“Just what I need.” I glare at my mother for all of two seconds before I turn to watch the púca saunter up, Sucky’s drink clutched in its oversized hand with long fingers and sharp claws.
Two bouncers—a werewolf, who is licking his maw, and a very smelly sewer troll named Stoner—wobble across the room toward the cages and the fight taking place. The sound of fists hitting flesh makes my mouth water. I can only imagine what it’s doing for the werewolf whose main diet is meat.
“I added it to your tab,” the púca’s voice says with a warble. Sharp slimy green teeth click behind loose lips spread in a smile for the succubus.
The bartender, now an impressive, ugly, gray goblin watches my mother take the stool beside me.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” Mother says, pointing at me, “and a large bubbly, please.”
The goblin’s black eyes sparkle. “Another green steam. Add a brew!” the púca shouts at a mixer mid-bar, then points at me. “Unless you’d like another, dearie?” When I nod, he shouts, “Make that two greenies, Kris!”
The mixer—a wiry elf with orange hair and long pointed ears—raises a knotted thumb and then nods. His ears poke out from under a brown, pointed hat, and as he leans in to pour the two shots a green ball on his hat falls over one eye.
Mom is not wearing anyone at the moment. I loathe our natural body shape. She is dark and dense, and rolls like heavy fire-smoke as she moves. Our only facial features—two bright red eyes and a circular hole with long gray teeth—are revolting. Two appendages, with four-fingered hands, hang to the bottom of the cloud of smoke, and we have no feet; we glide.
“I see you’re still wearing the slut,” my mother says.
While contemplating the relationship I have with Mother—wishing her someone else’s little cloud of hell—I try to ignore her. I don’t know why our kind decided to make us call our guardians Mother instead of Father. We have no sex. We are singular creatures; a demon’s faux pas, so to speak—a summoning spell gone so terribly awry.
“I assume the real slut is still in Europe?” Mom presses.
It used to be, fledglings were left to fend for themselves, and killing was a personal preference by the darkest of our breed. But in today’s world, it’s almost impossible to pass off the sudden appearance of other-halves. I get it. So far I’ve been lucky, but if I mess up...
“Yes,” I hiss.
Complete consumption of the Identical be damned. If they think they can turn me into a more hideous mythological creature with a tenth as much freedom by threatening me with extinction, so be it. I would rather be consumed by my brethren and Become No Longer, than take another’s life for the mere amusement of it. I won’t stop doubling up.
“At least she still smells fresh,” Mother pokes.
“There you go,” Sucky whispers in my ear. “She sounds like the proper one to assist you with your little sexual dilemma.”
“In A Midsummer Night’s Dream!” I hiss.
“Oh, now that’s Mommy’s little girl.” Sucky laughs.
“Do your customers like the cold side of you?” I spit.
“I have no cold side, sweetie. You, on the other hand, are sounding quite vendetta-ish.”
Our bartender slaps two coasters on the bar in front of me and Mother and sets down our drinks, covering the bar logo: a picture of a black hole painted between a pearly gate and bonfire, PURGATORY stenciled in red over the dark hole.
Mom hammers her shot and sucks down half the bubbly. “So, honey, tell Mother what’s tormenting you.”
I glare at the succubus.
She laughs. “Not enough hours in the day, huh, Luv?” Sucky slowly drains her shot, rises, straightens a black skirt so short I can see her naked butt cheeks, and wiggles her fingers as she saunters toward the door.
Mother watches as the werewolf and troll toss two berserkers out the front door. Sucky jumps back when a splash is followed by a spray of sewer water. I’m a tad bit disappointed the succubus doesn’t get wet.
“I don’t like your friends, dear.” Mother’s form billows and wavers beside me as she sips the brew. “So, what happened above the diner with the half-breed? You did not look … pleased when you left.”
I stare hate at my guardian/mother/warden, and even though the first thing I want to scream is ’what the hell do you mean, half-breed?’ right before I scream ’you were following me … again?’ I calmly say, “I personally don’t care what you think of my friends, Mother. Sucky serves a purpose. I am well-tutored in the art of seduction.” Body still trembling anger, I add, “And I like sex. It’s a nice high. Feeds the hunger, ya know?”