Diary of a Succubus

by James Patterson

  My way was lighted by intermittent bulbs until I cut through a cement concourse into a defunct section of track. Here in the pitch darkness there were no walkways, so I dropped down onto the roadbed like a madwoman in search of the gateway to Hades.

  The dark forced me to move too slowly, finding my way along the damp brick walls by touch. Although the third rail was unlikely live, I stayed clear of it, purely out of caution. One wrong turn on this emergency route and I’d be lost for hours.

  A collapsed chunk of wall led me onto tracks no train had run in decades. Down here, the air was almost warm, and the rats squeaked like crickets in the summer woods. The noise tightened the flesh on my back. Every time I reached blindly into the dark, I expected to grab a handful of squirming fur.

  Even worse, I couldn’t shake the thought of someone else’s hand clutching my wrist. Terra’s killer, waiting for me in the dark below the civilized world.

  He was faceless in my imagination. His name was written in the letter, but I knew nothing else about him. I did, however, know that the girl he murdered was no helpless, clueless co-ed. She’d been trained to survive by the Israeli Mossad. Nobody should’ve been able to overcome her, yet he did.

  Finally, a pinprick of light cut through the darkness of the tunnel. I advanced more eagerly, until a small compartment materialized just off the track. The light was from a battery-powered lantern illuminating the space with pale-blue LED.

  I crouched low and slid along the wall. Because it was so quiet, I was sure I’d find another corpse. And down here, there’d be no need to fake a suicide. Nobody but me would ever find her.

  The thin glow was enough to help me catch sight of an iron bear trap live on the walkway. Old school home defense. Stepping over it, I almost knocked my forehead into a set of dangling tin cans. But I ducked just in time and smirked at the makeshift alarm system. Clever girl, as always.

  In the compartment was a bedroll and sleeping bag, a ski jacket balled up for a pillow, some nylon grocery bags stocked with canned goods. But no dead bodies.

  I allowed myself a sliver of hope that I’d find her alive.

  And then a hooded figure stepped out of the darkness with a sawed-off shotgun aimed squarely at my face.

  Chapter 5

  “Shanti?” I said.

  She lowered the gun and pulled back her hood. There she was, safe and alive. The last face you’d expect to find in an underground hovel.

  “I have been waiting three days for you,” she complained in her Swahili accent. She still looked like the grave-faced biracial child with flowing black hair I remembered from my visits to Kenya.

  “Thank God you’re okay.” I pulled her in for a hug. I would’ve embraced her for hours if I could, though Shanti wasn’t the affectionate type.

  My tears flowed again, this time for joy. “I’m so sorry. It was only tonight I found out you were in trouble. As soon as I heard, I knew I’d find you here, at our rendezvous point like we planned.”

  “No safer hideaway,” Shanti said. “I mean, if I had a better way to reach you, I would have never done this. At first, when you didn’t come, I thought I would be down here till spring.”

  “I’m sorry, Shanti.”

  “Yes, yes. I needed some time to myself anyway.”

  Inside her compartment, we sat on the dirt floor beside her meager gear. She didn’t have to ask if I’d been cautious coming down here. I was the one who schooled her in evasion, in disappearing altogether.

  “I went to Terra’s first.”

  Shanti dropped her eyes, understanding the implication from just the tone of my voice. If I went to Terra’s and hadn’t brought her with me, the reason was painfully clear.

  “I tried to convince her to come with me,” Shanti said, “but she is always too proud. She said, ‘Let him just try to hurt me.’”

  “I should’ve seen this coming,” I said.

  “You did see it coming. If not for you, we would have been killed long ago.”

  “How did you know you were being hunted?”

  “Three days ago, I discovered a man was looking for me. Also for Terra. A tall white man with eyes like turquoise stones. I saw him. He tried to catch me, but I was faster.”

  Her small victory gave me hope amid the sorrow. Shanti had escaped this killer once already. She wasn’t going to be the easy prey he expected.

  “I have this,” I began, but Shanti snatched the letter from my hand even before I finished pulling it out of my coat. Faster, indeed. She ran her fingers over the wax seal, recognizing the chalice as easily as I did.

  “Deus Inversus,” she muttered. It was the name these men gave to their secret society, many generations ago when it was founded. Their chalice symbol was actually upside-down. A spilled cup, an overturned holy grail.

  Deus Inversus was Latin for God Inverted.

  “It’s a letter of introduction,” I explained, “sent from California to the man I killed tonight. The letter was brought here to New York by Terra’s murderer.”

  Shanti’s eyes raced through the contents of the letter.

  “I got to thinking I’d never find any more leads or proof of Deus Inversus,” I said. “And there it was, just sitting out in the open, like a Christmas card.”

  “You must go to California, to track down this man.”

  I couldn’t help taking stock of Shanti’s living space, worse than the Cambodian prison cell where I once stayed for two weeks before escaping. Shanti belonged above, in the world, and it was my fault she had to go into hiding.

  “I will come with you,” she said, cocking her chin. Her pride made her look twice as old, twice as experienced as she really was. When I pressed my palm over her cheek, it was still as soft as when she was a little girl.

  “Shanti,” I said. “It’s too dangerous. You’ll expose yourself to attack, and we can’t take that chance. I’m going to stay and find this murderer with you. I can’t leave you here a marked woman.”

  “But you must go. You must follow the path, and it is not here in New York anymore. It is with this creature, this…Diego Mellado. In California. I’ll handle the assassin who’s in New York. This Asmodeus. The man with the turquoise eyes.”

  She didn’t seem to recognize the name of the man who wrote the secret letter, Diego Mellado. But I did, as would anyone who followed the news of drug wars out west.

  “If I go, I have to go alone,” I said.

  “Always alone. How long can you live this way?”

  “Shanti…” I began, but she balled her hand into a fist and held it against her breast. Our symbol of sisterhood, and a shrewd way to shut down any further argument.

  “You know me,” she said. “If you will not take me, I will stay down here for three more days, then I will do what I must for Terra. Then I will join the cause on my own.”

  I smiled at her, brimming over with affection, though I feared her heart beat stronger than her skills could match. Terra had ten more years of experience than Shanti, and she was slain so quietly, as if she’d passed away in her sleep.

  I couldn’t let that happen to Shanti, too. I always sought to protect these girls from the life I lived. They weren’t hunters or vamps. They didn’t share my thirst for blood and I never wanted them to develop a taste.

  But I couldn’t leave her defenseless against a killer. I pressed my eyes shut, weighted with the decision I had to make. It had been so long, but what happened to Terra weakened my resolve.

  “Before I go, I want to offer a gift. Will you take it?”

  Shanti’s eyes lifted, much too bright and eager.

  Chapter 6

  Just when every paper in the country broke the news of Mark Norman Harper’s apparent suicide, I boarded a morning flight to Los Angeles.

  My first stop after landing was the Santa Monica Pier, where the swaying palms, miles of sandy beaches, and two delectable fish tacos thawed me out. Of all the places fate might’ve sent me, at least it was somewhere warm.

  Then
I checked into my private villa at the Peninsula Hotel in Beverly Hills. I loved the illusion of being secluded in a lush tropical garden while I was still in the heart of LA. I also loved the hour-long Swedish massage from the Channing Tatum look-alike who soothed my tension-wire muscles into silk.

  And then a drive in the hotel’s complimentary Infiniti Q50. Then pumpkin agnolotti and duck breast at Wolfgang Puck’s Spago, a trip to Rodeo Drive for a new wardrobe, new fragrances, the winding curves on Mulholland Drive…

  …where I stopped at an overlook to watch the sun set over the sprawling city in the valley. A shadow of guilt passed over me, a memory of poor Terra riding in a gondola in Venice, peeking out from under her sun hat. A memory of Shanti feeding an orphaned lion cub from a milk bottle.

  Judge me if you will, but I depended on these moments of peace and indulgence before battle. After all I’d lived, a taste of high society was the spark that kept me lit. A reminder of life’s joys, my personal reward for all this sacrifice. Shanti might have been content to live the life of a reclusive monk, but not me.

  Diamonds and designers were the huntress’s cloak…

  By now you’ve probably guessed I’m an assassin. I suppose that’s true, but I’m not some kind of Mafia contract killer hired out with a briefcase full of cash. I follow my own path.

  Before Mark Harper, I took down a pair of crooked investment bankers in Charlotte—twins, in fact. That story made national news as an apparent Cain-and-Abel murder-suicide.

  And before them was the Chicago pimp who sold underage girls, trafficked from Southeast Asia, for five thousand dollars a night. Mysteriously drowned in his own Jacuzzi.

  You could trace my work back to Central America, those chaotic days of Contras and Sandinistas. Before that, China and Southeast Asia. My time in the Middle East was so long past, I can’t always recall the faces of my targets. And Europe—all that unrest—is ancient history.

  I confess, I confess. But before you sentence me, at least allow me to argue my case. Men like Mark Harper and Diego Mellado deserved to die.

  In the days that followed my arrival at LAX, I became a new woman with a new name. Lilly Anna for Los Angeles. It’s the closest I’ve come to my real name in years.

  I visited a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon, a very old and discreet friend. It was a last-minute drop-in, but he found time for me in his schedule.

  I didn’t need his scalpel because I was losing my youth. I needed it because I had dire reasons not to be recognized.

  Within a week, I was headed back to my higher calling: the death of Diego Mellado, the man who sent an assassin named Asmodeus to New York, the man who ordered Terra’s murder.

  From what I heard, they called Mellado the Angel Czar because Los Angeles was his territory, and he ruled like it was still part of lawless Mexico.

  He was considered untouchable, but I’d come to LA just to touch him. For the moment I had no other reason to exist. And eight days after landing, I took my chance.

  Chapter 7

  Diego Mellado’s favorite nightclub was Sapa Inca, just off Hollywood and Vine. The place was fit for South American royalty, three floors of pillars and arches and tiered balconies. He might as well have owned the club, and probably did.

  An anonymous guest like me could waste all her wiles convincing the door staff to let her inside. Better to hide behind a gigantic bodybuilder covering a big-haired Latina as the bouncers let her past the velvet ropes. Invisible is too strong a word, but I knew how to deflect attention.

  There were security cameras, yes, but I wasn’t concerned about those. Recording equipment always had trouble capturing me, like a blurred photo of Bigfoot in the woods.

  At Sapa Inca, being natural meant catching glances. A modest appearance would raise suspicion, so my bright-red high-low ballroom dress did exactly the trick. It even had a plunging back that showed off the angel-wing tattoos on my shoulder blades.

  To the beat of the live salsa band’s bongos and timbales, I sashayed up to the bar and ordered a double Astral tequila on the rocks. Pink neon light shot up through the glass-top bar and the drink as well.

  I watched the dance floor from a leather diamond-tufted Chesterfield sofa. A few young club-goers shared my booth, but none of them noticed me.

  For a moment, I savored the bright whirling costumes, the digital murals thrumming on the walls. Four stone statues of Incan gods glared from above, as if waiting for a sacrifice.

  Below, Diego Mellado commanded the dance floor, even if he moved like a trained bear. He was a thoroughly modern Colombian drug czar, celebrated and envied, at least tonight in this club.

  His dance partner caught my breath when I recognized her. Her long gown billowed like heat waves with each graceful spin. She was a sight to behold, but her presence here was heartbreaking.

  Her name was Isabel and she was Colombia’s most renowned pop star at only twenty-three. She had a hit record in the US, cross-over success, a mantel full of Latin Grammys. She was also outspoken against corruption and drug violence in her native country. For her to be here, dancing with him, was a perversion of all her beliefs.

  And a testament to Mellado’s inescapable reach.

  When the dance number was done, Mellado handed Isabel off to an elderly Hispanic man wearing, of all things, a sequined red and gold traje de luces, or matador’s costume.

  The old man, stooped a few inches shorter than Isabel, looked ridiculous in his outfit, though clearly he was too important to care. The way he leered at her churned my stomach with disgust. Like he believed he was her suitor for the night.

  Diego Mellado slipped with ease through the crowd, kissing women and embracing men, snatching the reins of every conversation. He was a puppeteer in a billowing button-down, skintight jeans, and a pristinely mussed Benicio Del Toro mop of hair.

  His looks were another reason they called him the Angel Czar. He was one of the most beautiful men I’ve set my eyes on. I noticed every detail about him from the way he agitated the ice in his whiskey glass to how his fingertips played a melody on women’s bare shoulders when he whispered in their ears.

  Meanwhile, many thousands of his drug-war victims slept in mass graves from Bogotá to Joshua Tree. He often cut out their hearts as a sick ancestral tribute. Women and children, artists and activists, whole families. When Mellado was finished, the desert swallowed them all.

  Maybe his admirers thought it was all a myth. Media defamation. Maybe they were afraid to believe, but I’d seen his heroin and cocaine plague spread as far west as Cambodia, east to Bulgaria.

  I was here to slay this monster, or die trying. Either way, those four watchful gods would have their blood sacrifice.

  Chapter 8

  My only weapon was hidden in the tresses of my hair, a silver blade disguised as a decorative hairpin. It was originally forged in Japan during the Sengoku Period and stolen from the Tokyo National Museum almost a hundred years ago.

  But I couldn’t exactly stroll up and slit Mellado’s throat.

  He was fortified by a virtual army of men. His secret guard. They were spaced around the club, decked out in fashionable clothes, mingling with the other club-goers. But their eyes roved, keeping watch.

  I counted more than twenty of these ghoulishly stone-faced men. Likely more of them lurked in the alcoves and passageways feeding off from this main hall.

  As a test, I threw back my tequila and lurched toward the dance floor. I faked a stumble and clutched for a steely-eyed Latino man in a black cowboy hat. He made no move to catch me.

  “Oh, my God, I’m such a klutz. Too much tequila!” I squealed in my best imitation of a sorority girl.

  “No inglés,” he muttered.

  “Oh, lo siento, señor,” I apologized. He should’ve been impressed by a lily-white woman speaking Spanish in a Mexican Altiplano variant. But he sneered at me like I was a beggar child selling gum on the street. His eyes were vacant.

  That’s when I knew. I didn’t want to believe it,
but my instincts never lied. My throat went dry and my muscles clutched with the urge to take flight.

  I should’ve guessed the moment I laid eyes on that Deus Inversus chalice symbol. Diego Mellado wasn’t just a member of that exclusive fraternity. He was their pater dominus, their king.

  He could enslave their minds and he had. They were living zombies at his command.

  These men would gun down everybody in this club to protect him, including one another. One mistake and I’d be dead. I could almost feel my pupils tighten to a pinprick, the fine hairs on my forearms stand upright. I had to think fast.

  At the bar sat another one of Mellado’s men. He had the same build and dress code as the others, the same telltale distance in his eyes, but there was something off about him.

  He wasn’t groomed like a soldier. His face was a few days unshaven. And unlike the others, he sat thumbing the condensation on the outside of his highball glass.

  Men enthralled by a pater dominus were supposed to have too much single-minded focus to even swat a mosquito.

  “Buy me a drink?” I asked him in Spanish, my nerves on edge.

  Up close I could see he was also delectably handsome. I clasped my hand over his taut shoulder. His heat radiated like a campfire in winter. I wanted to bask in it, steal it for myself.

  But he shook his head curtly. His foggy blue eyes seemed unnaturally frozen over, a climate zone away from his body. A soul trapped under the ice. The longer I gazed at him, the more I wanted to break through and drink it all up.

  How satisfying it would be to take him, drain him.

  I dropped my elbow on the bar and cocked my hip, obscuring his sight line to Mellado. When he tried to stand up, I pinched his bristly chin in my hand.

  “You’re not being very friendly, hombre,” I purred.

  “Some other time,” he said, in English, no Spanish accent.

  A born American, then. Another surprise.

  “What happened? Did your dog run away today? Did somebody mess with your head?”