Richelle Mead - Succubus Revealed

It was true. Hell didn’t like to give us vacations very often. When your employers owned your soul, they really didn’t feel any need to make your life pleasant. That wasn’t to say we didn’t occasionally get time off, but it certainly wasn’t a priority for Hell. The business of souls never rested. For vampires, this was doubly true because they didn’t like to leave their territory. They also had various complications with traveling, say, like with sunlight.

“Okay, so, it’s weird. How does that affect us?”

Hugh dropped his voice low. “When he was in Boulder, a local dark shaman died under mysterious circumstances.”

I felt my eyebrows rise. “And you think Milton was involved ?”

“Well, like I said, I had time to make some calls and do some research today. And it turns out that even though he’s based in Raleigh, Milton travels an awful lot for a vampire—and every place he goes, some mortal in the supernatural community ends up dead.”

“You’re saying he’s an assassin,” I said, intrigued but still not seeing the point. As part of “the great game” we all played, angels and demons weren’t supposed to directly influence mortal lives. That’s where lesser immortals came in, with our offers of sin and temptation. Now, we weren’t really supposed to kill either, as far as the game went, and we certainly weren’t supposed to do it on behalf of a greater immortal’s instructions. We all knew it happened, however, and Milton wasn’t the first assassin I’d heard of taking out inconvenient mortals.

“Exactly,” said Hugh. He frowned. “He goes to places, and people disappear.”

“How does that affect us?”

Hugh sighed. “Georgina, he was here .”

“Yeah, but nobody—” I gasped, freezing a moment in shock. “Erik . . .”

The world reeled around me for a moment. I was no longer in an elite mall’s food court but instead was looking down on the broken, bleeding body of one of the kindest men I knew. Erik had been a longtime friend in Seattle, using his many years of occult and supernatural knowledge to advise me on my problems. He’d been investigating my contract with Hell when a freak robbery at his store had resulted in his death by gunshot.

“Are you saying . . .” My voice was barely a whisper. “Are you saying Milton killed Erik?”

Hugh shook his head sadly. “I’m not. I’m just laying out the evidence for you, which is compelling—but not enough to form a hard link to Milton.”

“Then why tell me at all?” I asked. “You don’t like to get involved with anything that questions the status quo.” It was true, and it had been a constant point of contention with Hugh and me.

“I don’t,” he said. I understood now why he was so uneasy. “Not at all. But I care about you, sweetheart. And I know you cared about Erik and wanted answers.”

“Key word: wanted . I thought I had them.” My heart still mourned Erik, but I had begun to heal from his loss, moving on with life the way we all must after losing a loved one. Knowing—or, well, thinking—he’d been killed in a robbery didn’t exactly give me peace, but it did provide an explanation. If there was any shred of truth to Hugh’s dangerous theory, that Milton—a potential assassin—might have been responsible, then my whole world was suddenly knocked offkilter. And in that scenario, the big issue wasn’t that Milton had done it. What became important was why he had done it. Because if he was one of those Hellish assassins lurking in the shadows, then someone higher up had given him his orders, meaning Hell had a reason to want Erik dead.

“You okay?” Hugh’s hand on mine made me jump. “Jesus, Georgina. You’re like ice.”

“I’m kind of in shock,” I said. “This is big, Hugh. Huge.”

“I know,” he said, not sounding happy at all. “Promise me you won’t do anything foolish. I’m still not sure I should have told you.”

“You should have,” I said, squeezing his hand and making no such promises about the foolish part. “Thank you.”

I had to leave shortly thereafter, returning to assist Happy. A little of her zeal about the pure, magical nature of children had faded in that time. I think it was the six-year-old who asked for a nose job that might have cracked her. As for me, I was in a daze, stunned over what Hugh had told me. Erik murdered. His dying words to me had implied something more was going on, but there’d been no evidence to prove it. Or wait . . . was there? I vaguely remembered the glass pattern of his broken window, the suspicion from the police that it had been broken from within. But what did I do with this theory? How did I get the answers I needed?

Equally amazing to me was the concession Hugh had made in telling me this. He valued his job and his comfortable position. He really wasn’t the type to try to upset Hell or ask questions about things that didn’t concern him. Yet he’d pursued his hunch about Milton and passed on the news to me, his friend. Hell made desperate, soulless creatures out of its employees—and most certainly liked it that way—but I doubted any of the higher-ups had imagined the levels of friendship we were still capable of managing.

Naturally, only one other thing could have distracted me from this new development, and that was Jerome’s presence in my condo later that night. I was returning home after work and sensed his aura coming from within as soon as I put my key to the door. My fears and theorizing about Erik and Milton moved to one part of my brain, replaced by all the old speculation about the mystery transfer.

When I entered, I found Jerome sitting in the living room with Roman, both at their ease and barely acknowledging my presence.

“And so,” Jerome was saying, “that’s why you need to do this. As soon as possible. Nanette’s people have been at it for a long time, so you’ve got a lot of ground to cover. Set up a schedule—I don’t care how rigorous it is—and make those slackers start putting in their time at the alley.”

I stared incredulously. “You’re here about the bowling competition?”

Both men looked at me, Jerome seeming irritated at the interruption. “Of course. The sooner you start practicing, the better.”

“You know what else might be better the sooner it happens ?” I produced the well-worn HR memo with a flourish. “You telling me if I’m being transferred or not. My money’s on it being a mistake because surely, surely you wouldn’t put off telling me. Right?”

Several heartbeats of silence hung in the room. Jerome held me in his dark, dark gaze, and I refused to look away. At last, he said, “No. It’s real. You’re being transferred.”

My jaw wanted to drop to the ground. “Then why . . . why am I only just now hearing about it?”

He sighed and made an impatient gesture. “Because I just found out about it. Someone jumped the gun and delivered the memo to you before telling me.” His eyes glinted. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t too thrilled about that myself. I made sure they know my feelings on the matter.”

“But I . . .” I swallowed. “I was so sure there was a mistake. . . ”

“There was,” he agreed. “Just not the kind you were thinking of.”

I wanted to sink to the floor and melt away but forced myself to stay strong. I had to ask the next most important question, the question that would shape the next phase of my life.

“Where . . . where am I going?”

Jerome studied me once again, this time I think just to drag out the suspense and agony. Bastard. At last, he spoke.

“You’re going to Las Vegas, Georgie.”

I’d been bracing myself for “Cleveland” or “Guam.” I was too much of a pessimist to think I might be offered something even moderately appealing. If I was already going through the trauma of leaving Seattle, then surely it would be for somewhere terrible.