Richelle Mead - Succubus Blues

And yet... because I cared about him, I could not let this nephilim prey upon him. I could not risk Roman's life in this because, really, he probably was the most likely candidate. Half the bookstore staff still considered us an item; why not the nephilim ? Especially in light of how touchy-feely we'd been on a number of outings. Any stalking nephilim would be well justified in reading that as romantic attachment I picked up my cell phone and called him with bated breath. No answer.

"Shit," I swore, listening to his voice mail. "Hi Roman, it's me. I know I wasn't, uh, going to call you anymore, but something's come up... and I really need to talk to you. As soon as possible. It's really weird, but it's really important too. Please call me." I left him both my cell and the bookstore numbers.

I disconnected, then sat and pondered. Now what did I do? On impulse, I glanced at the staff directory and dialed Doug's home number. He had the day off.

No answer, just like Roman. Where was everybody?

Shifting my attention back to Roman, I tried to figure out where he would be. Work, most likely. Unfortunately, I didn't know where that was. What a negligent pseudo-girlfriend I was. He'd said he taught at a community college. He referred to it all the time, but it was always "at school" or "at the college." He'd never mentioned the name.

I turned to my computer and did a search for local community colleges. When the search returned several hits for Seattle alone, I swore again. More existed outside of the city too, in the suburbs and neighboring sister cities. Any of them could be possibilities. I printed out a list of all of them, with phone numbers, and stuffed the paper in my purse. I needed to get out of here, needed to take this search to the field.

I opened my office door to leave and flinched. Another identically written note hung on my door. I peered around in the offices' hallway, half hoping to see something. Nothing. I pulled the note down and opened it.

You're losing time and men. You've already lost the writer. You'd best get a move-on with this scavenger hunt.

"Scavenger hunt indeed," I muttered, crumpling the note. "You're such an asshole."

But... what did he mean about losing the writer? Seth? My pulse quickened, and I raced up to the cafe, earning a few startled looks along the way.

No Seth. His corner was empty.

"Where's Seth?" I demanded of Bruce. "He was just here."

"He was," concurred the barista. "Then he suddenly packed up and left."

"Thanks."

I definitely needed to get out of here. I found Paige in New Books.

"I think I need to go home," I told her. "I'm getting a migraine. “

She looked startled. I had the best track record for attendance of any employee. I never called in sick. Yet, for that very reason, she could hardly refuse me. I was not a worker who abused the system.

After she'd assured me I should go, I added, "Maybe you can get Doug to come in." That would kill two birds with one stone.

"Maybe," she said. "I'm sure we'll manage, though. Warren and I are here all day."

"He's here all day?"

When she reiterated that he would indeed be there, I felt somewhat relieved. Okay. He was off the list.

As I walked home to my apartment, I called Seth's cell phone.

"Where are you?" I asked.

"Home. I forgot some notes I needed."

Home? Alone?

"Do you want to get breakfast with me?" I asked suddenly, needing to get him out.

"It's almost one."

"Brunch? Lunch?"

"Aren't you at work?"

"I went home sick."

"Are you sick?"

"No. Just meet me." I gave him an address and hung up.

As I drove to the rendezvous, I tried Roman's cell again. Voice mail. I pulled out the community college phone numbers and started with the first one on the list.

What a pain. First, I had to start with campus information and try to get to the right department. Most community colleges didn't even have linguistics departments, though almost all had at least one introductory class taught through some other related area—like anthropology or humanities.

I made it through three colleges by the time I reached Capitol Hill. I breathed a sigh of relief, seeing Seth waiting outside the place I'd indicated. After I parked and paid the meter, I walked up to him, trying to smile in some semblance of normality.

It apparently didn't work.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing," I proclaimed cheerfully. Too cheerfully.

His look implied disbelief, but he let the matter drop. "Are we eating here?"

"Yup. But first we have to go see Doug."

"Doug?" Seth's confusion deepened.

I led him to an apartment building next door and climbed to Doug's floor. Music blared from inside his apartment, which I took as a good sign. I had to beat on the door three times before anyone answered.

It wasn't Doug. It was his roommate. He looked stoned.

"Is Doug here?"

He blinked at me and scratched his long, unkempt hair.

"Doug?" he asked.

"Yeah, Doug Sato."

"Oh, Doug. Yeah."

"Yeah, he's here?"

"No, man. He's..." The guy squinted. Lord, who got high this early in the day? I hadn't even done that back in the 1960s. "He's practicing."

"Where? Where do they practice?"

The guy stared at me.

"Where do they practice?" I repeated.

"Dude, did you know you have, like, the most perfect tits I've ever seen? They're like... poetry. Are they real?"

I clenched my teeth. "Where. Does. Doug. Practice?"

He dragged his eyes from my chest.

"West Seattle. Over by Alki."

"Do you have an address?"

"It's by... California and Alaska." He blinked again. "Whoa. California and Alaska. Get it?"

"An address?"

"It's green. You can't miss it."

When no other information came, Seth and I left. We went to the restaurant I had indicated. "Poetry," he reflected along the way, amused. "Like an ee cummings poem, I'd say."

I was too preoccupied to process what he was saying, my mind racing. Even waffles with strawberries couldn't keep me from worrying about this idiotic scavenger hunt. Seth attempted conversation, but my answers were vague and distracted, my mind clearly not with him through the meal. When we finished, I unsuccessfully tried Roman again, then turned to Seth.

"Are you going back to the bookstore?"

He shook his head. "No. I'm going home. I realized I need too much of my research to write this scene. Easier to stay in my own office."

Panic blazed through me. "Home? But..." What could I say? Tell him that if he stayed at home, he might be in danger of attack by a sociopathic, supernatural creature?

"Stay with me," I blurted out. "Run errands with me."

His polite complacency finally broke. "Georgina, what in the world is going on? You go home sick when you're not. You're clearly agitated about something, desperately so. Tell me what this is about. Is something wrong with Doug?"

I closed my eyes for a second, wishing this was all over. Wishing I was somewhere else. Or someone else. Seth must think I was out of my mind.

"I can't tell you what's wrong, only that something is. You have to leave it at that." Then, hesitantly, I reached out and squeezed his hand, turning my eyes pleadingly toward his. "Please. Stay with me."

He tightened his grip on my hand and took a step forward, face concerned and compassionate. For a moment, I forgot about the nephilim. What did other men matter when Seth looked at me like that? I had the urge to embrace him and feel his arms enclose me.

I almost laughed. Who was I kidding? I didn't need to worry about leading him on. I was the one getting hooked here. I was the one in danger of escalating this relationship. I needed to stop procrastinating on my "clean break" with him.

I hastily broke apart and lowered my eyes. "Thank you."