Like before, the sensory overload vanished. I was left alone in a quiet, empty world. No more siren song. Roman was standing in front of me, hands shaking me as his face stared down at me with worry. I looked around. We were in the kitchen. I had no memory of going there.

“How . . . what happened?” I stammered.

The face that had taunted me earlier was now filled with concern, something that troubled a small part of me. Why should someone who wanted to kill me be worried about me?

“You tell me,” he said, releasing his grip.

I rubbed my eyes, willing myself to recall what had happened. “I . . . I don’t know. I must have sleep-walked . . .”

His face was still drawn and anxious. “No . . . there was something here . . .”

I shook my head. “No, it was a dream. Or a hallucination. I had it happen earlier . . . I just drank too much.”

“Didn’t you just hear me?” There it was again, fear for me underneath the anger. “There was something here, some . . . force. I felt it. It woke me up. Don’t you remember anything at all?”

I stared off, trying to summon up the light and haunting melody. I couldn’t. “It was . . . it was beautiful. I wanted . . . I wanted to go to it . . . to be part of it . . .” There was a dreamy, wistful note in my voice.

Roman’s expression grew dark. As a succubus, I was a lesser immortal, one who had once been human. Nephilim were technically greater immortals—those born, not made. As such, their powers and senses were greater than mine.

“Don’t,” he said. “You feel it again, you pull away. Don’t let it draw you in. Under no circumstances should you go to it.”

I looked back at him with a frown. “Why? Do you know what it is?”

“No,” he said grimly. “And that’s the problem.”

SUCCUBUS BLUES

By Richelle Mead

Succubus (n.) An alluring, shape-shifting demon who seduces and pleasures mortal men.

Pathetic (adj.) A succubus with great shoes and no social life. See: Georgina Kincaid.

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 can often pay with their souls, but why get technical?

But Seattle succubus Georgina Kincaid’s life is far less exotic. Her boss is a middle-management demon with a thing for John Cusack movies, and she can’t get a decent date without sucking away part of the guy’s life. 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.