chapter
FIFTEEN

Morning sex, mmmmm. I didn’t remember that I had ever gotten to wake up to sex first thing, which is somehow more intimate and comforting after spending the night with someone. I don’t know why that would be, but Marten not only satisfied me but took his time about it, too. And I appreciated the extra languor of his movements, the fact he clearly was there for my support and comfort and wasn’t being driven by his own torment.

I showered and put on the new clothes, and remembered why I hated cheap things. They didn’t look too bad, but the fabrics were stiff and chafed my skin, and some of the seaming was less than perfect.

“A good thing we were going shopping anyway,” Marten said brightly.

While he took a shower I called Mephistopheles and left voice mail.

Then Marten dressed in his emergency clothes and grimaced as much as I had done. We went out for breakfast, a big traditional diner combo with eggs and bacon and sausage and English muffins and coffee, and then oversized blueberry muffins because they looked so good. And more coffee and more after that, the bottomless cup which, for once, I hadn’t needed. I’d slept very soundly with Marten in the bed, knowing that Branford would never find us.

There is something particularly delicious about playing hooky from work. It’s not like a planned and scheduled vacation—even my trips to Aruba and Venice, while rather last-minute, were scheduled with the office. But to just take a day in the city to sleep in, shop, spend time with a new lover, there is a particular decadence in the extra sleep, the freedom on the streets knowing that your coworkers are all at the office dealing with people like Lawrence, thinking you’re at home in bed with the sniffles.

We went into new territory for me—the men’s departments.

I had never shopped with a man. I had never shopped for a man. At least not for three hundred years, before the advent of department stores and ready-to-wear fashion. I had never noticed the men’s sections of stores. I had never looked there. The magazine is for women and we don’t discuss menswear, not even in a passing article on how to get your boyfriend to dress better. I could spot a man wearing decent clothing across the street, but I had never thought about trying to buy any.

I got an education fast. Barneys, the mecca of the fashionable woman, doesn’t do nearly so well by their potential male customers. Armani, on the other hand, has a full shop dedicated only to men, and I’d never turned the other way in Prada and seen what was available for the guys. Hmmmm.

Marten turned. Marten wanted it all.

And Marten looks wonderful in clothes, wears them like American men just can’t manage, chic and sophisticated and assured. It didn’t hurt that, the Dutch being the tallest people in the world, on average, Marten at six-three didn’t stand or move as if he were aware of being tall. Six-three, blond hair precision-cut just a little shaggy in the front to fall over his brilliant blue eyes, surfer-dude tan on an athlete’s body, and a little sparkle of mischief, Marten was completely desirable. I thought he was delicious, and fun, and watching him shop was an education.

But what would he say about “occupation?” “Ceremonial magician, works with Mephistopheles and is one of the few to bargain with Satan for the services of a minor demon along with all the other usual inducements.” I didn’t think that would fly.

He might shop like a girlfriend but he spent like a Venetian nobleman. He didn’t appear to care about how much anything cost. If he wanted it, it went into the pile and he signed the credit card slips without even glancing at the total. He had everything shipped so we wouldn’t have to carry the packages.

Even if I had been bored by the men’s clothing, Marten was so attentive that I felt petted and adored. Just being with him made me happy. Meeting his snarky smile behind the back of some officious clerk, making faces at merchandise that just wasn’t up to its label was simple fun. We laughed and stuck out our tongues and I felt wicked and giggly. He struck exaggerated runway poses when he got out of the dressing room and I clapped or booed and horrified several respectable silver-haired gentlemen in elegant gray suits with yellow tape measures dangling around their necks. His sense of humor was acid and offbeat, his taste was impeccable and he looked like a movie star. The hunky kind that women worship. How had I ever ended up with this paragon? Oh, right, he was also a magician and lived in Aruba and was commitment-phobic. Well, every fairy tale has a drawback or two.

“I forgot, we have not even stopped for lunch,” he said as the clerk rang up yet another pile of purchases. “I am sorry, this has been so selfish of me. But we ate such a large breakfast so late I was not hungry and now I am famished. No wonder you look so tired. Where shall we eat?”

Balthazar, being conveniently around the corner, was the obvious choice. And it had been weeks since I’d had fennel ravioli and I was starving.

“You know, if I did not hear everyone here speaking English, I would swear we were in Paris,” Marten said. I took that as approval.

Fennel ravioli, duck confit, onion soup and, of course, crème brûlée revived me.

“And now we should do something that is entirely what you want to do,” Marten said. “I have bought enough clothing that I will not have to shop again until I return to New York, I think. And it is easier in Aruba. I do not need to worry about what to wear in the cold or the warm—it is always warm.” He swept the empty plates aside and leaned forward on his elbows. “You would be happy in Aruba, Lily,” he said, gazing into my eyes. “No, it is not New York, but there is excellent hunting with the cruise ships and tourists, and we could always take side trips to Curaçao and other islands. I know you have sister succubi in the Caribbean, even one in Orangestad, I think you told me. There is hunting and warm beaches all year round and we are finally getting high quality restaurants and shops.”

“My job—” I started to say, but he waved his hand.

“You do not need the money,” he said, and this was true. “But perhaps this is too early. Perhaps I can come back to New York and we can spend more time together. Perhaps you will come to Aruba again, maybe for a little longer on this visit, and I will show you the real Aruba, not simply the tourist sites.”

I was startled, and it must have shown on my face.

“I would like to get to know you better,” Marten said simply. “I know you are a succubus and I am a magician, so we understand each other, at least in part. But I like you, Lily, the person who is you inside the succubus. I would like the chance for us to build something, perhaps, if we are suited.”

I drew my breath in sharply. “This is a little sudden,” I said haltingly. “I never expected to see you after I left Aruba. And then you were here in New York. And so we spent time together but I never thought it was anything other than a fling. Maybe between friends, but there’s too much distance . . .”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. But you are immortal and I am . . . promised an exceptionally long life. Neither of us is native to the place where we live, and neither of us is dependent on a job or family to survive. We are both mobile, at least to some extent. I have a working group in the islands—I often go to Martinique and St. Maarten and Jamaica. I think you would find that while Aruba is small, the Caribbean as a whole offers a large variety of amusements for a sophisticated woman.”

“I, ummm, Marten, I need to think about this,” I stammered. I had never considered the Caribbean anything but a place for New Yorkers to escape to during winter.

But I suddenly realized that I very badly didn’t want Marten to go. I snaked my hand over the piles of starched linens and took his hand. He smiled and raised my fingers to his lips. My sadness in remembering that he would get on an airplane the next morning was far more profound than I had thought possible.

“I’m sad about leaving tomorrow, but there are things I need to do at home,” he said softly.

“I’m sad you’re leaving too,” I confessed sincerely. “I wish you could stay longer.”

“So do I,” Marten agreed. “But let’s not spend our last evening on this trip being sad. Because really we should celebrate that this is not our last evening together. This is the beginning of our long-distance dating, at least until we know where we will go. What is today’s date? This will be our anniversary, and next year we shall celebrate it in style. Promise me that next year we will have a wonderful dinner and stay in an extravagant hotel on this date! You name the city and we shall meet there.”

“I promise,” I said, slightly giggly. “Maybe Paris. Maybe London. We’ll have to think about it.”

“Just one more part to the promise,” Marten said, and he looked very serious. I worried about what he was going to demand now. “Not Rotterdam. I don’t want us ever to go to Rotterdam.”

“Okay,” I agreed quickly, but inside my curiosity was aroused. Not the city of his birth? He didn’t want to show me where he grew up, introduce me to his old school friends? I wondered about that. But then, there was a whole year to go and a lot could happen in a year. A lot could happen in a month. A month ago I had been happily in love with Nathan and thought that Marten was a casual island fling and that I was being pursued by some crazy guy who was very dangerous.

Well, some things hadn’t changed.


I staggered into work before ten with circles under my eyes that could double as helicopter landing targets.

Marten had awakened me early, gently, with his mouth teasing me to desire. I’d come once already before I was fully awake and able to demand more vigorous amusement. I was so ready I could hardly stand the moments that he spent licking my nipples and fondling my breasts. “Now,” I hissed into his ear.

And when he paused for a condom I pulled him back. “We both know,” I gasped. “Safe. Succubi can’t get diseases. Or pregnant.”

He entered me slowly, savoring the sensation, and I succumbed to his pleasure. He swept me away, alternating between driving need and restraint to make it all last as long as possible. Which was impossibly long by human standards.

I tried to provoke him. I nibbled his neck and licked inside his ear and luxuriated with the power of him contained. Contained by me, needing me.

Yes, I was used to being desired, being the ultimate fantasy. But Marten’s desire was more complex. He wanted my desire, my pleasure, as much as his own. I could see it, feel it in his rhythm, in the delicacy of his touch. My joy was as important to him as his own, and that overwhelmed me.

Why is it so rare for a man to care about how a woman feels? Once he knows he can have sex with her, most men seem to assume their partner’s desire without doing anything to ignite it.

It was hard to let him go. When he pulled his clothes back on, preparing to pick up his bags at the Hotel Gansevoort and then take a cab to the airport, I offered to come along, but he shook his head. “This is better,” he said, kissing me as we stood on the red carpet that led to the street. “I will remember you here, happy, and we will not have the sad ride sitting together quiet because neither of us wants to speak. I will send you e-mail. You will send me e-mail. We will meet again soon.”

There was no question in his tone; he spoke as if his pronouncements were absolute.

A lot can happen. No one knows that better than I.

I went back to my apartment and threw the newly bought cheap clothes into the back of the closet. A long shower removed the feel of them from my skin before I dressed in something more appropriate, something decent, lined in cloud-soft silk, well cut and made with care. A Dolce & Gabbana tweed jacket, a pair of black Prada slacks, and a wonderful sea green Versace blouse in silk so soft I could believe that I was in the uniform of Upstairs. A pair of last year’s Jimmy Choos, classic black and elegant, finished the outfit. I looked strong, powerful, creative.

And I had circles around my eyes that looked like they’d been drawn in greasepaint, my hair was flat and sticking out the wrong way, and my skin was sallow. I looked like I’d never slept and was much the worse for wear. Well, I was supposed to have been sick yesterday. I’d pass.