Succubus Revealed gk-6

by Richelle Mead

  “Roman—”

  “No, no, wait. There’s more. How’d you meet this wonder succubus anyway? Through your closest immortal friend, who just happened to have been coincidentally transferred to Las Vegas, hired on by your favorite boss of all time. Are you following this fantasy so far?”

  “But why would—”

  “And,” he continued, “lest you grow homesick for the wacky idiosyncrasies of your friends back here, Vegas is ready to supply you with new ones. A zany drunken imp. Seth 2.0. If you’d stayed longer, they probably would have unearthed an angel and a couple of vampires for you. And let’s not discount the fact that you’re going to Las Vegas in the first place! The single easiest place for a succubus to get by.”

  “Okay, I get what you’re saying.” I threw up my hands in exasperation. “It is perfect. Maybe too perfect. But you’re missing one fundamental point. Supposing this is true, that someone has set up the most perfect scenario for me ever, a situation designed to keep me happy, why would they do it at all when the thing that would make me the most happy is to stay in Seattle? Why bother with this alternative? Why not leave me as I am?”

  Roman’s eyes gleamed. “Because that’s the one thing they don’t want you to have. They want you out of Seattle, Georgina. They want you out, and they don’t want you to complain or look back.”

  “But why?” I protested. “That’s what I can’t figure out.”

  “Give me something else to work with,” he said. “Hell’s not that good. Even the most picture perfect setup has to have a flaw. Was there anything, anything at all this weekend, that felt disingenuous? That smacked of a lie?”

  I gave him a wry look. “I was in Las Vegas, hanging out with servants of Hell. Everything was disingenuous.”

  “Georgina, think! Anything that seemed legitimately odd. Any contradiction.”

  I started to deny it but then paused. “The timeline.”

  He leaned forward even more. “Yes? What about it?”

  I thought back to my first hours in Las Vegas. “Luis and Bastien both went out of their way to act as though my transfer and Bastien’s had been in the works for a while—like Jerome said. But once, Bastien slipped. He sounded like he hadn’t been there for very long at all—not nearly as long as they’d said before.”

  “Like that maybe he was suddenly pulled in on a moment’s notice—to coincide with your transfer?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, not liking the thought of Bastien being part of some potential conspiracy centered around me. “He corrected himself, said he misspoke.”

  “I’m sure he would say that.” Roman leaned back now, letting all of this sink in.

  “Bastien wouldn’t lie to me,” I snapped. “He’s my friend. I trust him. He cares about me.”

  “I believe you,” said Roman. “And I believe that he wouldn’t lie to you about something that he thought might harm you. But if his higher-ups asked him to tell a white lie—fudge a few days here and there—don’t you think he would?”

  I nearly denied it—but then had to wonder. Bastien had been in trouble off and on with our superiors, his Seattle venture last year a desperate attempt to restore status. If he were pressured enough—threatened, even—to tell me he’d been transferred longer than he actually had, would he? Especially if he thought it was harmless and knew of no nefarious reason behind it?

  “But what nefarious reason would be behind all this?” I muttered, not realizing I’d spoken my thoughts aloud until Roman straightened up again.

  “That’s what we have to figure out. We have to figure out what’s happened to you that would’ve gotten someone’s attention—and that happened recently, to spur such a fast response. We know about your slacker record. And we know about Erik looking into your contract.”

  I blinked. “Milton.”

  I quickly told Roman about Hugh’s information, about Milton’s secret assassin status and trip to Seattle lining up with Erik’s death. I also told him about briefly mentioning Milton to Jamie. Roman leaped to his feet.

  “Jesus Christ! Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner? I could’ve investigated Milton while you were gone. Shit. Now I’m trapped here under bowling duty.” Nephilim had the same travel limitations as lesser immortals. They had to physically travel to places. No teleportation like greater immortals.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t connect it. And I didn’t get a chance to ask Jamie more about Milton. He wasn’t around the rest of the time I was in town.”

  Roman was nodding along with me as he paced. “Of course he wasn’t. I’m sure they made certain he was unavailable before he could tell you any more. And explain again why your initial conversation with him didn’t go that far?”

  I shrugged. “He was drunk. He got distracted by a debate over gin with Luis.”

  “One that Luis initiated, no doubt.”

  “I—” I thought about it. “Yeah. I guess he did. But you’re not saying . . . I mean, that’s idiotic. Using gin as a distraction to cover up some plot?”

  Roman’s sea green eyes were gazing off in the distance, thoughtful. “It’s not the most ridiculous distraction I’ve known a demon to use. He could’ve brought up bowling.”

  “Not that again.”

  Roman snapped his attention back to me, frustration all over his face. “Georgina, how can you be in denial about this? How can you refuse to believe that Hell is playing some larger game here? After all you’ve seen and been a part of?”

  I shot up, angry at the insinuation that had been creeping along here, that I was too oblivious to see what was going on. “I know! I know they’re capable of it. I know they can use means both ingenuous and simple—like gin and bowling—to get what they want. I’m not denying that, Roman. What I just can’t grasp yet is the why. Show me that, and I’ll get on board with any crazy scheme you want. I need to know why.”

  Roman came to stand in front of me, resting his hands on my shoulders as he leaned close. “That is exactly what I intend to find out. And when we do, I have a feeling we’ll have blown the lid off of the biggest conspiracy Hell’s had in centuries.”

  Chapter 10

  In centuries? I thought that was kind of an exaggeration. But I wasn’t going to argue any further with him, not when he had that zealous look in his eyes. It was one I knew all too well, which in its mildest form resulted in recipe experimentation and in its severest led to immortal killing sprees.

  With all the schools on winter vacation now, Santa was no longer just doing evening duty at the mall. I had drawn a day shift for Monday and finally left Roman for bed so that I could get an early start. He acknowledged my good night with a nod, lost in his own brooding. Despite how hard he’d grilled me, I knew he was thinking about the same question I’d demanded of him: why would Hell want me out of Seattle so badly that they were willing to create a dream scenario for me?

  I had no answers for it that night or the next morning. I arrived at the mall bright and early, in my foil dress, only to find a mob of parents and kids already lined up there waiting for us to open shop. Walter-Santa, I was pleased to see, was actually drinking straight coffee this morning, with no mention of alcohol. Of course, he was most likely getting rid of a hangover from last night, and I didn’t doubt that the requests for “something harder” would start by noon.

  “Santa wishes his pavilion wasn’t under the mall’s skylight,” he remarked, furthering my hangover suspicions. He settled himself into his chair—much to the gathered children’s delight—and winced unhappily up at the sunlight spilling through the latticed roof of the “holiday gazebo.” He turned back to me and Grumpy. “I don’t suppose we could get a tarp for that?”

  Grumpy and I exchanged looks. “I don’t think they sell tarps at this mall, Walt—Santa,” I told him. “But maybe on my break I can score some sheets from Pottery Barn for you.”

  “Yeah,” said Grumpy, repressing an eye roll. “I’m sure we can find something very tasteful.”r />
  Santa nodded solemnly. “Santa is grateful to have such dutiful elves.”

  We opened the floodgates. I was working right next to Santa today, meaning I got a front row seat for some of the more outlandish requests. I was also the one who got to remove screaming children, despite parental protests and pleadings to “just keep her there until I get the picture!” All the while, I kept thinking that instead of doing this, I could be in Las Vegas right now, working through Matthias’s routines and listening to Phoebe’s jokes along the way.

  Of course, that isn’t to say I was entirely scornful of the whole experience. I liked Christmas, and I liked children. I wouldn’t have signed on for this job if either of those weren’t true. But in watching these families—especially little girls with their mothers—I just couldn’t shake my worries for the Mortensens. If I thought too much about them, I started to tear up. So . . . yeah. Cynicism was preferable at times. It kept me from getting lost in my own despair.

  When my shift ended later in the day, I discovered I wasn’t the only one going home. Grumpy put up a SANTA ON 10-MINUTE BREAK sign, much to the dismay of those waiting in line, and Walter followed me as I headed out to the mall offices. It was hard not to smile at the reaction of kids who just happened to be out shopping with parents and hadn’t come to specifically see Santa. Children came to a standstill, mouths gaping and fingers pointing.

  “You’ve been pretty good today,” I told Walter.

  “It’s easier when Santa knows he can go out for a drink at dinnertime,” he told me.

  I frowned. “Are you going home? Oh. Of course you are. You’ve been here as long as me.” Elves had always moved in and out of shifts, but Santa had stayed constant. Now, with us pulling longer hours, Walter couldn’t be on the clock all the time. “Do you have a replacement?”

  He put a finger to his lips and winked at me, refusing to say anything while we were in public. Once we were out of sight, in the administrative offices, I got my answer when we found another Santa sitting in a chair, leafing through a Victoria’s Secret catalog. He looked up at our approach and set the magazine down.

  “Is it time?”

  Walter nodded and turned to me. “Vixen, do we look the same?”

  “Of course,” I said. “You’re both men in red suits and white beards.”

  “Look closely,” he scolded. The other Santa rose, and they stood side by side. “Details matter. Anything a child waiting in line might notice when Bob goes out to take my place. Beard alignment, glasses, fit of the coat . . . it all matters. One small detail is all it takes for those kids to realize they’ve been played, that there are two of us.”

  “And if they realize that,” added Bob, using the same British accent Walter always did, “then the illusion is over. They’ll know they’ve been tricked, that there is no one, true Santa.”

  “Wow, you guys take this seriously,” I said, a little astonished. So, I did a closer assessment, making a few minor adjustments. I straightened Bob’s hat and fixed the way some of his beard’s curls were arranged. At last, I nodded. “You’re good to go.”

  Bob looked at Walter expectantly. Walter took off his hat, beard, and glasses, revealing an ordinary-looking man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “Only one Santa can exist outside this room,” explained Walter mysteriously, watching Bob go. “It’s part of the magic.”

  “This was kind of sweet,” I remarked. Off the clock now, Walter immediately produced a flask from his locker and began guzzling it. I wondered if the two Santas shared the same addiction. “Creepy, but sweet.”

  After a wardrobe change of my own and a brief stop home, I eventually made my way to Burt’s Bowling Alley. Roman had chosen it for our immortal league practice. It was also the site of a date he and I had had way back when, during our ill-fated romance. Living with him day to day, coping with the mundane absurdities of roommate life, it was easy to forget about that part of our history. There had been a time when I thought I was falling in love with Roman, though eventually my feelings for Seth had won out. Learning Roman’s true nature—and about his plot to kill Carter—hadn’t helped our fledgling relationship. He’d given all that up, thankfully, but there were times I wondered just how much Roman still cared for me.

  There was no sign of our illustrious teacher yet, but Seth was already there, along with Cody, Peter, and Hugh. Seeing me enter, Seth shot me a desperate, grateful look. I could only imagine what conversation he’d been subjected to while trapped with them. As I approached, the four guys’ shirts instantly caught my eye. Seth was wearing a Say Anything T-shirt. That was typical of him. What wasn’t so typical was that my three immortal friends were all wearing identical light blue shirts. Before I could get a good look at them, Cody leaped up and thrust a folded-up blue shirt toward me.

  “Here,” he said. “I can’t wait to see what all four of us look like together in these.”

  The shirt was a standard bowling style, short-sleeved and button-down. My name was embroidered on the front. Flipping it over, I found THE UNHOLY ROLLERS done in elaborate, flaming letters. I arched an eyebrow.

  “Really?” I said. “This is what we’re going with?”

  “It’s clever on so many levels,” Peter said excitedly. “It’s a take on ‘holy rollers,’ and then when you think about the fact that we’re rolling balls—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, putting the bowling shirt on over my turtleneck. The size was off a little, and I shape-shifted to adjust it. “I know what the definition of a pun is, Peter. I just didn’t realize we were going with something so . . . blatant.”

  “It was either that or the Sinsationals,” said Hugh.

  I made a face and settled into the crook of Seth’s arm. “I think you went with the right choice. And at least they’re in a tasteful color.”

  Hugh and Cody exchanged pleased, triumphant looks. Peter scowled.

  “There’s nothing wrong with pink,” he said. “I think it would have made a statement.”

  “Yeah,” said Hugh. “A statement that we’re pansy-asses that Nanette’s team could clean the floor with.”

  Peter gave a long-suffering sigh. “Why must you be so insecure about your masculinity? If Georgina had been around when we voted, I bet she would’ve gone with pink too.”

  At once, his words reminded all of them of why I’d been gone. Their faces fell. “Is it true then?” said Cody. “You’re leaving?”

  “Afraid so,” I told him, attempting cheerfulness I didn’t feel. “Next month, I’m Vegas-bound.”

  “But that’s not fair,” Cody protested. “We need you here.”

  Hugh gave him a rueful smile. “You haven’t been in this business long enough, kid. ‘Fair’ doesn’t enter into it.”

  Cody didn’t like the reference to his lack of experience, but Hugh was right. Cody hadn’t been immortal long enough to go through a transfer or the organizational machinations of HR. Peter and Hugh had, and while they might be sad at the thought of leaving me, they also knew that there were some things you just can’t fight.

  “Don’t feel too bad for me,” I said breezily. “Bastien’s working there now. And I’ve already got a job as a dancer.”

  “You can’t even get a job here,” pointed out Peter.

  “Like a topless dancer?” asked Hugh.

  “No,” I said. “But scantily clad in sequins.”

  Hugh nodded in approval. “That’ll work.”

  Cody was still wearing his heart on his sleeve. His gaze fell on Seth. “Well. I guess one good thing is that with your job, you can live anywhere. Easy enough relocation.”

  I didn’t know what Seth’s thoughts on that were exactly, but he managed a brave smile. “We’ll see.” Suddenly all I could think about was my last conversation with Andrea, when we were talking about Seth. He’s the rock supporting us all right now.

  An uncomfortably warm feeling spread over me, tinged with the scent of brimstone. The other immortals and I looked up as Jerome entered, trailed by a p
ensive-looking Roman. I saw my surprise mirrored on my friends’ faces.

  “I didn’t know you were coming,” I said to Jerome, when the father-and-son duo reached us. “I thought you’d made it clear you weren’t part of the team.”

  “I’m not,” he said, eyeing the worn leather chairs with disgust. “But seeing as my honor is riding on this so-called team, I figured I’d best make sure you’re on the right track.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence in my abilities,” said Roman, entering our names into the lane’s computer.

  “I don’t doubt your abilities,” said Jerome, deigning to sit at last. “But I also know a little encouragement can sometimes go a long way in furthering success.”

  “I assume by ‘encouragement,’ you’re referring to your extreme displeasure if we fail,” I noted.

  Jerome’s lips twitched. “Exactly, Georgie. Besides, I also wanted to hear—”

  Jerome fell silent as his gaze rested on Seth’s T-shirt, depicting John Cusack’s iconic stance with the boom box over his head.

  “Nice shirt,” said Jerome at last.

  “Um, thanks,” said Seth.

  Jerome turned back to me, like nothing had happened. “As I was saying, I wanted to hear about your Las Vegas weekend.”

  “How considerate,” I said. Beside me, I felt Seth shift restlessly. I knew my other immortal friends made him uncomfortable in just a weird sort of way, but Jerome unnerved Seth in a whole other way. No, it was more than unnerving. Jerome scared Seth, which made sense because half the time, Jerome scared us too. “I’m sure you have enough eyes and ears to tell you exactly how my weekend went.”

  “True,” said Jerome. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy getting your insight.”

  “Right,” I said. “Because my happiness means so much to you.”