Succubus Takes Manhattan

by Nina Harper

  “More swimsuits?” I inquired.

  Danielle shook her head. “Vacation wear, not beach. For going to dinner after the beach. It will be a nice article, white dresses, sheer fabrics, lace. But they need shoes.”

  Then I remembered that I had had a box for Elizabeth. The necklace I had untangled belonged in it. And a Kate Spade clutch and two rings. I found them all, dumped them into one of the smaller boxes, and wrote Elizabeth’s name on it.

  Then the phone rang and Desi asked if I would like to go for a drink. After the past forty-eight hours I think I deserved more than one.

  chapter

  FOURTEEN

  Des met me at the small neighborhood bar around the corner from my office. Not our usual kind of place; it reeked of old boys’ network. At least the drinks, while neither innovative nor trendy, were strong. Desi was already seated in front of a half-empty glass when I arrived. She got up and hugged me before I went up to the bar to order, and then sank into the lush leather club chair next to her.

  “I hope you weren’t too busy,” she started, “but no one else is telling me what’s going on. Sybil is sobbing and said something about Vincent being kidnapped and Eros is closeted with Beliel planning revenge and none of it makes any sense. Do you have any idea what’s happening, Lily, or have our friends gone nuts?”

  I sipped my vodka and cranberry and sighed. “I can’t believe they didn’t tell you. I’m sorry I didn’t but on top of the Vincent crisis I’m having an incident at work. The short version is that Vincent is missing. He never showed up at Sybil’s and we don’t know what happened. So I’ve hired Nathan to try to find him. We don’t know where he is but we don’t know he’s kidnapped—we haven’t gotten a note or a ransom demand or anything.”

  “You don’t think he’s run away or something?” she asked, horrified.

  I shook my head. “We can’t go to the police about it, and there is the small matter that he is legally dead. But no, I think something bad happened. I think it has to do with Branford. After I was followed in Venice—how did he know I was there? Who does he know in Venice? And then he showed up at Public. No, I think there’s something going on. Maybe Vincent went off to try to capture Branford. Or something. And got hurt. Because otherwise I can’t think of why they would go after him. It doesn’t make any sense to me. And working with Nathan is hard. I don’t want to think about any of it.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Desi said and patted my hand. Then she gestured to the barman for fresh drinks. “Dealing with Nathan at all is way above and beyond. Especially after what he did to you. Poor Lily. Do you want to get back together with him?”

  I nodded. “Of course I do. But he won’t, he hates what I am even if he loves me. Dealing with him to try to find Vincent makes it all worse. And that’s not all.” I told her about Lawrence and my office and about seeing Marten. “I have another date tonight.” Looking at my new drink I tapped the table lightly. “And, given that, this should probably be my last drink for the afternoon. I don’t want to be tipsy when I meet Marten. Des, I think I’m falling for him.”

  Her soft round eyes got even wider. “Really? As in really falling in love with him? You hardly know him. I think it’s a little . . . sudden.”

  “Me too,” I agreed. “But I keep having these feelings about him. Especially when he’s so nice to me and put me in a cab when I was tired and didn’t have sex with me. I always think men only want sex from me, but he really seemed to care more about me. But what about you? You’ve been so quiet since Aruba. What happened to you at Hatuman’s party? Did you meet anyone nice?”

  Desi shrugged. “Since Steve, I do my job. Both at work and as a demon. But I’m just going through the motions. My heart isn’t in anything anymore. I feel like I’m sleepwalking through everything. I just left the party. I wasn’t having any fun.”

  I hugged her. I was certain being hurt and betrayed had made her emotionally withdrawn. The same had happened to me in the distant past. “It’ll get better,” I told her. Then I hesitated before I asked the next question. “What about Eros and Beliel? Do you think they’re together? Or just friends? She seems to be spending a lot of time with him lately.”

  Desi nodded sagely. “Yes, I’d wondered that myself. She was practically his arm candy at Hatuman’s. You were with Marten, Sybil was with Vincent, Eros was with Beliel, and I was all alone.”

  I hugged her again. “Given the choice between Beliel and alone, I’d choose alone,” I told her as she whimpered on my shoulder. At least that got a giggle. “Do you have any idea of what Eros sees in him?”

  “He’s attractive in a kind of military way,” Desi said. “And he’s important and powerful. You know, people have been speculating about you and Meph recently, too. Just to give you some perspective.”

  I was astonished. “But you know I’m not dating Meph,” I protested. “Not even a little bit.”

  “Exactly. Eros hasn’t said anything to us, and if she were really dating someone I think she’d tell us. But they do seem to have become more friendly lately.” Then she looked at her phone. “Oh my goodness, it’s almost six,” she exclaimed, jumping up (at least as much as anyone with two very strong drinks in her could manage). “What time is your date? You need to get home and get ready.”

  So I was late again getting ready. I stepped into a steaming shower and lathered up with my latest acquisitions from Lush, and thought about what Desi had told me. I wondered what was going on with Eros and Beliel. Because if I were honest, Beliel frightened me. He was always perfectly correct, but there was something about his manner that made me feel as if he disapproved of me. Maybe he disapproved of everyone. Maybe that was what Eros found interesting about him.

  By the time I got a cab and fought the traffic downtown, I was twenty minutes late. Fortunately, Marten was reading in the hotel lobby. His eyes widened as he saw me in my jeans, but he didn’t seem terribly disappointed.

  “I had this idea,” I said breathily. “Why don’t we go somewhere more . . . traditionally New York, if you know what I mean. We haven’t eaten in Chinatown, or Little Italy or Curry Row. We could even go skating at Rockefeller Center, if you like.”

  Marten grinned. “But you said you don’t skate.”

  I laughed and some of the tension that had been tight in my chest broke. “You’re right, I don’t skate. I’ve tried twice and couldn’t manage to keep my feet under me. I think I crawled off the ice. But—maybe you could teach me.”

  “What makes you think I can skate?” Marten asked, all innocence. “I am from Aruba, remember.”

  “Ha! The Dutch are famous skaters. Lots of Olympic medals in speed skating. I watch the Olympics,” I told him.

  We went upstairs. He was going to change, but once his clothes were off it seemed so much more reasonable to, well, take advantage of that situation. And then we had to shower, and this time he dressed in tight-fitting jeans that showed off just how athletic he was (which was, very. Yum). And an Armani sweater.

  We went to Chinatown, to Wo Hop downstairs where there was always a line and the waiters were always rude and the linoleum had been worn and cracked for as long as I could remember. And the roast duck chow fun was full of crisp bits of duck and big enough for two.

  We ate. We giggled at the rude waiters and the streaky glasses of tea, and talked like we were normal nonmagical people. I told him about Lawrence and my horror at work; he told me about how he’d ended up in Aruba and how he had gone to university and worked as an accountant back in Rotterdam.

  We finished our dinner, paid the ridiculously low bill, and then walked out into Chinatown, which was loud and bright and busy even on a weeknight. So many people crowded the streets that it was hard to navigate. Windows displayed glazed or raw ducks, fish tanks, vegetables that I didn’t recognize. Some stores had racks of silk kimonos, Chinese shoes, little plastic toys, and paper fans on the sidewalk. People talked loudly in English, Chinese, Spanish, Greek, Italian, and the food smells were just li
ke the languages: demanding, competing, enticing, and confusing.

  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 Pepperidg
e 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.