Succubus in the City (20 page)

“How much do I owe you?” I asked.

He waved his hand. “I put it on account,” he answered grandly, and then spread out the paper napkins like a tablecloth on my coffee table and presented the food with all the flourish of room service at the Sherry Netherland.

Azoked nibbled one of the Florentines delicately, as if expecting them to disappoint. Then she looked surprised. “These are adequate,” she admitted. Well, it is a very good bakery.

“There have always been societies dedicated to the extermination of the more, hmmm, tempting levels of the Hierarchy,” she began to expound when there were no more Florentines left in the box. “That is nothing new; indeed, it is expected. The real question in this case is how one of those groups was able to identify you. It is the passing of information so highly classified that has Satan so displeased, and, indeed, the upper Hierarchy as well. Which is why I was taken off vital work on a major project and assigned to your case. This is not about you and your friends, you understand, but about a breach of security. We cannot have humans knowing that we are among them. That would be a disaster for all of us, not just a few self-important sex demons.”

I really wanted to slug her. The only thing that held me back was that I was sure she was trying to provoke me deliberately so she could get taken off the job. Oh, Satan would get someone else (who might not be any more palatable, and might not be quite as competent), but She would be displeased with me and we’d lose whatever progress we’d made.

“And have you discovered who it was who gave out the information? Or to whom it was given?”

Her expression changed drastically, as if she could hardly credit me. I forced myself not to smile. Of course she was a grammarian, had to be. I had her. She was recalculating her position.

“The hunting organization your names and addresses were given to is called the Knight Defenders.”

“Templar descendants?” I asked.

She cocked her head. “Possibly. I did not trace their history past this current iteration. Previously their main focus was a Bible study class that changed only when they began receiving information that is privy to the Hierarchy.”

I didn’t for a moment believe the “I did not trace their history,” not coming from her. Probably, if pressed, Azoked could not only tell us precisely what this organization had done and funded, but the amounts in their bank accounts, their membership data, and their full schedule of activities for the past two hundred years. But I didn’t really need to know that. I just had to know why they were dangerous to us and why we had been targeted. And how to stop it.

Preferably without another visit to Admin.

Yes, we could get our lives made over, kind of like the Witness Protection Program. We’d have to split up, the four of us, and leave New York. And I would never see Nathan again. In a really thorough job, his memory of me would be wiped. I would never have existed.

I did not want that to happen. Suddenly something shifted inside me and I realized that I was going to stand and fight. In the past, the times I’ve been threatened I’d always let Satan and Admin take care of it. And that always meant a change of identity and location, and I’d always been fine with that. Admin always managed to transfer at least most of my securities and accounts, liquidate my real estate or turn it over to a holding company. I’d never lost much, and after a year or two the four of us would find each other again. Sometimes it took a decade or more to arrange transfers so that we were all in the same city, but with enough persistence we had always managed.

But I deeply did not want to leave New York, at least not until I had worked things out with Nathan. I didn’t know what I wanted and I didn’t know what I could have, and I hardly knew him. That didn’t matter. I wanted—maybe not Nathan at that moment so much as the opportunity to get to know Nathan. To see if there was a relationship worth pursuing.

I was perfectly clear that I didn’t know if anything would come of this first date. I’d had a lovely time with him and it was possible that things would work out for us. It was far more likely that they wouldn’t, that I would find out that on longer acquaintance he was addicted to Monday night football and hated Chinese food and left the toilet seat up. He might like my clothes but turn out to be horrified at what I considered a reasonable price for a pair of shoes or a jacket. There were just so many ways a relationship could fail, and I knew that.

So probably it would fail.

That didn’t matter. I wanted the chance to find out on my own. I didn’t want to just run away because someone was trying to hunt us down. We had to fight back.

“Of course, the best thing would probably be for you to disappear.” Azoked spoke as if she were reading my mind. “Satan could arrange that fairly easily and it would be less expensive than much more of my time.”

Which was true. “But this isn’t about us at all. If someone is giving out privileged information, then we have to trace the source. This is an attack on Satan, and we cannot let that stand.”

I was surprised by how ardent I sounded. Even more, I believed it. Yes, I wanted to stay and see if I could make things work with Nathan. But it also was clear that someone had hurt me, had tried to destroy all four of us, to get at our boss. I was almost touched. But I was also right. We could not let an attack on Satan go unchallenged. Leaving New York would change nothing, especially if the demon betraying us were sufficiently important.

Azoked showed even more approval of me, and it looked like her face would break with the effort. “You show admirable loyalty,” she finally admitted.

I deserve an extra helping of something particularly luscious, I don’t know, maybe a new pair of Christian Louboutin stilettos, as a reward. Because I did not make a face or roll my eyes or react in any way to the insults that Bastform demon chose to heap on my reputation. Succubus and sex demon I may be, but that is no reason to be surprised at my loyalty or the fact that I am not an idiot. I get really tired of these people and demons who think that anyone who looks good and knows how to put an outfit together is an imbecile and flighty and doesn’t have any values.

“Satan is our overlord,” I said calmly. “She deserves all of our loyalty. And all of our support and aid in tracking down those who would do Her harm.”

“Indeed,” the Librarian agreed. Not that she had any choice. “I simply do not know why I am instructed to report to you in this matter. I should be speaking to your superior.”

I squared my shoulders and narrowed my eyes. “I was personally asked by Satan to coordinate research on this investigation. She is my only superior in this matter.”

“Very well,” Azoked said, mollified. Or at least I hope she was mollified. “This particular group, these Knight Defenders, are a small organization run out of an apartment in Grand Army Plaza.”

Brooklyn. Right near the Brooklyn Museum. Unless we cleaned this up in the next couple of months, there would be no lying out under the cherry trees of the Brooklyn Botanical Garden and no visits to the Zen meditation garden either. Much as I hate to admit it, there is nothing quite like them in Manhattan. And some of the clubs and galleries in Williamsburg are getting very trendy, too. Truth is, there are some pretty exciting spots springing up on the other side of the river and I did not want some group of pathological self-righteous twits to stop me from shopping in Park Slope.

“It is a sex-segregated organization, currently recorded as headed by one Lewis Taggart. At least, his name is on the papers, though in the Records he is a ghost, which is quite curious.”

“Oh?” I asked. Clearly Azoked expected me to inquire.

“Yes. Very curious,” she answered, clearly ready. “We call them ghosts, people who come up in searches but whom we cannot find in the Records. There are one hundred seventy-nine Lewis Taggarts currently living in the Records and I have searched each of them, and none of them are connected with either this organization or this particular part of the world or time period.”

“So he’s a cutout,” I said.

“I have not heard that term,” the Librarian countered, clearly disappointed that I followed the concept so easily. “But in the Record of All Living, there is no Lewis Taggart who is living now in Grand Army Plaza, or any other place in Brooklyn. There is no Lewis Taggart who is affiliated with any secret society or organization, and none in the current time frame who are involved in any charity besides the RSPCA and Habitat for Humanity.”

Something was stirring at the base of my skull, tickling my memory. There was no Lewis Taggart. That was no surprise. And in some ways, the Knight Defenders were not the issue. There had always been small groups among the Righteous who were fanatics and dangerous.

No, the real problem was on the demonic side of the equation. Who was trying to undermine Satan? Who would have the nerve, the arrogance, the means, and the desire?

Satan treats us well. She says it’s good business and I believe Her. Working for Satan is a very lush gig—loads of perks, plenty of money, great addresses, food, sex, and indulgence in the extreme. If the work was at times unpleasant, the compensation was more than generous.

There is nothing here on Earth that Satan can’t get, make, give, or provide. Nothing. And She is not stingy with Her Chosen favorites. My friends and I are all proof of that. She believes in rewarding service and in taking care of Her own.

Who would not be content with this arrangement? Who would want to rebel? No wonder She has Enforcers watching us. And while I don’t relish being bait, we do need to get to the bottom of this.

Well, there is the matter of eternity, service, and one’s immortal soul. But eternity is pleasant and most of the service is enjoyable and light. The stuff about selling your soul, though, that can get a bit sticky. Although Satan has a special clause for each of us, should we wish to leave Her employ. It’s hard to fulfill Her conditions, but that is always agreed upon at the onset of the contract. And Satan keeps Her word. Absolutely. Sometimes in ways that surprise the recipient, but that’s their fault. Satan may be very good at twisting the meaning of a clause in the contract, but She always delivers exactly as stated. Bargaining and negotiating are the most highly regarded skills in Hell.

Someone who wanted out? Someone who couldn’t figure out the release clause? Someone who couldn’t meet the conditions of the release clause?

But then, why hurt fellow demons? None of us is better off that way. Some might be happier than others in serving the Prince of Darkness, but in the end a job is a job. Hurting us might annoy Satan, but doesn’t cut into Her power in any real way. And it won’t help someone’s release clause.

So what if it’s not a release clause the demon wants to activate? What else? What could someone want?

All my Agatha Christie was coming back to me. We had to find a motive, because we were never going to track a demon through the Akashic. As Azoked had explained earlier, only the living had Records. We could look into the future there, or into the past, or into every level of existence, but only for those creatures who had mortal existences. And souls. So I had to discover what the demon wanted.

I wondered what Nathan would say about all of this. He was a detective, or at least was trying to be a detective of sorts. He had heard of real cases, I guessed, unless this missing person was his first. But there was no way on Earth I could possibly explain the situation to him and get some feedback.

“I am currently tracing all members of this organization through the Records. We have found that Desire’s gentleman, Steve Balducci, is a member. In fact, he had been instructed to go to Public for brunch to meet one of you. So not only your addresses, but your movements are known.”

Whoever had betrayed us knew about our brunches, intimate details of our personal lives. I was incensed. Was nothing sacred?

chapter
SEVENTEEN

“There’s nothing sacred about Public,” Eros announced. “We can find another place for brunch.”

We had thought long and hard about where to meet for lunch to discuss Azoked’s information. I thought we should go somewhere different, someplace that we hadn’t been for a long time. Balthazar was perfect. It was right around the corner from the Prada store on Broadway and since its sister restaurant Pastis had opened, we (along with seven-eighths of fashionable New York) had transferred allegiance to the new eatery. Truth was, though, Balthazar was still the place we had swarmed three years ago, with the same perfectly Parisian atmosphere, reliable food, and an attendant in the ladies’ room.

While the antique mirrors that lined the walls and the hard tile mosaics on the floor made the place almost insufferably loud, that meant that likely no one was listening. Or rather, that no one would make out what we were saying. It was hard enough to hear companions at your own table. Most important, though, is that none of us had been in Balthazar for years, except for a midafternoon blood-sugar crash while shopping in SoHo.

Besides, I was really in the mood for fennel ravioli and duck confit. So I ordered the large-size appetizer along with the duck confit with wild mushrooms, and if it was a lot of food, dealing with betrayal and politics was hungry work.

Eros poked at her salade Niçoise.

“You really need to keep up your strength,” Sybil encouraged her. “When we’re under attack we have to be extra careful to eat well and get enough sleep and facials, or else we’re going to collapse. And that would mean they win and we can’t let that happen. We are Satan’s Chosen. We owe it to Her to crush Her enemies beneath the heels of our Manolo Blahniks.”

“Well, if you put it like that…” Eros was not about to be outdone by Sybil. Certainly not when it came to daring. Eros was always the leader, the fearless one, and Sybil was always the fraidy-cat in the back.

“We could have Sunday brunch here,” Desi suggested, licking her fork one more time for the last possible morsel of her hand-cut frites.

I had not known until that moment that it was possible for Eros to get any more pale than she was. But she did. She blanched. “No. Absolutely not. We were here regularly a few years ago and that was fine. We can move on.”