Succubus Revealed by Richelle Mead Page A

looking down on the broken, bleeding body of one of the kindest men I knew. Erik had been a longtime friend in Seattle, using his many years of occult and supernatural knowledge to advise me on my problems. He’d been investigating my contract with Hell when a freak robbery at his store had resulted in his death by gunshot.
    “Are you saying . . .” My voice was barely a whisper. “Are you saying Milton killed Erik?”
    Hugh shook his head sadly. “I’m not. I’m just laying out the evidence for you, which is compelling—but not enough to form a hard link to Milton.”
    “Then why tell me at all?” I asked. “You don’t like to get involved with anything that questions the status quo.” It was true, and it had been a constant point of contention with Hugh and me.
    “I don’t,” he said. I understood now why he was so uneasy. “Not at all. But I care about you, sweetheart. And I know you cared about Erik and wanted answers.”
    “Key word: wanted . I thought I had them.” My heart still mourned Erik, but I had begun to heal from his loss, moving on with life the way we all must after losing a loved one. Knowing—or, well, thinking—he’d been killed in a robbery didn’t exactly give me peace, but it did provide an explanation. If there was any shred of truth to Hugh’s dangerous theory, that Milton—a potential assassin—might have been responsible, then my whole world was suddenly knocked offkilter. And in that scenario, the big issue wasn’t that Milton had done it. What became important was why he had done it. Because if he was one of those Hellish assassins lurking in the shadows, then someone higher up had given him his orders, meaning Hell had a reason to want Erik dead.
    “You okay?” Hugh’s hand on mine made me jump. “Jesus, Georgina. You’re like ice.”
    “I’m kind of in shock,” I said. “This is big, Hugh. Huge.”
    “I know,” he said, not sounding happy at all. “Promise me you won’t do anything foolish. I’m still not sure I should have told you.”
    “You should have,” I said, squeezing his hand and making no such promises about the foolish part. “Thank you.”
    I had to leave shortly thereafter, returning to assist Happy. A little of her zeal about the pure, magical nature of children had faded in that time. I think it was the six-year-old who asked for a nose job that might have cracked her. As for me, I was in a daze, stunned over what Hugh had told me. Erik murdered. His dying words to me had implied something more was going on, but there’d been no evidence to prove it. Or wait . . . was there? I vaguely remembered the glass pattern of his broken window, the suspicion from the police that it had been broken from within. But what did I do with this theory? How did I get the answers I needed?
    Equally amazing to me was the concession Hugh had made in telling me this. He valued his job and his comfortable position. He really wasn’t the type to try to upset Hell or ask questions about things that didn’t concern him. Yet he’d pursued his hunch about Milton and passed on the news to me, his friend. Hell made desperate, soulless creatures out of its employees—and most certainly liked it that way—but I doubted any of the higher-ups had imagined the levels of friendship we were still capable of managing.
    Naturally, only one other thing could have distracted me from this new development, and that was Jerome’s presence in my condo later that night. I was returning home after work and sensed his aura coming from within as soon as I put my key to the door. My fears and theorizing about Erik and Milton moved to one part of my brain, replaced by all the old speculation about the mystery transfer.
    When I entered, I found Jerome sitting in the living room with Roman, both at their ease and barely acknowledging my presence.
    “And so,” Jerome was saying, “that’s why you need to do this. As soon as possible. Nanette’s people have been at it for a long