Succubus Revealed (21 page)
And yet, neither of them was as bad as Roger the imp. Every time he got a strike or a spare, he trumpeted his victory with some sort of money-related expression, such as “Jackpot !” or “A penny saved is a penny earned!” Sometimes they didn’t even make any sense in the situation, like when he shouted, “It’s like throwing pearls before swine!” When he started inexplicably quoting lyrics to “Can’t Buy Me Love” at the start of the second game, I really thought I was going to lose it.
Cody nudged me. “He’s getting tired. So is Tiara.”
I glanced up at the scoreboard. It was a slight change, but those two were showing fewer strikes than spares and sometimes not even getting spares. Malachi remained consistently good, and V remained unstoppable. Over on our team, Peter and I hadn’t changed, but Cody had continued—and was succeeding—in trying to prove his vampire skills. Hugh was also improving slightly, a phenomenon we’d seen with Roman sometimes. It was as though the imp needed to warm up in order to remember how to avoid his arm’s tendency to throw curves.
I exchanged glances with Cody. “I don’t know that it’s enough.”
“You’ve done better than this in practice,” he told me gently. “I know you’ve got a bunch of stuff going on, but try to think if Roman was here. What he’d say. Then look at Jerome’s face and tell me you don’t want us to come out on top.”
I didn’t really care about Jerome keeping his pride around Nanette, but my friends’ well-being did concern me. I knew their happiness would be directly influenced by Jerome’s unhappiness. Sighing, I answered Cody with a resolute nod and tried to step up my game, racking my brains for all the words of wisdom that Roman had given me over the last couple of weeks. I admit, I hadn’t always been paying as much attention as I could have.
Nonetheless, something started clicking for me. I was a long way from being a pro anytime soon, but between me, Cody, and Hugh, we slowly began to keep up with Nanette’s team. It was so subtle and so gradual that when we won by two points, everyone—including my teammates and me—could hardly believe it had happened. We all stared at the scoreboard in stunned silence. Only Carter was able to get anything out.
“That,” he told Roger exuberantly, “is how a bird in the hand gets up before the early worm.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Roger.
Carter pointed at the scoreboard. “Neither does that, but there you have it.”
Nanette’s cool composure had vanished. I don’t know if beating Jerome meant that much to her or if people in Portland just took bowling really seriously, but she immediately demanded a five-minute break. We watched as she pulled her team to the far side of the alley and gave them a talk. Judging from her wild hand motions and occasional expletives, it didn’t sound like a very heartening talk. I glanced over at Jerome, who still kind of seemed to be in disbelief.
“Any words of wisdom for us, boss?” I asked.
He considered. “Yes. Don’t lose.”
Cody was already clinging to Peter’s arm. “You have to come through for us here. We barely beat them just now, and you know she’s putting the fear of God in them. That alone is going to give them some improvement. If you can just . . . I don’t know. Get fewer splits. Do something. We can win this, but we need you.”
Peter threw up his hands. “Don’t you think I would if I could?”
When Nanette and friends returned, they showed us that they were adding a new strategy to their repertoire: catcalling. Every time one of the Unholy Rollers went up to play, we were serenaded with insults about everything from our appearance to our abilities to our bowling shirts. That last one really set Peter on edge, and Tiara picked up on it quickly.
“Did you pick that up at a thrift store? Oh, wait, they screen their items first. They’d never take a piece of shit like that.”
“What’s with that color? It’s like a reject from a boy’s baby shower.”
“If your crappy shirts are going to say ‘Unholy Rollers,’ shouldn’t you at least be
rolling
the ball? That was more of a caber toss.”
rolling
the ball? That was more of a caber toss.”
Peter took it all in silence, but I could see him becoming increasingly agitated. Hugh grimaced and leaned toward me. “She’s really not that funny. I’d expect better from a succubus.”
“At least Peter isn’t doing any worse,” I said. “He’s just getting splits in new and interesting ways.”
“Which aren’t going to save us, though,” said Cody grimly.
It was true. We were staying even with them, but just barely. And when we were halfway through the game, it became clear we were slipping. Jerome was looking pissed off again, and Nanette’s confidence had returned.
“Come on, you guys,” said Carter, whom I hadn’t expected to become a cheerleader. “You can do this. You’re better than them.”
It wasn’t the angel’s enthusiasm that changed the course of the game, however. It was when V finally spoke. Peter had just thrown his ball and amazingly knocked down four pins, which left behind a kind of three-way split I’d never even known was possible. We were all taken back.
“You are the worst vampire I’ve ever seen,” said V, staring at the pins wide-eyed.
I don’t know what it was about those words that succeeded where our encouragement and Tiara’s bad fashion taunts had failed. But suddenly, Peter became a vampire. And not just any vampire. A vampire who could bowl.
From that point forward, everything he threw was a strike. And much like V, Peter didn’t even deliberate it. He just walked up and threw, letting his vampire reflexes do the work. He quickly surpassed everyone on our team in skill, even Cody. Really, the only person who could match him was V.
But it was enough, and somehow, against all odds, we won the third game. Hugh, Cody, and I erupted into cheers and traded high fives with Carter. Peter remained much more stoic, however, and regarded the other team coolly. “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” he told Roger. To Tiara, Peter said, “That shade of red makes you look like you have jaundice.” He paused. “And like a whore.”
To V, Peter said nothing.
Nanette and Jerome promptly got in an argument, most of which involved her making outlandish claims about how unfair it was to have two vampires on one team and how best of five would be the real determining factor. Jerome bantered back with her cheerfully. He was so smug about our victory, you would have thought he had thrown every ball himself. Seeing her consternation was just icing on the cake for him.
“Well,” he said at one point, “we could do two more games, but your team seems terribly worn out. Perhaps once they have some time to recover mentally and physically, we can—”
Jerome stopped and cocked his head, like he was hearing music the rest of us couldn’t. A strange look came over his face.
“Shit,” he said.
“What?” asked Nanette. She seemed to realize something other than bowling had caught his attention. Near me, Carter had gone perfectly still.
“I have to go,” said Jerome.
And he went. Just like that, the demon vanished. I glanced around quickly, but no humans seemed to have noticed, thanks largely to our part of the bowling alley being deserted. Still, teleporting out like that in a public place was pretty irregular behavior for a greater immortal. Even irreverent demons generally knew enough to be discreet among humans.
“Well,” said Nanette. “I guess there’s no such thing as good winners. Sportsmanship is a lost art.”
I thought that was a stretch coming from her, particularly after her team’s verbal tirade. In fact, they soon all degenerated into arguing amongst themselves, each one making a plea to Nanette about how the loss had been someone else’s fault.
“Georgina,” said Carter, drawing my attention back. The smile he’d worn at our victory was gone. “I think it’s a good idea if you go home.”
“Why?” I asked. “We should celebrate.” For the first time since the fallout with Seth, I actually felt like having fun with my friends. “We need to call Roman too.”
“Let’s go to my place,” said Peter. “I can make up a meze platter in no time.”
“Fine, fine,” said Carter, casting a glance over at Mei. She was still in her seat, trying to observe all conversations at once. “Let’s just leave now. I’ll teleport you when we’re in the parking lot.”
I tried to protest that, but Carter was too insistent on simply getting us all out of there. Minutes later, my teammates and I were headed out to the parking lot, still crowing over our victory and how Peter was the undisputed hero of the night.
“Georgina?”
I came to a halt. There, standing near my car, was Seth. Even in the harsh light of the parking lamps, everything about him seemed soft and inviting. The messy hair. The way he stood with his hands in his pockets. The Flock of Seagulls shirt that I could just make out underneath his flannel coat.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, taking a few steps forward. My friends had come to an uncertain stop behind me. They all knew about my rocky state of affairs with Seth and watched me nervously.
Seth glanced at my backup and then at me. “I . . . I wanted to talk to you.”
“That’s not what you said the last time we talked,” I said. The harsh words were out before I could stop them. I knew I should jump on the chance to talk, on Seth’s willingness to talk at last . . . but some hurt place in me responded first.
“I know,” said Seth. “I probably don’t deserve it. But . . . I’ve been thinking about a lot of things, and then there’s all this weirdness going on I don’t quite understand . . . like, my mom moving in with you? And do you know why all these toy ponies keep showing up on Terry’s doorstep?”
“Why don’t you come over to our place and have your heart-to-heart there,” said Peter. “It’ll go better with hummus and wine.”
Staring at Seth, I felt my heart ache. This could be it, just like Carter had said at New Year’s, about how Seth and I still managed to come back to each other. I swallowed, both scared and anxious. “Maybe I should meet you guys later,” I said. “Seth and I can go somewhere and talk first.”
“Georgina,” said Carter anxiously, “you really need to—”
The car seemed to come out of nowhere, and, considering the way things worked in my world, it might literally have done so. All I knew is that one moment we were all standing around in the dark parking lot, and the next, a car was speeding toward us. Or rather, toward me. I couldn’t discern any make or model and certainly not the driver. I probably wouldn’t have known him or her anyway. All I saw were rapidly approaching headlights, heading toward where I stood alone, out in the open between my friends and Seth.
When the car hit me, there was an intense moment of pain that radiated through my whole body. Then I felt nothing. My sight shifted, and I had the surreal sense of looking down on my sprawled body while my friends hurried to me and the car sped away. Some were trying to talk to me, some were calling 911. Some were talking to each other.
The scene began to dissolve in my vision, fading to black. And not just the scene. Me. I was dissolving. I was losing all substance. I was becoming nothing.
But as I faded away, as the world faded away, I heard a few last words from my friends before their voices also faded.
“Georgina! Georgina!” That was Seth, saying my name like a prayer.
“She’s not breathing,” said Cody. “And she doesn’t have a pulse. Hugh! Do something. You’re a doctor.”
“I can’t,” Hugh said softly. “This is beyond me. Her soul . . . her soul’s not here.”
“Of course it is!” said Cody. “Souls stay with their immortals.”
“Not in this situation,” said Hugh.
“What are you talking about?” exclaimed Seth, voice cracking. “Carter! You can fix this. You can fix anything. You have to save her.”
“This is beyond me too,” said Carter. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s still one thing you can do,” said Hugh. “One thing you have to do.”
“Yes,” agreed Carter, voice full of sorrow. “I’ll go get Roman. . . .”
And then they were all gone.
I was gone.
Chapter 18
T
he blackness began to lighten into swirls of color, colors that eventually resolved into lines and shapes around me. I gazed around as the world formed and soon felt solidity beneath my feet. My own body was taking on substance again, the light and hollow sensation disappearing. Feeling and movement returned to me, and for half a second, I thought I had imagined everything that happened in the parking lot.
he blackness began to lighten into swirls of color, colors that eventually resolved into lines and shapes around me. I gazed around as the world formed and soon felt solidity beneath my feet. My own body was taking on substance again, the light and hollow sensation disappearing. Feeling and movement returned to me, and for half a second, I thought I had imagined everything that happened in the parking lot.
Then I was struck by a sudden and overwhelming sense of
wrongness
.
wrongness
.
First off, as I blinked the world into focus, it became obvious that I was no longer at the bowling alley. I was inside a room with vaulted ceilings and no windows. It appeared to be a courtroom, complete with a jury box and judge’s stand. All the décor was black: red-veined black marble on the walls and floor, black wood trim, black leather chairs. Everything was very sleek and modern, clean and sterile.
The next thing I noticed was that I wasn’t in the body I’d just been in. My perspective on the world was from a greater height. The weight of my limbs and muscles felt different too, and I wore a simple linen dress instead of my Unholy Rollers shirt. Although I couldn’t see myself straight-on, I had a good idea which body I was wearing: the first one. My mortal one. The one I’d been born to.
Yet it was neither the body nor unfamiliar room that felt so wrong. They were surprises, yes, but nothing I couldn’t adapt to. The wrongness came from nothing tangible. It was more a feeling in the air, a sensation that permeated my every pore. Even with the vaulted ceilings, the room felt stuffy and tight, like there was no air circulation whatsoever. And even though there wasn’t any actual odor, I just kept imagining stagnation and decay. My skin crawled. I felt smothered by hot, humid air—yet was also chilled to the bone.
I was in Hell.
I had never been there, but you didn’t really need to have been to know it.
I was sitting at a table on the left side of the room, facing the judge’s bench. Behind me, separated by a railing, was the audience seating. I squirmed around to peer at it. Right before my eyes, people began to materialize in the seats. They were wildly different in appearance: male and female, all races, various states of dress. Some were as prim and neat as the courtroom around us. Some looked like it had been quite an ordeal for them to get out of bed. There was no uniformity to their appearances. There weren’t even immortal auras to tip me off, but I was willing to wager anything that they were all demons.
A murmur of conversation began to fill the room as the demons spoke to each other, a droning almost more frightening than the silence that had originally met me. No one talked to me, though plenty of sets of eyes studied me disapprovingly. I didn’t recognize anyone here yet and felt vulnerable and afraid. There was an empty seat next to me, and I wondered if someone would be joining me. Was I entitled to a lawyer for this . . . whatever it was? It had all the trappings of a regular courtroom, but I could hardly expect Hell to be reasonable or predictable. I honestly had no clue what was about to happen. I knew it had to be about my contract, but Hugh hadn’t gone into a lot of specifics when he’d said that my case would eventually “be reviewed.”
There was a table on the right side of the courtroom, one that mirrored mine in size and placement. A man with irongray hair and a handlebar mustache sat down at it, placing a briefcase on the table’s surface. He wore an all-black suit— including the shirt—and looked more like a funeral director than a prosecutor, which is what I assumed he was. As though sensing my scrutiny, he glanced over at me with eyes so dark, I couldn’t tell where pupil ended and iris began. They sent a new chill through me, and I changed my assessment of him. Funeral director? More like an executioner.
Once the gallery was nearly full of spectators, a side door near the front opened. Twelve people filed out toward the jurors’ box, and I caught my breath. I still couldn’t sense any immortal auras in this room. Maybe it wasn’t necessary in Hell or maybe there were just too many immortals in here for it to be comfortable. Regardless, just as I’d been certain all the spectators were demons, I could tell that half of the jurors were angels. It was in their eyes and their disposition. There was a way they carried themselves that differed from everyone else, even though the angels were dressed no differently. Also, the angels seemed to be conscious of the wrongness I’d felt in here. They kept glancing around, small looks of disgust on their faces. At first, it seemed kind of crazy that angels would be in Hell, but then I realized that, unlike Heaven, there were no gates or barriers to keep anyone out. And unlike mortals, angels had the ability to leave here when they chose. I suppose it made it easy to do business visits like this. Still, I found myself heartened by the sight of the angels. If they were going to be involved in deciding my case, then surely they would be sympathetic.
“Don’t count on any help from them.”
It was the prosecuting demon with the dark eyes, leaning across his table and addressing me in a low voice.
“I beg your pardon?” I asked.
He inclined his head toward the jurors. “The angels. They’ve got a nagging sense of justice, but they also don’t have a lot of sympathy to those who sold their souls. They figure you made your bed, you have to sleep in it. Pretentious bastards, the lot of them.”
I turned back toward the jury and felt a sinking in my stomach. Some of the angels were watching me, and although there wasn’t open disdain on their faces, like the demons, I could still see condescension and scorn here and there. I saw no sympathy anywhere.
With so much chatter in the now-crowded room, it was hard to imagine being able to single out any one voice—but I did. Maybe it was because it was one I’d grown so familiar with in the last ten years, one that I had fallen into the habit of jumping to whenever it spoke. Tearing my gaze from the jury, I peered around until I found the voice’s owner.
Sure enough. Jerome had just entered the courtroom. Even in Hell, he still wore the John Cusack guise. Mei was with him, and it was the sound of their conversation that had caught my attention. They made their way to some seats near the front, on the opposite side of the room from me, that I presumed had been left open for them. A pang of relief shot through my chest. Finally, familiar faces. I opened my mouth to speak, to call out to Jerome . . . just as his eyes fell on me. He paused in his walk, fixing me with a look that pierced straight to my heart. Then, without any other sort of acknowledgment, he looked away and continued his conversation with Mei as they went to their seats. The words died on my lips. The coldness in his gaze left no question that all the laid-back ease at the bowling alley had been a scam.
Jerome was not on my side.
And, if my empty table was any indication, no one was on my side.
A guy in a much more cheerful suit than the prosecutor walked to the front of the room and called the court to order. He announced the entrance of Judge Hannibal, which would have been a hilarious and absurd name in other circumstances. Everyone stood, and I followed suit. The show of respect kind of surprised me. The adherence to procedure did not.
Judge Hannibal entered through a door opposite the jury’s. For a moment, I simply thought,
He’s so young
. Then, I remembered I was thinking like a human. No one in this room—except me—wore their actual form. All of them were beings of incalculable age, and the twenty-something, blond surfer appearance of Judge Hannibal was just window dressing.
He’s so young
. Then, I remembered I was thinking like a human. No one in this room—except me—wore their actual form. All of them were beings of incalculable age, and the twenty-something, blond surfer appearance of Judge Hannibal was just window dressing.
He flashed everyone a big grin, perfect white teeth standing out against his tanned skin. He riffled through some papers in front of him. “All right,” he said. “So, what . . . we have a contract dispute with a succubus? Letha?” He glanced around, like there was some big mystery about who I was. His gaze landed on me, and he nodded to himself. “Who’s prosecuting? You? Marcel?”
“Yes, your honor,” said the dark-suited demon.
Judge Hannibal chuckled. “This is even less fair than it already was.” He glanced back at me. “You got a lawyer, honey?”
I swallowed. “Er, no. I don’t think so. Should I? Do . . . do I get assigned one?”
He shrugged. “We could dredge some imp up if you don’t want to defend yourself. Or we can summon someone, if you’ve got anyone in mind.”
At the mention of an imp, Hugh’s name immediately popped up in my head. I wouldn’t have even cared about the defense aspect. I just wanted to see a friendly face here. Was it that easy? I could just ask, and they’d bring Hugh here . . . to Hell? As soon as I had the thought, I dismissed it. Hugh had already risked so much for me. How could I ask him to stand against our superiors, to defend me against all those cold, glaring eyes? And what good could come of it? He’d probably get in more trouble if I actually won—which didn’t seem likely, judging from Hannibal’s earlier comments.
I was on the verge of telling them I’d just defend myself when there was an explosion of light in the aisle beside me. I leaped to my feet in fear and wasn’t alone in doing so. A cyclone of silver and white light slowly coalesced into a familiar and very welcome form: Carter. Like everyone else, a day in court appeared to make no difference for how he dressed—save that he was wearing the cashmere hat I’d gotten him last Christmas. Glancing up at the judge, Carter took off the hat and held it before him in an attempt at respect. I wanted to throw myself sobbing into his arms.
“What is this?” demanded Judge Hannibal. Those who had been startled slinked back to their seats.
“Sorry,” said Carter amiably. “I would’ve come in the normal way but didn’t know how else to get her lawyer in.”
Was Carter going to be my lawyer? Hope sprang anew within me until another burst of light erupted beside him . . . and Roman appeared.
Chaos of a different sort broke out, and suddenly, I was a sideshow. Outrage shone on angel and demon faces alike. Half the room was on its feet. I hadn’t been able to sense any immortal auras, but I could feel the swell of power bursting from nearly every individual as they advanced on Roman.
“Nephilim!”
“Destroy him!”
We were on the verge of a full-fledged mob attack when Hannibal banged his gavel on the desk. It made a sound like thunder, hitting hard. A palpable wave of power radiated out from him, nearly knocking a few people off their feet. The growing magic in the room dissipated.
“Sit down,” he snapped. “This is hardly the time or place for everyone to start playing hero.”
“There’s a nephilim in the room!” protested someone in the back.
“Yes, yes. Thank you, Captain Obvious,” said Judge Hannibal. “And I daresay the hundred or so of us can take him if he gets out of line. That’s not in question. What is, however, is
why
he’s here and shouldn’t be immediately smote.” That was directed to Carter.
why
he’s here and shouldn’t be immediately smote.” That was directed to Carter.
“He’s her lawyer,” said Carter.
Hannibal’s eyebrows rose in true surprise, with no sign of his earlier smugness. “A nephilim?”
“There are no rules against it,” said Carter mildly. “Any immortal can serve, right?”
Hannibal glanced uneasily at a woman seated at a corner desk who had been typing away steadily on a laptop. I’d taken her for the court reporter, but she was apparently some sort of consultant too. She made a face.
“Technically, he can serve,” she said. “Our laws don’t specify.”
“But they do specify that anyone the defendant chooses is exempt from punishment,” said Carter, as cagey as any lawyer.
A cruel smile played at her lips. “Whoever is summoned to serve as lawyer is exempt from punishment during court and afterward when they return to their normal jobs. I’m guessing this . . . creature is not in our personnel files.”
With Hell, the devil really was in the details. Hugh had always warned me to be careful with even the smallest wordings because Hell would use them to its advantage. It took me a moment to fully get why she was so pleased. Any immortal could serve as a lawyer in a case like this, it seemed. And, going on the first part of what she’d said, no one could do anything to Roman while he was my lawyer, despite the normal immortal reaction to promptly destroy all nephilim. There would be no mass smiting in the courtroom. It was the second part of her words that was tricky. Those drafted as lawyers allegedly couldn’t be punished for their legal performances when they returned to their regular duties, which would’ve been good to know when I was considering summoning Hugh (though I knew there were a million subtle ways a disgruntled demon could still get back at someone on the sly).
But Roman didn’t have any regular duties for Hell, aside from an unofficial deal with Jerome that I had no doubt my archdemon would disavow all knowledge of. Roman couldn’t be protected when he “went back to work” because he didn’t work for Hell. The instant this trial ended and he was out of the role of lawyer, he was subject to the whims of Hell.
“Well,” said Hannibal. He looked down at me. “At least it’ll make this case more interesting. Sure, whatever. You want the nephilim as your lawyer?”
I wanted to say no. Some part of me half hoped that if I refused and Roman never became my lawyer, he would be free of the retribution that awaited him afterward, that he could simply escape now. Except, as I glanced between him and Carter, a terrible certainty settled over me. It didn’t matter if Roman became my lawyer or not. He wasn’t getting out of here. It was reflected in Roman’s eyes as they met mine. When Carter had brought him here, it was a one-way trip. If I didn’t accept him as my lawyer, I was simply speeding Roman to his death.
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