“May I direct your attention to section 3A,” said Roman loudly. In a softer voice, he added to me, “The rest is pretty much standard Hell legalese.”
It was true. The scroll was so big, we couldn’t open it in its entirety. From what I could see, most of it was a painfully detailed description of what it meant to serve as a succubus and give Hell the lease on your soul. In their defense, there wasn’t much they’d left out. I hadn’t read the full contract at the time. Niphon had summarized the high points for me, but it was impossible to say they didn’t let you know what you were in for. Fortunately, those technicalities weren’t our concern today.
Roman read aloud:
“In exchange for ownership of the aforementioned soul (see sections 1B, 4A, 4B, 5B part 1, 5B part 2, and appendix 574.3) and services detailed below (see sections 3A, 3B, 6A-F, 12C) as performed by the contractee (henceforth called ‘the Damned’), the almighty Kingdom of Hell and its representatives do agree to the following:
1. Granting to the Damned of succubus powers described in sections 7.1A and 7.3A.
2. All mortals who were acquainted with the Damned in her human life shall have all knowledge of her erased from their memories, never to be regained, in accordance with standard memory loss procedures (see appendix 23).”
Roman looked up at the judge when he finished reading. “Now,” said Roman. “I can read appendix 23 if you want, but the point is that Hell did not honor part of their agreement. Someone she knew when she was human—a mortal—remembered her.”
“Why wasn’t this raised back then?” asked Hannibal.
“Because it happened a couple months ago,” said Roman. “The person in question is someone with a reincarnation contract who was alive then and today.”
“If this person was reincarnated, then the point’s irrelevant,” said Marcel. “It’s not technically the same person anymore. Therefore, the contract stands.”
“Not according to addendum 764 of the
Doris looked at Hannibal expectantly. “Don’t bother,” he said. “I’m familiar with the
I expected Roman to say something and then realized he was waiting on me. It was still hard to wrap my head around the idea of everyone just jumping forward and speaking.
“He called me by my name, your honor,” I said. “My first human name from the fifth century. The one he knew me as back then.”
“Had he ever heard it before—in this lifetime?” prompted Roman.
“No,” I said.
“Did anyone witness this?” asked Marcel.
“No,” I said.
“I see,” he said, managing to make me feel very small with those two words. His tone implied that it was a miracle we’d even made it this far on such flimsy evidence.
“It’s okay,” said Roman. “Because we have more. This same reincarnated subject revealed under hypnosis remembering her in several other lives.”
“Are there witnesses to
“We both witnessed it,” said Roman. “As well as an imp employed in Seattle. Hugh Mitchell. He was the one who actually performed the hypnosis, if you wanted to summon him.”
I tensed. Hugh was certainly an airtight witness—seeing as he wasn’t the petitioner in this case or a creature despised by both Heaven and Hell—but my earlier apprehension for him returned. I didn’t know if he could get in trouble for providing key evidence.
“We don’t need him,” said Marcel. “You and he witnessed the same thing?”
I nodded.
Marcel glanced over at the jury. “You can tell if she’s lying. Is she telling the truth?”
Six heads nodded. I was surprised I hadn’t thought of this earlier. Angels could tell if mortals and lesser immortals were telling the truth. That was handy in a trial like this. I was also surprised Marcel was helping me out like this.
“There you have it,” he said. “She thinks she heard the subject remembering her under hypnosis. We can assume this imp would believe it as well.”
“Hey,” I argued. “There’s no ‘thinks’ about it. He
Marcel shrugged. “If you say so. We can only take your word for it and what you
“Oh, we can find the evidence,” said Roman. “The subject in question is also under contract. And the very nature of his contract contradicts hers. Can you bring it up, Doris?”
Hannibal nodded his consent, and she turned to her laptop. “Name?”
“Kyriakos,” I said, trying not to stumble over the word. “That’s what it was in the fifth century, at least. In Cyprus. Today he’s Seth Mortensen.”
The judge arched an eyebrow. “I like his books. Didn’t realize he was one of ours.”
“Well, he’s not yet,” I muttered.
Doris meanwhile was typing away on her laptop, putting in the appropriate criteria. She must have found the right case number because she soon turned to the smoking metal box and produced three more scrolls. The copies were distributed, and a strange feeling crept over my skin as Roman opened this one, stranger even than when we’d viewed my own. Here it was. Seth’s contract. Kyriakos’s contract. It had existed unbeknownst to me all these years, subtly influencing my life. It had been made because of me. Roman again jumped to section 2, which was apparently consistent across contracts as far as what “the Damned” received.
“ ‘The Damned shall be granted a total of ten human lives, of which one has already taken place. The subsequent nine reincarnations shall occur in such times and places that he may be in proximity to the lover he believes is missing from his first life, in the hopes of reconciliation. Upon completion of the tenth life, the Damned’s soul will become the property of Hell, in accordance with sections 8D, 9A, and 9B.’ ”
Roman fell silent, a frown on his face. I too felt dismayed but didn’t think we shared the same reasons. Without Seth confirming anything, we’d been unsure if his soul was damned or not, regardless of his success in finding me. I’d half hoped that Hell had given him some fairy-tale challenge, that if he could find and reunite with me, his soul would be restored to him. That apparently wasn’t true. Hell had only offered him the chance to be with me. They’d given him no more than that. If we made amends, his soul belonged to them, the same as if we didn’t. Our romantic outcome made no difference. I wondered if he had bargained for more or had been so desperate and grateful for the chance to simply be with me again that he hadn’t even asked for more.
Marcel smiled. “I see Letha mentioned nowhere in here. There was no violation of the terms of her contract.”
“But obviously someone knew,” said Roman. “You must have a record of all of his lives. He’s encountered her in each one of them. So someone, somewhere made sure that part of the contract was fulfilled—his reunion with the missing ‘lover’ from his first life. Her. Whom he was supposed to forget, per the terms of her contract. They contradict each other.”
Roman spoke confidently, laying his points out reasonably, but I could sense the uneasiness within him. I knew what the hanging point was—the same point Marcel had promptly jumped on. I wasn’t cited by name here. Somewhere, there had to be a record of it if Hell had managed to let Seth be reborn near me each time, but we didn’t know what that was. Hell certainly wasn’t going to help us find it.
“It could be a coincidence,” said Marcel. “Maybe he met someone else in his first life whom he fell in love with, someone whom he lost young and continued to seek in the following centuries.”
