Father chuckles at the ridiculous display, as if Marissa is an auntie pinching my cheeks, not molesting my mouth.

“Madame has a job for you, son,” he says from his lounging position.

This causes Marissa to release my lip and turn for her purse. I take the opportunity to wipe my lips with the back of my hand and school my face to hide the revulsion I feel.

“I’ve a new niece coming from Hungary in a couple months.” Marissa has taken a photo from her purse, and she crosses her arms while she explains the fate of a girl who was either stolen from or sold by her desperate family. “A valued client has requested a virgin, so she is to stay innocent.”

She hands me the picture and I blink several times, rocking back on my heels. The girl can’t be older than eleven. She hasn’t even begun developing. She’s frail and tiny with stringy blond hair and big doe eyes. Father watches me with expectancy and Marissa clicks her long nails together, a familiar sound that follows me into nightmares.

For the first time ever my disgust overrides my fear.

“She’s a bloody child,” I spout without thinking.

Father sits up, his forehead pinching at my minor outburst.

Marissa snatches the picture back, but her eyes are amused. “She is old enough.”

Father stands and walks over now, taking the picture. “She’s not that young. And her age is not your concern.” I hear the edge of warning in his voice, a sound that feels like shards of ice. He’d kill me in a second. I have no doubt of that.

“We’re not asking you to have sex with her,” Marissa croons. “We just don’t want her too terrified when her new owner touches her. Some buyers like that, but not this one.”

Ugh! I don’t want to touch her at all.

When it comes to girls my age and older women, I’m down for anything. But this is disgusting. Father deals with lust of all kinds—he’s into the sickest shit out there—but I cannot, I will not, physically force myself to be attracted to a child.

“Looks like your boy’s more plain vanilla than you thought,” Marissa mutters.

“He’ll be fine when the girl arrives, luv,” Father assures her, eyeing me. “He’ll do what needs to be done.”

Fuuuuck. Will I? I think of the little girl’s face again, and my stomach cramps.

No. I won’t. This is not good. I’ve crossed a lot of lines in my life to make Father happy and prove my worth, but this is different.

Maybe the picture is old. I can only hope, because I don’t want to find out what consequences he has in store if I lose my usefulness to the demonic cause. I should have known breaking hearts wouldn’t be enough.

“Yes.” Devil woman runs her nails down my arm. “He always does what needs to be done.”

CHAPTER TWO

Strange Girl

“My devil loves your angel, you can’t take that away . . .

See if she’ll take her halo off, if only for today.”

—“Devil’s Love Song” by Tishamingo

I am still pissed off when I get to the club. When we parted this evening, Father’s face was tight as he reminded me it’s now May and the child will be arriving soon. In the two months since I turned seventeen and showed defiance about the young girl, Father has been pushing me. Testing me. Nothing is good enough.

We stand backstage and Raj is adding more gel to his fauxhawk, staring in the mirror and pinching the tips of his hair. His eyes are bloodshot from the spliff he just smoked. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

I shake my head and look away. I can’t exactly tell him my father’s a demon, that he expects me to do horrible things. No humans know what I really am.

I’m still trying to scrub the image of the enslaved girl from my mind as we take the stage. It does me no good to think about her, or the hundreds of others like her who I’ve hurt already.

Don’t feel.

Don’t think.

Don’t acknowledge it’s real. Just go through the motions, like always.

I slide onto my stool and twirl the drumsticks, savoring the familiar feel of the cool, smooth wood between my fingers. Deep breaths. Time to clear my head in the only way I know how. Sitting behind the drums, I am myself. The real me. Even during sex I cannot completely let go—I am hyperaware. Music is the only way.

I look out at the packed house. Girls screaming, jumping up and down in front of the stage. Loads of skin on show.

This I can do.

Starting with feather taps and working my way across the set, I rip a line of beats to warm up. Immediately the energy in the room changes, heightens. Conversations hush and heads turn toward the stage, then voices buzz back to life louder than before. A wicked beat can change the entire atmosphere in a room. Michael, feeling it too, shoots me a grin before checking his cords and mic. I feel eyes on me, heating my blood. Yeah, a good beat is sexy. Makes people wanna move their bodies . . . their hips. . . .

Plain vanilla my arse.

Damn it. I have to stop thinking about that.

Michael throws his strap over a shoulder, electric guitar slung low. He picks off a few notes, eyeing Raj on bass until they both nod, satisfied with the sync.

When we’re set, Michael motions the DJ, who tells the room to give it up for Lascivious. And they do. Nice and loud.

I purposely don’t eye the energized crowd as Michael takes to the mic with the welcome. I have to focus. Can’t be distracted by all the chicks and their curves.

Michael gives me the go with a flick of his chin and I raise the sticks above my head to count us in.