Richelle Mead - Succubs on Top

"I think the best way to approach this is—"

Her words dropped off as a grimace crossed her face and one hand clutched her stomach.

I started toward her. "Are you okay?"

She nodded, forcing a strained smile. "It…it's nothing."

"The hell it is. You should call your doctor…or at least go home."

"No, it'll pass. Besides, I've got too much to do. I need to make the new schedule and go over some inventory stats."

"That's crazy. I can do that stuff."

She shook her head, arguing again, and I argued right back. At last, Paige yielded, which only verified something must be seriously wrong. Those who went head-to-head with her rarely won.

So, I finished my shift doing her extra jobs and serving as backup. It was exhausting, but I was happy to do it, still worrying about her and her baby. When we closed, I headed straight over to the suburbs, following the directions Bastien had given me.

When I pulled up to his house, I could only sit in my car and stare for a few minutes.

Now, I had a few well-formed ideas about the American Dream. After all, I'd been alive in the days when the term was first coined. I'd seen it arise, seen the mythology that surrounded it, seen the white picket fences and cute, well-kept neighborhoods. I'd even watched Leave it to Beaver. Seth's brother, for example, lived north of the city and had a pretty nice chunk of it carved out.

But this? This was an American Wet Dream.

Bastien's house went on forever, expanding ostentatiously beyond its marble and taupe facade. Even if he'd had a wife and family, I doubted they could have filled it up, and anyway, the kind of people who lived in these places didn't have large families. After all, this was the generation that had, what, 1.75 kids?

The garage had three doors, as advertised, and tasteful shrubs and ornamental trees decorated the lawn. Since it was dark now, I couldn't see the rest of the neighborhood in detail, but I suspected I'd find more of the same. One house, next door, was lit up and busy with people. It was even bigger than Bastien's and probably the location of the party.

"Are you compensating for something?" I asked when the incubus opened his door.

Mitch Hunter flashed me the million-dollar grin. "My sweet sister, you and I both know that's not true. Love your haircut."

I'd come as Tabitha Hunter, lean and blond, though I'd conceded to his earlier complaints and given myself shoulder-length hair. He kissed my cheek and ushered me inside for a quick tour.

After a few rooms, it all started blurring together. Cherry hardwood floors. Gorgeously painted walls. Sleek black appliances. Wainscoting. A hot tub out back. Enough guest bedrooms to house a Girl Scout troop. And cute, cleverly placed knick-knacks everywhere.

"Isn't this going a bit far?" I asked, pointing to a framed copy of the Lord's Prayer in the foyer.

"Tabitha, my love, man cannot survive on bread alone. We can, however, survive on delicious appetizers and hamburgers, so let's head over."

We arrived considerably after the starting time, since I'd been at work, and the party was in full swing. Maybe I shouldn't have been so quick to dismiss these suburbanites after all.

"Mitch!" called a loud voice as we shouldered our way through the people. Most were dressed for the barbecue theme in shorts, T-shirts, and Hawaiian prints.

"Hey, Bill," returned Bastien, extending his hand to a plain yet well-groomed man with silver-streaked black hair. I recognized him from his photos. Dana's husband. "This is my sister, Tabitha. Hope you don't mind me bringing her."

"No, no! The more the merrier, I say." He allowed a small, artificial laugh and smiled at me, making his eyes crinkle. "Especially ones so pretty. Makes me wish I was a younger man," he teased with a wink.

Unable to resist, I looked up at him through my lashes and said demurely, "I've always thought age was kind of irrelevant, Bill." I held onto his proffered hand. "I know I'm always happy to learn from those with more…experience."

His eyes widened slightly, lighting with both intrigue and alarm.

"Well," he said after an uncomfortable moment, "I should probably spread myself around." He remembered to let go of my hand. "Feel free to find something to eat, and don't forget to try the pool."

He glanced at me and my come-hither smile consideringly, hesitated, and then reluctantly departed.

"Don't ever do that again," hissed Bastien, steering me toward the kitchen by the arm.

"Do what?"

"Flirt with this group! You're supposed to be bolstering my wholesome image, not leading on my target's husband."

"I wasn't leading him on. Besides, what's it matter? Scandalize them both."

"No. Dana only. My show."

I cut him a look but said nothing. He wanted me as an observer but not a participant. It figured. All the glory for himself, praise from those above. He'd always had this competitive need to make himself shine. It was one of the things that I liked about him—an eager desire to prove himself the best. I guess I'd had it once too, but not anymore. As far as I was concerned, he was welcome to all the fame and fortune of this gig.

"Just play my sweet, angelic sister," he continued in a whisper. "Possibly my sweet, angelic, and frigid sister."

Moving through the house gave me a chance to take in more of the party's theme. Faux palm trees. Glittering, decorative suns everywhere. Small appetizer tables set up here and there, laden with deviled eggs, cocktail wieners, and cubed cheese. It was silly in some ways, but someone had obviously paid a lot of attention to detail. I appreciated that. All of the guests looked like Bill—and Bastien and me, I realized. Clean-cut, with every hair in place. High quality, conservative clothes (in a tropical sort of way). Upper-class. White.

They freaked me out.

The kitchen proved to be the true hub of food, and I decided to simply gorge myself rather than risk more conversation that might upset Bastien. I loaded up a paper plate with a hamburger, potato salad, and some kind of weird Jell-O-fruit-whipped-cream hybrid dessert.

My efforts to simply eat unnoticed proved futile, as I soon found myself surrounded by a group of women. I didn't know where they'd come from. One minute I was just eating, the next minute six perfect faces were smiling at me. They were like a pack of wild dogs, yipping nonstop, honing in on lone prey. They'd even managed to separate me from Bastien, all the better to tear me apart. The incubus now stood across the room with a similarly ravenous group of men, no doubt discussing cigars and lawn mowers. I shot him a panicked look, but he merely shrugged.

"Mitch's sister," oozed one of the women. "I should have known! You guys look exactly alike."

"Well, not exactly alike," tittered another. She wore an appliqué sweater vest. Yikes.

"We were just talking about stamping. Do you stamp, Tabitha?"

"Urn, like use stamps?" I asked with a frown. "I mean, I mail things…"

The Stepford Wives giggled again at this. "Oh! That's so funny."

"We mean rubber stamps. Arts and crafts stamps," explained one of them. She'd introduced herself as Jody—the only name I could remember among the group. Probably because she seemed to have a slightly higher IQ than the rest. And was the only one of us without blond hair. "You use them to decorate things. "

She dug into her purse and produced a small invitation on beautiful ivory cardstock. Scrolling vines and flowers decorated the front.

"This is the invitation Dana made for this party."

I stared. "Seriously?"

Somehow I'd imagined the "Great Job!" kind of stamps that teachers used on well-written papers. This was beautifully inked and in different colors. It looked professional, like something from Hallmark.