Succubus Blues. Richelle Mead

      KENSINGTON BOOKS

      http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      For my wonderful parents, Richard and Brenda.

      After filling my childhood with

       mythology books and romance novels,

       you guys had to have seen this coming.

      Acknowledgments

      First and foremost, I have to thank all the friends and family who continually supported me and loved me throughout my writing adventures. In particular, this book could never have been written without my husband, Michael. Considering how often we talked about Georgina and her neuroses in our household, you might as well be married to her too. I love you.

      Gratitude must also go to the Original Richelle Fan Club: Michael, David, Christina, and Marcee. You guys dutifully accepted every page I thrust at you and faithfully humored my demands for instantaneous feedback. Your enthusiasm and encouragement kept me going. Don’t worry—Harbinger will get published one day. Honest. I mean it.

      Finally, I need to give a shout-out to the literary and publishing folks who kept me on-track: Kate McKean, Jim McCarthy, and John Scognamiglio. Thank you so much for your guidance and advice.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Epilogue

      Chapter 1

      Statistics show that most mortals sell their souls for five reasons: sex, money, power, revenge, and love. In that order.

      I suppose I should have been reassured, then, that I was out here assisting with numero uno, but the whole situation just made me feel…well, sleazy. And coming from me, that was something.

      Maybe I just can’t empathize anymore, I mused. It’s been too long. When I was a virgin, people still believed swans could impregnate girls.

      Nearby, Hugh waited patiently for me to overcome my reticence. He stuffed his hands into well-pressed khakis, leaning his large frame against his Lexus. “I don’t see what the big deal is. You do this all the time.”

      That wasn’t exactly true, but we both knew what he meant. Ignoring him, I instead made a great show of studying my surroundings, not that that improved my mood. The suburbs always dragged me down. Identical houses. Perfect lawns. Far too many SUVs. Somewhere in the night, a dog refused to stop yapping.

      “I don’t do this,” I said finally. “Even I have standards.”

      Hugh snorted, expressing his opinion of my standards. “Okay, if it makes you feel better, don’t think of this in terms of damnation. Think of it as a charity case.”

      “A charity case?”

      “Sure.”

      He pulled out his Pocket PC, looking briskly businesslike, despite the unorthodox setting. Not that I should have been surprised. Hugh was a professional imp, a master at getting mortals to sell their souls, an expert in contracts and legal loopholes that would have made any lawyer wince in envy.

      He was also my friend. It sort of gave new meaning to the With friends like these… adage.

      “Listen to these stats,” he continued. “Martin Miller. Male, of course. Caucasian. Nonpracticing Lutheran. Works over at a game store in the mall. Lives in the basement here—his parents’ house.”

      “Jesus.”

      “Told you.”

      “Charity or no, it still seems so…extreme. How old is he again?”

      “Thirty-four.”

      “Ew.”

      “Exactly. If you were that old and hadn’t gotten any, you might seek desperate measures too.” He glanced down at his watch. “So are you going to do this or not?”

      No doubt I was keeping Hugh from a date with some hot woman half his age—by which I meant, of course, the age Hugh looked. In reality, he was pushing a century.

      I set my purse on the ground and gave him a warning glance. “You owe me.”

      “I do,” he conceded. This wasn’t my usual gig, thank goodness. The imp normally “outsourced” this kind of thing but had run into some kind of scheduling problem tonight. I couldn’t imagine who he normally got to do this.

      I started toward the house, but he stopped me. “Georgina?”

      “Yeah?”

      “There’s…one other thing…”

      I turned back around, not liking the tone in his voice. “Yes?”

      “He, um, sort of had a special request.”

      I raised an eyebrow and waited.

      “You see, uh, he’s really into the whole, like, evil thing. You know, figures if he sold his soul to the devil—so to speak—then he should lose his virginity to a, I don’t know, demoness or something.”

      I swear, even the dog stopped barking at that. “You’re joking.”

      Hugh didn’t respond.

      “I’m not a—no. No way am I going to—”

      “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