Succubus Blues (18 page)

He didn't interrupt again, and I let myself sink into the pleasure of contact. The feel of his tongue in my mouth, his hands brazenly exploring my body. After a long morning of sexual frustration, I just needed it from someone—anyone. He unbuttoned my blouse and tossed it to the floor, where it rested in a black, silken pile. My skirt and thong followed, leaving me only in thigh-highs, bra, and heels. All black.

He shifted his body, still in the chair, so that I could pull his pants off. Seeing him there—long, straight, and hard—made me move his hand out of me. Fingers no longer satisfied me. I wrapped my legs more tightly around his hips, as much as the chair would allow. Then, without further warning, I thrust my body down, plunging him inside me. I arched my body so that I could take him deeper, then moved in steady, repeated thrusts. Looking back down, I watched him glide in and out. There was no sound in the room save that of flesh on flesh and our heavy breathing.

With penetration came a flood of feeling and sensations from him—different from the physical ones. As a less noble soul, his energy and presence did not knock me across the room like Martin's had. Succubi absorption depended on the victim's character. Strong, moral souls yielded more to the succubus and took a huge bite out of the guy. Corrupt men lost less and consequently gave less. Regardless of his energy or moral fiber, I did catch snippets of Warren's thoughts and emotions as I rode him. This was normal. They came through with his life force.

Desire certainly was foremost in his mind. Smug pride at being with a younger, attractive woman. Excitement. Surprise. He had little remorse about cheating on his wife—contributing to the lower energy yield—and even the brief fondness for me he'd displayed earlier gave way to raw lust.
So fucking hot. So wet. Love the way she rides me. Hope she comes and comes on top of me…

I did, as it turned out. My movements becoming harder and fiercer as our bodies slapped together. My leg muscles clenching. Neck arched back again. Breasts hot and sweaty from where he'd clutched them. The orgasm reverberating through me. Spasms of pleasure growing fainter and fainter as my breathing slowly returned to normal.

And the energy fix wasn't bad either. It had leaked into me slowly throughout our building passion, starting off as fine glittering threads. Near the end, however, it had become strong and bright, pouring into me, reinvigorating my own life, fueling my immortality in a glorious climax that rivaled the physical one.

When we both had our clothes back on, I made moves for an exit. Small energy loss or no, Warren always felt exhausted and worn after we'd been together. He thought it was the result of his age going up against a younger, more active woman. I did nothing to change his attitude but usually tried to discretely leave, so he wouldn't feel self-conscious around me in his fatigue. I knew it bothered him to think he couldn't keep up with me.

“Georgina?” he called as I moved to the door. “Why are you carrying a Bible? You aren't trying to convert customers, are you?”

“Oh. That. Just researching something for a friend. It's applicable, actually. All about sex.”

He wiped sweat off his brow. “After years and years of church, I think I'd remember any good sex scenes.”

“Well, it's not so much a scene as a clinical description of procreation.”

“Ah. Lots of those.”

On impulse, I walked over to him and opened up Genesis 6. “See?” I pointed to the appropriate verses. “All these mentions of men taking women. They say it, like, three times.”

Warren studied the book with a frown, and I remembered that he had not opened this place without a substantial background in literary study. “Well…it's repeated because here when it says ‘men began to multiply on the face of the earth,' it's referring to human men.”

I looked up sharply. “What do you mean ‘human'?”

“Here. The ‘sons of God' aren't human men. They're angels.”

“What?” If I'd been holding the book, I would have dropped it. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Like I said, years of church services. They use this term throughout the Bible.” He flipped to Job. “See? Here it is again. ‘Now there was a day when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them.' It's referring to angels—fallen angels in this case.”

I swallowed. “What…what were they doing in Genesis then? With the ‘daughters of men'? Were…were the angels having sex with human women?”

“Well, it says the women were ‘fair.' Hard to blame them, huh?” He gave me an admiring sweep as he spoke. “I don't know. This isn't a point discussed a lot in church, as I'm sure you can imagine. Mostly we emphasized human sin and guilt, but I ignored that.”

I continued to stare at the book, dumbfounded, yet suddenly ablaze with ideas and theories. Warren eyed me curiously when I didn't respond to his joke.

“Does that help you any?”

“Yes,” I said, recovering myself. “It helps a lot.”

I surprised him with a soft kiss on the lips, took the Bible, and left.

“Y
ou called us together for biblical porn?”

Hugh turned away with disinterest from where the vampires and I huddled around my kitchen table. Barely a bruise showed on him anymore. Putting a cigarette to his lips, the imp produced a lighter from his coat pocket.

“Don't smoke in here,” I warned.

“What do you care? Are you saying you didn't smoke throughout most of the twentieth century?”

“I'm not saying that at all. But I don't do it anymore. Besides, it's bad for Aubrey.”

The cat, sitting on one of my counters, paused mid-bath at the sound of her name and eyed him askance. Hugh, glaring back, took a long drag on the cigarette before putting it out on the countertop next to her. She returned to her cleaning, and he paced around the apartment.

Beside me, Cody leaned over the table, studying my proffered Bible. “I don't get how these guys are actually angels. ‘Sons of God' seems like a generic term for humans. I mean, aren't we all supposed to be children of God?”

“Present company excluded, of course,” called Hugh from the living room. Then: “Jesus Christ! Where'd you get this bookcase? Hiroshima?”

“Theoretically we are,” I agreed, ignoring the imp and answering Cody's question. I'd done a lot of biblical perusal since my earlier discovery today and was growing tired of looking at the book. “But Warren's right—that term is used throughout to refer to angels. Plus, the women here aren't called ‘daughters of God.' They're called ‘daughters of men.' They're human, their husbands are not.”

“Could just be good old-fashioned sexism.” Peter had finally taken the plunge and shaved his hair off. I did not find the look flattering at all, considering the shape of his head. “It's not like that'd be a new concept in the Bible.”

“Nah, I think Georgina's right,” said Hugh, returning to us. “I mean, we know something made angels fall. Lust is as good a reason as any, and it beats the hell out of gluttony or sloth.”

“So what's the point then?” Peter wanted to know. “How does this relate to the not-just-a-vampire hunter?”

“Here.” I pointed to verse 6:4. “It says, ‘There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.' The key words here are ‘in those days' and ‘also after that.' It's saying angels have fallen for human women more than once. This answers our question about whether angels still fall anymore. They do.”

Cody was nodding along with me. “Which backs up your theory that one is trying to fall right now.”

“It doesn't sound like lust is going to be his catalyst, though,” Hugh noted. “I think assault and battery will do it first.”

“Unless it's lust for Georgina,” suggested Peter dryly. “He seems to think you're pretty enough.”

Something odd struck me at Hugh's observation. “Would assault and battery really do it, though? Especially of vampires and imps? It might be frowned upon by the other side, but I'm not convinced taking out evil agents would necessarily warrant an angel turning into a demon.”

“Past evidence suggests the other side isn't exactly…flexible with transgressors,” observed the imp.

“And ours is?” wondered Peter.

Cody gave me a sharp look. “Are you backing out of your own theory?”

“No, no. I'm suddenly reconsidering the falling bit, that's all. The ‘rogue' or ‘renegade' part might be more accurate.”

“But your note did mention angels falling,” Hugh pointed out. “Surely that's indicative of something? A meaningful clue and not just a bad attempt at humor?”

I thought about the note. Yes, Hugh was right. I felt certain the note's content played a role here; I just couldn't yet grasp what it meant.

“Bad humor is par for the course with angels,” Peter reminded us. “At least if Carter's any indication.”

I hesitated a moment, nervous about bringing up my secondary theory. They all seemed to be going along with the angel idea, however, so I figured it was now or never.

“Do you guys think…do you think it's possible Carter might be the one behind all of this?”

Three sets of eyes turned on me in astonishment.

Hugh spoke first. “What? Are you crazy? I know you two spar a lot, but Christ, if you think…”

“Carter's one of us,” agreed Cody fiercely.

“I know, I know.” I proceeded to explain the reasoning behind my accusation, citing his weird shadowing of me and subsequent conversation at Erik's.

Silence fell. Finally, Peter said, “All of that is strange. But I still can't buy it. Not Carter.”

“Not Carter,” agreed Hugh.

“Oh, I see. Everyone's quick to implicate me for Duane, but not perfect Carter?” My ire rose at their automatic solidarity, at the idea that Carter would be above reproach. “Why does he hang out with us then? Have you ever heard of an angel doing anything like that?”

“We're his friends,” said Cody.

“And we're more fun,” added Hugh.

“You can believe that if you want, but not me. Going from pub to pub with a demon and his cronies is the perfect setup for sabotage. He's been spying on us. You're just biased because he's such a good drinking buddy.”

“And don't you think, Georgina,” warned Peter, “there's just the slightest possibility that
you're
the one who's biased? I admit, this crazy angel theory makes more and more sense as time goes on, but where'd Carter come from?”

“Yeah,” said Hugh. “Seems like you just sort of threw him in for no good reason. Everyone knows you two don't get along.”

I stared disbelievingly at the three sets of angry eyes. “I have plenty of good reason. How do you explain him being at Erik's?”

The imp shook his head. “We all know Erik. Carter could have been there for the same reasons you were.”

“What about the things he said?”

“What did he say really?” Peter asked. “Was he like, ‘Hey Georgina, hope you got my note'? It's all pretty flimsy.”

“Look, I'm not saying I have strong evidence, just that circumstantially—”

“I need to go,” interjected Cody, standing up.

I gave him a cold look. Had I pushed them that far? “I understand if you don't agree with me, but don't just walk out.”

“No, there's something I've got to do.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “You're not the only one dating now, Georgina. Cody won't admit it, but I think he's got a woman stashed somewhere.”

“A live one?” asked Hugh, impressed.

Cody put his coat on. “You guys don't know anything.”

“Well, be careful,” I warned automatically.

The tense mood was suddenly shattered, and no one seemed to be angry with me about suspecting Carter anymore. It was clear, however, that no one believed me about him either. They were dismissing my ideas like one does a child's irrational fears or imaginary friends.

The vampires left together, and Hugh followed soon thereafter. I wandered off to bed, still trying to put the pieces into place. The note writer had made a reference to angels falling for beautiful women; that had to be significant. Yet, I just couldn't reconcile it with this bizarre pair of attacks on Duane and Hugh, which had more to do with violence and brutality than beauty or lust.

When I got to work the next day, my e-mail inbox revealed a new message from Seth, and I feared some sort of follow-up to his date request from yesterday. Instead, he merely responded to my last message, which had been one in an ongoing conversation about his observations of the Northwest. The message's writing style and voice were as entertaining as ever, and he seemed for all the world not to have minded—or even noticed—my wacky rejection yesterday.

I verified this further when I went upstairs to buy coffee. Seth sat in his usual corner, typing away, oblivious to it being Saturday. I paused and said hello, getting a typically distracted response in return. He did not mention asking me to the party, did not seem upset, and indeed apparently didn't care at all about it. I supposed I should have been grateful that he'd recovered so quickly, that he wasn't pining or breaking his heart over me, but my selfishness couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. I wouldn't have minded making a slightly stronger impression on him, one that elicited some regret over my refusal. Doug and Roman, for example, hadn't let one rejection deter them. What a fickle creature I was.

Thinking of both of them reminded me I was meeting Roman later to go to Doug's concert. I grew heady at the thought of seeing Roman again, though apprehension tinged the feeling. I didn't like him having this effect on me, and I had thus far demonstrated no aptitude in refusing his advances. We were going to reach a critical point one of these days, and I feared for its outcome. I suspected that when it did come, I would wish Roman had bowed out of my pursuit so easily as Seth seemed to have.

Such worries vanished from my mind that evening when I admitted Roman into my apartment. He wore dress clothing all done in elegant shades of blue and silvery gray, every hair and fold perfectly in place. He flashed me one of those devastating smiles, and I made sure my knees didn't start knocking, schoolgirl style.

“You do realize this is a post-grunge, punk rock, ska-type of concert we're going to. Most everyone else will be in jeans and T-shirts. Maybe some leather here and there.”

“Most good dates do end in leather.” His eyes took in the sights of the apartment, lingering briefly on the bookcase. “But didn't you say this was a late show?”

“Yup. Starts at eleven.”

“That gives us four hours to burn, love. You're going to have to change.”

I looked down at my black jeans and red tank top. “This won't work?”

“That does wonderful things for your legs, I admit, but I think you're going to want a skirt or dress. Something like you wore swing dancing, only maybe…steamier.”

“I'm pretty sure I've never heard the word ‘steamy' applied to any of my wardrobe.”

“I find that hard to believe.” He pointed down my hall. “Go. The clock is ticking.”

Ten minutes later I returned in a clingy, navy dress made of georgette. It had spaghetti straps and an asymmetrical hemline, jagged and ruffled, that rose high on my left leg. I had taken my hair out of its ponytail and now wore it long over my shoulders.

Roman looked up from where he'd been having meaningful, eye-to-eye communication with Aubrey. “Steamy.” He pointed to the King James Bible sitting on my coffee table. It was open, like he'd been perusing. “I never took you for the churchgoing type.”

Both Seth and Warren had made similar jokes. That thing was ruining my reputation.

“Just something I'm researching. It's only been moderately useful.”

Roman stood up and stretched. “Probably because that's one of the worst translations out there.”

I remembered the plethora of Bibles. “Is there a better one you'd recommend?”

He shrugged. “I'm no expert, but you'd probably get more out of one meant for research, not devotional use. Annotated ones. Ones that they use in college classes.”

I filed the information away, wondering if the mystery verses might still have more to reveal. For now, I had a date to contend with.

We ended up at a small, hidden Mexican restaurant I'd never been to. The waiters spoke Spanish—as did Roman, it turned out—and the food had not been watered down for Americans. When two margaritas appeared on our table, I realized Roman had ordered one for me.

“I don't want to drink tonight.” I recalled how flaky I'd been the last time we went out.

He stared at me like I'd just declared I was going to stop breathing for a change. “You have to be kidding. This place makes the best margaritas north of the Rio Grande.”

“I want to stay sober tonight.”

“One won't kill you. Take it with food, and you won't even notice.” I stayed silent. “For Christ's sake, Georgina, just try the salt. One taste and you'll be hooked.”

I reluctantly ran my tongue around the edge. It triggered a longing to taste tequila that rivaled my succubus urge for sex. Giving in against my better judgment, I took a sip. It was fantastic.

The food was too, not surprisingly, and I ended up having two margaritas, instead of just the one. Roman proved to be right about drinking with food, fortunately, and I only felt mildly buzzed. I did not feel out of control and knew I could handle things until the sobering up began.

“Two more hours,” I told him as we left the restaurant. “Got something else in mind?”

“Sure do.” He inclined his head across the street, and I followed his motion.
Miguel's.

I racked my brain. “I've heard of that place…wait, they do salsa dancing there, don't they?”

“Yup. Ever tried it?”

“No.”

“What? I thought you were a dancing queen.”

“I'm not done with swing yet.”

Truthfully, I was dying to try salsa. Like Seth Mortensen's books, though, I did not like to burn through too much of a good thing too fast. I still enjoyed swing and wanted to run it into the ground before I switched dances. Long life tended to make one savor things more.

“Well, now you'll just have to multitask.” Taking my hand, he led me across the street.

I tried to protest but couldn't really explain my reasoning to him, and so, like the margaritas, I gave in fairly easily.

The club was warm and packed with bodies, and the music was to die for. My feet immediately began counting out beats as Roman paid our entrance fee and led me to the dance floor. Just like with swing, he turned out to be an expert at salsa, and I found myself easily catching on after a few practices. I might not have demonstrated much talent for standing my ground against margaritas, but I had been dancing for centuries. The skill was fused into me.