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Authors: Richelle Mead

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BOOK: Succubus On Top
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I rolled my eyes. “Are we
that
kind of family?”
His smile broadened, and I sat down, unable to resist that goofy charm. He slung his arm around me in an old, familiar way, and I leaned into him. It was nice to have the touch and comfort of another living thing, romantic or not.
“So there's another part of this wacky plan?”
“Not so much another part as an entirely different plan. A backup plan, if you will.”
“Oh no. Here it comes.”
“Naturally, I'd much rather disgrace Dana in a horizontal kind of way, but in the very unlikely event that doesn't work, there's a much less exciting—yet effective—way to do it. And you're going to help me.”
“How so?”
“We're going to break into her house.”
Chapter 5
I
jerked my head away from him.
“What?”
Bastien didn't miss a beat, obviously amused by my reaction.
“You heard me. We're going to break in. I overheard Bill saying the whole family would be out the night after next.”
“And pray tell, how are we going to lead her to scandal through violating her home? By proving to the world that her security system isn't as good as she thought it was?”
He laughed. “No, by rifling through her paperwork and finding some sort of incriminating evidence. Money laundered from the CPFV. Illegal means of carrying out the group's goals. Maybe even love letters from the infamous pool boy. You know there's got to be something.”
“Bastien, this is—”
“Ingenious?”
“Ridiculous. Even for us.”
“Hardly. Like I said, it's a backup plan. Probably not even necessary, since I suspect she's probably in the shower right now masturbating to fantasies of me.”
“Yeah, she sure looked like it back there,” I said nastily. “More likely she's sanitizing her pool after my defilement of it. Well, backup or no, you're going to have to do this break-in on your own.”
“Come on! We'll be invisible. Nothing to lose.”
“That's not the point. The point is I don't do this kind of thing.”
“We're agents of evil. We lead innocents into temptation and suck away their life. How is breaking and entering that much of a leap?”
I tightened my lips and shook my head.
“I thought those broadcasts pissed you off. Don't you want to see her fall?”
“Not enough, apparently.”
He fixed me with a sharp stare. “Did you know that the CPFV recently kicked out a woman for leaving her husband? He had been beating her incessantly—sent her to the hospital twice. When she finally got the nerve to walk out on him, Dana condemned her for violating the sanctity of marriage. Said the woman hadn't tried hard enough to make things work.”
I groaned. “Don't tell me this stuff.”
“So are you in or out?”
“You sure are pushy, you know that?”
He kissed my cheek and hugged me. “I learned from the best.”
I went to Doug's concert the following night, showing up about halfway through the opening act's set. I found several of the bookstore staff occupying a corner but saw no sign of Seth yet. Part of me regretted the whole separate-arrival mandate, but then I remembered the part in Seth's story where Genevieve had spanked O'Neill. Suddenly I didn't feel so bad anymore.
While waiting at the bar for a vodka gimlet, a familiar shape slid up next to me.
“Hey, hey, pretty lady.”
I flashed a smile at Doug's bass player, Corey. “Hey yourself. You guys ready for this? You're in the big time now.”
He returned my smile, eyes alight. Intimidating and fierce looking, he wore a lot of black and had piercings everywhere. He was also one of the nicest guys I knew.
“Hell yeah, we are. We were born for this night. This is the night that's going to define our existence! The night that's going to define existence for everyone in this room!” He extended his hands over his head and whooped with delight, emitting something like a cross between Tarzan and a B movie Apache chief. The silvery glitter of those piercings added to his savage persona.
He was as exuberant as Doug had been the other day. Maybe more so. As much as I wanted to see the band succeed, there was no telling what true fame would do to them. They'd be bouncing off the walls. Setting things on fire.
When I got the gimlet, Corey tugged at my arm. “Come on. I'll give you a sneak peek backstage. You can say hi to Doug.”
I glanced back at the corner, saw no sign of Seth, and followed him.
In the dressing room, the rest of the band was in similar form. They all knew me and cheered my arrival, holding up their drinks in a giddy salute. Doug was dressed in a spectacularly gaudy manner, sporting black spandex biker shorts, a Thundercats shirt Seth would have envied, and a sweeping red velour cape. His shoulder-length black hair was tied back in a sleek ponytail. He scooped me up as I entered, hoisting me so that I nearly sat on his shoulder. Min, the group's saxophonist, waved the instrument over his head in barbaric approval at my capture as Doug roared a cry of victory.
“Here she is! Kin-fucking-caid! You ready to rock, babe?”
“I'm ready to dump this drink on your head. Put me down.”
Doug laughed and eased me down to the floor. I stumbled a bit but not from being set down.
It was here again.
That weird tingling feeling I'd felt with Doug in our office. Only this time, it was stronger. Much stronger. It pulsed around me, almost making me squirm. I peered around stupidly, trying to figure out where it came from, but it was impossible to tell. The sensation was everywhere, an abrasive vibration singing through the air that only I seemed affected by.
Wyatt, a redheaded guitarist, grinned at me. “How much have you been drinking out there? You look a little glazed over.”
“Starry-eyed's more like it,” said Doug, teasing. “Not every day a girl can be around this much sexy action, huh?”
“Whatever. I think her sexiness is a little more lethal than ours,” Wyatt said. He gently turned me around. “You met Alec yet?”
The new drummer, presumably. He stepped forward and bowed before me with a flourish, just as goofily wound up as the rest. He was a little younger than they were, a bit lanky, and had fading blue streaks in his blond hair. He seemed only slightly less keyed up. Still clueless about what was making me feel so weird, I attempted to push it out of my mind and offer Alec a normal smile.
“Hi,” I said. “You sure you want to hang with this group of misfits?”
“I've seen worse.”
“In an asylum?”
He laughed and nodded at my drink. “What are you having?”
“Vodka gimlet.”
“Nice choice,” he said coolly, though I suspected he'd probably never heard of one before. There was a total look of fumbling inexperience about him. “Order your next one on me. Tell the bartender to put it on my tab.”
I worked hard to keep a straight face. He was attempting suave movie-star lines, but they lost some of their effectiveness coming from someone who was barely old enough to drink himself. He probably hoped Wyatt's earlier assessment of my inebriation was accurate.
“Hey,” said Doug, grabbing hold of me. “Stop flirting with my Groupie Queen. Only when you can snatch the fly with the chopsticks, Grasshopper, can you accumulate the groupies. For now, the student must leave the groupies to the master.”
Doug marched me around the room in a—very bad—mock tango. The jerking motion, combined with that grating buzzing in the air, made me lightheaded. “Is the rest of the gang out there?”
“Waiting with bated breath,” I promised. I cocked my head at him. “Shouldn't you be a little more nervous than this?”
“Sure. If I had anything to be nervous about. Which I don't.”
I felt just as astonished now as I had at work. Doug knew his own talent, but I'd seen him before shows in the past. While always joking and in a good mood, there had been a nervousness to him before, a private sort of ruminating while he mentally braced himself to put on the best show he could. I knew he'd said the band had hit some sort of peak recently, but the change was dramatic, to say the least.
After a few more jokes and sexual innuendoes, I finally left them. Just like that, the discordant feeling disappeared as soon as I cleared the door. It was like breathing fresh air after a sandstorm. Glancing behind me, I stared into the room, trying to find any indication of what had just happened. Nothing revealed itself. The band had forgotten me already. They were laughing at something else, drinking their beer or pop or whatever, and roughhousing in what must have been some male tension-reliever. Puzzled, I walked away.
Seth had joined the others when I finally made my way back to the main floor. I felt a smile creeping up on me in spite of my concerns. His hair was as unkempt as ever, and he wore a Thundercats shirt.
“Hey,” I said when I saw him, conscious that everyone was watching us, apparently waiting for me to pull out my handcuffs.
“Hey,” he returned, hands casually in his pockets, posture relaxed and easy like always.
“You know, Doug's wearing a shirt very similar to that.”
“I know. I lent it to him.”
We all shared a good laugh over that, and Beth turned to me. “You saw Doug? Is he ready for this?”
“The question, actually,” I told them with a small frown, “is ‘Is the world ready for Doug?'”
A half hour later, they saw what I meant. Nocturnal Admission burst onto the stage, and suddenly all that pent-up energy and enthusiasm was channeled into their music. Like I'd told Doug, I'd long been a fan of the group. Their style combined hard rock with a bit of ska, and the fusion always hooked me. After centuries filled with repetition, innovation was a treat. They regularly performed with flair and passion, making them as much fun to watch as to listen to. My biased affection for Doug didn't hurt either.
Tonight was unbelievable. All of their songs were new; I'd never heard any of them before. And Christ, what songs they were. Amazing. Incredible. Ten times better than the old ones—which I'd hitherto found hard to beat. I wondered when Doug had had time to compose these. He wrote most of their stuff, and I'd last seen them perform about a month and a half ago. He must have had help to write all of those in so short a time. I knew he usually took a while to compose one, refining lyrics over and over. He never treated the process lightly.
And the performance itself . . . Well, Doug was always flamboyant; it was his trademark. Tonight, I swear, he never stopped moving. Pure energy in human form. He danced, he sauntered, he did cartwheels. His between-song monologues were hilarious. His singing voice surpassed anything I'd ever heard from him, rich and deep. It resonated in my body. The audience couldn't get enough. They loved him, and I understood why. No one, even the people who worked there, could take their eyes off the stage.
Except one.
There, along the far edges of the crowd, was a man casually making his way toward the exit. By his stride and apparent lack of interest, he didn't find Nocturnal Admission as compelling as the rest of us. While this was intriguing enough to draw my own gaze from the band, his attire struck me even more strongly.
If
GQ
magazine had been around in the days of Victorian poets, he would have been their cover model. He wore beautifully tailored black slacks paired with a long, black coat, the tails of which almost touched the backs of his knees. Underneath the coat was a gorgeous, billowing white shirt that might have been silk. Whatever it was, it made me want to touch it and see how soft it was. Unlike Horatio, whose demonic wear had simply been out-of-date, this guy had taken the past and made it his own. His own hot historic couture. The kind the modern day “goth” movement so longed to achieve. He'd opened the first few buttons to reveal smooth, tanned skin. That skin tone paired with the glossy black hair that flowed halfway down his back made me think he must be of Middle Eastern or Indian descent.
When he reached the door leading out, he paused and turned toward the stage, watching the band for a few moments. A small, pleased smile played along his lips, and then he was gone.
Weird, I thought. I wondered who he was. Prospective agent maybe? Or perhaps just someone who didn't get down to this type of music. He had looked like the kind of guy who owned Chopin's complete works, after all.
I considered the man for a few more moments, then turned back toward the stage. The group was taking a momentary reprieve from their new stash and doing a cover of one of my favorite Nine Inch Nails songs. Nothing like hearing Trent Reznor's lyrics paired with a saxophone.
“I can't believe this,” I told Seth later, moving to the back of our group so I could stand near him. Our friends were so hypnotized by what was onstage that Seth and I could actually talk without drawing attention. “It's . . . unbelievable.”
“That it is,” he agreed. “I take it this isn't the norm then?”
“No. Absolutely not. But I hope it becomes the norm. Jesus.”
We fell silent then, our eyes and ears drawn back to the band. As we watched, however, Seth rested his hand on my back in a friendly, innocent gesture that made me promptly lose interest in the music. And that was saying something. The shirt I wore was hardly a shirt at all. It was a glittering tunic type thing that covered the front of me only, then tied behind my neck and once below my shoulder blades, thus letting his fingers stroke bare, exposed skin.
BOOK: Succubus On Top
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