I turned my back on him and stormed up to Seth. "Come on, we're leaving."

  "Who was that?" he asked as we walked away.

  "He's an imp. And an asshole."

  Even almost a block away, I could still just barely catch Niphon's taunting laughter. I tried to ignore it as Seth and I walked to his car. Listening to my friends tease me about Seth was annoying enough. From Niphon, it was unbearable. Fortunately, I calmed down by the time Seth and I got on the road. I instead focused on seeing Erik and hopefully getting my mystery solved.

  Erik ran a store up in Lake City called Arcana, Ltd. Unfortunately placed in a strip mall, it nonetheless possessed a warm, cozy feel. Dim lighting shed a tranquil air, and the bubbling of small fountains mingled with the soft sounds of a CD player emitting harp music. Books, jewelry, candles, and statuary cluttered up every inch of free space. The sweet scent of nag champa hung in the air.

  "Neat," said Seth, peering around as we entered.

  Erik glanced up from where he was kneeling behind a stack of books. He'd grown a mustache since last I saw him, and I liked the way the gray hair stood out against his dark brown skin. A gentle smile bloomed on his face.

  "Miss Kincaid, what an unexpected pleasure. And you have a friend." He rose and walked to us, extending his hand toward Seth.

  "Erik, this is Seth Mortensen. Seth, Erik."

  They shook. "A pleasure, Mr. Mortensen. You keep good company."

  "Yes," said Seth, smiling in return. "I do."

  "If we're lucky," I said silkily, "Erik will have time for tea. He only serves decaf, so that should make you happy."

  "Of course I have time," said Erik. "I doubt there's any man who doesn't have time for you, Miss Kincaid."

  I shot Seth a teasing look when Erik left to put the tea on. "Ah, now there's someone who appreciates me. You wouldn't see him shirking me for a book."

  "If memory serves, you worship those books. Besides, how else am I supposed to keep you in the lifestyle you're accustomed to?"

  "If memory serves, I paid the last time we went out."

  "Well, yeah. I was just letting you play liberated so that you and Maddie wouldn't go vandalize my car."

  When our tea party commenced around Erik's small corner table, I was surprised to hear Seth engage Erik in conversation on what it meant to be a mortal among immortals. Seth wasn't usually so forthcoming, and I wondered just how much immortal weirdness troubled him.

  "It puts my sense of time awry," remarked Erik. "I see people like Miss Kincaid who stay young and beautiful forever. It makes me feel as though no time has passed. Then I look at myself and see the new wrinkles. I feel the aches in my bones. I realize I will be left behind…they will go on and continue to shape the world without me." He sighed, more with bemusement than sadness. "I wish I could see what will happen next."

  "Yes," Seth said, surprising me. His eyes looked dark and solemn. "I know what you mean."

  I glanced over at him, seeing something I'd never noticed before. I knew he must think about the future and his own death—all mortals did—but only now did I realize how much he really thought about those things. Looking at both men, I remembered they would eventually die, and it made something in my chest grow cold. For the space of a heartbeat, I could almost see Seth as wrinkled and gray-haired as Erik.

  "Morbid much, you guys?" I asked, trying to affect a blasé air. "I didn't come here to bring everyone down. I've got to pick Erik's brain."

  "Pick away," he said.

  "Well…you know how I need, uh, life and energy to survive, right?" An idiotic statement. Of course he knew. "Yesterday morning, I woke up, and my entire stash was gone."

  Erik considered. "That's normal, isn't it? It fades over time."

  "Not this quickly. Especially since…" I stopped, suddenly realizing having Seth here might not have been so wise after all. "I, um, had just gotten a refill the night before."

  Both men kept neutral expressions. "And you did nothing out of the ordinary?"

  "No, Jerome thinks it was mental stress." I shrugged. "I don't think I was that stressed. I dreamed…a weird dream…but nothing stressful."

  "Dreams are powerful," Erik said. "And sometimes stress can take more out of us than we realize. Unfortunately, I know little about dreams, but…" He frowned, and his gaze suddenly turned inward.

  "But what?"

  "I know someone who might be able to help. Someone who specializes in dreams."

  "Who?" This sounded promising.

  Erik took a long time in answering. When he spoke, he seemed unhappy to give up the words. "Someone who might as well be signed and sealed to your side. His name's Dante Moriarty."

  I snickered. "That can't be his real name."

  "It's not, though I'm sure some of your imp and demon friends would know him by any name. He's a con artist…among other things. Considers himself a magician too."

  "I deal with corrupt people all the time," I pointed out. "Doesn't bother me much."

  "True," agreed Erik. He still looked troubled, which I found puzzling. Although not evil himself, he interacted with me and others of my ilk on a regular basis without blinking. I wondered what it was about one human that would bother him so much. "I'll get you his contact information."

  He sought out Dante's card, and I browsed around the store while Seth used the bathroom in the back. The old storekeeper handed me the card when he found it.

  "I like Mr. Mortensen a great deal."

  "Yeah. So do I."

  "I know. I can tell."

  I looked up from a display of bracelets, waiting for more.

  "You talk and move around each other in a way you're probably not even aware of. It's like how lovers usually interact…but it's something more too. You have a continual sense of each other, I think, even when not together. There's a burning in the air between you."

  I didn't know what to say to that. It sounded nice—but a little intimidating too.

  "I've never met another of your kind who's exactly like you, Miss Kincaid." He hesitated, his normally wise-and-competent expression flickering into uncertainty. It was a rare look for him. "I don't know how this will turn out."

  Seth emerged then, picking up that he'd interrupted something. He glanced between the two of us, and I rested a reassuring hand on his arm. "You about ready to go?"

  "Sure."

  I scanned the rest of the jewelry counter, only half-noticing the contents. Suddenly, I did a double-take and leaned over one of the cases. "Erik, where do you find this stuff?"

  He and Seth looked over my shoulder.

  "Ah, yes," said Erik. "The Byzantine rings. By the same artist who made your ankh necklace."

  "Your artist has a real knack for historical detail. They look just like the originals."

  He walked around the counter and lifted out the tray with the rings. I picked one up. It was an ordinary gold band. Rather than any sort of mounted gem on top, it bore a smooth and flat disc, almost the size of a dime. Greek letters were engraved into the metal.

  "What do they mean?" asked Seth.

  I tried to explain the long-lost custom. "It's a benediction. Like a prayer for the couple. This would have been a wedding ring."

  I examined another depicting Christ and the Virgin; still another showed a tiny man and woman facing each other.

  "I used to have a ring almost like this," I said softly, turning it over in my hands. Neither man said anything, and I finally returned it to its tray.

  On the way home, Seth gently asked, "What happened to your ring?"

  I stared out the window. "It's not important."

  "Tell me."

  I didn't respond, and he didn't ask me again. When we got back to my place, I saw no sign of Vincent and figured he was out investigating with Charlie's Angels. Newspapers were scattered across my kitchen table; he apparently liked to keep up on current events. Morbid events, at that. One of the headlines was a story I'd heard the other day about a crazy man who'd killed his wife after having a vision of seeing her with another man. Mortals did creepy things sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time.

  Seth sat on my couch and leaned forward, hands clasped together. I'd sensed his mood shift when I wouldn't answer in the car.

  "Thetis…"

  "You want to know about the ring."

  "The ring doesn't matter so much. It's just…well, I've seen you get like this. Something bugs you, something you remember. But you won't talk to me about it. There are days I feel like you don't tell me anything."

  I sat down next to him, avoiding eye contact in a way he often did. "I tell you plenty."

  "Not about your past."

  "I have a lot of past, and I talk about it all the time."

  "Yeah…I guess." He absentmindedly stroked my arm. "But you don't talk about your mortal past. Before you were a succubus."

  "So? Does it make a difference? You're with me now. You know the kind of person I am now."

  "I do. And I love that person. And I want to know what's important to you. What made you who you are. I want to know what hurts you so that I can help."

  "You don't need to know that to know who I am. My human past doesn't enter in to anything," I said stiffly.

  "I can't believe that."

  Again, I didn't answer.

  "I don't know anything about that part of your life," he continued. "I don't know your real name. What you really look like. Where you grew up. I don't even know how old you are."

  "Hey, it's not just me. You have plenty of things you don't talk about," I pointed out, trying to deflect the attention.

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Well…" I groped for something I didn't know much about. "You never talk about your dad. How he died."

  Seth answered immediately, without hesitation. "Not much to tell. Cancer. I was thirteen. According to a therapist Mom made us see, I withdrew into a world of fantasy to cope."

  I leaned my head against his shoulder, knowing he'd expound on anything I wanted to know—in a subdued, Seth sort of way. It was ironic considering his normal conversational reticence, but that was how he operated. He believed relationships had to have an open exchange of honesty and baring of souls. I supposed he was right, but there were too many dark parts of my soul I didn't want to share. Parts I was afraid would scare him off.

  I knew Seth well enough to realize he wouldn't push this issue anymore tonight, but I could also sense his hurt and disappointment. He didn't ask me these questions to upset me; he did it out of sincere affection. That didn't make it easier, unfortunately, and I fought my anxiety and long-buried pain to try to offer him something. Anything. Anything to show I was making an effort in this relationship. My original face and name were dead to me, obsolete reminders of the woman I'd left behind, never mind Niphon's insistence on calling me Letha. Seth would never know those things.

  We sat together for a long time while I decided what I could give up. Finally, with the words sticking in my mouth, I said, "I grew up in Cyprus." The air grew tense as we both waited for more. "In the early fifth century. I don't know exactly what year I was born. We didn't really keep track of those things."

  He exhaled. I hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. Slowly, carefully, he put an arm around me and pressed his lips against my hair. "Thank you."

  I buried my face against his shoulder, not knowing what I hid from. I'd barely given him anything—just a couple of pieces of trivia. Nonetheless, yielding that tiny bit from a place in me I wanted to hide from was powerful. I felt exposed and vulnerable without fully understanding why. Seth gently stroked my hair.

  "Is the ring from around that time?" he asked.

  I nodded against him.

  "It'd be worth a lot then, I suppose."

  "I lost it," I whispered.

  He must have picked up on the anguish in my voice. He held me tighter. "I'm sorry."

  We stayed together a while longer that night, but I knew he wanted to go home and work at his own place. Unable to deny him, I shooed him away, though I had a feeling that he would have stayed if I'd asked it.

  Once he was gone, I went into my bedroom and closed the door. Kneeling in front of my open closet, I pulled out box after box, setting them haphazardly around the room. My organization lacked something—like, say, organization—and it took me a while to sift through the clutter of junk. Finally, I produced a shoebox covered in dust.

  Lifting the lid, I felt my breath catch. Old, brown letters lay stacked with a few photographs. A heavy gold cross on a fraying string lay among the papers, along with other small treasures. I carefully hunted around until I found what I wanted: a bronze ring, green with age.

  I held it in my hands, still able to discern the engraved couple atop the mounted disc. It was a cruder job but still very similar to Erik's modern renditions. I ran my fingertips along the ring's edges without knowing what I did. I even tried it on, but it didn't fit. It had been made for larger fingers than I had now. I refused to shape-shift to the right size.

  I kept the ring out for a few more minutes, thinking of Seth and Cyprus and all sorts of things. Finally, unable to stand the ache within me, I put the ring back into its box and buried it once more in the closet.

  CHAPTER 4

  The next day, I went to the address on Dante's business card. It was in Rainier Valley, which wasn't exactly rundown but wasn't upwardly mobile either. The directions led to a narrow shop jammed in between a barber and a shady-looking convenience store. PSYCHIC hung in red neon letters in the window. The "I" had burned out. Underneath it, a handwritten sign read: PALM READING & TAROT CARDS.

  I stepped through the door, making bells ring. The interior proved to be as barren as the exterior. A narrow counter flanked one wall. The rest of the small, stark space was empty, save for a round table covered in red velvet that had cigarette burns on it. A tacky crystal ball sat on top. This place was a wasteland compared to Erik's warm, inviting shop.

  "Just a minute," a voice called from an open doorway in the back. "I've just got to—"

  A man entered the room and stopped when he saw me. He was about six-foot, with black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Two days worth of facial hair covered his face, and he wore jeans and a plain black T-shirt. Early forties, maybe, and pretty cute. He looked me over from head to toe and gave me a sly, knowing smile.

  "Well, hello. What do we have here?" He tilted his head, still studying me. "Not human, that's for sure. Demon? No, not strong enough. Vampire? No…not this time of day."

  "I…" I stopped, surprised that he'd sensed something in me. He had no immortal signature; he was definitely human. He must be like Erik, I realized. A mortal who could sense the immortal world, though he didn't have enough skill to pinpoint what I was exactly. Deciding there was no point in subterfuge, I said, "I'm a succubus."

  He shook his head. "No, you aren't."

  "Yes, I am."

  "You aren't."

  I was a bit surprised to be having this conversation. "I am too."

  "No. Succubi are flame-eyed and bat-winged. Everyone knows that. They don't wear jeans and sweaters. At the very least, you should have a bigger chest. What are you, 34B or something?"

  "C," I said indignantly.

  "If you say so."

  "Look, I am a succubus. I can prove it." I let my form change, shifting through several different female variations before returning to my usual one. "See?"

  "Well, I'll be damned."

  I had a feeling he was playing with me. "Are you Dante?"

  "For now." He approached and shook my hand, holding on to it. He flipped it over. "You here for a palm reading? I'll show you how to shape-shift your hand to get a good future."

  I took my hand back. "No, thanks. I'm here because I have some questions…questions that Erik Lancaster thought you might be able to answer."

  Dante's smile dropped. He rolled his eyes and walked over to the counter. "Oh. Him."

  "What's that supposed to mean? Erik's my friend."

  Dante leaned his back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. "Of course he's your friend. He's everyone's friend. Fucking boy scout. If he could have shaken his holier-than-thou attitude and worked with me, we could have made a fortune by now."

  I remembered what Erik had said about Dante being a con artist and a Hell-bound person. I didn't pick up any evil vibes off him, but there was a definite abrasiveness to his attitude that made Erik's assessment more plausible.

  "Erik has standards," I declared.

  Dante laughed. "Oh, great. A holier-than-thou succubus. This is going to be fun."

  "Look, can you just answer my questions? It won't take long."

  "Sure," he said. "I've got time—at least until the next rush of customers." The bitter tone in his voice as he gestured to the empty room indicated that there hadn't been a rush in a very long time.

  "I had a dream the other night," I explained. "And when I woke up, all my energy was gone."

  "You're a succubus. Supposedly. That kind of thing happens."

  "I wish everyone would stop saying that! This wasn't normal. And I'd been with a man the night before. I was charged up, so to speak."

  "You do anything afterward that would have depleted the energy?"

  Everyone kept asking that too. "No. I just went to bed. But the dream…it was really strange. I don't know how to explain it. Really, really vivid. I've never felt anything like it."

  "What was it about?"

  "A, um, dishwasher."

  Dante sighed. "Did someone pay you to come here and mess with me?"

  Through gritted teeth, I related the dream.

  "That's it?" he asked when I finished.

  "Yup."

  "Lame dream."

  "Do you know what it means?"

  "Probably that you need to fix your dishwasher."

  "It isn't broken!"

  He straightened up. "Sorry. Can't help you then."

  "Erik said this was your specialty."