Page 26 of Succubus

“Holy crap.” I grab his arm. “Stop it!”

He glances at me, smiles his slimy, wicked smile, his flabby, thin lips too fluid. “What? It’s true. They’re so self-destructive.”

The server is still watching him, rapt.

“You can go.” He waves her off.

“Of course!” She scurries away.

“Shit,” I mutter. “This is how you’ve lived? Making everyone do whatever you want?”

He shrugs. “Why not? If you have it, use it.” He chuckles.

I shake my head, shake it again.

“You should’ve heard me sing, kid,” he says. “The way they worshipped me. Man. Good times.”

For a second, I want to hear him sing. I refocus. “What happened? Why did you stop?” He definitely doesn’t seem like the type to admit he’s getting old and isn’t as relevant anymore.

He sighs. “Fallow period.”

I wait. The server is rushing over with his drink. He grabs it, tosses about half of it back without acknowledging her.

“Um, sorry, a water for me?” I remind her.

“Oh!” She seems to notice me for the first time. “Oops.”

“What’s a fallow period?” I know it’s going to be something weird.

“It’s like sleep for us.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his arm, coughs. “For us oldbloods. Usually only takes me a couple decades of laying low, then I’m back better than ever.”

This sinks in slowly and not very successfully.

“How old are you?” I ask, and in the beat before he responds, I am afraid. I’m not sure I want to continue this conversation. I’m not sure about any of it. There is no such thing as a dark power, as magic, as a curse. There is no such thing as this strange, awful man whose sperm created me. There is no such thing as me.

“Eh. Hard to say at this point. . . .” He nods to himself, considering, or counting. “Two thousand and change. Been around the block.” He spits out a laugh, swigs his drink.

The server places his appetizer in front of him and he takes a quick scarfing bite, then grimaces. “Bring out the chef.”

She rushes off to do his bidding, and I am staring at nothing, my brain churning.

A sweaty, stressed-looking man, short and round, comes stomping out of the back, ready to argue.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. “Leave him alone!”

But Dick Face is living up to Dee’s name for him, berating the guy, telling him he can taste the rancid lard on his cauliflower fritters.

Within seconds, the cook is in tears, confessing, apologizing. He’s actually wringing his hands. The party taking up a few of the surrounding tables has fallen mostly silent to observe the scene. Looks like a famous-ish rapper and his entourage. Some of the women are wearing bikini tops instead of actual tops; the lounging men are covered in tattoos.

“Enough,” I hiss.

Dick Face leers, waves the cook away.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I’m half out of my seat.

“I’m just messing around.” He shoves a few more fritters into his mouth.

He finishes his drink, yells for another, not even feigning normal manners now.