LITMIR.BIZ

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aren’t finished,” he hissed, releasing my wrist.

      “Oh, I think we are.” I could feel braver now that salvation was on the way. “The next time you come near me’s going to be the last.”

      “I’m quaking in terror,” he simpered. His eyes gleamed once in the darkness, and then he was gone, moving off into the night just as the car drove past. Thank God for whatever liaison or ice cream run had pulled that driver out tonight.

      Not wasting any more time, I got into my car and drove off, anxious to be back in the city. I tried to ignore the shaking of my hands on the wheel, but the truth of the matter was, Duane terrified me. I had told him off plenty of times in the presence of my immortal friends, but taking him on alone on a dark street was an entirely different matter, especially since all my threats had been empty ones.

      I actually abhorred violence in all its forms. I suppose this came from living through periods of history fraught with levels of cruelty and brutality no one in the modern world could even comprehend. People like to say we live in violent times now, but they have no idea. Sure, there had been a certain satisfaction centuries ago in seeing a rapist castrated swiftly and promptly for his crimes, without endless courtroom drama or an early release for “good behavior.” Unfortunately, those who deal in revenge and vigilantism rarely know where to draw the line, so I’d take the bureaucracy of the modern judicial system any day.

      Thinking back to how I’d presumed the fortuitous driver was on an ice cream run, I decided a little dessert would do me some good too. Once I was safely back in Seattle, I stopped in a 24-hour grocery store, discovering some marketing mastermind had created tiramisu-flavored ice cream. Tiramisu and ice cream. The ingenuity of mortals never failed to amaze me.

      As I was about to pay, I passed a display of flowers. They were cheap and a little tattered, but I watched as a young man came in and nervously scanned them over. At last he selected some autumn-colored mums and carried them off. My eyes followed him wistfully, half-jealous of whatever girl would be getting those.

      As Duane had noted, I usually fed off losers, guys I didn’t have to feel guilty about hurting or rendering unconscious for a few days. Those kind did not send flowers and usually avoided most romantic gestures altogether. As for the guys who did send flowers, well, I avoided them. For their own good. That was out of character for a succubus, but I was too jaded to care about propriety anymore.

      Feeling sad and lonely, I picked up a bouquet of red carnations for myself and paid for it and the ice cream.

      When I arrived home, my phone was ringing. Setting down my goods, I glanced at the Caller-ID. Caller unknown.

      “My lord and master,” I answered. “What a perfect ending to a perfect night.”

      “Save your quips, Georgie. Why were you fucking with Duane?”

      “Jerome, I—what?”

      “He just called. Said you were unduly hassling him.”

      “Hassling? Him?” Outrage surged inside me. “He started it! He came up to me and—”

      “Did you hit him?”

      “I…”

      “Did you?”

      I sighed. Jerome was the archdemon of the greater Seattle hierarchy of evil, as well as my supervisor. It was his job to manage all of us, make sure we did our duties, and keep us in line. Like any lazy demon, however, he preferred we create as little work for him as possible. His annoyance was almost palpable through the phone line.

      “I did sort of hit him. Actually, it was more of a swipe.”

      “I see. A swipe. And did you threaten him too?”

      “Well, yes, I guess, if you want to argue semantics, but Jerome, come on! He’s a vampire. I can’t touch him. You know that.”

      The archdemon hesitated, apparently considering the outcome of me going head-to-head with Duane. I must have lost in the hypothetical battle because I heard Jerome exhale a moment later.

      “Yes. I suppose. But don’t provoke him anymore. I’ve got enough to work on right now without you children having catfights.”

      “Since when do you work?” Children indeed.

      “Good night, Georgie. Don’t tangle with Duane again.”

      The phone disconnected. Demons weren’t big on small talk.

      I hung up, feeling highly offended. I couldn’t believe Duane had tattled on me and then made me out to be the bad guy. Worse, Jerome seemed to have believed it. At least at first. That probably hurt me most of all because, my slacker-succubus habits aside, I’d always enjoyed a kind of indulgent, teacher’s pet role with the archdemon.

      Seeking consolation, I carried the ice cream off to my bedroom, shedding my clothes for a loose nightshirt. Aubrey, my cat, stood up from where she’d been sleeping at the foot of my bed and stretched. Solid white save for some black smudges on her forehead, she squinted green eyes at me in greeting.

      “I can’t go to bed,” I told her, stifling a yawn. “I have to read first.”

      I curled up with the pint and my book, recalling again how I’d finally be meeting my favorite author at the signing tomorrow. Seth Mortensen’s writing always spoke to me, awakening something inside I hadn’t even known was asleep. His current book, The Glasgow Pact, couldn’t ease the guilt I felt over what had happened with Martin, but it filled an aching emptiness in me nonetheless. I marveled that mortals, living so short a time, could create such wonderful things.

      “I never created anything when I was a mortal,” I told Aubrey when I’d finished five pages.

      She rubbed against me, purring sympathetically, and I had just enough presence of mind to put the ice cream away before collapsing back into bed and falling asleep.

      Chapter 2

      The phone jolted me to consciousness the next morning. Dim, murky light filtered in through my sheer curtains, signifying some freakishly early hour. Around here, however, that amount of light could have indicated anything from sunrise to high noon. After four rings, I finally deigned to answer, accidentally knocking Aubrey out of the bed. She landed with an indignant mhew and stalked off to clean herself.

      “Hello?”

      “Yo, Kincaid?”

      “No.” My response came swift and certain. “I’m not coming in.”

      “You don’t even know I’m going to ask that.”

      “Of course I know. There’s no other reason you’d be calling me this early, and I’m not going to do it. It’s my day off, Doug.”

      Doug, the other assistant manager at my day job, was a pretty nice guy, but he couldn’t keep a poker face—or voice—to save his life. His cool demeanor immediately gave way to desperation. “Everyone called in sick today, and now we’re strapped. You have to do it.”

      “Well, I’m sick too. Believe me, you don’t want me there.”

      Okay, I wasn’t exactly sick, but I was still sporting a residual afterglow from being with Martin. Mortals would not “see” it as Duane had per se, but they would sense it and be drawn to it—men and women alike—without even knowing why. My confinement today would prevent any foolish, love-sick behavior. It was very kind of me, really.

      “Liar. You’re never sick.”

      “Doug, I was already planning on coming back tonight for the signing. If I work a shift today too, I’ll be there all day. That’s sick and twisted.”

      “Welcome to my world, babe. We have no alternative, not if you really care about the fate of the store, not if you truly care about our customers and their happiness…”

      “You’re losing me, cowboy.”

      “So,”

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