Succubus Takes Manhattan

by Nina Harper

  Even if I had been bored by the men’s clothing, Marten was so attentive that I felt petted and adored. Just being with him made me happy. Meeting his snarky smile behind the back of some officious clerk, making faces at merchandise that just wasn’t up to its label was simple fun. We laughed and stuck out our tongues and I felt wicked and giggly. He struck exaggerated runway poses when he got out of the dressing room and I clapped or booed and horrified several respectable silver-haired gentlemen in elegant gray suits with yellow tape measures dangling around their necks. His sense of humor was acid and offbeat, his taste was impeccable and he looked like a movie star. The hunky kind that women worship. How had I ever ended up with this paragon? Oh, right, he was also a magician and lived in Aruba and was commitment-phobic. Well, every fairy tale has a drawback or two.

  “I forgot, we have not even stopped for lunch,” he said as the clerk rang up yet another pile of purchases. “I am sorry, this has been so selfish of me. But we ate such a large breakfast so late I was not hungry and now I am famished. No wonder you look so tired. Where shall we eat?”

  Balthazar, being conveniently around the corner, was the obvious choice. And it had been weeks since I’d had fennel ravioli and I was starving.

  “You know, if I did not hear everyone here speaking English, I would swear we were in Paris,” Marten said. I took that as approval.

  Fennel ravioli, duck confit, onion soup and, of course, crème brûlée revived me.

  “And now we should do something that is entirely what you want to do,” Marten said. “I have bought enough clothing that I will not have to shop again until I return to New York, I think. And it is easier in Aruba. I do not need to worry about what to wear in the cold or the warm—it is always warm.” He swept the empty plates aside and leaned forward on his elbows. “You would be happy in Aruba, Lily,” he said, gazing into my eyes. “No, it is not New York, but there is excellent hunting with the cruise ships and tourists, and we could always take side trips to Curaçao and other islands. I know you have sister succubi in the Caribbean, even one in Orangestad, I think you told me. There is hunting and warm beaches all year round and we are finally getting high quality restaurants and shops.”

  “My job—” I started to say, but he waved his hand.

  “You do not need the money,” he said, and this was true. “But perhaps this is too early. Perhaps I can come back to New York and we can spend more time together. Perhaps you will come to Aruba again, maybe for a little longer on this visit, and I will show you the real Aruba, not simply the tourist sites.”

  I was startled, and it must have shown on my face.

  “I would like to get to know you better,” Marten said simply. “I know you are a succubus and I am a magician, so we understand each other, at least in part. But I like you, Lily, the person who is you inside the succubus. I would like the chance for us to build something, perhaps, if we are suited.”

  I drew my breath in sharply. “This is a little sudden,” I said haltingly. “I never expected to see you after I left Aruba. And then you were here in New York. And so we spent time together but I never thought it was anything other than a fling. Maybe between friends, but there’s too much distance . . .”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. But you are immortal and I am . . . promised an exceptionally long life. Neither of us is native to the place where we live, and neither of us is dependent on a job or family to survive. We are both mobile, at least to some extent. I have a working group in the islands—I often go to Martinique and St. Maarten and Jamaica. I think you would find that while Aruba is small, the Caribbean as a whole offers a large variety of amusements for a sophisticated woman.”

  “I, ummm, Marten, I need to think about this,” I stammered. I had never considered the Caribbean anything but a place for New Yorkers to escape to during winter.

  But I suddenly realized that I very badly didn’t want Marten to go. I snaked my hand over the piles of starched linens and took his hand. He smiled and raised my fingers to his lips. My sadness in remembering that he would get on an airplane the next morning was far more profound than I had thought possible.

  “I’m sad about leaving tomorrow, but there are things I need to do at home,” he said softly.

  “I’m sad you’re leaving too,” I confessed sincerely. “I wish you could stay longer.”

  “So do I,” Marten agreed. “But let’s not spend our last evening on this trip being sad. Because really we should celebrate that this is not our last evening together. This is the beginning of our long-distance dating, at least until we know where we will go. What is today’s date? This will be our anniversary, and next year we shall celebrate it in style. Promise me that next year we will have a wonderful dinner and stay in an extravagant hotel on this date! You name the city and we shall meet there.”

  “I promise,” I said, slightly giggly. “Maybe Paris. Maybe London. We’ll have to think about it.”

  “Just one more part to the promise,” Marten said, and he looked very serious. I worried about what he was going to demand now. “Not Rotterdam. I don’t want us ever to go to Rotterdam.”

  “Okay,” I agreed quickly, but inside my curiosity was aroused. Not the city of his birth? He didn’t want to show me where he grew up, introduce me to his old school friends? I wondered about that. But then, there was a whole year to go and a lot could happen in a year. A lot could happen in a month. A month ago I had been happily in love with Nathan and thought that Marten was a casual island fling and that I was being pursued by some crazy guy who was very dangerous.

  Well, some things hadn’t changed.

  I staggered into work before ten with circles under my eyes that could double as helicopter landing targets.

  Marten had awakened me early, gently, with his mouth teasing me to desire. I’d come once already before I was fully awake and able to demand more vigorous amusement. I was so ready I could hardly stand the moments that he spent licking my nipples and fondling my breasts. “Now,” I hissed into his ear.

  And when he paused for a condom I pulled him back. “We both know,” I gasped. “Safe. Succubi can’t get diseases. Or pregnant.”

  He entered me slowly, savoring the sensation, and I succumbed to his pleasure. He swept me away, alternating between driving need and restraint to make it all last as long as possible. Which was impossibly long by human standards.

  I tried to provoke him. I nibbled his neck and licked inside his ear and luxuriated with the power of him contained. Contained by me, needing me.

  Yes, I was used to being desired, being the ultimate fantasy. But Marten’s desire was more complex. He wanted my desire, my pleasure, as much as his own. I could see it, feel it in his rhythm, in the delicacy of his touch. My joy was as important to him as his own, and that overwhelmed me.

  Why is it so rare for a man to care about how a woman feels? Once he knows he can have sex with her, most men seem to assume their partner’s desire without doing anything to ignite it.

  It was hard to let him go. When he pulled his clothes back on, preparing to pick up his bags at the Hotel Gansevoort and then take a cab to the airport, I offered to come along, but he shook his head. “This is better,” he said, kissing me as we stood on the red carpet that led to the street. “I will remember you here, happy, and we will not have the sad ride sitting together quiet because neither of us wants to speak. I will send you e-mail. You will send me e-mail. We will meet again soon.”

  There was no question in his tone; he spoke as if his pronouncements were absolute.

  A lot can happen. No one knows that better than I.

  I went back to my apartment and threw the newly bought cheap clothes into the back of the closet. A long shower removed the feel of them from my skin before I dressed in something more appropriate, something decent, lined in cloud-soft silk, well cut and made with care. A Dolce & Gabbana tweed jacket, a pair of black Prada slacks, and a wonderful sea green Versace blouse in silk so soft I could believe that I was in the unifor
m of Upstairs. A pair of last year’s Jimmy Choos, classic black and elegant, finished the outfit. I looked strong, powerful, creative.

  And I had circles around my eyes that looked like they’d been drawn in greasepaint, my hair was flat and sticking out the wrong way, and my skin was sallow. I looked like I’d never slept and was much the worse for wear. Well, I was supposed to have been sick yesterday. I’d pass.

  chapter

  SIXTEEN

  It wasn’t such a bad afternoon, all things considered. The cleaning crew had removed the last traces of Lawrence’s tantrum. Smoothing out the crumpled pages of my savaged notebook, I found that I could re-create most of the work in the new, elegant, large-format journal I’d picked up earlier in the week. I liked the new book. The heft of the paper, the flecks of flower petals and silk fibers appealed to my aesthetic.

  As I added pages of notes, sketches, and clips from photo shoots I found that I had relaxed. No thoughts about doormen or demons or magicians or gorgeous ex-boyfriends intruded. I was in my element, and the work was meditative. It was six thirty before I knew it, and then it was time to go home.

  Sybil was waiting for me in the lobby of my building, pacing up and down in front of the reception desk. She kept raking her fingers through her hair, and her soft blond curls were ragged.

  “Where were you? I’ve been waiting since six, don’t you finish at five? Weren’t you supposed to be here an hour ago? Where’s Nathan? What’s he doing?” she shot at me before I could even say hello or get my mail.

  “Let’s talk upstairs,” I said, and laid a gentle hand on her arm, which seemed to settle her a bit. I got my mail, which consisted mostly of offers for more credit cards and pleas from a slew of charitable organizations. I dumped them all into the incinerator before I got to the elevator.

  Upstairs, Sybil dropped her coat on the floor and pulled me over to the sofa. “I’m sorry, Lily, but I’m just so scared. Vincent is in danger,” she sputtered between choked sobs. “Look at this.” She handed me a printout of an e-mail.

  Vincent is with us, it began. If you want to see him again, you will meet us at midnight at the Carousel in Central Park. You are to bring Lilith Al-Hazar to us in exchange for Vincent. She will not be harmed if you turn her over to us. Vincent is unharmed and if you follow our directions he will remain so. It is in your hands.

  “Did you call Nathan?” I asked her. “When did you get this? Have you told him yet?”

  She shook her head. “He’s your boyfriend, he’s not going to trade you for anyone,” she said timidly.

  I sighed. “He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my ex-boyfriend. He dumped me, remember. But he’s also our PI and you’re supposed to call him first. When did you get this?”

  “Somewhere around four. I was trying to do some work from home, and I checked my e-mail, and there it was. So I came over here hoping that you’d be home from work. Look at this stupid typeface! Does that give us a clue? It looks juvenile.”

  “Did you call Eros or Desi?” I asked.

  Sybil shook her head. “I think I was hoping this would all be a joke and I’d be here and Vincent would come on duty and tell me that he’d spaced out or had an emergency with a buddy in New Jersey or something.”

  “We have to call Nathan,” I said evenly. “If you won’t, I will. He’ll be angry that you didn’t tell him immediately.”

  “Do I have to call?” Sybil said.

  “It might be better coming from you, but if you can’t, I will,” I reassured her.

  She pulled out her cell phone, hit two digits and was connected; she had Nathan on speed dial. “Nathan? Sybil here. I’ve gotten some communication from the kidnappers. No, I’m at Lily’s. Could you meet us here?”

  I wandered into the kitchen. There were three Ben & Jerry’s cartons in the freezer, none of them full. And there was no Vincent to send out for more. I scooped what I had (Chunky Monkey, Cherry Garcia and Chocolate Brownie) into two bowls, and gave the one with the largest serving of Chocolate Brownie to Sybil. I assumed she needed the extra calming effects.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked over and over as she ate the ice cream. I didn’t know. I was afraid, but I had absolutely no intention of turning myself over to kidnappers to save her boyfriend. This was getting out of hand. Vincent is my doorman. He’s supposed to provide security for me, not the other way around.

  “I think we should call Eros and Desi,” I suggested finally, after the last of the ice cream was gone and the bowls were deposited in the kitchen sink. “If they can get here before Nathan, then we won’t have to bring them up to speed.”

  Sybil nodded blankly. I made the calls, and Desi, ever thoughtful, volunteered to bring Chinese takeout for dinner.

  The three arrived at the same time. The Chinese food smelled good. Desi set it out on the coffee table while Nathan studied the note.

  “May I see the original e-mail?” Nathan asked.

  Sybil sat down mutely at my computer and called up her e-mail. The entire apartment smelled of Orange Beef and Shrimp Lo Mein and I was hungry. Nathan and Sybil were busy at the computer so I served myself a healthy plateful and sat around with my friends and speculated.

  “It’s them,” Eros said with certainty. “Branford and his crew. He must have reorged and he’s got some heavy backing. How could they have nabbed Vincent? He’s a demon, and Branford is mortal.”

  “I think you’re assuming too quickly,” Desi contradicted her. “I mean, I think it’s clear that there’s someone in the Hierarchy who is making trouble for Meph and for Marduk. Branford is one of his tools, but there could be others.”

  Eros gaped at Desi. Usually it’s Eros who is the strategic thinker and Desi who is the doomsayer. I was so stymied that I had another Peking ravioli.

  “That’s entirely wrong,” Eros said. “I talked to Beliel, and he is the head of Security and he knows something about these things. He believes that the Burning Men are an aberrant splinter group, possibly with ceremonial magical training. They certainly know a lot about magic for a pack of fanatics.”

  And why Vincent? I wondered. What did the demon in charge want? We were being destabilized, and suddenly I wondered about others in the First Rank of Hell. Damn. I was going to have to ask Azoked, and I hated that.

  “Can I use my e-mail?” I asked, interrupting Nathan and Sybil at the computer. They moved toward the food without stopping their conversation. I took over and sent Azoked an e-mail, marked urgent, through priority channels. If she got it in time, she might actually be of some use.

  After I sent off the e-mail I couldn’t resist taking a quick look on MagicMirror. Demons have just started using tags on entries, but I just played around and queried “trouble” and “enemies” and “attack” just to see if there was anyone else who had experienced similar problems. It didn’t take long to confirm that there had been an unusual number of posts on attacks, muggings, burglaries, and a general atmosphere of fear among demonkind. I knew that I didn’t have the time or the access to find a real pattern in the attacks—surely there were many more that weren’t reported on MM. It would be embarrassing for a minion of Hell to report being attacked.

  “You don’t have any Shrimp with Cashew Nuts,” a loud, catlike voice announced. “That is my favorite. If you are going to request me on an urgent basis, and I must drop the important research I am doing immediately, the very least you could do is have my favorite dish.”

  “I thought you said Crispy Orange Beef was your favorite,” I said, remembering another night with Azoked and takeout.

  “There’s Shrimp Lo Mein, you can pick out the noodles,” Eros said in that tough voice that permits no argument. “We’re demons, not mind readers.” Eros shot me a look that made clear that she didn’t know what I was doing and wasn’t all that pleased with Azoked’s arrival.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” I said to the Librarian. “I’ll even call out for a delivery if you don’t like the Shrimp Lo Mein.”

  “
I prefer fish. Maybe some sashimi?”

  “It’s a critical situation,” I interrupted. “A young demon is in danger, and we’ve been attacked fairly regularly in the past few months. Something is going on.”

  Azoked licked orange sauce off her paws. “I have told you, we do not have Akashic records on demonkind. Only the living leave records.”

  “But you have other records,” I said. “I know that Admin reports attack activity on us as well as Upstairs and you’ve got the archives. I want to know if there’s a pattern. Are there really more attacks on demons, or is it just us? Is it happening all over the world? Only in New York? Only in a few cities? Is there anything the demons attacked appear to have in common? We need to see if this is part of a larger conspiracy or if we are particular targets.”

  “And what do I get for doing this?” Azoked asked.

  “Well, it is your job, and Satan did contract for your services,” I began, but Eros cut me off.

  “You get to serve Satan, which is reward enough. And you may be able to help Mephistopheles, and if you do he’ll be grateful.”

  Azoked looked interested. “Mephistopheles is known to be very generous when he is grateful,” she purred. “Can you guarantee that?”

  Eros’s pale skin glowed an unearthly color and suddenly it was obvious she had never been of humankind. “No one can guarantee Mephistopheles’ gratitude,” she countered, her voice commanding and cold.

  “Except Mephistopheles,” said Satan’s Second in Command himself, appearing in a whiff of sulfur next to the window. “I will guarantee that I will be very grateful indeed.”

  “I didn’t get enough food,” Desi said in the background. “Maybe we can order a second round?”

  My living room was getting rather crowded and overly hot. Nathan was blinking at the new arrivals. Today Mephistopheles appeared different, more threatening, more powerful. More protective if you are me and Meph wants to protect you.