Succubus Revealed (8 page)

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Authors: Richelle Mead

Tags: #Romance, #Fantasy, #General, #Fiction

BOOK: Succubus Revealed
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“I have no doubt you’ll dance your way right into this Matthias’s heart,” Bastien mused. He gave a mournful sigh. “Would that I could dance so easily into Phoebe’s heart.”
“She’s too smart for you,” I said. “She knows your tricks.”
“Of course she does. I’d think that would be half the appeal.” He paused to finish off the last of his cocktail. “Speaking of bizarre attractions . . . I’m totally behind in what’s transpiring in your Northwestern world. Are you still joined at the hip with that introverted mortal?”
“Literally and figuratively,” I told him. Thinking of Seth diminished some of my earlier good mood. “This transfer . . . it was kind of a shock. I don’t know how it’s going to affect our relationship.”
Bastien shrugged. “Bring him here.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“Not if he wants you badly enough. Here.” Bastien waved to get the waitress’s attention. “Have another round with me. That’ll fix everything.”
“Not when I might have to dance soon!”
But I shared the round anyway and found my cheerfulness returning. It was hard not to with Bastien. I’d known him for a long time, and there was something so easy and comforting about being in his presence. We swapped stories and gossip on immortals we knew, and I got the scoop on some of the more colorful ones I’d eventually be meeting here in Las Vegas.
Phoebe returned just as we were paying the bill, having swapped her work attire for casual dance clothing. She led us back through the labyrinthine glitz of the casino and into the quieter and much more subdued back halls of the building. They in turn led to a backstage door to the casino’s theatre, which wasn’t yet open to the public. We found the vast space empty, save a couple guys installing tables in the seating area. The pounding of their hammers echoed through the room. A moment later, I did a double take when I saw a man sitting off to the side of the stage, so still I’d hardly noticed him. He glanced up from a sheaf of papers at our approach.
“Phoebe,” he said. “You’re early.”
“I wanted to introduce you to someone,” she said. “Matthias, these are my friends Bastien and Georgina. Georgina’s moving here next month.”
Matthias looked like he was in his late twenties, early thirties at most, and had sandy blond hair in need of a haircut. There was something cute about its disheveled state, and he took off wire-rimmed glasses to peer up at me. I couldn’t help but think Ian would’ve liked those glasses, but unlike Ian, Matthias probably needed them. Matthias blinked a couple of times, and then his eyebrows rose in surprise.
“You’re a dancer,” he said to me.
“Er, yeah, I am. How’d you know?” Per Phoebe’s suggestion, I’d made myself put on some height while we were walking down the back halls, but that was hardly enough to tip him off.
Matthias got to his feet and studied me up and down, not in a leering kind of way . . . but more like how someone assesses the value of a piece of art. “It’s in how you walk and stand. There’s a grace to it. An energy. It’s exactly what she does.” He nodded toward Phoebe. “Are you guys sisters?”
“No,” said Phoebe. “But we’ve taken some of the same classes.”
Bastien choked on a laugh.
Matthias was nodding, completely enraptured. He picked up his papers and flipped through the pages. “Yes . . . yes . . . we could definitely use you here and here.” He paused, checking a few more places. “And here. Maybe even here.” He jerked his head up, blue eyes alight and excited. “Let’s see what you can do. Phoebe—do the opening part of the second number.”
Phoebe responded instantly, springing to center stage and instantly falling into line as Matthias began counting off beats. When they finished, he looked at me expectantly. “Now you do it.”
I started to point out that I was in heels and a dress but then realized showgirl attire probably wouldn’t be too different. I took a spot near Phoebe and mirrored her as Matthias counted again. We repeated the combination, and by the third time, I hardly had to look at her to get the steps. He directed her to a different number, slightly more complicated, and a similar performance ensued as I sought to match her. When we finished, he clicked his tongue in approval.
“Amazing,” he said. “You guys need to tell me where you trained so that I can recruit all your classmates.” Turning back to his papers, he began scribbling notes. “Phoebe, can you lend her some clothes for practice? Not that it’ll affect her performance, of course, but I imagine she’d be more comfortable in something else for two hours of rehearsal.”
Phoebe winked at me. “I’m pretty sure we can get her a change of clothes.”
I glanced between her and Matthias. “Rehearsal?”
“Sure,” said Matthias, still not looking up. “That’s what we do to get ready for performances around here.”
“You want to be in the show, don’t you, Lucy?” teased Bastien.
“I understand . . . but I’m not moving to Las Vegas until January,” I explained. “I have to go home tomorrow night.”
Matthias finally glanced up briefly from his beloved notes, seeming as pained as Seth often was when interrupted while writing a book. “You’re here right now, aren’t you? Might as well get started. Unless you’ve got something else going on?”
I looked helplessly at Bastien and Phoebe, who were grinning like idiots. The incubus slung a friendly arm around me. “Of course she doesn’t.”
After a moment’s hesitation, I gave a slow nod, still a little overwhelmed at how fast things were moving here. “I . . . I’d love to rehearse.”
Chapter 8
 
I
t was hard to believe that in only a couple of days I’d gone from doubting my transfer was real to suddenly signing on to be in a Las Vegas stage production. Things happened so fast that it was easy to get swept along, and Bastien and Phoebe’s gleeful encouragement just made things happen that much more quickly.
Shape-shifting took care of my clothing problem, and Bastien soon left us, allegedly to go get a drink and try his hand at the blackjack table. Once he left the theatre, though, Phoebe leaned over to me conspiratorially and whispered, “Here’s a wager for you. How much do you want to bet he comes back with a glow?”
I laughed and whispered back, “I won’t take that bet. Are you sure you haven’t worked with him before?” Admittedly, an incubus looking to get laid wasn’t that far of a stretch, but I liked how adeptly Phoebe was able to pick up on my old friend’s personality quirks.
“Nah,” she said with a smile. “I’ve just known his type.”
Other dancers began trickling in. Phoebe introduced us as they arrived, and most were friendly and excited to have someone new in the group. They weren’t yet at their full number needed for the show, so everyone was anxious for that to happen. I brought them one step closer, though it surprised me they were still short. From my experiences, there were always groups of girls lined up to try to make it in show business. Phoebe confirmed as much.
“Oh, yeah, tons have tried out. And you should have seen them at the beginning, when they first did the open casting. Matthias is just really selective, that’s all. Cornelia—the head choreographer—is just as bad.”
“And yet he took me on a five-minute audition,” I pointed out.
Phoebe grinned. “Sweetie, he just knows talent when he sees it. Besides, he’s in charge of this gig. If he says you’re in, you’re in.”
Matthias wasn’t the only one running the show, of course. Along with the dancers came other management and staff, like the aforementioned Cornelia. Everyone had a part to play. The rehearsal was fast-paced and aggressive—but also lots of fun. Phoebe hadn’t been joking. The other dancers were good—really good. It had been a very long time since I’d danced with any sort of group, even longer since I was with one of such caliber. I was used to being the standout at anything dance related, and it was a surprise—a good one—to find myself surrounded by so many equals. I had to work to keep up with them on the first day, and even if I didn’t walk out as an instant star, I left confident that I’d held my own.
Before I could go, one of the show’s costumers asked to take my measurements backstage. Phoebe told me she’d go hunt down Bastien and meet me at the casino’s central bar. The seamstress appeared with her tape measure, and I made a mental note of my height for future shape-shifting. Matthias came by, carrying his notes, and paused when he saw us.
“You did really well today,” he told me. “It’s like you’ve been with us from the first day.”
“Hardly,” I said. “I’ve still got a lot to learn. Especially in the fourth song. The steps are deceptively simple . . . but there’s a certain attitude you’ve got to hold to pull them off. No, maybe not attitude. Grace? Vibe? I can’t explain it, but the simplicity’s what makes it so genius. It seems like such a basic pattern, but how it’s executed is what truly brings out the beauty.” I was thinking aloud, just sort of rambling, and realized that I sounded kind of ridiculous. “Sorry. That probably doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, no.” Matthias stared at me wonderingly. “That’s exactly it. That’s how I intended it. I was inspired by watching classical ballet, how all the moves are amplified by the emotion put into the routines. Cornelia said it was crazy to try to think that deep for a show like this, but it just felt right.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said honestly. “I can absolutely see where you were going with it. Reminds me of something from
La Bayadère.
”
“You know
La Bayadère?
” he asked, wide-eyed.
“Of course,” I said. “It’s a classic. Who doesn’t?”
“You’d be surprised.”
I realized then that the seamstress had left, having achieved her goal. Matthias was still regarding me in amazement. Now that they weren’t focused on the clipboard, I was able to see how blue his eyes were. They were like the sky on a clear, crisp day.
“Are you busy tonight?” he asked a few moments later. “Would you . . . would you like to go get dinner? Or even just a drink? I’d love to talk dance more with you.”
For a succubus, I could be surprisingly naïve sometimes. Because for half an instant, I almost accepted. I was so keyed up after the rehearsal and so excited to talk more about the show that I actually briefly thought that was all he wanted to go out for. Now, I don’t mean to imply that his motives were totally base either. He wasn’t using this as a ruse to simply get me into bed. But he also wasn’t treating this as a meeting of colleagues. Bottom line: he liked me. I’d peaked his interest, and he wanted to go out on a date.
Normally, that wouldn’t have been a problem . . . except, there was something I sincerely liked about him. He was cute, and I found his passion for his work endearing. I loved how he kept getting wrapped up in it, totally consumed and distracted like—Seth.
And there was the problem. This guy was the choreographer version of Seth. A one-night fling with some sleazy guy who meant nothing wasn’t cheating in the eyes of our relationship. But for me to go out with a guy I liked, that I found intriguing and attractive in the same way I found Seth . . . well. That was wrong, especially since Matthias was obviously interested in me. It was a strange situation to be in, one I hadn’t expected.
“Oh, that would be great, but my friends and I already have plans,” I told him. “We’re trying to make the most of my trip since it’s so short.”
“Oh.” His face fell a little, then brightened. “But you’ll be back for tomorrow’s rehearsal, right? It’d be great if you were able to get in the steps one more time before you left town. You know, give you something to practice.”
“Sure,” I said. “That’d be great.”
The rest of the evening went by in a blur of activity. Phoebe joined Bastien and me in a whirlwind tour of Vegas highlights, which included a lot of casino and club hopping. Phoebe and I both donned skimpy, glamorous dresses, playing up our succubus sex appeal to its maximum. We draped ourselves on Bastien’s arms, and he swaggered around even more than usual, smug with the envy he got over showing us off.
After hours of this, I was ready for some downtime. Phoebe and Bastien had a quick consultation and decided that if we hurried we could make the late performance of a magic show they knew.
“Magic?” I asked, more than a little tipsy from vodka gimlets. “Don’t we
live
a magic show?”
“Damn near,” said Bastien. He was ostensibly still being gallant in offering me his arm, but it was unclear who was really holding whom up. “There’s something special about this show, I’ve heard.” There was a mischievous glint in his eyes.
The three of us made our way to a modest, off-Strip hotel I’d never heard of. It still had alcohol and slot machines in its casino, which was probably all that mattered to most of its customers. Bastien bought us tickets to see The Great Jambini, and we hurried into the small theater—which was about half-full—just as the lights went down. A mediocre comedian did the warm-up act, and soon the star attraction himself came out. He had graying hair and a bright purple silk turban, along with a sequined cape that could have come straight from the wardrobe department at Sparkles. He kept tripping over its hem, which led to my first observation: he was totally drunk. A second observation soon followed, once I realized there were more immortal signatures in here than just mine, Phoebe’s, and Bastien’s. The Great Jambini was an imp.
He started off with some standard card tricks, receiving half-hearted applause from the audience. These were followed by juggling, which I found remarkable simply because of the concentration it required from someone so obviously intoxicated. He didn’t miss a move. I think the other members of the audience shared my opinion because their applause warmed up. Inspired by this, Jambini then made a great show of setting his juggling pins on fire. This brought the applause to a standstill, and some of the people in the front rows shifted uneasily.
“Is that a good idea?” I murmured to my friends.
“It never is,” remarked Phoebe.
“What do you mean nev—”
Within thirty seconds after lighting the pins, Jambini had begun juggling . . . and promptly set his cape on fire. People gasped and screamed as he flung it off him onto the stage. Considering its cheap material, I was kind of surprised the cape hadn’t ignited faster. He stomped on it until the flames were out, and I saw a few stagehands on the periphery ready with fire extinguishers, just in case. Once the cape was a black, smoldering mess, he lifted it up. A dove emerged from underneath it, flying up into the air, much to the awe and delight of the spectators.
“It was part of the show,” I breathed, equally impressed.
“Yup,” said Phoebe.
Jambini reached for the dove, which just barely slipped past him. It circled around the room, then swooped low into the audience. Along the way, it sideswiped a woman whose hair was elaborately French braided. The dove’s foot got tangled in her hair, and it soon became trapped, beating its wings frantically to escape as she leaped up and began screaming.
“Was
that
part of the show?” I asked.
“No,” said Phoebe in awe. “But it really should be.”
Within seconds, the stagehands were out in the audience, where they were able to remove and confine the dove. They escorted the woman off as well, heads bent low as they murmured apologies. The Great Jambini made a flourish-filled bow, much to the delight of the crowd. Everyone loves a wacky mishap.
He performed a few scarf tricks, most of which went off without a hitch, and then came to stand in the center of the stage, face grave. “For my next trick, I need a volunteer.” His eyes fell on our corner. “A lovely volunteer.”
“Oh, he noticed us,” said Phoebe, with a sigh. She raised her hand, along with others in the audience. When I did nothing, she elbowed me until I raised my hand as well.
After a great show of examining all the volunteers, Jambini strode up to our table and extended his hand to me. Bastien and Phoebe whistled and cheered, urging me up. I was a little nervous about being set on fire or attacked by birds, but it was hard for me to refuse an audience. I accepted Jambini’s hand and let him lead me up to the stage, while thunderous applause rang out around us.
“Just shape-shift into any outfit that comes to mind,” he muttered in my ear, his breath heavy with the scent of gin.
Once we were on center stage, he took the microphone and kicked into showman mode. “Now, my lovely assistant here . . . what is your name, lovely assistant?”
I leaned toward the microphone. “Georgina.”
“Georgina. What a lovely name. And so, lovely Georgina, all you have to do is allow yourself to be receptive to the awe-inspiring, truly mystical powers of my magic. If you do, wondrous transformations will occur.” I nodded in agreement, and more cheering ensued.
Jambini walked over to his prop table and returned with a curtain attached to a hoop and a handle. When he held it up by the handle, the curtain hung down in a way that created an enclosed cylinder, completely concealing the person inside. I obligingly stepped forward, letting the folds of fabric hide me while Jambini gave a “magical countdown.” In those brief seconds, I shape-shifted my sparkly cocktail dress to the first thing that came to mind: my green foil elf dress.
Jambini whipped the curtain away dramatically, revealing me in my new attire. People gasped and clapped with delight, and I gave a bow almost as showy as his. Encouraged by the response, Jambini declared, “One more time.” I stepped back into the curtained enclosure and changed this time into black jeans, a silver-sequined top, and a woman’s tuxedo jacket. When he pulled back the curtain, the applause faltered a little bit before increasing to a frenzy. I’d seen these types of tricks performed before among those not gifted with shape-shifting, and usually performers simply shifted between loose dresses, items easy to get on and off. My choice of clothing kind of defied the logic of those familiar with how the trick worked. But, hey. This was magic, right?
“Show-off,” Bastien told me when I returned to my seat.
“Hey,” I whispered back, watching Jambini attempt to swallow a knife. He’d gotten about a third of the way there before he started coughing. With a shrug, he finally gave up and simply bowed to delayed applause. “These people deserve something for their money.”
Jambini—or Jamie, as I later learned he was really named—was much more appreciative of my performance. My group met up with him in the hotel’s drab bar after the show.
“Switching to pants was genius,” he told me, knocking back a glass of gin. I had a sneaking suspicion that the show’s actual performance was the longest he went without a drink on a given day. “People are going to be scratching their heads over that one for days.”
“Maybe too much,” warned Bastien. “You’ll make mortals suspicious.”

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