Page 33 of Succubus

Now Ella is back. She’s filling Joel in on how I saw very blue water in Florida and also: “Titi’s airplane had to wait for a long time just sitting there.”

“That’s happening a lot.” Joel glances at me like he’s curious about my trip. No trace of his over-the-coconuts look. Or maybe just a trace of a trace. “I was on an airplane that did the same thing.”

“At the same time?” Ella is fascinated.

“Maybe!”

“Where did you go?” Ella and I both ask.

He smiles. “Jinx. I went to a work conference.”

“To learn how to be a better doctor?” Ella guesses.

“Exactly.” He’s wearing the brown pants that I like so much. I’m distracted by them, even in my state of suspended worry.

If only Dick Face had said, “Yeah, kid. There’s a cure.” I can hear his voice in my head now that I know what he sounds like.

“What did you learn at your . . .” I can tell she’s forgotten the unfamiliar word and am impressed when she takes a bold guess: “Constrance?”

“Hmm.” He thinks. “I learned about rising rates of autoimmune disease—which is when someone’s own body tries to fight itself.” He looks a little distant, as though remembering some concerning numbers from a presentation.

Ella’s brow creases. “Is my body doing that? Since I might have a gluten allergy.”

“No, I don’t think so,” says Joel.

“Can you check?”

“Absolutely.” He leans over. “May I touch your neck?”

She nods, surveying him trustingly. My heart is butter on a hot pan. Dee, talking with Ms. Nancy, glances over but seems charmed instead of concerned at the sight of this man she doesn’t even know touching Ella. That is the vibe of Joel: the good doctor.

He gently feels Ella’s lymph nodes, considers. “Very good. Now would you mind sticking out your tongue?”

He squints, adjusts his glasses. “Excellent. I would say you are in perfect health.”

He glances up, maybe feeling my abjectly miserable gaze.

I look quickly away.

Dick Face was so drunk, so out of his mind. Maybe he was wrong. But how will I ever find the solution on my own? Am I really supposed to track down an immortal? Apparently they exist. Apparently they have bad taste in men. I should probably be looking for her now. But instead here I am, in a church, staring mournfully at the beautiful golden hairs on the backs of Joel’s hands.

“What’s in Florida?” He walks beside me as we exit the sanctuary, forcing me to attempt regular interaction. “Or just a quick vacation?”

“My biological father,” I say awkwardly. But it’s better than “my demonic father.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” He can sense it’s a big deal.

For a dizzy moment, I do want to. He would never believe me, of course, but he makes me feel like he would. And right now I’m so worried about Grub, I want to blurt out every last detail. Also, one of my best friends is a sixteen-year-old goth boy with terrible personal hygiene who lives in his parents’ basement and I’ve never met him IRL and I just found out he’s actually my brother and I’m scared someone got him. Someone who is killing off people like us, people with dark powers.

“Long story.” My voice sounds strained.

We step outside into the shock of a crystalline October day, which feels more pronounced for its proximity to the murky humidity and emotions of my South Beach trip. Our slate-roofed colonial town looks like a postcard from somewhere in New England, not the way people tend to picture New Jersey. It looks like there must be apple cider from a local orchard at the farmers’ market. (There is.)

Joel surveys me for a moment, his eyes warm.

“You’re a mystery, Tempest,” he says very softly. His gaze clarifies, intensifies; he’s concerned about me, he wants me.

God.