Page 21 of Darkness

Morrisey seized her wrist. “What exactly did you mean, ‘my kind?’”

Jessa gave a harsh exhale. “I meant human. Oh, and I wouldn’t tell anyone about our little encounter. They wouldn’t believe you anyway, and you’ve just stumbled into an entire world you don’t understand.” She cupped his cheek in her hand, leaning in to whisper, “You’d be such a delicious meal if you were my type.”

Wait! Did she just lick his cheek?

“I am what your kind call a succubus. In my past life, I provided a basic physical service to those in need. It’s possibly the reason I now can feed on the lust of others.” She ran her fingers over Morrisey’s brow in a tender gesture, lips curving upward. “You don’t know who you can trust, but please think about helping me.”

“How can I find you?” Not that Morrisey intended to so much as think of her later.

“Don’t worry. Once you’ve decided, I’ll find you.” With those words, Jessa pressed something into his hand. The mysterious woman vanished into the crowd, leaving only a trace of floral perfume even a low-rent guy like Morrisey recognized as high-end.

Morrisey slipped a folded sheet of paper inside his pocket. Time enough to read later.

Conversations seemed much louder than they had just a short while ago. He motioned the bartender over. “Did you notice a woman in a green dress sitting next to me?”

“Young? Beautiful?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

The bartender smirked. “Wishful thinking, pops. Need another drink? Or maybe you’ve had enough.”

The bartender made a good point. Yet, a wineglass sat on the bar with a lipstick print to match Jessa’s full lips.

Either Morrisey needed another drink, or he’d had too much already. Especially as the double-face thing happened with the bartender. “Nah, I’m good.” He staggered outside, briefly contemplating picking a fight with the bouncer simply for a bit of normalcy.

Instead, he called an Uber.

He lost the battle not to stare into the rearview mirror at his ride-share driver’s ever-changing face.

Or his tail, which stuck up over the front seat like a periscope.

Tail?

Oh, hell. Why the fuck not?

***

Morrisey had failed at many things in his life. He’d failed to win an art scholarship. He’d failed to get into the college of his choice. He’d failed at selling real estate before becoming a cop. He’d failed at his relationship with Craig. But things hit an all-time low when he even failed at bad decisions and came home sober. Maybe he'd best back off, considering the last few days.

Especially since the only booze left in the apartment was Craig’s vodka. Better to be sober than crack the seals of those bottles or the associated memories.

He removed the slip of paper from his pocket—a list of names labeled missing or deceased and a date for each. If he couldn’t get drunk, he might as well put the time to use and prove the bullshit of the woman’s story, if nothing else.

Or was she a serial killer intent on confessing?

Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to ever happen. He sat in the living room with his laptop and Jessa’s list, keying in name after name. Some of the dead appeared to have died peacefully. The others? Not so much. Brutalized, viciously stabbed, or beaten. Not an easy way to die. Still others on the list were missing.

A niggling suspicion crept through Morrisey’s insides. Had Jessa actually committed these crimes herself? Based on all her "host" talk, she may not be what Gaskins called a reliable witness.

All the deaths happened within two months. Had the thing that tried to enter him, or something similar, done this? The headache, the Let me in!

Shivers of unease slithered up Morrisey’s spine, joining the squirming in his belly. All the dead were adult entertainers or sex workers whose professions kept them surrounded by lust. Were they all what Jessa said? Succubusses? Succubi? No. Those didn’t exist. Did they? What about the male versions?

There had been no follow-up reports filed on the missing from her list. They’d been marginalized people living in poor neighborhoods. Morrisey always hated the inequality of the world. If a wealthy man in a mansion was murdered, his death likely wouldn’t wind up in the cold case files. While the only dead woman on the list from his precinct appeared to have died of natural causes, he had never heard of the DOAs from other precincts.

All young, all good-looking, just beginning their lives.

Cut short.

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