Free Succubus On Top by Richelle Mead

eat unnoticed proved futile, as I soon found myself surrounded by a group of women. I didn’t know where they’d come from. One minute I was just eating, the next minute six perfect faces were smiling at me. They were like a pack of wild dogs, yipping nonstop, honing in on lone prey. They’d even managed to separate me from Bastien, all the better to tear me apart. The incubus now stood across the room with a similarly ravenous group of men, no doubt discussing cigars and lawn mowers. I shot him a panicked look, but he merely shrugged.
    â€œMitch’s sister,” oozed one of the women. “I should have known! You guys look exactly alike.”
    â€œWell, not exactly alike,” tittered another. She wore an appliqué sweater vest. Yikes.
    â€œWe were just talking about stamping. Do you stamp, Tabitha?”
    â€œUm, like use stamps?” I asked with a frown. “I mean, I mail things . . .”
    The Stepford Wives giggled again at this. “Oh! That’s so funny.”
    â€œWe mean rubber stamps. Arts and crafts stamps,” explained one of them. She’d introduced herself as Jody—the only name I could remember among the group. Probably because she seemed to have a slightly higher IQ than the rest. And was the only one of us without blond hair. “You use them to decorate things.”
    She dug into her purse and produced a small invitation on beautiful ivory cardstock. Scrolling vines and flowers decorated the front.
    â€œThis is the invitation Dana made for this party.”
    I stared. “Seriously?”
    Somehow I’d imagined the “Great Job!” kind of stamps that teachers used on well-written papers. This was beautifully inked and in different colors. It looked professional, like something from Hallmark.
    â€œMitzi’s having a stamp party next week,” exclaimed one of the other women. “We could show you how to do it.”
    â€œOoh . . . that would be so fun!”
    â€œYes! Let’s!”
    â€œGee, it looks kind of time-consuming,” I told them, wishing desperately that I was somewhere else. I was sure I could have held my own in a cigar and lawn mower conversation better than a stamping one. “I don’t think I have the time.”
    â€œOh, but it’s so worth it,” one assured me earnestly. She wore earrings that spelled ALOHA in dangling letters. “Betsey and I made bridal-shower invitations for her sister all day yesterday, and the time flew by.”
    â€œDid you use those cute dove stamps?” cooed another, not unlike a dove herself. “I spent all Tuesday looking for those at the mall.”
    â€œDon’t you guys work?” I asked, wondering at their frequent use of “all day.” A century ago, I wouldn’t have given it a thought. But this was the age of the so-called modern woman. We weren’t supposed to lounge around in parlors anymore and pass out from wearing corsets.
    They turned to me, mouths agape.
    â€œWell, there’s so much to do around the house,” Jody finally said. “Most of us are too busy with those things.”
    Like stamping?
    â€œBesides,” laughed Bitsy or Muffin or whatever the hell her name was, “it’s not like we need to. Do you have a job?”
    â€œWell, yeah . . .”
    â€œWhat’s your husband do?”
    â€œOh. I’m not married.”
    This got more stares, and then suddenly they erupted with ideas and suggestions of “perfect single men” who worked with their husbands.
    I had to get out of here. Either that or render myself unconscious with the wrought-iron pig wearing an apron that sat on the kitchen table.
    I turned anxiously to Jody. “Didn’t I hear there was a pool somewhere?”
    She brightened. “There sure is. I’ll show you.”
    We extracted ourselves from the others, and she led me toward the back of the house.
    â€œSorry if they’re a little