Incubus

by Carol Goodman

  “Have you been ill?” she asked, pouring tea from a china pot into my cup. “You look like you’ve lost weight.”

  “I had a … bug,” I said, taking a sip of the strong smoky tea. “But I’m fine now. And there’s something I need to discuss …”

  “I do hope you’re taking care of yourself up there,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard my reply. “Schools can be such a breeding ground of germs, especially with all the foreigners Liz Book lets in. I hear you had a bit of a run-in with one of the immigrants.”

  I wondered if she meant Liam or Mara – and I also wondered who her informant was – but I wasn’t about to take the bait. “I would think you would have more sympathy with people who were forced to leave their homes. Your grandfather, Hiram Scudder, had to leave Fairwick.”

  Adelaide smiled. “Good girl. I wondered how long it would take you to find out. But please, don’t confuse your great-great-great-grandfather Hiram to the flotsam and jetsam that wind up on our shores and expect a free handout. Hiram rebuilt the family fortune in a single generation. But look at those pathetic Ballards! Still moldering away in their big old mansion.”

  “Because Hiram cursed them. And you’ve allowed the curse to continue. Poor Nicky had nothing to do with what her great-great grandfather did to Hiram Scudder.”

  “Did you discover in your research what happened to Hiram’s wife, Adele? Your great-great-grandmother.”

  “Yes,” I said, chastened. “She killed herself. I’m sure that was awful …”

  “Her daughter, my mother, found her hanging from the chandelier in the front parlor. She was never a … happy woman after that. And it was all Bertram Ballard’s fault.”

  “But it wasn’t Nicky’s fault. She’s an innocent girl, just as your mother was an innocent victim.”

  A flicker of emotion passed across Adelaide’s face. The fine lines around her eyes creased, her lower lip trembled. Was she about to cry? I’d never seen my grandmother shed a tear. But if she had been close to tears she quickly gained control of herself.

  “It’s not up to me to remove the curse. Only the youngest of the family can do that.”

  “You mean I could remove the curse?”

  Adelaide smiled. “Only if you accepted your rightful place here at the Grove.”

  “You want me to join the Grove?”

  Adelaide laughed, all trace of the sentiment she’d been on the verge of displaying a moment ago gone. “You needn’t make it sound like I’m asking you to join the Mafia! The Grove is an honorable and venerable institution. Look around you …” She waved a diamond-bejeweled hand at the three stories of leather-bound books, the brass railings shining in the firelight. “Membership comes with many amenities: a lovely place to stay when you’re in the city, connections to well-placed women in business and academia – and men; we’ve just aligned with a very elite men’s club in London which has most impressive accommodations and membership – and, best of all, access to this library. You’d be amazed what knowledge you can find among these books.”

  I looked up at the leather-bound tomes. The gilt on their spines seemed to wink at me with promises of secrets held within their covers. “I wouldn’t have to do anything harmful to join – like sacrifice anyone?”

  Adelaide laughed. “We haven’t even sacrificed animals since the eighteenth century.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “But what exactly would my membership obligations entail?”

  “Dues are one thousand dollars a year,” she said briskly. “You have to attend quarterly Council meetings on Samhain, Winter Solstice, Beltane and Summer Solstice which will be held this year in Fairwick so it’ll be convenient for you. Oh … and you do have to perform some community service.”

  “What kind of community service?” I asked suspiciously. I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be visiting nursing homes or reading to the blind.

  “It differs with each member. As your nominating member I decide what’s appropriate. I’ve come up with the perfect job for you.”

  I shuddered to think what that could be, but I braced myself and asked.

  “I’d like you to be the Grove’s confidential intelligence provider at Fairwick College.”

  “You mean a spy.”

  “Call it what you like. You’ve seen how poorly supervised the campus is and what dangers can ensue with the college’s proximity to the door to Faerie. There’s long been a feeling here at the Grove that we need to take a more active hand in monitoring the traffic between worlds. Someone has to. That’s why the Council meeting is to be held there this year.”

  “Don’t you already have spies there?”

  “Yes, but we’re no longer sure how reliable that intelligence is. Agents tend to go … native at Fairwick. Of course it’s arguable that you already have, but my proposal to the board was that you’ve had first-hand experience with ‘hostile foreigners.’ I think you’ll provide an honest report of what occurs at Fairwick.”

  “And the Council accepted your proposal?”

  “The Council has never turned down a member I nominated.”

  “How would the information I provided be used?” I asked. “I couldn’t allow anyone to come to harm because of my say-so.”

  “No one would come to harm who hadn’t harmed a human. You’ll find we’re quite fair at the Grove. So what do you say?”

  I considered. I hated the idea of spying on my friends and colleagues but I hated more the prospect of Nicky Ballard falling victim to an ancient curse. Besides, Adelaide did have a point. Things were out of control at Fairwick. Maybe the college needed a guiding hand. If my decision was at all swayed by the fact that now I’d get to stay at Fairwick close to where Liam still lingered, well, I couldn’t help that, could I?

  “Okay,” I said, “I’ll do it. As long as you promise to tell me how to lift the curse.”

  “Certainly. I just need you to lay your hand on this book and repeat after me.”

  She indicated a slim volume that lay on the table. I laid my hand on it. The worn leather was warm to the touch.

  “I hereby avow that I, Cailleach McFay, will abide by the rules and regulations of the Grove. In exchange I will be given the secret of the Ballard curse.”

  I repeated the words. The leather grew warmer as I spoke and the gilt on the cover began to glow. The branches of the gold tree appeared to sway and the leaves crinkled up and flew away – a shower of sparks – into the fire. One of those sparks landed on my wrist. I drew my hand away and batted at the burning cinder but it had already sunk into my skin, leaving a mark in the shape of a tree.

  “Hey, you didn’t tell me it would leave a mark?”

  “It’ll fade,” she said dismissively. “But its power won’t. Now come. The Council is waiting. Everyone is so excited to meet you.”

  True to Adelaide’s word, the mark on my wrist faded and my initiation involved no slain animals or satanic rites. Rather, it involved a short swearing-in ceremony during which I was given a grimoire of novice spells including a family curse reversal. Afterward there was a good deal of champagne and pleasant chatter with a group of lovely, sophisticated women – some of whom I recognized as prominent figures in publishing, television, and journalism – and a few men – all tall, good-looking blonds who came from the London club now aligned with the Grove. One of the women was Jen Davies. She was, I realized, the dark haired woman I’d glimpsed at the Oak Bar the last time I’d been to the club. Toward the end of the cocktail hour she managed to get me aside for a word.

  “I wanted you to know that I’m sorry about outing your friend to the press. It was my initiation community service and I thought, fine, why not expose a lying upper-class prat. But since I’ve gotten to know her …”

  “Know her?” I asked.

  “I’ve been visiting her at McLean. She’s doing very well and attending a writing workshop there. Working on a ‘novel’ now – a fantasy novel about witches and fairies. She just got a brilliant contract. Irony is, eve
ry word is true, but it’ll sell as fiction.”

  I knew I had to visit Phoenix. She was owed an explanation. It hadn’t been my incubus who had driven her over the edge, it had been Mara, feeding on her until she was weakened. And the demon that Phoenix had seen outside the day she was taken away to McLean – well, that was probably Mara, too.

  “Anyway,” Jen continued, “I wasn’t happy about being made an instrument of torture. A lot of the younger members aren’t happy with the old ways here: the knee-jerk prejudice against fairies and demons, the whole anti-immigration stance. We’ve formed a small ad hoc group to affect change. If you’re interest in joining …”

  By the end of the evening I’d agreed to attend an informal (and secret) meeting of the group Jen called “Sapling.” As I made my way unsteadily up the stairs to my room my head was spinning with champagne and the multitudinous warring allegiances I’d have to balance in the coming months. My life was going to be very complicated. When I opened the door to my room I realized just how complicated. Sitting in the blue moiré chair by the window, sipping a glass of champagne, was Anton Volkov.

  I opened my mouth to scream, but then closed it. Who would come to my aid here at the Grove? Then I noticed that Anton Volkov was wearing a tie clip embossed with the insignia of the Grove.

  “You’re a member?” I asked coming into the room. “But I thought the Grove didn’t admit supernatural creatures?”

  “They don’t admit fairies and demons. We nocturnals were among those who remained neutral during the Great Division. As a result we’ve been able to provide many useful services for both groups. But I’m not a member, I’m merely an associate.”

  “You’re the informant!” I said, sinking down onto the foot of the bed.

  “I prefer to think of myself as a liaison between the Grove and Fairwick.”

  “Uh huh. Then what are you doing here? Have you come to collect on our deal?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking. Anton was close enough that I could feel the magnetism of his presence. And he was close enough that it would be the work of a minute for him to attack and drain me dry. I realized that I didn’t want to be attacked and drained dry. I wanted to live. Whatever despair and nihilism that had come over me after I’d banished Liam, it was gone.

  “Look,” I said, “you told me you wouldn’t do anything I didn’t agree to and I don’t want to … get bitten … or become a vampire.”

  Anton smiled and leaned forward in his chair. He touched one finger to my throat, just below my ear and traced a line down to my collarbone. I shivered.

  “Pity … but that’s not what I was going to ask for. What I want … what we, the nocturnals of Fairwick, want is a spokesperson at the Grove. An ally who will attest to our ‘good behavior.’ You’ll be reporting to the Grove on the activities at Fairwick. We merely want to be sure you report that we are behaving according to the guidelines of The Grove. That we only drink from adult, willing non-glamoured volunteers and that we’re not turning anyone into vampires.”

  “But if you are obeying all those rules, why do you need to make a special deal with me to report the truth?”

  He shrugged and put down his empty champagne glass. I noticed that there were red lip marks on the brim of the glass as if left by lipstick, but I didn’t think they came from lipstick.

  “Let’s just say that an extra word in our favor from a doorkeeper might come in handy in the future. We suspect that relations between the Grove and Fairwick are heading for a crisis. We fear that the Grove’s power is growing, while Fairwick’s is waning. We don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.”

  He got to his feet and extended his hand. “What do you say? Do we have a deal?”

  I took his hand, which was icy to the touch. I considered whether this was something I desired. And then I realized how much it would piss off my grandmother.

  “Yes,” I told him. “We’ve got a deal.”

  Driving back to Fairwick the next day through the pouring rain I thought about all the secrets I would have to keep in the coming months: Frank’s cover, Soheila’s succubus nature, my membership at the Grove, the deal I’d made with the vampires … For a girl who’d always valued the truth I’d be telling a lot of lies.

  But at least I got to tell one truth. I’d spent half the night reading my new grimoire, paying special attention to the section on reversing a family curse. I’d been surprised and relieved to find out that it didn’t involve any bloody sacrifices or burnt offerings. It required only that I speak one sentence to Nicky and mean it:

  I forgive the pain your family gave to my family and release you from the pain we’ve given you.

  Pretty simple. Nicky would probably think I’d gone off my rocker when I said it.

  I pulled up in front of Honeysuckle House, thinking about the power of forgiveness and the pain we unknowingly cause others. In my head I heard the last question Liam had asked me.

  Is a lie really the worst thing if it’s told out of love?

  I looked at my house for a few moments before getting out of the car. It was a little worse for wear after the long winter – there were tiles missing from the roof and the trim around the eaves could do with a fresh coat of paint. And I really should replace the shutters. But there were also daffodils coming up in the front beds and the honeysuckle shrubs were filling out with tender green buds. This was my home now – for better or worse. My great-great-grandfather had set out from here a bitter and broken man, but somehow I’d found my way back and somehow, against all odds, I’d landed on my feet.

  I got out, but instead of going inside I cut across the lawn and walked though a gap in the trees onto the path. The ground was damp from the rain, but at least the snow was gone. I followed the trail to the glade in the middle of the honeysuckle thicket. The twisted branches were stained dark by rain. Against the new trembling green they looked like stained glass windows.

  Like a cathedral, Dahlia LaMotte had written at the end of The Dark Stranger when Violet Grey and William Dougall find each other in a secluded glade in the forest. In the published book the scene ends with Violet accepting Dougall’s offer of marriage. In the handwritten manuscript there were a few additional lines.

  I turned from my earthly lover and watched my demon lover rise in the mist beyond the trees. I could see longing in his face, a longing matched in my own sinews and veins. If he called to me, I would follow. But he didn’t call to me. He lifted a hand – in parting or benediction I’d never know – and then he vanished into the shadows from which he came.

  A fine mist rose from the ground, filling the arched doorway. I stepped closer and the mist parted for me, curled around me, and caressed my face. I felt it linger on the iron key I wore around my neck. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of sea air and honeysuckle.

  “No,” I said, answering the last question Liam had asked me. “A lie told out of love isn’t the worst thing.”

  Then, my face damp from the mist, I turned around and went home.

  An interview with

  author Carol Goodman

  You’ve written a number of critically acclaimed literary thrillers and Incubus seems to mark a real change of direction for you as a writer; where did the inspiration for the novel come from?

  I was possessed by a demon lover … okay, not actually possessed, but it felt like that. I had been walking in a nearby woods that was overgrown with honeysuckle shrubs and I began to think about a house on the edge of such a woods that was possessed by an incubus. Once I started writing the book, I did feel as if I were possessed. I wrote it in half the time I usually take to write a book. Also, I’d like to point out that I’ve always written about fairy tales … it’s just that in Incubus the fairies are real.

  Are you a fan of paranormal fiction? Who do you like to read?

  Yes, I was a fan of paranormal fiction before it was called that. Growing up I was obsessed with the TV series Dark Shadows and read anything that had a vampire in it, from Dracula to
the early Anne Rice novels, back when there weren’t so many books with vampires. I fell in love with urban fantasy when I read Emma Bull’s The War For The Oaks and Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman. The contemporary paranormal writers I like best are Charlaine Harris, Karen Marie Moning and, most recently, Deborah Harkness.

  True Blood or Twilight?

  I liked them both, but if I had to choose: True Blood. I think it’s one of the best urban fantasy series out there.

  So, Eric or Bill?

  Eric.

  And Edward or Jacob?

  Edward.

  Fairwick is such a wonderfully imagined town; is it based on a real place (albeit peopled by supernaturals) or did it spring entirely from your imagination?

  Like most of the places I create it’s an amalgam of real places and my imagination. Fairwick started with a walk I took on an estate in Long Island that was overrun with honeysuckle shrubs. Then I added a Victorian house I’d seen on a trip to a town in upstate New York, added a bit of another town I’d visited … and a couple of the college campuses I was visiting with my daughter who was applying to college at the time. Now it mostly resides in my imagination, but I’ll recognise bits of it in the outside world and incorporate those bits into my internal geography. There’s a house nearby that I now refer to as “Lura’s House” (Lura’s a character in the next Fairwick book: The Water Witch.) I’d been writing about it flooding and then I drove by and saw that the water in the creek behind it was actually rising and threatening to flood the house and I had this very strange sensation of my real and fictional worlds colliding.

  If you could choose to be a ‘supernatural’ would you? And what form would you take?

  I think the lesson we learn through thinking about the alternatives to being human is that no matter how alluring those alternatives there’s always a catch. In the long run I think I’d prefer to hold onto my humanity.