How to Raise an Incubus, #2

H2RAI 3: What's Worse Than Being Alone? (Being Lonely)

How to Raise an Incubus 3: What's Worse Than Being Alone? (Being Lonely)

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Chris Dartwood, 30 Hibiscus Drive.

I read the address again and again until my vision became blurry and the words penned neatly in my father's old address book began to swirl around on the lined pages.

I was stalling, I knew, but as I stood outside the cute little red-brick house on 30 Hibiscus Drive with the sun beating down on my back and sweat trickling down my neck and into my old, black Fall Out Boy T-shirt, I knew I wouldn't be able to stall any longer.

I had fallen into a monotonous routine over the next few weeks: Get up. Eat something out of a box. Take a shower, and throw sweats on. Listen to Selene list the many ways she was going to kill Teddy Bunting. Watch Selene disappear in order to do that very thing. Listen to Temp list the many ways he was going to kill Teddy Bunting. Watch cheesy reality shows with Temp when he was done. Promise Temp I wouldn't leave the house if he left. Watch Temp disappear in order to feed. Leave the house.

I couldn't waste any time biting my proverbial fingernails.

I walked up to the front door and knocked, admiring the manicured lawn and the rose bushes that lined the brick pathway to the door. Whoever this Chris guy was, he had a green thumb or knew someone who did.

The door swung open and I took one step back to blink up at the Amazonian woman staring down at me.

"Dear God, not another one today," she muttered, surprising me by taking me by the hand and yanking me into the house. "Today must be my lucky day."

"What?" I managed to get out, tugging my hand out of hers. "I'm looking for Chris."

"You've found her. Now, who are you?"

Her. Chris was a woman? I knew I was being rude by staring but I'd had no idea that my father would have been friends with someone like Chris Dartwood, despite her being a hunter like he'd been. He'd been so reserved, old-fashioned, like most of the friends of his that I'd known – and Chris was clearly the opposite.

Her tar-black hair was streaked with grey here and there and left loose to her shoulders. Her nose was pierced, as was every inch of both ears. Big deep-brown eyes, a shade darker than her skin, were rimmed with eyeliner. The woman was actually wearing a pair of denim dungarees that hung loose on what looked like an hourglass figure. This was the Chris I'd contemplated calling for days now and had decided, Fuck it, I'll just drop by.

"Hey!" She was snapping her fingers in my face, brows raised expectantly. "Who are you and how far along are you?"

My mouth hung open stupidly. I quickly recovered. "Far? How'd you know?"

She shook her head at me, turning on her heel and padding down the hallway. I could only follow her, allowing her to lead me into her small living room. Two other women sat on the black leather couches, clutching teacups so hard that their hands were paper-white.

Even seated hunched over, their protruding bellies were evident.

"You see, hon, you're not alone. You have nothing to be ashamed of, really, but I'm glad you found me," Chris was saying, gesturing for me to sit on an empty armchair.

I sat down, unable to tear my eyes away from the other women. I didn't know them from Eve, but I knew that look in their eyes – that fear, that uncertainty. I saw it in the mirror every morning.