Succubus Takes Manhattan (19 page)

Marten bowed again. Azoked giggled. I wanted to throttle her, so I sat on the bed and strangled a pillow instead.

“Okay, greetings over,” I announced. “What’s up?”

Azoked settled herself back into the easy chair and returned to her Ben & Jerry’s. “I believe that you are searching for the same human that we have been trailing for over a month now. He is very hard to trace in the Akashic, even though he is fully human and his record should be clear. I have determined that there has been demonic tampering in the
Record
on his behalf.”

I shrugged. “And this means?”

Azoked shook her head. “This means that whoever is sponsoring him both is a very powerful demon and has access to the Library. Which rules out a great many possibilities and includes several that you may not have considered. There are very few demons who can access the Library, let alone follow a single trace and obscure it.”

“Could someone from Upstairs do that?” I asked. After all, Branford thought he was working for Heaven, though I couldn’t imagine what stake Upstairs would have in a power struggle for Satan’s deputy.

Azoked considered the question for what seemed to be a ridiculously long time. “I do not know,” she finally admitted, her voice reflecting amazement that there was a question about the Akashic that she couldn’t answer. “I shall inquire. But we can leave that speculation until I have actual information. What is important here is that someone powerful has been obscuring Branford’s threads in the
Record,
that is what you need to know. And I do know that there are demons who are capable of this manipulation: Mephistopheles, Marduk, Ashtoreth, Daigon, Beelzebub, Beliel, Lilith, Salome, Azrok and Merab, to name a few. But then one must ask why. With his records obscured we can be sure that he is involved in something much more serious, something sponsored by one of the most powerful demons.”

“You say to name a few. What others?” Marten asked. I turned to him and saw that he had started to write the list.

Azoked sighed. “Oh, that’s about it, I think. I don’t know about Upstairs, that’s not my department. Much as I think it’s not likely, I will check on that question, though. More because I am interested to know the answer.”

Marten read back the list to us. “Is Hatuman capable?” he asked. “Coyote? Coatlique?”

Azoked turned her cat gaze to him and licked her fingers deliberately. “I do not believe they are capable. It is always possible that some demon has developed a skill that they do not register with us. We cannot tell who will have ability in the Akashic—it chooses its own Librarians and partners. We only know those who have been able to move like this before.”

I nodded seriously as Marten scribbled.

“Now, if you would care to order me another of those fish dinners, I will report to my superiors that I have not been ill-treated,” she said as if this were a reasonable request. In fact, I had become so used to Azoked’s off-the-wall requirements that I thought it might be—at least for Azoked.

“But you just had a dinner,” Marten said. “And Lily and I need some time to relax.”

Azoked arched on eyebrow. “Oh? That’s what you call it? Relaxing?”

“That’s none of your business, Azoked,” I took the initiative. “Marten and I have had a very stressful, tiring evening. You know that Branford is tailing me again. My doorman was kidnapped. You probably want to stay far from me unless you want to be around for the next attack. How about going down to Ono—they have wonderful fish. And put it on Marten’s room.”

“That will take a cab ride.”

I handed her two twenties. Honestly!

But Azoked had taken the money and asked for Marten’s room number and left in the time that it took me to fume.

“I have never met a demon so cheap,” I hissed after I checked the hallway and found it empty. Figured. I would bet that Azoked used magic to get downtown and pocketed my money just because she could.

“Isn’t greed a major sin?” Marten asked, interested.

I thought for a moment, distracted from my distress. “It is, of course. But being chintzy is not the same as greed. Real greed is huge and noble, that is all about collecting as much of anything as one can. Money, stocks, real estate, stuff. But Azoked isn’t greedy, except for certain kinds of food. It’s more like she wants to chisel funds, get a free ride, get something for nothing as often as possible. And for what? She does this all the time. Stupid things, like ice cream and the trip to Aruba.”

“She was in Aruba?” Marten asked, interested. “You met with her there?”

I nodded. “She wasn’t supposed to be there. It was supposed to be all vacation, just fun. The four of us were off duty that weekend, and we did visit the one resident succubus and go out for dinner, but that was purely social. And in the middle of that, Azoked showed up to tell us that Branford was on the island. And for that, she got three nights in the Royal Sonesta, per diem, and travel. Although I’m sure she got upgrades the whole way. We all always do.”

“So she arrived after you did, and left around the same time?” Marten seemed too concerned with Azoked. As if she were anything other than a nuisance. I wondered again how much Satan was paying for her contract. Anything was probably way too much.

“Have you considered her?” he asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous, she’s one of us,” I said, waving his concerns away. “Satan Herself holds the contract.”

“And this Librarian couldn’t be ambitious?” he asked very reasonably.

I thought about it for a minute. “I don’t think the Akashic Records Division follows our ranking and promotion plans,” I said. “They’re under Admin and mix Upstairs and Hell, and I’m pretty sure that Upstairs has a different HR organization. So interfering with us wouldn’t change anything for Azoked, and so why would she bother?” I thought about that a little longer, chewed on the idea. But the more I considered it the less sense it made. “Also, she has given us valuable information, and has warned of Branford’s attacks. And she gave us the names of the demons who could have been hiding his record.”

Marten sat down in the easy chair that Azoked had abandoned and pushed aside the rolling tray with distaste. “I don’t know, it just seems too convenient. And she is so . . .”

“Horrible,” I supplied with a smile. “Believe me, there is no one I would rather deliver over to Meph than Azoked. I would love to see her tortured for a thousand years. No one deserves it more just on general principle.

But . . .”

“But you do not think she is our informant.”

I nodded. “Exactly. And if she can help us find whoever is after us, then putting up with her is probably worth the misery.”

Marten came over and put his arms around me. It was all just too much. I was just an honest, working succubus, trying to do her bit in the world for her Master, and trying to have a little fun on the side. And now I was being hunted and attacked.

Now I understood why Sybil had PTSD, having been hunted before, and by men with the law behind them.

Marten held me and patted my back. He said nothing, just stayed there as I felt overwhelmed. Waves of fear broke over me, through me, as I clung to his body. I didn’t think about how beautiful he was, or how good in bed. All I knew was that he was there and safe and hadn’t tried to get rid of me when I wasn’t fun anymore.

I let him take care of me. He called room service and they sent up several pots of tea, crème brûlée, a plate of very pretty cookies, a piece of cheesecake, and a beautiful slice of devil’s food. He fixed the tea without asking, sugar and lemon, no milk, and handed it to me. Then he passed over the chocolate. “Seratonin precursor,” he said as he gave me the plate.

“And devil’s food,” I said, trying to smile. “Particularly nutritious, just what I need.”

He nodded solemnly. “Good,” he said, and then he watched me eat. I got through all the cake, the cheesecake, and half the crème brûlée before he offered to help with the other half.

“How are you doing?” he asked when I licked the last taste of crème brûlée off my finger.

“Better,” I said. “Thank you.”

“It’s late,” he said. “And it’s been a very stressful day. I think we should both just go to sleep and get adequate rest. Things will be better in the morning. I even think you should have a nice hot bath. It will help you relax.”

The idea of a hot bath appealed. A high-end luxury hotel has amenities like Jacuzzi tubs large enough for two, marble tile, and lavender bath salts sitting on the ledge. Unfortunately, the Courtyard is not that class of luxury. But the tub was old, which meant at least deep enough for immersion, and there was a tiny bottle of shower gel. I ran the water hot and sank into the steam. Bliss. Mindless comfort, so long as I didn’t think. Just pay attention to the scent of the gel on my skin, the languor brought on by water, by the need to release after the tensions of the day and then the evening. Just release and be quiet.

By the time my fingers were red and wrinkled I was in a calmer frame of mind. The towels here were at least thick and thirsty and I wrapped one around my body before leaving the hazy heat of the bath.

Marten had turned down the bed and I climbed in, grateful. He had opened out one of the sofas into a bed and was reading.

“You’re not sleeping here?” I asked, and patted the mattress beside me. It was a king, after all.

He smiled. “I think tonight we should just sleep,” he said. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You won’t. If you would like to . . .” I thought for a moment. “I think I would feel safer if you were here.”

“Thank you,” he answered, and folded up the sofa again. He dropped his clothes all over the floor and slipped between the sheets on the far side of the enormous bed. I wiggled toward him and he held me.

We fell asleep and that was all.

For the first and only time in three thousand years, I slept with a man without sex. Without even the thought or promise of sex. And it was good and comforting and I did feel safer for feeling the brush of his hand in the night.

We had sex when we woke just before eleven. Marten was right; I did feel a whole lot better in the morning.

chapter
FIFTEEN

Morning sex, mmmmm. I didn’t remember that I had ever gotten to wake up to sex first thing, which is somehow more intimate and comforting after spending the night with someone. I don’t know why that would be, but Marten not only satisfied me but took his time about it, too. And I appreciated the extra languor of his movements, the fact he clearly was there for my support and comfort and wasn’t being driven by his own torment.

I showered and put on the new clothes, and remembered why I hated cheap things. They didn’t look too bad, but the fabrics were stiff and chafed my skin, and some of the seaming was less than perfect.

“A good thing we were going shopping anyway,” Marten said brightly.

While he took a shower I called Mephistopheles and left voice mail.

Then Marten dressed in his emergency clothes and grimaced as much as I had done. We went out for breakfast, a big traditional diner combo with eggs and bacon and sausage and English muffins and coffee, and then oversized blueberry muffins because they looked so good. And more coffee and more after that, the bottomless cup which, for once, I hadn’t needed. I’d slept very soundly with Marten in the bed, knowing that Branford would never find us.

There is something particularly delicious about playing hooky from work. It’s not like a planned and scheduled vacation—even my trips to Aruba and Venice, while rather last-minute, were scheduled with the office. But to just take a day in the city to sleep in, shop, spend time with a new lover, there is a particular decadence in the extra sleep, the freedom on the streets knowing that your coworkers are all at the office dealing with people like Lawrence, thinking you’re at home in bed with the sniffles.

We went into new territory for me—the men’s departments.

I had never shopped with a man. I had never shopped for a man. At least not for three hundred years, before the advent of department stores and ready-to-wear fashion. I had never noticed the men’s sections of stores. I had never looked there. The magazine is for women and we don’t discuss menswear, not even in a passing article on how to get your boyfriend to dress better. I could spot a man wearing decent clothing across the street, but I had never thought about trying to buy any.

I got an education fast. Barneys, the mecca of the fashionable woman, doesn’t do nearly so well by their potential male customers. Armani, on the other hand, has a full shop dedicated only to men, and I’d never turned the other way in Prada and seen what was available for the guys. Hmmmm.

Marten turned. Marten wanted it all.

And Marten looks wonderful in clothes, wears them like American men just can’t manage, chic and sophisticated and assured. It didn’t hurt that, the Dutch being the tallest people in the world, on average, Marten at six-three didn’t stand or move as if he were aware of being tall. Six-three, blond hair precision-cut just a little shaggy in the front to fall over his brilliant blue eyes, surfer-dude tan on an athlete’s body, and a little sparkle of mischief, Marten was completely desirable. I thought he was delicious, and fun, and watching him shop was an education.

But what would he say about “occupation?” “Ceremonial magician, works with Mephistopheles and is one of the few to bargain with Satan for the services of a minor demon along with all the other usual inducements.” I didn’t think that would fly.

He might shop like a girlfriend but he spent like a Venetian nobleman. He didn’t appear to care about how much anything cost. If he wanted it, it went into the pile and he signed the credit card slips without even glancing at the total. He had everything shipped so we wouldn’t have to carry the packages.

Even if I had been bored by the men’s clothing, Marten was so attentive that I felt petted and adored. Just being with him made me happy. Meeting his snarky smile behind the back of some officious clerk, making faces at merchandise that just wasn’t up to its label was simple fun. We laughed and stuck out our tongues and I felt wicked and giggly. He struck exaggerated runway poses when he got out of the dressing room and I clapped or booed and horrified several respectable silver-haired gentlemen in elegant gray suits with yellow tape measures dangling around their necks. His sense of humor was acid and offbeat, his taste was impeccable and he looked like a movie star. The hunky kind that women worship. How had I ever ended up with this paragon? Oh, right, he was also a magician and lived in Aruba and was commitment-phobic. Well, every fairy tale has a drawback or two.