Succubus in the City (9 page)

She shook her head.

“We’ve got to tell Her,” I insisted. “If someone is hunting us, then this isn’t just about you and Steve.”

“I don’t know. I’m just so humiliated. A guy abjured me and dumped me in Brooklyn. Martha will think I’m a failure. I’m no good anymore. I’m fat and ugly and old and I can’t incite desire and I’m no good to Satan or to anyone. I’m so miserable—”

“Calm down, Des, it’s not you. It’s not even a little teeny tiny bit about you. Drink your drink, come on.”

As she sipped obediently I buttered a slice of crusty French bread from the basket and handed it to her. “Now eat some bread until the food comes. I’ll bet you haven’t eaten anything since last night.”

“Did so. A whole pint of Cherry Garcia. All by myself.”

“Good for you,” I praised her. “You need to keep up your strength at a time like this. And ice cream has protein and dairy and all that good stuff. And even cherries, so you had fruit, too, and we’re supposed to eat more fruit. Now eat your bread and then our mac and cheese will come.”

She dutifully ate some bread and I tried to wrap my mind around what she had told me. Because no matter what Desi thought of the situation, I was dead certain that we were being systematically hunted. What about that strange PI who’d turned up at my place on Monday? Okay, I hadn’t heard anything from him since, but that didn’t mean he was entirely gone. He had my home address and my work address and my e-mail. And I shivered and thought that I probably wasn’t even close to done with Mr. Nathan Coleman.

We had more bread, and as we ate I told Des about my strange visitor. “The thing of it is, he’s not like any kind of real PI,” I told her. “He’s deadly good-looking and way too educated. I mean, do you really think that guys who look like movie stars and graduate from Yale take jobs tracking down exes for child support and poking into people’s private lives for potential employers? I think not.”

“Really?” Desi asked. She had eaten two pieces of bread, which was respectable under the circumstances. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”

“Des,” I told her as I laid down my knife. “You have known me for six hundred years and I have never ever lied to you. Not about anything important.”

“Except that gold dress that you borrowed and ruined.”

“Except the gold dress,” I agreed. What else could I do? “But that was a hundred and fifty years ago and I paid you back and I took my punishment from Martha for that. And once in six hundred years is pretty reliable. That should count for something.”

“Except for white lies, too,” she added.

“Not lies,” I insisted. “Those were the fashions of the day, and when I told you I thought some of those dresses were fabulous on you, I was telling the truth. Just because we think some of those things look ridiculous now is beside the point. Everything looks ridiculous after thirty years or so. So I did
not ever
lie about any of that.

“Anyway, the PI is perfectly for real. Well, the guy himself is, though whether he is a PI or not is questionable. Deeply questionable. I don’t believe it for a minute, I don’t think. And I don’t think that any of this is coincidence, either. There’s something going on here.”

“You really think so?” Desi asked tearfully, but with the first hints of recovery in her tone. “Really?”

“Really,” I told her firmly. Then I thought for a moment. “And we met both of these guys within a day of each other. Hmmmm.”

“But I liked Steve a lot.” Desi sniffled.

Then the waiter reappeared with our lunches and we both dug into our mac and cheese with relish. I’ve heard comfort food is the next major trend, and for demons who don’t have to worry about calories it’s a great idea. Of course, when I was a child my comfort food was a barley cake with walnuts dipped in honey. No one makes them taste right anymore.

Desi was slowly coming to grips with her disappointment, and good food, along with sympathetic friends, lots of dessert, and distractions go a long way to recovering rational thought.

I waited until we’d both made a good dent in our main courses before I began to speak. Desi had actually paid attention to her food and wasn’t crying anymore. Rationality was slowly returning and she would be able to grapple with her emotions soon.

“Des, Steve is one of five million guys in this city. Yeah, he’s cute and smart, but he’s a complete loss. If he thinks you’re a minion of Hell, there’s no way you can recover. You’ve only had half a date with him, and sure, you’re used to men falling at your feet with protestations of eternal devotion after ten minutes. This one’s a total loss. Chalk it up and move on. There are so many much more attractive, attentive, interesting men out there. What about Peter? You don’t need to waste one minute of your life on this jerk, because that’s what he is. Only a jerk strands a girl in Brooklyn.”

“But, I
am
a minion of Hell,” she said softly.

“No way. You are not even close to a minion. You are one of Satan’s Chosen. You are of the First Rank of the Underworld and you deserve someone who will adore you. Someone who understands that you weren’t just handed this position, you achieved it through centuries of dedication and hard work. You are Desire Incarnate.

“Face it, you were just too much for the guy. You’re way out of his league.”

“You really think that?” Her voice was small and high, like a child’s.

“Yes, I do,” I answered firmly.

And then our Banana Nilla Vanilla puddings arrived and I deferred to a major mood reconstruction effort.

chapter
NINE

I dialed Satan’s private number as soon as I got back to the office, but only got voice mail. “Martha, it’s Lily and I’m really sorry to bother You. I know You’re insanely busy now, and I wouldn’t call if I didn’t think it was important. But I’ve just had lunch with Desi and someone told her date last night that she was, well, one of us. And I’ve had this fake PI nosing around me, too, and I think there’s something up. So I thought we should tell You—”

I was going to go on, but the tape cut off. Time up.

Since I was back in the office, I tried to pay attention to charm bracelets, but they weren’t doing it for me. I thought I was too upset about the possibilities of what was going on, but there was also the distinct possibility that I just didn’t like the charm bracelets.

I like things that are unified and create a complete look. In accessories, I look for items that will update last season’s great outfit. Or will pull together a look. Or will make clothes from H&M and Target look like they might have come from Barneys, because our readers need that. Most of them can’t afford the kind of designer clothing they want, and a lot of what I try to do is show them how to get that look on a budget with a few well-chosen accessories.

I got distracted as I was musing on my career and the possible places I could go, and did I want to stay in accessories and should I start looking. But looking is hard and I was at such a great magazine—was I really willing to go to someplace with a little less prestige in order to get into a better position? And really, I like accessories. A lot, truth be told.

Scarves. And shawls were going to be big in the fall. So maybe not sunglasses in June, but I could certainly push a feature on shawls and scarves for September.

I was deep in planning, both the feature and how I would approach the editor, when the phone rang. I picked it up half expecting to hear Susan (our editor’s assistant) on the line. So when I heard Martha’s voice so full of concern I was disconcerted.

“Are you certain that he was told?” Martha was saying before I could quite catch my breath.

“That’s what Desi said, and I don’t have any reason to think she’d be mistaken,” I answered. “Though of course it could be that the fact that she saw someone talk to her date right before he blew her off could have been coincidence. But that would be a stretch.”

“Indeed,” Satan agreed. “I think I need to talk to you girls, all of you, and immediately. Tonight. Dinner would be good. Dinner at Aquavit at nine. Tell the others, and I’ll see you then.”

I was suddenly cold. Satan was very serious to make the appointment immediately this evening, at prime dinner hour at such a popular restaurant. And I knew She was going to have to use some serious mojo to get us on the list. Though of course, whenever Satan really wants something She gets it. I guess it was a good thing I didn’t have a date that night.

Relieved that Satan was onboard and taking care of things, I was able to concentrate on my work and put together a rather exceptional proposal for my scarf and shawl feature to present at the next editorial meeting. I could coordinate with Samantha in Outerwear, and maybe we could even bring in Danielle with a forecast on boots and do a huge centerpiece. Perfect for the season and just what our readers wanted to know just as the clothes hit the stores.

It felt good to do this work. In the moments when I’m flying, when I’m really good at it, I feel like something bigger than myself. As if all the thousands of years I’ve spent observing and participating in humanity, all my love of fashion through all these years and the many places I have lived, all of it has come together seamlessly. Then I don’t think about how lonely I am at home. Being a succubus fades into the background and I’m Lily the editor, Lily the fashion setter. So I actually paid attention to my job and was glorious for at least four hours. Then it was time to go home and get ready to go to Aquavit.

Aquavit is justifiably one of the great restaurants of New York. I arrived at ten to nine. One does not keep Satan waiting. Desi was already there, and through the glass doors I saw Sybil get out of her cab. Martha arrived last and swept us all behind Her, and we followed along to the hostess desk. We were seated immediately at a prime table, next to the windows, far from the waitstand.

Martha ordered vodka martinis all the way around. This conversation was going to require serious drinking. Of course, She also ordered the caviar and gravlax appetizers, which arrived with dense rye bread.

“Now, girls, tell me what has been happening. I’m terribly worried for you,” She said, and Her voice was full of comfort and concern. She looked at each of us closely, warmly, and encouraged us to taste our drinks.

Eros and Sybil looked confused, and Desi immediately launched into the story of what had happened at the museum.

“Oh, but he was so nice,” Sybil cried.

“What a damn prick,” Eros said flatly. “You’re better off without him.”

Desi started to sniffle again and Martha patted her arm before putting the blueberry martini in her hand. Desi sipped as Martha addressed us all.

“I’m just collecting information to start,” She reassured us, “but trust me, we are not letting anyone get away with insulting or upsetting my Chosen Companions. We are not interested in this idiot at all, we only need to know how he was contacted and convinced. We, and I mean all of Hell, need to know who these people are. Who met this Steven Balducci in the museum, are they members of some organization or confraternity?” Martha studied each of us and nodded, apparently satisfied.

“And you, Lily, what’s this about some private investigator who showed up Monday evening? And he didn’t fall for you immediately? You could have simply invited him in,” She mused. “But yes, I suppose that he could be traced to you. I’m very proud you managed to dissuade him.”

“Thank you,” I said, my eyes on the remains of my caviar. One didn’t get praise from Satan so often that one didn’t cherish the moment. Besides, it didn’t seem like it would be polite to pick up the last of the caviar with my fingers, and I needed to concentrate. That took more discipline than I’d shown in weeks.

So I told Her about Nathan Coleman, about his e-mail and how he came to my place and had a cold so he was less susceptible to my magic. And how he said he’d gone to Yale and that didn’t match up in my worldview to a PI. Something just seemed off to me, and after Desi’s incident the timing looked awfully suspicious.

Our entrées arrived then. I had ordered haddock because it was so good with the leek sauce and truffle oil that I seriously doubted this was traditional Swedish food.

“This is insupportable,” Eros said, and I didn’t think she was talking about the dinner. “This kind of thing hasn’t happened in over a hundred years.”

“Here,” Satan corrected her softly. “There are plenty of areas in the world where our range of operations is fairly limited by these secret societies and cults. Even in this country there are states where we have to be careful and stay on the move. I have only two succubi for all of Georgia, not counting Atlanta. Of course, I save the plum jobs like New York for the elite. You’ve proved yourselves and you certainly don’t need to be inconvenienced by these narrow-minded bigots. I think only the greatest cities are deserving venues for my stars. Which is why it is more disturbing to see the forces of opposition gathering any following here, in my cities.”

The way She said “my cities” made it quite clear. They were Hers in every way that mattered: the people, the pavements, the pulse and tenor, the signs and colors and astronomical rents. All of it belonged to Satan, here in New York and London and Paris and Tokyo and Buenos Aires and Rio and Los Angeles. All the fun and fashionable places, all the places one wanted to be, with the best food and the most wonderful shops and the trendiest people.

Sybil had turned white and put down her fork. Since there was still food on her plate, I assumed that something else was wrong. “Nononono” she muttered softly, her eyes blank and her concentration inward. I thought she was having a vision of the future and waited to hear what she would pronounce. Whatever it was sounded like it wouldn’t be too good.

“Is it them again?” she whispered. “Is it them?”

“Who, dear?” Martha coaxed her.

“The Burning Men,” Sybil replied, and then I realized that what terrified her so was the past, not the future. Sybil had lived through the English Civil War when the Protestant fundamentalists under Cromwell had ousted the King and had vigorously purged and burned anyone who didn’t follow their dictates to the letter. So in the course of routing out Catholics and less rigid Protestants, and those few intellectuals who cared more for evidence and scholarship than toeing the party line, Cromwell’s men had also managed to eliminate a not-insignificant portion of us. I think Sybil had been imprisoned by them for some months, and it was only the end of Cromwell and the restoration of Charles II to the throne that had saved her.