2. Chapter Two
CHAPTER TWO
Neil
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my fucking god!
This has to be some kind of hoax, right? That hot guy with the dimples is actually a serial killer or a cultist trying to lure me to a compound in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, where life is an all-day orgy to satisfy the “incubus” in us.
Which doesn’t sound terrible in theory and might finally give me the chance to have regular sex—
Wait. Did I tell the nice man with the best hair I’ve ever seen that I’m celibate?
I start the coffee machine with shaking hands, then stop and grip the edge of the counter to calm myself before reaching for the mugs.
The last thing I need to do right now is break a mug.
The way today is going, I’d end up cutting myself badly and having to deal with a trip to the emergency room.
Maybe that wouldn’t be a terrible thing.
Maybe I need a psych assessment, because part of me actually believes that it might be true.
That I’m an incubus.
It would explain why I start to feel like I’m starving if I don’t work for a few days.
It would explain why, toward the end of high school, I was constantly sick and dizzy with hunger, but it got better once I got the job at NB.
I thought it was anxiety about changing stages of life—or a tapeworm.
But Mom insisted it had to be anxiety, because I’d have lost weight with a tapeworm instead of gaining it with all the food I was shoving down my throat to appease the never-ending hunger.
I put on twenty pounds in a month that year.
Mom. Crap, did she know? Surely she’d have told me if she knew that my dad was a sex demon. Or whatever. She mustn’t have known.
Huh. Is this why I have a weird dick? Mom said my dad’s was the same.
The only way to find out is to go back in there and ask. Although I’m not sure I want to ask the cute stranger from the government about my cock.
Which raises the fact that the government knows sex demons exist and is keeping it from us all.
Man, this day is fucked, and I’ve still gotta go to work. Maybe I should call in? Can I? Would it be bad for my health, like skipping a meal? No, one night should be okay. I have two nights off every week, after all.
Mind you, they’re staggered, because I didn’t like the psychosomatic “hunger” I felt after two nights away from the club. Which almost seems to prove what my visitor said.
I suck in a deep breath and carry on getting the coffee and putting some cookies on a plate. Those are nice normal things, and if I do some normal things, maybe the rest of this unbelievable situation will start to make sense.
“Okay,” I mutter. “It’s all okay.” The first thing I’ll do is ask for proof.
If he’s really a government agent and incubi really exist and the government is actually hunting down half-incubi children, then there has to be some sort of proof.
More than just “you’re feeding off the sexual energy of others. ”
Because, gross, that makes me sound like some kind of leech or parasite.
I put the mugs and cookies on the tray I use for eating in front of the TV and carry it back into the living room. I am calm. I am using my brain.
The government cutie is still sitting where I left him, looking at something on his phone, but he puts it away when I enter and smiles at me.
“Thank you, Neil,” he says as I put the tray down and hand him a mug, and my name on his tongue sends a completely inappropriate thrill down my spine.
Seriously, hormones, get with the picture—this guy is not crush material.
He’s either some kind of con man, a recruiter for a cult, or a government representative who may intend on monitoring every aspect of my life.
I mean, the government doesn’t do something for nothing, right?
They wouldn’t track down the consequences of one-night stands if they didn’t stand to gain something from it.
“You’re welcome.” I sit back down in my armchair and wrap my hands around my mug, taking comfort from the warmth and solidity of it. “Uh, this all seems really surreal. Is there anything you can show me to prove what you’re saying?”
His calm smile turns just a tiny bit wicked. “I say this with as much professionalism as I can muster: you can find proof in your pants.”
I blush wildly. “Excuse me?”
“Incubus penis shape is different from human,” he replies matter-of-factly, as though he’s not talking about my dick. “Your penis has two segments, somewhat like the body of a wasp.”
No. No, brain. You cannot make a joke about stingers.
A slightly hysterical laugh escapes me.
“That doesn’t prove anything except that you or someone you know has seen my dick,” I protest wildly.
“For all I know, you’re some kind of perv and have been spying through my bedroom window.
” When was the last time I actually closed the blinds?
The window overlooks the backyard, so I rarely bother.
Or, oh my god, what if he’s paid off someone at work to spy on me?
The club’s license only permits us to get down to G-strings, but any of the other staff could potentially get a peek in the dressing room.
I have three costume changes—with three different sparkly thongs—each shift.
I’m working myself up into a true panic over having invited this guy into my home when he puts his mug down on the coffee table and holds up his hands in that gesture that’s supposed to make him seem nonthreatening.
It fails.
“I swear, I haven’t been peeking in windows. If you like, I can show you—”
“Oh hell no!” I shout, leaping to my feet and sloshing coffee on my rug. “You are not taking off your pants in my living room, you perverted creep! I knew this was some kind of sex cult! I will not be a pawn for your orgies!”
He makes a choked sound, pressing his lips into a thin line for a second, then clears his throat.
“There are no orgies. Believe me, if I was having orgies, I’d be a lot more relaxed.
” He chuckles, then stops when he realizes I’m not laughing with him.
“Sorry. I wasn’t going to take off my pants, I swear. ”
I narrow my eyes, not sure I should believe him. “If you weren’t going to show me your incubus cock, what were you going to show me?” Fuck me, did I really just use the words “incubus cock” in a sentence?
“I don’t have an… incubus cock.” I’m definitely not imagining the tremor of laughter in his voice. “I’m not an incubus. I’m a canid shifter.”
A what now? Canid… why does that sound vaguely dirty? Just me? Okay.
“What does that mean?” I demand.
“It means I can change form into a canine animal,” he explains.
Ohhhhh. Canid. Canine. Gotcha. Not dirty after all.
Wait…
“You’re a werewolf ?” I swear to god, if this is Teen Wolf come to life, I am there. Sign me up, baby, and where’s the lifetime membership option?
He winces. “ Not a werewolf,” he insists. “The moon has nothing to do with shifting. At all. Ever.”
“Silver bullets?” I ask, unable to resist. I’m still not sure I believe him, but if he’s telling the truth, this could be my very own werewolf—excuse me, canid shifter —adventure.
“Why, are you planning to shoot me?” His tone is very dry. “It doesn’t matter if they’re silver. A bullet is a bullet. We do heal faster than humans, though, so our chances of survival are a lot better. That applies to you, too. Have you never noticed?”
Huh. I think about it. “I’ve never really injured myself that badly. There was one time I sprained my ankle, and at first we thought it was pretty serious, but it didn’t take… that… oh. So that sprain might have been more serious than we ended up thinking?”
He nods. “I can’t say for sure, but it’s likely that you were just healing fast. We have a much faster metabolic rate than humans, so we heal much faster. A broken bone can heal in less than a week.”
“W-What about diseases?” I try to keep my voice steady, but from his sympathetic expression, I can tell I’ve failed.
“There are some illnesses amongst the community, but nothing that’s currently incurable. We can’t contract human diseases.”
“Cancer?” I press on. If it turns out Mom didn’t have to die…
“No,” he says gently, and I know he knows. “We don’t get cancer.”
My knees give out, and I sink to the floor. “So if I’d known earlier that werewolves existed, could someone have changed my mom and—”
“No.” He comes to crouch beside me. “It doesn’t work that way. We’re a completely separate species, not transformed humans. It’s impossible for a shifter or a vampire or anyone to change a human into something else. I’m sorry.”
I suck in a deep breath, only just realizing that in my collapse, I dumped the rest of my coffee. My rug is going to need a hell of a lot of stain remover.
“Not your fault,” I manage, leaning over to place my mug on the coffee table and then clambering to my feet. “Um… I think we got a bit off topic.”
He straightens in an easy motion that’s quite frankly beautiful. He’d make a hell of a dancer.
“Yeah, so I just want to make it clear, I’m not a werewolf.” He seems pretty intent about that, so I smile and nod.
“Sure, sorry. Not a werewolf. Canid shifter. Got it. Like changing the terminology makes it any more believable,” I mutter.
A grin splits his face. “That’s what I’m going to show you. Sit down, please. Let’s not risk you hurting yourself if you faint.”
If I—
“What?”
He takes my arm and steers me the two steps back to my armchair, applying pressure until I sit.
“Remember,” he says, moving back, “I’m still completely aware. I won’t hurt you.”
He’s not serious, is he? What’s that thing where people think they’re werewolves? Lyco-something. Does he have that? Has this whole thing been an ill person feeding their own delusion?