Page 47 of Succubus

She blinks at me, pats her pouf of blond hair, which is lifting in wild wings.

“And now someone is trying to kill all his children. All the people like me, who have a curse.”

Her mouth forms a gradual O. She holds up a hand. “The curse is real.”

“Yes.”

“Of course it is. . . .” she says in the same ponderous tone. “Of course it is! That effect he had . . . It wasn’t normal, even for a rock star. No one could resist him. I knew there was something. I sensed it. You know how intuitive I am, Tempest. There are so many layers to the world, aren’t there? So many more layers than people would like to admit. . . .”

She trails over to me, her fingers skimming along the edge of a bed. She always looks like she’s in her own movie.

“Oh, Tempest,” she whispers. “How could you keep this from me?” And she gathers me to her. I pat her back a few times.

“My child. Suffering alone. Because of your monstrous father.”

This is uncomfortable. And also a relief. Maybe I should have told Mom many years ago? I always suspected that even if she believed me, there would be an emptiness to the experience. I didn’t need her to believe me, I needed Dee to believe me. I needed a friend. Someone I respected. But still, this is better than no one at all.

“But wait.” She draws back. “Did you tell me why we’re here, in a swimming hotel?”

“Because someone is hunting me,” I say again. “And all of my father’s children.”

Her eyes widen, then narrow. Her thick eye makeup is smudged. “And him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I certainly hope whoever is trying to kill him succeeds.” She says it matter-of-factly. “But we have to protect you. Do you know who it is?”

I swallow. Maybe I don’t want to tell her everything anymore. But I do it anyway. “Joel. You met him, at Ella’s recital.”

“Joel!” exclaims Mom too loudly, and I glance around automatically as though Dee will appear. Mom shushes herself, a finger to her lips.

“That handsome man with the glasses! Like a professor!” She smiles a little wickedly, and I think of the professor/ student trope in some of the romance novels I’ve read. Then I think of Adam, an actual professor. “The Jewish man?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure it’s him? He seemed so nice!”

“I’m sure.”

“Well. They can be two-faced. . . .” I stare at her, startled, because what kind of thing is that to say, but she continues before I can react: “He seemed very interested in you. In my opinion.”

“Not the point,” I mutter.

“Or is it exactly the point, Tempest?” And suddenly Mom seems to sharpen, her gaze zooming in. “Your curse kills the men you sleep with. This man wants to sleep with you.”

She’s arrived immediately at my own plan. At the only plan. The woman may seem spacey about, well, most things, but she knows sex.

“He doesn’t want to sleep with me anymore,” I point out. Now that he believes I killed his brother. “He thought I was normal.” I’ve been holding out some small breath of hope that Adam’s death wasn’t actually my fault. But Joel seemed so sure. I’ll probably never know exactly what happened to Adam.

“Listen, I think you know what to do, Tempest.” Mom puts a finger under my chin, tips my face toward hers. She looks at me very solemnly. “Trust yourself. Your heart won’t steer you wrong. I’d go with black lace.”

“Black lace?” A small biting headache tightens its jaws at the base of my skull.

“Baby, how long has it been?” She squeezes my arm. “Since you— ”

“Okay, okay.” I shake her off. “A long time.” It’s surreal, having this conversation. It doesn’t help that it’s midnight and I’m exhausted.

“Poor girl.” She strokes my shoulder. She’s always too touchy-feely, but particularly when she’s high. She leans in. “I’d give you something to borrow, but it’d take about ten of your breasts to fit in one of my cups!” She chuckles.