Page 77 of Succubus

I must look startled. I certainly feel it.

He clarifies: “I don’t like the . . .” He uses a word that sounds split into two angular parts. “Although I don’t really know him. They are almost never likable. Well, I did like one, but he was still young. He was extinguished while he was still young.” He seems to be reminiscing, continuing to whisper. “He angered one of the guardians of the empty.”

“The empty?” I don’t know why this is the particular question I ask.

“Oh. Uh. The nothing? The . . . fabric?” He screws up his mouth in a clownish way, like he’s doing an exaggerated impression of confusion. It takes me a second to realize he’s actually confused.

“Oh,” I say, wondering if he expects me to know the name of the metaphysical realm he’s referring to. “I’m not sure.”

He does the rapid nod.

Mom is lingering. I gesture for her to go inside. “Ella?” I remind her. She finally goes.

“You’re later than I expected,” I say to Al.

“True,” he admits. “I had to drive all the way here. And I had to learn how to drive.”

I glance at the tire intruding into our garden. He glances, too. He says, “It wasn’t easy. I was sometimes afraid.”

I nod slowly, maybe to emphasize my own undemonic nature.

“I’m not sure I need your, um, services,” I say with what I hope is the right amount of tact.

Al stares at me without blinking for an uncomfortable amount of time. Any amount of time would be uncomfortable.

“I mean, I have it under control,” I add. “And my sister will come home. She doesn’t exactly . . . believe in things like this.”

He waits, head cocked.

“Things like you,” I clarify.

“And things like you?” he asks.

I wince. “Okay, that’s fair.”

He reaches up and runs a finger down the length of his nose. He runs the finger back up again, taps the bridge.

“You feel no trust toward me,” he observes.

“No, no, it isn’t that.” I shift my weight to the other foot. I am coiled, I want to spring away, to launch myself up the steps and into the house and slam the door and wait for him to get back in his RV and pull out of the driveway.

“I was summoned,” he says patiently, as though maybe my puny human brain isn’t able to hold on to a relevant detail like this for long enough to make use of it.

“Right. I understand.” I mean, I don’t. “And what I’m trying to say is, I appreciate that, but I don’t want to trouble you— ”

“Hmm,” he hums. His eyes unlock from mine, flick past me, and I see he’s looking at a slouchy little group of boys across the street, either late high school or early college age, two of them on too-small scooters, hopping on and off the curb. A girl, maybe fifteen, is walking toward them, and a few of the boys call at her. She slows down, glancing nervously at the street, trying to decide whether she should cut across to avoid them.

“Maybe you want a demonstration,” murmurs Al. “You are doubting my ability.”

“What— ” I say, but he has lifted one hand, palm turned up, a gentle, almost casual gesture, and suddenly the most obvious boy, the loudest one at the front of the group on a scooter with red wheels, tumbles over backward as though lassoed and dragged from behind. He screams. The other boys jerk away from him, forming an instantaneous circle around his flopping, spasming body. He’s on his back, then his side, arching over the frame of his crash-landed scooter, his mouth gaping, his eyes a howl of wide-open pain. The noise he’s making is high-pitched and animal—the wretched barking scream of a fox, except it goes on and on at its peak. His fingers seem forced open, or maybe he’s holding his hands that way in a reflexive attempt to ward off his invisible attacker.

I grab Al’s shoulder. “Stop!”

He glances up at me—I’m a few inches taller—and his eyebrows quirk. He has the thoughtful, pliable expression of someone who is interested in learning more. His fingers fold inward, the boy falls limp, and his friends converge around him. The girl scuttles past, clutching her bag to her side. The whole episode has taken only seconds—maybe as few as five? No one has even had time to pull out a phone and call for help. I am vaguely aware of the boys arguing over whether to do it now. Al’s victim has scrambled upright and seems to be telling his friends he’s fine. I hear the word “aliens.” They stare around, eyes passing over a woman pushing a stroller, then us.

“That was only a little,” says Al. “Nothing was damaged. He did seem not very nice, though. As far as people go. But that isn’t a reason to extinguish someone.” I can’t tell if he’s reminding himself of this—if it’s some kind of rule—or if he’s reassuring me.

“That’s only a little,” I repeat numbly.