Free Succubus Blues by Richelle Mead Page B

young man standing near the door and directing the crowd around. “Are you here for the Gathering?”
    â€œUm, no,” I told him. “I’m looking for Erik.”
    â€œErik who?”
    â€œLancaster? Older guy? African-American? He works here.”
    The young lackey shook his head. “There’s no Erik here. Not as long as I’ve been working here.” He spoke like he’d founded the store.
    â€œHow long has that been?”
    â€œTwo months.”
    I rolled my eyes. A veritable veteran. “Is there a manager around here I can talk to?”
    â€œWell, Helena’s here, but she’s going to be—ah, there she is.” He gestured to the far side of the store where the woman in question appeared as though summoned.
    Ah yes, Helena. She and I had tangled before. Pale-haired, her neck bestrewn with crystals and other arcane symbols, she stood in a doorway marked MEETING ROOM . A teal shawl covered her slim shoulders, and like always, I wondered how old she was. She looked to be in her lower to mid-thirties, but something about her demeanor always made me think she was older. Maybe she’d had a lot of plastic surgery. It would be fitting, really, considering the rest of her trumped-up, artificial persona.
    â€œEveryone? Everyone?” She spoke in this obviously faked, high-pitched voice, meant to sound like a whisper, albeit one that could reach loud volumes. So mostly it came out raspy, like she had a cold. “It’s time to start.”
    The masses—thirty or so, I’d say—moved toward the meeting room, and I followed, blending into the crowd. Some of the people around me looked like Helena: theme-dressed, in either all-black or too-vibrant shades, with a plethora of pentagrams, crystals, and ohms in attendance. Others looked like average people, dressed much like me in my work clothes, trailing along in excited curiosity.
    With a frozen, fake smile plastered across her face, Helena beckoned us into the room murmuring, “Welcome, welcome. Feel the energy.” When I passed by her, the smile faltered. “I know you.”
    â€œYes.”
    The smile diminished further. “You’re that woman who works at that big bookstore—that big, commercial bookstore.” A few people stopped and listened to our exchange, no doubt the reason she refrained from pointing out the last time I was in here, I had called her a hypocrite pushing marked-up crap merchandise.
    Compared to certain national chains, I hardly considered Emerald City commercial. Still, I shrugged in acknowledgment. “Yeah, what can I say, we’re part of the problem in corporate America. However, we do sell all the books and tarot cards that you do, often at a discount if you’re a member of Emerald City’s Frequent Readers Program.” I mentioned this last part loudly. Extra advertising never hurt.
    Helena’s weakening smile disappeared altogether, as did some of her raspy voice. “Is there something I can help you with?”
    â€œI’m looking for Erik.”
    â€œErik doesn’t work here anymore.”
    â€œWhere’d he go?”
    â€œI’m not at liberty to discuss that.”
    â€œWhy? Are you afraid I’ll take my business elsewhere? Believe me, you were never in danger of having it.”
    She raised delicate fingers to her forehead and studied me seriously, eyes nearly going crossed. “I sense a lot of darkness in your aura. Black and red.” Her voice rose, drawing in the attention of her acolytes. “You would benefit greatly from some clearing work. A smoky or rutilated quartz might also help. We have excellent specimens of both for sale here. Either would lighten up your aura.”
    I couldn’t resist a smirk. I believed in auras, knew they were perfectly real. I also knew, however, that my aura looked nothing at all like a mortal one, nor would someone like Helena even be able to see it. Indeed,