Succubus Takes Manhattan

by Nina Harper

  “I’m on my way to meet Satan at the Pierre,” I said. “I guess you won’t be on for a pajama party,” Sybil surmised.

  “I’m really sorry,” I apologized. “Nathan showed up and then Meph and now Satan wants to meet with me and this thing is just getting out of hand. I don’t know what’s going on anymore.”

  “This whole party was about you, about you telling us what actually happened,” Sybil protested. “But if Satan wants to see you personally, I guess we can take a rain check.”

  “Thank you,” I said, relieved. “You guys are the best.”

  The lobby at the Pierre is vast, a study in ormolu and tapestry upholstery and painted ceilings that would not look out of place in a palace in Europe. The bar is based on the same period (Louis XIV), and the same royal abode (Versailles), but it is a study in silence, the deep, luscious silence that great wealth and attention to details (not to mention deep pile, hand-loomed French carpets) bring. The cream and gold was rich and soothing, and the rose and blue wall hangings and rugs merely made the space warm and attractive.

  Satan sat on a Louis XIV-style chair upholstered in rose and gold, wearing a Lanvin dress in deep sea green. Her hair, so very dark, sparkled with gold and copper highlights brighter than the Tiffany diamonds in Her ears or on Her hands.

  Satan is breathtakingly beautiful. She had been the most beautiful angel of the Host before She had been given Her current assignment by On High. Don’t fall for that story of a rebellion in Heaven and Satan saying that She would rather rule in Hell—that’s the human version. Good poetry, of course, but Milton and Dante would have made the laundry list sound like the Angelic Hosts. Trust me, the real incident of Satan’s assignment was far more complex than any human author ever suspected.

  Anyway, She had a glass of amber liquid in Her hand, from which She was sipping slowly. As I entered the room Her eyes found me and I came to Her and saw nothing else. No hotel bar that could serve as a movie set for Versailles, none of the very rich and very important guests who sat clustered in the corner or at the bar, nothing but Satan.

  Her face was perfectly composed. She looked like a magazine shoot come to life. She smiled and patted the seat beside Her. I wanted to drop in obeisance as I would if we were at Court, but we were in the Pierre where such things might be frowned upon. So I sat and a waiter appeared with a cosmo as soon as I hit the cushion.

  “I ordered for you,” Satan said graciously. I wondered how She had thought of the cosmo—it wasn’t a Satan kind of drink.

  “Thank you, Satan,” I said formally. For all the venue and the drinks, this was a formal interview.

  Sometimes, for the record, Satan is my friend. We shop, we lunch, we take tea at Lady Mendel’s, we sometimes go to the opera or a rock concert together. Sometimes She is a girlfriend. Sometimes She is more of the senior aunt, or beloved professor, more knowing and powerful but benevolent. In the mode of friend and mentor, Her Chosen call Her Martha.

  She was not Martha now. I studied Her face, Her slender hands, Her elegantly crossed calves, for any sign of displeasure.

  Then She smiled and I let go of the breath I had been holding.

  “Oh, Lily, dear,” She said, and patted the back of my hand. “I understand that you’re concerned about your job and about Raven. And I think it’s dear of you to have tried to rescue her yourself, with help from a human man who doesn’t even practice magic. That was very brave and generous of you and I want you to know that I have noted it. I want you to go to Aruba. Since you have shown such kindness to this young demon, I would like you to become her mentor. She may one day be fit to join you as my Companion.”

  “She has awful taste in clothes,” I mentioned, just so that Satan would understand that shopping with Raven wasn’t going to be any fun.

  Satan laughed and I relaxed. Making Her laugh is always a good sign, a hint of Martha in our Master.

  “Well, then, perhaps you can teach her. But it is My personal wish that you go down to Aruba to be there when she is retrieved, and to act as her comforter. I trust Mephistopheles with everything in Hell, but really, he isn’t the most supportive person for a young girl demon. She needs the nurturing of a woman, a succubus, a devoted daughter.”

  “Of course, Satan. Since it is Your wish, of course.” Because no matter how much I wanted to keep my job, I knew I had to serve Satan first. Come to think of it, that would be a pretty good slogan for us Hellspawn—Serve Satan First. I could see it on bumper stickers, in .sig files, on the bottom line of the official engraved stationery.

  “Good.” She smiled again. “I wanted to be sure you understood. This is important to Me. This girl may have evidence of which of My demons is betraying Me, and I must know who it is. Some things are simply intolerable.”

  “To all of us, Satan,” I said from the depths of my heart. “Our first priority is discovering the traitor, all of us.”

  “But you’re in the center of it,” She said, sipping what I assumed was a fifty-year-old single malt. “I am aware of all you have done, which is why I have not mentioned the lack of deliveries of late. I understand that you have been too busy with My other affairs, and I give you leave to pursue My interests even if it takes time from your primary occupation.”

  I think I blushed. I had been aware that I had been falling down on the deliveries, but I had been overwhelmed. I was grateful that She was, in essence, forgiving me.

  “Thank you, Satan.”

  “But once this business is over, you will need to step up production just a tiny bit. To make up and show your gratitude for My generosity.”

  “Of course, Satan.” Because there is no other answer to Satan. Because, no matter how much She loves to eat at nice restaurants and shop, She is still the autocrat of Hell. I was lucky that She was willing to overlook the fact that I had been falling down on the soul deliveries. Lucky—and Her friend.

  “I wanted to make this direct and personal,” She continued. “And there is one more thing. Go to Aruba. Become Raven’s mentor. Hire her as an intern at the magazine, maybe in the art department. She does have talent and will do an excellent job. And I will make sure that your job is there for you when you return. There will be no problem with your bosses.”

  “Thank you, Satan.” That was as heartfelt a prayer as any I had ever uttered. I didn’t care if I had to go to Aruba (hard job, that, when it was still cold and raining in New York and there was a hot guy I was dating waiting down there to see me as well) and mentor a sullen, suicidal she-demon. Satan Herself had guaranteed my job. And my life.

  “May I ask a question, Master?” I asked softly.

  She inclined Her head graciously. “You may.”

  “Why must we go to Aruba? Why can’t we do the summoning here in New York?”

  Satan raised one perfectly waxed eyebrow over Her glass. “That was Mephistopheles’ decision,” She replied. “He believes that Raven will be safer out of New York right after the ritual. Of course you will return immediately, but the fact that they won’t be able to trace you to the city by magic should delay any trace they might make. I believe that Mephistopheles hopes that taking the ritual over water will also break some of the magical links.”

  I didn’t point out that Manhattan is already an island. Satan knew that. If She and Meph felt that going well offshore would increase the safety of the working I was happy to agree.

  “Now get back and go to sleep,” She ordered me. “You have to be at the airport early. And I will be watching what happens in Aruba. I will be watching Raven and of course I am always watching over you. Now, out.”

  I rose and nodded deeply enough to indicate a bow before I left. I didn’t even remember tasting my drink.

  Vincent greeted me at my door. “Mephistopheles said that he will meet you in the first-class lounge inside security tomorrow morning. Both gentlemen have left. Do you need help with the bags?”

  The apartment looked good when I arrived. Meph, or more likely one of his lower servants, had straigh
tened the place out. The dishwasher had run; the bed was made and the towels fluffed and folded on the rail. In the bedroom, my medium-sized Louis Vuitton lay open and full of carefully folded garments.

  Well, Satan had told Meph to pack for me and that he was better with women’s clothes than I had ever dreamed. He had picked out all the turquoise beachwear I’d bought the month before when I’d gone down for vacation and even included two light silk dresses (one Versace and one Dolce & Gabbana) for going out, my favorite pair of Seven For All Mankind jeans, and one pair of black open-toe Christian Louboutins.

  I wondered if Mephistopheles, second only to Satan, had been humiliated to be ordered to pack my bag. In any case, he had done a brilliant job. I checked the makeup case, made sure I had some bronzer and the summer tawny blush that I’d put away until the sun shone in New York again, and called it done.

  I didn’t bother with the TSA-approved locks. TSA works for us on the side. And I went to sleep until the alarm woke me, way too early.

  chapter

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The Queen Wilhelmina Airport in Orangestad, Aruba, hadn’t changed. The flights had been uneventful and we’d made our connections without any trouble. Airports and air transportation come under the jurisdiction of Hell, and we do our best to give our customers a foretaste of the afterlife. I’ve always tried not to look at people in airports. Some of them are damned souls, condemned to eternal flight delays, missed connections, and lukewarm airport pizza.

  But for our own our system is a glory of efficiency and comfort. First-class lounges, automatic upgrades, and decent food and wine greet the aristocrats of Hell. And why not? Don’t we own the place?

  Marten met us in the brilliant sunshine that greeted us when we exited customs and the building. We were practically in downtown, not a far walk from the Royal Sonesta where we had reservations waiting.

  Meph had gotten us a suite with a living room and three bedrooms, each with a Jacuzzi bath and Dom Pérignon in the mini fridge. The living room had sofas, a dining table, and a separate kitchen that was about the size of my entire apartment.

  Nathan, Meph, and I took about an hour to shower, change out of travel clothes and settle in. Meph wasn’t finished when I arrived in the living room of the suite to see Marten and Nathan studying each other warily, like two tigers sizing up a rival.

  It was an interesting contrast. Nathan with his long black hair and winter-white skin looked almost like he came from a Russian fairy tale. His tight jeans and custom-made, white button-down shirt didn’t quite go with that image, but it was hot in Aruba and his leather drover’s coat would have melted him.

  Marten, blond and tanned, appeared cool and comfortable in pale khaki linen slacks and designer flip-flops. He wore a black Armani tee that showed off rather spectacular muscular development and wouldn’t have hidden a handgun had he been carrying one. Was he really an Interpol agent? Do Interpol agents carry guns? Even the accountants? There was no holster and that tee shirt left little to the imagination.

  They were talking, so focused on each other that they hadn’t noticed that I’d arrived.

  “So, in your studies, did you find any references to demons and demon magic?” Marten asked. “We are told there were excellent texts, now lost, with full rituals of evocation and guarding. And the words of power, of course.”

  “Very few of the population were literate,” Nathan countered. “Are you talking about the Temple rituals? We do have some records of those, at least of some of the chants.”

  Marten shook his head very slightly. “So much knowledge has been lost.”

  “Can’t you call up a demon from then and get it to tell you everything?” Nathan asked, half challenging.

  Marten sighed. “It is not so easy. To call a demon, to create a real ritual call, is very difficult and time consuming. One wishes to have more to show for it than an ancient ritual.”

  “But you’re ready now?” I asked, interrupting.

  “Yes,” Marten said. “I am ready.”

  “But I thought there were a lot of rituals and things you had to do before you could do a demon calling, or at least that’s what it sounded like,” Nathan probed.

  “This is true,” Marten agreed. “But since I have been working with Mephistopheles I have been keeping a level of preparation just in case of such a necessity.”

  “Okay, so you’re not eating much, but celibacy?” I was truly amazed. Marten did not strike me as the type who could manage celibacy at all, let alone for any period longer than a day or two. The longer periods of fasting were manageable, I suppose, since mostly they mean no meat or sugar, any substance that keeps the magician anchored to the physical world. So he was being vegetarian for the time being—that was possible. Even reasonable. But celibacy? Marten?

  “There are rituals where sex is central,” Marten countered, staring right at me. “As a succubus, you are at the center of one of them, but there are many more.”

  “Yes, but not demon calling,” Meph said as he entered. “That has always required a period of celibacy that lasts from a few days to a few years.”

  Meph looked amazing. He had not only showered and changed into jeans, but had changed his face and hair subtly so that he looked younger and more dynamic (and slightly less frightening) than he did in New York.

  Marten shrugged. “I have said that I am ready. That should be sufficient.”

  “What happens if he isn’t all, ummm, prepared?” Nathan asked me.

  There was a lovely flower arrangement on the coffee table, huge orange and brilliant yellow tropical flowers that looked like exotic animals. I bent over to inhale their heady, overly sweet scent. “He could die,” I said, keeping my voice light and casual. “He could be eaten by the demon he calls, he could be torn apart by enemies in the World of Formation, he could fail to rise through the planes and be trapped in the illusion.”

  “Which means?” Nathan was urging me on. I don’t think it was so much an academic interest in magic as it was a hope that this other strong, virile, vigorous man who had a great deal of my attention would be undone. Suddenly I felt embarrassed by Nathan and had a tug of tenderness for Marten’s maturity and compassion in handling my ex.

  “Which means he would be locked in a lunatic asylum until Hell collected his soul,” Mephistopheles commented dryly. “Marten has been doing magic for a while; he knows the risks.”

  “I thought we could work here instead of my place, if you do not mind,” Marten continued, his face carefully bland. “The incense, you understand . . .”

  And the possible destruction of property. I understood too well.

  “So when do we get started?” I asked with forced cheer. I wanted this done, I wanted it over with, I hated the way Marten and Nathan seemed to be sniping for advantage. I didn’t believe that Marten was an Interpol agent either. That was just more of Nathan trying to score against a rival.

  “We can’t do anything until after dark,” Mephistopheles announced. “So we will go to dinner. I’m glad to say we were able to get a reservation at the best restaurant in town.”

  I hid my smile. Trust Meph!

  And he wasn’t joking. Bistro M used to be Chez Mathilde, always a favorite but now turned so elegantly modern that it would have gotten notice in New York. From the gravity fountain outside to the deep plushy seats in the bar, it was spare and modern but comfortable and even lush. In the dining room, framed flat-screens cycled through great works of classical art (heavy on the Dutch masters) in a blend of modern and postmodern that would make my head spin if I thought about it too hard. Someone should do that in New York and invite writers from The New Yorker to engage in some semiotic deconstruction. Which might be almost as delicious as the meal we were served.

  So we ate. We ate extravagantly well. Crisp fried goat cheese with mango chutney and Asian duck salad, and an asparagus soup with hazelnuts to start. For a main course I chose the grouper because it came in a coconut sauce and Nathan had the same, Meph had th
e veal, and Marten had no choice at all—by the rules of high magic he was stuck with the vegetarian entrée. Which turned out to be a very tempting-looking wild mushroom risotto. He wasn’t about to get any sympathy for a meal like that. A bottle of Pinot Grigio with some slight effervescence perfectly complemented my fish, though Marten didn’t touch the wine.

  The entire dinner had the air of being a last meal for the condemned. Still, it was not too shabby for being a ritual fast, and I had to admit that I found Marten’s restraint really hot, all the more so for being underplayed. Magicians are sexy. I always thought it was because I was a demon and there is something particularly delicious about the souls of those humans who spend so much of their lives studying and struggling to call—us. But it was more than that, I realized. Magicians talk a lot about discipline and focus, but I’d never seen it in quite such high relief. Marten the omnivore eating vegetarian dishes and avoiding alcohol without complaint was far more a turn-on than he was when he ordered what he liked and joined in imbibing the wine.

  Though that was only the outward sign to confirm my knowledge that this very sexy man hadn’t had sex in—I didn’t know how long. But anything more than a few nights I thought would have required extreme will-power, beyond what I would have considered even reasonably possible. But he had done it, he must have in order to perform the ritual. He had not had sex—maybe since he had last seen me.

  That thought was more delicious than our dessert.

  Marten refrained from joining us in splitting a crème brûlée and a chocolate cake with a dark liquid center. He made do with a fruit cup, with a show of enthusiasm that made it appear this was his free choice and not a requirement. On top of the celibacy, that was so sexy that I wanted to rip his clothes off immediately.