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Authors: Richelle Mead

BOOK: Succubus On Top
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“Find out when you get there. Don't be late,” he repeated.
Stepping off the main thoroughfare and into the shadow of a building, the demon vanished.
A feeling of dread spread through me. Demons were never to be trusted, particularly when they looked like quirky movie stars and issued enigmatic invitations.
“Everything okay?” Seth asked me when I rejoined him.
I considered. “As much as it ever is.”
He wisely chose not to pursue the subject, and we eventually separated to take care of our respective tasks. I was dying to know what this meeting could be about, but not nearly as much as I wanted to know what had made me lose my energy overnight. And as I ran my errands, I also found the strange dream replaying in my head. How could it have been so vivid? And why couldn't I stop thinking about it?
The puzzle distracted me so much that seven rolled around without me knowing it. Groaning, I headed off for my friend Peter's place, speeding the whole way. Great. I was going to be late. Even if this meeting didn't concern me and my impending “unemployment,” I might end up getting a taste of Jerome's wrath after all.
About six feet from the apartment door, I felt the hum of immortal signatures. A lot of them. The greater Puget Sound area had a host of hellish employees I rarely interacted with, and they'd apparently all turned out.
I started to knock, decided an all-staff meeting deserved more than jeans and a T-shirt, and shape-shifted my outfit into a brown dress with a low-cut, surplice top. My hair settled into a neat bun. I raised my hand to the door.
An annoyed vampire I barely remembered let me in. She inclined her chin to me by way of greeting and then continued her conversation with an imp I'd only ever met once. I think they worked out of Tacoma, which as far as I was concerned might as well be annexed to hell itself.
Others walked around—vampires, lesser demons, etc.—and I nodded politely as I made my way through the guests. It could have been an ordinary cocktail party, almost a celebration. I hoped that meant no smiting tonight, since that would really put a damper on the atmosphere. No one had noticed my arrival except for Jerome.
“Ten minutes late,” he growled.
“Hey, it's a fashionable—”
My words were cut off as a tall, Amazonian blonde nearly barreled into me.
“Oh! You must be Georgina! I've been dying to meet you.”
I raised my eyes past spandex-clad double-D breasts and up into big blue eyes with impossibly long lashes. A huge set of beauty pageant teeth smiled down at me.
My moments of speechlessness were few, but they did sometimes occur. This walking Barbie doll was a succubus. A really new one. So shiny and new, in fact, it was a wonder she didn't squeak. I recognized her age both from her signature and her appearance. No succubus with any sense would have shape-shifted into that. She was trying too hard, haphazardly piling together an assortment of male-fantasy body parts. It left her with a Frankensteinian creation that was both jaw-dropping and probably anatomically impossible.
Unaware of my astonishment and disdain, she took my hand and nearly broke it with a mammoth handshake.
“I can't wait to work with you,” she continued. “I am
so
ready to make men everywhere suffer.”
I finally found my voice. “Who . . . who are you?”
“She's your new best friend,” a voice nearby said. “My, my look at you. Tawny's going to have a tough standard to keep up with.”
A man elbowed his way toward us, and whatever curiosity I'd felt in the other succubus's presence disappeared like ashes in the wind. I forgot she was even there. My stomach twisted into knots as I ID'd the mystery signature. Cold sweat broke out along the back of my neck and seeped into the delicate fabric of my dress.
The guy approaching was about as tall as me—which wasn't tall—and had a dark, olive-toned complexion. There was more pomade on his head than black hair. His suit was nice, expensive and tailored. A thin-lipped smile spread over his face at my dumbstruck discomfiture.
“Little Letha, all grown up and out to play with the adults, eh?” He spoke low, voice pitched for my ears alone.
Now, in the grand scheme of things, immortals had little to fear in this world. There were, however, three people I feared intently. One of them was Lilith the Succubus Queen, a being of such formidable power and beauty that I would have sold my soul—again—for one kiss. Someone else who scared me was a nephilim named Roman. He was Jerome's half-human son and had good reason to want to hunt me down and destroy me some day. The third person who filled me with fear was this man standing before me.
His name was Niphon, and he was an imp, just like my friend Hugh. And, like all imps, Niphon really only had two jobs. One was to run administrative errands for demons. The other, his primary one, was to make contracts with mortals, brokering and buying souls for hell.
And he was the imp who had bought mine.
Eugenie Markham is the most powerful shaman around, a mercenary who spends all her time banishing spirits and fey who cross into this world. When a teenage girl's abduction takes Eugenie into the Otherworld, she learns about a startling prophecy—a prophecy that threatens her world and reveals secrets about her own past. Determined to stop the prophecy
and
rescue the girl, Eugenie assembles an odd assortment of allies: a bored fairy King who's into bondage, a cursed spirit who fantasizes about killing her, and a hot shape-shifter who is both literally and figuratively a fox. As the danger increases and time starts running out, Eugenie realizes her greatest threat may actually be her own nature and the dark powers awakening within her.
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Richelle Mead's
STORM BORN!
 
 
I
'd seen weirder things than a haunted shoe but not many. The Nike Pegasus sat on the office desk, inoffensive, colored in shades of gray, white, and orange. The laces were loosened, and a bit of dirt clung to the soles. It was the left shoe.
As for me, well . . . underneath my knee-length coat, I had a Glock 22 loaded with bullets carrying a higher-thanlegal steel content. A cartridge of silver ones rested in my coat pocket. Two athames lay sheathed on my other hip, one silver-bladed and one iron. Stuck into my belt near them was my wand, hand-carved oak and loaded with enough charmed gems to blow up the desk in the corner if I'd wanted to.
To say I felt overdressed was something of an understatement.
“So,” I said, keeping my voice as neutral as possible, “what makes you think your shoe is . . . uh, possessed?”
Brian Montgomery, late thirties, with a receding hairline in serious denial, eyed the shoe nervously and moistened his lips. “It always trips me up when I'm out running. Every time. And it's always moving around. I mean, I never actually see it, but . . . like, I'll take them off near the door, then I come back and find this one under the bed or something. And sometimes . . . sometimes I touch it, and it feels cold . . . really cold . . . like . . .” He groped for similes and finally picked the tritest one. “Like ice.”
I nodded and glanced back at the shoe, not saying anything.
“Look, Miss . . . Odile . . . or whatever. I'm not crazy. That shoe is haunted. It's evil. You've gotta do something, okay? I've got a marathon coming up, and until this started happening, these were my lucky shoes. And they're not cheap, you know. They're an investment.”
It sounded crazy to me—which was saying something—but there was no harm in checking, seeing as I was already out here. I reached into my coat pocket, the one without ammunition, and pulled out my pendulum. It was a simple one, a thin silver chain with a small quartz crystal hanging from it. New Age stores that sold more elaborate ones were ripping you off.
I laced the end of the chain through my fingers and held my flattened hand over the shoe, clearing my mind and letting the crystal hang freely. A moment later, it began to slowly rotate of its own accord.
“Well, I'll be damned,” I muttered, stuffing the pendulum back in my pocket. There was something there. I turned to Montgomery, attempting some sort of badass face because that was what customers always expected. “It might be best if you stepped out of the room, sir. For your own safety.”
That was only half true. Mostly I just found lingering clients annoying. They asked stupid questions and could do stupider things, which actually put me at more risk than them.
He had no qualms about getting out of there. As soon as the door closed, I found a jar of salt in my satchel and poured a large ring on the floor. I tossed the shoe into the middle of it and invoked the four cardinal directions with the silver athame. Ostensibly the circle didn't change, but I felt a slight flaring of power indicating it had sealed us in.
Trying not to yawn, I pulled out my wand and kept holding the silver athame. It had taken four hours to drive to Las Cruces, and doing that on so little sleep had made the distance seem twice as long. Sending some of my will into the wand, I tapped it against the shoe and spoke in a singsong voice.
“Come out, come out, whoever you are.”
There was a moment's silence, then a high-pitched male voice snapped, “Go away, bitch.”
Great. A shoe with attitude. “Why? You got something better to do?”
“Better things to do than waste my time with a mortal.”
I smiled. “Better things to do in a shoe? Come on. I mean, I've heard of slumming it, but don't you think you're kind of pushing it here? This shoe isn't even new. You could have done so much better.”
The voice kept its annoyed tone, not threatening but simply irritated at the interruption. “
I'm
slumming it? Do you think I don't know who you are, Eugenie Markham? Dark-Swan-Called-Odile. A blood traitor. A mongrel. An assassin. A murderer.” He practically spit out the last word. “You are alone among your kind and mine. A bloodthirsty shadow. You do anything for anyone who can pay you enough for it. That makes you more than a mercenary. That makes you a whore.”
I affected a bored stance. I'd been called most of those names before. Well, except for my own name. That was new—and a little disconcerting. Not that I'd let him know that.
“Are you done whining? Because I don't have time to listen while you stall.”
“Aren't you being paid by the hour?” he asked nastily.
“I charge a flat fee.”
“Oh.”
I rolled my eyes and touched the wand to the shoe again. This time, I thrust the full force of my will into it, drawing upon my own body's physical stamina as well as some of the power of the world around me. “No more games. If you leave on your own, I won't have to hurt you.
Come out.
”
He couldn't stand against that command and the power within it. The shoe trembled, and smoke poured out of it. Oh, Jesus. I hoped the shoe didn't get incinerated in the process. Montgomery wouldn't be able to handle that.
The smoke billowed out, coalescing into a large, dark form about two feet taller than me. With all his wisecracks, I'd sort of expected a saucy version of one of Santa's elves. Instead, the being before me had the upper body of a wellmuscled man while his lower portion resembled a small cyclone. The smoke solidified into leathery gray-black skin, and I had only a moment to act as I assessed this new development. I swapped the wand for the gun, ejecting the clip as I pulled it out. By then, he was lunging for me, and I had to roll out of his way, confined by the circle's boundaries.
A keres. A male keres—most unusual. I'd anticipated something fey, which required silver bullets; or a spectre, which required no bullets. Keres were ancient death spirits originally confined to canopic jars. When the jars wore down over time, keres tended to seek out new homes. There weren't too many of them left in this world, and soon, there'd be one less.
He bore down on me, and I took a nice chunk out of him with the silver blade. I used my right hand, the one on which I wore an onyx-and-obsidian bracelet. Those stones alone would take a toll on a death spirit like him without the blade's help. Sure enough, he hissed in pain and hesitated a moment. I used that delay, scrambling to load the silver cartridge.
I didn't quite make it because soon he was on me again. He hit me with one of those massive arms, slamming me against the walls of the circle. They might be invisible, but they felt as solid as bricks. One of the downsides of trapping a spirit in a circle was that I got trapped too. My head and left shoulder took the brunt of that impact, and pain shot through me in small starbursts. He seemed pretty pleased with himself, as overconfident villains so often are.
“You're as strong as they say, but you were a fool to try to cast me out. You should have left me in peace.” His voice was deeper now, almost gravelly.
I shook my head, both to disagree and get rid of the dizziness. “It isn't your shoe.”
I still couldn't swap that goddamned cartridge. Not with him ready to attack again, not with both hands full. Yet I couldn't risk dropping either weapon.
He reached for me, and I cut him again. The wounds were small, but the athame was like poison. It would wear him down over time—if I could stay alive long enough. I moved to strike at him once more, but he anticipated me and seized hold of my wrist. He squeezed it, bending it in an unnatural position and forcing me to drop the athame and cry out in pain. I hoped he hadn't broken any bones. Smug, he grabbed me by the shoulders with both hands and lifted me up so that I hung face-to-face with him. His eyes were yellow with slits for pupils, much like some sort of snake's. His breath was hot and reeked of decay as he spoke.
“You are small, Eugenie Markham, but you are lovely and your flesh is warm. Perhaps I should beat the rush and take you myself. I'd enjoy hearing you scream beneath me.”
Ew. Had that thing just propositioned me? And there was my name again. How in the world did he know that? None of them knew that. I was only Odile to them, named after the dark swan in
Swan Lake,
a name coined by my stepfather because of the form my spirit preferred to travel in while visiting the Otherworld. The name—though not particularly terrifying—had stuck, though I doubted any of the creatures I fought knew the reference. They didn't really get out to the ballet much.
The keres had my upper arms pinned—I would have bruises tomorrow—but my hands and forearms were free. He was so sure of himself, so arrogant and confident, that he paid no attention to my struggling hands. He probably just perceived the motion as a futile effort to free myself. In seconds, I had the clip out and in the gun. I managed one clumsy shot and he dropped me—not gently. I stumbled to regain my balance again. Bullets probably couldn't kill him, but a silver one in the center of his chest would certainly hurt.
He stumbled back, surprised, and I wondered if he'd ever even encountered a gun before. It fired again, then again and again and again. The reports were loud; hopefully Montgomery wouldn't foolishly come running in. The keres roared in outrage and pain, each shot making him stagger backward until he was against the circle's boundary. I advanced on him, retrieved athame flashing in my hands. In a few quick motions, I carved the death symbol on the part of his chest that wasn't bloodied from bullets. An electric charge immediately ran through the air. Hairs stood up on the back of my neck, and I could smell ozone, like just before a storm.
He screamed and leapt forward, renewed by rage or adrenaline or whatever else these creatures ran on. But it was too late for him. He was marked and wounded. I was ready. In another mood, I might have simply banished him to the Otherworld; I tried not to kill if I didn't have to. But that sexual suggestion had just been out of line. I was pissed off now. He'd go to the world of death, straight to Persephone's gate.
I fired again to slow him, my aim a bit off with the left hand but still good enough to hit him. I had already traded the athame for the wand. This time, I didn't draw on the power from this plane. With well-practiced ease, I let part of my consciousness slip this world. In moments, I reached the crossroads to the Otherworld. That was an easy transition; I did it all the time. The next crossover was a little harder, especially with me being weakened from the fight, but still nothing I couldn't do automatically. I kept my own spirit well outside of the land of death, but I touched it and sent that connection through the wand. It sucked him in, and his face twisted with fear.
“This is not your world,” I said in a low voice, feeling the power burn through me and around me. “This is not your world, and I cast you out from it. I send you to the black gate, to the lands of death where you can either be reborn or fade to oblivion or burn in the flames of hell. I really don't give a shit.
Go.
”
He screamed, but the magic caught him. There was a trembling in the air, a buildup of pressure, and then it ended abruptly, like a deflating balloon. The keres was gone too, leaving only a shower of gray sparkles that soon faded to nothing.
Silence. I sank to my knees, exhaling deeply. My eyes closed a moment, as my body relaxed and my consciousness returned to this world. I was exhausted, but exultant too. Killing him had felt good. Heady, even. He'd gotten what he deserved, and I had been the one to deal it out.
Minutes later, some of my strength returned. I stood and opened the circle, suddenly feeling stifled by it. I put my tools and weapons away and went to find Montgomery.
“Your shoe's been exorcised,” I told him flatly. “I killed the ghost.” No point in explaining the difference between a keres and a true ghost; he wouldn't understand.
He entered the room with slow steps, picking up the shoe gingerly. “I heard gunshots. How do you use bullets on a ghost?”
I shrugged. It hurt from where the keres had slammed my shoulder to the wall. “It was a strong ghost.”
He cradled the shoe like one might a child and then glanced down with disapproval. “There's blood on the carpet.”
“Read the paperwork you signed. I assume no responsibility for damage incurred to personal property.”
With a few grumbles, he paid up—in cash—and I left. Really, though, he was so stoked about the shoe, I probably could have decimated the office.
In my car, I dug out a Milky Way from the stash in my glove box. Battles like that required immediate sugar and calories. As I practically shoved the candy bar in my mouth, I turned on my cell phone. I had a missed call from Lara.
Once I'd consumed a second candy bar and was on I-10 back to Tucson, I called her back.
“Yo,” I said.

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