Succubus Takes Manhattan (9 page)

“Lily, you look magnificent,” Marten whispered in my ear as he took my coat to hand to the host.

Our table was ready and we were seated immediately. I missed spending time at the most beautiful bar in New York, though I supposed we could go there later. And the menu did demand immediate attention.

“I was surprised to see you this afternoon,” I said as soon as we ordered every small plate on the menu. I wanted to get it out immediately, wanted to know if I was just bait for him. Okay, I felt a little wary after Nathan. That, and finding out that Marten had known all along what I was. That he had searched me out in Aruba, that it had been about him being a magician and finding a succubus, not about liking me for me.

Marten at least had the good manners to look embarrassed. “I didn’t know you’d be joining us. I thought that I was working with Meph alone.”

“Meph’s good like that. Everyone thinks they’re the only one he’s partnering with. Learned it from Satan, I believe. She’s amazing.”

Marten nodded. “The thing is, Lily, I would really prefer if we didn’t talk about business tonight. I would actually prefer if we weren’t both involved in Mephistopheles’ troubles at all. I would prefer things as they were in Aruba, just you and me, spending time together because we like each other.”

“Well, I am going to have to introduce you to Marduk. I suppose we should schedule that now,” I said in my most businesslike manner.

Marten took my hands. “We will have to decide that at some point, yes. But not tonight. Tonight I want it to be just us, just about us being together again.”

I wasn’t buying it. “In Aruba, you targeted me because you knew what I was,” I said flatly. “I don’t know what you wanted from me or why you did that, but now that I know, I don’t have any romantic illusions.”

Marten shook his head. “I am sorry you got the wrong impression. Yes, I knew what you were when I met you. But . . . I wasn’t looking for a demon succubus then. And if I really want a demon I know how to do a summoning.”

“I expect so,” I agreed coldly. “That’s what magicians do, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” he admitted. “But if you think about it, that also means that if I had simply wanted you for your demonic powers or your ichor, I wouldn’t have dated you the entire time you were in town. And I wouldn’t have bothered to go to Hatuman’s party.”

That pricked my paranoia. “No?” I asked. “I thought you were there on Meph’s behalf, same as me.” I admit that the disappointment made it into my voice and I sounded like the plain girl in a high school movie.

“I would not have gone to the party if I had not hoped to see you,” Marten said, his eyes holding mine steadily. “There were other things I could do, have done, for Mephistopheles. And I have been rewarded for them.”

“And I was your reward for this one.” I didn’t bother to make it a question.

“No, Lily. Mephistopheles has no power over you. You know that. You are Satan’s Chosen, Her handmaiden companion. No one can force you against your desire. I just wanted an opportunity to appeal to that desire, that is all.”

He seemed sincere, but I didn’t really trust him. Yes, it was true, even Mephistopheles, who commanded most of the denizens of Hell, could not compel me.

Still, that was a long way from a date.

I tried to pay attention to my dinner. The foie gras with soy caramen and mustard-brushed tuna was exquisite, skewers of Kobe filet and quail with five dipping sauces was a treat for the palate. We ordered loads of sushi and half a duck barbequed in plum sauce. The food was a riot, delicious and sassy and only three-quarters Japanese.

Right now I couldn’t keep my mind on my food, on the atmosphere, even on the fact I was on a date.

Maybe Marten liked me, but I couldn’t let myself believe that. He was a mortal and mortals didn’t date demons. Not when they knew what we were. Not when they had their own agendas with Hell.

I was going home. Alone. I wanted to just break down and cry, to feel horrible about Nathan and wish that I could trust Marten and think of when I was happy (only a few weeks ago) when I was falling in love with Nathan and having spectacular sex with Marten and thought that he just liked me. And everything then had been good and now it wasn’t.

Thinking that things were as bad as they could get, I got up to go to the ladies’. I stood up and walked past a few tables and there I saw too-familiar black hair pulled back into a ponytail, a sculptured nose, and bright blue eyes that met mine from several feet away.

I wobbled and my stomach tied itself into knots. Nathan. And he was with a woman, a blonde dressed in Prada tweed, elegant and fashionable.

I tried to dart, to run, but four-and-a-half-inch stilettos are not made for fast getaways. I had almost made it to the ladies’ room door when Nathan came up behind me.

“Don’t,” I said. “Just don’t. Go back to your date. Leave me alone.”

I tried to shove through the door into the sanctuary of the restroom, but he held my shoulder. “Please, Lily, talk to me,” he whispered, and his voice was ragged and thick. I could almost believe that he was fighting tears as badly as I was. “At least tell me you’re okay.”

“Let me go,” I said, though the words fought hard to get through. I knew what I had to do but the sound of his voice, the electrical feeling of his hand on my skin ripped my composure to shreds.

“I . . . God, Lily, why can’t you be the woman I met? Why do you have to be this—thing?”

The pain in his voice was real, was undeniable. And it tore me straight through to the core. “I am not a thing,” I managed to choke out before I bolted into the sanctuary where he couldn’t follow.

Oh, dear Satan, I felt like I was being ripped apart. I had not known hurt could be so horrible, that rejection could hurt as much as death.

And Marten was waiting at our table, expecting to have a perfectly normal date with me.

Right now I just wanted Marten gone. I wanted to rip up the blonde’s Coach bag, throw her Jimmy Choos across the room, and drag Nathan back to sanity, which was to say, back to his place with me.

None of that was going to happen. Nathan had chosen. I could not change his mind. If it could be changed, I had no idea how.

I got out of the stall and went to the line of sinks and studied myself in the mirror and pulled on my mojo. It was there, wrong astrological alignments and all, but it lay just beneath the surface. I concentrated on the immortal succubus, Satan’s Chosen, the total “It” girl.

“I am beautiful and sexy, no man can resist me,” I whispered to myself over and over like a mantra.

Except for Nathan.
The thought came immediately, and I wanted to cry.

NoNoNo, that wasn’t happening. I concentrated on remaining calm. No Nathan.

I am a succubus. No one can resist me.

The words reverberated in my mind.

The mojo rose. I could feel it shimmering just under my skin, my entire body bathed in the radiance of power. It glowed inside me, subtly illuminating my face, my complexion, my hair. Power was in me, was me.

Marten? Nathan? They were mortals. They were not my kind. I felt numb, above them, not part of their world at all. Nor were they part of mine.

The reflection in the mirror affirmed the change. The makeup was still Laura Nars, but my face glowed with the aura of magic. My eyes sparkled, inhumanly green, and my hair was electric and wild. I was of the elements, pure and free, and I looked like a million bucks.

So I walked out of the ladies’ room and tried very hard not to look where Nathan had been sitting. I walked back to our table, where Marten took one look at me and smiled blandly.

“They brought the dessert menu,” he said, handing it to me.

A flicker of arrogance touched the power. Marten should be speechless and trembling, not talking as if this were a normal date.

On the other hand, dessert. I wondered what kind of chocolate they had.

I felt good again, in command. I was succubus Lily and I was both charmed and very curious about the man before me. He treated me like a date, but he was up to something. There was something he wanted and it wasn’t just to help Mephistopheles out of the kindness of his heart.

Our desserts arrived. Somehow I just wasn’t in the mood for trendy Japanese-inspired dessert. I wanted something rich and heavy and chocolate, full of calories and comfort. Something that would take my mind off the not-date and the question facing me, nibbling on sake-infused kiwi.

How to find out what Marten wanted? That was the question. He was not going to ask, at least not me, at least not yet.

Marten paid the tab, and I linked my arm through his as we walked toward the club. The line outside was around the block, all the beautiful New Yorkers in their finest D&G, Helmut Lang, Christian Dior, their strappiest Manolos and Jimmy Choos, all waiting for those arbiters of taste at the door to open the velvet rope and let them in.

I pitied them. Since we had dined in the restaurant, we could take the private elevator to the rooftop club with its justly famous 360 views, innovative drinks, and company of the most chic and trendy denizens of the Big Apple. This was not a place for tourists or weekenders, this was the hard core of the New York club scene in their finest.

Marten had been a standout in the resort on Aruba that somehow seemed frozen in an era of big hair and glitter balls. Here in the best of the best, the hottest club in the coolest city, he held his own. The surfer-boy body and tan looked perfect in his Armani, and his eyes sparkled the purest aquamarine. The music was much better than in Aruba, and we danced. It was too loud to talk anyway. He held me against his body and I felt the warmth and desire in him, rising to meet my mojo.

“Shall we go to your room?” I purred.

He assented. I smiled. Part one of the plan.

A simple and straightforward plan. A plan that I thought would work, in part because it was so direct. The one possible complication had already been swept away. Go to his place. Have amazing sex. (Keep him alive if he was true to form and I enjoyed him, and deliver him if he didn’t give me an orgasm first.) Then, when he was asleep (or dead) search his room for clues as to what he was up to. He had clearly brought magical articles with him, at least enough to make the meet with Meph. There had to be written instructions and rituals; he couldn’t have memorized everything.

One thing I did know about ceremonial magicians is that they are all about complexity. They don’t get simple. They love their rituals long, with lots of symbols and articles and very strict protocol. He had to have brought his instructions along with all the accoutrements, and there had to be a clue in there about what he was after.

I hoped.

And if not, I had good reason to believe that at least I would have stellar sex.

His room was on a high floor far from the elevator, and it was larger than I had anticipated. Oversized marble bathroom and ultramodern fixtures and a tub the size of Rhode Island. The bed could have hosted a seventeenth-century Venetian orgy with room to spare.

I wondered if Marten had sprung for this luxury.

Or was Meph picking up the tab out of petty cash?

Marten dropped his leather jacket on the floor and pulled me into a slow, warm embrace. “So, so beautiful,” he murmured as he traced the line of my cheek with his finger. “So difficult to decide. I wanted you all to myself all night, alone in my room, not to have to share you with the whole club. They do not deserve you. But to be seen, in public, with the most beautiful woman in New York, can you forgive me that I wanted to show you off? I wanted to see every man in the room so very jealous of me. All of them would have given years of their lives to be in my place for an hour.”

I laughed, low and husky. He was only speaking the truth, understated, at that. Thousands of men had given their lives for less than an hour with me. The mojo that had sustained me since I’d raised it came through and wiped my mind clear of regret. I was pure power, a force of nature.

Marten took one step back and looked at me, and his answering smile was full of challenge. “I see I am to be your slave tonight,” he said softly. “And if I do not serve your pleasure I will not see morning.”

I shrugged and turned my back. “You can always leave,” I reminded him.

“I can’t leave,” he said. “You know that. Your magic works on me as much as on any man.”

He stepped away from me and when he caught my eye sank gracefully to his knees, head bowed and eyes subdued. A Renaissance courtier or priest could not have been more elegant in submission and his polished pose made me pause. Head bowed forward, the back of his neck was deliciously exposed, as if for an executioner.

I stepped out of my Manolos. He held out his hands and I pulled the desk chair around so that I could sit facing him. He did not move until I had seated myself in comfort and placed one delicately abused sole in his waiting palm.

Thumbs firm against the tender metatarsals, he stroked and massaged until I sighed with relief. Through my hose I could feel his ministrations but not his actual skin. I leaned back into the seat, closed my eyes and gave myself up to bliss.

The touch changed, became hot and moist. I opened my eyes and saw his lips moving over my arch, up to my ankle, where he licked my stockings as if they were made of cotton candy. Do not react, I told myself, but it was impossible to ignore the deep attraction of his deeply vulnerable act.

There is something delicious about being caressed through nylons. The garment is so very thin, almost not there at all, and yet is so very much a barrier. His fingers kneaded my calves, working the muscles bunched by dancing in stilettos so that they relaxed and released. His touch was demanding, intimate, and yet adoring.

I had forgotten the joys of worship. In modern egalitarian America, with modern arrogant men, I had forgotten the delicious pleasure of demanding a man’s service, his submission. As a princess, even the most minor female member of the royal family, I had regularly enjoyed the attentions of attendants and slaves who had treated me with this level of deference.

I knew it was just a sex game. I knew that Marten was proud enough to be a demon—which was why this act of submission was so very sexy.