No matter what, I always feel like I’m in trouble when I hear her say my name. I turn around and my eyes drink in her features. Sweet Vic is, well, I don't know what. Her physique is what some would call the peak of the human form, but she's definitely not human. I knew of her when I was younger, just like everyone knows her club, everyone knows Vic is not someone you cross. I made some mistakes and was made aware why she has such a reputation. I met her after my mother told me that my father was a demon. That was a hell of a conversation. To be told you’re a demon and think they mean it figuratively. She had to explain it literally that I was a child of an actual demon. I didn’t ask for details of how I was made this way.

Because, gross.

I also didn’t take the news well. She had to tell me because it was starting to manifest. That’s when I found others like me, other demonspawn. We raged together and I thought I couldn’t be stopped. I was a hot-headed teenager making lots of problems and even more mistakes before I was forced to meet Vic personally. After some particularly bad calls, it was inevitable that I would either get myself killed by messing with the wrong people or I’d have a moment of reckoning.

Vic was my moment of reckoning. I was learning to use my power, really leaning in. But I was learning through . . . unethical means. Half-humans, in most cases, are stronger, faster, and more durable than your garden variety human. But as we embrace the other side of us, as we take from them, they also take from us. The cost differs for everyone. Depending on your parentage and your environment, it may not be a bad thing. But for the demons I hung out with, we became more savage and gave in to our whims and desires. It was cool when I was a kid.

It wasn't cool, however, for my mom to hear of the things I'd done or the people I'd hurt. I thought I had superpowers. I thought I could be a hero. I learned the hard way that, the more I used, the more I lost myself. I kept justifying it, thinking I'd have my fun now then change as I grew. I didn't make it that far, it just kept getting worse. At my very worst, my mom reached out for help, and Sweet Vic answered. Sweet Vic, or Madam Victoria as we had to call her, is like a philanthropist for the supernatural community. She takes in troubled youths and tries to reform them. I bucked pretty hard at her program, and she made an example out of me. She showed a few of us that wouldn't let ourselves be tamed what real power was. And it scared the living shit out of me. I thought I was tough, but she was on a level I couldn't even comprehend. For all my bluster, it meant nothing to her. To this day, I don't remember what happened when I tried her. But my body and mind both know to be afraid and to treat her with respect.

“Good evening, Madam Victoria. A pleasure, as always,” I say with a bow, putting every ounce of respect and fear I feel for her into my tone. At this point, it's involuntary. She is wearing a very form fitting and low cut crimson colored dress with a slit in the sides nearly up to her waist, exposing her legs and as much tan skin as she wants while leaving very little else to the imagination. She didn't wear things like this when instructing in her program, but this is what she looks like at work. Her dark hair falls around her shoulders in loose waves and curls and she has it tucked behind one ear. I've been told that she looks and sounds different to different people. Like a succubus, whatever you find attractive, that's what she is. But it's not as simple as that with her. It's more. She plays the part for the establishment she runs, but she is by no means a woman you should drunkenly hit on. She made this place because we all need a place to relax and let our monster flag fly. And she's been in business so long because, as I said, you don't mess with Sweet Vic.

“You know you don't have to call me that anymore. You're not in my program. You can call me Vic, or Victoria like everyone else.”

I straighten, and guiltily look her over again as I do.

“As you say, Madam Victoria--I mean--” Oops.

She laughs and it is a wonderful sound. Genuine laughter, the kind that makes you smile or laugh too, is great. Genuine laughter tailored to be perfect to your ears . . . no metaphor does it justice.

“It seems I'm catching you on your way out?” she says in the form of a question.

I nod. “Yeah, I don't usually come to places like this.” I try to stop the words but they spill out. She raises an eyebrow. “I mean, I don't . . . I usually . . . eh.” I close my mouth. It's better this way.

She smiles and tilts her head.

“I understand that this place isn't for everyone,” she says.

I let out a small sigh of relief that she isn’t offended. I glance up and meet her appraising eyes, but only for a second. I always keep my eyes from meeting hers reflexively. She has beautiful amber colored eyes, but there is something them that makes it feel like her gaze is boring into you, that she is learning your secrets and innermost desires. It leaves you feeling naked. So I try to avoid it. There is a lot of her I don't mind staring at, anyway if I'm being perfectly honest.

“Have I ever told you that you have been one of the best reformed students I've ever had?”

I don't think she has, but if I say no, does that mean I'm looking for a compliment? Does that even make sense? It's hard to think straight at the moment, so I can't tell.

“I don't believe you have, Mada--Vic.”

“Well, you are. You have not had any relapses. Well, not any bad ones." She says raising a finger, "You have kept yourself relatively out of trouble.”

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I nod, accepting the praise. “Thank you, Madam,” I say, and my cheeks start burning. Only she can make a demon-man blush.

“Well,” she says, “Keep up the good work.” She saunters off and greets other guests as if our small meeting didn't just upend my world briefly. I suppose that's the way it goes for the truly powerful. It may be world shaking for you, but for them, it is only a millisecond of time with a trivial figure. I turn around and walk out of the club, feeling exhausted. Mostly mentally, like I need to sleep something off. Talking to the wizards can wait until tomorrow.

On the drive home I see some creatures flying in the night sky. It's a lot more animated tonight for those of us who know what to look for. When I turn my attention back to the road, my tires squeal and my car stops mere inches from rear-ending someone stopped at a red light. I need to pay more attention while I'm driving. They make a scene of throwing their hands up through their window. I pretend not to see and instead look at the light, waiting and willing it to turn green. We start to move again, and I let the guy in front of me get a few car lengths ahead before starting to move, which elicits a honk from the driver behind me. We don't get far before we hit another red light. He watches me in his rear view, checking his mirror constantly. I stop paying attention.

I lean my head back and rub at my eyes, then the bridge of my nose. My body is beginning to ache as the prospect of sleep gets closer. I open my eyes to check the light. It's still red. I glance to my left and then double-take. I just saw the same woman that I saw in my house earlier standing on the curb next to my car. This time, I know it. But when I look again, she isn't there. Ghosts don't mess with me a lot outside of my home. At least not usually. I'm beginning to think something else is going on here. It gives me a little chill. Or maybe I'm just tired. There's a honk from behind me again, and I look forward. The light is green and I drive off, looking back occasionally. I don't see her again.

Making it home without an accident, I sit in the car for a while. I'm glad I decided to clean up last night instead of having a mess waiting for me when I get home. It’s what my mom would have expected. I consider calling her and telling her what has been happening. She has always been blunt with me about who my father is. Which, as an adult, I find weird. She had no qualms about telling her pre-teen boy that his dad was a demon lord. Of course, she was a free spirit who didn't really care about that. She had no concept of good and evil--just saw everyone as inhabitants of the universe. I admire her outlook. It seems to keep her happy. And I'm curious what she would have to say if I told her my sister tried to have me killed. I assume she would be just as confused as I am. I'm not saying that my dad never had any other kids. I'm not naive. I'm just saying that I don't claim that any of them are my siblings. I don't know of them, don't know how many there are, don't know where they are from and, frankly, I don't care. I realize I’ve been sitting here longer than I planned. I think I’m just waiting for something to happen. I anxiously watch the windows of my house before leaving the car. Everything seems fine this time and I get out, checking the street. No stray cars pulled up onto the curb, no sign of flashlights indoors, and no obviously kicked-in door. I forgot to get a new handle today. I’ll try to remember to do that tomorrow after work. Making a show of unlocking my door--even though it doesn't actually stay shut anymore--I walk inside, surveying the room. Everything seems as it was left. Good.

I look in the fridge and remember that there’s no food. The fast food from earlier has come back to haunt me. That was a bad choice. I kneel, hoping to find something on the lower levels or hidden in the drawers. No dice. I walk over to the pantry, even though it doesn’t see much use. There's a lot of expired foodstuffs in here. There is, however, a pack of crackers that, uh, totally aren't expired. There’s some peanut butter, too. This will have to do. I sit down at my kitchen table and feast on the salty sweet but thoroughly unsatisfying goodness.

Another shower sounds divine right now. The burn earlier left me smelling a bit like sulfur. It's an interesting thing. When I allow the burn to overtake me, it enhances every part of me physically. When I gave in to it the first time, the feeling was . . . Hard to explain. It was like I had never used my body before. The drawback is turning all demonic. It's a give and take relationship. My demon blood gives me powers, but takes my willpower. Meaning the more savage and sinister aspects of my psyche are brought forth. If used in short bursts, there’s less problem regaining control. If used too much, however, it's a toss up whether my senses come back or not. I've never seen myself at full burn. My friends said my body is taller, my clothes burn away (which is why there’s always a duffel bag in my trunk with changes of clothes), and horns grow in a symmetrical pattern on my head. It's not the best description, but it's not like I was the nicest guy in the world when burning, so there weren't many people that came in contact with me that would want to have a chat with me afterwards. My other half was starting to bleed over into my control. Cruelty and viciousness were breaking through, even when I wasn't burning. My false sense of control was slipping and almost drove me to hurt my mom. I knew there was a problem, but it had such a strong control over me that it didn’t really matter to me. The whispering disjointed voice inside was making decisions for me. I never want that again. Sweet Vic helped me when I started to become feral. Even after a short burn, I was losing myself. She’s the one that taught me the meditation techniques. She also taught me how to tap into my power, but not fully be consumed by it, gaining little bursts of enhancement when I need it most. She did this by helping me to imagine my demon as not another entity, but an extension of myself. Caging the mental and embracing the physical. I really do owe that woman a lot.

I turn on the shower, strip off my clothes, stick a hand in and hallelujah--the water is nice and warm. I hop in and scream a little too high pitched. It turned ice cold in a matter of seconds. Though the shower was cold, the heat has kicked on in the house. It makes my bedroom warmer than my shower was. I lay out some clothes so there’s no need to pick up shirts from the floor and sniff them for freshness in the morning.

I check my phone for any missed calls or messages before setting my alarm. To my surprise, there's a message from an unknown number. It reads: ‘Hey Mike! This is Anna and this is my number. I wanted to thank you again for helping me home and watching over me until I woke up. That was some next level friendship stuff. I'm sorry, I must've gotten you sick. Hope you feel better. See you tomorrow at work!’

I'm glad she seems okay. I'll sleep easier knowing that all the toxins have left her system. Tomorrow will be a lot with work in the morning, then trying to get some answers. I set my alarm, lay the phone on my nightstand. Finally settling into bed, I close my eyes and start to drift off. I open my eyes when I hear a loud crash and a whisper in my ear.

“I'll swallow your soul.”

Was that a deadite?