Page 64 of Succubus

I know this feeling. I meet it with a squeeze of poisonous guilt, a slash of fiery fear. I feel it as I did the first time, at fourteen, on the day I learned that Benny had died. I feel it as I felt it after Arlo, still not knowing, and then Sam, with that dawning suspicion. And then the horror of Omar. Knowing—knowing for sure at last. And then, of course, Adam, when I heard he’d died.

My joints are easy and supple, my muscles calm and ready. My skin seems stronger, the tone slightly warmer. It’s just a little bit harder to be upset. And I have so much to be upset about. My mind sidles away from it. From the picture of Grub’s face that his school put on their social media with a little caption about how he’ll be missed. In the picture, he is squinting suspiciously and ducking away from the camera; he looks like himself, black hair falling greasily into his face. I couldn’t look at it for more than a few seconds.

I take Ella to art class. They are always making something large with papier-mâché. Ella always catches me when I try to move it into the basement later, even if a month has gone by.

There is still no sign of my father’s demon. Unbelievable. He probably just made the whole thing up. Or maybe it ate him.

Life seems to be settling automatically back into itself, reverting to the norm out of habit, as the ground beneath it hitches and buckles and a few chunks of foundation sheer off and vanish into a silent, private kind of abyss.

Dee is at work. Mom is behind the desk at the yoga studio, probably talking on the phone. I am sitting in the little lounge room upstairs at the Arts Council, emailing the lovely Tamar and another client who signed up with me almost the moment she learned she was pregnant and isn’t due for ages. I don’t technically need to check on either of them, but I’ve almost forgotten that I’m a doula, and I want to remind myself. I ask if Tamar wants any recommendations for acupuncture, prenatal yoga, massage. I remember she said her lower back was hurting.

For a moment, I’m tempted to change the notification on my website to “Available: taking new clients.”

But no. First I have to kill Joel. Obviously.

Want me to come back? I text him that night, when I can be reasonably sure that Ella is asleep and Dee’s and Mom’s lights are out, too.

No.

I make a triumphant sound at the sight of his message. Yes you do.

I should have touched you right away, he writes, and my obnoxious stomach clenches at the thought of him touching me then, when I wanted him so simply and wholly. When I knew only good things about him and he was perfect to me.

I write, You didn’t think my dp would work on you? Got cocky?

Of course it works on me. I’m human.

And I’m not.

Maybe partly, he allows.

Partly abomination.

A disease.

Good thing you’re a doctor.

Walked right into that one.

He doesn’t respond.

I add, So important to thoroughly examine the patient before diagnosing. I am now a person who writes these things. A vigilante.

I’m a daughter of a demigod. Or whatever impossible, absurdly old thing he is.

I’m a person who has sex.

I’m typing aggressively, not thinking at all. Maybe you’ll find some part of me that’s worth saving next time. If you go a little deeper.

I’m grinning and I feel like it might look maniacal. I reread what I just sent. It doesn’t make perfect sense. I don’t care.

How about now? How much do you want to be inside me right now?

I squirm, clench at the thought as I send it.

Not at all. It doesn’t work over text.

I scowl. He must be right. It doesn’t work unless I’m touching him, making eye contact.