Page 38 of Succubus

I make it to the top of the staircase and have to sit down. My whole body hurts. I lean against the cool, bumpy plaster of the wall.

Where is my phone?

It’s here in my hand.

I can’t see it right.

Everything bleeds together. Everything is slush.

What could I have done?

What could I have done differently?

What did I miss?

How could I have saved him?

“I’m sorry, Grub,” I whisper, choking on the words.

How did he really die?

What happened? What was done to him?

How will I face my life, how will I take care of Ella? How can I do tomorrow?

The dark lurches beneath me, it flings itself up, a ravenous vortex, as familiar as if it never went away at all.

I can’t survive this. It’s too many times now. I can’t endure it.

I am clawing at the surface of my phone.

I claw my way through a maze of apps, get to the message from the unfamiliar screen name.

My hands shaking, sliding with sweat, I write back to the demon hunter: Yes, I’m close to NYC. Let’s meet.

Great! he writes immediately back. He is online right now. He is typing, it says. He is about to say something else. He will probably tell me where to meet him now.

I’m assuming this is a man, even though there’s no hint of gender in the screen name or language. It’ll be easier if he’s male, since I will need to have sex with him.

Or sexual contact.

At least, I’m pretty sure I will. I don’t care.

I don’t care.

I will not sit here and wait for him to come for me next.

He killed Grub.

“I will kill you, motherfucker,” I whisper.

* * *

I’m right. He responds with a place to meet. A time. Tomorrow evening, 8:00. After dark, I think. I google the name he gives. It’s an old-fashioned speakeasy in the West Village. The photos online make it look sinful-chic—all dark wood and red Oriental rugs and mood lighting. The perfect place for a date with the devil.

Tomorrow evening.

Just enough time to tell Dee that I am going to a last-minute concert with friends from group, because I need to get out of the house. She sees my face and I tell her that Grub died. I don’t tell her that he was murdered. She holds me, I cry. But I am so far away in my head, I hardly feel her arms around me. I am withdrawing. I can’t handle her disbelief, however concealed and slim it might be, if I tell her the truth. So I can’t tell her the truth. My amazing little sister who acts like a big sister, who always tries to protect me. Who can’t possibly protect me now.