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The first part of that statement was false, and we both knew it. My mother had abandoned me when I was three and rarely returned to visit. The second part of the statement, however, was true. I’d always suspected that Jasmine envied me for the type of mother I had. Jas’s mother is nice enough, but she’s very proper and reserved. My mother, on the other hand, was a spitfire. She frequently hosted poetry slams in her living room. She took bartending lessons when she was seventy-five, and could out-drink any of her college-age classmates. She was always the first to throw a party and the last to leave one. People loved her. I probably would have loved her, too, if she hadn’t been my mother.
Jasmine drove us to the funeral home that my stepfather had recommended. As expected, the place was a ponderously dreary place of heavy draperies, thick carpeting, and the sickening smell of freshly-cut, hothouse flowers. The funeral director, Harold Black, was a young man doing his very best to look as old as possible. His thinning hair and gold-framed glasses made him appear fifty rather than thirty. When we all sat down together, he gave me a mournful look. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I pressed a damp tissue to my eyes, determined not to cry again. Once again, my emotion surprised me. As a kid, I’d longed for more of Carrie’s attention. As an adult, I wished she’d leave me the hell alone. Yet now, I couldn’t stop crying.
I let Jasmine take over the arrangements. She loves shopping, even shopping of the funerary variety. As she eagerly flipped through catalogs full of coffins and flowers, Harold leaned over her shoulder offering suggestions.
Watching them, I stopped thinking about my mother and started examining the funeral director. There was more to him than met the eye. He sounded patient and soothing, but he hated his job. He was soberly dressed, yet on weekends he stuffed twenty dollar bills into the G-strings of strippers and paid for lap dances. He smoked as a way to lose weight.
I blinked, surprised. Where had those thoughts come from? After all, I’d only met the chubby, little man fifteen minutes before. I couldn’t possibly know that much about him.
Inside my head, an unfamiliar presence stirred. Look closer, it urged me.
So I did. Little clues began to take shape. Tucked inside Harold’s soothing voice was a nearly undetectable note of impatience. Every few minutes, his eyes darted to the clock as he counted the minutes until he could leave. As for the strippers, I noticed a book of matches peeking up from his pants pocket. On it, was an outline of a topless woman with her hands clasped behind her head. His suit was too large for him, and his belt was cinched past two well-worn holes. Finally, I noticed a rectangular bulge in the breast pocket of his jacket where he hid something the exact size and shape of a pack of cigarettes.
I shook my head. I was making too many assumptions. I had no idea if the matches were his, and the bulge in the jacket could be a cell phone. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my impressions were spot on.
The strange presence in my mind stirred again, this time adding a sharp nudge. Although it didn’t it use a voice or words, I understood its silent communications. You may not be entirely right, it seemed to say, but you’re awfully damned close.
I wasn’t talking to myself. I knew the sound of my own intuition, and this wasn’t it. This thing, this presence, had a sinister edge. It delighted in Howard’s secret sins. It loved his weekly lap dances and delighted in his smoking. The fact that he was miserable in his job made the thing in my head smile approvingly.
I mopped my sweating forehead with my sleeve. What the hell was happening to me? Where were these wretched thoughts coming from?
“What do you think, Lilith?” Jasmine’s voice drew me back to the conversation. Then she frowned. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
She started to put her hand on my shoulder, but Harold was quicker. He scooted close to me and offered me his handkerchief. “This is hard for you, I know.” His peppermint-scented breath puffed in my face. “Can I get you anything? A glass of water maybe?”
To my relief, the sinister presence in my head had quieted. “No, I’m fine.” To refocus myself, I thumbed through a catalog. The caskets were made of polished wood and chrome, as lovely as fine furniture and twice as costly. I gasped at the prices. Even the least expensive one was double my rent check.
Typical Jasmine hadn’t bothered with the prices when she’d made her selections. She’d picked out a cherry wood coffin with silver trim, an immense casket spray, and two enormous flower arrangements. Even if my mother had possessed the means to pay for her funeral, I couldn’t get her money until it went through probate court. That would take months.
The thought of money made the room fold over on itself. “Jas, I can’t afford this! I hardly have enough for groceries!” The insurance company had yet to reimburse me for the damage to my burned-out house, claiming the fire wasn’t accidental. In addition, I hadn’t worked in weeks because of the Christmas break. My savings account balance was zero, and my checking account was close to being overdrawn. I put my hand to my head to stall off a headache. A year ago, my weekly allowance from Ted had been well into the four-figure range, yet now I couldn’t pay for the new shoes that Grace desperately needed.
Jasmine shrugged, unconcerned. “What’s the big deal? Just put it on a credit card.” She pulled out her phone and began texting.
Harold gave a reassuring smile. “We do have a payment plan.”
Even with a payment plan, I’d be in trouble. Rent on the townhouse, insurance on the car, and utilities were squeezing me down to the last penny. I didn’t want to send my mother off in a pine box, but I was desperate. “Is there something else I can do? Cremation, maybe?” I hoped Carrie couldn’t see me down here haggling over her funeral like a tourist at a Middle-Eastern bazaar.
I’d expected Harold’s smile to fade, but it remained as bright as ever. “Let me see.” He picked up the notepad he’d been using and crossed off several items. Then he re-added figures, mumbling to himself as he punched numbers on his calculator.
He showed me the final total with a triumphant smile. It was far less than the original, but still made my stomach drop. Even pared down to the basics, the funeral would bankrupt me.
Seeing my stricken face, he said, “You’re feeling overwhelmed, aren’t you?” He slid so close to me that our knees touched.
I blotted tears from my eyes. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“Believe me, I do. You’re vulnerable. Afraid.” Very softly, he began to rub my shoulder. “There’s nothing I hate to see more than the tears of a beautiful woman.” His other hand sought out my knee.
My jaw dropped. What the hell was he doing? My first instinct was to slap his face. Then a thought blipped into my head like an instant-message popping up on a computer screen: You’re a succubus now. You’ve seduced him. Keep him on the hook, and you’ll get the funeral for free.
The sinister presence in my head had returned, but this time, I recognized it. It belonged to my succubus, the demon inhabiting my mind. As Harold the undertaker stroked my knee and let his hand wander up my thigh, there was no more denying the truth. The trip to Hell, the meeting with Miss Spry and, worst of all, the contract made by Sarah Goodswain: it was all real.
Next to me, Jasmine was too deep into her text conversation to notice what was happening. She laughed at something, then let her fingers clickety-click away at the minute keyboard.
My succubus continued to urge me to use my allure to get what I wanted. It would be so easy. Harold was desperate for female attention, and with a bit of sweet talk and a few flirtatious touches, the funeral would be free. I could send my mother off in style and still afford to buy milk and bread.
When Jasmine laughed at one of her texts, I was yanked back to reality. No way would I let Harold pull me into the nearest casket for a quick tumble in exchange for a free funeral. Trying to rein in the demon, however, was like attempting to stop an oncoming train. I might not want to seduce the undertaker, but the demon certainly did.
Harold began stroking my hair and pulled my hand towards his crotch. Yes, the succubus told me. NO, I insisted. When my hand slid further down Harold’s leg, I wondered which of us was in command: me or the demon. I increased my struggle, fighting to gain control. Finally, I sent a mental command to the succubus like it was a dog: Down girl!! I’m the one in charge!
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the demon responded with a furious quiver. She had a lot of influence over me, but apparently I had the final say. Relieved, I mentally stuffed my inner monster back into the dark corner of my mind. Once again, I was plain old Lilith.
With the demon’s allure gone, Harold blinked as if waking from a deep sleep. Thoroughly shaken, I disentangled myself and grabbed a tissue to wipe sweat from my forehead. I couldn’t deny the facts. I was no longer alone inside my own head. Miss Spry had been right; I was now part demon.
Jasmine finally noticed what was happening. “Oh my God!” She dropped her phone and leapt to her feet. “Are you groping my sister?”
Harold yanked away as if he’d been burned. “No!” He looked both horrified and baffled, as if he just now realized that stroking a grieving woman’s leg was unprofessional. He blushed down to the roots of his baby-fine hair. “I’m sorry if I upset you, Ms. Straight. I didn’t mean to.”
The apology didn’t mollify Jasmine who swung her purse at his head. Luckily for him, it was a tiny bag, hardly bigger than a lunch sack. “You sick piece of shit!” Jasmine rained more blows on poor Harold who cowered behind his arms.
“It’s okay, Jasmine,” I said. Though it wasn’t okay. I felt sick and dirty. In desperate need to shower off the feeling of those groping hands.
I would have bolted for the nearest exit except my stepdad walked through the door. Simon Yoshida is the kindest, gentlest, most honest man on the planet. Which is probably why he (a) is terrible at his job as a tax attorney and (b) just the sucker my mother needed to raise her three-year-old daughter. In fact, I blame my mother’s treatment of Simon for the perpetually bewildered expression on his face. As if, after thirty-one years, he still didn’t know what hit him.
“That man just made a pass at Lilith,” Jasmine said. She swiped her purse at Harold again, but this time he ducked.
Simon, who was used to his daughter’s theatrics, didn’t take her seriously. “Settle down, Jasmine.” He kissed the top of her head before wrapping me in a hug. I hugged him back tightly, wrinkling his suit. “I’m so sorry to hear about Carrie,” he said. “You must miss her very much.”
I did, but that wasn’t why I clung to him like a frightened child. The experience with Harold had terrified me. A demon presence now slithered around in my mind; a presence with a strong will that I could barely control.
When I finally let go of my dad, he brushed my bangs out of my face. “How did Carrie pass away? I only caught part of Jasmine’s message.”
He was only saying this to be nice. I knew because I’d overheard Jas the night before as she spread the word about my mother’s death. Most people, she texted: L’s mom died. Sux huh? But since our father couldn’t work a microwave much less text, she’d actually talked to him, saying, “Lil’s mom died. But don’t worry, there’s a sale at Macy’s so you can go buy yourself a nice suit for the funeral.”
“Carrie had a stroke,” I said. “She was at a couples’ retreat with her boyfriend. They were in a hot tub with about ten other people when it happened.”
My father has a heart bigger than the shoe department at Nordstrom’s, and I know he still cared about my mom, even though she’d ditched him thirty years before. So, to spare him the embarrassment, I left out the part about them all being nude.
I patted his hand. “At least she went out Carrie-style.”
My father finished the business of the funeral with his customary efficiency. Harold, still shrinking under Jasmine’s glare, was only too happy to sell me the coffin at cost, pay for the casket spray, and take twenty-five percent off the final bill. He also gave me a calendar with a picture of the funeral home on the front and a series of inspirational messages on the inside. All the while, his embarrassed blush never paled from his cheeks.
“The nerve of that prick,” Jasmine said when we finally left.
Knowing my stepsister, her wrath wasn’t entirely due to the funeral director’s behavior. No, she was insulted because, for once, a man preferred me over her.
Maybe being a succubus wasn’t so bad after all.
That evening, as I picked through the fridge looking for something to serve for dinner, Tommy knocked on the door. He gave Jasmine a friendly kiss on the cheek and placed a bucket of chicken on the table. “I thought I’d bring dinner since you’re probably too overwhelmed to cook.”
For a moment, I was too shocked to thank him. Until now, the most generous thing any of Jasmine’s boyfriends had done was to leave the toilet seat down.
Once again, Tommy gave me a worried frown. “You okay?”
“Exhausted,” I admitted. “It’s been a really long day.”
He abruptly hugged me, and I stiffened, preparing for a repeat of Harold and his octopus hands. I needn’t have worried. Tommy’s embrace held nothing but comfort.
He ate dinner with us, entertaining the girls with stories about his adventures motorcycling across the US. Although he occasionally threw me a worried a glance, he laughed with the girls, patiently answered their questions about his hairlessness (alopecia), and let Ariel touch the studs in his face. Both girls were fascinated by him. So was I. In the old days, his tats, piercings, and dirty nails would have prevented me from hiring him to mow my lawn. Now, he sat at my dinner table. Not only that, I was enjoying his company. I wondered how many other interesting people I’d missed out on simply because they hadn’t met my standards.
After the girls were in bed and the house grew quiet, I heard Jasmine and Tommy arguing in the kitchen. Jas sounded angry, Tommy resigned. I picked up a newspaper, determined not to eavesdrop, but the thin walls made their conversation impossible to ignore. And with the girls falling asleep upstairs, I couldn’t turn on the TV loud enough to drown out their disagreement.
“I’m serious. Spend the night,” Jas insisted. “Lil likes you. She won’t mind.”
I rolled my eyes. My stepsister could have at least asked me first.
“Like I said, I can’t deal with another night on the couch,” Tommy said. “It’s murder on my back.”
There was a moment of silence. “I wasn’t talking about the couch,” Jas said. “Come downstairs with me.” Even though I couldn’t see her face, there was no mistaking her offer. She wanted to drag Tommy down to her she-lair in the basement and jump his bones.
“Jasmine, you know I can’t do that.” Tommy’s voice was gentle.
“Your vow of celibacy,” Jasmine snapped. “Yes, I know.”
Vow of celibacy? I lowered the newspaper. Was this guy for real?
“It’s not forever,” he said. “Only until I complete my pilgrimage. I want my body to be as pure as possible when I visit those holy sites.” His tone begged her to understand. “Stacy and I had planned to do this together, but now that my sister died, I want to make the trip as a homage to her. You can appreciate that, right?”
“You’ll be gone forever,” Jasmine wailed.
There was more silence followed by the creak of chairs. “I’ll be away for a year.” When Jas didn’t reply, he said, “Come with me! I’d love to have a friend along.”
She snorted. “Sleeping on the streets of Calcutta? Climbing up Emmy Sands in Thailand?”
“That’s Emei Shan in China,” he mildly corrected, “and the monks there are very hospitable.”
She snorted again.
“Think of the adventure, Jas! We’ll see as many holy sites as we can. It will be the spiritual journey of a lifetime. I know you’d find it worth the inconvenience.”
I nearly laughed out loud. If Tommy believed that, then he didn’t know my sister at all.
Drinking Tea ventured into the living room. I automatically reached down to stroke his head, and he flattened his ears, hissed, and sank his teeth deep into the fleshy part of my hand.
I screeched like a banshee and swatted at him. He let go and streaked under the easy chair, still yowling. Scared and hurting, I went into the kitchen to wash my wounds.
Jasmine and Tommy immediately fell silent.
“Sorry to interrupt, but the cat bit me.” I rinsed my hand under the faucet before examining it. Tea had bitten hard, drawing blood. Although he was not a social cat, he’d never hurt anyone before. Not even Grace who had a tendency to hug him until he looked bug-eyed.
As I went to the freezer for ice, I noticed someone had hung the funeral home’s calendar under the list of household rules. January’s page showed a snowy mountain range and said: Heaven’s doors are always open to those who knock. I rolled my eyes.
Tommy absently stroked the hole in his left earlobe. “Tea seems like a nice cat. I’m surprised he bit you.”
I wrapped the ice in a clean towel and held it against my sore hand. “Me, too.” I searched the cupboard for a bottle of pain reliever. “He’s just been acting weird ever since we moved.”
“Tell her, Tommy,” Jasmine said, sotto voce. “Go ahead.”
I shut the cupboard door harder than I’d meant to. “Tell me what?” I was in no mood for Jasmine’s dramatics. I just wanted this day to be over. No, not only that. I wanted my life back. My old life. The one with the enormous house, the cleaning lady, the private school, and a regular income.
Jas and Tommy exchanged looks, then Tommy said, “Do you remember when I told you about your aura yesterday?”
“Yes.” I found the pain reliever and pried the cap off with my teeth.
“Well, it’s gone now.”
“That’s a shame.” I swallowed two tablets with a glass of water.
“You don’t understand,” he said. “It’s gone as in, there isn’t one. Everyone, every single person on the planet, has an aura. Every single living person that is. Lilith, you should be dead right now.”
Suddenly, the water was like a fist in my throat. I coughed, bending over double, the water bursting out of my mouth and nose. Since the Harold incident, I’d decided to keep my secret to myself. Ted had fought me tooth and nail for full custody of Grace and was constantly looking for an excuse to reverse the judge’s decision. If he found out that I thought there was a demon inside of me, he’d have me declared mentally incompetent and take my daughter. The last thing I needed was for Tommy to blow my cover.
I blew my nose and gave a shaky smile. “Sorry, but that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day. Thanks for the laugh.”
Tommy’s mouth drew down, but Jasmine rolled her eyes. “I told you she wouldn’t believe you. She’s not spiritual, Tommy. She’s not a believer.”
Not a believer? After what I’d experienced, I couldn’t be anything else.
Chapter Four (#ulink_44ddd7bc-6481-5083-bfea-29f37297e65a)
On the night of the viewing, before the mourners arrived at the funeral home, I sat alone with my mom. Carrie, perfectly still in her satin-lined coffin, wore the prim, plum-colored dress that Jas and I had picked out. Generally, my mother went for Salvation Army cast-offs: outdated gypsy skirts, ruffled blouses and oversized sweaters. For once, she looked like a normal woman instead of a crazy, hippie lady.
My mother might have looked peaceful, but I wasn’t. Tears, this time angry ones, rolled down my cheeks. “You could have at least hinted at what would happen to me when you died,” I told her. “Why didn’t you bother to tell me? Did you think you were going to live forever?”
Scolding a corpse was ridiculous, but I was desperate. Desperate and terrified.
“What’s going to happen to me?” I asked her. “What kind of things will Miss Spry force me to do? Will I ever get used to having this thing slinking around in my thoughts?”
My mother kept her eyes closed and her hands demurely folded.
I’d been speaking in a hushed voice, afraid that the funeral director would think I was crazy, but the more agitated I became, the louder my voice grew. “Will I become evil? Or slutty?” I swallowed. “Will I abandon Grace like you did to me?”
I held my breath, longing for an answer, but nothing happened. For the first time in my life, I really needed my mother but, once again, she was nowhere around.
Funerals are a lot like weddings. You invite people, find a minister, buy flowers and a new dress, and serve food. But unless the bride is up against a nine-month deadline, wedding planning is very open-ended. Funerals, however, must be quickly thrown together before the guest of honor rots away.
For three hours, I stood in a tiny, stifling room, as a parade of men and women I’d never met paid their respects. Carrie’s first visitor was a dumpy, gray-haired man in wire-framed, rose-tinted glasses, and a tie-dye T-shirt so old and full of holes that it might have been a survivor of Woodstock. He smelled of pot and pressed my hand so tightly that my knuckles rubbed together. “I’m really gonna miss Carrie. She was something, you know? One in a million.”
