Richelle Mead - Succubus Dreams

"I had a dream the other night," I explained. "And when I woke up, all my energy was gone."

"You're a succubus. Supposedly. That kind of thing happens."

"I wish everyone would stop saying that! This wasn't normal. And I'd been with a man the night before. I was charged up, so to speak."

"You do anything afterward that would have depleted the energy?"

Everyone kept asking that too. "No. I just went to bed. But the dream…it was really strange. I don't know how to explain it. Really, really vivid. I've never felt anything like it."

"What was it about?"

"A, um, dishwasher."

Dante sighed. "Did someone pay you to come here and mess with me?"

Through gritted teeth, I related the dream.

"That's it?" he asked when I finished.

"Yup."

"Lame dream."

"Do you know what it means?"

"Probably that you need to fix your dishwasher."

"It isn't broken!"

He straightened up. "Sorry. Can't help you then."

"Erik said this was your specialty."

"It is, I suppose. But, sometimes a dream is just a dream. You sure you don't want me to read your palm? It's all bullshit, but I can at least make something up so you feel like the trip wasn't wasted."

"No, I want to know about my fucking dream. How can it be just a dream if I woke up with no energy?"

Dante walked back over to me and flicked a piece of escaped hair out of his face. "I don't know. You aren't giving me enough to go on. How many times has it happened?"

"Just the one time."

"Then it may be just a fluke, kiddo."

I turned toward the door. "Well, thanks for the ‘help.'"

Hurrying over to my side, Dante caught my arm. "Hey, wait. You want to go get a drink now?"

"I—what?"

"I'll risk upsetting the masses and close up shop for the day. There's a great bar around the corner. Draft Budweiser—only a dollar a glass during happy hour. My treat."

I scoffed. I didn't know what was more absurd. That Dante thought I'd go out with him or that he thought I'd drink Budweiser. His attractiveness wasn't enough to make up for his weird personality.

"Sorry. I have a boyfriend."

"I'm not looking to be your boyfriend. Cheap sex is fine with me."

I met his eyes. They were gray, similar to Carter's but without the silvery hue. I expected a joke here, but despite the perpetual smirk, Dante appeared to be perfectly serious.

"Why on earth do you think I'd have cheap sex with you? Do I look that easy?"

"You say you're a succubus. You're easy by definition. And even without the bat-wings and flame-eyes, you're pretty cute."

"Aren't you worried about your soul?" Even if he was as corrupt as Erik had insinuated—and I still wasn't really seeing that—Dante would take some kind of hit from sleeping with me. All mortals did. Of course, I'd met plenty of men—good and evil alike—who'd been willing to risk their souls for sex.

"Nope. My soul's pretty far gone. This would just be for fun. Look, if you want to skip the beer, we can just get right to it. I've always wanted to do it on the table over there."

"Un-fucking-believable." I pushed open the door.

"Oh, come on," he pleaded. "I'm pretty good. And hey, maybe your boyfriend's poor sexual performance is what's stressing you out and taking away your energy."

"Not likely," I told him. "We don't have sex."

There was a moment's silence, then Dante threw back his head and laughed. "Did it occur to you that maybe that's stressing you out? Clearly the dishwasher is a metaphor for your broken sex life, which then forces you to wash dishes ‘by hand.'"

I left, heading back to the bookstore where I could get a little respect. Some dream expert Dante had turned out to be. I could see now why Erik didn't really like him. I was also starting to wonder if maybe everyone was right. Maybe I had mentally burned myself out. Maybe the dream was really just a dream.

I was almost at the bookstore when I got a phone call.

"Miss Kincaid?" asked a pleasant female voice. "This is Karen from the Seattle Children's Alliance, calling to confirm your participation in our auction this week."

"Your what?"

There was a pause. "Our charity date auction, to raise money for the Alliance."

I was still baffled. "Um, sounds like a great cause, but I have no idea what you're talking about."

I heard papers being ruffled. "We have you listed as a volunteer."

"For what, to be auctioned off for a date?"

"Yes. It looks like…here we are. Your name was submitted by Dr. Mitchell."

I sighed. "Let me call you back." I hung up and dialed Hugh. "Hey, Dr. Mitchell. You volunteered me to be auctioned off?"

"It's not that different from what you usually do," he argued. "And it's for charity."

"I buy the peace-on-Earth-and-good-will-toward-men thing from Peter and Cody—but not from you. You don't care about those kids."

"I care about the group's director," Hugh said. "She's a fucking fox. I get some high quality candidates to raise money, and I can probably get her in bed."

"You're using a children's charity to further your sex life. That's horrible. And why didn't you ask Tawny? If anyone needs a date, she does."

"Her? Jesus Christ. It'd be a disaster. We're trying to make money here. Do you hate kids or something?"

"No, but I don't have time to do it. I'll write them a check."

I hung up on his protests, just as I turned onto Queen Anne Avenue. I was a little early for my shift and decided to stop home and grab an apple and a granola bar. Last time I'd worked, we'd been so busy that I'd skipped my lunch break. I figured that this time, I should come prepared. My immortality wouldn't let me starve to death, but I could still get lightheaded and weak.

Halfway down the hall to my apartment, I felt a shock wave of crystalline goodness. Angelic auras. I opened my door and found the whole gang: Carter, Yasmine, Whitney, Joel, and Vincent. None of them spoke; they were all just watching me expectantly. The angels would have sensed me long before I sensed them. They all sat in my living room, casually occupying my sofa and chairs as though they weren't a host of heavenly warriors. Well, not all of them were casual. Joel sat as stiff and formal as he had the first time I met him.

"Oh, man," I said, shutting the door behind me. "It's just like that They Might Be Giants song."

Vincent grinned. "‘She's an Angel'?"

I nodded. "Somewhere they're meeting on a pinhead—"

"—calling you an angel, calling you the nicest things," he finished.

"What are you doing here?" demanded Joel, interrupting our jam session.

"Or not so nice," I muttered. I turned from Vincent and glared at Joel. "I live here, remember?"

"We're having a meeting," he said.

"Hey, when you asked if Vince could stay here, you never said anything about making this your top secret tree house headquarters. I don't care if you guys hold your choir practice here or whatever, but don't try to throw me out while you do."

"Sorry," said Yasmine. I did a double-take. Apologies from angels were about as rare as from demons. From the look on his face, Joel was about as surprised as me. "We probably should have asked first. We can go somewhere else." She leaned over my coffee table and started gathering up newspapers. Interesting. Apparently Vincent's fixation with the news was more than just a personal hobby. I glanced back up at Yasmine and tried to act like I hadn't noticed anything.

"No, it's fine. I'm actually heading right back out. I just came by for some food."

She pushed strands of long, black hair out of her face. They'd slipped out of her ponytail. "You want Vince to make you something?"

He turned to her, startled, wearing an astonished, yet still-amused look. "What am I, your personal assistant?"