Succubus Takes Manhattan (7 page)

“You took him to your place . . .” Desi tried to pick up the thread. “And?”

“He liked the new wallpaper,” Sybil said stoutly.

And she wouldn’t say any more. We all knew, and since Sybil was not a sex demon, sometimes she got a little prudish if we asked about her intimate life.

Thinking about Sybil, I had managed to forget that my friends were also curious about me. Or rather, about my plans for and with Marten.

“So is he a ceremonial magician?” Eros asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know for sure myself. Azoked said he was, but we all know that she can be misleading. He hasn’t asked me for anything yet.”

“Except sex,” Desi pointed out.

“Except sex,” I agreed. “But if he knew at the time what I was, then he’s either brave or stupid.”

“Or arrogant,” Eros suggested.

“Or he just knows he’s a very good lover,” Desi defended him. “Some of them put real effort into it and are proud of their results. It’s like any art form, really.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m seeing him tonight, and maybe tomorrow night. Maybe I’ll find out. Maybe I’ll just have fun. Mostly I’m thinking about having fun.”

Sybil nodded vigorously. “You should definitely have fun with him. If he wants anything, well, you can find out what it is. If he knows what you are, he knows that you can’t give him riches or position or anything.”

I giggled. “No, but you could certainly give him riches. If he asks for that, I’ll recommend you as his financial adviser. And give me the name of that fund you’re managing again?”

Sybil rolled her eyes. “You know, Lily, you own several thousand shares of that fund. Don’t you ever read the prospectus?”

My food was all gone. I scooped up stray syrup on my fork. It was time for dessert. Sybil might be embarrassed by blatant sex talk, but I was a little embarrassed myself. I didn’t know the name of the funds or the stocks I owned. I threw all those little pamphlets they sent around into recycling without opening them.

“So, what are you going to do with Marten tonight?” Desi asked.

I looked at her pointedly and Sybil blushed, but Desi is not so easily embarrassed. “Oh, I don’t mean that. I mean, where are you going to dinner?”

It was past two and I’d finished dessert. It was time to go. We’d paid our bill, left a more than generous tip, and were just settling wallets back into purses and making sure that favorite lipsticks were in place when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye.

I turned and recognized Craig Branford just inside the door.

I froze. He was looking at me, at the four of us, and his face was screwed up in a terrible scowl. Nathan had warned me.

Desi went white, and she’s not the timid one. Sybil looked like she was about to dive under the tablecloth. Me, I stared him in the face.

“Well, hello, Mr. Branford. Fancy seeing you here in Public,” I said rather loudly. “Would you like to join us?”

chapter
SEVEN

“Why would I want anything to do with you, handmaidens of Hell?” he hissed.

“Well, you’ve been pursuing us for over a month now. I thought it was time we at least stopped pretending that we didn’t know you’ve been trying to do something to us. So I thought that maybe we could talk it over like reasonable people,” I said. “I did try once already and thought we’d come to an agreement.”

Sybil and Desi had disappeared as I spoke, but Eros sat stone-still, a hint of amusement in her eyes.

Branford’s eyes were so wide that I thought he had been drawn by the guy who does
South Park.

Suddenly I had the urge to giggle. He appeared as terrified as Sybil had before she fled, as if he believed that Eros and I would annihilate him on contact. Which was completely convoluted, since he was the one who’d tried to kill us with holy water–infused letters. I’d gotten mine first and had third-degree burns over my palms. If Satan hadn’t come and healed me on the spot I would still be in the burn unit at Columbia Presbyterian. Fortunately, She had gotten word to the others before they had ripped open those thick, creamy envelopes that had looked just like wedding invitations.

“You could sit down and order a cup of coffee,” I reiterated. “That would probably be better than standing there with your mouth open.”

“I do not take refreshment with demons,” he said stiffly.

I shook my head slowly. “You know, I don’t know where you got this idea or why you’ve got it in for us. But after busting up our friend’s date and then talking nonsense to my date in Aruba, I think you’ve got some explaining to do. Not to mention those weird cryptic notes you sent. You’re stalking us.” I didn’t mention the holy water. Only a demon would have known there was holy water on those notes, and right now my defense was running toward the fact that none of us had suffered any harm he could see. And that Marten had laughed in his face in Aruba.

“You are Hellspawn and it is our mission to rid the world of the likes of you. Go back to your master Satan.”

I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe I just lost it. Maybe I was sick of being stalked, and of hiding. But mostly I think I just got a raging case of the what-the-hells. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you. Do you believe that there really are such things as demons walking around the streets of New York? And that I’m a demon? I’m a fashion editor. Some people might think that I’m pretty rotten, I’ll admit that. Several of my ex-boyfriends would agree with you, and at least two designers whose bags I refused to show on the Accessories page. But trust me, the bags were horrible.”

He turned pale. He might be a weak, puny mortal, but we couldn’t overlook him completely; whoever was feeding him the information about us, what we were and where we were, was the real demon we were after. And even that demon was likely in the service of someone else. Whoever had been stealing from Marduk’s Treasury.

“You’re lying,” Branford said, clearly upset. “I know what you are.”

Eros rolled her eyes. “Do you have any evidence?” she asked quite reasonably. “Or do you just accost random women in restaurants?”

“You are of the devil,” Branford sputtered.

Eros laughed heartily. “Oh, don’t you just wish. Your actions over the past month and a half would constitute stalking, and I think a judge wouldn’t think twice about issuing a restraining order. Demons aren’t real, and I would heartily recommend that you get yourself into therapy before you get into any more trouble.”

Then she turned to me. “Come on, Lily. Let’s get out of here.”

She rose and slid into her coat. I followed her out onto Elizabeth Street, and up the few feet to Houston where she flagged down a cab.

“There,” she said. “That should take care of him.”

“It was brilliant, Eros.” I had to admire what she’d done. “But I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to find out who was giving him the information. Because someone had to have told him who we are and where we go and where we live. He had all of our addresses. And there was someone following me in Venice. I think.”

Eros shrugged under her pink and orange fake fur. “It doesn’t matter if he’s gone. And I think you’re just being paranoid about being followed. He’s just some little creep, that’s all.”

I didn’t say anything, but I was angry. It did matter. She might have scared off Branford, but whoever had been feeding him information wouldn’t stop. And at least we knew about Branford, knew who he was and that he was dangerous.

Downside of having a demigoddess for a friend. I couldn’t really blame Eros for being who she was. Nor had she been privy to my talks with Meph and Marduk; she had no reason to think Branford was anything more than an annoyance, a fanatic who had somehow decided we were his nemeses. She didn’t know how big it really was.

The cab dropped me at home and then went on with Eros. I had only a few hours until I had to get ready for my date with Marten, and I wanted to look killer. After being jilted by the first guy I’d fallen for in three hundred years, I needed to shore up my self-esteem.

But first, Meph. I needed something faster and more personal than e-mail. I called his cell.

Yeah, Hell is wired, and Meph’s phone works anywhere—on Earth or elsewhere. Only about ten people or so have that number. He picked up on the second ring.

“Lily, I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” he said without preamble.

“I’ve got a lot for you and my phone isn’t secure. Is there someplace safe that we could meet face-to-face?” I asked.

“Do you have my sigil?”

I didn’t, at least not one that hadn’t been published in about a million books.

“You’ve got photo capability on your cell, don’t you?” he asked. “I’ve got a picture on mine and I’ll send it to you. Work the sigil and you’ll be here, and this here should be secure.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “It’ll take me a couple of minutes.”

“The sooner the better,” he said, and hung up.

The sigil displayed on the tiny phone screen was new to me. Meph must have changed his locks since the last time I’d had to do this.

I hate porting by sigil. It’s uncomfortable and messy. I went into my bathroom because I needed a mirror, and the bathroom would be easier to clean up after than my bedroom. Besides, the bathroom is where I kept the lancets.

Once upon a not very long time ago I had to use a knife or a straight razor to nick myself. Ichor is essential to the process. Now I can buy lancets by the fifty count at the local Duane Reade.

Before the ichor came the setup. I got out the brazier and laid out the lancet, the cell phone, the chalice, and the salt before I dragged the step stool out of the kitchen and into the hallway.

The top of the hall closet is full of the magical equipment I don’t use very often. Once upon a time I would have had this all much closer to hand, but since the Internet and the cell phone had become commonplace among Hellspawn, I didn’t need to do ritual to communicate anymore.

I could ask Marten tonight. That would be amusing dinner date conversation.

No. I had to return my attention to getting to Meph. I had already compounded an incense for porting to the highest regions of Hell, and of course it was on the bottom of the big paper bag of incenses. After a good ten minutes of rummaging, I found the packet in a Ziploc baggie with Meph’s name in Magic Marker on the side. The only other thing I needed was salt. That came in a dark blue Morton’s carton on top of the fridge.

When I had everything organized, I lit the vanilla-scented candle that lived near the brazier, hit the light, and focused my thoughts. I scattered salt in a circle around me that included the sink and mirror, touching the tiled wall on each side. Then I started the selfigniting charcoal over the candle flame. I lit the incense and presented the brazier to the four cardinal points, thoroughly stinking up the bathroom, the towels, and my hair. Only when the entire area had been psychically cleansed and prepared did I pull the plastic cap off the lancet and stab the end of my first finger.

Then, as the ichor started to well up in the cut, I followed the lines of the sigil on the phone screen, and reproduced the drawing on my bathroom mirror.

A sigil is a map and a word and Names of Power all at the same time. Some are linked to entities, others to places, and a very few to organizational centers. When I was satisfied that the sigil was drawn correctly, I began to chant the Names of Power associated with Meph and the area of Hell I needed to enter. The vibration in the chanting activated the ichor sigil in the mirror and it began to shimmer.

I repeated the chant again, louder, watching as the lines of the figure went from flicker to steady glow. A third repetition and a final censing of the image with the smoke made the lines and symbols before me blaze like neon, and the color of this brilliant sign suffused the small circle I had drawn.

Smoke from the incense obscured the bathtub and toilet. The sigil became more real than I was, and I saw my hands as ghostly shadows in the smoke. It was time. I called on Mephistopheles in his secret Names of Power and reached out to the small circle that indicated the starting point of the map.

I felt my being sucked into the bars of light. The sensation was like being propelled through all the strokes of the sigil, each in order. The movement was rapid but on some level it felt like it took forever.

And then I was in Hell. In a tiny jewel box of a room appointed in the Venetian manner, gold and deep red and sky blue all combined into a dizzying Baroque array. A great gilded wing chair upholstered in pink and blue and gold brocade sat facing a delicately curved settee in a different brocade of similar hues. A Murano chandelier glittered overhead in four falls of dolphins and dragons that reflected and enhanced the warm golden candlelight. Two delicate side chairs completed the seating and the rest of the space was filled with tables made from inlaid marble and wooden marquetry.

I knew Mephistopheles would appear on the wing chair, but try as I might to concentrate, I could not see him arrive. I was watching an empty space for a few minutes, and then Meph was there, sitting as if he had been there waiting for me, his Brioni suit a matched chalk-striped medium gray that brought out the subtle silver at his temples. Mephistopheles makes a very good-looking man.

“Lily, thank you for joining me,” he said graciously as he passed his hand over the table. A platter of fruit and cheese and paté appeared in the center, and three Venetian wineglasses and a decanter of red joined it somewhat closer to Meph. “I know this is less convenient than sending me e-mail or telling me over the phone, but you were concerned about our privacy.”

I nodded, in complete agreement.

“I am sorry not to engage in small talk, but perhaps under the circumstances it would be best if you simply told me as much as you know, as clearly as you can.”

So I told him. I told him about talking to Marduk and the problems in the Treasury and Budget. And I told him how frightened Marduk was. I also told him about Craig Branford showing up at Public today of all days.

Meph sat absolutely still. I had no idea of what he was thinking; he could have been a simulacrum for all the reaction he showed.