"Your artist has a real knack for historical detail. They look just like the originals."
He walked around the counter and lifted out the tray with the rings. I picked one up. It was an ordinary gold band. Rather than any sort of mounted gem on top, it bore a smooth and flat disc, almost the size of a dime. Greek letters were engraved into the metal.
"What do they mean?" asked Seth.
I tried to explain the long-lost custom. "It's a benediction. Like a prayer for the couple. This would have been a wedding ring."
I examined another depicting Christ and the Virgin; still another showed a tiny man and woman facing each other.
"I used to have a ring almost like this," I said softly, turning it over in my hands. Neither man said anything, and I finally returned it to its tray.
On the way home, Seth gently asked, "What happened to your ring?"
I stared out the window. "It's not important."
"Tell me."
I didn't respond, and he didn't ask me again. When we got back to my place, I saw no sign of Vincent and figured he was out investigating with Charlie's Angels. Newspapers were scattered across my kitchen table; he apparently liked to keep up on current events. Morbid events, at that. One of the headlines was a story I'd heard the other day about a crazy man who'd killed his wife after having a vision of seeing her with another man. Mortals did creepy things sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time.
Seth sat on my couch and leaned forward, hands clasped together. I'd sensed his mood shift when I wouldn't answer in the car.
"Thetis..."
"You want to know about the ring."
"The ring doesn't matter so much. It's just...well, I've seen you get like this. Something bugs you, something you remember. But you won't talk to me about it. There are days I feel like you don't tell me anything."
I sat down next to him, avoiding eye contact in a way he often did. "I tell you plenty."
"Not about your past."
"I have a lot of past, and I talk about it all the time."
"Yeah...I guess." He absentmindedly stroked my arm. "But you don't talk about your mortal past. Before you were a succubus."
"So? Does it make a difference? You're with me now. You know the kind of person I am now."
"I do. And I love that person. And I want to know what's important to you. What made you who you are. I want to know what hurts you so that I can help."
"You don't need to know that to know who I am. My human past doesn't enter in to anything," I said stiffly.
"I can't believe that."
Again, I didn't answer.
"I don't know anything about that part of your life," he continued. "I don't know your real name. What you really look like. Where you grew up. I don't even know how old you are."
"Hey, it's not just me. You have plenty of things you don't talk about," I pointed out, trying to deflect the attention.
"What do you want to know?"
"Well..." I groped for something I didn't know much about. "You never talk about your dad. How he died."
Seth answered immediately, without hesitation. "Not much to tell. Cancer. I was thirteen. According to a therapist Mom made us see, I withdrew into a world of fantasy to cope."
I leaned my head against his shoulder, knowing he'd expound on anything I wanted to know - in a subdued, Seth sort of way. It was ironic considering his normal conversational reticence, but that was how he operated. He believed relationships had to have an open exchange of honesty and baring of souls. I supposed he was right, but there were too many dark parts of my soul I didn't want to share. Parts I was afraid would scare him off.
I knew Seth well enough to realize he wouldn't push this issue anymore tonight, but I could also sense his hurt and disappointment. He didn't ask me these questions to upset me; he did it out of sincere affection. That didn't make it easier, unfortunately, and I fought my anxiety and long-buried pain to try to offer him something. Anything. Anything to show I was making an effort in this relationship. My original face and name were dead to me, obsolete reminders of the woman I'd left behind, never mind Niphon's insistence on calling me Letha. Seth would never know those things.
We sat together for a long time while I decided what I could give up. Finally, with the words sticking in my mouth, I said, "I grew up in Cyprus." The air grew tense as we both waited for more. "In the early fifth century. I don't know exactly what year I was born. We didn't really keep track of those things."
He exhaled. I hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. Slowly, carefully, he put an arm around me and pressed his lips against my hair. "Thank you."
I buried my face against his shoulder, not knowing what I hid from. I'd barely given him anything - just a couple of pieces of trivia. Nonetheless, yielding that tiny bit from a place in me I wanted to hide from was powerful. I felt exposed and vulnerable without fully understanding why. Seth gently stroked my hair.
"Is the ring from around that time?" he asked.
I nodded against him.
"It'd be worth a lot then, I suppose."
"I lost it," I whispered.
He must have picked up on the anguish in my voice. He held me tighter. "I'm sorry."
We stayed together a while longer that night, but I knew he wanted to go home and work at his own place. Unable to deny him, I shooed him away, though I had a feeling that he would have stayed if I'd asked it.
Once he was gone, I went into my bedroom and closed the door. Kneeling in front of my open closet, I pulled out box after box, setting them haphazardly around the room. My organization lacked something - like, say, organization - and it took me a while to sift through the clutter of junk. Finally, I produced a shoebox covered in dust.
Lifting the lid, I felt my breath catch. Old, brown letters lay stacked with a few photographs. A heavy gold cross on a fraying string lay among the papers, along with other small treasures. I carefully hunted around until I found what I wanted: a bronze ring, green with age.
I held it in my hands, still able to discern the engraved couple atop the mounted disc. It was a cruder job but still very similar to Erik's modern renditions. I ran my fingertips along the ring's edges without knowing what I did. I even tried it on, but it didn't fit. It had been made for larger fingers than I had now. I refused to shape-shift to the right size.
I kept the ring out for a few more minutes, thinking of Seth and Cyprus and all sorts of things. Finally, unable to stand the ache within me, I put the ring back into its box and buried it once more in the closet.
CHAPTER 4
The next day, I went to the address on Dante's business card. It was in Rainier Valley, which wasn't exactly rundown but wasn't upwardly mobile either. The directions led to a narrow shop jammed in between a barber and a shady-looking convenience store. PSYCHIC hung in red neon letters in the window. The "I" had burned out. Underneath it, a handwritten sign read: PALM READING & TAROT CARDS.
I stepped through the door, making bells ring. The interior proved to be as barren as the exterior. A narrow counter flanked one wall. The rest of the small, stark space was empty, save for a round table covered in red velvet that had cigarette burns on it. A tacky crystal ball sat on top. This place was a wasteland compared to Erik's warm, inviting shop.
"Just a minute," a voice called from an open doorway in the back. "I've just got to - "
A man entered the room and stopped when he saw me. He was about six-foot, with black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Two days worth of facial hair covered his face, and he wore jeans and a plain black T-shirt. Early forties, maybe, and pretty cute. He looked me over from head to toe and gave me a sly, knowing smile.
"Well, hello. What do we have here?" He tilted his head, still studying me. "Not human, that's for sure. Demon? No, not strong enough. Vampire? No...not this time of day."
"I..." I stopped, surprised that he'd sensed something in me. He had no immortal signature; he was definitely human. He must be like Erik, I realized. A mortal who could sense the immortal world, though he didn't have enough skill to pinpoint what I was exactly. Deciding there was no point in subterfuge, I said, "I'm a succubus."
He shook his head. "No, you aren't."
"Yes, I am."
"You aren't."
I was a bit surprised to be having this conversation. "I am too."
"No. Succubi are flame-eyed and bat-winged. Everyone knows that. They don't wear jeans and sweaters. At the very least, you should have a bigger chest. What are you, 34B or something?"