The Devilin Fey
Jess C Scott
Praise for The Devilin Fey
“The romance between demon and human excites problems for both...the romantic compromise is one-sided...[this is] devilishly delicious.”
— Horror Author, Andy Love
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“I really enjoyed this story of an incubus and the woman he transforms…the author really hits her stride in paranormal stories.”
— Review @ Bitten by Books
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“A very passionate and strong love story that ignites the feeling of intimate sensation that heats up the room. [The pages] were filled with passion, adventure, mystery and a love that pulls at the heart strings.”
— Review @ Addicted To Romance
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Other Books by Jess C Scott
EYELEASH: A BLOG NOVEL
(teenage memoir)
4:PLAY
(a contemporary cocktail of erotic short stories)
PORCELAIN
(portfolio of written + illustrative work)
1: THE INTERN
(upcoming “Sins07”series / Fall 2010)
THE OTHER SIDE OF LIFE
(upcoming cyberpunk/urban fantasy series / Fall 2010)
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THE DEVILIN FEY
Published by Jess C Scott / Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2009-2010 by Jess C Scott.
Cover painting by freeparking @
http://www.flickr.com/people/freeparking/
All rights reserved.
1. FICTION/Romance/Paranormal | 2. FICTION/Romance/Gothic |
3. FICTION/Fantasy/Contemporary
Summary: A demure young woman unleashes the “devil in” her, through the intimacy with an incubus—her incubus.
Notes:
The Devilin Fey is a novella which features in 4:Play (available in print and electronic formats).
An excerpt of ‘The Devilin Fey’ was originally published in 50 to 1.
* * *
[1] THE DEVILIN FEY
Chapter I: Zac
Zac Walsh.
He shared some physical likenesses with the stranger in my dreams. The pale, moonlit skin. Light, ash brown hair. A well-proportioned, good physique.
What a mix-up.
Nobody dared to say anything about a famous alumnus of Art Ex University. Zac was the NYT-Bestselling Author of Seduction 101: All The Dirt on Women. It was obvious his entire existence centered around putting females ‘in their place’.
I was writing an exposé for the widely-read quarterly school magazine, entitled, Zac Walsh’s Portrayal Of Women. It focused on the derogatory, negative social impact of the publication (complete with a hot pink cover of a platinum blonde bombshell with her heart shaped tushy, high up in the air), and why anybody with half a brain should take him for the scum he was.
He must have heard about it. He sent me an e-mail, saying he wanted to meet me in person. I didn’t feel like replying, so I didn’t.
In the next e-mail, he said he wanted to share his perspective, and be quoted as an original source in the write-up.
It would be “a unique opportunity” — I couldn’t argue with that. I decided to be upfront, professional, and beat it after that.
We met at Bound’ry, a trendy upscale restaurant in the heart of town. I picked my best little black dress for the occasion, a chiffon tiered one shoulder by BCBG Max Azria.
Zac had a...presence. There was something in the way he carried himself. His medium layered hairstyle with side swept bangs exuded a daredevil, roguish kind of attitude. He looked younger than his twenty-nine years.
It made me think: maybe he was the stranger I had been dreaming about, for the past week or so. Sometimes, the stranger and I would be making love. I seemed to hear his soul: it was struggling, seeking something.
The crazy sentimentalist in me went one step ahead: perhaps I had been lucky enough to find ‘the man of my dreams’...literally?
Zac’s light grey eyes met my green, speckled ones. We had just been seated at the table.
“You know, Miss Fey,” he said, leaning in on my last name. “I think you and I are going to end up in the same bed, by the end of the night.”
He sounded more confident, than lewd. Still, I was going to stay on the smart, safe side.
“Really?” I replied. I even arched my boobies up a little bit, a subtle tease. “That’s charming.”
I took a sip of my drink before firing off some questions about his publications, all of which he calmly responded to with incredible rationality.
“I’m guessing you’re single?” Zac said.
“Is there anything wrong with that?” My tone was a tad bit...condescending.
“No — it’s a pity though. You make good company.”
If this smooth-talker thought he could flatter his way into bedding me, I was going to show him otherwise. “Funny how you don’t say that of women, in your writing,” I pointed out.
“It’s a matter of intelligence, or lack thereof.”
“That says something about most of the women you meet.”
“Well, I guess you’re not most women.”
That comment got my defenses down. I tried to look nonchalant, though I was rather pleased inside. It wasn’t something I heard often.
Which got me right where he wanted.
Later during the evening, I thanked him for the dinner, and announced that I was going to go home myself. But he said he’d take me back, “it’d be no trouble.” While he drove, we talked about yoga, traveling, and music bands.
“I might have been wrong about you,” I said later during the evening, when he’d sent me home. It was a test, just to see what his reaction would be. I could play him out, and live to tell the tale thereafter. I added, “It’s quite nice talking to you.”
Zac Walsh the Great would waltz down the stairs to his Porsche Cayman, patting himself on the back. I was still going to write my article anyway!
With a most reassuring smile, he said, “I liked our conversation too, Caitlin.”
I said, “You’re the best player on the planet...and you know it.”
He said, “Well, you’re different...and you know that too.”
“How so?”
“Not many girls know how to stand up for themselves...the things you said about my writing? They aren’t completely false. Maybe...you’re a rare breed of Woman.”
God, I fell for my own game.
He leaned in and gave me a slow, sure kiss. Then his hands were on the sides of my waist. “You’ve heavenly hips,” he murmured. It felt so, so good, and I thought I’m not going to fight against this, am I?
He stepped in, and before I knew it, we had proceeded to make out on my couch.
I suddenly had visions of my stranger in the night — and started hearing a conflicting refrain in my brain: this cannot be, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. But if it not this, what then?
My stranger still didn’t really have a face, just enigmatic bluish eyes, and I couldn’t see what was behind those blue-grey eyes...so the chants in my mind shifted to you’re paranoid, it’s okay, just enjoy the sensations...
The truth was that shortly thereafter, it began to feel not quite so comfortable at all. I couldn’t explain, why.
I kept seeing the stranger, and I felt I was letting him down — the figure whose eyes were now an even deeper, darker, more sullen shade, the further I got with Zac.
Zac used protection, I’ll give him that. I was too hotted up to think about being responsible.
“How rough do you like it?...” he asked. We were on my bed. I didn’t really know. I just went along, moaned like I was supposed to.
I left my sheer thigh high black stockings on. Massaged the side of his neck with my foot, one leg of mine over his shoulder, me lying back, propped on my elbows, looking up at him.
He was quite quiet, for the most part. It was starting to hurt at one point, but I focused on breathing and kept my pelvic muscles relaxed.
Do
you know that this is my first time? That I’ve fallen for my own
tricks?!
I wanted to say.
So far, I’d never let others get any. My standards were high. So
what happened this time? Am I even attracted to you?...and
I sighed, and if he heard it, I bet that Zac (in his self-obsessive
ways) would have taken it to be a sigh of satisfaction.
I gave some kittenish utterances — he smiled, with intervals of heavy breathing...I felt like I didn’t mind having more, physically. But he lay down beside me when he was done.
I found myself in a mixture of feelings.
How did that just happen...I don’t really like him, do I...I don’t know. Why’d I allow it...did 19 years of holding out amount to that?
Most of all was a thorough, exasperating feeling of dissatisfaction — like the whole thing had been left hanging, unfinished, with me emptied, forgotten, tossed to the side, like a rag doll.
I found myself pining for my random midnight stranger. “Who are you?” I always wanted to ask. But I never had the chance. All I’d have of the night would be a collection of dream remnants, lodged somewhere in the recesses of my mind. It was always daybreak when I awoke, as the real world slowly came into focus...the same real world of plastic goods and money, of paying rent and attending school, and Zac Walsh — the man lying beside me that I cared nothing for. The sentiment was probably mutual.
II: The Stranger
There was a double beep from a cell phone.
Zac had a text message — his friends were clubbing and looking for him. Club No.9’s 2nd Anniversary: complimentary Asahi Beer and two shots of Yukihime Sake on the house.
I was still in a headspin. But I let him go. What more could I do?
“Thank you for the night,” I said, with a sweet smile.
He kissed me, amicably. “You were great, hon,” — like it was a graded performance.
It filled me with a wrath I had never felt before. At myself, at Zac, at the world. I thought of the girls he’d be slamming up against at the club. Maybe he’d take a bunch of them home with him.
But why should I care, if I was nothing to him.
I wanted to go to my kitchen, and pick up a knife. Lorena Bobbit did it in 1993 — I’d do it too. “I’ll bloody hell castrate you,” I whispered into the air, when I heard the door close after he left.
Then I was filled with horror at myself for conjuring up something so vile and sadistic...and I lay back. Touched myself, half-heartedly attempting to finish what he didn’t do for me. I think he did hit the right spots, I thought. Maybe I haven’t explored enough times by myself. Maybe I’m defected? Maybe I just turned him off. Maybe I am not “bad” enough.
I tossed and turned, trying to distract myself with the lights and shadows that played on the walls, as the occasional vehicle drove by. It was midnight, and there was a full moon. The moonlight was streaming in through the window onto my face.
A cool breeze caressed my neck, like a hand made of mist.
I had to go out. I got dressed. I’d have to clean the sheets later — there was something tainted about it. I felt contaminated, as if I was polluted with Zac, and everything he stood for. I needed to rid myself of him completely.
I was a moving dynamo of conflicting, toxic feelings. Stumbling out at night was a dream in itself.
“How much!” a middle-aged man yelled out, from a yellow Corvette that was tearing down the street. There was rambunctious laughter as his friend slapped the back of his shoulder. It took me ten seconds to register — oh, how much, as in, my hooker price — what was I even wearing? I was in a hipster skirt, green flip flops, peach cardigan, bra with mismatching neon pink and green thin straps showing. I’d picked up whatever was lying on the floor. My hair was disheveled, my make-up was no doubt running.