Succubus Revealed gk-6

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Succubus Revealed gk-6 Page 23

by Richelle Mead


  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 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.

  “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.

  I nodded and felt my heart lurch as I sealed his fate. “Er, yes. Yes, your hono
r. I’d like him as my lawyer.”

  There was a murmur of disapproval throughout the courtroom. Carter slapped Roman encouragingly on the back and then went to find a seat in the gallery. Roman took the empty chair beside me. He was a sharp contrast to Marcel. Roman had no briefcase, not even a single piece of paper, and was still wearing the clothes he’d had on earlier: jeans and a sweater.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed to him, grateful for the cover of the other voices. “This is suicide!”

  “You didn’t really think I’d abandon you to them, did you?” he asked. “And who knows your case better than me?”

  “They’ll kill you when it’s over, whether I win or lose.”

  Roman gave me a lopsided smile. “ ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do—’ ”

  “Oh, shut the fuck up,” I said, afraid I was going to start crying. “You’re an idiot. You shouldn’t have come here.”

  “You remember our talk about purpose and meaning?” he asked me, the smile disappearing. “Well, I think this might be mine. I think this is what I was meant to do, Georgina.”

  “Roman—”

  But there was no time for any more conversation. Judge Hannibal was banging the gavel—this time, sans thunder—trying to calm everyone down. They were still worked up about the idea of a nephilim walking freely in their midst.

  “Enough, enough,” Hannibal said. “I know we’re all shocked and awed, but get over it. We’ll deal with him later. If there’s no more drama in store, do you mind if we get started?” He glanced between the lawyers.

  “I’m ready when you are, your honor,” said Marcel.

  Roman nodded. “Let’s do this.”

  Chapter 19

  And so began my day in court.

  Despite Hannibal’s call for order, it was obvious that everyone was still fixated on Roman’s presence. I’d known nephilim were despised among greater immortals, but it wasn’t until today that the full scope of it hit me. It shed new light on why Roman and his kind were often so obsessed with getting back at the powers that be. I wondered if it was good to have some of the attention taken off me or if I’d just doomed myself further by association.

  “So,” said Judge Hannibal. “You’ve got some kind of gripe with your contract. Join the club.” Low chuckles from the demonic spectators rumbled around the room.

  Roman cleared his throat, silencing the chuckles. “Your honor, we have more than a ‘gripe.’ We have evidence that Hell not only violated her contract but also drew up another under false pretenses.”

  “That’s absurd,” said Marcel. “We can’t examine everyone in the world’s contract. If someone else has a problem, they can have their own trial.”

  “The other contract is for a human who’s still alive,” said Roman. “He’s in no position to file a claim, and his was tied in to the paperwork that brought hers to court.”

  Hannibal waved his hands dismissively. “Well, we haven’t even proved there’s anything wrong with hers, so let’s settle that before we start doing favors for others.”

  “Can we see her contract?” asked Roman.

  “Doris?” Hannibal glanced over at the woman with the laptop. She produced a heavy, metal box from underneath her desk with what appeared to be a numeric lock. After first consulting her laptop, she punched in a long series of digits. Smoke seeped out of the edges of the box. A moment later, she opened it up and produced a long, ornate scroll. She glanced at the judge.

  “Copies?”

  “Yes, please,” he told her.

  Doris repeated the procedure a couple more times, and I leaned toward Roman. “How does this work?” I whispered. “Isn’t there some kind of order? Doesn’t the prosecution go first?”

  “Maybe in an American court of law,” he whispered back. “Here? Everyone just gets out their argument when they can, and it’s up to the judge to keep order.”

  It surprised me. Considering the obsession with details around here, I would’ve expected a certain amount of painstaking procedure. Then again, a survival-of-the-fittest method of pushing your case wasn’t that out of line with Hell’s ideologies either.

  Scrolls were obtained for the judge and lawyers. Even though it was a copy, I was still a bit daunted when Roman spread the scroll out before us on the table. This was it, the contract that had bound my immortal soul. One small decision with centuries of consequences. It was written in English, and I supposed Doris’s magic scroll copy box must have the powers of translation since the original had been in Greek.

  “May I direct your attention to section 3A,” said Roman loudly. In a softer voice, he added to me, “The rest is pretty much standard Hell legalese.”

  It was true. The scroll was so big, we couldn’t open it in its entirety. From what I could see, most of it was a painfully detailed description of what it meant to serve as a succubus and give Hell the lease on your soul. In their defense, there wasn’t much they’d left out. I hadn’t read the full contract at the time. Niphon had summarized the high points for me, but it was impossible to say they didn’t let you know what you were in for. Fortunately, those technicalities weren’t our concern today.

  Roman read aloud:

  “In exchange for ownership of the aforementioned soul (see sections 1B, 4A, 4B, 5B part 1, 5B part 2, and appendix 574.3) and services detailed below (see sections 3A, 3B, 6A-F, 12C) as performed by the contractee (henceforth called ‘the Damned’), the almighty Kingdom of Hell and its representatives do agree to the following:

  1. Granting to the Damned of succubus powers described in sections 7.1A and 7.3A.

  2. All mortals who were acquainted with the Damned in her human life shall have all knowledge of her erased from their memories, never to be regained, in accordance with standard memory loss procedures (see appendix 23).”

  Roman looked up at the judge when he finished reading. “Now,” said Roman. “I can read appendix 23 if you want, but the point is that Hell did not honor part of their agreement. Someone she knew when she was human—a mortal—remembered her.”

  “Why wasn’t this raised back then?” asked Hannibal.

  “Because it happened a couple months ago,” said Roman. “The person in question is someone with a reincarnation contract who was alive then and today.”

  “If this person was reincarnated, then the point’s irrelevant,” said Marcel. “It’s not technically the same person anymore. Therefore, the contract stands.”

  “Not according to addendum 764 of the Treatise on Humanity ,” said Roman. “According to it, all individuals—humans and lesser immortals—are defined by their souls. No matter what shape that being takes, the soul remains constant, as does the individual’s identity. I’m sure Doris can produce a copy if we need it.”

  Doris looked at Hannibal expectantly. “Don’t bother,” he said. “I’m familiar with the Treatise. Okay. Operating under the assumption that souls are constant and individuals are defined by their souls, what proof do you have that this reincarnated individual remembered the petitioner here?”

  I expected Roman to say something and then realized he was waiting on me. It was still hard to wrap my head around the idea of everyone just jumping forward and speaking.

  “He called me by my name, your honor,” I said. “My first human name from the fifth century. The one he knew me as back then.”

  “Had he ever heard it before—in this lifetime?” prompted Roman.

  “No,” I said.

  “Did anyone witness this?” asked Marcel.

  “No,” I said.

  “I see,” he said, managing to make me feel very small with those two words. His tone implied that it was a miracle we’d even made it this far on such flimsy evidence.

  “It’s okay,” said Roman. “Because we have more. This same reincarnated subject revealed under hypnosis remembering her in several other lives.”

  “Are there witnesses to that?” asked Hannibal.

  “We both witnessed it,” said Roman. “As well as an
imp employed in Seattle. Hugh Mitchell. He was the one who actually performed the hypnosis, if you wanted to summon him.”

  I tensed. Hugh was certainly an airtight witness—seeing as he wasn’t the petitioner in this case or a creature despised by both Heaven and Hell—but my earlier apprehension for him returned. I didn’t know if he could get in trouble for providing key evidence.

  “We don’t need him,” said Marcel. “You and he witnessed the same thing?”

  I nodded.

  Marcel glanced over at the jury. “You can tell if she’s lying. Is she telling the truth?”

  Six heads nodded. I was surprised I hadn’t thought of this earlier. Angels could tell if mortals and lesser immortals were telling the truth. That was handy in a trial like this. I was also surprised Marcel was helping me out like this.

  “There you have it,” he said. “She thinks she heard the subject remembering her under hypnosis. We can assume this imp would believe it as well.”

  “Hey,” I argued. “There’s no ‘thinks’ about it. He did remember me.”

  Marcel shrugged. “If you say so. We can only take your word for it and what you think you heard. There’s no objective evidence to show that he remembered, therefore calling our part of the bargain into dispute.”

  “Oh, we can find the evidence,” said Roman. “The subject in question is also under contract. And the very nature of his contract contradicts hers. Can you bring it up, Doris?”

  Hannibal nodded his consent, and she turned to her laptop. “Name?”

  “Kyriakos,” I said, trying not to stumble over the word. “That’s what it was in the fifth century, at least. In Cyprus. Today he’s Seth Mortensen.”

  The judge arched an eyebrow. “I like his books. Didn’t realize he was one of ours.”

  “Well, he’s not yet,” I muttered.

  Doris meanwhile was typing away on her laptop, putting in the appropriate criteria. She must have found the right case number because she soon turned to the smoking metal box and produced three more scrolls. The copies were distributed, and a strange feeling crept over my skin as Roman opened this one, stranger even than when we’d viewed my own. Here it was. Seth’s contract. Kyriakos’s contract. It had existed unbeknownst to me all these years, subtly influencing my life. It had been made because of me. Roman again jumped to section 2, which was apparently consistent across contracts as far as what “the Damned” received.

 

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