bassist, Ollie, was the newest member.
He might have been a good option if only because Skye knew he was still trying to prove his worth to the band.
His curly brown hair was at the stage of being too long to be short and too short to be pulled back, tumbling out from under his black-and-green-striped beanie.
The guitarist, West, walked to the microphone stand and snapped the mic into place. His dark hair was slicked back; the ends curled in at the nape of his neck. He tapped the mic, and the thump, thump jolted Skye in the belly. “Testing. Testing.”
Satisfied, he stepped back, flung his guitar strap over his head, and zipped through an opening chorus before nodding his approval to the sound guy at the back of the bar.
West had a vibrant soul. He also had a drop of witch’s blood in his veins, making him impenetrable to Skye’s demon magic.
But it was no matter; Skye wasn’t here for them.
She’d already set her sights and locked her mark. Her predatory demon soul-lust wouldn’t let her stop until she succeeded in the hunt.
“He’s so hot. I just know they’ll get another record deal someday,” a woman said, sitting in the booth to Skye’s right.
Her friend shifted on the ripped plastic booth seat and asked, “Another? They already had one?”
“Oh yeah, but they blew up the deal. Remi’s twin brother died like five years ago, and Remi went off the deep end.”
“Sad.”
“Yeah.”
Skye smirked as she sipped her whiskey. The bar filled with patrons and became standing room only as people took up space against the exposed brick wall and crumbling plaster.
She straightened the lace choker her mother gave her until the crystal-clear diamond settled over the hollow of her neck. The habit was born out of excited anticipation, not nerves. Demons didn’t get nervous.
Hellfire tickled inside Skye’s core, an instinctual knowing coming alive. The hairs on her arm rose, and the crowd hushed as a guy with long limbs appeared from the back.
Memories of the nights Skye had entered his dreams flashed through her mind. She shivered from the ghost of his touch. Distracted, she put her glass down a little too hard, and some of the alcohol splashed on her hand.
His chunky black combat boots thudded across the battered wood floor, and he hiked up onto the stage, turning to his drummer to discuss something.
His tight black leather pants left little to the imagination. A lustful feminine sigh came from her left. Skye wasn’t the only one enjoying the delectable curve of his ass.
He ran a hand through the long black hair on top of his head, flipping the strands to one side. The drummer nodded, and the bassist and the guitarist moved into their positions.
And then he turned around.
Ice-blue eyes outlined by heavy black eyeliner pierced through Skye’s soulless being.
The singer—Remi—wrapped his hand around the microphone.
The big gaudy rings on his fingers glistened in the light.
He ripped the mic from its holder, holding it in one hand and the microphone stand in the other, giving the crowd a cocky grin as his tongue poked the corner of his mouth, fiddling with his lip ring.
There was utter silence as everyone held their breath, waiting for this gorgeous man to speak. He held everyone in suspense for a minute, and then lowered his lips to the mic.
“How we doing tonight?” The deep cadence of his voice resonated through the sound system. A straight shot of lust struck Skye, settling heavy as a throb between her legs.
The bar erupted into high-pitched screams from the girls and hooting and hollering from the guys. Remi smiled over the crowd, completely at ease with being the center of everyone’s yelled adoration.
He hadn’t even sung yet, and they were already falling over themselves to get closer to the stage.
Remi undid two buttons on his sleeveless denim jacket, revealing a bare chest covered in swirling ink that crawled up both sides of his neck. A metal chain dangled over his sternum. He ignored the catcalls and nodded his head to the drummer.
Liam counted out the beat. Ollie’s bass thrummed, and West plucked out the upbeat opening on his guitar, letting one note ring out at the end like a tease, tension held until the second Remi opened his mouth.
His voice was much deeper than it looked like this thin, lanky man could possess. So much more sensual than the cheap facsimile that she heard when she entered his dreams.
He sang the chorus as the drums and guitar and bass made up the cadence and flow of the song.
The band played hard rock, Remi’s smooth voice singing until the first verse, and then he broke into a rougher, screaming tenor.
He strode up and down the stage, dancing and working the crowd, jumping on top of the speakers and interacting with the equipment as if it was his playground. The crowd knew all the words and sang along with him.
In between sets, he talked to the crowd, flirted with people, chomped on his gum in a way that Skye could only describe as sexy.
Maybe it was the twitch of a smile at the corners of his lips and the mischievous glint in his eyes that made everything he did on that stage seem like he’d already sold his soul for an endless supply of sex appeal.
He hadn’t.
Of that, Skye was sure. His soul called to her.
Most souls were pure white, but his—his was made of shiny, tantalizing darkness.
Skye had been drawn to the power hidden deep within him.
His soul glimmered inside a protective encasement of onyx stone.
It’d been a long six months of waiting, looking but not touching, entering his dreams and slowly coaxing his subconscious’s trust by intertwining her presence into his deepest desires.
His dreams had been harder to penetrate than most.
But all her hard work and patience would pay off tonight.
Skye ran her fingers over the flyer in her pocket. When she saw it, she knew it was time for the next part of her plan. She’d seeped into his psyche enough that he was drawing images of her.
The flyer for his band might as well have been a wanted ad, calling out to Skye that he was ready for her offer.
Adrenaline and hunger pulsed through her. His soul was so powerful it made her mouth water. This bargain would be worth several years of Earth-walking privileges if she negotiated the deal just right.
Tilted Haze’s set ended; women scurried to the stage.
Skye downed the rest of her drink and stood, exiting the bar.
Time to sell your soul, Remi.