Page 51 of A Taste for the Peculiar

In minutes, the game is forgotten. Avirin may speak softly at first, but soon, her enthusiasm pours out of her in a torrent. Rollo leans against his mallet and nods along, gesturing with his own passionate dissections. Neither of them notices Pye has slipped away until he returns with beverages to whet their discussion.

After that, it becomes routine. Every week, Pye invites one of his most riveting connections to join them for a few days. Avirin is particularly fond of the savvy women they host, as well as the other members of the cottage who begin to share their areas of expertise. Marsyas shows off his proficiency with the aulos and details the differences between single- and double-flutes. Chap proves he can embroider faster than anyone they’ve ever seen. Emory surprises them all with her ability to sample any wine and pinpoint its exact region and year.

No matter the subject — philosophy, agriculture, languages — Avirin takes to them like a duck to water. She is full of curiosity and always impresses their guests with her thoughtful questions. In fact, it seems that she enjoys the preparation more than the social gatherings, spending days plundering the library for books on different specialties.

She’s there right now, reshelving books from her latest studies. “Who will we host next?”

Pye leans against the doorframe and admires the way she lifts on her toes to reach the highest shelves. “I thought we might invite someone very special. Someone I worked with at one of the pleasure houses.” Pye tucks their hands into their pockets. “His name is Egan. He’s a succubus.”

Avirin’s hand lingers on the spine of a book. She almost turns to Pye before she stops herself, teeth worrying the inside of her cheek. “All right,” she says finally. “I suppose I should get started.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Pye

It seems easier for Avirin to broach the topic of “succubi” when it’s presented like this: academic, scientific, and impersonal. She dedicates herself as she always does, scouring the books that Pye read weeks ago and uncovering others still. She scrawls pages of notes, labeling inconsistencies and recurrences until she’s filled half a journal with research and questions.

When the day comes, Egan sits across the dinner table, and the paradox of it saturates the room. There Avirin sits, looking fully human, dressed in her finest clothing as the lady of the house. She is not out of place. She has done everything to follow social graces, yet she is the one fidgeting with her napkin. Her brown eyes never land in one place for long, uncomfortable in her skin.

On the contrary, Egan’s all-black gaze is still. His horns slope elegantly through his hair, and he speaks with grace and confidence. Undoubtedly, his charms and manners are more refined than any of them, yet he has never been accepted by “polite society.”

Pye watches Avirin closely. She tries not to stare, but there’s no mistaking the way her eyes flick toward Egan’s face. It must be strange seeing all those hidden pieces of herself now worn without shame. It must be disconcerting that, no matter what effort she makes to follow the rules, she still feels just as unusual.

After a long moment of silence, Avirin finally finds her voice “Mr. Egan, I have been wondering…”

Her fingers curl around her silverware as she searches for the proper words. She clears her throat. Remembers her manners. Shakes her head. It is a never-ending performance, and Pye can see the frustration boiling inside of her, overwhelming her with a need to be “good” and “proper.”

She tries again. “With — succubi — if I may call you —”

She fumbles and looks toward Pye. They nod their encouragement, but Avirin looks down at her plate, trapped in the dance of choosing words without stumbling over their veiled meanings. “I apologize, I shouldn’t have —”

“It’s all right.” Egan sets down his glass. “We need not be so formal, Avirin.” He smiles at the miniscule rebellion of her name. “Enough of this life is already pushed into the shadows. I do not want to obscure it further. Ask me what you truly wish to know, and I will answer with the same honesty.”

For the first time, Avirin meets his eyes. Her lips press into a thin line, but she exhales slowly. No artifice. No pretense. “Is it true that we kill our lovers in our sleep?”

Egan’s head tilts, and Pye knows he wants to smile at Avirin’s concern, but he refrains. “No. The worst I’ve done in my sleep is ruin a perfectly good pillowcase with drool.”

Shakily, Avirin laughs, and the tension in her shoulders eases.

That is the first of many questions, and Egan answers all of them. Avirin doesn’t pull out her notebook once. It’s as if the thoughts have become embedded in her mind over the course of months, wearing grooves into her skull that her consciousness keeps rubbing up against.

Egan stays a day longer than he planned, sitting with Avirin in the garden until the very final minute. He squeezes her hand and promises to write, and when he leaves, Avirin watches from the window. Pye stands beside her as Egan’s horse disappears down the path. “What did you think of him?”

“He’s wonderful,” she answers, “And he’s not what I expected.”

“How so?”

Her head tilts in bemusement. “He does not fight what he is, yet it does not control him. His body has changed, yet the rest of him has not. Being a succubus has not made him lecherous, or greedy, or predatory. If anything, it has made him kind. Generous. Understanding.” Her mouth twists over some distant thought. “Surely it’s impossible.”

“What is?”

“All those books, and stories, and society…” Her brow furrows at her reflection, and it suddenly seems like she’s looking in a mirror. “Could they truly know nothing about what it means to be this way? Could they truly be so wrong?”

Pye meets her eyes in the glass. “I think they can be. I think they are.” He brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, exposing the whole of her face. “About many things.”

After Egan’s visit, Avirin grows more comfortable. She still suppresses her succubus traits, but there is a newfound fortitude to her. When they walk down to the orchard, Avirin instructs Pye on where they should begin. When he misstates a fact, she gently corrects him. When he teases her, she fires back.

It’s becoming harder and harder to resist her. Pye meant what they told her that day by the stream, but gods, she is a sight to behold. Now Pye is the one who must retire to their room every afternoon, wrapping their fist around themself and imagining Avirin’s clever mouth against their ear.