Page 43

Chapter 1

Malcolm

“ I ’m telling you,” the blonde waif whined, hanging from Father’s arm and giving him what she clearly thought was a coy look. “Phaze is the biggest new club. They have everything. Everyone important goes there now.”

It took all of Malcolm’s wherewithal to keep from rolling his eyes and sighing.

Most times when one of Father’s hangers-on acted that way, he dropped them where they stood and moved on to whatever was next. He didn’t like people pushing him, he didn’t like entitlement, and he really hated whining. This woman was doubly cursed because it seemed to be her natural tone of voice.

So why did Elrith smile sweetly down at this scantily clad twenty-something, and motion ahead of them, for her to lead the way to her club of choice? Malcolm had never even heard of Phaze before. It sounded trendy and loud, which wasn’t his preference at all.

It was too hard to have a conversation in a place like that, and as hard as it was to find someone clever to have a conversation with, Malcolm liked to try.

They passed the line of hopeful clubbers, marching straight up to the large bald man with the clipboard, who hardly even glanced up, just motioned them through. As they passed the line, a few people grumbled. Malcolm looked over. Not that he was going to gloat or anything.

Maybe a little.

Getting things other people couldn’t have was a nice change from his childhood of living with his mother in a one-room apartment with a concrete floor, and watching the rats eat better than he did.

Instead of some clubber, though, his eyes caught on a shadow lurking in the alley down the block. It ducked away when his eyes locked on it, but it had been there. He was sure of it. It had been appearing regularly everywhere he went for the last week, and it was starting to be unnerving.

“Malcolm,” his father said on an annoyed sigh, standing in the door to the club. “Are you coming? And no more stories about being followed.”

Because of course his father didn’t want to hear anything so serious as a possible stalker. He wanted to follow his little blonde waif into a dirty, loud club. So of course, Malcolm followed too. He was never going to live in a one-room apartment with more rats than people again.

Sure enough, the second they walked in, his eyes were assaulted by random laser lights strobing around the room, and... was that a smoke machine? Had they been magically transported to the nineteen-eighties without him noticing? Was he going to turn to the dance floor and find people in neon spandex? Hear Olivia Newton-John singing about getting physical?

Pushing down a shudder—Elrith didn’t want to hear whining from anyone, least of all his own son, even when he likely didn’t appreciate the club any more than Malcolm did—Malcolm turned toward the bar. Maybe he could at least get a decent drink to numb the horror of the place.

There, though, at the counter, was the promise of something better than pink satin pants and a bushy bleached perm.

Tall and lithe, moving around behind the bar like silk through water, slow and gliding and impossibly dexterous, was the most beautiful man Malcolm had ever seen. He was well-tanned even under the ridiculous white lighting of the bar itself, his hair teal like Malcolm’s half-brother Declan, but a deeper, stronger shade than his brother’s. A striking contrast against the deep tan of his skin.

When he looked up, his eyes were a piercing teal so pale that they almost glowed even in the neon mess around him.

How was this possible? This was Michaelangelo’s David in a back alley. Or a seedy, poorly lit eighties throwback bar filled with pulsing techno music.

Elrith had to be dying in this, no matter how much he wanted into the little nymphette’s pants. Malcolm glanced over to find his father following the girl onto the dance floor, and figured the drink was his best bet.

Maybe he could convince the bartender to take a little break and slip into the back room with him. That was a little shady, but the guy was at work. He couldn’t exactly ask him to leave.

Malcolm wasn’t entirely heartless. Just mostly.

He slid into an empty space at the bar as someone vacated it, and caught the man’s eye, holding up a hand to indicate he wanted something. The guy gave him a nod and a too-short once-over. Too short because Malcolm looked damn good, and he knew it.

Coming into his incubus powers had been the best thing that ever happened to him. He’d gone from a skinny, sickly kid with terrible acne and a squeaky voice to a sex bomb, overnight.

His siblings always complained about the incubus transformation. The shock of it, the unexpected, unwanted powers.

Malcolm did not understand that at all. Who the hell didn’t want to be attractive? Who was bothered at having the power to get people’s attention, and even better, get them off?

All of his siblings, that was who.

Jasper was so bad at being an incubus that he’d almost starved himself to death before finding his shaggy bear man, Declan had spent years hiring sex workers before somehow snagging a dragon, and even Sasha had a rule about never going to the same person twice, for fear of addicting them to her powers.

Malcolm usually didn’t go back for seconds either, but it had nothing to do with worries about addiction or his own powers. He just hadn’t yet found anyone who kept his attention for longer than one night.

He might change that, for a dragon like Declan’s.

Or such a pretty thing as the one who stood before him right then.

“What can I get you?” asked the smoothest, smoky, shiver-inducing voice ever.

Siren. Had to be.

“Another shot of that,” he answered with a cocky smile. “And a whisky sour.”

The siren rolled his eyes, which was a little odd, but there was a little smile on his face, so Malcolm didn’t tense up too much at the unexpected response. He made the drink, his long, nimble fingers strong and precise in his motions—clearly he’d been bartending a while, and went through the motions often.

It made Malcolm curious what other motions those fingers might be good at. Worth finding out, for sure.

“Seven dollars,” the siren finally said again in that husky, mellow voice, and Malcolm found himself leaning toward it, despite the impersonal words.

He slid a ten across the bar and leaned with it. “Any chance of getting something else?”

The siren raised a brow, one corner of his lips quirking down. “Another drink?”

“I’d rather have your number.” No, Malcolm didn’t actually want a phone number. He never called. But it was one of those socially accepted ways to show interest. To start the conver?—

The siren snorted. “Not a chance. Enjoy the drink.” And with that, he turned and headed for the next person waiting for his attention.

Malcolm stood there for a moment, staring in shock after the man’s retreating back. Not since puberty had he been treated like... like something unwanted. Like he was dirty little Malcolm, whose clothes came from Goodwill and who always had lunch debt, so he had to sit with the bad kids and never got to drink chocolate milk.

His eyes stung with the humiliation, and when a girl next to him sighed and said, “Don’t feel bad, he does it to everyone,” he almost turned and snapped that anyone would turn her down.

But he was afraid he might make an unfortunate pitiful noise instead of a snappy comeback, so he just grabbed his drink and walked away, jaw clenched against the unexpected... whatever this feeling was.