1. Chapter One
CHAPTER ONE
Mark
Someone should make a law about never having to work with people who once changed your diapers. And your father’s diapers (shudder). And went out carousing and maybe more with your grandfather, which is something I don’t want to think about, thank you very much.
In fact, just the thought of Aunt Vivienne and Grandpa “exploring their wild sides together”—their words, not mine—makes me blush fiery red.
Aunt Vivienne’s eyes narrow on my face. “What’s wrong with you?” she demands.
“N-Nothing. It’s, uh, a little warm in here,” I stutter, even though the climate control in the office is perfect.
No way am I telling her I’m trying not to wonder if “exploring wild sides” is a euphemism for sex or just means they drank a lot of warm ale in tawdry taverns.
Did they drink ale back then? When did people drink mead?
Oh, and in case you’re worried about the whole aunt/grandpa thing, she’s not really my aunt.
That’s just a courtesy title, since she’s been a friend of the family for over half a millennium.
Considering the number of us who call her “aunt,” she must have been very wild when she was young and explored it with a lot of people.
Something else to haunt my thoughts.
“Not that warm.” She eyes me for a moment longer.
“Well, this will get you out in the fresh air, anyway. It’s snowing out there, so make sure you wear a coat.
” She thrusts a Post-it Note at me. There’s an address scrawled on it.
“I’ll send the full parameters through the system”—her glare this time is thankfully aimed at her computer, not me—“but you should get going now.”
I take the scrap of paper and nod. “Of course, Aunt Vivienne,” I agree.
“Can you tell me anything more before I go?” Despite the fact that she’s an absolute whiz with the computer, she loathes and avoids it whenever possible.
It’s quicker for me to ask for details now than to wait for her to allocate the job notes in the system.
Her expression softens. “A young incubus. The demon who called it in said she’d just moved into a new house and her neighbor came to welcome her, bleeding enthrallment all over the place, seemingly without knowing.
He never said a word to make her think he was aware of the community, so she thought she’d best report it. ”
“Thanks, Aunt Vivienne.” I scan the address. It’s not too far away, and my GPS will give more precise directions. “I’ll call with an update if necessary.”
She’s already turning away, and I take it as a dismissal and grab my things, ready to go save someone who probably doesn’t know they’re at risk.
I love my job.
The Community of Species Government is responsible for all higher-intelligence species except humans, who (mostly) don’t know about us.
We like it that way. But demons, vampires, incubi and succubae, sorcerers, and shifters all fall within the purview of CSG.
It’s been that way for nearly nine thousand years, since the humans tried to wipe us out during the species wars and existential magic had to step in and make them “forget” we existed.
If you want more detail than that, you need to find someone else to tell you.
History bores me, and I didn’t pay all that much attention to it at school.
But the fact that humans don’t know about us means that every once in a while, a member of the community grows up not knowing who they are.
Fertility between humans and community members is low—very low—but that doesn’t mean the occasional surprise baby from a one-night stand doesn’t happen, not to mention accidents that leave our young orphaned and assimilated into human society before we realize what’s happened.
The thing is, we’re not human. Community species have different needs and abilities.
Take vampires, for example. Their children are at most risk, because vampire young need blood to survive from about the time they begin eating solid food.
Without an adult who can aid them, they’ll die.
Demons can teleport. Can you imagine being a teenager dealing with puberty and all the crap that comes with it and suddenly finding yourself in a different place, with no knowledge of how or why?
That’s what happens to young demons who think they’re human.
My job is to investigate reports from concerned members of the community who think they’ve found one of our “missing” people and then tell them who they really are and introduce them to the community.
Sometimes it’s amazing. I’ve had countless people break down in tears and thank me for showing them they’re not freaks and giving them the first sense of security they’ve ever had in their lives.
But I’ve also had people refuse to accept the truth, spit on me, and attempt to hit me.
Those cases are a lot harder, and not just because of the violence.
If I can’t get through to those people, we need to lock down their abilities.
It’s a horrible, horrible thing. Even if they’re not aware of what they are and what they can do, it’s still a part of them.
Stripping that away, walling it off from them, can change their personality and leave people feeling forever as though something is missing.
I hate those cases. Protecting the community as a whole from humans is our top priority, but that doesn’t mean we don’t hurt for those who fall through the cracks.
Tonight shouldn’t be a rough case, though.
Incubi tend not to have the type of personality that takes to religious indoctrination, and since they’re usually ready for anything, as a species they’re a lot more accepting of new information—even when they’ve been raised as human.
I can count on one hand the number of incubi/succubae cases I’ve had that went bad.
I’ll stroll in, break the news, put the incubus in touch with all the right support agencies, maybe do some quick meditation with him to help him control his powers in the short term, and be done before business hours are over.
Maybe I’ll knock off work early and find someone to keep me company tonight.
It’s been a while since I’ve been with anyone other than my right hand.
Piece of cake.
Motherfucking shitballs, how did nobody notice this guy before?
I drive slowly down the street toward his house.
I don’t need the GPS to tell me which one it is.
He must have lived here for a while—like, decades—because the whole street is saturated with the residue of his enthrallment ability.
His house is metaphorically glowing with it.
It’s just all love and welcome and warm feelings.
It could be worse, right? This kind of enthrallment, the type that leaks from an incubus because he’s never been taught how to use his mental shields, is reflective of personality rather than his need to feed on sexual energy.
So I know right away that this guy is generally a happy, friendly person who likes others to feel welcome and comfortable.
He wants it so much, he’s projecting that desire out into the world.
In this case, that’s harmless—it just means he’s probably got some really mellow, friendly neighbors.
But as a rule, it’s not a good thing—just imagine if he was a naturally violent person.
I park the car in front of his house and get out, then study the building over the roof of the car.
It’s neat and well-maintained and decorated for the human holidays.
I’ve never really understood the concept of Christmas.
I know it’s part of one of their religions, and I think this is the one that’s all tangled up in a sorcerer who pretended to be the “son of god” in an attempt to teach humans to behave better, but then where does the fat guy in the red suit come into it?
And why are humans teaching their children that home invasion is something to look forward to?
Anyway, as confusing as the overall concept is, even in the daytime I can tell that the lights decorating the house will look pretty when they’re on.
And rather than inflatable animals like some of his neighbors (what’s that about?), he’s opted to decorate a live tree in the front yard, complete with fake gifts underneath.
It all looks a little laden down with the snow we’ve gotten today, but it’s a good effort.
I’m just about to head up the neatly shoveled front path when someone calls quietly from across the street. I turn even as I register that it has to be someone in the community—no human would expect me to be able to hear a call that low. Whoever this is, they can see I’m a hellhound.
Sure enough, the woman holding a toddler on the porch of the house across the street is a demon—probably the one who called in the report. I make my way over to her, smiling at the little one.
“You’re from CSG?” she asks anxiously as I step up to join her.
“Mark Mikakos,” I introduce, pulling out my ID and showing her. Her relief is immediate.
“Oh, thank goodness. I’ve been so worried about that poor boy!”
“He does seem to be running at full speed,” I concede, glancing down the street before turning back to her.
“If you don’t mind me asking, didn’t you notice before you bought the house?
” It seems surreal to me that any member of the community could be on this street and not notice the enthrallment residue.
She shakes her head. “We moved from out of town, and my husband did the house scouting and sent me video. He’s human, so…
” She shrugs. “There was another house I thought might be better, but he just kept talking about how welcoming and friendly this neighborhood was. That should have been a clue, I guess.”
“There’s no way you could have known,” I assure her. “Have you met your neighbor?”