The Witching Hour

The Witching Hour

It’s nearly midnight, and I have no one to channel my celestial powers through. Every succubus in town has found their counterpart tonight except me. If I do not participate in the yearly mating ceremony, my powers will weaken.

I must find a worthy male.

This is why I find myself stumbling into a dusty tavern full of drunkards that smell like horse excretions. These men are not visually appealing, but they are strong and stubborn, which will suit my purpose well.

I hike up my skirts and sway my hips, walking past the men as they down their pints of golden beer. Eyes turn and watch me behind foamy glass rims.

Finding my way to the bar top, I plop down on an uneven bar stool and cross my legs. The skirt of my gown slides further up my crossed leg, exposing the pale skin of my upper thigh.

Only prostitutes show this much skin. I don’t judge the profession, but I don’t particularly love appearing as if I am one either.

Tonight, one of these men will be lucky enough to partake in something far more pleasurable than whoring and for far less money.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” a strong, male voice says behind me.

Taking my time, I turn around on the barstool and flip my hair over my shoulder. “It’s my first time. What’s a woman got to do to get a drink around here?” I say through my eyelashes to the burly bartender.

He crosses his arms, his muscles bulging with the strain. “Looks like you’ve already figured that out.” His eyes move down to my ample cleavage—another purposeful display of my womanly form to draw attention.

The bartender isn’t falling for my act, but it doesn’t concern me. At least one of the men in this bar tonight will entertain my needs.

I dismiss his comment and say, “I’ll have the strongest drink you’ve got.”

“Coming right up, Witchling.” He smirks.

“Keep your voice down,” I hiss at him.

My motives are none of his business, and I don’t need him outing me to the other bar patrons. It’s no secret that tonight is the celestial full moon. Many men have signed up to be a succubus’s escort tonight.

I was unlucky enough to arrive late to the party and was unable to find a willing man. This left me with one final option—seduce a man with my touch. I’d rather they come up to me willingly than force myself on them though.

“You’re in my bar, sweetheart. I’ll say whatever I want to whomever I want,” the bartender threatens, leaning in close enough for me to smell his yeasty breath.

Doing my best to intimidate the towering man, I stand and say, “If you oust me, I’ll turn my sights on you. Would you offer yourself in place of one of these drunkards?”

The bartender laughs whole-heartedly, bellowing the jovial sound before shouting to the patrons, “Everyone, out! I’ve got to teach a witchling some manners.”

Everyone’s eyebrows shoot up as they eye the bartender and me. Without a second thought or one last sip of beer, they stand up from their spots and rush through the door. In less than a minute, the tavern is empty.

I turn toward the bartender, anger simmering. “How dare you!”

Planting one hand on the bar top, he hurdles over the decaying wood plank to stand by my side. His agility and speed catch me off guard, and before I can move away, he wraps his hand around my upper arm.

“Release me,” I command.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? You come into my bar, looking for a man to use as your conduit, knowing it will drain him. He will be nothing more than a husk when you are done with him.”

“That’s not true,” I protest.

This bartender doesn’t know anything about the ceremony or me. I never leave a man depleted of his soul. I take only what I need, leaving the man feeling sexually satisfied and nothing more.

“Prove it,” he challenges me.

I laugh in his face and try tugging my arm from his grip, but his fingers grip me harder.

“Prove it,” he repeats.

My intrigue grows. This man knows what I am and what I must do to retain my power, and yet, he offers himself to me.

“With you?” I ask.

He nods.

“Have you slept with a witchling before?” I ask, my curiosity growing.

“I’ve slept with much worse,” he responds.

I notice his eyes begin to glow—a faint yellow rim forms around his green pupils. “What are you?”

“Try me and find out.”

He slowly lowers his hand, and I cock my head to the side, assessing him. What I failed to notice before is now abundantly clear.

The bartender is fearsome-looking, with jagged chin-length hair and five days’ worth of facial hair; deep scars line his forearms, and his eyes gleam with a mysterious force.

I feel my stomach knotting with interest in the unexpected beast before me. Something ancient and powerful resides inside the bartender, and he is offering it to me.

My knees squeeze together as I feel my body responding with desire at what he is offering.

“I can smell your arousal, Witchling. Are you going to make me beg for it, or are you going to ride me already?” the bartender taunts.