Succubus Blues

Book 0: Georgina Kincaid

by Richelle Mead

Genres: Contemporary Fantasy; Shifters; Urban Fantasy

Synopsis

When it comes to jobs in hell, being a succubus seems pretty glamorous. A girl can be anything she wants, the wardrobe is killer, and mortal men will do anything just for a touch. Granted, they often pay with their souls, but why get technical?



But Seattle succubus Georgina Kincaid's life is far less exotic. At least there's her day job at a local bookstore—free books; all the white chocolate mochas she can drink; and easy access to bestselling, sexy writer, Seth Mortensen, aka He Whom She Would Give Anything to Touch but Can't.



But dreaming about Seth will have to wait. Something wicked is at work in Seattle's demon underground. And for once, all of her hot charms and drop-dead one-liners won't help because Georgina's about to discover there are some creatures out there that both heaven and hell want to deny . . .

Release date: April 29, 2010

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 449

Sample

Statistics show that most mortals sell their souls for five reasons: sex, money, power, revenge, and love. In that order.

I suppose I should have been reassured, then, that I was out here assisting with numero uno, but the whole situation just made me feel…well, sleazy. And coming from me, that was something.

Maybe I just can’t empathize anymore, I mused. It’s been too long. When I was a virgin, people still believed swans could impregnate girls.

Nearby, Hugh waited patiently for me to overcome my reticence. He stuffed his hands into well-pressed khakis, leaning his large frame against his Lexus. “I don’t see what the big deal is. You do this all the time.”

That wasn’t exactly true, but we both knew what he meant. Ignoring him, I instead made a great show of studying my surroundings, not that that improved my mood. The suburbs always dragged me down. Identical houses. Perfect lawns. Far too many SUVs. Somewhere in the night, a dog refused to stop yapping.

“I don’t do this,” I said finally. “Even I have standards.”

Hugh snorted, expressing his opinion of my standards. “Okay, if it makes you feel better, don’t think of this in terms of damnation. Think of it as a charity case.”

“A charity case?”

“Sure.”

He pulled out his Pocket PC, looking briskly businesslike, despite the unorthodox setting. Not that I should have been surprised. Hugh was a professional imp, a master at getting mortals to sell their souls, an expert in contracts and legal loopholes that would have made any lawyer wince in envy.

He was also my friend. It sort of gave new meaning to the With friends like these… adage.

“Listen to these stats,” he continued. “Martin Miller. Male, of course. Caucasian. Nonpracticing Lutheran. Works over at a game store in the mall. Lives in the basement here—his parents’ house.”

“Jesus.”

“Told you.”

“Charity or no, it still seems so…extreme. How old is he again?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Ew.”

“Exactly. If you were that old and hadn’t gotten any, you might seek desperate measures too.” He glanced down at his watch. “So are you going to do this or not?”

No doubt I was keeping Hugh from a date with some hot woman half his age—by which I meant, of course, the age Hugh looked. In reality, he was pushing a century.

I set my purse on the ground and gave him a warning glance. “You owe me.”

“I do,” he conceded. This wasn’t my usual gig, thank goodness. The imp normally “outsourced” this kind of thing but had run into some kind of scheduling problem tonight. I couldn’t imagine who he normally got to do this.

I started toward the house, but he stopped me. “Georgina?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s…one other thing…”

I turned back around, not liking the tone in his voice. “Yes?”

“He, um, sort of had a special request.”

I raised an eyebrow and waited.

“You see, uh, he’s really into the whole, like, evil thing. You know, figures if he sold his soul to the devil—so to speak—then he should lose his virginity to a, I don’t know, demoness or something.”

I swear, even the dog stopped barking at that. “You’re joking.”

Hugh didn’t respond.

“I’m not a—no. No way am I going to—”

“Come on, Georgina. It’s nothing. A flourish. Smoke and mirrors. Please? Just do this for me?” He turned wistful, cajoling. Hard to resist. Like I said, he was good at his job. “I’m really in a tight spot…if you could help me out here…it would mean so much…”

I groaned, unable to refuse the pathetic look on his broad face. “If anyone finds out about this—”

“My lips are sealed.” He actually had the audacity to make a sealing motion.

Bending down, resigned, I unfastened the straps on my shoes.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“These are my favorite Bruno Maglis. I don’t want them absorbed when I change.”

“Yeah, but…you can just shape-shift them back.”

“They won’t be the same.”

“They will. You can make them anything you want. This is just silly.”

“Look,” I demanded, “do you want to stand out here arguing shoes, or do you want me to go make a man of your virgin?”

Hugh clamped his mouth shut and gestured toward the house.

I padded away in the grass, the blades tickling my bare feet. The back patio leading to the basement was open, just as Hugh had promised. I let myself into the sleeping house, hoping they didn’t have a dog, blearily wondering how I’d reached this low point in my existence. Adjusting to the darkness, my eyes soon discerned the features of a comfortable, middle-class family room: sofa, television, bookshelves. A stairwell rose to the left, and a hallway veered to the right.

I turned down the hall, letting my appearance shape-shift as I walked. The sensation was so familiar, so second nature to me, that I didn’t even need to see my exterior to know what was happening. My petite frame grew taller, the slim build still staying slim but taking on a leaner, harder edge. My skin paled to death white, leaving no memory of its faint tan. The hair, already to my midback, stayed the same length but darkened to jet black, the fine waviness turning straight and coarse. My breasts—impressive by most standards—became larger still, rivaling those of the comic book heroines this guy had undoubtedly grown up with.

As for my outfit…well, away went the cute Banana Republic slacks and blouse. Thigh-high black leather boots appeared on my legs, paired with a matching halter top and a skirt I never could have bent over in. Spiky wings, horns, and a whip completed the package.

“Oh Lord,” I muttered, accidentally taking in the whole effect in a small decorative mirror. I hoped none of the local demonesses ever found about this. They were really quite classy.

Turning from the taunting mirror, I stared down the hall at my destination: a closed door with a yellow MEN AT WORK sign attached to it. I thought I could hear the faint sounds of a video game bleeping from beyond, though such noises silenced immediately when I knocked.

A moment later, the door opened, and I stood facing a five-foot-eight guy with shoulder-length, dirty blond hair rapidly receding on top. A large, hairy belly peeped out from underneath his Homer Simpson T-shirt, and he held a bag of potato chips in one hand.

The bag dropped to the floor when he saw me.

“Martin Miller?”

“Y-yes,” he gasped out.

I cracked the whip. “You ready to play with me?”

Exactly six minutes later, I left the Miller residence. Apparently thirty-four years doesn’t do much for one’s stamina.

“Whoa, that was fast,” Hugh noted, seeing me walk across the front yard. He was leaning against the car again, smoking a cigarette.

“No shit. Got another one of those?”

He grinned and handed over his own cigarette, giving me a once-over. “Would you be offended if I said the wings kind of get me hot?”

I took the cigarette, narrowing my eyes at him as I inhaled. A quick check ascertained no one else was around, and I shape-shifted back to my usual form.

“You owe me big,” I reminded him, putting the shoes back on.

“I know. Of course, some might argue you owe me. You got a nice fix from it. Better than you’re used to.”

I couldn’t deny that, but I didn’t have to feel good about it either. Poor Martin. Geek or no, committing his soul to eternal damnation was a helluva price to pay for six minutes.

“You wanna get a drink?” Hugh offered.

“No, it’s too late. I’m going home. Got a book to read.”

“Ah, of course. When’s the big day?”

“Tomorrow,” I proclaimed.

The imp chuckled at my hero worship. “He just writes mainstream fiction, you know. He’s hardly Nietzsche or Thoreau.”

“Hey, one doesn’t have to be surreal or transcendental to be a great writer. I should know; I’ve seen a few over the years.”

Hugh grunted at my imperious air, giving me a mock bow. “Far be it from me to argue with a lady about her age.”

I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then walked two blocks to where I had parked. I was unlocking the car door when I felt it: the warm, tingling feeling indicative of another immortal nearby. Vampire, I registered, only a millisecond before he appeared beside me. Damn, they moved fast.

“Georgina, my belle, my sweet succubus, my goddess of delight,” he intoned, placing his hands over his heart dramatically.

Great. Just what I needed. Duane was quite possibly the most obnoxious immortal I’d ever met. He kept his blond hair shaved to a close buzz, and as usual, he demonstrated terrible taste in both fashion and deodorant.

“Go away, Duane. I have nothing to say to you.”

“Oh come on,” he crooned, his hand snaking out to hold the door as I tried to open it. “Even you can’t play coy this time. Look at you. You’re positively glowing. Good hunting, eh?”

I scowled at the reference to Martin’s life energy, knowing it must be wreathing me. Obstinately, I tried to pry my door open against Duane’s hold. No luck.

“He’ll be out for days, from the looks of it,” the vampire added, peering at me closely. “Still, I imagine whoever he was enjoyed the ride—both on you and to hell.” He gave me a lazy smile, just barely revealing his pointed teeth. “He must have been someone pretty good for you to look as hot as you do now. What happened? I thought you only fucked the scum of the earth. The real assholes.”

“Change of policy. I didn’t want to give you false hope.”

He shook his head appreciatively. “Oh Georgina, you never disappoint—you and your witticisms. But then, I’ve always found whores know how to make good use of their mouths, on or off the job.”

“Let go,” I snapped, tugging harder at the door.

“Why the hurry? I have a right to know what you and the imp were doing over here. The Eastside is my turf.”

“We don’t have to abide by your ‘turf’ rules, and you know it.”

“Still, common courtesy dictates when you’re in the neighborhood—literally, in this case—you at least say hello. Besides, how come we never hang out? You owe me some quality time. You spend enough time with those other losers.”

The losers he referred to were my friends and the only decent vampires I’d ever met. Most vampires—like Duane—were arrogant, devoid of social skills, and obsessed with territoriality. Not unlike a lot of mortal men I’d met.

“If you don’t let me go, you’re going to learn a whole new definition of ‘common courtesy.’”

Okay, it was a stupid, faux action-movie line, but it was the best I could come up with on the spot. I made my voice sound as menacing as possible, but it was pure bravado, and he knew it. Succubi were gifted with charisma and shape-shifting; vampires had super strength and speed. What this meant was that one of us mingled better at parties, and the other could break a man’s wrist with a handshake.

“Are you actually threatening me?” He ran a playful hand along my cheek, making the hairs on my neck stand on end—in a bad way. I squirmed. “That’s adorable. And kind of arousing. I actually think I’d like to see you on the offensive. Maybe if you’d just behave like a good girl—ow! You little bitch!”

With both of his hands occupied, I had seized my window of opportunity. A quick burst of shape-shifting, and sharp, three-inch claws appeared on my right hand. I swiped them across his cheek. His superior reflexes didn’t let me get very far with the gesture, but I did draw blood before he gripped my wrist and slammed it against the car.

“What’s the matter? Not offensive enough for you?” I managed through my pain. More bad movie lines.

“Cute, Georgina. Very cute. We’ll see how cute you are by the time I—”

Headlights glimmered in the night as a car turned the corner on the next block and headed toward us. In that split second, I could see the indecision on Duane’s face. Our tête-à-tête would undoubtedly be noticed by the driver. While Duane could easily kill an intervening mortal—hell, it was what he did for a living—having the kill linked to his harassment of me would not look good to our superiors. Even an asshole like Duane would think twice before stirring up that kind of paperwork.

“We aren’t finished,” he hissed, releasing my wrist.

“Oh, I think we are.” I could feel braver now that salvation was on the way. “The next time you come near me’s going to be the last.”

“I’m quaking in terror,” he simpered. His eyes gleamed once in the darkness, and then he was gone, moving off into the night just as the car drove past. Thank God for whatever liaison or ice cream run had pulled that driver out tonight.

Not wasting any more time, I got into my car and drove off, anxious to be back in the city. I tried to ignore the shaking of my hands on the wheel, but the truth of the matter was, Duane terrified me. I had told him off plenty of times in the presence of my immortal friends, but taking him on alone on a dark street was an entirely different matter, especially since all my threats had been empty ones.

I actually abhorred violence in all its forms. I suppose this came from living through periods of history fraught with levels of cruelty and brutality no one in the modern world could even comprehend. People like to say we live in violent times now, but they have no idea. Sure, there had been a certain satisfaction centuries ago in seeing a rapist castrated swiftly and promptly for his crimes, without endless courtroom drama or an early release for “good behavior.” Unfortunately, those who deal in revenge and vigilantism rarely know where to draw the line, so I’d take the bureaucracy of the modern judicial system any day.

Thinking back to how I’d presumed the fortuitous driver was on an ice cream run, I decided a little dessert would do me some good too. Once I was safely back in Seattle, I stopped in a 24-hour grocery store, discovering some marketing mastermind had created tiramisu-flavored ice cream. Tiramisu and ice cream. The ingenuity of mortals never failed to amaze me.

As I was about to pay, I passed a display of flowers. They were cheap and a little tattered, but I watched as a young man came in and nervously scanned them over. At last he selected some autumn-colored mums and carried them off. My eyes followed him wistfully, half-jealous of whatever girl would be getting those.

As Duane had noted, I usually fed off losers, guys I didn’t have to feel guilty about hurting or rendering unconscious for a few days. Those kind did not send flowers and usually avoided most romantic gestures altogether. As for the guys who did send flowers, well, I avoided them. For their own good. That was out of character for a succubus, but I was too jaded to care about propriety anymore.

Feeling sad and lonely, I picked up a bouquet of red carnations for myself and paid for it and the ice cream.

When I arrived home, my phone was ringing. Setting down my goods, I glanced at the Caller-ID. Caller unknown.

“My lord and master,” I answered. “What a perfect ending to a perfect night.”

“Save your quips, Georgie. Why were you fucking with Duane?”

“Jerome, I—what?”

“He just called. Said you were unduly hassling him.”

“Hassling? Him?” Outrage surged inside me. “He started it! He came up to me and—”

“Did you hit him?”

“I…”

“Did you?”

I sighed. Jerome was the archdemon of the greater Seattle hierarchy of evil, as well as my supervisor. It was his job to manage all of us, make sure we did our duties, and keep us in line. Like any lazy demon, however, he preferred we create as little work for him as possible. His annoyance was almost palpable through the phone line.

“I did sort of hit him. Actually, it was more of a swipe.”

“I see. A swipe. And did you threaten him too?”

“Well, yes, I guess, if you want to argue semantics, but Jerome, come on! He’s a vampire. I can’t touch him. You know that.”

The archdemon hesitated, apparently considering the outcome of me going head-to-head with Duane. I must have lost in the hypothetical battle because I heard Jerome exhale a moment later.

“Yes. I suppose. But don’t provoke him anymore. I’ve got enough to work on right now without you children having catfights.”

“Since when do you work?” Children indeed.

“Good night, Georgie. Don’t tangle with Duane again.”

The phone disconnected. Demons weren’t big on small talk.

I hung up, feeling highly offended. I couldn’t believe Duane had tattled on me and then made me out to be the bad guy. Worse, Jerome seemed to have believed it. At least at first. That probably hurt me most of all because, my slacker-succubus habits aside, I’d always enjoyed a kind of indulgent, teacher’s pet role with the archdemon.

Seeking consolation, I carried the ice cream off to my bedroom, shedding my clothes for a loose nightshirt. Aubrey, my cat, stood up from where she’d been sleeping at the foot of my bed and stretched. Solid white save for some black smudges on her forehead, she squinted green eyes at me in greeting.

“I can’t go to bed,” I told her, stifling a yawn. “I have to read first.”

I curled up with the pint and my book, recalling again how I’d finally be meeting my favorite author at the signing tomorrow. Seth Mortensen’s writing always spoke to me, awakening something inside I hadn’t even known was asleep. His current book, The Glasgow Pact, couldn’t ease the guilt I felt over what had happened with Martin, but it filled an aching emptiness in me nonetheless. I marveled that mortals, living so short a time, could create such wonderful things.

“I never created anything when I was a mortal,” I told Aubrey when I’d finished five pages.

She rubbed against me, purring sympathetically, and I had just enough presence of mind to put the ice cream away before collapsing back into bed and falling asleep.

The phone jolted me to consciousness the next morning. Dim, murky light filtered in through my sheer curtains, signifying some freakishly early hour. Around here, however, that amount of light could have indicated anything from sunrise to high noon. After four rings, I finally deigned to answer, accidentally knocking Aubrey out of the bed. She landed with an indignant mhew and stalked off to clean herself.

“Hello?”

“Yo, Kincaid?”

“No.” My response came swift and certain. “I’m not coming in.”

“You don’t even know I’m going to ask that.”

“Of course I know. There’s no other reason you’d be calling me this early, and I’m not going to do it. It’s my day off, Doug.”

Doug, the other assistant manager at my day job, was a pretty nice guy, but he couldn’t keep a poker face—or voice—to save his life. His cool demeanor immediately gave way to desperation. “Everyone called in sick today, and now we’re strapped. You have to do it.”

“Well, I’m sick too. Believe me, you don’t want me there.”

Okay, I wasn’t exactly sick, but I was still sporting a residual afterglow from being with Martin. Mortals would not “see” it as Duane had per se, but they would sense it and be drawn to it—men and women alike—without even knowing why. My confinement today would prevent any foolish, love-sick behavior. It was very kind of me, really.

“Liar. You’re never sick.”

“Doug, I was already planning on coming back tonight for the signing. If I work a shift today too, I’ll be there all day. That’s sick and twisted.”

“Welcome to my world, babe. We have no alternative, not if you really care about the fate of the store, not if you truly care about our customers and their happiness…”

“You’re losing me, cowboy.”

“So,” he continued, “the question is, are you going to come here willingly, or do I have to walk over there and drag you out of bed myself? Frankly, I wouldn’t mind the latter.”

I did a mental eye roll, chiding myself for the billionth time about living two blocks from work. His rambling about the bookstore’s suffering had been effective, as he’d known it would. I operated under the mistaken belief that the place couldn’t survive without me.

“Well, rather than risk any more of your attempts at witty, sexual banter, I suppose I’ll have to come over there. But Doug…” My voice turned hard.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t put me on the registers or anything.”

I heard hesitation on his end.

“Doug? I’m serious. Not the main registers. I don’t want to be around a lot of customers.”

“All right,” he said at last. “Not the main registers.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

A half hour later, I stepped outside my door to walk the two blocks to the bookstore. Long clouds hung low, darkening the sky, and a faint chill touched the air, forcing some of my fellow pedestrians to don a coat. I had opted for none, finding my khaki slacks and brown chenille sweater more than sufficient. The clothing, just like the lip gloss and eye-liner I’d carefully applied this morning, were real; I had not shape-shifted into them. I enjoyed the routine nature of applying cosmetics and matching articles of clothing, though Hugh would have claimed I was just being weird again.

Emerald City Books & Café was a sprawling establishment, occupying almost a full block in Seattle’s Queen Anne neighborhood. It sat two stories high, with the café portion dominating a second-floor corner viewing the Space Needle. A cheerful green awning hung over the main door, protecting those customers waiting for the store to open. I walked around them and entered through a side door, using my staff key.

Doug assaulted me before I’d taken two steps inside. “It’s about time. We…” He paused and did a double-take, reexamining me. “Wow. You look…really nice today. Did you do something different?”

Only a thirty-four-year-old virgin, I thought.

“You’re just imagining things because you’re so happy I’m here to fix your staffing problem. What am I doing? Stock?”

“I, er, no.” Doug struggled to snap out of his haze, still looking me up and down in a way I found disconcerting. His interest in dating me was no secret, nor was my continual rejection. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

“I told you—”

“It’s not the main registers,” he promised me.

What “it” turned out to be was the espresso counter in our upstairs café. Bookstore staff hardly ever subbed up here, but it wasn’t unheard of.

Bruce, the café manager, popped up from where he’d been kneeling behind the counter. I often thought Doug and Bruce could be twins in a mixed-race, alternate-reality sort of way. Both had long, scraggly ponytails, and both wore a good deal of flannel in tribute to the grunge era neither had fully recovered from. They differed mainly in their coloring. Doug was Japanese-American, black-haired with flawless skin; Bruce was Mr. Aryan Nation, all blond hair and blue eyes.

“Hey Doug, Georgina,” heralded Bruce. His eyes widened at me. “Whoa, you look great today.”

“Doug! This is just as bad. I told you I didn’t want any customers.”

“You told me not the main registers. You didn’t say anything about this one.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Bruce interrupted. “Come on, Georgina, I had Alex call in sick today, and Cindy actually quit.” Seeing my stony expression, he quickly added, “Our registers are almost identical to yours. It’ll be easy.”

“Besides”—Doug raised his voice to a fair imitation of our manager’s—“‘assistant managers are supposed to be able to fill in for anybody around here.’”

“Yeah, but the café—”

“—is still part of the store. Look, I’ve got to go open. Bruce’ll show you what you need to know. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.” He hastily darted off before I could refuse again.

“Coward!” I yelled after him.

“It really won’t be that bad,” Bruce reiterated, not understanding my dismay. “You just take the money, and I’ll make the espresso. Let’s practice on you. You want a white chocolate mocha?”

“Yeah,” I conceded. Everyone I worked with knew about that particular vice. I usually managed to take down three of them a day. Mochas that was, not coworkers.

Bruce walked me through the necessary steps, showing me how to mark up the cups and find what I needed to push on the register’s touch-screen interface. He was right. It wasn’t so bad.

“You’re a natural,” he assured me later, handing over my mocha.

I grunted in response and consumed my caffeine, thinking I could handle anything so long as the mochas kept coming. Besides, this really couldn’t be as bad as the main registers. The café probably did no business this time of day.

I was wrong. Minutes after opening, we had a line of five people.

“Large latte,” I repeated back to my first customer, carefully punching in the information.

“Already got it,” Bruce told me, starting the beverage before I even had a chance to label the cup. I happily took the woman’s money and moved on to my next order.

“A large skinny mocha.”

“Skinny’s just another word for nonfat, Georgina.”

I scrawled NF on the cup. No worries. We could do this.

The next customer wandered up and stared at me, momentarily bedazzled. Coming to her senses, she shook her head and blurted out a torrent of orders.

“I need one small drip coffee, one large nonfat vanilla latte, one small double cappuccino, and one large decaf latte.”

Now I felt bedazzled. How had she remembered all those? And honestly, who ordered drip anymore?

On and on the morning went, and despite my misgivings, I soon felt myself perking up and enjoying the experience. I couldn’t help it. It was how I worked, how I carried myself through life. I liked trying new things—even something as banal as ringing up espresso. People could be silly, certainly, but I enjoyed working with the public most of the time. It was how I had ended up in customer service.

And once I overcame my sleepiness, my inborn succubus charisma kicked in. I became the star of my own personal stage show, bantering and flirting with ease. When combined with the Martin-induced glamour, I became downright irresistible. While this did result in a number of proffered dates and pickup lines, it also saved me from the repercussions of any mistakes. My customers found no wrong with me.

“That’s all right, dear,” one older woman assured me upon discovering I’d accidentally ordered her a large cinnamon mocha instead of a nonfat, decaf latte. “I really need to branch out into new drinks anyway.”

I smiled back winningly, hoping she wasn’t diabetic.

Later on, a guy came up carrying a copy of Seth Mortensen’s The Glasgow Pact. It was the first sign I’d seen of tonight’s momentous event.

“Are you going to the signing?” I asked as I rang up his tea. Bleh. Caffeine-free.

He studied me for a pregnant moment, and I braced myself for a pass.

Instead the guy said mildly, “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Well, make sure you think up good questions for him. Don’t ask the same ones everyone else does.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’ and ‘Are Cady and O’Neill ever going to get together?’”

The guy considered this as I made change. He was cute, in a disheveled sort of way. He had brown hair with a reddish-gold gleam to it, said gleam being more noticeable in the shadow of facial hair crossing his lower face. I couldn’t quite decide if he’d intentionally grown a beard or just forgotten to shave. Whatever it was, it had grown in more or less evenly and, when combined with the Pink Floyd T-shirt he wore, presented the image of a sort of hippie-lumberjack.

“I don’t think the ‘usual questions’ make them any less meaningful to the one doing the asking,” he decided at last, seeming shy about contradicting me. “To a fan, each question is new and unique.”

He stepped aside so I could wait on another customer. I continued the conversation as I took the next order, unwilling to pass up the opportunity to discuss Seth Mortensen intelligently.

“Forget the fans. What about poor Seth Mortensen? He probably wants to impale himself each time he gets one of those.”

“‘Impale’ is kind of a strong word, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely not. The guy’s brilliant. Hearing idiotic questions must bore him to tears.”

A bemused smile played across the man’s mouth, and his steady brown eyes weighed me carefully. When he realized he was staring so openly, he glanced away, embarrassed. “No. If he’s out touring, he cares about his fans. He doesn’t mind the repetitive questions.”

“He’s not out touring for altruism. He’s out touring because the publicists at his publishing house are making him tour,” I countered. “Which is also a waste of time, by the way.”

He dared a look back at me. “Touring is? You don’t want to meet him?”

“I—well, yes, of course I do. It’s just, that…okay. Look, don’t get me wrong. I worship the ground this guy walks on. I’m excited to meet him tonight. I’m dying to meet him tonight. If he wanted to carry me off and make me his love slave, I’d do it, so long as I got advance copies of his books. But this touring thing…it takes time. Time that would be better spent writing the next book. I mean, haven’t you seen how long his books take to come out?”

“Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

Just then, a previous customer returned, complaining he’d gotten caramel syrup instead of caramel sauce. Whatever that meant. I offered a few smiles and sweet apologies, and he soon didn’t care about the caramel sauce or anything else. By the time he left my register, the Mortensen fan guy was gone too.

When I finally finished my shift around five, Doug came to meet me.

“I hear. . .