Richelle Mead - Succubus Shadows

I had never, ever heard Erik call me by my first name.

My car was already headed toward his store when I dialed him back. It was too late for the store to be open, but that was the number my cell phone had logged. No answer came. I tried his home number, just to be safe, and received no answer there either. My fear increased, as did my speed. Easy traffic moved me along, but I still felt like his store might as well be hundreds of miles away.

I made it there in fifteen minutes, which was actually pretty remarkable. The store’s lights were on, though everything else in the strip mall and its lot was dark. I parked right in front, in a handicapped spot, and tore out of my car, nearly coming to a halt at what I found.

The glass of the door and window were smashed, with glittering shards covering the sidewalk. Even if the door had been locked, I could have reached right in to open it. I pushed through, stepping inside to find more destruction. Fountains still tinkled, music still played, but everything else was in shambles. Bookshelves knocked over. Statuary in pieces. Jewelry cases broken—and empty.

“Erik?” I called, hurrying through the store. There was no answer. I passed the register, saw the drawer hanging open, and suspected I’d find it as empty as the cases.

I was heading for the store’s back room when I heard a small noise. Turning, I peered around wildly and caught a glimpse of a hand, behind the checkout counter. There, I found Erik sprawled on the floor, pale despite his dusky skin. A hand lay over his stomach, which was a pool of dark blood. His eyes were glassy, and for a moment, I thought he was dead. Then the lids twitched, and his eyes focused on me.

“Miss Kincaid…”

I dialed 911 while simultaneously trying to rip my coat off. I screamed at them to send an ambulance and pressed the light fabric of the trench coat into his stomach. The effort was futile. A red strain promptly began spreading through the cloth.

“Don’t say anything,” I pleaded when I saw his lips move. They were blue-tinged. “Someone’s coming. You’ll be okay.”

I wanted to ask a hundred questions: what had happened, who had done this. None mattered. Only saving him did—and besides, the scenario seemed painfully clear. A break-in, one in which he must have interfered. Two bullet holes on the wall revealed what had happened to his stomach. The third shot had hit.

“Miss Kincaid…” His voice was so small, barely a croak.

“Shh. We’ll talk later, after the paramedics come. Save your strength.”

“There won’t be a later,” he gasped. I swear, he tried to smile. “Not…for…me…”

“They’ll be here in, like, five minutes,” I countered.

“Doesn’t matter. Too weak. Too much blood.”

“No,” I said desperately. “No.” Even as I begged, my hysteria growing, I knew he was right. He had lost too much blood. He was only alive now because this was a slow-killing wound. Even if paramedics walked in right now, they wouldn’t get him away in time to save him. With his age and recent illness, he wouldn’t come back from this. Still, I denied it. “You’ll be okay. Listen—”

“You listen.” There was no real force behind the command, but I shut up. One of his hands clung to me. “It’s not…your contract.”

I was confused, my mind still on his condition and the store. Then, I caught the context. “Let the contract go. We’ll worry about it later.”

His grip tightened. “There must be another. Two contracts.”

“There…what? No. That’s not how it works. I know that for sure. One contract per soul. I signed one. Now, please. Don’t say anything else.”

“Find it,” he coughed. There was blood on his lips. “Find…it.”

“I will, I will.” I would have agreed to anything, though what he was saying made no sense. My words must have comforted him because he relaxed ever so slightly. There was still no question that he must be in agonizing pain, though. I glanced up at the front of the store, willing myself to hear sirens. “They’ll be here,” I said.

“Too…late. You…you can stop the pain.”

He was so hard to hear now, I had to lean close. Even then, I didn’t fully parse his words until a few moments later. “I’m trying.” I shifted the coat a little, which was proving totally ineffectual.

“A kiss…one kiss…”

“I…” My eyes went wide. “No. No. It’ll kill you…” Even as I said the words, I realized how stupid they were. This gunshot was already going to kill him. He was going to die. One kiss. He wanted a kiss to speed his dying, just as I’d given Luc. I’d never performed that deed again, nor had I wanted to. Maybe it had been mercy, but I’d felt like a killer. And yet, just like I had then, I knew it would ease the passing….

I shook my head. “No.”

“Nyx…showed me. Showed me my death: you.”

He coughed again and could speak no more. Still, he clung to life, with pain on his face and pleading in his eyes.

Nyx? Nyx had shown him his death….

In the far reaches of my mind, I remembered finding him one day, right after Nyx had visited him and shown him a vision. He’d recoiled from me at first and then later shrugged it off, laughing it away as the remnants of a nightmare. But I understood now. He’d seen his death—seen me causing it. He’d been afraid of me in those moments. My man in the dream had been a lie, but all the other visions she’d shown had been true. My role in Erik’s death had been destined…just not in any malicious way. That was how her dreams often worked. Never quite what you expected.

And so, for the second time, I became an angel of mercy…an angel of death…whatever. I hunched down and kissed him, ignoring the blood on his mouth. Just like with Luc, there was only a breath of life left. Five more minutes, and Erik would have been gone without me. That tiny bit of life was as pure and good as I’d known it would be. Erik would be rewarded in the afterlife.

As I lifted my head and watched peace settle over his features, faint feelings flitted through me, as sometimes happened when I took energy. There was affection for me. It wasn’t romantic love. More like fatherly love. Friendship. Fondness. And underneath it was a warning, a warning for me he never got to convey. I was so caught up in those last bursts of life, that I was only distantly aware when the lights and sirens came.

Someone lifted me away, and I saw people huddling around him—too late. I stared at the commotion that followed—paramedics, police. I saw it without seeing it, answered questions without even knowing what I said. A policeman with kind eyes took it all down and spoke to me gently, often repeating himself. I don’t know how long it all took. Maybe an hour, maybe more. I only remember assuring them over and over that I was okay, that I was going home, and that I would answer any other questions that came up.

But when I drove away, still in shock, still barely grasping what had happened, I didn’t go to West Seattle. I went to Pioneer Square, parking in a lucky street spot and then winding my way through the partying crowds. A few people gave me curious looks when I walked into the Cellar, looks I gave no heed to as I honed in on Jerome’s table. He drank alone tonight, his dark eyes watching me intently as I approached.

“Georgie,” he said when I came to a stop in front of him, “what’s the point of shape-shifting if you’re going to walk around with blood on you?”

I looked down, only then registering the stains on my shirt. I turned back to him, ignoring the shape-shifting suggestion.

“Erik’s dead,” I told him, my voice flat.

Jerome’s face displayed no reaction. “How?”

“A break-in. Somebody shot him.”