I rushed into the backroom ignoring the pleading whimpers of our hostess, looking for Maggie. Call it chivalry. Lie if you have to, but don’t call it jealousy, because it wasn’t. Or concern. Concern would in some ways be worse than jealousy. Concern implied I still cared, and I could never live that down. Or up. Or whatever way you live.

The room was lit just enough to fuel the stuff of erotic nightmares. You get them too, right? You can see flesh moving, but are too distracted by whatever it is your brain is paying attention to to count limbs and you’re feeling all sexed up but extremely disturbed at the same time. The kind of dream that makes you want to evaluate later what’s going on in your head because if you were sentient at the time (and not just ruled by LizardMan in the back of your mind) you would have said, “Uh-nuh. Ain’t NO way that’s a turn-on.”

Please tell me it’s not just me.

Um. Anyway.

So, disturbing images, lots of soft movement, some hard pounding off to the right (bad time to point out, “Wow! She’s awfully flexible,” and then to follow up with, “especially given her age!”) the backdrop of slickness and moans and if it was all consensual it would have been a completely different story. I mean, except for the obvious lack of (spiritual, physical, ecumenical…wait) protection and that these people were probably neighbors who would need therapy for years, it was all fun and dandy and everyone seemed to be having a great time.

Bleepin’ demons.

I felt hands and voices call out to me, pulling at my clothing and psyche as I moved through the room, my eyes trying not to make sense of the scene. It was hard to breathe, and I could feel my pulse racing. My eyes watered, and I felt sick for a second between the heat and the smell.

Maggie.

I don’t pray. I mean, not to anyone in specific. Like everyone, I kind of make wishes to the universe, hoping they’ll be heard and granted in the sense I mean. You become a bit of a believer when you’re in the business. There’s things out there. But you wouldn’t pray to them.

She had found the incubus. It was, as the name indicates, on top of a group of women. You could tell it was one of the Lilu from its lack of a hat and/or blowhole. Um, it’s a parazoology thing. Trivia. I was not looking at the curve of its back, or the play of its gymnast-like muscles as it stretched, or the glow of its hand as it caressed the quivering flesh…

Taking deep breaths was going to make me pass out or throw up. Either one would have been bad right then, and I was quite familiar with the definition of a hero. It also didn’t help that my shoelaces had been untied, and I was quite sure that my jeans were being unbuttoned, and I did want to fight evil later today, as the phrase goes.

There’s one cheerful little footnote about the incubus, and I think it’s even made its way to Wikipedia. See, it doesn’t care about religious paraphernalia. Remember earlier how I said most of them were content with taking their fill and, once sated on those being sated, they’d leave of their own free will?

I use words like “most” not because I’m afraid of commitment. (I’m not! I swear!) I use them because they’re accurate.

Some of them you actually have to kick out, and I was going to do it here, in its place of power, while it completed the second most sacred act known to its kind. (Don’t ask about the first.)

Maggie’s jacket had been lost somewhere, as had her pants. She was wearing a set of very tiny white panties, and she was bent down to her knees in front of the incubus, which, sensing one of greater will, focused its attention on her. This helped point out the second one, taking the form of a succubus, as it pulled itself out from under another nest of entwined bodies. I felt confident saying there were only two.

Midnight washed over us, and I wavered. I saw it draw forth, gathering Maggie’s short hair in its left hand and pulling her closer to its glistening phallus, brought from whatever orifice it had been safely stashed. The succubus was pulled back with a cluster of hands, but it shook them off, moving closer to my ex-girlfriend.

I felt Sylvie’s soft, cold hands as they slid across my chest. They hesitated only a moment as they dove lower, and I hissed as they found their mark, caught between relief and tension. For a moment, I was lost in sensation. Too much, my eyes watching as Maggie’s lips were slowly moistened.

I elbowed Sylvia in the solar plexus, muttering an apology. I pulled away, leaving my shoes to whoever had been removing them, and buttoned my pants while I still had the willpower to do so.