Page 30 of Oh No! There's an Incubus in my Hot Spring
But if I’m going to stay in this town, I’m going to have to survive Mark Torres.
No, not just survive. I want to win.
This asshole wants a war, I’ll give him a war.
And I’m going to cheat.
eight
What’s the Worst Thing that Could Happen When Bonding to an Incubus?
“Bond me,” I say, slamming the door to the apartment shut.
Apollo looks up from a book he’s reading by the embers in the fireplace. “Come again, lovely?”
“I want you to bond with me. I want your magic. I want to destroy that pompous prat fucking asshole!” I say, flopping my bags down on the counter.
Apollo chuckles. “To whom are you referring?”
“Mark Torres,” I say, the fury of my rage flaring at just the mention of his name. “He closed my laptop, practically on my fingers. He’s been following me around town, harassing me. He paid off the contractors to stop talking to me. He’s trying to ruin me!”
Apollo is next to me in a flash of silver mist. “Then let us destroy him together.”
There’s a hunger in his eyes that’s not just for my pleasure. I’m not sure what it is, but he’s eager. It makes my insides squirm, like he wants more than just magic and freedom.
I turn to him. “This is purely a business arrangement. I’m not looking for a boyfriend, or another emotional attachment. Okay?”
He cocks his head slightly, his eyes dimming. “I understand.”
“So, how do we do this?”
“Bond?” he asks, his hand lifting to my face but stopping just short of touching me.
“Yes.”
“You were surprisingly close to doing it all on your own the other night,” he says, reaching for the costume goblet.
“With that?” I ask, incredulously.
“I made it myself,” Apollo says. “Do you like it?”
I look at the goblet in a new light. “Those bones, are they…”
“Dead mice and birds,” he says. “It’s necessary for death to be present in the ritual, same as life—your blood. You cut yourself,” he says, pointing to my hand.
I turn it over and see the nick from the corkscrew.
“Any liquid will do in the cup, but spilled blood is required,” he says, grabbing the half bottle of wine from the counter and pouring the goblet up to almost full.
He offers it to me, his eyes sparkling. “Are you sure about this?”
I nod. “I want to eat that man alive and spit out his stupid turtleneck.”
Apollo grunts. “I’ve known humans to have strange proclivities, but consuming your own kind—”
“Shut up, it’s a turn-of-phrase and you know it,” I say, shoving his shoulder.
He smiles at me, and I smile at him. Then he looks down at my hand. “You’ll need to wound yourself again, but I’ll heal you.”
