The man was tired. He had spent most of the night making love to the girl. So pretty . . . What was her name again? Detelina. De-te-lina. Weird, he thought. His own name was Garth Harrison.

Sitting in the hotel lobby, he was impatiently waiting for Detelina to come downstairs. He wished she’d check out already so he could rush to the front desk and cancel that checkout as soon as she stepped away. Then he’d have the room to himself. It was a very nice hotel room—Detelina must be fairly well off to have taken him to such a posh place at a moment’s notice. It was too bad she didn’t carry much cash in her wallet. That was a bummer. But the sex had been great.

Sitting in the lobby, he people-watched, trying to identify a potential next partner. None apparent, he stretched and resigned himself to waiting.

There she was!

The luscious blonde looked flushed and lost as she went through the motions at the front desk. As soon as she exited, he darted over and arranged to retain “their” room for an extra two hours, for a disarmingly charming grin and a small fee.

Bingo.

Once back upstairs, he threw his bag to the floor and pulled off his clothes then climbed under the sheets.

Yet for some reason he couldn’t sleep. He just lay there, suddenly lost in nostalgic reminiscences. Who, or what, did this woman remind him of? There had been so many, over his forty-eight years. Hundreds upon hundreds. He remembered none. Well . . . he did remember a few. The very few he wished he could have gotten to know . . . yes, that was it; she reminded him of the first one of those. Morella, another name he had thought strange, at the time. She had the most mesmerizing eyes, Ms. Morella, and had seemed like a genuinely nice person.

He turned to his side and tried to sleep.

He’d been plagued by sad reflections of late. Something was happening to his body. He wasn’t the same, not exactly. Something in him, an intuition, told him he didn’t have that much longer left to live. Of course, that had to be nonsense. He was perfectly healthy, as that doctor had recently verified.  He winced at the memory of her. The things he had to do, sometimes . . . ! He didn’t like overweight women.

So it was probably more philosophical than just a question of physical health, he had to admit to himself. The thing was, he was sad. Sad that he was forty-eight, and could never know anyone’s love, or even friendship . . . Or even share a memory of good times together.

No, sleep wasn’t happening. With a subdued sigh, he got up and stretched in front of the mirror.

He didn’t look a day older than twenty-six, he thought. He flexed his muscles and sized up the day-old stubble on his square chin that gave him a rugged appearance. He was so attractive. Tall and dark, with piercing black eyes, large shoulders, chiseled pecs. And perfect eight-pack abs.

But what good were his looks to him, really?

Sometimes he’d cry. Especially when he was younger. Back when it first came to light that no one could ever retain any memory of him.

He furrowed his brow. The memory of that day came back to him, clear and painful. He was seventeen years old, his sister by his side, sitting on the front steps of the police station. They had run away together, given that their parents no longer recognized either one of them. Afraid and homeless and hungry . . .

No! Absolutely not. He would not go back into the pain. He’d made a good enough life for himself; he played the hand he’d been dealt. Hell, he played it really well. No woman could resist his magic words, or his magic touch. He smirked and went back to bed. But his mind kept racing.

It had been fun, too. Lots of fun, especially when he was younger. Lots of fun…that only he remembered.

Because no one retained any memory of Garth past twenty-four hours. Such had been the case ever since he’d turned seventeen. He could never find work for longer than a day. Despite his stunning physique, he could not be on a billboard or a magazine: No one would remember hiring him, or recall any ads he might have been seen in. He could not have friends or even acquaintances. He would wake up next to a girl and she’d scream at finding a stranger at her side. Not that he let that happen anymore: He always got out before.

On the other hand, he had such irresistible power over women, which he knew had to be supernatural, beyond his physical attraction. He had tried to think about it a few times, but thinking had never been his strength. So he gave it up a long time ago, and just accepted his situation as it was.

Such had been his life. A couple of women a week, furnishing him with a place to stay for the night and whatever cash they had in their wallet. He didn’t like going through their wallets. Took him long enough to stoop to that level, but at some point he’d gotten tired of wearing old clothes and not having enough to eat. At some point, he decided to just play the hand he had been dealt.

Garth believed himself unique. He knew his sister had the same powers, but he’d lost track of her that day they ended up at the police station. He also didn’t know there was a name for people like him.

Garth Harrison was an Incubus.