Succubus Revealed

Chapter 18



The blackness began to lighten into swirls of color, colors that eventually resolved into lines and shapes around me. I gazed around as the world formed and soon felt solidity beneath my feet. My own body was taking on substance again, the light and hollow sensation disappearing. Feeling and movement returned to me, and for half a second, I thought I had imagined everything that happened in the parking lot.

Then I was struck by a sudden and overwhelming sense of wrongness.

First off, as I blinked the world into focus, it became obvious that I was no longer at the bowling alley. I was inside a room with vaulted ceilings and no windows. It appeared to be a courtroom, complete with a jury box and judge’s stand. All the décor was black: red-veined black marble on the walls and floor, black wood trim, black leather chairs. Everything was very sleek and modern, clean and sterile.

The next thing I noticed was that I wasn’t in the body I’d just been in. My perspective on the world was from a greater height. The weight of my limbs and muscles felt different too, and I wore a simple linen dress instead of my Unholy Rollers shirt. Although I couldn’t see myself straight-on, I had a good idea which body I was wearing: the first one. My mortal one. The one I’d been born to.

Yet it was neither the body nor unfamiliar room that felt so wrong. They were surprises, yes, but nothing I couldn’t adapt to. The wrongness came from nothing tangible. It was more a feeling in the air, a sensation that permeated my every pore. Even with the vaulted ceilings, the room felt stuffy and tight, like there was no air circulation whatsoever. And even though there wasn’t any actual odor, I just kept imagining stagnation and decay. My skin crawled. I felt smothered by hot, humid air—yet was also chilled to the bone.

I was in Hell.

I had never been there, but you didn’t really need to have been to know it.

I was sitting at a table on the left side of the room, facing the judge’s bench. Behind me, separated by a railing, was the audience seating. I squirmed around to peer at it. Right before my eyes, people began to materialize in the seats. They were wildly different in appearance: male and female, all races, various states of dress. Some were as prim and neat as the courtroom around us. Some looked like it had been quite an ordeal for them to get out of bed. There was no uniformity to their appearances. There weren’t even immortal auras to tip me off, but I was willing to wager anything that they were all demons.

A murmur of conversation began to fill the room as the demons spoke to each other, a droning almost more frightening than the silence that had originally met me. No one talked to me, though plenty of sets of eyes studied me disapprovingly. I didn’t recognize anyone here yet and felt vulnerable and afraid. There was an empty seat next to me, and I wondered if someone would be joining me. Was I entitled to a lawyer for this . . . whatever it was? It had all the trappings of a regular courtroom, but I could hardly expect Hell to be reasonable or predictable. I honestly had no clue what was about to happen. I knew it had to be about my contract, but Hugh hadn’t gone into a lot of specifics when he’d said that my case would eventually “be reviewed.”

There was a table on the right side of the courtroom, one that mirrored mine in size and placement. A man with irongray hair and a handlebar mustache sat down at it, placing a briefcase on the table’s surface. He wore an all-black suit— including the shirt—and looked more like a funeral director than a prosecutor, which is what I assumed he was. As though sensing my scrutiny, he glanced over at me with eyes so dark, I couldn’t tell where pupil ended and iris began. They sent a new chill through me, and I changed my assessment of him. Funeral director? More like an executioner.

Once the gallery was nearly full of spectators, a side door near the front opened. Twelve people filed out toward the jurors’ box, and I caught my breath. I still couldn’t sense any immortal auras in this room. Maybe it wasn’t necessary in Hell or maybe there were just too many immortals in here for it to be comfortable. Regardless, just as I’d been certain all the spectators were demons, I could tell that half of the jurors were angels. It was in their eyes and their disposition. There was a way they carried themselves that differed from everyone else, even though the angels were dressed no differently. Also, the angels seemed to be conscious of the wrongness I’d felt in here. They kept glancing around, small looks of disgust on their faces. At first, it seemed kind of crazy that angels would be in Hell, but then I realized that, unlike Heaven, there were no gates or barriers to keep anyone out. And unlike mortals, angels had the ability to leave here when they chose. I suppose it made it easy to do business visits like this. Still, I found myself heartened by the sight of the angels. If they were going to be involved in deciding my case, then surely they would be sympathetic.

“Don’t count on any help from them.”

It was the prosecuting demon with the dark eyes, leaning across his table and addressing me in a low voice.

“I beg your pardon?” I asked.

He inclined his head toward the jurors. “The angels. They’ve got a nagging sense of justice, but they also don’t have a lot of sympathy to those who sold their souls. They figure you made your bed, you have to sleep in it. Pretentious bastards, the lot of them.”

I turned back toward the jury and felt a sinking in my stomach. Some of the angels were watching me, and although there wasn’t open disdain on their faces, like the demons, I could still see condescension and scorn here and there. I saw no sympathy anywhere.

With so much chatter in the now-crowded room, it was hard to imagine being able to single out any one voice—but I did. Maybe it was because it was one I’d grown so familiar with in the last ten years, one that I had fallen into the habit of jumping to whenever it spoke. Tearing my gaze from the jury, I peered around until I found the voice’s owner.

Sure enough. Jerome had just entered the courtroom. Even in Hell, he still wore the John Cusack guise. Mei was with him, and it was the sound of their conversation that had caught my attention. They made their way to some seats near the front, on the opposite side of the room from me, that I presumed had been left open for them. A pang of relief shot through my chest. Finally, familiar faces. I opened my mouth to speak, to call out to Jerome . . . just as his eyes fell on me. He paused in his walk, fixing me with a look that pierced straight to my heart. Then, without any other sort of acknowledgment, he looked away and continued his conversation with Mei as they went to their seats. The words died on my lips. The coldness in his gaze left no question that all the laid-back ease at the bowling alley had been a scam.

Jerome was not on my side.

And, if my empty table was any indication, no one was on my side.

A guy in a much more cheerful suit than the prosecutor walked to the front of the room and called the court to order. He announced the entrance of Judge Hannibal, which would have been a hilarious and absurd name in other circumstances. Everyone stood, and I followed suit. The show of respect kind of surprised me. The adherence to procedure did not.

Judge Hannibal entered through a door opposite the jury’s. For a moment, I simply thought, He’s so young. Then, I remembered I was thinking like a human. No one in this room—except me—wore their actual form. All of them were beings of incalculable age, and the twenty-something, blond surfer appearance of Judge Hannibal was just window dressing.

He flashed everyone a big grin, perfect white teeth standing out against his tanned skin. He riffled through some papers in front of him. “All right,” he said. “So, what . . . we have a contract dispute with a succubus? Letha?” He glanced around, like there was some big mystery about who I was. His gaze landed on me, and he nodded to himself. “Who’s prosecuting? You? Marcel?”

“Yes, your honor,” said the dark-suited demon.

Judge Hannibal chuckled. “This is even less fair than it already was.” He glanced back at me. “You got a lawyer, honey?”

I swallowed. “Er, no. I don’t think so. Should I? Do . . . do I get assigned one?”

He shrugged. “We could dredge some imp up if you don’t want to defend yourself. Or we can summon someone, if you’ve got anyone in mind.”

At the mention of an imp, Hugh’s name immediately popped up in my head. I wouldn’t have even cared about the defense aspect. I just wanted to see a friendly face here. Was it that easy? I could just ask, and they’d bring Hugh here . . . to Hell? As soon as I had the thought, I dismissed it. Hugh had already risked so much for me. How could I ask him to stand against our superiors, to defend me against all those cold, glaring eyes? And what good could come of it? He’d probably get in more trouble if I actually won—which didn’t seem likely, judging from Hannibal’s earlier comments.

I was on the verge of telling them I’d just defend myself when there was an explosion of light in the aisle beside me. I leaped to my feet in fear and wasn’t alone in doing so. A cyclone of silver and white light slowly coalesced into a familiar and very welcome form: Carter. Like everyone else, a day in court appeared to make no difference for how he dressed—save that he was wearing the cashmere hat I’d gotten him last Christmas. Glancing up at the judge, Carter took off the hat and held it before him in an attempt at respect. I wanted to throw myself sobbing into his arms.

“What is this?” demanded Judge Hannibal. Those who had been startled slinked back to their seats.

“Sorry,” said Carter amiably. “I would’ve come in the normal way but didn’t know how else to get her lawyer in.”

Was Carter going to be my lawyer? Hope sprang anew within me until another burst of light erupted beside him . . . and Roman appeared.

Chaos of a different sort broke out, and suddenly, I was a sideshow. Outrage shone on angel and demon faces alike. Half the room was on its feet. I hadn’t been able to sense any immortal auras, but I could feel the swell of power bursting from nearly every individual as they advanced on Roman.

“Nephilim!”

“Destroy him!”

We were on the verge of a full-fledged mob attack when Hannibal banged his gavel on the desk. It made a sound like thunder, hitting hard. A palpable wave of power radiated out from him, nearly knocking a few people off their feet. The growing magic in the room dissipated.

“Sit down,” he snapped. “This is hardly the time or place for everyone to start playing hero.”

“There’s a nephilim in the room!” protested someone in the back.

“Yes, yes. Thank you, Captain Obvious,” said Judge Hannibal. “And I daresay the hundred or so of us can take him if he gets out of line. That’s not in question. What is, however, is why he’s here and shouldn’t be immediately smote.” That was directed to Carter.

“He’s her lawyer,” said Carter.

Hannibal’s eyebrows rose in true surprise, with no sign of his earlier smugness. “A nephilim?”

“There are no rules against it,” said Carter mildly. “Any immortal can serve, right?”

Hannibal glanced uneasily at a woman seated at a corner desk who had been typing away steadily on a laptop. I’d taken her for the court reporter, but she was apparently some sort of consultant too. She made a face.

“Technically, he can serve,” she said. “Our laws don’t specify.”

“But they do specify that anyone the defendant chooses is exempt from punishment,” said Carter, as cagey as any lawyer.

A cruel smile played at her lips. “Whoever is summoned to serve as lawyer is exempt from punishment during court and afterward when they return to their normal jobs. I’m guessing this . . . creature is not in our personnel files.”

With Hell, the devil really was in the details. Hugh had always warned me to be careful with even the smallest wordings because Hell would use them to its advantage. It took me a moment to fully get why she was so pleased. Any immortal could serve as a lawyer in a case like this, it seemed. And, going on the first part of what she’d said, no one could do anything to Roman while he was my lawyer, despite the normal immortal reaction to promptly destroy all nephilim. There would be no mass smiting in the courtroom. It was the second part of her words that was tricky. Those drafted as lawyers allegedly couldn’t be punished for their legal performances when they returned to their regular duties, which would’ve been good to know when I was considering summoning Hugh (though I knew there were a million subtle ways a disgruntled demon could still get back at someone on the sly).

But Roman didn’t have any regular duties for Hell, aside from an unofficial deal with Jerome that I had no doubt my archdemon would disavow all knowledge of. Roman couldn’t be protected when he “went back to work” because he didn’t work for Hell. The instant this trial ended and he was out of the role of lawyer, he was subject to the whims of Hell.

“Well,” said Hannibal. He looked down at me. “At least it’ll make this case more interesting. Sure, whatever. You want the nephilim as your lawyer?”

I wanted to say no. Some part of me half hoped that if I refused and Roman never became my lawyer, he would be free of the retribution that awaited him afterward, that he could simply escape now. Except, as I glanced between him and Carter, a terrible certainty settled over me. It didn’t matter if Roman became my lawyer or not. He wasn’t getting out of here. It was reflected in Roman’s eyes as they met mine. When Carter had brought him here, it was a one-way trip. If I didn’t accept him as my lawyer, I was simply speeding Roman to his death.

I nodded and felt my heart lurch as I sealed his fate. “Er, yes. Yes, your honor. I’d like him as my lawyer.”

There was a murmur of disapproval throughout the courtroom. Carter slapped Roman encouragingly on the back and then went to find a seat in the gallery. Roman took the empty chair beside me. He was a sharp contrast to Marcel. Roman had no briefcase, not even a single piece of paper, and was still wearing the clothes he’d had on earlier: jeans and a sweater.

“What are you doing?” I hissed to him, grateful for the cover of the other voices. “This is suicide!”

“You didn’t really think I’d abandon you to them, did you?” he asked. “And who knows your case better than me?”

“They’ll kill you when it’s over, whether I win or lose.”

Roman gave me a lopsided smile. “ ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do—’ ”

“Oh, shut the f*ck up,” I said, afraid I was going to start crying. “You’re an idiot. You shouldn’t have come here.”

“You remember our talk about purpose and meaning?” he asked me, the smile disappearing. “Well, I think this might be mine. I think this is what I was meant to do, Georgina.”

“Roman—”

But there was no time for any more conversation. Judge Hannibal was banging the gavel—this time, sans thunder—trying to calm everyone down. They were still worked up about the idea of a nephilim walking freely in their midst.

“Enough, enough,” Hannibal said. “I know we’re all shocked and awed, but get over it. We’ll deal with him later. If there’s no more drama in store, do you mind if we get started?” He glanced between the lawyers.

“I’m ready when you are, your honor,” said Marcel.

Roman nodded. “Let’s do this.”