goodness. But time was wasting and Satan would be expecting Her delivery sometime soon. I knew that I should get rid of him, and I didn’t want to.
Did I like Nathan R. Coleman? Find him attractive? Appealing?
Or was my desire to keep him another minute or two really an act of procrastination? I just didn’t feel in the mood for another pickup, another loser, another set of lies (they all say they’re single, or that their wives don’t really care anymore) or another sniff of Old Spice.
“Being a PI isn’t what people think,” Nathan was saying hoarsely. “It’s mostly research, and research is something I’m very good at. I leave the guns and the excitement to the guys on TV. Works better that way.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t think of any good reason to try to make him stay.
“Well, thanks,” Mr. Coleman said. “If you think of anything, give me a call, okay?” He handed me his card, which identified him as an associate of the Perkins McCauly Investigative Agency with a pretty foiled crest. Cards like that could be had for fifty dollars from the same folks who’d make up the PI license. I wondered how many different kinds he carried, and under how many different names. I wondered how good a deal he got on volume business and it crossed my mind to ask. After all, I could use some fake cards.
“And I may call back sometime, in case I’ve got some ideas of where he might have gotten your name,” the fake PI continued. “We might be able to triangulate on the source, which could help us understand where he might have gone.”
“Sure,” I said. Whatever.
“Well, thanks,” he said, and then turned from the door and walked down the hall. I watched as he called for the elevator, and then locked the door.
I hit the intercom to inform my overeager doorman. “I’m on my way up,” he said as soon as he came on.
“No, Vincent, I’m calling to tell you that everything’s fine. He’s leaving now. There was no problem. I didn’t even know the person he was asking about.”
“Oh.” My doorman sounded so disappointed I felt that I had to think of something to cheer him up and prove that I still needed him.
“Could you get me a cab in fifteen minutes?” I asked. Usually I don’t mind the half-block walk to the avenue to catch a cab, but poor Vincent really did need some reassurance that he was being helpful, and the request seemed to cheer him up considerably. Or maybe he’d just seen Nathan Coleman leave the building.
I finished getting dressed, made sure that my wallet, keys, lipstick, and cell phone were all in the purse, and made a snap decision to wear the metallic copper Vivienne Westwood shoes that Eros had talked me into last season that I almost never wore.
At Trend, shoes are a separate department and Danielle is the shoe editor. But Danielle is one of the nicest people at work and always makes sure that everyone knows what wonderful shoes and boots are just their style in the coming seasons. For a mortal, Danielle is a real friend. I’ve even considered inviting her to meet the gang one night for s’mores. Much as the demon gang are my closest buds, it’s really good to have someone to call a friend at work, who’s willing to gossip about who is being impossible this week and who is about to ditch her SO. And who’s about to get ditched.
Okay, time to stop stalling. The cab was waiting outside as Vincent held the door for me almost ceremonially. And then I was in the yellow taxi and on my way to Gehenna, which is one of the more hip bars this week.
Bars for the cool twenty-something crowd were not my first hunting ground. Succubi are traditionally thought to target good husbands, to seduce the men of Heaven into Hell. Demons, understand, cannot tempt the truly righteous. I’d had enough of the self-righteous bad and the boring, and there’s no reason why some arrogant creep who thinks that getting drunk is the only pleasure in life shouldn’t take the short road to the
Did I like Nathan R. Coleman? Find him attractive? Appealing?
Or was my desire to keep him another minute or two really an act of procrastination? I just didn’t feel in the mood for another pickup, another loser, another set of lies (they all say they’re single, or that their wives don’t really care anymore) or another sniff of Old Spice.
“Being a PI isn’t what people think,” Nathan was saying hoarsely. “It’s mostly research, and research is something I’m very good at. I leave the guns and the excitement to the guys on TV. Works better that way.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t think of any good reason to try to make him stay.
“Well, thanks,” Mr. Coleman said. “If you think of anything, give me a call, okay?” He handed me his card, which identified him as an associate of the Perkins McCauly Investigative Agency with a pretty foiled crest. Cards like that could be had for fifty dollars from the same folks who’d make up the PI license. I wondered how many different kinds he carried, and under how many different names. I wondered how good a deal he got on volume business and it crossed my mind to ask. After all, I could use some fake cards.
“And I may call back sometime, in case I’ve got some ideas of where he might have gotten your name,” the fake PI continued. “We might be able to triangulate on the source, which could help us understand where he might have gone.”
“Sure,” I said. Whatever.
“Well, thanks,” he said, and then turned from the door and walked down the hall. I watched as he called for the elevator, and then locked the door.
I hit the intercom to inform my overeager doorman. “I’m on my way up,” he said as soon as he came on.
“No, Vincent, I’m calling to tell you that everything’s fine. He’s leaving now. There was no problem. I didn’t even know the person he was asking about.”
“Oh.” My doorman sounded so disappointed I felt that I had to think of something to cheer him up and prove that I still needed him.
“Could you get me a cab in fifteen minutes?” I asked. Usually I don’t mind the half-block walk to the avenue to catch a cab, but poor Vincent really did need some reassurance that he was being helpful, and the request seemed to cheer him up considerably. Or maybe he’d just seen Nathan Coleman leave the building.
I finished getting dressed, made sure that my wallet, keys, lipstick, and cell phone were all in the purse, and made a snap decision to wear the metallic copper Vivienne Westwood shoes that Eros had talked me into last season that I almost never wore.
At Trend, shoes are a separate department and Danielle is the shoe editor. But Danielle is one of the nicest people at work and always makes sure that everyone knows what wonderful shoes and boots are just their style in the coming seasons. For a mortal, Danielle is a real friend. I’ve even considered inviting her to meet the gang one night for s’mores. Much as the demon gang are my closest buds, it’s really good to have someone to call a friend at work, who’s willing to gossip about who is being impossible this week and who is about to ditch her SO. And who’s about to get ditched.
Okay, time to stop stalling. The cab was waiting outside as Vincent held the door for me almost ceremonially. And then I was in the yellow taxi and on my way to Gehenna, which is one of the more hip bars this week.
Bars for the cool twenty-something crowd were not my first hunting ground. Succubi are traditionally thought to target good husbands, to seduce the men of Heaven into Hell. Demons, understand, cannot tempt the truly righteous. I’d had enough of the self-righteous bad and the boring, and there’s no reason why some arrogant creep who thinks that getting drunk is the only pleasure in life shouldn’t take the short road to the
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