Succubus On Top by Richelle Mead Page A

five that accompanied a human body. It felt weird, almost uncomfortable. Like nails raking down a chalkboard. Nothing I could identify or had even ever felt before. I looked around the room, half-expecting to find another immortal lurking, even though that strange sensation didn’t quite touch me like the signature I’d usually feel off of an individual.
    Doug drank from the cup and then set it down, watching me with bemused calmness. “Something I can help you with, Kincaid?”
    Blinking, I gave the office another once-over and then shook my head. The feeling disappeared. What the hell? I could have blamed it on stress-induced imagination, but after over a millennium of succubus life, I doubted my immortal senses would start falling prey to hallucinations now. And yet the only thing in here that could possibly be construed as supernatural or divine was Doug’s Tetris mastery. That, I thought wryly, had more to do with hours of skirting work than any sort of magic.
    Remembering my righteous fury, I pushed aside that momentary weirdness and ratcheted my anger back up to the other weirdness in my life.
    â€œWhat the fuck is going on?” I exclaimed, slamming the door.
    â€œMy sweet Tetris skills?”
    â€œNo! With everyone! Why is everyone treating me so strangely today? They keep staring at me like I’m a freak or something.”
    Doug’s expression stayed baffled, and then I saw understanding flood his face. “Ah. That. You really don’t know?”
    I could have grabbed his neck and shook him. “Of course I don’t know! What’s going on?”
    Casually, he moved some papers around on the desk and lifted up a copy of American Mystery . “You read Seth’s story yet?”
    â€œI haven’t had time.”
    He tossed me the magazine. “Do it. Go take your dinner break somewhere—not here—and read. I won’t leave until you get back.”
    Looking at the time, I realized his shift was nearly over. “But what’s that got to do with—”
    He held up a hand to silence me. “Just read it. Now.”
    Scowling, I took the magazine and left the store, settling myself at one of my favorite cafés down the street. With clam chowder secured, I turned to the first page, wondering what in the world Doug expected me to find.
    As Seth had explained a few weeks ago, the story was more of a self-contained mystery, dealing little with the overarching psychology and development of his characters. Cady and O’Neill worked for a fictitious institute based out of Washington, D.C., one that researched and secured archaeological and artistic relics. Thus, the two often found themselves liberating art from international thieves or uncovering mysterious code on a piece of pottery. In traditionally gendered styles, Bryant O’Neill worked as a sort of field agent, doing most of the physical work, getting into a lot of fist-fights and whatnot. Demure Nina Cady focused on the research, often staying up late to unravel some key piece of evidence in an ancient text.
    This particular story contained a lot of those same elements, but like always, Seth’s beautiful writing and quick, witty dialogue kept the material captivating. In another trend consistent with his characters’ behavior, O’Neill almost always got involved with some beautiful woman, though Seth’s last book had turned this pattern on its head, letting Cady finally see some action. The story I read today fell into old ways, and O’Neill, in his ever suave manner, made the moves on a stunning museum curator:

    Genevieve sauntered through the halls, a queen among subjects, surveying people and displays with both calculation and command. With those greenflecked hazel eyes, she put him in mind of a cat sizing up its next meal. He felt exactly like prey as she paused in front of him, favoring him with a languid look that oozed over his body, her tongue lightly