Free Succubus Blues by Richelle Mead

here?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œWhat part?”
    â€œLake Forest Park.”
    â€œThat’s a nice area. Are you going to look for a place up there?”
    â€œProbably not.”
    â€œDo you have another place in mind then?”
    â€œNot really.”
    Okay, this wasn’t getting us anywhere. Annoyed at how this master of the written word could be so short on spoken ones, I finally decided to cut him out of the conversation altogether. Having him involved was too much work. Instead, I chatted on amiably without him, pointing out the popular spots: Pioneer Square, Pike Place Market, the Fremont Troll. I even showed him the shoddier representatives of our competition, per Paige’s instructions. I neglected anything closer to the Space Needle than a brief nod, however. No doubt he’d seen it from Emerald City’s windows and could pay the exorbitant fees to visit it up close if he really needed the tourist experience.
    We went to the U District for lunch. He followed without protest or comment to my favorite Vietnamese restaurant. Our meal progressed quietly as I took a break from talking, both of us eating noodles and staring out the nearby window to watch the bustle of students and cars.
    â€œThis is nice.”
    It was the most Seth had spoken in a while, and I nearly jumped at the sound of his voice.
    â€œYeah. This place doesn’t look like much, but they make a mean pho.”
    â€œNo, I meant out there. This area.”
    I followed his gesture back to University Way, at first seeing nothing more than disgruntled students hauling backpacks around. Then, expanding my search, I became aware of the other small specialty restaurants, the coffee shops, and the used bookstores. It was an eclectic mix, somewhat tattered around the edges, but it had a lot to offer quirky, intellectual types—even famous, introverted writers.
    I looked at Seth, who looked back at me expectantly. It was our first direct eye contact all day.
    â€œAre there places to live around here?”
    â€œSure. If you want to share a house with a bunch of eighteen-year-olds.” I paused, thinking that option might not be so unappealing for a guy. “If you want something more substantial in this area, it’ll cost you. I guess Cady and O’Neill ensure that’s not really an issue, huh? We can drive around and look, if you want.”
    â€œMaybe. I’d honestly rather go there first.” He pointed across the street, to one of the used bookstores. His eyes flicked back to me uncertainly. “If that’s okay with you.”
    â€œLet’s go.”
    I loved used bookstores but always felt a little guilty walking into them. Like I was cheating. After all, I worked around bright, crisp books all the time. I could obtain a reprint of almost anything I wanted, brand new. It seemed wrong to take such visceral pleasure from being around old books, from the smell of aged paper, mildew, and dust. Such collections of knowledge, some quite old, always reminded me of times long past and places I’d seen, triggering a tidal wave of nostalgia. These emotions made me feel both old and young. The books aged while I did not.
    A gray tabby cat stretched and blinked at us from her spot on the counter as we entered. I stroked her back and said hello to the old man near her. He glanced up briefly from the books he sorted, smiled at us, and returned to his work. Seth stared around at the towering shelves before us, an expression of bliss on his face, and promptly disappeared into them.
    I wandered over to nonfiction, wanting to peruse the cookbooks. I had grown up preparing food without microwaves and food processors and decided it was high time to let my culinary knowledge expand into this century.
    Finally settling on a Greek cookbook with lots of colored pictures, I dragged myself away a half hour later and looked for Seth. I found him in the children’s section, kneeling next to a stack of