Succubus in the City (7 page)

“Don’t worry about it,” Nathan said. “He probably just took off. People do.”

“But why would he have my name? My address?” I was feeling very put upon. “I didn’t know this guy. And it was my home address, not even my office.”

“Where do you work?” Nathan asked, very businesslike. “If I need to contact you again, you might be more comfortable at the office.”

I told him, and he whistled.

“And what do you do there?” he asked, sounding impressed.

“I’m the accessories editor,” I admitted.

“Being any kind of an editor so young is an achievement,” he said. “I had some ambitions in writing once, but got sidetracked. A few people I went to school with did end up in publishing, though. Maybe you’ve heard of Stephanie Widenow?”

I practically yipped. “Of course I know Stephanie. Everyone knows her. She’s the wunderkind of Condé Nast.” I thought for a moment and narrowed my eyes. “Stephanie went to…let me see, not Columbia…”

“Yale,” he supplied. “We were in Trumbull together.”

“Trumbull?” I was confused again but I didn’t expect to understand the intricacies of the modern American educational system.

“It’s a residential college at Yale. A dorm. That’s what we call our dorms.”

“Oh.” I guess I should have sounded more impressed. “I didn’t think that Yalies became PIs. And what has this got to do with the missing Mr. Branford?”

“Not much,” he confessed gamely, and blew his nose again. I could feel the shimmering in my veins that told me that my powers were on, that I was completely and utterly irresistible to anyone who liked women. Except for this guy with the serious head cold. Thank goodness. But time was wasting and Satan would be expecting Her delivery sometime soon. I knew that I should get rid of him, and I didn’t want to.

Did I like Nathan R. Coleman? Find him attractive? Appealing?

Or was my desire to keep him another minute or two really an act of procrastination? I just didn’t feel in the mood for another pickup, another loser, another set of lies (they all say they’re single, or that their wives don’t really care anymore) or another sniff of Old Spice.

“Being a PI isn’t what people think,” Nathan was saying hoarsely. “It’s mostly research, and research is something I’m very good at. I leave the guns and the excitement to the guys on TV. Works better that way.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t think of any good reason to try to make him stay.

“Well, thanks,” Mr. Coleman said. “If you think of anything, give me a call, okay?” He handed me his card, which identified him as an associate of the Perkins McCauly Investigative Agency with a pretty foiled crest. Cards like that could be had for fifty dollars from the same folks who’d make up the PI license. I wondered how many different kinds he carried, and under how many different names. I wondered how good a deal he got on volume business and it crossed my mind to ask. After all, I could use some fake cards.

“And I may call back sometime, in case I’ve got some ideas of where he might have gotten your name,” the fake PI continued. “We might be able to triangulate on the source, which could help us understand where he might have gone.”

“Sure,” I said. Whatever.

“Well, thanks,” he said, and then turned from the door and walked down the hall. I watched as he called for the elevator, and then locked the door.

I hit the intercom to inform my overeager doorman. “I’m on my way up,” he said as soon as he came on.

“No, Vincent, I’m calling to tell you that everything’s fine. He’s leaving now. There was no problem. I didn’t even know the person he was asking about.”

“Oh.” My doorman sounded so disappointed I felt that I had to think of something to cheer him up and prove that I still needed him.

“Could you get me a cab in fifteen minutes?” I asked. Usually I don’t mind the half-block walk to the avenue to catch a cab, but poor Vincent really did need some reassurance that he was being helpful, and the request seemed to cheer him up considerably. Or maybe he’d just seen Nathan Coleman leave the building.

I finished getting dressed, made sure that my wallet, keys, lipstick, and cell phone were all in the purse, and made a snap decision to wear the metallic copper Vivienne Westwood shoes that Eros had talked me into last season that I almost never wore.

At
Trend,
shoes are a separate department and Danielle is the shoe editor. But Danielle is one of the nicest people at work and always makes sure that everyone knows what wonderful shoes and boots are just their style in the coming seasons. For a mortal, Danielle is a real friend. I’ve even considered inviting her to meet the gang one night for s’mores. Much as the demon gang are my closest buds, it’s really good to have someone to call a friend at work, who’s willing to gossip about who is being impossible this week and who is about to ditch her SO. And who’s about to get ditched.

Okay, time to stop stalling. The cab was waiting outside as Vincent held the door for me almost ceremonially. And then I was in the yellow taxi and on my way to Gehenna, which is one of the more hip bars this week.

Bars for the cool twenty-something crowd were not my first hunting ground. Succubi are traditionally thought to target good husbands, to seduce the men of Heaven into Hell. Demons, understand, cannot tempt the truly righteous. I’d had enough of the self-righteous bad and the boring, and there’s no reason why some arrogant creep who thinks that getting drunk is the only pleasure in life shouldn’t take the short road to the Underworld. There are all kinds who deserve my services and I wasn’t going to specialize too much. At least at Gehenna the music didn’t suck and the drinks were tasty.

At eleven the bar was full. I ordered my mojito and noticed that half the bar was drinking the same. Hmmm, I was going to have to discover the next cool drink before I became too pedestrian. I avoided the two young women in imitation Juicy Couture jeans who were eyeing the room like vultures. I saw them size up my dress, my bag, my shoes, and tried not to listen as one said something deprecating to the other out of sheer envy. Okay, they were maybe twenty-four or something, and most of the way to being drunk. And they should be grateful to me, really, because whoever I picked up this night would be one fewer toad for either of them. Not that they knew that, or would appreciate it if they did. But then, they were typical hipster wannabes, a little too cheap and a little too New Jersey.

I scanned the men in the room, knowing that anyone I chose to pass near and select would have no choice but to come home with me. Maybe the gentleman with the tribal tattoo down his arm—but I liked the art. Then he put on a pair of glasses and started reading the
New Yorker.
Too appealing in some ways. The glasses made him look kinder and more vulnerable.

On one of the red sofas in the back I noticed two beefy boys with buzz cuts who seemed to be holding a competition over which of them would get drunker faster. Definitely unappealing. I wandered closer and picked up the unmistakable scent of Axe. Prey indeed.

I felt the burning through my skin that meant pheromones and enchantment were pouring out of me. Okay, one of them would have it; oh yes, one of them would get exactly what he thought he wanted. What he felt he deserved and certainly had coming. I made my decision. Whichever one of them called me “baby” or “honey” or “darling” first, that one would not get to insult a woman again.

Maybe my job is to deliver souls to Satan, but I also adhere to a feminist agenda and She most definitely approves. She’s often said that I should consider myself a crusader, removing men who are potential hazards from the population. Which I could relish if only I didn’t have to bring them home and get naked with them.

“Hey, baby, I got what you’re looking for,” the one on the left said, sealing his doom.

I walked over to him, smiled, and ran a finger over the back of his hand. “I’ll just bet you do,” I purred. “Want to show me?”

“What about me?” the other wailed.

I shook my head. “Only one of you gets lucky,” I said, not defining what lucky would mean in their case. I turned back to the first one and raised one eyebrow. “Why don’t we go someplace more private?”

He got up like an automaton, though I don’t know if that’s the enchantment or how much he’d had to drink. Oh, no, I thought, I hope he isn’t so drunk that he can’t function. Or throws up in the taxi.

He managed to stagger to his feet and get his coat on, though he didn’t offer to hold mine. He lurched after me awkwardly as we made our way through the press to the door.

As we were leaving, I turned to make sure that he hadn’t fallen on the long trek from the bench to the door. Every man’s eyes were on me. I felt it. The mojo attracted them even if they weren’t close enough to be overwhelmed.

chapter
SEVEN

“Come on, lover.” I encouraged my prey to move toward the door. Since he was barely vertical this took some effort on my part. Fortunately, I am stronger than a human and could hold him up and steer him along.

Cabs were thick on the avenue near the bar, and I had no trouble hailing one that took us uptown. As I dragged my newly acquired candidate for damnation into my lobby, Vincent approached looking all natty in his uniform. “Do you need a hand?” he purred.

“No,” I told him. “No problem. Do this all the time.” Which was true, and depressing, and suddenly I felt sad. But not for this jerk, who was trying to yodel and wake up my neighbors. I was only doing the world a good and valuable service.

“Hush!” I told him as Vincent rang for the elevator. It was a long ride to the sixth floor. I crossed my fingers and only prayed to Ishtar (because I really can’t bother Satan with these minor things) that he wouldn’t throw up. I hate it when they throw up.

The doors opened and I herded him down the hall to my door. Once he was inside he sat down heavily on the floor holding his head.

“I don’t feel too good,” he admitted.

Whoops. “Bathroom’s this way.” I pushed him up and dragged him the last few feet to the bath. I did not want this creature vomiting on my carpet. For once my luck held and I got him over the tile before he lost it. Then he groaned and sank to the floor holding his head. “Just be a minute,” he said. “You won’t be sorry, nope, gonna do you good when I feel just a little better.”

It was my own fault. I should know not to pick up drunks. Not only are they messy, but if they can’t function, I can’t deliver them. Well, maybe the next morning, but I didn’t want this puling example of unattractive humanity in my apartment that long. I wanted him blasted, flamed, and gone. And if that meant cleaning him up a bit, then so be it.

“Hey,” I said in my most chipper tone. I turned on the shower full blast and proceeded to strip in front of him. At least that got his attention. When I was down to my La Perla bra and matching thong, I leaned over him and started to tug his baby blue polo shirt over his head.

“Mmmm, up?” I lifted him under his arms, noticing that he had no definition and what might generously be thought of as athletic bulk was well on the way to fat.

“Can’t,” he protested.

“C’mon,” I said, wiggling my hips a bit to encourage him. “It’ll be fun. In the shower.”

He groped my breasts, kneading me as if trying out koosh balls in a toy store. I backed into the tub, entirely regretting my new pale pink bra with Venice lace. I’d been so pleased when I’d tried it on and now I only hoped it would survive the pummeling it was about to get.

He followed me into the tub and sat down again in his wet jeans. I hadn’t been able to get them off in the three steps from the door, and he didn’t have enough coordination to remove them himself. Which was only going to make it harder. Wet denim is impossible, and I wanted him out of those clothes before he dripped all over my hardwood floors and antique carpets.

Unless—no, it was too good to hope for.

I slipped my fingers under the waistband of his jeans and undid the buttons. They were 501s, no zipper, buttons all the way down.

He leered at me, and attempted a grin. “You can’t wait for it, can you?” he said, his arrogance entirely comparable to the major minions of Hell. Damn, I’d hate to think of him in the Hierarchy. Yuck.

Under the jeans he was wearing Tony the Tiger boxers. I am not making this up. My imagination might be prodigious, but there are just places I can’t go and Tony the Tiger boxers is one of them.

The shower was going full blast now and I had managed to leave the new lingerie on the floor and well away from the toilet (just in case). I took my prey by the hand and made a low humming sound in my throat. “Let’s get all hot and wet and slippery,” I purred in his ear as I held up a fresh bar of Provençal sage soap.

Wonder of wonders, he actually managed to hold himself upright in the spray. I soaped him all over, slipping my well-lathered hands over his chest and up his legs. I pulled off his boxers and used my fingers to stimulate him gently without expecting any results. He was too drunk, and I’d probably have to keep him until morning.

There are some decent guys out there. There are the smart ones and the kind ones, and a few who actually like and respect women. There are men who love kids and want commitment. I’ve condemned a fair number of reasonable men to the afterlife in damnation, and I’ve felt some degree of regret about them. In the past few hundred years I’ve been avoiding the nice ones. There are enough self-righteous louts, arrogant jerks, and self-involved narcissists that I don’t have to deplete the supply of genuinely worthwhile men in the world.

Nothing about this particular specimen prompted my sympathy.

“What’s your name?” I purred. Not because I cared but because I had to have something to call him.

“Kevin,” he said hesitantly, as if that much pronunciation had been a burden.

“Well, then, Kevin, I hope you’re feeling good. I hope this shower is making you feel better.”

He grabbed my breasts again in his ham hands and proceeded to squeeze. “Hey, remember Mr. Whipple,” I reminded him, but he was too blitzed to get the reference. “Don’t squeeze the Charmin,” I added.

“Your name is Charmin?” he asked, unsurprised.