Succubus in the City (30 page)

“Even in Aruba you need to dress decently for dinner at a restaurant,” I reminded him. The conversation was entirely inane, but it was easy and felt good.

“So I’ll bet you haven’t got any food at your place and you’ll be starving in about two hours. What would you say to pizza?”

This time I did giggle. “With mushrooms and pepperoni?” I asked.

“Ahhh, you like mushrooms and pepperoni. Then that is what it shall have,” he said.

“What do you like?”

“Clearly, you have never been to the secret center of pizza in the U.S. I, however, have lived there. And someday I shall capture you and drag you on a trek to deepest, darkest Connecticut and introduce you to the garlic sausage pizza at Sally’s and you will never find pizza the same. Ever.”

“You’re on,” I told him.

After I’d showered and put on a warm winter sweater, I booted up my computer and checked my e-mail. And there, about halfway through the spam, I saw something from Azoked. Much as I didn’t want to deal with whatever she had to say, I knew I would feel better if I’d seen it already than if I tried to spend time with Nathan and worried about it.

So, feeling resigned and knowing that my reward was coming in the form of a black-haired, blue-eyed Akkadian scholar with pizza, I opened the message and read it through.

There are a number of strange rumors and inquiries among these Knight Defenders Burning Men, also echoed through the Information Technologies of the Hierarchy. This group is currently in a state of confusion and disorganization. They were shocked to discover that all four of you survived the holy water attacks with no apparent consequences. Further, the report that you had had sex, probably twice, with a certain gentleman on Aruba and he is obviously alive and healthy has confounded your enemies.

We had detected confusion and chaos among the brethren in the newest strands of the Akashic records. Clearly your presence, and more specifically, the presence of a living survivor, has created a situation among the ranks, and the followers are beginning to question their leaders and their leaders’ sources of information. In return, those leaders, one of whom you encountered in Aruba, are questioning their sources as well.

Further, the fact that not only your “fling” survived, but all those assigned to seduce your full cohort survived, made the Knight Defenders review their strategy. And as you all emerged unscathed from the holy water attack, there are new questions about the quality of information.

We in the Akashic Division are monitoring the situation carefully, as the current situation appears unstable. Unfortunately, there is too little data at present for us to predict what might occur. Therefore we still advise extreme caution when dealing with this particular branch of the brethren.

There is one more issue that may be of some interest. Marten Loowens is a ceremonial magician who is aware of your position in the Hierarchy, and had obtained this knowledge before you arrived on Aruba. As his knowledge is more sophisticated than that of the Knight Defenders, it is possible that he targeted you in particular. I do not know if you have prior experience with ceremonial magicians, but they tend to work on a quid pro quo basis, so he may believe that you owe him a favor and he may have the magical means to compel you. I cannot firmly establish his particular skills and abilities, nor can I speculate on his motives or possible actions. But these possibilities exist and you should be aware that such situations are not unknown to us in the Library.

As Satan has asked me to support your investigation and assist you in any way appropriate for a Librarian of my abilities, I shall attempt to keep you informed.

Sincerely,
Azoked

I was so shocked that I couldn’t think. Marten’s a magician? Then he’d known all along! Or did he? And what did he want? Magicians try to command demons, to get things from us, but Marten hadn’t tried to get anything from me. Yet.

Yet. No doubt he would.

I wanted to throw a glass at the screen. Marten. I had such nice memories of Marten, had enjoyed my fantasies of finding him again. And now I felt betrayed. And angry. And curious as to what he wanted from me.

I was still staring at the screen, trying to puzzle out what this all meant, when Vincent buzzed to announce a pizza delivery at the door. At first I was confused; I wasn’t expecting a delivery. Only then did Vincent admit that it was Nathan, and sent him up.

I shut down the computer but couldn’t close down my mind. I wanted to be fun and bubbly and sunny for Nathan, and tell him that I’d seen his mark, but I couldn’t quite get Azoked’s e-mail off my mind.

The Akashic couldn’t predict? I thought they had the full
Book of Livingness
which was unbounded by time. They had access to the past and the future equally and could tell what was to be, or so I had always thought.

I wanted to talk to Sybil, no matter that I’d left her in the cab only a few hours ago. For one, I wanted to consult her in her oracular role. Not so much to get a prediction, but to understand how it worked. How could she see the future while it wasn’t written yet in the Akashic record? I wanted her to explain how she understood that.

And there was something else, too, bothering me around the edges. Marten had known what I was? All of our boy toys on Aruba had not been honestly flirting with us, but were really planted by this Brotherhood? That made no sense. Did Marten think that he was going to die? He didn’t strike me as the self-sacrificing type.

Azoked said he was a ceremonial magician, but that really didn’t scan. He was hot, young, good in bed. What I knew about ceremonial magicians is that they do long elaborate rituals that take years of preparation and include the most unlikely requirements. Often they are celibate. Some of their rituals are effective, and some can even compel a demon in the Hierarchy to manifest and perform favors.

But then, why was he known to Craig Branford? Religious fanatics and ceremonial magicians usually at best have no use for each other. More often they detest each other and consider themselves enemies. Burning Men generally think that anyone who practices any form of magic belongs to Hell—and often to some extent they are right. A fair number of the ceremonialists are perfectly willing to barter their souls for things they want. Though usually it doesn’t come to that, and a good number are religious to some extent, just not in any way a burning fanatic could understand.

So when Marten courted me, he’d only been trying to discover whether I was a demon?

Then he didn’t know a whole lot about demons, that was for sure.

For having just returned from a lovely vacation, I was in a rotten mood.

“You do not look like someone who just had a great time in Aruba,” Nathan announced when I opened the door. I hadn’t realized that it showed that badly.

“I made a mistake and checked my e-mail,” I said.

He shook his head. “Always a bad move,” he agreed, and opened the pizza box on the coffee table even though I have a perfectly good dining table only a few feet away. “Now come here and eat some of Ray’s mushroom pepperoni and tell me all about Aruba. You sat on the beach. You drank girly cocktails.”

“Brought by cute waiters right to the lounge chair. I never lifted a finger,” I admitted. “But there’s something else I need to tell you, Nathan. Something important.”

He put down the slice of pizza he’d been annihilating and looked at me with an expression that was somewhere between hopeful and afraid.

“I saw Craig Branford in Aruba,” I told him. “He was in the casino of my hotel.”

“And you didn’t call me right away?” he demanded.

“It was very late last night, and I knew I’d be home today to tell you. I was going to call you as soon as I got in, but you called first,” I protested.

“Just last night, then?” he asked briskly.

I nodded, feeling as if I’d betrayed him. Eros was wrong. I should have called him immediately.

“You’re sure?” he asked again. “You’re certain it wasn’t someone who might just have a passing resemblance?”

“I’m pretty sure,” I said, thinking more carefully about what I’d seen. Maybe since Azoked had come to warn us I’d been seeing what I’d expected to see. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen the picture, and of course he was wearing all different clothes, and was tanner.”

Nathan nodded and then excused himself to the bathroom. I could hear him on his cell phone and figured he was talking to his boss. I wondered if they’d gotten more money from the wife, or if it were someone else who wanted this guy tracked down.

I thought it would be useful for him to know about the Knight Defenders in Brooklyn and why Branford had had my contact info in the first place. Because maybe with the right information Nathan could break this group apart and negate the threat to me.

My hero.

He would never believe me about the whole demon thing. They never do.

He would just figure that I was nuts and he’d dump me.

Suddenly I realized that I cared more for Nathan Coleman’s good opinion of me than I cared about my income-producing properties in Paris and Tokyo. I even cared more for what he thought than about getting the Christian Louboutin spring line.

Only one being in the world mattered more to me, and that was Satan.

And that was something I could never tell Nathan.

Misery and confusion must have shown on my face when he exited the bathroom, slipping his cell phone into his pocket.

“Oh, Lily, I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, and then swept me up in a long embrace. “I didn’t know you’d be upset. I’m not angry with you, really truly I’m not. I was just—we’ve got a commission on finding this guy and if I can do it then I’ve got a nice bonus and probably I’ll get to keep my job.”

I didn’t know that he might not keep his job. I didn’t know that he needed a bonus. He wore Armani and Hugo Boss and Brioni. Surely he couldn’t be entirely dependent on his salary as a private investigator. I’d read enough mysteries to know that they’re usually not all that well paid.

And because I was feeling so open and vulnerable and confused, the words came out without my willing it. “I don’t know, I don’t know anything about you. You went to Yale, you’re a PI, you wear expensive clothing. You talk about paying bills but—I don’t understand, Nathan. I’m all confused.”

He took my hand and led me to my sofa and sat both of us down. The pizza was still on the coffee table. I could smell it and somewhere I knew I was hungry, but that just didn’t matter so much at the moment.

“I guess there are some things I should tell you, Lily. If we’re going to see each other. And I want to. I want to spend a lot more time with you and I want to get to know you and everything about you.”

He sighed deeply and took my hand. “I, ummm, my parents live fairly close by here. I grew up in this neighborhood. My mother organizes charity balls. My father, well, my father owns banks. I guess that’s the best way to put it. I hated the bank. I didn’t want to go into the business, so I went to grad school and studied something I loved and I try to forget the family and all that.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, wanting to slow down, wanting to make sure I understood. “You’re telling me that you’re basically independently wealthy. And you live with your parents? What are you doing playing PI?”

He shook his head. “It’s not like that. I do not live with my parents. I have a nice place of my own in Brooklyn, and I wanted to live in an area with artists and creative people and away from my mother’s friends. I was bored to death trying to be the proper banker’s son. I hated dating socialites. And I wanted the PI gig and I actually care about doing a good job. I’m good at research. But I had to take a year off writing my dissertation because it all seemed so pointless. No one cared about the ancient world anymore, only a very few people had any idea of what I was doing and, I don’t know, I wanted to participate in the world. In life. I needed to find a place where I belong.”

“And did you find it?” I asked softly.

He shook his head. “I’m trying. And my mother is trying for both of us.” He laughed harshly at that. “But in spite of her directions, all I think about is how I need to get back to school and finish the dissertation because that’s the only thing I’ve ever done that engaged me enough. That was interesting all the time and that was even sometimes hard. I liked that, liked the fact that I could do this and that it wouldn’t happen by paying someone or using family connections or anything. That I could be effective in the world, and more than that, that I’m good at this. I’m really really good.

“And the worst of it is, no one cares. Well, except my adviser. But my family all think that intellectual investigation, especially of a culture that’s been gone for thousands of years, is an idiotic waste of time. That everything I’ve ever done or wanted to do was stupid because it wasn’t about making money or extending the family’s influence.

“We have plenty of money. We have plenty of influence. I don’t know if I can make you understand why it’s so important to me, to be someone myself and not just my parents’ son.”

I sat quietly for a moment, absorbing not only his words but also the sense behind them. “I think I do,” I said. “My father was wealthy and important, and I wanted to be my own person, too. I knew I had a lot of advantages, and I knew I pushed to see if I could make a mark entirely on my own, with my own talents and abilities and not because someone was just giving me something because of him.”

Nathan nodded vigorously. “That’s exactly it. I knew you would understand. I expect that you’re an editor for the same reason I’m a PI.”

But here I shook my head. “I’m an editor the way you’re a graduate student,” I corrected him softly. “You might have gotten your Ivy education as a legacy, but you didn’t get into grad school on your parents’ shoulders. You had to have the skills yourself or they wouldn’t have taken you. And I’ve seen you translate Akkadian. You yourself told me that there are maybe only thirty people in the world who can read that language today. And you’re one of them, and that was entirely by your own efforts.”