Succubus Takes Manhattan (18 page)

We turned off the tumult of Mott Street and wound through some darker, less populated streets until we came to the Chinatown Gate. In the dark, it was impressive, painted in red and green and gold. At least four theaters displayed posters from current kung fu films. Beautiful women in diaphanous silks wielded swords and long pikes, men in Mao caps clashed with men in sleek Hong Kong–tailored suits.

Marten and I held hands under the trees. We wandered aimlessly through the neon and posters, taking in the ambience. This was not a New York I frequented, and every time I came down here I wondered why it had been so long. We should have gone for dim sum, I thought, to those cavernous palaces where skinny women wheeled carts full of delicious little plates that I couldn’t identify.

“Dessert?” I asked.

Marten agreed, so we turned back to the lights and crowd of Mott Street and held hands as we navigated the press. Two blocks up the brilliance and noise suddenly disappeared, and it was darker and quiet. No one wandered these streets.

“If I were paranoid, I would think that you had brought me here to be robbed,” Marten said, and his voice held just a hint of apprehension.

I laughed. “Once upon a time that would have been a very real possibility. Especially in this neighborhood. Only that was over a hundred years ago and we’re both scarier than anyone who would find us here.”

“No Mafia?” he inquired. “I saw
The Godfather
at least three times.”

“Oh, no, they’re all respectable businessmen now,” I informed him solemnly.

Then we turned onto Canal and our destination was in sight. Ferrara, purveyors of amazing Italian pastries for generations, had not changed since the last time I’d wandered into Little Italy during a saint’s feast. Then the avenue had been packed with people and there had been a line for Ferrara’s cannoli, which are the best in New York and possibly the best outside of Italy. Better than some I’ve had in Italy, too.

The restaurant is long and narrow with dark stone tables and brass trim. By ten in the evening the dessert case was picked over. Marten chose an éclair and I ordered three cannoli. We took our desserts and coffees to one of the dark reddish brown marble tables and, after sampling, Marten agreed with me that the cannoli were definitely better than anything else and perhaps we should get three or four more.

“Is this a popular place for demons?” Marten asked interestedly.

I glanced around. “No,” I told him. “This is really old New York. That’s why I wanted to come down here.”

“You remember when it was trendy?” he asked.

I shrugged. “It was never really trendy. Why do you ask?”

He looked at me and the pretenses of normalcy dropped. “I have sent Meph a secure e-mail, and I have copied the evidence and secreted it. Do you remember the man in Aruba who warned me that you were a succubus? And I told him that I had slept with you and lived, so he must be mistaken?”

I nodded, wanting to say his name but biting it back.

“He is here. I have seen him in the lobby of my hotel. He . . . watches me. I think that maybe he has figured out that I am not innocent of Hell. I think he is following me, but I do not know if he hopes that I will lead him to you, or to Meph. Or to someone else entirely.”

“Maybe it’s you he’s after,” I offered, in part because I believed that wasn’t true. No, Craig Branford was after me and mine. And he was being directed by Mephistopheles’ enemy. I was certain that was true, just as I was certain that Vincent’s disappearance was part of the larger pattern.

“Was he in the lobby when I met you?” I asked, suddenly paranoid.

Marten smiled. “No. I had seen him earlier and just before we were to meet I went on a short brisk walk and confused him in several places. I believe that I lost him in an art gallery, but it might have been the hot dog stand before that. I saw nothing of him when I returned, or I would have called you and asked you to meet me elsewhere.”

Suddenly light dawned. “Is he the reason you came to pick me up yesterday instead of waiting for me to meet you downtown? But he knows where I live. He could have staked the place out!”

“He knows you’re on to him, Lily,” Marten said. “I don’t think he’d risk showing up at your place again.”

If only I could deliver Branford I could keep us all safe. But if I delivered him, I couldn’t find out who had been feeding him information all along. Not really a good plan. The demon in charge would just find another human to use and everything would go on as before.

“I don’t want to go back to your hotel,” I said.

Martin nodded and touched my hair lightly. “We don’t have to go back there. Shall we go to your apartment?”

I shook my head. “Branford knows where I live. I’m afraid. I don’t feel safe anymore, not even in my own home.”

I hated feeling weak in front of Marten, but while he had heard of what had happened he hadn’t been the one to suffer the burns. I had bad memories of that man. Satan had healed my flesh without a mark, but She hadn’t erased the knowledge of being burned, of being in more pain than I had ever experienced in my life. I shook with the memory and the fear.

“It’s okay,” he said, rubbing my back. “I know what we should do. We will go to a hotel, some old grande dame of a hotel. The Pierre. The Ritz Carlton. The Plaza. The Waldorf-Astoria. Somewhere where no one would ever expect us to go. I will leave my things and we will disappear and let the Enforcers trace this man while we hide in luxury.”

“I don’t have my things,” I said.

“Nor do I,” Marten agreed. “We will buy new things. For one night. We shall have an adventure and pretend to be tourists. And really, I am not pretending. I have never been here before. I should like to go to Weiser’s . . .”

I sniffled and blew my nose into the paper napkin with the elegant F of Ferrara’s stamped in mustard gold.

“Weiser’s shop closed years ago” I said, sullen. Sometimes being surrounded by men who all think they’re James Bond makes me crazy. They all have plots and plans and think they can outwit the bad guys (while keeping their designer sportswear spiffy) and play spies.

“Then tomorrow we will go to the Empire State Building and Barneys,” he said firmly.

“You’ve already been to Barneys,” I pointed out, not mollified.

“We’ll see what Security comes up with tonight. Or that PI of yours, who appears to have some other interest in the case. We can figure out tomorrow tomorrow, but for now I will assume that it will be safe to return to my hotel and your apartment and everything will be fine. Resolved.”

“And then you’ll get on a plane and leave,” I finished the thought.

He studied my face as if he were trying to decide something. I could see the conflict in him but I wasn’t even sure that I wanted to know what he was thinking. Nothing was easy anymore. I wanted it to be easy again. Hunting, clean and simple, serve Satan and womankind, weed out the jerks and hang with my girlfriends and not feel this way inside.

Not feel confused, wanting and not wanting and not knowing what I wanted. I wanted Marten to stay, to live in New York. I wanted him to be my boyfriend. But I also wanted Nathan back. Was it possible to get Nathan back? What happened if Nathan decided to get back with me and Marten had stayed in New York? Would he hate me? Would they both hate me?

My head was spinning with possibilities, each of which was weirder than the last. And some of which were definitely appealing.

“Come on, let’s go shopping,” Marten said as he stood up and collected our plates.

It was after ten, but New York is the city that never sleeps. Some of the shops in SoHo and the East Village are open until midnight, and the street vendors are there unless the police shoo them away. There are the all-night convenience stores with their brilliant bins of flowers and fruit displayed outside like old-fashioned market carts, but with necessary items like toothpaste and aspirin on shelves next to the Pepperidge Farm cookies and the Campbell’s gravy.

First we collected the necessities, a razor for Marten and toothbrushes and toothpaste and floss, little plastic combs and a tiny mirror for me. Then we went in search of clothes, and without the better shops open I was forced to abandon my usual brands.

We scoured the stores up and down Eighth Street and St. Mark’s that were still open. In a weird way it was kind of fun. I could see the appeal of James Bond. In less than an hour we had managed to acquire what we would need for one night. “Where shall we go?” Marten asked, smiling broadly. He was enjoying this entirely too much. I disapproved. This was serious self-protection, not a lark.

I thought about it. Where? Nothing too special, not the Plaza or the Sherry-Netherland. Something huge and less personal. A Sheraton, perhaps, or a Marriott, which were well outside my usual preferences.

We decided on the Courtyard by Marriott on the East Side in the 40s.

“Are you worried about any of your things?” I asked Marten as we stood at the check-in desk in the creamy marble lobby.

“You mean like my computer?” he asked. “No. I don’t think so. There are things on there I would not like someone like this person to see, but I have some confidence that he cannot get into those files. And in any case, he could not trace us here. No one can trace us here; we didn’t know we would be here ourselves until fifteen minutes ago.”

“And we still might not be,” I mumbled sourly. The clerk was still fussing with something at the computer and hadn’t paid attention to us yet. For all I knew they wouldn’t have a vacancy.

Then the uniformed clerk noticed us and lit up with a kilowatt of fake smile. We were checked in to room 1427 and asked (entirely too cheerily) if we needed help with our baggage. Normally, of course, I would have said yes. I always need help with my bags. I do not carry luggage anywhere, not if there is a bellman or porter somewhere in a neighboring country.

But Marten airily said, “No, I can manage,” and then fought with the cheap handle on our hastily purchased wheeled case. Eventually he manhandled it into the elevator and I hit the button for the fourteenth floor.

We got out, got to the door, and had to try both of our keys at least twice before the door decided to open.

This was not turning out to be as much fun as we had anticipated. I didn’t want to stay in this place. I wanted to go home, to my apartment, to my familiar bed with my Frette sheets and my Lush soaps and a doorman downstairs watching out for me. I followed Marten and the bag into the room—and found it occupied.

“How in Hell did you . . . ?” I sputtered.

Azoked was curled up in the easy chair eating Ben & Jerry’s Fudge Brownie out of the pint container. A room service tray bearing evidence of a full meal sat pushed to one side.

“Oh, you are not in the Library,” Azoked said as she licked the back of her spoon. “But he is. I didn’t even know that you would be coming here, but his residency was registered in the Akashic much earlier, so I knew I would be able to trace you. And you’re late, by the way. I had to skip the dinner I had hoped for at The Palm and wait for you instead.”

I studied the tray. “Looks like you tried half the entrées on the room service menu,” I said, furious.

“I didn’t know what I would like,” the Librarian in her blue robe told me as if this were the most reasonable motive in the world.

Marten stood stock-still and gesticulated deliberately. After a few firm sweeps of his right hand I could see that he was drawing sigils in the air, I suppose to confine Azoked to some segment of the room or something. Or maybe to banish her. I knew there were lots of rituals for getting rid of demons and maybe Marten could make her disappear for good, an act of ceremonial magic I would enthusiastically applaud.

“Stop,” Azoked yelled. Then she turned to me. “Tell him to stop! I have important information and he is treating me like an enemy!” Her voice rose sharply as if someone had tweaked her tail.

“It’s okay, Marten,” I said. “She’s one of ours. She’s the Librarian that Satan has assigned to the problem.”

“Librarian?” Marten asked suspiciously, his hands frozen in midair.

“From the Akashic Library,” Azoked said. “And my rank is a full Librarian and you had better stop trying to get rid of me.”

“Really, it’s okay,” I sighed. It wasn’t okay. Azoked managed to make my life miserable every time she appeared, but she wasn’t the enemy and she wasn’t going to do either of us harm. Well, unless you counted high blood pressure and homicidal urges. “She’s not going to hurt us. And she might have information.”

Marten, who had been staring wide-eyed ever since he heard what Azoked did, bowed low. To Azoked. I was horrified.

And Azoked just lapped it up, smiled and started grooming flecks of ice cream off her whiskers.

“Azoked is a Bastform demon,” I said to Marten. “But she’s mostly a Librarian, so you can just treat her like me or anyone else in the Hierarchy. Except that she loves ice cream.”

“Bastform,” he whispered, as if he had never seen one before. And perhaps he hadn’t. They aren’t common, not anymore, so even Marten’s magical training might not have covered them.

“Do you know what the Akashic is?” Marten turned to me, his eyes glowing. “It’s the Holy Grail, the Book of Life and the Book of Knowledge all together. It is the dream of every magician to enter there, just once. I never knew there were Librarians.”

“It had better not be the Holy Grail,” I said curtly. “Or else I would go up in smoke even worse than the holy water incident that I would really prefer to forget. Or doesn’t anyone else here appreciate that?”

Marten just shook his head, but did not take his eyes from Azoked. “Access to the
Akashic Record
is one of the most difficult feats of magic,” he told us.

“Even better than turning lead to gold?” Azoked led him on.

Marten nodded.

I was getting a little tired of the mutual admiration society.

“What did you want to tell us, Azoked?” I asked, trying to keep it businesslike.

The Bastform demon smiled and hissed. “He can bow to me again,” she said. “I liked that. Why don’t you do that?”

Because I’m one of Satan’s Chosen,
I thought, but I wasn’t about to say that to Azoked. Well, I was about to, but thought better of it. It didn’t cost me anything for Marten to bow if he wanted to.