Making Love

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Making Love Page 8

by Aidan Wayne

“Yes, I’ve been using your reports to make further inquiries of our own. And I’m sorry to say that it appears as though our equipment was never calibrated to include succubi and incubi Sparks. Primarily because of prejudices and conflicting, ah, personalities.”

  “I knew it.” Carla clapped her hands. “My, um, my main source was pretty specific on the feelings that a lust-clouded mind can induce. Since we never accounted for those overriding emotions that also addle logic, we missed all the Sparks underneath.”

  Angel nodded. “I’m having a team of Matchmakers update our database as we speak, to include any of the species that ping for Spark potential. I’m planning on releasing statements to encourage them to approach the agency now. There will have to be a screening to better determine Sparks, but I don’t believe the majority of the species will attempt to take advantage of the new system.”

  Carla thought back to how wistful Leeta had been over the idea of really, finally getting a match and shook her head. “I’d think that we would pretty much only be approached by the romantically inclined. In fact, I think it might take some doing to actually get them to come in. There’s, um, there’s a lot of deep-seated feelings on their side too.”

  “Yes,” Angel said, smiling again. “Which is why I would like part of your new duties to be heading our new Incubi and Succubi Outreach Program.”

  Carla gasped. “I— Me?”

  “Our motto is that everyone is deserving of love. And we’ve let this exclusion go for far, far too long. I feel that your open nature and blossoming abilities to read situations and chemistry make you the best fit for the job. Put simply: you were the first one to give them the proper chance at all. And, due to your current situation, you’re also in one of the best positions to begin outreach. Congratulations on the match, by the way.” The smile grew. “It wasn’t the outcome I was expecting, but it certainly isn’t bad news.”

  Carla blushed to the roots of her hair. “Thank you.”

  “Of course,” Angel said, “working on the I&S Outreach Program will require you to work hand-in-hand with Matchmakers, simply because we know so little about incubi and succubi Sparks.”

  “I understand,” Carla said. And, really, she didn’t even mind so much. Helping romantically inclined succubi and incubi find love was so much more important than making True Love matches on her own. “I’ll do my best!”

  “That being said . . . I would like to see your newfound chemistry aptitude in the field. You’re still one of our best shots, and even though I’d like to eventually see you specialized, right now the best thing we can do is continue with your training to hone your skills.”

  Carla swallowed, scarcely able to believe it. Was Angel really saying . . .?

  “I’d like you to go on another shoot. On your own.”

  Carla’s eyes widened. “No Matchmaker?”

  Angel smiled. “All you. I’d like to reassess your skills. From your reports, you’ve clearly realized an understanding of chemistry. The agency would like to see that in action.” Angel slid a file across the desk.

  “I’ll go get my quiver!”

  After hurriedly making another appointment to start discussing the I&S Outreach Program, Carla zoomed away at what was, frankly, probably an unsafe speed to fly indoors, Tristan’s laughter following behind her. She retrieved her quiver and bow and made it to her desk in record time, before reverently picking up the file for the Random Match.

  Jerrell, human, age twenty-seven, pinged at ready for a Sweetheart match, with True Love potential. She read over his bio, then scanned the dates and times of where he’d be, and flew off, shrinking and going invisible on the way out.

  Once she got to the bakery where Jerrell worked, she spent some time just watching him, listening to how he interacted with his coworkers, paying attention to how he obviously cared about the baked goods he made, how it was clear he cared even more that people would eat and enjoy them.

  When an older, dark-haired man rolled in on a low-backed wheelchair, cheerfully greeted as “Doc” by everyone behind the counter, Carla squinted, worrying her lips between her teeth. Something was going to happen here. She could feel it.

  Doc went to a table with a slice of pumpkin cheesecake, and, when he was finished, requested to give his compliments to the chef. The woman at the counter grinned and went back to call Jerrell out. Carla watched, attention rapt, as Doc caught sight of Jerrell, and his eyes just . . . softened.

  Before she could even think about it, she had drawn her bow and shot. Jerrell blinked, pausing, taking Doc in, then kept walking toward him.

  “Hi? Uh, I’m the pastry chef. Melody said you wanted to speak with me?”

  “Good to meet you,” Doc said, smiling and holding out his hand.

  Carla watched and listened, methodically taking notes, and it was only after Jerrell had smiled one last time and returned to his kitchen that she even thought to check the readings.

  Eighty-nine percent match for Sweetheart, with strong overtones of turning into more with time. The highest match reading she’d ever gotten. And she’d shot on a whim!

  Carla hugged herself and grinned. She couldn’t wait to tell Tristan, to write her report to Angel, to tell Leeta—everything. It looked like she was finally understanding chemistry after all. And all the things that came with it.

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  Aidan Wayne is a big believer in character-driven stories with happy endings. This is not to say that stories can’t contain a little (or a lot) of grief, just that at the end of it all, expect there to be bandages and hugs. They particularly like to write about minority characters because, damn it, they deserve happy endings too. When not writing, Aidan enjoys practicing aerial, martial arts, and ASL, and watching reality cooking shows. They are probably in the middle of twelve projects as you read this.

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