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“Let’s go up, shall we?” He squeezes my shoulder, looking worried and sympathetic, which at least means he’s buying it. And I am still angry about possibly losing this place.
Only… do I have to lose it, knowing now that the stories about an incubus are true, and he grants wishes?
“Come on now.” Mr. B urges me up the stairs. “You know I don’t like anyone being down here alone. I even thought I heard some stones crumbling!”
It happened often enough, usually deeper in the tunnels where we can no longer reach.
Usually. This time it was only a few yards from the entrance.
“I’m fine. It’s fine. I’m…” I follow him up, knowing it’s best we move away from the secret incubus in the basement. “I’m sorry I got so upset earlier. Just promise me, please, that you won’t make any deals with those people until I can offer alternatives.”
Mr. B’s expression, more pitying than anything, tells me his mind is made up, but he still says, “I can hold off for a while. It would be at least several weeks anyway, a couple months even, before anything changed. But I don’t know if there are alternatives anymore, Jeffrey. You need to be prepared for that.”
No. I didn’t. I might not know what having a contract with that creature means, but if he’s real, then Madame Mattie used him to succeed too. Maybe he can help. The idea is no stranger than having him give me a rim job and sucking me off a few minutes ago.
“I know you’re upset,” Mr. B says, “but you promise me something now and don’t go poking around down there alone. Even when not alone—”
“Safe and well-travelled tunnels only. I know.” I spent almost every night in that alcove where the incubus broke free. I’d just never touched the back wall before.
Had that stone always been loose?
“This is new,” Mr. B says, and I realize he’s looking at the amulet, very prominently displayed given my shoulders and most of my chest are bare. “It’s beautiful. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before.”
“I wasn’t wearing it before!” I blurt. “I had it tucked away downstairs. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to wear it for tours or not.”
“You should. Adds a little mystique and glamour to the look.” Mr. B always treats the costume with respect more than the joke most patrons see it as. He had the idea of putting a guide in costume, but it was me who volunteered and had the idea of being Mattie. It’s no secret that I love it, or that I become someone completely different when I personify Mattie. “Did you find that at Tony’s? Or The Magic Shop maybe?”
Tony’s is a nearby consignment antique store. The Magic Shop is, well, self-explanatory. “Magic Shop. Crystals section. Just purple quartz or tanzanite or something.” Or something.
“Well, I need to get home to bed.” Mr. B gathers his things from behind the upstairs checkout counter and heads for the door. I see him out, and he turns back to squeeze my shoulder again before leaving. “It’ll be all right, Jeffrey. You and Cas are young, with all sorts of possibilities ahead of you. Someday, you won’t even miss spending your nights in a stuffy underground.”
I can’t think of anything to say, so I say nothing. I lock the door behind him. Cas is already gone, and she would have locked up everywhere else.
The building itself has a comforting mustiness just like the tunnels. It’s directly connected to all our neighboring buildings on this side of the street, but with no internal access between them—unless you count the tunnels, which I would if they were all still open. Madame Mattie never owned the tunnels outright, only what existed within her lease, directly beneath this building. We’re granted access to the others by the buildings above each section, and like I said, fewer of them are on board with that every day.
The building is old and cold with red bricks instead of the stones of the underground, wall to wall covered in historical photos and a few smaller displays of items once belonging to Mattie and her seamstresses. Another sewing machine here, a suitcase there, a hairbrush, a hand mirror, all under glass.
There are public bathrooms, the checkout counter for selling tickets to the tour, a back office, a storage room, a back door into the alley, and another door, always locked, that leads upstairs to my home. Those stairs are across the building from the open set of stairs leading down, where an incubus currently waits for me in the underground.
I race upstairs first. Maybe I imagined him. Maybe I conked my head. Maybe I am going crazy. I want out of Mattie’s outfit either way so I can clear my head. And because I’d swear I can still smell some of the sex on it.
Upstairs is spacious with multiple bedrooms and a bathroom the seamstresses would have shared. Mr. Bevilaqua could have easily rented out more than just my room. I was always not so secretly glad he didn’t. I prefer my privacy. Plus, a couple of the rooms are jam-packed with more items to either switch out at seasonal times, or that are maybe too fragile to be on display.
My room is the only place with any modern touch to it, and that’s really only my computer. And the newer bedframe and mattress. The desk my computer sits on is an original antique, Mattie’s own. It is gorgeously crafted, dark wood with inlays that have to be hand-carved, but a bit too dinged up to be sold for the mint it would probably be worth in more pristine condition. I was still amazed when Mr. B said I could use it. The gilded mirror on the wall is original too.
Out of the soiled bloomers, dress, and corset, I put on a pair of normal underwear, jeans, and a sweatshirt. I pop out my contacts before I scrub my face clean of the makeup with a wet wipe. My eyes are dried out now. When not in costume, I wear glasses. Too long in contacts, and my vision gets as blurry as if I wore nothing. My hair is still curled, so I tie it up in a ponytail, and when I’m done… well.
This is Jeffrey, a semi-fair-faced nerd.
I hurry back to the main floor, trying to drum up the nerve to return to the incubus. Where am I going to hide him? Just down there in the dark? Can he turn invisible? Does he eat normal food? Does he need to shit? I have so many questions!
A knock at the door startles me so much, I nearly jump out of my sneakers. I am so thankful I changed out of the heels because they would not have gone with this outfit. The front of the building is mostly windows, so I can see who’s there, and I immediately wish she couldn’t see me.
Speaking of pearl-clutchers—though I don’t think that woman has ever gone on our tour, even to complain during it—it’s Mrs. Sherman, the worst possible midnight visitor I could have.
Odai
I flex my claws, roll my shoulders, crack my neck. The relief from the loss of those chains is always bliss. The warmth within me from having serviced my new owner is just as delightful. I am hard and hungry still, but until she, he—they, I shall say until corrected—asks it of me, my own satisfaction must wait. Tasting them was close enough.
