About the Book
Succubus (n.) An alluring, shape-shifting demon who seduces and pleasures mortal men.
Pathetic (adj.) A succubus with great shoes and no social life. See: Georgina Kincaid.
When it comes to jobs in hell, being a succubus seems pretty glamorous. A girl can be anything she wants, the wardrobe is killer, and mortal men will do anything just for a touch. Granted, they can often pay with their souls, but why get technical?
But Seattle succubus Georgina Kincaid’s life is far less exotic. Her boss is a middle-management demon with a thing for John Cusack movies. At least there’s her day job at a local bookstore – free books; all the white chocolate mochas she can drink; and easy access to bestselling, sexy writer, Seth Mortensen, aka He Whom She Would Give Anything to Touch but Can’t.
But dreaming about Seth will have to wait. Something wicked is at work in Seattle’s demon underground. And for once, all her drop-dead one-liners won’t help because Georgina’s about to discover there are some creatures out there that both heaven and hell want to deny …
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
About the Author
Copyright
For my wonderful parents, Richard and Brenda.
After filling my childhood with
mythology books and romance novels,
you guys had to have seen this coming.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I have to thank all the friends and family who continually supported me and loved me throughout my writing adventures. In particular, this book could never have been written without my husband, Michael. Considering how often we talked about Georgina and her neuroses in our household, you might as well be married to her too. I love you.
Gratitude must also go to the Original Richelle Fan Club: Michael, David, Christina, and Marcee. You guys dutifully accepted every page I thrust at you and faithfully humored my demands for instantaneous feedback. Your enthusiasm and encouragement kept me going. Don’t worry—Harbinger will get published one day. Honest. I mean it.
Finally, I need to give a shout-out to the literary and publishing folks who kept me on-track: Kate McKean, Jim McCarthy, and John Scognamiglio. Thank you so much for your guidance and advice.
Chapter 1
STATISTICS SHOW THAT most mortals sell their souls for five reasons: sex, money, power, revenge, and love. In that order.
I suppose I should have been reassured, then, that I was out here assisting with numero uno, but the whole situation just made me feel … well, sleazy. And coming from me, that was something.
Maybe I just can’t empathize anymore, I mused. It’s been too long. When I was a virgin, people still believed swans could impregnate girls.
Nearby, Hugh waited patiently for me to overcome my reticence. He stuffed his hands into well-pressed khakis, leaning his large frame against his Lexus. “I don’t see what the big deal is. You do this all the time.”
That wasn’t exactly true, but we both knew what he meant. Ignoring him, I instead made a great show of studying my surroundings, not that that improved my mood. The suburbs always dragged me down. Identical houses. Perfect lawns. Far too many SUVs. Somewhere in the night, a dog refused to stop yapping.
“I don’t do this,” I said finally. “Even I have standards.”
Hugh snorted, expressing his opinion of my standards. “Okay, if it makes you feel better, don’t think of this in terms of damnation. Think of it as a charity case.”
“A charity case?”
“Sure.”
He pulled out his Pocket PC, looking briskly businesslike, despite the unorthodox setting. Not that I should have been surprised. Hugh was a professional imp, a master at getting mortals to sell their souls, an expert in contracts and legal loopholes that would have made any lawyer wince in envy.
He was also my friend. It sort of gave new meaning to the With friends like these … adage.
“Listen to these stats,” he continued. “Martin Miller. Male, of course. Caucasian. Nonpracticing Lutheran. Works over at a game store in the mall. Lives in the basement here—his parents’ house.”
“Jesus.”
“Told you.”
“Charity or no, it still seems so … extreme. How old is he again?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Ew.”
“Exactly. If you were that old and hadn’t gotten any, you might seek desperate measures too.” He glanced down at his watch. “So are you going to do this or not?”
No doubt I was keeping Hugh from a date with some hot woman half his age—by which I meant, of course, the age Hugh looked. In reality, he was pushing a century.
I set my purse on the ground and gave him a warning glance. “You owe me.”
“I do,” he conceded. This wasn’t my usual gig, thank goodness. The imp normally “outsourced” this kind of thing but had run into some kind of scheduling problem tonight. I couldn’t imagine who he normally got to do this.
I started toward the house, but he stopped me. “Georgina?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s … one other thing …”
I turned back around, not liking the tone in his voice. “Yes?”
“He, um, sort of had a special request.”
I raised an eyebrow and waited.
“You see, uh, he’s really into the whole, like, evil thing. You know, figures if he sold his soul to the devil—so to speak—then he should lose his virginity to a, I don’t know, demoness or something.”
I swear, even the dog stopped barking at that. “You’re joking.”
Hugh didn’t respond.
“I’m not a—no. No way am I going to—”
“Come on, Georgina. It’s nothing. A flourish. Smoke and mirrors. Please? Just do this for me?” He turned wistful, cajoling. Hard to resist. Like I said, he was good at his job. “I’m really in a tight spot … if you could help me out here … it would mean so much …”
I groaned, unable to refuse the pathetic look on his broad face. “If anyone finds out about this—”
“My lips are sealed.” He actually had the audacity to make a sealing motion.
Bending down, resigned, I unfastened the straps on my shoes.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“These are my favorite Bruno Maglis. I don’t want them absorbed when I change.”
“Yeah, but … you can just shape-shift them back.”
“They won’t be the same.”
“They will. You can make them anything you want. This is just silly.”
“Look,” I demanded, “do you want to stand out here arguing shoes, or do you want me to go make a man of your virgin?”
Hugh clamped his mouth shut and gestured toward the house.
I padded away in the grass, the blades tickling my bare feet. The back patio leading to the basement was open, just as Hugh had promised. I let myself into the sleeping house, hoping they didn’t have a dog, blearily wondering how I’d reached this low point in my existence. Adjusting to the darkness, my eyes soon discerned the features of a comfortable, middle-class family room: sofa, television, bookshelves. A stairwell rose to the left, and a hallway veered to the right.
I turned down the hall, letting my appearance shape-shift as I walked. The sensation was so familiar, so second nature to me, that I didn’t even need to see my exterior to know what was happening. My petite frame grew taller, the slim build still staying slim but taking on a leaner, harder edge. My skin paled to death white, leaving no memory of its faint tan. The hair, already to my midback, stayed the same length but darkened to jet black, the fine waviness turning straight and coarse. My breasts—impressive by most standards—became larger still, rivaling those of the comic book heroines this guy had undoubtedly grown up with.
As for my outfit … well, away went the cute Banana Republic slacks and blouse. Thigh-high black leather boots appeared on my legs, paired with a matching halter top and a skirt I never could have bent over in. Spiky wings, horns, and a whip completed the package.
“Oh Lord,” I muttered, accidentally taking in the whole effect in a small decorative mirror. I hoped none of the local demonesses ever found out about this. They were really quite classy.
Turning from the taunting mirror, I stared down the hall at my destination: a closed door with a yellow MEN AT WORK sign attached to it. I thought I could hear the faint sounds of a video game bleeping from beyond, though such noises silenced immediately when I knocked.
A moment later, the door opened, and I stood facing a five-foot-eight guy with shoulder-length, dirty blond hair rapidly receding on top. A large, hairy belly peeped out from underneath his Homer Simpson T-shirt, and he held a bag of potato chips in one hand.
The bag dropped to the floor when he saw me.
“Martin Miller?”
“Y-yes,” he gasped out.
I cracked the whip. “You ready to play with me?”
Exactly six minutes later, I left the Miller residence. Apparently thirty-four years doesn’t do much for one’s stamina.
“Whoa, that was fast,” Hugh noted, seeing me walk across the front yard. He was leaning against the car again, smoking a cigarette.
“No shit. Got another one of those?”
He grinned and handed over his own cigarette, giving me a once-over. “Would you be offended if I said the wings kind of get me hot?”
I took the cigarette, narrowing my eyes at him as I inhaled. A quick check ascertained no one else was around, and I shape-shifted back to my usual form.
“You owe me big,” I reminded him, putting the shoes back on.
“I know. Of course, some might argue you owe me. You got a nice fix from it. Better than you’re used to.”
I couldn’t deny that, but I didn’t have to feel good about it either. Poor Martin. Geek or no, committing his soul to eternal damnation was a helluva price to pay for six minutes.
“You wanna get a drink?” Hugh offered.
“No, it’s too late. I’m going home. Got a book to read.”
“Ah, of course. When’s the big day?”
“Tomorrow,” I proclaimed.
The imp chuckled at my hero worship. “He just writes mainstream fiction, you know. He’s hardly Nietzsche or Thoreau.”
“Hey, one doesn’t have to be surreal or transcendental to be a great writer. I should know; I’ve seen a few over the years.”
Hugh grunted at my imperious air, giving me a mock bow. “Far be it from me to argue with a lady about her age.”
I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then walked two blocks to where I had parked. I was unlocking the car door when I felt it: the warm, tingling feeling indicative of another immortal nearby. Vampire, I registered, only a millisecond before he appeared beside me. Damn, they moved fast.
“Georgina, my belle, my sweet succubus, my goddess of delight,” he intoned, placing his hands over his heart dramatically.
Great. Just what I needed. Duane was quite possibly the most obnoxious immortal I’d ever met. He kept his blond hair shaved to a close buzz, and as usual, he demonstrated terrible taste in both fashion and deodorant.
“Go away, Duane. I have nothing to say to you.”
“Oh come on,” he crooned, his hand snaking out to hold the door as I tried to open it. “Even you can’t play coy this time. Look at you. You’re positively glowing. Good hunting, eh?”
I scowled at the reference to Martin’s life energy, knowing it must be wreathing me. Obstinately, I tried to pry my door open against Duane’s hold. No luck.
“He’ll be out for days, from the looks of it,” the vampire added, peering at me closely. “Still, I imagine whoever he was enjoyed the ride—both on you and to hell.” He gave me a lazy smile, just barely revealing his pointed teeth. “He must have been someone pretty good for you to look as hot as you do now. What happened? I thought you only fucked the scum of the earth. The real assholes.”
“Change of policy. I didn’t want to give you false hope.”
He shook his head appreciatively. “Oh Georgina, you never disappoint—you and your witticisms. But then, I’ve always found whores know how to make good use of their mouths, on or off the job.”
“Let go,” I snapped, tugging harder at the door.
“Why the hurry? I have a right to know what you and the imp were doing over here. The Eastside is my turf.”
“We don’t have to abide by your ‘turf’ rules, and you know it.”
“Still, common courtesy dictates when you’re in the neighborhood—literally, in this case—you at least say hello. Besides, how come we never hang out? You owe me some quality time. You spend enough time with those other losers.”
The losers he referred to were my friends and the only decent vampires I’d ever met. Most vampires—like Duane—were arrogant, devoid of social skills, and obsessed with territoriality. Not unlike a lot of mortal men I’d met.
“If you don’t let me go, you’re going to learn a whole new definition of ‘common courtesy.’”
Okay, it was a stupid, faux action-movie line, but it was the best I could come up with on the spot. I made my voice sound as menacing as possible, but it was pure bravado, and he knew it. Succubi were gifted with charisma and shape-shifting; vampires had super strength and speed. What this meant was that one of us mingled better at parties, and the other could break a man’s wrist with a handshake.
“Are you actually threatening me?” He ran a playful hand along my cheek, making the hairs on my neck stand on end—in a bad way. I squirmed. “That’s adorable. And kind of arousing. I actually think I’d like to see you on the offensive. Maybe if you’d just behave like a good girl—ow! You little bitch!”
With both of his hands occupied, I had seized my window of opportunity. A quick burst of shape-shifting, and sharp, three-inch claws appeared on my right hand. I swiped them across his cheek. His superior reflexes didn’t let me get very far with the gesture, but I did draw blood before he gripped my wrist and slammed it against the car.
“What’s the matter? Not offensive enough for you?” I managed through my pain. More bad movie lines.
“Cute, Georgina. Very cute. We’ll see how cute you are by the time I—”
Headlights glimmered in the night as a car turned the corner on the next block and headed toward us. In that split second, I could see the indecision on Duane’s face. Our tête-à-tête would undoubtedly be noticed by the driver. While Duane could easily kill an intervening mortal—hell, it was what he did for a living—having the kill linked to his harassment of me would not look good to our superiors. Even an asshole like Duane would think twice before stirring up that kind of paperwork.
“We aren’t finished,” he hissed, releasing my wrist.
“Oh, I think we are.” I could feel braver now that salvation was on the way. “The next time you come near me’s going to be the last.”
“I’m quaking in terror,” he simpered. His eyes gleamed once in the darkness, and then he was gone, moving off into the night just as the car drove past. Thank God for whatever liaison or ice cream run had pulled that driver out tonight.
Not wasting any more time, I got into my car and drove off, anxious to be back in the city. I tried to ignore the shaking of my hands on the wheel, but the truth of the matter was, Duane terrified me. I had told him off plenty of times in the presence of my immortal friends, but taking him on alone on a dark street was an entirely different matter, especially since all my threats had been empty ones.
I actually abhorred violence in all its forms. I suppose this came from living through periods of history fraught with levels of cruelty and brutality no one in the modern world could even comprehend. People like to say we live in violent times now, but they have no idea. Sure, there had been a certain satisfaction centuries ago in seeing a rapist castrated swiftly and promptly for his crimes, without endless courtroom drama or an early release for “good behavior.” Unfortunately, those who deal in revenge and vigilantism rarely know where to draw the line, so I’d take the bureaucracy of the modern judicial system any day.
Thinking back to how I’d presumed the fortuitous driver was on an ice cream run, I decided a little dessert would do me some good too. Once I was safely back in Seattle, I stopped in a 24-hour grocery store, discovering some marketing mastermind had created tiramisu-flavored ice cream. Tiramisu and ice cream. The ingenuity of mortals never failed to amaze me.
As I was about to pay, I passed a display of flowers. They were cheap and a little tattered, but I watched as a young man came in and nervously scanned them over. At last he selected some autumn-colored mums and carried them off. My eyes followed him wistfully, half-jealous of whatever girl would be getting those.
As Duane had noted, I usually fed off losers, guys I didn’t have to feel guilty about hurting or rendering unconscious for a few days. Those kind did not send flowers and usually avoided most romantic gestures altogether. As for the guys who did send flowers, well, I avoided them. For their own good. That was out of character for a succubus, but I was too jaded to care about propriety anymore.
Feeling sad and lonely, I picked up a bouquet of red carnations for myself and paid for it and the ice cream.
When I arrived home, my phone was ringing. Setting down my goods, I glanced at the Caller-ID. Caller unknown.
“My lord and master,” I answered. “What a perfect ending to a perfect night.”
“Save your quips, Georgie. Why were you fucking with Duane?”
“Jerome, I—what?”
“He just called. Said you were unduly hassling him.”
“Hassling? Him?” Outrage surged inside me. “He started it! He came up to me and—”
“Did you hit him?”
“I …”
“Did you?”
I sighed. Jerome was the archdemon of the greater Seattle hierarchy of evil, as well as my supervisor. It was his job to manage all of us, make sure we did our duties, and keep us in line. Like any lazy demon, however, he preferred we create as little work for him as possible. His annoyance was almost palpable through the phone line.
“I did sort of hit him. Actually, it was more of a swipe.”
“I see. A swipe. And did you threaten him too?”
“Well, yes, I guess, if you want to argue semantics, but Jerome, come on! He’s a vampire. I can’t touch him. You know that.”
The archdemon hesitated, apparently considering the outcome of me going head-to-head with Duane. I must have lost in the hypothetical battle because I heard Jerome exhale a moment later.
“Yes. I suppose. But don’t provoke him anymore. I’ve got enough to work on right now without you children having catfights.”
“Since when do you work?” Children indeed.
“Good night, Georgie. Don’t tangle with Duane again.”
The phone disconnected. Demons weren’t big on small talk.
I hung up, feeling highly offended. I couldn’t believe Duane had tattled on me and then made me out to be the bad guy. Worse, Jerome seemed to have believed it. At least at first. That probably hurt me most of all because, my slacker-succubus habits aside, I’d always enjoyed a kind of indulgent, teacher’s pet role with the archdemon.
Seeking consolation, I carried the ice cream off to my bedroom, shedding my clothes for a loose nightshirt. Aubrey, my cat, stood up from where she’d been sleeping at the foot of my bed and stretched. Solid white save for some black smudges on her forehead, she squinted green eyes at me in greeting.
“I can’t go to bed,” I told her, stifling a yawn. “I have to read first.”
I curled up with the pint and my book, recalling again how I’d finally be meeting my favorite author at the signing tomorrow. Seth Mortensen’s writing always spoke to me, awakening something inside I hadn’t even known was asleep. His current book, The Glasgow Pact, couldn’t ease the guilt I felt over what had happened with Martin, but it filled an aching emptiness in me nonetheless. I marveled that mortals, living so short a time, could create such wonderful things.
“I never created anything when I was a mortal,” I told Aubrey when I’d finished five pages.
She rubbed against me, purring sympathetically, and I had just enough presence of mind to put the ice cream away before collapsing back into bed and falling asleep.
Chapter 2
THE PHONE JOLTED me to consciousness the next morning. Dim, murky light filtered in through my sheer curtains, signifying some freakishly early hour. Around here, however, that amount of light could have indicated anything from sunrise to high noon. After four rings, I finally deigned to answer, accidentally knocking Aubrey out of the bed. She landed with an indignant mhew and stalked off to clean herself.
“Hello?”
“Yo, Kincaid?”
“No.” My response came swift and certain. “I’m not coming in.”
“You don’t even know I’m going to ask that.”
“Of course I know. There’s no other reason you’d be calling me this early, and I’m not going to do it. It’s my day off, Doug.”
Doug, the other assistant manager at my day job, was a pretty nice guy, but he couldn’t keep a poker face—or voice—to save his life. His cool demeanor immediately gave way to desperation. “Everyone called in sick today, and now we’re strapped. You have to do it.”
“Well, I’m sick too. Believe me, you don’t want me there.”
Okay, I wasn’t exactly sick, but I was still sporting a residual afterglow from being with Martin. Mortals would not “see” it as Duane had per se, but they would sense it and be drawn to it—men and women alike—without even knowing why. My confinement today would prevent any foolish, lovesick behavior. It was very kind of me, really.
“Liar. You’re never sick.”
“Doug, I was already planning on coming back tonight for the signing. If I work a shift today too, I’ll be there all day. That’s sick and twisted.”
“Welcome to my world, babe. We have no alternative, not if you really care about the fate of the store, not if you truly care about our customers and their happiness …”
“You’re losing me, cowboy.”
“So,” he continued, “the question is, are you going to come here willingly, or do I have to walk over there and drag you out of bed myself? Frankly, I wouldn’t mind the latter.”
I did a mental eye roll, chiding myself for the billionth time about living two blocks from work. His rambling about the bookstore’s suffering had been effective, as he’d known it would be. I operated under the mistaken belief that the place couldn’t survive without me.
“Well, rather than risk any more of your attempts at witty, sexual banter, I suppose I’ll have to come over there. But Doug …” My voice turned hard.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t put me on the registers or anything.”
I heard hesitation on his end.
“Doug? I’m serious. Not the main registers. I don’t want to be around a lot of customers.”
“All right,” he said at last. “Not the main registers.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
A half hour later, I stepped outside my door to walk the two blocks to the bookstore. Long clouds hung low, darkening the sky, and a faint chill touched the air, forcing some of my fellow pedestrians to don a coat. I had opted for none, finding my khaki slacks and brown chenille sweater more than sufficient. The clothing, just like the lip gloss and eyeliner I’d carefully applied this morning, were real; I had not shape-shifted into them. I enjoyed the routine nature of applying cosmetics and matching articles of clothing, though Hugh would have claimed I was just being weird again.
Emerald City Books & Café was a sprawling establishment, occupying almost a full block in Seattle’s Queen Anne neighborhood. It sat two stories high, with the café portion dominating a second-floor corner viewing the Space Needle. A cheerful green awning hung over the main door, protecting those customers waiting for the store to open. I walked around them and entered through a side door, using my staff key.
Doug assaulted me before I’d taken two steps inside. “It’s about time. We …” He paused and did a double-take, reexamining me. “Wow. You look … really nice today. Did you do something different?”
Only a thirty-four-year-old virgin, I thought.
“You’re just imagining things because you’re so happy I’m here to fix your staffing problem. What am I doing? Stock?”
“I, er, no.” Doug struggled to snap out of his haze, still looking me up and down in a way I found disconcerting. His interest in dating me was no secret, nor was my continual rejection. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
“I told you—”
“It’s not the main registers,” he promised me.
What “it” turned out to be was the espresso counter in our upstairs café. Bookstore staff hardly ever subbed up here, but it wasn’t unheard of.
Bruce, the café manager, popped up from where he’d been kneeling behind the counter. I often thought Doug and Bruce could be twins in a mixed-race, alternate-reality sort of way. Both had long, scraggly ponytails, and both wore a good deal of flannel in tribute to the grunge era neither had fully recovered from. They differed mainly in their coloring. Doug was Japanese-American, black-haired with flawless skin; Bruce was Mr. Aryan Nation, all blond hair and blue eyes.
“Hey Doug, Georgina,” heralded Bruce. His eyes widened at me. “Whoa, you look great today.”
“Doug! This is just as bad. I told you I didn’t want any customers.”
“You told me not the main registers. You didn’t say anything about this one.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Bruce interrupted. “Come on, Georgina, I had Alex call in sick today, and Cindy actually quit.” Seeing my stony expression, he quickly added, “Our registers are almost identical to yours. It’ll be easy.”
“Besides”—Doug raised his voice to a fair imitation of our manager’s—“‘assistant managers are supposed to be able to fill in for anybody around here.’”
“Yeah, but the café—”
“—is still part of the store. Look, I’ve got to go open. Bruce’ll show you what you need to know. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.” He hastily darted off before I could refuse again.
“Coward!” I yelled after him.
“It really won’t be that bad,” Bruce reiterated, not understanding my dismay. “You just take the money, and I’ll make the espresso. Let’s practice on you. You want a white chocolate mocha?”
“Yeah,” I conceded. Everyone I worked with knew about that particular vice. I usually managed to take down three of them a day. Mochas that was, not coworkers.
Bruce walked me through the necessary steps, showing me how to mark up the cups and find what I needed to push on the register’s touch-screen interface. He was right. It wasn’t so bad.
“You’re a natural,” he assured me later, handing over my mocha.
I grunted in response and consumed my caffeine, thinking I could handle anything so long as the mochas kept coming. Besides, this really couldn’t be as bad as the main registers. The café probably did no business this time of day.
I was wrong. Minutes after opening, we had a line of five people.
“Large latte,” I repeated back to my first customer, carefully punching in the information.
“Already got it,” Bruce told me, starting the beverage before I even had a chance to label the cup. I happily took the woman’s money and moved on to my next order.
“A large skinny mocha.”
“Skinny’s just another word for nonfat, Georgina.”
I scrawled NF on the cup. No worries. We could do this.
The next customer wandered up and stared at me, momentarily bedazzled. Coming to her senses, she shook her head and blurted out a torrent of orders.
“I need one small drip coffee, one large nonfat vanilla latte, one small double cappuccino, and one large decaf latte.”
Now I felt bedazzled. How had she remembered all those? And honestly, who ordered drip anymore?
On and on the morning went, and despite my misgivings, I soon felt myself perking up and enjoying the experience. I couldn’t help it. It was how I worked, how I carried myself through life. I liked trying new things—even something as banal as ringing up espresso. People could be silly, certainly, but I enjoyed working with the public most of the time. It was how I had ended up in customer service.
And once I overcame my sleepiness, my inborn succubus charisma kicked in. I became the star of my own personal stage show, bantering and flirting with ease. When combined with the Martin-induced glamour, I became downright irresistible. While this did result in a number of proffered dates and pickup lines, it also saved me from the repercussions of any mistakes. My customers found no wrong with me.
“That’s all right, dear,” one older woman assured me upon discovering I’d accidentally ordered her a large cinnamon mocha instead of a nonfat, decaf latte. “I really need to branch out into new drinks anyway.”
I smiled back winningly, hoping she wasn’t diabetic.
Later on, a guy came up carrying a copy of Seth Mortensen’s The Glasgow Pact. It was the first sign I’d seen of tonight’s momentous event.
“Are you going to the signing?” I asked as I rang up his tea. Bleh. Caffeine-free.
He studied me for a pregnant moment, and I braced myself for a pass.
Instead the guy said mildly, “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Well, make sure you think up good questions for him. Don’t ask the same ones everyone else does.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’ and ‘Are Cady and O’Neill ever going to get together?’”
The guy considered this as I made change. He was cute, in a disheveled sort of way. He had brown hair with a reddish-gold gleam to it, said gleam being more noticeable in the shadow of facial hair crossing his lower face. I couldn’t quite decide if he’d intentionally grown a beard or just forgotten to shave. Whatever it was, it had grown in more or less evenly and, when combined with the Pink Floyd T-shirt he wore, presented the image of a sort of hippie-lumberjack.
“I don’t think the ‘usual questions’ make them any less meaningful to the one doing the asking,” he decided at last, seeming shy about contradicting me. “To a fan, each question is new and unique.”
He stepped aside so I could wait on another customer. I continued the conversation as I took the next order, unwilling to pass up the opportunity to discuss Seth Mortensen intelligently.
“Forget the fans. What about poor Seth Mortensen? He probably wants to impale himself each time he gets one of those.”
“‘Impale’ is kind of a strong word, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely not. The guy’s brilliant. Hearing idiotic questions must bore him to tears.”
A bemused smile played across the man’s mouth, and his steady brown eyes weighed me carefully. When he realized he was staring so openly, he glanced away, embarrassed. “No. If he’s out touring, he cares about his fans. He doesn’t mind the repetitive questions.”
“He’s not out touring for altruism. He’s out touring because the publicists at his publishing house are making him tour,” I countered. “Which is also a waste of time, by the way.”
He dared a look back at me. “Touring is? You don’t want to meet him?”
“I—well, yes, of course I do. It’s just, that … okay. Look, don’t get me wrong. I worship the ground this guy walks on. I’m excited to meet him tonight. I’m dying to meet him tonight. If he wanted to carry me off and make me his love slave, I’d do it, so long as I got advance copies of his books. But this touring thing … it takes time. Time that would be better spent writing the next book. I mean, haven’t you seen how long his books take to come out?”
“Yeah. I’ve noticed.”
Just then, a previous customer returned, complaining he’d gotten caramel syrup instead of caramel sauce. Whatever that meant. I offered a few smiles and sweet apologies, and he soon didn’t care about the caramel sauce or anything else. By the time he left my register, the Mortensen fan guy was gone too.
When I finally finished my shift around five, Doug came to meet me.
“I heard some interesting things about your performance up here.”
“I hear interesting things about your ‘performance’ all the time, Doug, but you don’t hear me making jokes about it.”
He bandied with me a bit more and finally released me to get ready for the signing, but not before I’d made him humbly acknowledge how much he owed me for my kindness today. Between him and Hugh, I was accruing favors all over the place.
I practically ran the two blocks home, anxious to grab some dinner and figure out what I wanted to wear. My exhilaration was growing. In an hour or so, I’d be meeting my all-time favorite author. Could life get any better? Humming to myself, I took the stairs two at a time and produced my keys with a flourish that only I noticed or appreciated.
As I opened the door, a hand suddenly grabbed me and pulled me roughly inside, into the darkness of my apartment. I yelped in surprise and fear as I was shoved up against the door, slamming it shut. The lights burst on suddenly and unexpectedly, and the faint smell of sulfur wafted through the air. Although the brightness made me wince, I could see well enough to recognize what was going on.
Hell hath no fury like a pissed-off demon.
Chapter 3
OF COURSE, I should clarify at this point that Jerome doesn’t look like a demon, at least not in the traditional red skin and horns sense. Maybe he does on another plane of existence, but like Hugh, me, and all the other immortals walking the earth, Jerome wore a human guise now.
One that looked like John Cusack.
Seriously. No joke. The archdemon always claimed he didn’t even know who the actor was, but none of us bought that.
“Ow,” I said irritably. “Let me go.”
Jerome released his grasp, but his dark eyes still glinted dangerously. “You look good,” he said after a moment, seeming surprised by the admission.
I tugged at my sweater, straightening it from where his hand had crumpled it. “You have a funny way of showing your admiration.”
“Really good,” he continued thoughtfully. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you—”
“—shine,” murmured a voice behind the demon. “You shine, Daughter of Lilith, like a star in the night sky, like a diamond glittering on the bleakness of eternity.”
I started in surprise. Jerome cut a sharp glance to the speaker, not liking his monologue interrupted. I also glared, not liking an uninvited angel in my apartment. Carter only smiled at both of us.
“As I was saying,” snapped Jerome, “you look like you’ve been with a good mortal.”
“I did a favor for Hugh.”
“So this isn’t the start of a new and improved habit?”
“Not on the salary you pay me.”
Jerome grunted, but it was all part of a routine between us. He would berate me for not taking my job seriously, I’d give a few witty quips in return, and the status quo would resume. Like I said, I was something of a teacher’s pet.
Looking at him now, however, I could see no more jokes would follow. The charm that had so enthralled my customers today had no effect on these two. Jerome’s face was drawn and serious, as was Carter’s, despite the angel’s usual sardonic half-smile.
Jerome and Carter hung out together regularly, especially when alcohol was involved. This baffled me since they were supposedly locked in some sort of great, cosmic struggle. I’d once asked Jerome if Carter was a fallen angel, which had elicited a good laugh from the demon. When he’d recovered from the hilarity, he’d told me no, Carter hadn’t fallen. If he had, he wouldn’t technically be an angel anymore. I hadn’t really found that answer satisfying and finally decided the two must stay together because there was no one else in this area who could relate to an existence stretching back to the beginning of time and creation. All the rest of us lesser immortals had been human at some point before; greater immortals like Jerome and Carter had not. My centuries were a mere blip on their timeline.
Whatever the reasons for his presence now, I didn’t like Carter. He wasn’t obnoxious like Duane, but he always seemed so smug and supercilious. Maybe it was an angel thing. Carter also had the most bizarre sense of humor I’d ever seen. I could never tell if he was making fun of me or not.
“So what can I do for you boys?” I asked, tossing my purse on the counter. “I’ve got places to be tonight.”
Jerome fixed me with a narrow-eyed look. “I want you to tell me about Duane.”
“What? I already did. He’s an asshole.”
“Is that why you had him killed?”
“I—what?”
I froze where I’d been sifting through cupboard contents and slowly turned around to look back at the duo, half expecting some joke. Both faces were in earnest, watching me.
“Killed? How … how does that work?”
“You tell me, Georgie.”
I blinked, suddenly realizing where this was going. “Are you accusing me of killing Duane? And wait … this is stupid. Duane isn’t dead. He can’t be.”
Jerome began pacing, his voice exaggeratedly civil. “Oh, I assure you, he is quite dead. We found him this morning, just before sunrise.”
“So what? He died of sun exposure?” That was the only way I’d ever heard a vampire could die.
“No. He died because of the stake wedged into his heart.”
“Ew.”
“So are you ready to tell me who you got to do it, Georgie?”
“I didn’t get anyone to do it! I can’t even—I don’t even understand what this is about. Duane can’t be dead.”
“You admitted to me last night you two got in a fight.”
“Yes …”
“And you threatened him.”
“Yeah, but I was joking …”
“I think he told me you said something about him never coming near you again?”
“I was angry and upset! He was scaring me. This is crazy. Besides, Duane can’t be dead.”
That was the only piece of sanity I could cling to in all of this, so I kept repeating it to them and to myself. Immortals were, by definition, immortal. End of story.
“Don’t you know anything about vampires?” the archdemon asked curiously.
“Like that they can’t die?”
Amusement flickered in Carter’s gray eyes; Jerome found me less funny.
“I’m asking you one last time, Georgina. Did you or did you not have Duane killed? Just answer the question. Yes or no.”
“No,” I said firmly.
Jerome glanced at Carter. The angel studied me, his lank blond hair falling forward to partially cover his face. I realized then why Carter was along for the ride tonight. Angels can always discern truth from lies. At last, he nodded sharply to Jerome.
“Glad I passed the test,” I muttered.
But they weren’t paying attention to me anymore.
“Well,” observed Jerome grimly, “I guess we know what this means.”
“Well, we don’t know for sure …”
“I do.”
Carter gave him a meaningful look, and several seconds of silence passed. I’d always suspected the two were communicating mentally in such moments, something we lesser immortals could not do unassisted.
“So Duane’s really dead?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Jerome, remembering I was there. “Very much so.”
“Who killed him then? Now that we’ve determined it wasn’t me?”
The two glanced at each other and shrugged, neither answering. Negligent parents, both of them. Carter pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. Lord, I hated it when they got this way.
Finally Jerome said, “A vampire hunter.”
I stared. “Really? Like that girl on TV?”
“Not exactly.”
“So where are you going tonight?” asked Carter pleasantly.
“To Seth Mortensen’s signing. And don’t change the subject. I want to know about this vampire hunter.”
“Are you going to sleep with him?”
“I—what?” For half a moment, I thought the angel was asking me about the vampire hunter. “You mean Seth Mortensen?”
Carter exhaled smoke. “Sure. I mean, if I were a succubus obsessed with a mortal author, that’s what I’d do. Besides, doesn’t your side always want more celebrities?”
“We’ve already got plenty of celebrities,” Jerome said in an undertone.
Sleep with Seth Mortensen? Good grief. It was the most preposterous thing I’d ever heard. It was appalling. If I absorbed his life force, there was no telling how long it’d be until his next book came out.
“No! Of course not.”
“Then what are you going to do to get noticed?”
“Noticed?”
“Sure. I mean, the guy probably sees tons of fans on a regular basis. Don’t you want to stand out in some way?”
Surprise washed over me. I hadn’t even considered that. Should I have? My jaded nature made it difficult to find pleasure in many things nowadays. Seth Mortensen books were one of my few escapes. Should I acknowledge that and attempt to connect with the novels’ creator? Earlier today, I’d mocked run-of-the-mill fans. Was I about to become one of them?
“Well … I mean, Paige will probably introduce the staff privately to him. I’ll sort of stand out then.”
“Yes, of course.” Carter put out the cigarette in my kitchen sink. “I’m sure he never gets the opportunity to meet bookstore management.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Jerome cut me off. “Enough.” He gave Carter another of those meaningful looks. “We need to go.”
“I—wait a minute!” Carter had succeeded in derailing me off the topic after all. I couldn’t believe it. “I want to know more about this vampire hunter.”
“All you need to know is that you should be careful, Georgie. Extremely careful. I am not joking about this.”
I swallowed, hearing the iron in the demon’s voice. “But I’m not a vampire.”
“I don’t care. These hunter types sometimes follow vampires around, hoping to find others. You could be implicated by association. Lie low. Avoid being alone. Stay with others—mortal or immortal, it doesn’t matter. Maybe you can follow up on your favor for Hugh and score some more souls for our side while you’re at it.”
I rolled my eyes at that as the two walked to the door.
“I mean it. Be careful. Keep a low profile. Don’t get involved with this.”
“And,” added Carter with a wink, “say hi to Seth Mortensen for me.”
With that, the two left, closing the door gently behind them. A formality really, since either of them could have just teleported out. Or blown my door apart.
I turned to Aubrey. She had watched the proceedings cautiously from the back of my sofa, tail twitching.
“Well,” I told her, reeling. “What am I supposed to make of that?”
Duane was actually dead? I mean, yeah, he was a bastard, and I had been pretty pissed when I threatened him last night, but I’d never actually wanted him to be really dead. And what about this vampire hunter business? Why was I supposed to be careful when—
“Shit!”
I had just glanced at my microwave clock. It coolly informed me I needed to return to the bookstore ASAP. Pushing Duane out of my brain, I dashed to my bedroom and stared at myself in the mirror. Aubrey followed more sluggishly.
What to wear? I could just keep my current outfit. The sweater and khakis combination looked both respectable and subdued, though the color scheme blended a bit too well with my light brown hair. It was a librarian sort of outfit. Did I want to look subdued? Maybe. Like I had told Carter, I really didn’t want to do anything that might solicit the romantic interest of my favorite author in the whole world.
Still …
Still, I remembered what the angel had said about getting noticed. I didn’t want to be just another face in Seth Mortensen’s crowd. This was the final stop on his latest tour. No doubt he’d seen thousands of fans in the last month, fans who blurred together into a sea of bland faces, making their inane comments. I had advised the guy at the counter to be innovative with his questions, and I intended to behave the same way with my appearance.
Five minutes later, I stood in front of the mirror once more, this time clad in a silk tank top, deep violet and low-cut, paired with a floral chiffon skirt. The skirt almost covered my thighs and swirled when I spun. It would have made a great dancing outfit. Stepping into strappy brown heels, I glanced over at Aubrey for confirmation.
“What do you think? Too sexy?”
She began cleaning her tail.
“It is sexy,” I conceded, “but it’s classy sexy. The hair helps, I think.”
I had pulled my long hair up into a romantic sort of bun, leaving wavy locks to frame my face and enhance my eyes. Momentary shape-shifting made them turn greener than usual. Changing my mind, I let them go back to their normal gold-and-green-flecked hazel.
When Aubrey still refused to acknowledge how awesome I looked, I grabbed my snakeskin coat and glared at her. “I don’t care what you think. This outfit was a good call.”
I left the apartment with my copy of The Glasgow Pact and walked back to work, impervious to the drizzle. Another perk of shape-shifting. Fans milled inside the main retail area, eager to see the man whose latest book still dominated the bestseller lists, even after five weeks. I squeezed past the group, making my way toward the stairs that led to the second floor.
“Young adult books are over there by the wall.” Doug’s friendly voice drifted nearby. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
He turned away from the customer he’d been helping, caught sight of me, and promptly dropped the stack of books he’d been holding.
Customers stepped back, politely watching him kneel down to retrieve the books. I recognized the covers immediately. They were paperbacks of Seth Mortensen’s older titles.
“Sacrilege,” I commented. “Letting those touch the ground. You’ll have to burn them now, like a flag.”
Ignoring me, Doug gathered up the books and then ushered me off out of earshot. “Nice of you to go home and change into something more comfortable. Christ, can you even bend over in that?”
“What, do you think I’ll have to tonight?”
“Well, that depends. I mean, Warren’s here after all.”
“Harsh, Doug. Very harsh.”
“You bring it on yourself, Kincaid.” He gave me a reluctant, appreciative glance just before we started climbing the stairs. “You do look pretty good, though.”
“Thanks. I wanted Seth Mortensen to notice me.”
“Believe me, unless he’s gay, he’ll notice you. Probably even then too.”
“I don’t look too slutty, do I?”
“No.”
“Or cheap?”
“No.”
“I was going for classy sexy. What do you think?”
“I think I’m done feeding your ego. You already know how you look.”
We crested the top of the stairs. A mass of chairs had been set up, covering most of the café’s normal seating area and spreading out into part of the gardening and maps section of books. Paige, the store manager and our superior, busily attempted some sort of wiring acrobatics with the microphone and sound system. I didn’t know what this building had been used for before Emerald City Books moved in, but it was not an ideal venue for acoustics and large groups.
“I’m going to help her,” Doug told me, kindly chivalrous. Paige was three months pregnant. “I’d advise you to do something that doesn’t involve leaning more than twenty degrees in any one direction. Oh, and if somebody tries to get you to touch your elbows together behind your back, don’t fall for it.”
I gave him a sharp jab in the ribs, nearly making him lose the books again.
Bruce, still manning the espresso counter, made me my fourth white chocolate mocha of the day, and I wandered over to the geography books to drink it while I waited for things to pick up. Glancing beside me, I recognized the guy I’d discussed Seth Mortensen with earlier. He still held his copy of The Glasgow Pact.
“Hey,” I said.
He jumped at the sound of my voice, having been absorbed in a travel book about Texas.
“Sorry,” I told him. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I—no, you d-didn’t,” he stammered. His eyes assessed me from head to toe in one quick glance, lingering ever so briefly on my hips and breasts but longest on my face. “You changed clothes.” Apparently realizing the myriad implications behind such an admission, he added hastily, “Not that that’s bad. I mean that’s good. Er, well, that is—”
His embarrassment growing, he turned from me and tried to awkwardly replace the Texas book back on the shelf, upside down. I hid my smile. This guy was too adorable. I didn’t run into many shy guys anymore. Modern-day dating seemed to demand men make as great a spectacle of themselves as possible, and unfortunately, women seemed to really go for it. Okay, even I went for it sometimes. But shy guys deserved a break too, and I decided a little harmless flirting with him would be good for his ego while I waited for the signing to start. He probably had terrible luck with women.
“Let me do that,” I offered, leaning across him. My hands touched his as I took the book from him, replacing it carefully on the shelf, front cover out. “There.”
I stepped back as though to admire my handiwork, making sure I stood very close to him, our shoulders nearly touching. “It’s important to keep up appearances with books,” I explained. “Image goes a long way in this business.”
He dared a look over at me, still nervous but steadily recovering his composure. “I go more for content.”