1. Chapter One #2
She nods. “He came over while the moving truck was still here to say welcome. Brought cookies he’d made himself and everything. He’s a very nice young man.” There’s no mistaking her anxiety, and I smile to ease it.
“That’s great. We’ll get him signed up to learn how to control his abilities and introduce him to the community as a whole. Do you happen to know where he works, in case he’s not home?”
“Oh, he’s home. He told me his shift doesn’t start until nine, in case I ever need a babysitter during the day.”
“How nice of him.” This is really going to be easy.
A nice guy who actually gives a shit about his neighbors?
Maybe he’ll even give me some cookies. It’s been a while since I had homemade ones.
Sam, our old admin, used to make them at this time of year and bring them to work, but when Jim made the mistake of suggesting to Aunt Vivienne that she should do the same, he regretted it. A lot.
I thank her and give her my card in case she has any follow-up questions, then make my way back across the street to knock on… shit, what’s his name? It’s sure to be in the notes Aunt Vivienne hasn’t yet sent me. Guess I’m winging it.
I knock. I can clearly hear music playing inside the house, but I don’t think it would be audible to a human ear at this distance, so he should be able to hear me.
Sure enough, a moment later there’s the distinctive sound of footsteps, and then the door is hauled open.
My jaw drops.
Incubi are usually attractive. Even if they shouldn’t be by current beauty standards, there’s something about them that makes them universally appealing. But this guy…
Fuck.
For starters, he’s wearing only a pair of tiny cotton shorts.
They’re not tight, but they leave very little to the imagination.
I want to ask him to turn around so I can see how they drape over his ass.
It would also give me the chance to see if the skin of his back is as smooth and beautifully tan as his chest…
his sweaty chest. What’s this guy been up to?
“Hello?” he says, and his voice could make angels weep, if they existed. It’s beautifully modulated and warm and makes me want to curl up beside him and listen to him recite the phone book.
I shake my head. This is classic low-level enthrallment, and the poor guy doesn’t even know he’s doing it.
“Hi,” I start, then clear my throat. “My name’s Mark Mikakos, and I’m from the CSG.” I show him my ID, which will mean absolutely nothing to him. “Could I come in and have a word?”
He plants one hand on his cocked hip, the movement making muscles ripple. If you’d asked me a minute ago, I would have called him lithe, slender—and he is. But there’s clearly a lot of muscle there too. “Dude, you want me to just let you into my house? That’s how horror movies start.”
Not the first time I’ve heard that, by the way.
I paste on my most reassuring smile, trying not to notice how his brown nipples are puckering in the cold air.
“We don’t have to go into the house. If you’d like to put on a coat”—and pants—“we can talk here on the porch. Or you could call a friend to join us? Someone you trust. I can wait in my car.” I wave over my shoulder in the direction of my car.
It would give me the chance to call Aunt Vivienne and get his name.
He studies me carefully, then grins and shrugs.
“I’m probably being an idiot, but you seem like good people.
There’s something about you that makes me think of puppies, and I love puppies.
Come on in.” He steps back, holding the door wide, and I obediently enter his house.
It’s both good and bad that he can tell what I am—it means his senses are developed properly.
I’m a little concerned that he doesn’t seem to have any kind of danger instincts, though.
I’m highly trained, but even if I wasn’t, I outweigh him.
Closing the door behind me, he says, “Go on through and take a seat. I’ll just grab a shirt so I don’t get cold.
” He disappears down the hall toward the source of the music I can hear, and I do as instructed and walk through to the living room.
It’s exactly what I expected—warm, comfortable, and inviting.
I plant myself on the sofa and sniff the air.
I can definitely smell cookies, the kind rich with butter and sugar.
“Sorry about that.” He strolls in, hips moving subconsciously in a way that’s meant to entice and incite. It comes naturally to all incubi. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Not right now,” I decline smoothly. Chances are, he’s going to need a minute to process at some point, and that’s when I’ll ask for a drink and give him a chance to leave the room and think.
“Okay, so”—he sits in an armchair and crosses one leg over the other. I keep my eyes on his face, even though I really want to see if any of the good stuff is peeking out of those shorts—“who are you and why are you here?”
“I work for the government,” I begin. Not the government he’s thinking of, but CSG is still a legit government.
“My job is to identify people who’ve been separated from part of their family and help them reconnect, especially where there might be medical or other genetic issues that are unknown to them. ”
He looks confused. People usually do at this point. “So you’re here to tell me there’s a history of heart disease or something in my father’s family?”
“Not exactly. The people I work with have a unique subset of genetic traits. Have you ever had times where you felt hungry, even though you were constantly eating?” That’s a common side effect for incubi who are unable to feed, and even though this guy—fuck, what is his name?
—is sex on legs, there’s likely to have been some point in his life when he was celibate for a week.
Since incubi need to feed every few days, that’s all it would take for symptoms to set in.
He blinks a few times. “Yes. Oh my god, are you saying that’s a genetic disease? No, it can’t be—it happens whenever I take time off work. It’s just a psychosomatic response to having more time on my hands.”
I smile. “What do you do for work?” I’m betting something in the adult entertainment industry.
Since incubi feed off sexual energy, not necessarily sex itself, they flock to jobs in porn and strip clubs.
I know several who are personal bodyguards for high-end sex workers.
Standing outside an expensive hotel room while their bosses conduct business is enough of a charge to keep them going.
The wary expression on his face tells me he’s used to being judged for his job, so I hold up both hands, palm out.
“I’m asking because I believe you’re getting a nutrient you need through your job.
Let me explain, and I’m going to ask you to hear me out, because this might sound a little out there. ”
His nod is begrudging, but I’ve done this enough times to know he’s just being cautious. I’m not out of the game yet.
“Your father was what we call an incubus. Incubi feed off sexual energy, so I’m betting your job is somehow connected to sex work, or maybe adult entertainment.
When you’re away from work, you’re not surrounded by that energy, and your body misses it.
That feeling of hunger is real, but you’re not hungry for food. ”
He begins to laugh. “Dude, you really had me for a second. Who sent you? Was it Ravi? He’s such a shit-stirrer.”
I wait patiently and say nothing. The laughter slowly fades away, a panicked look widening those pretty brown eyes.
“Wait… what? You’re telling me I’m half incubus ? No fucking way.”
Actually, the way community genetics mix with human, he’s fully incubus. There’s absolutely nothing human about him… but he doesn’t need to hear that right now.
“It’s impossible,” he protests. “Incubus… they’re sex demons, right? Well, I’ve only had sex like half a dozen times! How could I possibly be a sex demon?”
For the second time since meeting him, my jaw drops.
He’s practically a virgin. How is that possible?
Oh, not because he’s an incubus—as long as he’s around sexual energy, he wouldn’t have to have sex himself to survive.
But he’s got to be in his late twenties, and he hasn’t denied working in the adult entertainment industry.
Humans who are determined to remain chaste usually disapprove of that field.
So it can’t be that he abstains from sex for religious reasons.
And I’ve never heard of an asexual incubus.
Trying not to sputter, I tell him, “Incubi are not demons, but the meaning of that word is different from what you think. It’s a really long story, but in short, hell doesn’t exist and nobody wants your soul.
And you don’t have to have sex to be an incubus, although usually they do,” I admit.
A lot. Incubi are known for their voracious sexual appetites.
“As long as you’re able to feed on sexual energy, that would be enough. ”
He’s shaking his head, but it’s more instinctive denial now than an actual refusal to believe me. This is going really well, and now he needs a few minutes to think.
“Is there any chance I could have some water or something?” I ask, giving him my most charming look. I have a lot of them because I’m a hellhound; charming people is what we do. No matter what all the haters say.
“Sure,” he says automatically, standing.
For a second, he seems to have forgotten why he got up, then he says, “Water. Do you, um, want coffee or anything else? Or just water? Or, uh, I have cookies. I made them yesterday. They’re iced and everything.
So. Cookies? And coffee? Or water. I also have juice and soda. Or if you don’t like cookies—”
“I’d love a cookie, thanks,” I interrupt, and he seems so relieved not to be rambling anymore that I think he’s going to cry. “And I’ll drink whatever you’re having.”
“Coffee,” he mutters, wandering toward the door. “Lots and lots of strong coffee. Or maybe tequila.”
“Save the tequila for later,” I call after him. He needs to have a clear head for this conversation.
His over-the-shoulder wave is the only acknowledgement I get.
As soon as he’s gone, I rip my phone out of my pocket and log in to the app that manages these job assignments, hoping Aunt Vivienne has put something in there… like this guy’s name.
Thankfully, there’s a new work order waiting for me with all the relevant details filled in.
Neil Diaz, age twenty-seven, only child of single mother Anita Diaz (deceased), father unknown, graduated high school, employed for the past nine years by Naughty Boyzz, which is licensed as an adult entertainment venue.
No criminal history, one parking ticket two years ago, a handful of speeding fines over the past eleven years.
A note that the neighbor who reported him emphasized what a nice person he seemed to be.
Neil. His name is Neil.
Also, what the fuck is with Naughty Boyzz being spelled that way? Is it supposed to tell a story about the club? Like, do the entertainers dress up as bees?
I will never in a million years understand humans.