number of people at the bookstore who would have loved the idea of me suffering—not that this job was so bad.
“Well, this is just temporary, obviously,” I explained. “It gives me something to do while I interview for others, and I get a mall discount. And really, it’s just another form of customer service.” I was trying hard not to sound defensive or desperate, but with each word, the intensity of how much I missed my old job hit me more and more.
“Oh, good,” she said, looking slightly relieved. “I’m sure you’ll find something soon. Looks like the line’s moving.”
“Wait, Janice?” I caught hold of her arm before she could walk away. “How . . . how’s Doug?”
I’d left behind a lot of things at Emerald City: a position of power, a warm atmosphere, unlimited books and coffee . . . But as much as I missed all of those things, I didn’t miss them as much as I missed a single person: my friend Doug Sato. He, more than anything, was what had spurred me to leave. I hadn’t been able to handle working with him anymore. It had been terrible, seeing someone I care about so much regard me with such contempt and disappointment. I’d had to get away from that and felt I’d made the right choice, but it was still hard losing someone who’d been a part of my life for the last five years.
Janice’s smile returned. Doug had that effect on people. “Oh, you know. He’s Doug. The same, wacky Doug. Band’s going strong. And I think he might get your job. Er, your old job. They’re interviewing for it.” Her smile faded, as though she suddenly realized that might cause me discomfort. It didn’t. Not much.
“That’s great,” I said. “I’m happy for him.”
She nodded and told me good-bye before hurrying forward in line. Behind her, a family of four paused in their frantic texting on identical cell phones to glare at me for the holdup. A moment later, they hunched back down again, no doubt telling all their Twitter friends about every inane detail of their holiday mall experience.
I put on a cheery smile that didn’t reflect what I felt inside and continued helping with the line until Sneezy, my replacement, showed up. I got him up to speed on Santa’s drinking schedule and then abandoned the holiday nexus for the mall’s back offices. Once inside a bathroom, I shape-shifted out of the foil dress, trading it for a much more tasteful sweater and jeans combo. I even made the sweater blue so that there would be no confusion. I was off the holiday clock.
Of course, as I walked back through the mall, I couldn’t help but notice I was never off the clock for my main job: being a succubus in the illustrious service of Hell. Centuries of corruption and seduction of souls had given me a sixth sense for spotting those most vulnerable to my charms. The holidays, while ostensibly being a time of cheer, also tended to bring out the worst in people. I could spot the desperation everywhere—those hoping to frantically find the perfect gifts to win over the ones they loved, those dissatisfied with their ability to provide for their loved ones, those dragged along on shopping trips to create a “perfect” holiday experience they had no interest in. . . . Yes, it was everywhere if you knew how to look for it: that sorrow and frustration tucked in amongst the joy. Those were exactly the kinds of souls that were ripe for the taking. I could have picked off any number of guys if I wanted to tonight and taken care of my quota for the week.
My brief exchange with Janice had left me feeling strange, however, and I couldn’t muster the energy to go strike up a conversation with some discontent suburban businessman. Instead, I consoled myself with impulse purchases for myself and even found a couple of much-needed gifts for others, proving that I wasn’t totally and completely selfish. By the time I left, I felt confident traffic had died down and would give me an easy drive back to the city. As I walked past the center of the mall, I heard Santa ho-ho-ho-ing loudly while waving his arms energetically around, much to the terror of a small child on his lap. My guess was that someone had cracked and broken the drinking rule.
On the way home, I noticed I had three voice mail messages, all from my friend Peter. Before I could even attempt to listen to them, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Where are you?” Peter’s frantic voice filled up the small space of my Passat.
“In my car. Where are you?”
“At my apartment. Where else? Everyone’s here!”
“Everyone? What are you talking about?”
“Did you forget? Damn it, Georgina. You were a lot more punctual when you were unhappy and single.”
I ignored the jab and scanned through my mental calendar. Peter was one of my best friends. He was also a neurotic, obsessive compulsive vampire who loved hosting dinners and parties. He usually managed to throw something together at least once a week, never for the same reason, so it was easy to lose track.
“It’s fondue night,” I said at last, proud of myself for remembering.
“Yes! And the cheese is getting cold. I’m not made of Sterno, you know.”
“Why didn’t you just start eating?”
“Because we’re civilized.”
“Debatable.” I pondered whether I wanted to go or not. Part of me really just wanted to get home and snuggle with Seth, but I had a feeling he’d be working. I likely couldn’t expect snuggling for a while, whereas I could appease Peter right now. “Fine. Start without me, and I’ll be there soon. I’m just getting off the bridge now.” Wistfully, I drove past Seth’s exit and instead set my sights on the one that would take me to Peter’s place.
“Did you remember to bring wine?” he asked.
“Peter, until a minute ago, I didn’t even remember I was supposed to be at your place. Do you really need wine?” I’d seen Peter’s wine cabinet. On any given day, he had a dozen each of reds and whites, both domestic and international.
“I don’t want to run out of the good stuff,” he said.
“I seriously doubt you’re going to—wait. Is Carter there?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll pick up some wine.”
I showed up at his apartment ten minutes later. His roommate and apprentice, Cody, opened the door and gave me a broad, fang-filled smile. Light, music, and the scent of fondue and potpourri washed over me. Their home put Santa’s gazebo to shame and had decorations filling every square inch. And not just Christmas ones.
“Since when do you guys have a menorah?” I asked Cody. “Neither of you are Jewish.”
“Well, we’re not Christian either,” he pointed out, leading me toward the dining room. “Peter wanted to take a multicultural slant this year. The guestroom is all done in Kwanza decorations, if you know someone looking for a truly tacky overnight experience.”
“It is not tacky!” Peter stood up from a table where our other immortal friends sat around two tubs of melted cheese. “I can’t believe you’re so insensitive to other people’s religious views. Jesus Christ! Is that boxed wine?”
“You said you wanted wine,” I reminded him.
“I wanted good wine. Please tell me it’s not blush.”
“Of course it’s blush. And you didn’t tell me to bring good wine. You said you were worried Carter would drink all your good wine. So I brought this for him instead. Your wine is safe.”
At the mention of his name, the only heavenly creature in the room looked up. “Sweet,” he said, accepting the box from me. “Santa’s little helper delivers.” He opened up the box’s dispenser and looked at Peter expectantly. “Do you have a straw?”
I sat in an empty seat beside my boss, Jerome, who was contentedly dipping a piece of bread in molten cheddar. He was the archdemon of all of Seattle and chose to walk the earth looking like a circa 1990 John Cusack, which made it easy to forget his true nature sometimes. Fortunately, his brimstone personality always came out the instant he opened his mouth. “You’re here less than a minute, Georgie, and already you’ve made this get-together fifty percent less classy.”
“You guys are eating fondue on a Tuesday night,” I retorted. “You were well on your way without me.”
Peter had settled himself back down and was trying to appear calm. “Fondue is very classy. It’s all in the presentation. Hey! Where’d you get that?”
Carter had set the wine box on his lap, dispenser on top, and was now drinking from it with an enormous straw that I suspected had been literally conjured from thin air.
“At least he’s not doing that with a bottle of Pinot Noir,” I told Peter good-naturedly. I helped myself to a fondue fork and speared a piece of apple. On the other side of Jerome, Hugh busily typed away on his phone’s
