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1
I’ve always watched people. According to my mother, it started the moment I was born. A normal crying baby for but a moment before my wide, dark eyes took in my surroundings in silence. She swears I was born to see things that others can’t, but that’s just the wishful thinking of a doting mother who wants something extraordinary for her child. If I truly had the gift of sight, I wouldn’t be where I am now. I would’ve seen the betrayal and heartache that blindsided me.
Pulling into a parking spot on the sunny, tree-lined street outside a quaint apartment building, I huff out a sigh. The nice weather is a stark contrast to my mood these days. I can barely make it through a day without my mind wandering tothem. And that leads down the rabbit hole of self-loathing. I know what happened wasn’t my fault. That doesn’t stop my mind from torturing me with impossible what-ifs. What if I hadn’t jumped into things so fast? What if I’d had more control? What if I was someone else?
A yappy bark snaps me back to my surroundings.Enough. I’m here to work, not wallow in my dark thoughts. An elderly couple walking a pair of pomeranians passes by my car, followed by a teenager on a bike. No one spares a sideways glance to acknowledge my presence.
Good. That means this is a neighborhood where everyone’s too busy worrying about their own little worlds to pay attention to who comes and goes. It’ll make my job easier.
I pull on a baseball cap to cover my unkempt hair and grab a to-go bag from a local Chinese restaurant that I picked up on the way here. Hopping out of my nondescript silver sedan, I stride up and down the sidewalk, scanning apartment numbers.611, 612…here we go, 613.
I circle the building, pretending that I haven’t found my target yet. Getting a layout is important for any gig, even if it’s only surveillance. No external staircases and no alternate exits for each unit, other than a small porch or balcony. I’ll have eyes on whoever comes and goes from 613 even from my parking spot on the street.
Well, this certainly won’t be my most challenging job. It’s ridiculous how little people around here seem to notice or care about their privacy. Blinds open, with no regard who can see inside. They must feel secure in the mundanity of their lives and the “safe” neighborhood they live in.
Safety and privacy are an illusion. After years of working as a private investigator, I’ve faced that sobering truth time and time again. Sometimes I wish I lived a normal life, just so I could walk through life with oblivious naivety. But I’ve seen what lurks in the darkness. Hell, Iamwhat lurks in the darkness to many people.
I’m not just talking about my job—which admittedly involves a lot of creeping around in the dark and monitoring people. I’m a monster. In the most literal sense—I’m half-succubus and half-witch. Succubus, not incubus, since most monsters did away with unnecessary gendered names centuries ago.
Humans don’t know that monsters exist. And while most paranormal beings just want to live in peaceful hiding, that doesn’t change the fact that we’re the creatures that fuel their nightmares.
With that cheery thought, I force my attention back to apartment 613. The blinds are open to the kitchen and living area, but the lights are off. There’s enough late-afternoon light streaming in that the occupant could be home, but after a few minutes of observation, I’m certain they’re out. Looks like I’ll be spending a while longer in this slice of domestic mundanity.
If I’m lucky, I’ll get all the evidence I need tonight and won’t need to come back. Snap a few pictures of a cheating wife with her lover and satisfy my client’s need for irrefutable evidence of infidelity.
As I’m settling in for hours of waiting, my cell buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, a pang of dread mixed with foolish hope in my stomach. I release my tense breath when I see Claire’s name on the screen, and answer.
“What’s up? I’m working.”
A brief snort rings in my ear. “Hello to you too, Max!”
I roll my eyes, thankful she can’t see me. “Hi Claire. What’s up?” I ask again.
“Can’t a girl check on her baby brother? I haven’t heard a peep from you since you left the nest. Is Moonvale everything you dreamed it would be?”
My teeth grit at her teasing tone, but I know better than to let her lure me into her trap. I’ve had 32 years to learn that lesson. If I show any sign of frustration, she’ll pounce. “It’s fine. I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you all about it if you’re really interested and not just digging for gossip. But like I said, I’m working.”
“Hah! We both know that if you’re working and still answering your phone, that means you’re stuck in your car with nothing important to do. Completely at my mercy.” I can sense her glee through the phone.
Claire loves to keep tabs on me, always trying to find juicy tidbits about my personal life to present to our sisters and parents. She takes the role of family gossip seriously and takes particular delight in revealing my secrets. Though I’m pretty damn good at choosing what I let her see and keeping important things hidden. That’s how no one knows the real reason I moved away from home.
With no excuse on hand to get out of the call, I give in and endure her loving, ruthless interrogation into my personal life. I tell her about my bland, cookie-cutter rental house. I assure her I’ve made at least one friend—the beagle I pet when out on my morning run counts as a friend, right? Work is fine. I’m fine.
That last one is a lie. As a skilled empath, she must sense hurt simmering under the surface of my words even through the phone. She asks again for the real reason I left the city, her cheerful voice dipping into concern. The unstated question of why I’d leave our family, a well-established client base, and close friendships behind hangs heavy between us. The truth is too embarrassing and painful, so I provide her with the reason I’ve crafted—with the rapid growth of Moonvale’s paranormal community, it’s the perfect place to expand Pearce Investigations. Everyone else in the family has strong ties to home, so I was the logical choice to take on the endeavor. She sounds like she wants to argue, so I redirect her with a question about her daughters’ exploits before she can.
Though I pretend to only begrudgingly endure the conversation, we both know that I appreciate the chat. That I need the connection, even if I say I’m okay being on my own. I’ve been in Moonvale for a little less than a month and now that the novelty has worn off, loneliness is setting in.
Sometimes—usually late at night when I lose the battle to keep my sadness at bay—I think moving was a mistake. In the process of cutting myself off from heartache, I cut out all the bright spots in my life. But running back home after barely a month away isn’t an option. I have to move on. At least in this boring town where no one knows me or what kind of monster I am, I can be anyone. I can finally be free of all the implications and expectations that go along with being part-succubus.
The sun dips below the horizon by the time my call with Claire ends. Not long after, a white SUV pulls into the designated spot for apartment 613. I shift down in my seat, pretending to be on the phone again while I watch a man emerge from the car. He slams the door shut behind him and stomps his way to his door. Once inside, he flips on the lights, giving me a good view of him through the windows.
Average height, thin, salt and pepper hair that’s balding in the front, sallow skin, and tired eyes. Perfectly average. Not who you’d imagine a beautiful faun would choose to ruin a fifteen year marriage on an affair with, but looks aren’t everything. I’d have to interact with him directly to sense if he’s paranormal himself, but that could explain his appeal. The romantic in me hopes that the faun’s wife was wrong about the affair, and this guy is just her accountant. The realist knows all signs point to the faun cheating with him.
I watch him as he rips off his tie and grabs a beer from the fridge, letting the bottle cap fall on the floor when he pops it off. He heads into the living room and turns on his television, downing half the beer with a grimace. It doesn’t take long before he’s finished that beer and on to the next. Then a third. When he screams obscenities at his tv, so loud that I can hear them through my open car window, I’m positive tonight isn’t a date night.
My eyes dart up to the apartment above his, wondering how his upstairs neighbor feels about the disruptive behavior. Their blinds are angled, but the bright lights against the darkness allow me to see inside fairly well. This apartment is a stark contrast to the sad bachelor pad below, filled with cheery color and life.
I’ve always enjoyed seeing how people choose to decorate their home. It can tell you a lot about them. Though in my case, my rental home screams serial killer with the blank walls and bland furnishings, and I’d like to think I’m neither bland nor creepy. What I can see in apartment 623 fills me with a sense of whimsy and something about it calls to me deep in my gut in a way I don’t understand. At least not until I see who lives there.
