Hugh raised an eyebrow. “Why the fuck would anyone take a bet like that after having the flu?”

I shrugged. “Because he’s Doug.”

Hoping Doug would be okay, I scanned the rest of my party with the pleased air of a queen sizing up her kingdom. I’d moved into this place back in July and had been long overdue for a housewarming party. When Halloween had finally rolled around, combining the two events had seemed like a pretty reasonable solution. Consequently, my guests tonight were clad in an array of costumes, everything from elaborate Renaissance faire–quality garb to the slackers who’d simply thrown on a witch hat.

Me, I was dressed as Little Bo Peep—well, that is, I was dressed the way Little Bo Peep would be dressed if she were a stripper and/or a shameless strumpet. My frilly blue skirt stopped just above the half-way point on my thighs, and my puff-sleeved white blouse was so low-cut that I had to be careful when leaning over. The crowning achievement—literally—was my curly mane of flaxen-blond hair, perfectly arranged into two pigtails tied with little blue bows. It looked perfect, absolutely indistinguishable from the real thing because . . . well, it was real.

Shape-shifting always came in handy as a succubus, but for Halloween, it was golden. I always had the best costumes because I really could turn in to anything I wanted. Of course, I had to keep it within reason. Too much of a change would raise the suspicions of the humans around me. But for a hair change? Shape-shifting came in pretty handy.

Someone touched my elbow. I turned, and my smug enthusiasm dimmed a little when I saw who it was: Roman, my sociopathic roommate.

“I think someone’s getting sick in the bathroom,” he told me. Roman was a nephilim, half-angel and half-human, with soft black hair and sea-green eyes. If not for the fact that he occasionally went on immortal killing sprees and had me on his hit list, he would have been a pretty good catch.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s Doug. He lost a vodka challenge.”

Roman grimaced. “I’m not cleaning that up.”

“What, you don’t do housework, either?” asked Hugh. He’d recently learned Roman wasn’t paying me rent because he was “between jobs.” “Seems like you should pull your weight around here somehow.”

Roman gave Hugh a warning look. “Stay out of this, Spiro Agnew.”

“I’m Calvin Coolidge!” exclaimed Hugh, highly offended. “This is the same suit he wore at his inauguration.”

I sighed. “Hugh, nobody here remembers that.” That was one of the downsides of being immortal. Our memories became obsolete as more time passed. Hugh, an imp who bought souls for Hell, was much younger than Roman and me, but he had a lot more years than any human here.