Page 130 of The Succubi's Choice

Epilogue

It takes less than a day for Katya to find them, and she strides into Grant’s house without even a hair askew.

Not-Thomas doesn’t quite tense when he sees her, but, leaning against him, Miri can feel the shift. Like he’s preparing to move, preparing to go somewhere else. Like he’s unsure of what tidings Katya brings.

Katya’s eyes flicker to the bandage across Miri’s arm, to how Not-Thomas is all but cradling her, and to where Gabriel and Jacqueline curled up, fast asleep with books in both their laps.

“It’s safe for them to come home, that’s for sure,” Katya says, low enough to not wake them, sitting neatly on one of the low plush chairs.

The Archdemon settles down beneath her, not quite relaxing, but certainly less ready for action.

“Turns out, the majority of the people who work for the Organization were rather against using someone as bait.” Katya’s back is straight, and she looks about as uncomfortable as Miri feels. “No one is sure how this will settle out, but...” tender, her voice gentles. “But people are taking a look at everything as we rewrite, as we get systems back up.”

“How’d you find us?” Not-Thomas interrupts, and Katya’s laser blue eyes flicker to him.

“If she needed a blood transfer she’d have to go to a succubi, it’s not that difficult,” she snaps back, then shuts her eyes, as if remembering to not snap at him, visibly reining herself in. “How are you?”

It’s the Katya that Miri knows and loves, who is utter shit at showing concern. “I’ll be fine,” she says, because underneath the haze of whatever painkillers she’s been given, she can’t complain. “Are you...”

Katya’s face almost breaks, sitting primly in the chair, but she holds it back. “I expect I’ll get some words, but Vincente lives and the recording is pretty damning, but nothing...nothing yet.”

And she falls silent, deep, floundering in her own private way, like there are too many things she wants to say and can’t find the words. Like her way of communicating has fallen down, has been destroyed with the computers that Miri all but wrecked.

“Did you find a dress?” Miri blurts out, and everyone blinks at her.

“You’ve been shot, and you’re asking about a dress.” Katya states.

“You were concerned about it, did you find a dress?” She feels Not-Thomas breathe out a silent laugh behind her.

“If Vincente was even a hair more proficient with his weapon, the bullet would’ve gone through your throat.” Katya’s not angry, but is definitely bewildered. Confused.

Miri shrugs, and regrets it because that’s definitely a move that hurts, but damn if she would let Katya know that. “Did you?”

There’s a split second, before Katya purses her lips and shakes her head no. “More important things‘ve happened.”

Miri looks up to Not-Thomas, who idly rubs her uninjured arm, but she can see the thoughts going through his eyes, and the look he gives her is almost indulgent. “If you need something, that can be arranged.”

Miri has known Katya for ages, and it’s only because of that she can see Katya is torn between her curiosity and her self preservation. Her curiosity of how the heck an Archdemon can have anything to offer in terms of dresses, and her self preservation of not trusting people that easily.

“What would you have in mind?”

* * *

There’sthe same soft tinkle the moment they appear in the dressmakers shop, and the carpet is as plush as ever, and Katya doesn’t even blanch this time at the sudden movement.

Gentlemanly, Not-Thomas guides Miri to a low couch, sitting next to her on it. It’s nice, being so meticulously taken care of, nice in some way that sits deep in Miri’s chest.

The man with the beetle eyes greets them, appraising Katya before they even need to state what they’re doing, barely even glancing at Miri. “You don’t want to show your shoulders, do you?” He asks, instead of even saying hello.

Katya levels him with glance, pouring her years of experience and authority behind her words. “And how would you know that?”

Then, and only then, does the dressmaker look to where they are seated. “Cjell, you bring me difficult people.”

The Archdemon waves his hand, idle, the hint of a smile on his face.

“I might have something,” the dressmaker says, scholarly. “But if you showed your shoulder, people might think twice before messing with you.”

“I’m going to a wedding, no one should be messing with me.” With a lift of her chin, Katya doesn’t quite scowl. “But freedom of movement, that would be good.”

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