1

Good luck to you, girl, I thought as I walked toward the familiar doors. God knows I could use some luck for a change.

Cesar had never resurfaced. It had been two weeks now: not a phone call, not even a text. Honestly, I'd started to doubt my own memory. Had I even had that weird succubus adventure? And the entire Cesar experience — could it all have been just my stupid erotic fantasy? Had he ever been in my life, that wretched piece of eye candy?

Finally, I'd decided to stop all that nonsense. One day after classes I went to see him. I didn't know the address but I could more or less remember our route.

So there it was, a Midtown high-rise that supposedly housed Cesar's apartment and his bedroom, the memory of which had left me sleepless every night. Unable to shake off my fears and doubts, I walked over to the shiny door and pressed the buzzer. Studded with buttons, it was marked with their respective apartment numbers. I listened to the intercom ringing from the speaker above the brand-new panel. No one seemed to answer it. I stepped back and looked up, studying the windows. Had any of it happened at all? What if someone had slipped me a Mickey Finn that night in the club? That could explain the high-res 3D hallucinations.

The speaker clicked. I darted back to the doors.

"Who is it?"

The voice was female, sleepy and not at all young.

I bit my lip so as not to groan with disappointment. I'd blown it. I must have remembered the wrong address. Or — could it have been the hallucination scenario? Alternatively, Cesar might have taken me to somebody else's place. He'd probably lied about it being his home.

"Hello? Hello?" the old lady's voice demanded. I didn't answer: with a sigh, I turned round and walked away. Oh well, so Cesar wasn't meant to happen.

The only clue I had left was the strange phrase that the succubus had uttered that night in the club. "Daughter of Barbas"! Before, I'd never given it much thought but now that I had no other leads to go on it kept popping up in my memory.

I went past a small park and turned into it. Perching myself on a bench, I began thinking.

Could I make some sense of this meaningless phrase? I wasn't Barbas' daughter! I could still remember Dad really well, even though I'd been only seven when he died. His name wasn't Barbas — it was Craig. Besides, how would that succubus bitch know anything about Dad? Impossible.

But what if she hadn't meant it literally? Maybe it was some kind of poetic license? If you remembered the Bible, it often addressed Jewish women as "the daughters of Israel". Not a daughter but a descendant of sorts. Then this Barbas could be my — grandfather, maybe? I'd never heard anything about my paternal grandfather. Gran had never spoken about him. Having said that... I wasn't sure. Mom had never mentioned anything of the kind to me. She was a perfectly normal woman, and so were her own parents. No demonic streak, whether figuratively or otherwise. So it had to be Dad's parents.

Actually, why couldn't I check it? I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Mom's number. She sounded surprised. Still, she told me all she knew: namely, that my paternal grandfather's name was Mark. Apparently, Dad didn't know his own father and all his attempts to find something out met with his mother's angry resistance.

How very strange. I definitely was onto something here. I promptly changed the subject to avoid her questions. Then I pretended I had to go to the library and bid Mom a hasty goodbye.

I got off the bench and indeed went to the library — where I planted my butt in chair in front of a computer and Googled the weird name. Barbas.

The first search result sent me to some three-star hotel somewhere in Turkey. Pass. But the second... my blood froze as I read the summary. The rest of the first-page search results led to the same Turkish hotel. Further searches were drowned out in totally irrelevant results and foreign-language pages.

So I came back to the second search result on the page. It led to a book entitled The Goetia's Demons. My heart beat faster as I started reading. Barbas was a demon? Did it mean that my dear Gran had had an affair with a man possessed by an incubus? Ouch.

So suppose she had indeed got pregnant. How in that case would demonic DNA be passed on? If demons had a DNA, of course. Could it be some ethereal substance that could enter a victim's body with the host's semen?

I shut the computer down and stared blindly in front of me. I had demon ancestry. The mind boggles. Then again, how did it show? I'd never noticed anything weird about myself. No extra-sensory perception — actually, not much perception worth mentioning at all... Or was I simply unaware of it?

Or was it all a bunch of BS? Only because some girl — apparently high on something or other — had mentioned the name of Barbas? Maybe it was the name of the substance she'd used? Or I'd heard it all wrong, in which case there was no Barbas to pursue. I restarted the computer and reread the description.

Barbas (Marbas) is the third demon according to Weyer's ranking and fifth according to the Goetia. The Great President of Hell. The above sources depict him as a roaring lion that could take the shape of a human being. He is claimed to be able to reveal to his summoner the truth about concealed objects or others' secrets. He was considered capable of sending and healing sickness and of bestowing on his summoners wisdom and a knowledge of mechanics. He is the demon to summon in order to change one's appearance. According to demonology, he governs thirty-six legions of lower demons.

Yeah right. Was this Goetia a reliable source? How could you even believe all this medieval BS? Having a President of Demons as your granddad was utterly cool, no question about that. But where did that leave me?

I concentrated. Even if Gran had indeed had a fling with this Barbas, I didn't see how it could help me to find Cesar. Unfortunately. So even if I believed all this Internet wisdom, I had no way of using it. So I was a demon president's granddaughter. That didn't make me different from everybody else. I couldn't do any of their tricks like breathing fire or traveling between ethereal realms.

I'd managed to disembody that succubus bitch, I reminded myself. Cesar had said I would make a good demon hunter.

The very thought made me sick. So even if I found Cesar — or if he found me as promised — dammit! He was a hunter and I was demonic offspring! If he ever found out... oh no. Did that mean he and I were enemies? Oh no, please, anything but that.

So who was I, a demon or a human being? What if Cesar was obliged to disembody me? I actually hoped for exactly the opposite. But it didn't look as if it was meant to happen.

It was probably better to consider the entire episode a figment of my imagination. I couldn't see how it would help me to find Cesar, unless he made good on his word and found me himself. And if I was indeed the granddaughter of a demon... no, I had to stop thinking about that. I was here to complete my education and get a good start in life. Because this was my life and I was the only person who could do something about it. No amount of demon granddads or sex hunters could help me with that.

Never mind. Time to get on with my life in the big city.

Soon my psychology studies had taken up a large chunk of my life. Luckily for me, Liz wasn't the petty type. We'd soon made up and went on with our friendship, even if not harboring any particularly warm feelings. Gordon hadn't dared to avenge my broom closet stunt... yet. He just gave me a wide berth whenever he saw me.

I had to make my way through the enormous reading lists and other assignments we'd been given. I also found a waitressing gig in a bar nearby. As a result, I usually stumbled back home at one in the morning — and I still had all that studying to do before collapsing into bed. This left me no time for any fantasies: the face of my blue-eyed demon hunter was fading fast in my memory.

* * *

Later that day, the bar was packed. I was run off my feet serving beer, cocktails and stronger stuff. The more drunken patrons just couldn't help themselves: their sweaty hands absolutely had to check out my anatomy. Which explains why I slapped yet another hand off my thigh without even looking.

"Easy! Last time you were nicer with me, babe!"

His rich voice sounded sarcastic, not offended. I swung round, nearly spilling the beer mugs on the tray. Cesar's eyes stared at me from under his Indiana-Jones style hat.

"It's you," I gasped.

"It is indeed," he agreed. "Are you busy?"

"Can't you see? What do you think you were doing? You said you'd be back; instead, I'd been waiting a whole month."

"I am back, aren't I?" Cesar said rather logically. "Quit your job and let's go."

"Are you mad? I have another two hours of this!"

The bartender must have noticed our exchange. He gave me a meaningful nod at the table in the corner patiently awaiting their beers. Then he tapped his own pocket, reminding me of a potential fine. The group at the corner table cast impatient glances my way.

But Cesar didn't seem to be used to waiting. He grabbed me by the waist and rose, taking the tray away from me. "If everything works out — and I believe you can do it — then you can forget serving beer for the rest of your life."

"What are you talking about?" I stared at him, quite annoyed. "If I go now, they'll fire me, pure and simple. D'ya have any idea how hard it is for a student to find a job — any job? Sorry, man. If you want me to do something for you, then you'll have to wait till the end of my shift."

My disappointment grew into anger. So apparently, the reason he'd found me wasn't because he wanted to see me. He had business to discuss!

I grabbed the tray and rushed toward the corner table to unload their beers. As I walked back, Caser caught me and drew me close to him. His steel fingers closed around my wrist.

"It's in your own interests to come with me now," he said. "Do you remember what I told you when we first met? Now you've got the chance to show yourself off. There's this very wealthy gentleman in need of your services..."

"Is he really?"

He was just too much. Apart from the fact that he apparently couldn't care less about me, he also expected me to kiss with all and sundry? Well, screw you, mister!

While thinking so, I stared directly at his chest, bronzed and strong under the shirt's undone top buttons. It hindered my concentration. I immediately remembered myself touching him. My stare wandered lower. With an enormous stroke of willpower I stopped, reminding myself of the fines threatening all lazy waitresses. Our manager apparently thought them the best motivation tool, making tips melt into total insignificance by the end of the night. Pointless to complain: the line of wannabe student waitresses curled all the way around the block, so to speak.

The thought cooled me down a little. "Thanks for the offer," I said as politely as I could. "I really liked the last time, but now I need to work, okay? Please let me go now. If you don't, I'll have problems... hey! What do you think you're doing?"

He pulled the tray from me and slammed it onto an empty table, topping it up with a hundred-dollar bill. Then he elbowed his way through the crowd toward the exit, towing me behind him like a barge. Looking back to check if I was still there, he added. "It'll be much better for you. Trust me."

His voice was equal part confidence and — strangely — honesty. I almost believed him. He had to be right. It had to be for my own good. A waitress! What was that for a job? I was meant for bigger things, surely.

So when the guard by the door gave us a scrutinizing look, I said, "It's all right, Matt."

"Are you sure?"

Matt wasn't known for his manners or his rich vocabulary. He compensated it by his philandering skills and constant hitting on the waitresses. We'd coined him the nickname: Behemoth. He was tall and good-looking with a rather handsome rugged face, so girls didn't mind his advances that much. The moment I started working there, he set his sights on me and soon attempted to follow up, earning himself a well-deserved slap in the face earlier that day. As he'd been watching me doing my rounds, I could read a mixed expression on his face: a combination of anger and desire to score with me somewhere in the utility room.

"Well, I'm not so sure," Matt answered his own question, stepping in our way, his wardrobe-like bulk blotting out the light of day. "What kind of business have you got with her, Sir?"

"Move off," Cesar snapped, looking slightly annoyed. Even though he was fit enough, the guard stood a whole head above him with the weight category to match.

"Back off, you," Matt shoved Cesar in the chest. "Is it a kidnapping attempt? I think I'm gonna call the cops and let them decide who you are-"

What happened next happened so quickly that at the time I didn't notice much. I only remembered the details much later. But it was quick — quick and hypnotizingly beautiful, like a dance. Cesar's hand moved in a circular motion, pulling the guard's hand from his chest. Snapping his shoulder joint as his arm turned in the wrong direction. Cesar was holding his fat hairy wrist, forcing Matt to grovel lower and lower. Without letting go of the guard's hand, Cesar sidestepped and ended the dance with a punch and a hefty dose of knee.

His steely fingers closed on my wrist again, pulling me along, as he stepped over Matt who was lying on the floor groaning. The bar became animated.

"You've broken his arm!" I gasped.

"Dislocated. Big deal," Cesar shrugged.

It was already dark outside. The streetlights were on. Cars flashed past. I made out the outline of a gorgeous black car by the sidewalk.

"You're one hell of a stubborn wild cat, Allie," Cesar said.

"I don't want you to call me Allie."

"Why?" barricading my escape route with his broad back, he peeled off his leather jacket and handed it to me. "Put it on. It's not so warm anymore."

The doors of the BMW opened, disgorging two bodyguard types — the ones whose business suits only make their bodybuilder chests and necks more pronounced. I've no idea how men manage to pump up their neck muscles, but apparently it's possible.

The two stopped on both sides of us.

"Who are they?" I mumbled, still under the impression of the quick work he'd made of our poor behemoth Matt.

"What did I just tell you? A very rich man is in need of your services," Cesar seemed to be losing patience. "Come along now."

I glanced at the silent giants flanking me. "If he's so desperate, tell him I'm going to charge him a waitress' annual wage. Because I pretty much consider myself fired."

I wrapped myself in his jacket. It was indeed getting cold, and I was standing there in my short skirt and a T-shirt.

"Get in, please," he said. "I'll explain everything on the way."

That was it, I might just as well forget my waitressing gig. I knew a fellow student who'd been fired for much less that going AWOL in the heat of her shift. Cesar wasn't a complete stranger — I guess I trusted him enough to get into a car with him. I glanced at the giant bodyguards. If the man he'd been talking about was indeed very rich — well, he'd have to make it good with me. And I was going to have a serious talk with Cesar about his manners. Never mind. Let's see what they had to offer.

One of the bodyguards slid toward the car with remarkable agility, opening the back door. I had nothing else to do but get inside. Cesar followed, reclining comfortably on the soft leather cushions. It all had happened so quickly I couldn't but feel a bit lost. I tensed up, especially when I remembered I actually had a bit of demonic blood in me. Then again, Cesar seemed to be quite relaxed. He made no attempt to use his esoteric weapons on me so apparently I was human after all. Probably, if I kept my shameful demonic ancestry under wraps, no one would be any the wiser.

Besides, let's face it: in my heart of hearts I'd hoped for Cesar to resurface. And now that he finally had, my fantasy had taken a totally unpredictable turn.

The car drove out onto Broadway and headed south toward Lower Manhattan. Cesar didn't seem to be in a hurry to offer me a drink or tell me what had caused him to drag me out of my workplace.

I breathed a disappointed sigh. "So what happened?"

"This rich guy, let's call him Robert — this is his car, by the way — has a son. Recently, he suffered the same kind of thing that happened to you when we first met."

"Was he possessed by a succubus?"

"An incubus."

"Same difference. Why can't you exorcise it?"

He burst out coughing. "Innocence can be cute, I agree, but don't you think you're overdoing it? Do you remember what I did the last time?"

I didn't have to search my memory long. My breathing sped up.

"Allison, I want you to concentrate! That's not what I mean," he sounded annoyed. Still I noticed the mischievous twinkle in his eye. He laid his hand onto my bare knee.

"What do you mean, then?" I had to try hard not to succumb to the wave of heat that his hand sent running through my body. My heart skipped. Cesar did remember!

"I want you to concentrate on the succubus. On how it all ended."

I removed his hand from my knee, trying to concentrate. "I bashed the demon on the head with my charm and it broke."

"And before that?"

"And before that you'd spent some quality time kissing me," I snapped back.

"Exactly," he leaned back on the leather seat. "Now you know what I mean."

"No, I don't! You told me I'd exorcised the succubus with Gran's locket when I smashed it against her head. So what? What's that got to do with it?"

He sighed. "The first thing to do is to lure a succubus — or an incubus — out of the host's body. That was exactly what I was doing before you-"

"We were kissing, weren't we?"

"Exactly."

I stared at him. Then I began to see his point. "You're saying that-"

"Precisely."

"So in order to lure the demon out you need to kiss his, er, host?"

"You got it."

"But — ah, I see now. Today's client is a man. And you only deal with women."

"How very observant of you," Cesar sounded pleased. "Our profession calls for clear-cut sexual preferences. Men deal with the succubi while women handle the incubi, the male demons."

I had so many questions for him but now I was dying to ask just one that seemed the most pressing. "So you're prepared to make me date some billionaire son I'd never even met?"

I could swear I heard the sound of suppressed laughter coming from the front seat. I cast an indignant glare at the backs of the two bodyguards' heads which didn't change their dead-pan expression.

Cesar shook his head. " A kiss is all it should take. The hunter doesn't need to have sex with a client — ahem, a victim. Otherwise they wouldn't call it hunting. You know very well what this kind of thing is called. A kiss is well enough."

"I've still a lot to learn about your profession," I mumbled.

"Your profession," he corrected me. Reaching out, he stroke my cheek with the back of his hand. My body turned to jelly. "You are sex on two legs... a born succubus hunter."

"Incubus," I corrected him.

"See? You're a fast learner," he nodded.

I needed time to mull it all over, but it was too late. The car was entering the uneven little streets of Greenwich Village.

"So what do you want me to do? And why me? Don't you have any established female hunters?"

"How can I tell you," he faltered. "I want you to meet him first. Then I'll explain it all to you. We're here, anyway. Don't be surprised at anything I say, just smile and play along."

I had no time to object or backtrack. The car drove straight through a wide gate. I made out a three-story mansion in the lamplight, its first and second-floor windows brightly lit. As we approached, the lights went on on the ground floor. We were expected.

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