Through the Wall

"I don't know," you say, which is true. "He was looking at you like a problem he'd already solved. I didn't like it."

Nyx laughs, a small broken sound. The violet in her eyes flickers. "That's very sweet. That's very stupid. Both. You should have told him."

"Who is he?"

"Close the door, Ethan," she says. "Please. And lock it. Both locks."

You do. When you turn back, she's sitting on the floor of the hallway with her back against the wall and her knees up, as if her legs simply quit. You sit across from her. The hallway is narrow enough that your sneakers almost touch her socks.

"I'm going to tell you something," she says, "and you're going to think I'm unwell. That's fine. Just let me finish before you call anyone."

"Okay."

"Promise."

"I promise, Nyx."

She looks at her hands. In the violet light they look like porcelain. "There's a word for what I am. It's an ugly word, and it was made up by frightened priests a long time ago, and it's mostly wrong. But it's the word you'll know." She takes a breath she doesn't seem to need. "Succubus."

You wait for the punchline. It doesn't come.

"You don't eat," you say slowly.

"Not food."

"So what do you..."

"Want." She lifts her eyes to yours. "I live on being wanted. Desire. The warmth that comes off a person when they look at someone and think yes. It's not blood, it's not your soul, it doesn't hurt. People give it off all the time, in bars, on trains, in line at the pharmacy. For a long time I lived on what they gave off without thinking about it. A crowd is a buffet. A man who looks at me across a room is a sandwich." Her mouth twists. "Sorry. That's crude."

"It's clear," you say faintly.

"Here is the part that matters. If I feed on someone who doesn't know what I am, who hasn't said yes, it leaves a mark. A hook. They keep wanting, after. Not me, exactly. The wanting itself. It bends them." She presses her palms flat on her knees. "I've seen what that does to a person. So fourteen months ago, I stopped. I don't feed on strangers anymore. I don't feed on anyone who doesn't know and say yes."

"And how many people know?"

"Counting you?" A pause. "One."

You stare at her. "Fourteen months. You haven't eaten in fourteen months."

"Not properly. A crumb here and there. Standing in the back of a concert, letting the warmth wash past without taking hold of anyone. It's like trying to live on the smell of bread." She smiles, thin. "So yes. I'm starving. And when we starve, we glow. It leaks. The hungrier I am, the brighter I get, and the brighter I get, the easier I am to find."

"By him."

"By him. They call themselves Lampkeepers. Old families, very devout, very patient. They make lamps out of a special glass that burns blue near hunger like mine. They find us. They put us in a circle of those lamps where we can't feed at all." She looks at the ceiling. "And they wait."

The radiator ticks. Somewhere downstairs, Mrs. Wieczorek's television applauds.

"Last night," you say. "When I held you. Did you..."

"No." It comes out fast and fierce, and her eyes flare. "No. I swear to you. I took nothing. You were warm, that's all. Body warmth, the plain kind, like standing near a stove. It helped me think. It didn't feed me. I would never. Not from you. Not without..." She stops. Her jaw works. "I would never."

You believe her. You're not sure why. Maybe because she looks more afraid of the idea than you are.

"Why here?" you ask. "Why my room? You could rent anywhere for twenty-one hundred a month."

She doesn't answer for a long time. Then she pulls her sleeves down over her fingers and says, very quietly, like a person putting a heavy box down on a table: "There's one more thing. You should know it before you decide whether to throw me out."

"Okay."

"I can feel you."

You blink. "Feel me."

"When you think about me. When you want me, even a little, even if you don't mean anything by it." She won't look at you now. "It comes through. Like a knock on a wall. Warm. I don't go looking for it, I can't turn it off, and I don't take it. But I feel it."

Your face goes hot. "How often," you say, before you can stop yourself.

"Today?" She closes her eyes. "Nine times."

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

"Once this morning at the table, when I lied about blood sugar. Twice at the lab, I think, it was far away and faint. Once on the bus. Four times this afternoon in a row, which was difficult for me, I had to lie down. Once just now, when he said striking, and you got angry on my behalf." She opens her eyes, and the violet is so bright it hurts to look at. "It's not your fault. I'm not accusing you. You're allowed to think whatever you think. I just thought you should know that I know. It seemed unfair otherwise."

You stand up. You don't decide to. Your legs do it, the same way they did last night.

"I need a minute," you hear yourself say.

"Of course." She doesn't move from the floor. "Take as many as you like, Ethan."

You go into your room and shut the door and sit on the edge of your bed in the dark, staring at the wall. The wall you share with her. Plain white plaster, a nail hole where the last tenant hung a calendar, ten inches between your room and hers.

You try very hard not to think about her.

You fail almost immediately. You think about her hands. Her laugh in the hallway. Fourteen months. The way she said one.

On the other side of the wall, something shifts. A soft sound, a body settling against plaster.

Then your phone lights up on the nightstand.