I hated him as soon as I saw him.

Emmanuel.

What the hell kind of name was that anyway?

And he wasn’t even French, to boot! I stared out of my window as the car drove up. It slid gracefully into an empty space along the sidewalk, before the door popped open.

At about the same time, I heard my front door close. In a second, my wife was skipping over to the visitor. She dodged agilely around her car, one arm lifted up into a cheerful wave. Emmanuel returned the gesture. He also came around the car. The two of them stopped there, chatting happily with each other.

I looked on from my window. Snow continued falling. The picture could have made for a pretty good holiday card at Hallmarks, but I was ready to spit bullets. I felt a little like the hellhound I had vanquished, all poisonous fumes and straining at my bonds to bite the first thing I saw. Still, I held myself in check (with remarkable self-restraint, if I do say so myself), and continued watching.

Emmanuel was a handsome Chinese man in a fashionable winter tunic, and he was chatting up my wife beneath my own window. He knew her from church, where he was a newcomer to Lin’s parish. I sent the old priest to look for an incubus, and he did not disappoint. Lin had given me a full report.

Emmanuel was a real-estate agent.

Shocker, I know; but in retrospect it should have bene obvious. House pricing in Toronto was such in 2025 that astronomical didn’t even begin to cover it. The reasons for the massively inflated prices were many. Suffice to say, everybody wanted in on the market, and now you couldn’t throw a dead cat off a roof in the GTA without hitting at least three real-estate agents, who will then ring your doorbell and sit on your porch until you agree to let them try to value your home to auction to foreign buyers with deep, deep pockets. Normally, this would not have raised any issues with me. In fact, selling at such a time would surely be a boon to our family portfolio.

Only—

I trained my eyes on Emmanuel again. He was tall, and he somewhat looked like me.

Actually, scratch that. Emmanuel looked like me when I looked like Clark August, and I hated that even more. His hair was combed, his eyes glittering from behind a pair of designer glasses that gave him a mild-mannered, scholarly look (note to self: Maybe Clark can do with a pair as well?).

He wore a similar coat in the same color and cut, and had long legs, which he crossed idly as he leaned against Mary’s car while talking with her. He had his hands in his pockets, and wore the most languid, winning smile on his face. He said something which made her laugh, and I could have killed the fucker then.

They continued talking. Lin never did find out if Emmanuel was really an incubus. He had his own reservations, and they were well founded. Amongst all the women who frequented Lin’s church, Emmanuel certainly did seem to take an interest in Mary, but the jury was still out on whether this interest was personal and romantic, or merely business. I didn’t care anymore. As far as I was concerned, my un-life ended when I learned Mary was leaving me.

She was going to sell our house.

Lin heard it himself.

He had looked ashamed when he told me—not from the information, but rather the amount of eavesdropping he had to do to get it. He took my assignment to heart, and shadowed Emmanuel (fucker) as best he could. People talk, and the old man had learned that while their association was possibly based on mutual attraction, it was also very unlikely. The incubus—which he was obviously not—approached my Mary and took an interest in her life’s story. Eventually, he persuaded her that the market was right. That had been what my wife was discussing with her mother before; and why Emmanuel was even mentioned at all. In my heart, I knew they both approved. The Yams wanted her—us—to move up north with them into the suburbs. They had wanted it before I was deployed overseas, and the conversation always revolved around the fact that now that we were married, a bigger house (with a yard) wouldn’t go amiss for our eventual children.

Now, apparently, that decision was made.

I was scared.

You would be too, in my position.

I had no parents of my own, and was living with foster parents when the Yams moved into my neighborhood. When they passed (in a freak boating accident), thankfully, I was already old enough to vote. The Yams picked up right where they left off, but I didn’t start dating Mary until well into my college years. Still, they have been a part of my life for so long that I had already been accepted into their family long before our inevitable romance took off.

And now—

I couldn’t fathom the thought.

I continued watching. Beneath my very eyes, Emmanuel the real-estate agent came forward. I cursed his name and his face as it showed from atop the tall collars of his coat. Inside, I saw a black turtleneck. He didn’t look up. My wife was talking energetically to him, and he nodded at everything she said. He mouthed the right responses and she laughed again. Mary turned around just then. She pointed back at the house—coincidentally, at the very window where I was standing. Emmanuel followed her gaze. I could read lips but didn’t need to, to know what they were saying to each other.

She was telling him about the newly replaced shutters on the windows, done in the California style; and he agreed that they should factor into things when he came in to value our house. I think she was finally ready to move on.

I just didn’t know if I was still invited along for the ride when she chose to do so.

If it sounds petty.

And it probably was.

No matter what the situation really was, to mortal eyes I was on life support. The situation was hopeless, and after so many years, no one would begrudge my family for wanting to pull the plug. I narrowed my eyes as their conversation wound up. Mary was giggling. She had a type—tall, leggy, and bookish (with a pair of glasses to boot)—and Emmanuel fit the bill perfectly. Years ago, so did I. I also played the piano and Mary loved listening to me play. Probably this fucker too, judging by his long, agile fingers. He put one to his own temple as if telling her he would think about it, and she nodded and said her goodbyes. She unlocked the car door, and he opened it for her gallantly. He swept her inside before closing it after her. The engine rumbled to life.

She was still waving at him as she backed the car out of the driveway. Her Honda slid past his gleaming black sedan, and moved into traffic. He dawdled for a time.

Fine by me. I still had unfinished business with him.

~

The Prophet was gone from my mind. The hellhound, also.

The magic to make a whole world into a living prison; Lin and Alejandro and the Yams; all were now secondary concerns. My focus was on Emmanuel. I watched him stand on my vacant driveway, and an evil smile crawled over my lips.

I wanted him to suffer.

I wanted him embarrassed.

I wanted him humbled.

Humiliated.

I was going to fuck.

Him.

Up.

It was the worst sort of projection, and I readily admit it. I was placing my woes, my struggles and (yes!) my fears upon this man who was, by all accounts, only trying to make a living for himself. Yet, in my eyes he was a vulture here to pick over the remains of my life. I contemplated my options.

As an invincible spirit wielding incomprehensible magic, I could do practically anything I wanted to him. I could take Emmanuel over, possess the body of this handsome monster who looked upon our house with the evaluating look of a hungry wolf; and then, well, what shall I do to punish him for his insolence, eh?

Emmanuel whipped out his expensive smartphone. He probably wanted to take a few pictures of the residence for his agency’s website. I was going to make him drop it. Just hurl it at the concrete and throw two grand into the wind. Then, I was going to make him strip naked, and dance an impromptu jig on my driveway while spreading his ass-cheeks towards the street for good measure. As a final measure of my revenge, I was going to make Emmanuel watch as he slashed the tires on his luxury car. That’s before I sent him running into oncoming traffic.

Well, maybe not that last one.

Not yet.

I didn’t lose my head over my pettiness. I was after a small session of lesson-teaching, and not capital punishment. I foresaw a strange turn of events this morning for Emmanuel, followed by, probably, a doctor’s referral to a psychoanalyst. He wouldn’t even need to spend a dime on any of it—pills notwithstanding, Canadian healthcare has its benefits—and I think the trip is something he and I could both live with.

As it turned out, I didn’t get to do any of that.

As soon as I began the spell, Emmanuel looked up at the window, and shook his head sternly—

—at me.

He mouthed the word: No.

Then, as I was still reeling from what just happened, he held out a hand and curled his index finger inward.

Beckoning.

What could I do?

I could not possess this one.

He was protected by magic.

Magic that was old, powerful, and unfamiliar to me.

Magic that inspired dread and fear in me, because this was the first time something like this had ever happened, and I was at a loss as to what to do next.

What did I do next?

I went—

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