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Authors: Richelle Mead

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BOOK: Succubus On Top
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“I know,” I whispered into the darkness. “I know. And I'm sorry too.”
More silence.
“I guess,” he finally said, “I should go sleep on the couch . . .”
I closed my eyes, feeling terrible but knowing he was right. We'd been playing with fire by fooling around with this chaste-sleeping thing. It was a wonder something bad hadn't happened sooner. The more it sunk in, the more I realized how much damage I could have caused. Hell, how much damage had I caused already by taking those few drops of life from him? A week off his lifespan? A few days? Even one minute would have been too much.
Bitterness—at the world, not him—dripped from my voice when I spoke. “No. I'll take the couch. We're at your place.”
“Whatever. Leave me some remnant of chivalry.”
I didn't say anything, and we sat once more in awkward silence. A hundred questions hung in the air between us, but neither of us could broach them. Both our faults. When an emotional situation turned uncomfortable, I had a tendency to run from it or pretend it wasn't happening. And while Seth wouldn't exactly run away, he wouldn't initiate the dialogue needed to explore something like this. So we continued sitting there.
At last, he stood up. “I'm sorry. Sorry for what I did.”
He blamed himself, which was typical of him but not fair, especially since I had technically touched him first. I should have said something then, told him it wasn't all his fault. But the words stuck on my tongue, held up by my own confused feelings. After a few more moments, he left for the living room.
I lay back down, Damocles in my arms, but slept badly the rest of the night. When morning came, Seth and I ate breakfast in more tense silence—he'd finally made my pancakes—broken only occasionally by stiff small talk. We then went to the bookstore together, parting ways quickly. I hardly saw him the rest of the day.
Bastien was in the city for some reason or another that night, so he picked me up later and drove me over to his place for the ridiculous heist at Dana's. When I saw the post-sex energy wreathing him, I knew what had brought him downtown.
“Don't you get tired of getting laid every day?” I asked him, wishing I could have gotten laid last night.
“I'm going to pretend you didn't actually just ask that, Fleur.” He then proceeded to ramble on about his various Dana sightings in the last few days, how chummy they were getting, how it could only be a matter of time before the inevitable.
When I didn't really respond, he cut me a sidelong glance. “What's the matter with you? You look miserable.”
I sighed. “I kissed Seth last night.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What else happened?”
“Well . . . nothing. I mean, a little groping here and there, but that's it.”
“So?”
“So, I shouldn't have done it.”
A dismissive look crossed his face. “A kiss is nothing. It's not like you gave him a blow job or anything.”
“Good lord, you're crass.”
“Don't act like I offended your delicate sensibilities. And you know what I'm talking about.”
“Doesn't matter. I was weak. I got some of his energy from that.”
“Fleur, I love you as much as I've ever managed to love anybody, but this whole thing is absurd. You're never going to be happy until you've fucked this guy, so just get it over with. It'll take away the whole forbidden attraction and allow both of you to get on with your lives.”
“‘Get on with our lives?' What's that supposed to mean?” I asked sharply.
“I mean half the reason you guys are so infatuated with each other is because you can't have each other. It's not love, but it is a normal human reaction, a catalyst for physical attraction.” He paused and considered. “Your maniacal obsession with his books might also be a factor.”
“That's not true. None of that's true at all. Well, I mean, those books are good enough to be the basis of a religion, but that's not the same thing. That's not why I . . .”
Love him?
Hell. I still didn't know if I did or not. I wasn't even sure what love was after all this time.
Bastien shook his head, not believing me but not wanting to argue either. “Fine. Keep going with this. I still think you should fuck him, though. Even if it doesn't make you both realize you're better off apart, it'll at least remove one source of tension between you and maybe let you attempt some sort of normal dysfunctional relationship.”
I stared bleakly into space. “I can't. Not even one night. It'd take years off his life. I couldn't live with myself.”
“Bah. Only a handful of years at most. What's that? Besides, men have done stupider things for sex—with women they don't even really like. If he really does love you, he might think it's a fair trade.”
I shuddered. I didn't think it was fair at all, but he was right about the silly things men would do for sex. I'd seen and initiated plenty of them.
We finally gave up both sides of the argument when we pulled into his driveway. The clock was ticking, and we had to start this operation. Bastien had watched Dana and Bill drive off earlier, and their teenage son had gone down the street to stay at a friend's house. Shifting to be invisible to mortal eyes, Bastien and I crept out the back of his house and scaled the fence into Dana's yard. It sort of made me feel like I was in a spy movie; I half wished we could crawl under some motion-detecting lasers.
“They have a security system,” I whispered to Bastien as I watched him pick the back door's lock. More useful skills gleaned from long centuries. “Being invisible isn't going to deactivate it.”
“No problem. I've done some invisible reconnaissance. I know the code.”
Sure enough, he punched it into the console once we were in the house, and the readout's red light turned green.
We started in the Dailey office, as that seemed like the most logical place to stash paperwork. Dana had a meticulous sense of organization that creeped me out, and we had to make sure we left everything the way we found it.
Unfortunately, most of the stuff was completely useless. Memos. Efficient—and honest—budget reports. Invoices. Press releases. She had a lot of pictures too, which were at least more fun to look at than the papers. Most of them showed family or CPFV events. A number of the shots had Jody in them, which saddened me. I recalled the other woman's sly wit and passion for art. Why would someone with any sort of intelligence want to get involved in all this?
“I didn't realize how active Jody was in this group,” I remarked to Bastien. “She wasn't so bad. Dana's corrupted her.”
“Dana's a persuasive woman. Hey, did you know Jody's last name is Daniels? And her husband's name is Jack?”
We giggled over that and continued searching a while longer before finally abandoning the office. We then ransacked—neatly, of course—any other cupboards or drawers we could find on the main floor. Nothing.
“Maybe there are secret panels behind paintings,” suggested Bastien.
“Or maybe the pool-boy thing was a fraud, Dana's honest with her business dealings, and there's really nothing else to get on her except that she's a prejudiced bitch.”
He rolled his eyes. “One place left. The true sanctuary. The bedroom.”
I grimaced. Going into someone's bedroom freaked me out. The ultimate violation of privacy. But Bastien charged on, still confident this wild goose chase would yield results.
Fortunately, the bedroom had the neat, sterile look of a hotel, not the warm and sensual air of one's most intimate space. It made searching easier, like I was breaking into a vacant room. We sifted through drawers and closets, again finding little to go on.
“Eek!” I suddenly cried, staring into an open drawer. Bastien flew to me.
“What? What is it?”
I held up what had to be the most wholesome pair of granny panties I'd ever seen. They were like great-granny panties. They were even white. You would have thought she could at least go out on a limb and get them in blue or green or something.
Bastien elbowed me for my overreaction. “How can you even act surprised after hearing her rants about modest clothing?”
“Modest is one thing, but Jesus . . . how high do these things go? Up to her neck?”
“Put them back. We've got to—”
Click.
We'd both heard. I shot Bastien a panicked look and shoved the underwear back in the drawer.
“I thought you said—”
His tone was grim. “I know, I know.”
Someone had just entered the house.
Chapter 7
W
e stood rooted in the bedroom, frozen, both of us too terrified to blink. Downstairs, the door shut and footsteps could be clearly heard on the hardwood floor. A low murmur of voices drifted up, the words inaudible.
“What are we going to do?” I whispered. Invisible we might be, but I still didn't want to slink through the house with others around. It would also make leaving inconspicuously a problem.
Bastien frowned, apparently trying to discern the words below. “Those are all male voices. Not Dana. Come on.”
He grabbed my arm, and we crept out into the hallway where we could hear more clearly.
“You sure they aren't coming home?” asked an anxious voice.
“Yup. They'll be out 'til, like, midnight.”
“Cool.”
Bastien grinned at me. “Reese,” he breathed.
Reese. The son. The son who was supposed to be down the street at a friend's house. That was better than Dana, but still disconcerting. I shot Bastien a questioning look.
What's he doing here?
I mouthed.
Bastien shrugged by way of answer and gestured for me to follow him the rest of the way downstairs. Reese and his friend obliviously made enough noise to cover any of our movements.
I hadn't really seen Reese yet and was curious. I'd expected a clean-cut, dutiful altar-boy type, but he seemed perfectly average—in that sullen, T-shirt wearing sort of way. He had Dana's black hair and blue eyes, paired with some of Bill's unfortunate facial features. His friend had long hair and wore a beat-up army coat with jeans.
“Where should we do it?” asked the friend.
Reese glanced around. “Outside. Otherwise they'll smell it later.”
“Okay. But roll it in here.”
They huddled around the kitchen table. Reese produced a tin of rolling papers and a plastic Baggie with enough marijuana in it to keep a family of five stoned for a week.
The friend skillfully rolled an enormous joint, and the boys took it outside, going out the same door we'd come in. Bastien and I exchanged glances, both of us barely holding back hysterical laughter. We walked into the still-dark living room and stood at the window, watching the boys outside. They left all the outdoor lights off, not wanting to attract neighborly attention. The joint made a pinpoint of orange light in the blackness as they passed it back and forth.
“Oh my God,” I gasped. “This just justified the whole break-in.”
Bastien's expression was speculative. “Maybe we can use this against her.”
I turned on him. “What? Come on. He's just a kid. No need to drag him down with her. Besides, if I had his parents, I'd want to be high too.”
Bastien looked momentarily uncertain, finally yielding with a small nod. “Okay. You're right. So. You want to finish the bedroom and then head out? I doubt they're going to notice much going on around them.”
We went back upstairs, still hoping for some incriminating photo or piece of paper. No such luck.
We left Reese and his friend alone, using the front door to make our getaway. Once we were safely back at Bastien's, we settled into the immaculate living room, defeated.
“Well. That was pointless,” I said.
“Not entirely.” Bastien reached into his pocket and tossed over Reese's plastic bag.
I caught it and straightened up in my chair. “Jesus H. Christ! You swiped that poor kid's pot?”
“He shouldn't have left it out like that.”
I held it up. It was half-full. “There's a special hell for people like you.”
“Yeah, I own a condo there. Besides, it's for his own good. Pot's a gateway drug, you know.”
“I can't believe this. You don't think they're going to notice this is missing?”
“Nah. By the time they come back in, they'll be so far gone they won't remember where they left it. They'll spend the next few days accusing each other of losing it.”
I shook my head. “I know I've said it before, but this really is a new low. I . . . I'm so shocked now, I don't even know what to do.”
“
I
do.”
An hour later, we were both on the floor, giggling endlessly, though I wasn't entirely sure what about. Bastien passed the joint to me, and I took a hit off it, sighing happily. I handed it back.
“I'm not saying Monique wasn't a bitch,” he was explaining, “but you have to admit, she knew how to get things done.”
I leaned against the back of the couch, letting my head roll around on the cushions. “Yeah, but . . . she was . . . you know, sloppy. Like, no creativity whatsoever. Being in the business isn't just about sex. It's about . . . pride . . . pride in your work.”
He inhaled and passed the joint back. “Oh, she had pride in her work, believe me. Used to ride me like a horse.” He paused a moment, then started laughing. “She totally did me proud.”
I sat back up. “What, you slept with her?”
“Sure, why not?”
I poked him with my foot. “You fucking slut.”
“Look who's calling the cauldron black.”
“
Kettle
. It's a kettle. Get your metaphors right.”
“That wasn't a metaphor. It was a, you know . . .” He stared off into space, blinking. “One of those things that's symbolic of another thing. But isn't the same thing. Just like it.”
“You mean a metaphor?”
“No! It's like a story . . . like . . . a proverb! That's it.”
“I'm pretty sure that wasn't a proverb. Maybe it was an analogy.”
“I don't think so.”
“Look, I know these things. I work in a—oh!”
“Oh what?”
“How am I going to get home?”
“You're leaving? Or is that an analogy?”
“I'm not leaving yet . . . but you drove me . . . you can't drive me back.”
“Sure I can. I feel fine.”
“You wish. I haven't smoked that much.”
I rummaged through my purse, found my cell phone, and dialed the first number in it. Beside me, Bastien muttered about analogies while staring entranced at the smoke swirling off the joint.
“Hello?” answered Seth. We hadn't really spoken since our awkward morning.
“Hey, it's me.”
“Hey.”
“So . . . I, uh . . . need a favor.”
“What is it?” When I didn't say anything right away, he asked, “You still there? You okay?”
“Yeah . . .” I started laughing uncontrollably. “I am
so
okay.”
“Um, all right. What do you need?”
It took me a moment to remember. “A ride.”
“A ride?”
“Yeah. A ride.”
Bastien made a rude gesture at the mention of “a ride,” and I kicked him again. I gave the address to a clearly confused Seth and then disconnected.
“Idiot!” I yelled at Bastien, even though I thought the whole situation was hilarious, as did he. I went in for a tackle. “What were you—”
The doorbell rang. Our eyes went wide as we froze midgrapple, panic flooding us like two kids who had just been busted hardcore.
“Shit,” I said.
“Damn. That author drives fast.”
“It's not him, you dork. Don't move. They'll go away.”
He lumbered to his feet. “No . . . I gotta see who it is . . . maybe it's Jack Daniels . . . could use a drink . . .”
“Don't do it!” I begged, suddenly terrified for no reason I could identify.
He turned invisible and strolled over to the door. Half a second later, he came tearing back. “It's Dana! She's back early.” He ran his hand frantically over Mitch's neat, blond hair. “What's she want? What's she doing here?”
“Maybe she wants Reese's pot back.”
“This is my chance! She's here alone. She wants me. Quick.” He yanked my arm and dragged me to the stairs. I cried out in surprise. “Get out of sight. Throw that away.”
“I'm not throwing this away! Besides, you don't think she'll notice that your whole fucking house smells like this? Jesus. Your pupils are the size of her granny panties. Virtuous or not, she isn't stupid.”
“Just go! Hurry! Don't come down.”
Grumbling, I went upstairs while Bastien scurried to the door. Turning invisible, I sat cross-legged at the top of the stairs and kept smoking. Below, I heard him greet Dana.
“Well, hello,” he bellowed. “Sorry if I kept you waiting . . . I was . . .” He trailed off stupidly, and I shook my head. Sloppy, sloppy. He would have never been at a loss for words sober, but then, his sober self would have immediately noticed the foolishness afoot. “I was . . . um, busy. Upstairs.”
“I see,” replied Dana. Her tone was once again set to cool and formal. I decided Bastien had imagined the warm and friendly rapport he kept claiming they had when alone. “Well, I apologize for disturbing you, but when I dropped off the cookies earlier, I think I may have lost an earring.”
I straightened up. Cookies? He hadn't mentioned that. Maybe he was making progress after all. Cookies. I wondered what kind she'd brought. Peanut butter? Chocolate chip? Oh. Maybe even white chocolate macadamia.
He and Dana commenced a search for the earring, coming up empty. The whole time, Bastien tried to act like he wasn't stoned, but Dana couldn't have been fooled. Not with those cyborg eyes of hers. Hell, I didn't even need to see it. The audio track alone was entertaining enough.
Meanwhile, I couldn't stop thinking about those goddamned cookies. They sounded good. Really good. Suddenly, I wanted them more than I'd ever wanted anything in my life.
“Well,” I heard Dana say, “I must have lost it somewhere else. Thanks for looking.”
“Sorry I couldn't help you.”
“It's all right.” She allowed an elegantly crafted pause. “Isn't that Tabitha's purse over there? Is she here?”
Oh, shit. I had a feeling Bastien was thinking the same thing.
“Uh, well, yeah . . . but . . . um, she's upstairs lying down,” he faltered. “Has a headache.”
“Oh, that's too bad. Did she take anything for it?”
“Um, yeah, she did.”
I looked at the joint. Had I ever.
Bastien and Dana started talking about something else, and I decided then that I
had
to get those cookies. I was starving. The lovebirds sounded like they had moved to the living room, so I could sneak invisibly down the stairs and raid the kitchen without them knowing. Standing up, I put the joint out in the upstairs bathroom and moved on to my covert descent. Pot doesn't usually mess with motor control the way alcohol can, but it can certainly distract you from ordinary things. Like watching where you're going.
About three steps down, my foot slipped out from under me.
I uttered a sailor-worthy expletive and slid painfully down the rest of the way, landing hard on my butt at the bottom, my legs twisting into unnatural positions underneath me. I had barely enough sense to snap back to a visible Tabitha, lest Bastien and Dana think a clumsy ghost had just fallen down. A moment later, they came running.
“What happened?” exclaimed Bastien. He sounded more upset about the interruption than my immediate health.
“I . . . I tripped . . .”
Looking down, I tried moving my left ankle to a more comfortable position. I winced. It hurt like hell, but at least it moved.
“Well,” he said crisply, “so long as you're okay. I'm sure you'll want to go and—”
“Okay?” Dana gave him an incredulous look. “We need to get her to the couch so she can straighten that out.”
“Oh no,” I protested, seeing Bastien's murderous expression. “I . . . I'm fine . . . really . . .”
But there was no arguing with Dana. She supported me under one arm, and he took the other. I hobbled over to the couch, putting my weight only on the right foot. Once I was stretched out, she pushed my jeans up over my calf and felt the ankle with cautious, expert precision, carefully examining each inch. I appreciated her solicitous concern and apparent first-aid know-how, but the thought of this wretched woman touching my leg repulsed me. Besides, what I really wanted were those cookies. Fuck my ankle.
“It doesn't feel broken,” she finally decided. “Probably just a sprain, lucky for you. We should ice it.”
BOOK: Succubus On Top
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