Page 75 of Succubus

What am I thinking?

“We’re here for a reason,” he whispers. “People like me. She told me. It runs in our family. We’re supposed to protect . . . people.” His words are slow. His fingers explore my wrist, slip up my arm. He is pulling me gently but insistently toward him. “From you. We only have this power because of you. Because you need to be stopped.”

I nod. “I didn’t ask for this,” I manage to say. “The curse. I hate it.” I’m not sure I hate it anymore. This might be outdated information.

“I didn’t ask for it, either.” His mouth is close to mine now.

“I’m sorry,” I say, by accident, too quiet to be real words. I don’t want to think about what I am apologizing for. Maybe it’s just a general apology along the lines of, Sorry it turns out there’s magic and now we have to kill each other.

“I— ” he says, and then Ella screams and we jerk apart. I’m on my feet as though flung there.

She’s flailing, tangled in the swing—luckily she’s facing away. “A bee! A bee!”

I run over. It seems too late in the season for bees, but sure enough, there’s a lone confused one buzzing around the swings.

“It’s trying to sting me! It’s trying to land on me and sting me and I can’t get out of here! Not again! Why would this happen to me again?” (Once, last year, a wasp chased her in our yard.)

It takes at least five minutes to get Ella under control.

“I want to go home!” she cries. “I’m done with the playground now! You didn’t even watch me on the swing!”

“I watched you!”

Joel is standing by the bench, hands at his sides, looking like he isn’t sure how he’s supposed to look.

“You didn’t really watch!” I know this domino spill of negativity well. It can wind through whole rooms of grudges and regrets. I have very little patience for it now.

“Get your helmet. Time to go.”

“You sound like Mommy. That’s such a strict voice.” She seems knowing, sometimes, when she compares us, when she pits us against each other. I will not rise to the bait.

“Sometimes strict is necessary.”

“I don’t think it is.”

“Get your helmet.”

She sulks over to it, her shoulders drooping like everything inside has wilted.

“Can Joel come home with us?” she asks, clipping the helmet back on with automatic diligence.

“No,” I say, and he says simultaneously, “Not this time, Ella. Sorry.”

“Bye, Joel,” she says, looking tragic.

“Bye, Ella.” He sounds a little sad, too.

He steps toward me as I pass him.

“I meant what I said.” He lowers his voice.

“Three days?” I hiss. “Or do I get a whole week this time?”

“Just tell me. I’ll spare them.”

“I told you; I don’t know where he is,” I snap, grabbing the skateboard and my canvas bag with our water bottle and some books and chalk and two string cheeses and a banana and a container of blueberries in it.

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