Chapter 8: Sisterly Rivalry
The lock clicked. Not the soft turn of a key, but a sharp, final snap of metal breaking.
Harry jolted awake beneath Demona’s dead weight. The apartment door flew open and slammed against the wall, making his anime posters flutter.
A woman stood in the doorway, backlit by the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway. She was tall, built with the same impossible, gravity-defying proportions as the succubus currently snoring on his chest. But where Demona was dark, this one was light—a cascade of platinum blonde hair, eyes like chips of arctic ice. She wore a leather jacket and jeans that looked painted on.
“Demona!” the blonde barked, her voice a whip-crack in the quiet room. “You pathetic worm, I felt your aura sink into this… this hovel. Have you gone mortal? Did some priest finally—“
Her eyes, scanning the room, landed on the couch. On the tangle of limbs. On Demona, naked and glued to Harry, and on Harry himself, staring back with the wide-eyed terror of a rabbit in headlights.
Belphina’s furious tirade died in her throat. Her icy eyes narrowed, then widened fractionally, taking in the scene. The drool on Demona’s chin. The possessive curl of her sister’s body. The specific, intimate connection still joining them.
Demona stirred, lifting her head slowly. Her violet eyes were fogged with sleep and satiation. They focused on the blonde. Instead of shock or fear, her lips curled into a lazy, triumphant smile.
“Belphina,” Demona drawled, her voice hoarse from use. “You’re interrupting.”
“Interrupting?” Belphina spat, stepping inside and kicking the broken door shut behind her. The cheap lamp flickered. “You disappear for a week. Your power signature bottoms out. I think you’re discorporated, or trapped in some binding circle, and I find you… this? Riding some scrawny human boy in a sty?”
Demona didn’t move off Harry. She shifted, just enough to make the connection between them more obvious, and let out a contented sigh. “I am exactly where I want to be.”
Belphina’s flawless face contorted in disgust. “You’re addled. Get off him. I’m taking you home. Whatever charm he’s used, we’ll break it.”
“No charm, sister,” Demona murmured, her hand stroking Harry’s cheek. He was frozen, his mind screaming. Another one. Oh god, another one. “Only glory. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand you’ve shamed us!” Belphina strode forward, her hand shooting out to grab Demona’s arm.
It was the wrong move.
Demona moved faster than Harry’s eyes could follow. One moment she was a boneless heap; the next, she was on her feet, standing between Belphina and the couch, her naked body radiating a sudden, protective fury. Her wings, those dark leathery things Harry had only glimpsed in passion, flared out, knocking a stack of manga off a shelf.
“Don’t,” Demona hissed, and her voice wasn’t sleepy anymore. It was ancient, layered with the echo of forgotten pits. “You do not touch what is his. You do not interrupt my worship.”
Belphina actually took a step back, more from shock than fear. “Your… worship? Have you lost your mind? He’s a human. A snack!”
“Then taste your snack,” Demona snarled, and with a shove that contained supernatural strength, she pushed Belphina backward.
Belphina stumbled, her heel catching on the pizza box from earlier. She fell onto the floor with a thud and a yelp of outrage. Before she could rise, Demona was on her, a knee on her chest, pinning her down.
“See for yourself, you proud bitch,” Demona growled, leaning close. “You came to conquer? To avenge our honor? Go on. Try. He’s right there. Take him. If you can.”
Harry scrambled upright, pulling a blanket over his lap. “Whoa, hey, hold on—“
But Belphina’s eyes, locked on her sister’s furious face, then flicked to Harry. The challenge was there. The insult. Her sister, the elder, the stronger, was kneeling for this mortal. It was impossible. It had to be a trick, a complex illusion to humiliate her.
“Fine,” Belphina spat, shoving Demona off. She stood up, brushing imaginary dirt from her clothes. Her icy gaze settled on Harry. “A quick drain, then. Just to prove a point. To free my idiot sister from whatever hex this is.”
“No hex,” Demona singsonged, crawling back onto the couch beside Harry. She nestled into his side, watching her sister with gleeful anticipation. “Just truth. Master is going to break you, too.”
“Master?” Belphina choked on the word. She unzipped her leather jacket, tossed it aside. “Stop talking. You’re nauseating.”
Harry’s protest died in his throat as Belphina approached. She moved with a predator’s grace, all confidence and coiled intent. She was stunning, a blonde mirror of Demona’s sinful curves, but her expression was all arrogant contempt. She didn’t see a person. She saw a task. A problem to be solved.
“Don’t worry, little man,” she said, her voice dropping to a mocking purr as she knelt on the carpet before him. “This won’t take long. You’ll feel a nice tingle, then a nice nap. When you wake up, my sister will be sane again.”
Her hands went to his hips, pulling the blanket away. Her eyes dropped. The arrogant smirk on her face faltered, just for a second. Her brow furrowed. She’d seen many things in her long centuries. This was… statistically unusual.
She covered her hesitation with action, pushing him back against the cushions. She mounted him in one smooth, practiced motion, her body sinking down, her head thrown back in preparation for the feast, for the rush of life-force she would pull into herself.
For a second, there was only the sound of her sharp intake of breath. Her eyes flew open. The confidence bled from her face, replaced by a dawning, profound confusion.
She’d taken him in, easily—their bodies were built for such acts. But the drain, the pull… it didn’t start. Instead, a warmth bloomed where they were joined, a radiating, solid heat that traveled up into her core, spreading through her veins like slow honey. It didn’t weaken. It intensified.
She gasped, looking down at where their bodies met, then up at Harry’s terrified face. “What… what is this?”
She tried to move, to initiate the rhythm of consumption. But the movement sent a jolt of pure, undiluted sensation through her, so sharp it made her vision blur. A low moan escaped her lips, unbidden. She tried again, her hips stuttering. Another moan, deeper this time. The heat was building, a pressure in her belly, a tingling in her extremities that had nothing to do with taking and everything to do with… filling.
“It’s not working,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone. Her hands, which had been braced on his chest, were trembling.
“Told you,” Demona whispered from beside them, her voice dripping with smug joy.
Belphina ignored her. She focused, pouring her will into the ancient ritual of feeding. Instead of drawing energy out, it felt like she’d opened a floodgate. The energy poured in. It wasn’t life-force. It was something else, something dense and potent and endlessly generative. It crashed into her, wave after wave, with each small, involuntary clench of her internal muscles.
Her breath came in short, sharp pants. The arrogant tilt of her chin was gone. Her head lolled forward, blonde hair curtaining her face. A thin line of drool escaped her perfect lips and dripped onto Harry’s t-shirt.
“I… I can’t…” she stammered, her body beginning to rock on its own, a helpless, grinding motion against the incredible, plugging fullness. The pleasure was a vice, tightening with every passing second. It wasn’t chosen. It was inflicted. “Stop it. Make it stop.”
“He doesn’t have to do anything,” Demona said, reaching out to stroke her sister’s hair. “Just be. And you break.”
Belphina’s eyes met Harry’s. The ice was gone, melted into a pool of desperate, bewildered need. Her confident conquest had evaporated in less than a minute, leaving only a raw, shuddering vulnerability. A soft, broken sob hitched in her chest as her body betrayed her, bucking wildly, chasing a climax that was already tearing through her, ripping a ragged scream from her throat.
When it passed, she didn’t collapse. She hung there, trembling violently, impaled and utterly stunned. The realization dawned in her glazed eyes, slow and horrifying and irresistible.
Demona was right. There was no hex.
Only him.