Succubus Blues. Richelle Mead

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      “Come on, Georgina. It’s nothing. A flourish. Smoke and mirrors. Please? Just do this for me?” He turned wistful, cajoling. Hard to resist. Like I said, he was good at his job. “I’m really in a tight spot…if you could help me out here…it would mean so much…”

      I groaned, unable to refuse the pathetic look on his broad face. “If anyone finds out about this—”

      “My lips are sealed.” He actually had the audacity to make a sealing motion.

      Bending down, resigned, I unfastened the straps on my shoes.

      “What are you doing?” he asked.

      “These are my favorite Bruno Maglis. I don’t want them absorbed when I change.”

      “Yeah, but…you can just shape-shift them back.”

      “They won’t be the same.”

      “They will. You can make them anything you want. This is just silly.”

      “Look,” I demanded, “do you want to stand out here arguing shoes, or do you want me to go make a man of your virgin?”

      Hugh clamped his mouth shut and gestured toward the house.

      I padded away in the grass, the blades tickling my bare feet. The back patio leading to the basement was open, just as Hugh had promised. I let myself into the sleeping house, hoping they didn’t have a dog, blearily wondering how I’d reached this low point in my existence. Adjusting to the darkness, my eyes soon discerned the features of a comfortable, middle-class family room: sofa, television, bookshelves. A stairwell rose to the left, and a hallway veered to the right.

      I turned down the hall, letting my appearance shape-shift as I walked. The sensation was so familiar, so second nature to me, that I didn’t even need to see my exterior to know what was happening. My petite frame grew taller, the slim build still staying slim but taking on a leaner, harder edge. My skin paled to death white, leaving no memory of its faint tan. The hair, already to my midback, stayed the same length but darkened to jet black, the fine waviness turning straight and coarse. My breasts—impressive by most standards—became larger still, rivaling those of the comic book heroines this guy had undoubtedly grown up with.

      As for my outfit…well, away went the cute Banana Republic slacks and blouse. Thigh-high black leather boots appeared on my legs, paired with a matching halter top and a skirt I never could have bent over in. Spiky wings, horns, and a whip completed the package.

      “Oh Lord,” I muttered, accidentally taking in the whole effect in a small decorative mirror. I hoped none of the local demonesses ever found about this. They were really quite classy.

      Turning from the taunting mirror, I stared down the hall at my destination: a closed door with a yellow MEN AT WORK sign attached to it. I thought I could hear the faint sounds of a video game bleeping from beyond, though such noises silenced immediately when I knocked.

      A moment later, the door opened, and I stood facing a five-foot-eight guy with shoulder-length, dirty blond hair rapidly receding on top. A large, hairy belly peeped out from underneath his Homer Simpson T-shirt, and he held a bag of potato chips in one hand.

      The bag dropped to the floor when he saw me.

      “Martin Miller?”

      “Y-yes,” he gasped out.

      I cracked the whip. “You ready to play with me?”

      Exactly six minutes later, I left the Miller residence. Apparently thirty-four years doesn’t do much for one’s stamina.

      “Whoa, that was fast,” Hugh noted, seeing me walk across the front yard. He was leaning against the car again, smoking a cigarette.

      “No shit. Got another one of those?”

      He grinned and handed over his own cigarette, giving me a once-over. “Would you be offended if I said the wings kind of get me hot?”

      I took the cigarette, narrowing my eyes at him as I inhaled. A quick check ascertained no one else was around, and I shape-shifted back to my usual form.

      “You owe me big,” I reminded him, putting the shoes back on.

      “I know. Of course, some might argue you owe me. You got a nice fix from it. Better than you’re used to.”

      I couldn’t deny that, but I didn’t have to feel good about it either. Poor Martin. Geek or no, committing his soul to eternal damnation was a helluva price to pay for six minutes.

      “You wanna get a drink?” Hugh offered.

      “No, it’s too late. I’m going home. Got a book to read.”

      “Ah, of course. When’s the big day?”

      “Tomorrow,” I proclaimed.

      The imp chuckled at my hero worship. “He just writes mainstream fiction, you know. He’s hardly Nietzsche or Thoreau.”

      “Hey, one doesn’t have to be surreal or transcendental to be a great writer. I should know; I’ve seen a few over the years.”

      Hugh grunted at my imperious air, giving me a mock bow. “Far be it from me to argue with a lady about her age.”

      I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then walked two blocks to where I had parked. I was unlocking the car door when I felt it: the warm, tingling feeling indicative of another immortal nearby. Vampire, I registered, only a millisecond before he appeared beside me. Damn, they moved fast.

      “Georgina, my belle, my sweet succubus, my goddess of delight,” he intoned, placing his hands over his heart dramatically.

      Great. Just what I needed. Duane was quite possibly the most obnoxious immortal I’d ever met. He kept his blond hair shaved to a close buzz, and as usual, he demonstrated terrible taste in both fashion and deodorant.

      “Go away, Duane. I have nothing to say to you.”

      “Oh come on,” he crooned, his hand snaking out to hold the door as I tried to open it. “Even you can’t play coy this time. Look at you. You’re positively glowing. Good hunting, eh?”

      I scowled at the reference to Martin’s life energy, knowing it must be wreathing me. Obstinately, I tried to pry my door open against Duane’s hold. No luck.

      “He’ll be out for days, from the looks of it,” the vampire added, peering at me closely. “Still, I imagine whoever he was enjoyed the ride—both on you and to hell.” He gave me a lazy smile, just barely revealing his pointed teeth. “He must have been someone pretty good for you to look as hot as you do now. What happened? I thought you only fucked the scum of the earth. The real assholes.”

      “Change of policy. I didn’t want to give you false hope.”

      He shook his head appreciatively. “Oh Georgina, you never disappoint—you and your witticisms. But then, I’ve always found whores know how to make good use of their mouths, on or off the job.”

      “Let СКАЧАТЬ