"Wanna change the subject?" he asked.
"Very much so, yes."
He asked about my newest case and I told him what I knew, even as I stamped Elizabeth back down into the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind.
"Have you considered the possibility of a succubus?" asked Kingsley.
Yes, I might be undead and, to some, creepy as hell. I might have seen things that no mortal would ever want to see, but that sure as hell didn't mean I walked around with an Undead Dictionary app on my cell phone, although that wouldn't be a bad idea.
I said, "Suck a what?"
"Succubus. It's a beautiful female demon who has sex with men."
"How fortuitous," I said.
Kingsley gave me a huge, wolf-like grin. "I imagine the succubi were invented to explain a man's indiscretions."
"And later were summoned into existence for real," I said.
I had been told that we vampires-and no doubt the werewolves and Lichtenstein monsters and everything in between-had been summoned into existence because enough people believed. Belief was a strange thing. Belief conjured real things from the ethers. Belief brought forth monsters. And angels, too.
"And for women?" I said. "Is there a demon counterpart?"
Kingsley nodded. "The incubus. A male demon."
"How convenient. And for homosexuals?"
"Both succubus and incubus have been known to sleep with their own genders."
"And for the gender neutral?"
"Oh, I assume there's a gender-neutral demon out there too. Or on its way."
I grinned. "Ordered up by humanity."
"In a way," said Kingsley, who had been at this immortal game a good deal longer than I had, like seven decades longer. "But think of it this way, the Universe can't not deliver what man has summoned."
"Or woman. Go on."
"The summoning of new things is what keeps this universe from atrophying."
"Even new demon things?"
"Anything, Sam. If humans can think it, or want it, or believe in it, the Universe will deliver it."
"Like the devil," I said, recalling a conversation I'd had a few months ago with, well, the dark lord himself.
He nodded. "Speaking of the devil, literally, have you heard anything from him these days?"
"Nothing since our last meeting."
"At the train station?" said Kingsley. "When he blew himself up, so to speak."
I nodded. The devil, in a dramatic exit, had stepped in front of an oncoming train, and wastefully destroyed what had been a rather sexy bad boy host body, even if he had been a full-blown devil worshiper.
"And how's Anthony doing?" Kingsley asked.
"Still keeps to himself."
Our meals were served. Admittedly, the serving part took a while, as plate after plate was laid out before Kingsley. Steak and veal and chicken and fish. He'd already slayed the steamed clams, shrimp cocktail, fried calamari, and fresh oysters. I was fairly certain our table just tilted toward Kingsley. He would have it no other way.
I said, "That's one more plate of food than last time."
"You jest, but what can I say? I'm a growing boy."
And he was, literally. Except he was no boy. Not by a long shot.
I had just twirled the perfect bite of angel hair pasta onto my fork, with a small piece of meatball to cap it off, when Kingsley pushed aside the first of what would be many empty plates. One or two people were watching him. Next, he positioned the chicken pomodoro in the place of honor before him.
"I literally didn't see you eat any of that," I said, waving at the now-empty plate.
"Truthfully? I didn't either."
I grinned and took my first bite. As I ate, I thought of my son. Yes, he still kept to himself, and no he didn't want to talk about that day two months ago, when he'd been kidnapped by a local pack of werewolves, a pack who'd been keen to consume his rare blood type. Or, rather, his rare blood legacy. Such blood-my blood, too, and my daughter's and my whole family-had the added benefit of giving the consumer added strength and abilities.
Lucky us.
I was halfway through my first meal-and tasting enough of it to actually kind of enjoy it-when Kingsley pushed the last of his plates away. I knew he wanted to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. I knew he wanted to belch, too. I knew he also wanted to slam his fist down on the table and demand more grog, or whatever the hell it was that conquering Viking warlords drank. Instead, he sat back and used his napkin and wiped his mouth discreetly, and reached for his glass of wine as if he hadn't just eaten seven full meals, as evidenced by the empty plates stacked precariously on one corner of the table.