Succubus Blues (15 page)

“Because Duane was an asshole?” suggested Peter.

“Personality aside, we all weigh in just as heavily on the evil side. Hugh maybe even more so.”

Indeed, Hugh was in his prime as far as immortals went. He no longer held a novice's inexperience like Cody, nor had the imp grown world-weary and bored like Peter and I had. Hugh knew enough now to be good at his job, and he actually liked what he did. He should have been a prime target for any angelic vigilante wanting to make the world a better place.

Cody agreed with Peter. “Yeah. Evil or not, some of us are more likable than others. Maybe an angel could respect that.”

“I doubt an angel would find any of us likable—”

I cut myself off. One angel did like us. One angel hung out with us a lot. One angel who seemed to be everywhere Jerome was lately when these attacks happened. One angel who knew us personally, who knew all of our habits and weaknesses. What better way was there to track and study us than to infiltrate our drinking group and pretend to be a friend?

The idea was so explosive, so dangerous, I felt ill at ease just giving shape to the thought. I certainly couldn't utter any of it aloud. Not yet. Cody and Peter hardly believed the angel theory at all. I doubted they'd jump on board if I started accusing Carter.

“You okay, Georgina?” Cody queried when I lapsed into silence.

“Yeah…yeah…fine.” I caught a glimpse at the time on the stove and jumped up from my chair, head still reeling. “Shit. I've got to get back to Queen Anne.”

“What for?” asked Peter.

“I have a date.”

“With who?” Cody grinned slyly at me, and I blushed in response.

“Roman.”

Peter turned to his apprentice. “Which one is that?”

“The hot dancing guy. Georgina was all over him.”

“I was not. I like him too much for that.”

They laughed. As I picked up my coat, Peter asked: “Hey, I don't suppose you could do me a favor sometime?”

“What?” My mind still clung to the mystery winding around us. That, and Roman. He and I had talked on the phone a few times now since the last date, and I was growing more and more amazed at just how well we clicked.

“Well, you know how they've got those computer programs in salons that will show you what you'll look like with different colors and cuts? I was thinking you could be like a living one. You could morph into me and show me what I'd look like with different hairstyles.”

Silence hung in the room for a full minute as Cody and I stared at him.

“Peter,” I told him at last, “that's the stupidest idea I've ever heard.”

“I don't know.” Cody scratched his chin. “For him, it's not bad.”

“We have too many other issues to deal with right now,” I warned, having no patience to humor Peter with niceties. “I'm not wasting my energy on your vanity.”

“Come on,” pleaded Peter. “You're still brimming from that good virgin guy. You can spare it.”

I shook my head, slinging my purse over one shoulder. “Succubus 101. The farther a transformation takes me from my natural form, the more energy it expends. Cross-gender changes are a pain in the ass; cross-species ones are even worse. Playing salon with you would burn through most of my stash, and I've got better things to waste it on.” I eyed him dangerously. “You need some serious counseling for body image and insecurity, my friend.”

Cody regarded me with new interest. “Cross-species? Could you, like, turn into a Gila monster or…or…a sand dollar or something?”

“Good night, boys. I'm out of here.”

As I departed, I could just barely hear Peter and Cody debating if it would take more energy for me to change into a really small mammal or a human-sized reptile.

Vampires. Honestly, they're like children sometimes.

I drove home in record time. I remembered to shape-shift my heels into sandals and walked up to my building's door just as Roman did.

Seeing him banished any lingering thoughts of angels and conspiracies.

He had told me to dress casually for this evening, and while he had done the same, he still managed to make jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt look like runway fashion. I apparently had the same effect on him because he caught me up in a giant bear hug and kissed my cheek.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he murmured into my ear, holding on to the embrace a bit longer than necessary.

“Hey, yourself.” I disentangled my body from his and smiled up at him.

“You're so short,” he noted, cupping my cheek in his hand. “It's cute.”

Those eyes threatened to engulf me, and I hastily turned away before I did something stupid. “Let's go.” I paused. “Um, where are we going?”

He led me to his car, parked just down the street. “Since you seem to be so good with your feet, I thought I'd take us somewhere to test the rest of your bodily coordination.”

“Like a hotel room?”

“Damn. Am I that obvious?”

Several minutes later, he pulled into a dilapidated establishment with a blinking neon sign reading
BURT'S BOWLING ALLEY
. I stared in open distaste, unable to hide my feelings.

“This is your choice of date? A bowling alley? Not even a nice one at that.”

Roman seemed unconcerned about my lack of enthusiasm. “When was the last time you actually went bowling?”

I suspected it had been back in the 1970s. “Not in a very long time.”

“Exactly. You see,” he began conversationally as we went inside and approached the counter, “I've got you figured out. You claim you don't want to get serious with anyone, but I still get the impression you go out a lot. Size ten, please.”

“Six and a half.”

The cashier gave us each a pair of unsavory-looking shoes, and I felt grateful germs posed no threat to me. Roman handed over some cash, and she gestured us down to our designated lane.

“Anyway, like I was saying, regardless of your intentions, you must still end up dating quite a bit. I don't know how you couldn't with the attention you attract.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I sat down by our lane and took off my Birkenstocks, still eyeing the rental shoes askance.

Roman paused in his own shoe-tying and gave me a long, steady look. “Oh come on, you can't be that oblivious. Men check you out all the time. I always see it when I'm with you. Walking through the bookstore, going to that bar the other night. Even here, in this place. In just walking over from the counter, I saw at least three guys stop and watch you.”

“Is there a point here somewhere?”

“Eventually.” He stood up, and we walked over to a rack of communal bowling balls. “With all that attention, guys must ask you out all the time, and you must give in sometimes, just like you did with me. Right?”

“I guess.”

He paused in his ball selection and gave me another one of those breathtaking, soul-searching looks. “So tell me about your last date.”

“My last date?” I somehow didn't think Martin Miller counted.

“Your last date. I mean a real date, not like a casual grabbing a drink thing. A date where the guy gave his best shot at planning an itinerary he thought would get you into bed.”

I tested the weight of a fluorescent orange and green swirled ball, racking my brain. “The opera,” I said at last. “And dinner at Santa Lucia's.”

“Nice spread. And the one before that?”

“Jesus, you're nosy. Um…let's see, I think it was the opening of an art exhibit.”

“Undoubtedly paired with dinner at some restaurant where stiff waiters say ‘thank you' after you make a selection, right?”

“I guess.”

“Just as I thought.” He hoisted a navy blue ball into the crook of his arm. “This is why you're resistant to dating, why you don't want to get serious with anyone. You're such a hot commodity that plush, five-star dates are par for the course. They're ordinary. Men try to throw out all the stops for you, but after a while, you get bored with them.” His eyes danced mischievously. “Therefore, I will differentiate myself from those losers by taking you to places your little elitist feet would never dream of touching. The salt of the earth. Back to basics. The way dating was meant to be: two people, more concerned with each other than their posh venue.”

I walked with him back to our lane. “You just took an awfully long time to say you think I want to go slumming.”

“Don't you?”

“No.”

“Then why are you with me?”

I eyed that gorgeous appearance and thought about the conversation we'd had the other night on classical languages. Looks and intellect. Hard to beat. “You're hardly slumming it.”

He smiled at me and changed the subject. “That's your choice?”

I looked down at the ball's psychedelic color pattern. “Yeah. This night is already turning surreal enough. Figured I might as well get the full experience. Maybe we'll drop some acid later.”

Roman's eyes crinkled with amusement, and he cocked his head toward the lane. “Let's see what you can do with it.”

I stepped up uncertainly, trying to remember how I used to do this. All up and down the alley, I could see other players walking up and throwing with ease. Shrugging, I stood at the line, drew my arm back, and threw. The ball flew out jerkily, sailed about four feet, hit the lane with a loud
crack
, and then promptly entered the gutter. Roman walked up beside me, and we silently watched the ball complete its journey.

“Are you always that rough with balls?” he asked finally.

“Most men don't complain.”

“I imagine not. Try making contact with the floor before you let it go this time.”

I gave him a sharp look. “You aren't one of those guys that gets off from showing women how much better you are at stuff, are you?”

“Nope. Just offering friendly advice.”

My ball returned, and I followed his instructions. The ball's impact proved quieter that way, but I still ended up in the gutter.

“All right. Show me what
you
can do,” I grumbled, sitting down huffily into a chair.

Roman strode up to the lane, movements graceful and flowing like a cat's. The ball poured from his hand like water from a pitcher, sailing smoothly down and hitting nine pins. When his ball returned, he threw it effortlessly once more and took out the obstinate tenth.

“This is going to be a long night.”

“Cheer up.” He chucked my chin. “We'll get you through this. Try it again, and aim more toward the left. I'm going to get us some beers.”

I threw to the left as advised but only succeeded in hitting the left gutter. On my second throw, I tried greater moderation and managed to hit one pin on the far left. I whooped in spite of myself.

“Nicely done,” cheered Roman, setting two mugs of cheap beer down on the table. I hadn't drunk anything not from a microbrewery in over a decade. “It's all about baby steps.”

That certainly turned out to be true as our evening progressed. My pin count increased slowly, though I soon developed the nasty habit of creating splits on my first throw. I showed no aptitude for picking them up, despite Roman's best explanations. To his credit, he gave good, nonthreatening advice, as well as some hands-on instruction.

“Your arm goes like this, and the rest of you leans like this,” he explained, standing behind me with one hand on my hip and the other on my wrist. My flesh warmed at his touch, and I wondered if his actions were truly driven by altruism or were an excuse to get his hands on me. I exercised such techniques regularly in succubus work. It drove men wild, and now I knew why.

Ruse or no, I didn't tell him to stop.

I hit my peak in the second game, even managing one strike, though my performance declined in the third round as beer and fatigue took over. Sensing this, Roman called our bowling adventures closed, lauding my progress as highly impressive.

“Do we have to go to a dive now for dinner, in order to keep with this dream-date slumming fantasy you've got going?”

He put his arm around me as we walked out to the car. “I guess that depends if you've succumbed to my wily charm or not.”

“If I say yes, will you take me somewhere good? Sometimes the posh places do work, you know.”

We ended up at an upscale Japanese restaurant, much to my satisfaction. Taking our time, we savored both food and conversation, and again Roman's knowledge and wit impressed me. This time we discussed current issues, sharing opinions on recent news and culture, things we liked, things that drove us crazy, etc., etc. I discovered Roman had traveled quite a bit and held strong views on world politics and affairs.

“This country is so in love with itself,” he complained, sipping sake. “It's like one big mirror. It just sits all day and looks at itself. When it can be bothered to look away, it's only to tell others ‘do this' or ‘be just like me.' Our military and economic policies bully people outside our borders, and inside, conservative groups bully other citizens. I hate it.”

I listened with interest, intrigued at this side of a normally light and easygoing guy. “So do something about it. Or leave.”

He shook his head. “Spoken like a comfortable citizen. The old ‘if you don't like it, you can just leave' policy. Unfortunately, it's a lot harder than that to cut yourself off from your roots.” Leaning back, he forced levity with a small grin. “And I do do things here and there. Small acts. My own battle against the status quo, you know? Attend the occasional protest. Refuse to buy products made with third world labor.”

“Avoid fur? Eat organic food?”

“That too,” he chuckled.

“Funny,” I said after a moment's silence. Something had just struck me.

“What?”

“This whole time, we've talked about current things. No sharing of traumatic childhoods, college days, exes, or whatever.”