Page 72 of Succubus

“I didn’t want anyone making a big deal.”

“Like Dee or my mom, who might call 911 on you for being a serial killer.”

Except Dee thinks I should date him, and Mom doesn’t seem to remember the part involving murder. Maybe she doesn’t want to remember that part.

He shrugs.

“Help!” Ella cries, bailing with an exaggerated stagger after a few very tentative pushes.

“You’re doing great!” Joel sounds supportive, correct—the way someone should talk to a child. “Can you try it again?” He’s despicable, I remind myself. This is an act.

“What do you want?” I ask. He smells so good, it’s cruel. I wonder how many times it will take before I am no longer painfully aroused by his presence. Or the thought of him. Or just a single detail of him, like the squareish shape of his thumbnail.

“To talk.”

I turn to face him. “You’re scared to be alone with me.” I get a small rush, a burst of creamy-sriracha adrenaline, at my ability to speak aloud whichever words come to mind.

He refuses to meet my eye. “Don’t.” He raises his hand as though to shield his eyes from the glare of me. I think of the thing Dee said about me glowing like nuclear waste, or whatever. He nods toward Ella. “She’s right there.”

“Yeah. Clever.”

“I want to talk.”

“You could’ve talked the other night.” I can feel the cool itch of the grass, the cold air, the black earth under my fingers as I say this. I can taste my own lust. The way he slid his hand, once, helplessly, down the length of my spine, stroking me.

“Stop it,” he says, as though reading my mind.

I smirk. “Wait. I know. You’re disgusted by me. You hate yourself. You’re a giant victim, you got seduced by an evil— ”

He cuts me off. “I have another deal for you.”

“A brilliant new plan? Since you can’t kill me.” It’s pretty fun, being sarcastic. I feel like I’ll do more of it.

Ella is lying down on the skateboard, propelling herself in cautious strokes with her hands. She drifts across the court, craning her neck to see if we are watching. Joel gives her a thumbs-up.

“I miss that kid,” he says. “I found two more.”

“Two more kids? To buy gluten-free cookies for?”

“Come on, T.” My nickname is mocking. “Demons. Like you.”

“I’m not a demon.”

“You sure?”

“Whatever.” I cross my arms.

“An accountant up in New Hampshire and a painter out in Columbus, Ohio.”

“Am I supposed to beg for their lives?”

“No. Tell me where your father is and they get to live.”

“Holy crap. You’re horrifying.” The adrenaline is no longer enjoyable; the desire curdles in my mouth.

He adjusts his glasses. Innocuous and charming, that whiff of gentle hesitation. He pushes the hair off his forehead. Nightmarishly cute.

“Please help me, Joel!” wails Ella, standing again, abruptly fed up.