Page 87 of Succubus

“Hi, Al!” everyone says, polite and friendly.

“Hi, people,” Al says happily, bobbing into a short bow, and everyone laughs. “Are we all searching for small, shiny pieces of glass today?”

“The kids are,” I say.

“Hmm. Do I get many points if I find all the glass?”

Clearly, the games he’s been playing on the iPad have taught him the concept of points.

“No.” I send an apologetic look around the group, but a few of the women are already glancing sympathetically at him. I suddenly see him through their eyes: a very earnest, gentle sort of childlike, neurodivergent man with a somewhat misguided interest in fashion. I grit my teeth and attempt a kind smile. Al breathes in. “What is that amazing smell?” he asks me, mouth slightly open in joyous anticipation.

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“It could be the mulch pile we were working on,” suggests Harini. “We put some orange peels in it from our trail cleanup.”

“No, no,” Al disagrees. “It is much sweeter. I can taste it on my tongue.” He wiggles his tongue between his teeth. “What an awe-mongering smell and taste at the same time!”

I kind of like the term awe-mongering, against my will.

Ella comes toward us with cake on a paper plate. She slows down, startled but smiling, at the sight of Al.

“Yes!” he cries, overjoyed. “Ella! Wonderful child! You’ve found it!”

Ella looks uncertain and a little flattered. “I thought you were staying at home,” she says.

“I was.” He leans toward her cake, sniffing ecstatically. “But then I realized that the dancing dots were distracting me from my purpose. I could not allow that to be, as beautiful as they are. Will you permit me to eat that delicious food you are carrying?”

She steps back, instantly possessive, looking at me for help. “This one is for me. But maybe we can get you a slice, too?”

“Ella child! I would love to have my own slice of that!” He’s thrilled.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss, tugging him aside. I feel the moms watching.

“I am protecting you, Tempest Dunlap.” He smiles at me. It’s not a very good smile—too much lip, not enough teeth. “What if the ang”—he clears his throat—“gel should find you here?”

“Come over here.” I step away from the group and he trots after me obediently, bending over a little too far as he goes to study the moldering mosaic of red and yellow and orange leaves on the forest path. “I told you,” I whisper tersely, “he can’t hurt me.”

“I’m sorry to tell you that you are wrong.” He does in fact look very sorry, a look which he then spoils by extracting earwax with a probing finger. He examines the fingertip, then looks up at me, small brown eyes clear and guileless. “He will destroy you in the end.”

“I . . .” I swallow, finding myself momentarily unable to continue. It’s worse, him saying it with that innocent bluntness. I clear my throat. “I can handle him.”

“I did follow you,” he says casually, or at least I assume offhandedness in the flat rasp of his tone.

“Wait, what?”

“At night. But not into the angel’s home.” He looks like he expects me to praise him for his restraint.

My mind whirls through the possibilities: How close was he when we were on the front step? Where was he when we went into the house? Maybe right there on the porch. I wish again that my DP came with some heightened senses, or maybe just a basic awareness of my surroundings. Unfortunately, it sometimes seems to instead render me incapable of noticing anything other than Joel.

“You weakened,” Al says pointedly. “It will happen again.” He crosses his arms and it takes me a moment to realize he’s imitating me. It doesn’t seem mocking, though. He seems to be trying to get it right. He squints at me, pursing his lips; then he can’t resist unfolding one of his arms in order to touch the tip of his finger to his mouth. He prods curiously along the bottom of his lower lip. It’s very distracting.

“You didn’t jump in and save me,” I counter a little pettily. Can he possibly understand what happened to me on the stoop? He called it weakening, which is exactly what it had felt like.

Al looks affronted, then mournful. “You commanded me—and your life was not yet truly in danger. But I may have erred. I may have erred. . . .” He tugs agitatedly at the already-erratic tufts of hair on his mostly bald head. The gesture is more human than many of his others. “You must have been very afraid? And I didn’t help you!” He gnashes his teeth several times too many.

My brain is churning again over the events of last night. “It’s okay,” I say. Funny, the demonic contract killer my father sent to do his dirty work obviously cares a lot more about my well-being than my own father ever has. I get the distinct impression it isn’t just about the vow or blood oath or whatever binds him to his agreement with Dick Face—Al likes me. And I don’t want to, but I find myself liking him in return. It’s almost impossible not to.

“Let me extinguish him,” he pleads. “Just very quickly. It would be very quick.” He sniffs, glances toward the distant picnic table, a longing expression overtaking his face. He adds, “But then perhaps I could stay a little longer. . . .” He smiles hopefully, remembering something. He shares the something instantly: “Carol Dunlap told me that we might go to see the Great Ocean. The esteemed soft sand beaches of Down the Shore.” As though the Jersey Shore might be a place of ancient power where oracles have been known to prophesize.