Only the male of our kind, an incubus, can make a succubus. Only the male of our kind, an incubus, can make a succubus. The succubus’s grin widens, her lips curling upward in a mischievous smile. “Our side keeps trying to prevent that from happening, but it’s a full time job.”
“Your side is trying to keep us from blowing ourselves up?” I ask shocked. The air is thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap perfume. I swallow hard, trying to find my voice. She takes a deep breath, and then begins to dance, her movements slow and sensual. Nobody is perfect,” she says. “But that’s a topic for another day I think.”
The succubus’s eyes seem to bore into my very soul, as if she can see the conflict warring within me. “I need an equal,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. She stops short and I’m able to judge just how tall she is. The succubus’s eyes narrow, her lips curling into a knowing smile.
