Morgan set her cup down. The ceramic made a harsh noise on the wooden table top. “What are you getting out of this?”
“Besides the pleasure of your company?” Riley countered pleasantly.
Morgan said nothing. Instead, she returned her gaze to the picture window where rain continued to beat down against the pane of glass.
Riley took the opportunity to inspect the other woman. Morgan had asked a very good question. What did she get out of this arrangement? Obviously if she and Morgan were having sex, she’d be benefitting from the energy and working toward her quota. But they weren’t having sex, and she was wasting energy. In fact, Riley wasn’t even convinced Morgan wanted her around. Most meetings were spent with Riley flirting and Morgan glaring her down.
“How do you know what I am?” Riley asked.
Morgan’s features troubled. “Most people don’t when you barge into their dreams?”
“No one’s ever known,” Riley emphasized. “For as long as I’ve been doing this, I’ve never encountered a lucid dreamer. Not like you.”
“And exactly how long have you been doing this, Succubus?”
“I have a name, you know.”
“Why should I care?” Morgan snapped, the bite in her tone visceral. “I’m sorry,” she immediately apologized. “That was rude of me.”
“It’s okay,” Riley shrugged. Her femininely muscled shoulders rose and fell beneath delicate lingerie. A single strap slipped down her shoulder with the movement, and she felt a hopeful surge when Morgan’s gaze fixed on the lightly tanned skin and down to the slight swell of the cleavage that poked above the demi-bra cups.
The words that came next were unexpected. “What’s your name?” Morgan asked.
• • •
London, 1998
Rillea Schroder thumbed through the book of names. “Rachel. Rain. Raleigh,” she recited out loud.
“Keep looking,” Heather urged.
“I underestimated how hard this was going to be.”
“Why the name change anyway?” Heather asked as she removed another book from its shelf at the London bookstore.
“I’m ready for a change,” Rillea said, not looking up from the book. “What do you think of Raquel?”
“I think your age is showing, Ms. Raquel Welch.” Heather smirked.
Rillea shrugged, nonplussed. “Don’t you mock me. That deer-skin bikini in One Million Years B.C.?” She waved her hand like a fan in front of her face. “Totally hot.”
“Let’s think of this name change as an upgrade,” Heather suggested. “You’re not just changing your name, you’re also updating your identity.”
“What was your birth name?” Rillea asked.
“Sahana Malik.” The syllables rolled off her tongue like honey.
“Pretty.”
“Thanks. I didn’t get to pick it though; that was all my parents’ doing.”
“How many times have you had to change your name?” Rillea asked.
“I’ve lost track,” Heather stated with a dismissive wave. “When I was first sired, I changed my name all the time. It was like a new identity for every mark. But then your president made changing one’s identity a hassle when he decided to create social security numbers,” she remarked, making a face.
“My president?” Rillea snorted. “Social security numbers were invented, like, during the Great Depression. I wasn’t even born then.”
“Well he wasn’t my president,” Heather protested. “I’m not even American. Oh!” She kept her finger pointed at the open page. “What about Reagan?”
A small woman, hunched with age, approached the two giggling women. “A baby!” After the initial excitement, the stranger sighed, eyes crinkling until they practically disappeared beneath wrinkles. “What a blessing. When are you due, dear?”
Heather blinked, unable to form words when she realized the eyeless woman was staring at her.
Rillea recovered faster than her friend. “It’s a Christmas baby,” she announced. “Actually, it’s twins,” she gleefully lied. She placed a hand on Heather’s flat abdomen.
The woman clapped her hands. “How lucky!”
“What the hell?” Heather slapped Rillea’s hand off of her stomach. “Do I look pregnant?” she hissed when the woman was out of earshot.
Rillea smirked. “Time to cut back on the fish and chips, mate.”
“It’s only because I look older than you, that’s all,” Heather sputtered. “She just thought you were too young to have gotten knocked up.”
“Oh, if only she knew,” Rillea said with a chuckle. After a moment, she shut the baby book and slid it back on the shelf. “Do you ever think about it? About having children?”
Heather visibly flinched. “When I was human, sure. It was a different time; a different place. Getting married and having children was what my family had expected of me. But now … what’s the point?”
“Well, you’re practically married to James,” Rillea pointed out. “So you’re halfway there.”
“I’m with James,” Heather agreed, “but as long as we’re both …” she dropped her voice, “… the way we are, babies are out of the question. What about you, Riles?” She turned the question on her friend. “You ever think about having kids?”
“Right,” Rillea snorted. “Like I’d ever be mom-material. You just want me to get fat.” Her lips twisted wistfully. “But to be serious, I don’t think I could do it.”
“You’re not that bad. I’m sure you could handle being a mom.”
“No, not that.” Rillea resisted elbowing her friend. “I don’t think I could sit back and watch my child grow older while I remained the same age. Watch them be vulnerable to disease while I remained impervious.”
“James’s mother is one of us,” Heather reminded her friend.
“Yeah, but look how well that turned out. James is the best,” Rillea quickly clarified, “but his mom is a total pill.”
Heather’s eyes glazed over as she scanned the titles of the other baby books in the bookstore section. “What do you think of the name Riley?”
Rillea let the name fall over her tongue a few times.
“It sounds like a boy.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Besides Amber’s or Heather and James’s apartment, Josh’s home was one place where Riley felt the most at ease. At times it felt more like home than even her own apartment. She and the Trusics web guru had only known each other since her move to Los Angeles, but their mutual love of junk food and video games had made them fast friends.
Both had their laptops on Josh’s kitchen table. Scattered across the surface was an assortment of junk food: gummy worms, coveted cheese puffs, half-eaten candy bars, and empty cans of energy drinks. Even though they were by themselves and the walls of Josh’s apartment were well insulated, each wore noise-canceling headphones.
They’d been losing all day at their latest game selection for first-person shooting, and Riley was livid. “He’s making his character dance over my corpse!” she complained into her microphone.
“He’s probably twelve. What do you expect?” Josh returned.
Riley keyed in a complicated series of moves, but her soldier died almost as soon as it had been respawned. She tossed off her headphones in frustration and grabbed a licorice to gnaw on while Josh continued to play by himself.
“I hope your clients never see this side of you,” Josh remarked, pulling off his own headphones. “It’s honestly scary.” The tip of his tongue made an appearance between his top and bottom row of teeth as he concentrated on taking out a sniper.
Riley furrowed her brow and chewed on the candy. “Heather’s marks might like it though.”
Josh cleared his throat uneasily, eyes still trained on his computer screen, and Riley smirked. For someone who worked where they did, Josh was innocent. If she wasn’t convinced it would break him, she would be tempted to corrupt him, even if it was only a little.
Riley reentered the game with renewe
d vigor.
“Hey, if I wanted to do some research on the company’s history, is there like a library or something we have access to?” She tried to keep her tone even so as to not arouse his suspicions.
“A library? Like with books? People still read those?” Josh’s entire body shifted in his chair as he rapidly tapped on his mouse. “I showed you how to use your e-reader once; do you need me to do it again?”
“Josh, I’m serious.”
Josh hazarded a brief glance in Riley’s direction. The succubus lost interest in the game again, and her character was quickly vanquished. “Okay, I’m listening.”
Riley pushed some candy-coated chocolate out of the way and leaned her elbows on the kitchen table. “I’ve been curious about our history—where we came from, why we do the things we do, and Trusics’s part in all of it.”
“I’ll see what I can find out, but you know I’m more of a computer guy. If it’s not powered by batteries or a cord, I’m not an expert.”
An obvious retort about battery-operated toys sprung to Riley’s mind, but she bit her tongue for Josh’s sake. “I appreciate it.”
Josh’s character fared no better than Riley’s, and after getting shot in the head, he shut his laptop and sighed. “We got our butts handed to us by tweens.”
“Old school?” Riley suggested instead.
Josh nodded.
Riley grabbed another handful of candy and popped something chocolate covered into her mouth. “Dust off the NES.”
• • •
Riley parked her car on the street as there was no proper parking lot adjacent to the nondescript brick building. She double-checked the address that Josh had procured for her. He hadn’t found a library, but he did find Trusics’s corporate archives. The collections were housed in an annexed building across town in a transitioning neighborhood. Riley gave her vehicle a withering look as she locked it; her surroundings gave her little faith that when she returned it wouldn’t be gutted or propped up on cinderblocks, not that her car was anything special.
After being so accustomed to the clinical, sterile ambiance of Trusics’s Los Angeles headquarters, the understated entryway of the corporate archives was a surprise. Pushing through two sets of glass entry doors, Riley was met with a blast of air conditioning and carpeting that had seen better days. The central lobby was poorly lit—unflattering halogen lights buzzed and flickered above. She examined her surroundings for confirmation that she was in the right place; she could have been at the DMV if not for the eerie silence. The room was vacant but for a reception desk against a far back wall. No one sat behind the desk to greet her. The only signage was a computer printout taped to the front of the faux wood paneling of the welcome desk. “No Public Bathrooms” it read. The reception counter itself was bare. No “Ring Bell for Service” or even a courtesy phone. Riley swiveled her head, on the lookout for even security cameras, but none were in sight.
“Hello?” she called out. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and waited.
In the background she heard the sound of a toilet flushing. A few moments later a door that Riley hadn’t noticed because it blended in with the wood paneling, opened. A squat woman who looked to be in her late fifties or early sixties waddled out. Her dress was ill-fitted and constructed of a stiff, blue material. It was more of a shift than a tailored dress, like one of those shapeless Parisian sack dresses so popular in the early 1960s. The woman adjusted her narrow glasses on her nose, looking unimpressed by Riley’s presence.
“Yes?” Her voice was gravelly. Riley imagined her name was Marge and that she was a smoker who bowled in a league on Thursday nights.
“Ah, is this … are these the archives for Trusics?”
The woman settled into an ergonomic chair with a long, tired whine. Riley flicked her eyes around the room. Her gaze bounced from the decor, to the tattered chair, and settled on the outdated box monitors. There was no way she was in the right place. Everything associated with Trusics was top-of-the-line with the most advanced technologies available. This couldn’t be her employer’s archives.
“That’s a nice ticker,” the woman acknowledged. “You must be doing pretty well for yourself.”
Riley instinctively covered her watch with her hand.
“You can’t be more than what—seventy-five years old?”
Riley’s eyes widened. “Uh … sixty-nine.” She supposed there would be a time when she’d stop counting, but until she reached a century old, she still felt a little self-conscious about her age.
The woman made a humming noise and peered over the tops of her reading glasses. “What can I help you with today?”
Riley scratched at her head. “I’m looking for more information on the company. The history?” She dropped her voice. “Our history?” She had never thought to ask these questions before, never thought to dig deeper into her own heritage, but contact with Morgan had planted a seed of curiosity. Why did she exist? What was her purpose? Was there any meaning to her existence or was she a small cog in a much larger, capitalistic machine? They had become the kind of needling questions that if she had required sleep would keep her up at night.
“Didn’t you read the handbook from the company orientation?”
“I did,” Riley confirmed. “I just want to know more. You know, precorporate.”
Riley felt herself shrinking under the archivist’s disapproving stare. She was about to recant everything she had said, but the woman spoke before she could.
“Follow me.”
The woman rose from her chair and turned to walk through the same hidden door from which she had originally come. Riley followed, close on her heels, worried the woman would change her mind and send her away if she hesitated. Behind the wood-paneled wall was another room of similar size and unfortunate 1970s business decor. Along an adjacent wall was a metal cage that turned out to be an elevator that looked original to the building. The woman—she had yet to give her name—pulled the metal gate back. It squeaked and complained as if it hadn’t been used in years.
The woman stepped inside the narrow lift. This time, however, Riley did hesitate.
“Well?” The archivist lifted an eyebrow.
Riley worried her bottom lip. “I don’t suppose there’s another way?”
The woman didn’t respond, but her continued aggravated silence was answer enough.
Riley steeled herself and slid into the narrow cage beside the much wider woman. When the caged door slid shut, Riley closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. For as far back as she could remember, she had never done well with small, enclosed spaces. Riley kept her eyes closed while the archivist manipulated the controls on the lift, and after what seemed like a painfully long time, the elevator began to slowly descend.
Riley continued to focus on her breathing, but she had begun to sweat down the small of her back. Her knees buckled the longer they remained trapped inside the small, ancient elevator, and she braced herself against a wall. Mercifully, the elevator finally came to a loud, abrupt stop, and the caged door swung free.
Riley rushed out of the compartment and into another room, not caring about the archivist’s judgment. She bent at the waist until her head was nearly between her knees while sucking in deep, gasping breaths.
“Are you okay?” The concerned voice was foreign to Riley’s ears.
She righted herself and twisted in the direction of the elevator. A woman, a different woman than the one who had been in the elevator with her, stepped out of the small lift. She looked to be no more than thirty in human years with copper-colored hair that fell in waves down her shoulders. Unlike her stout predecessor, she was tall and slender, with a feminine build. Her long, pale limbs were dusted with a fine sprinkling of freckles. The unflattering denim mumu was gone, now replaced with sharply tailored business attire—a grey pencil skirt paired with a loose, cream-colored blouse unbuttoned to the third button. She wore a necklace with an elaborate pendant that rested in the hollow of he
r throat.
Riley blinked, sure she was hallucinating.
The woman smiled warmly. “I can’t very well go walking around like this above ground,” she explained with a melodious laugh. “Do you know how many people would want to visit the archives if they knew I looked over the company files?”
Riley laughed as well, recovering quickly from her stare. She wondered at the abilities that the reclusive succubus held. Had the woman only appeared different above ground because of an illusion of some kind, or was she physically able to shapeshift outside of the realm? The unique situation piqued her curiosity about all there was to her existence. If it hadn’t been a trick, the potential she had realized within the dream realm was merely a fraction of what cubare were capable.
“You have questions, don’t you?”
Riley nodded.
“Which question is most pressing?”
Riley bit her lip. “What’s your name?” she finally decided on.
The woman laughed and it felt like sunshine in the windowless basement. “Oh, that’s an easy one. I’m Liliah.”
• • •
Riley settled down at a long wooden table in the reading room of the company archives. Liliah had gone over with her an extensive list of do’s and do not’s in regards to archival policies. The emphasized restrictions were that no materials were allowed to leave the building and no photocopies or photographs were allowed of any of the collections. Liliah explained it had nothing to do with secrecy, as Trusics always strove to be transparent with their employees, but the fragile nature of the materials necessitated the precautions.
Liliah had disappeared once again to retrieve a box of material that she believed Riley might find helpful in her search for answers. Beyond wanting to know the archivist’s name, forming a tangible, researchable question had evaded Riley. She was simply curious, namely about Morgan, but it wasn’t as though Trusics would be able to compile a frequently-asked-questions document for her on the intriguing lucid dreamer. In the span of only a few dreams, Morgan had troubled what had previously been Riley’s relatively conflict-free existence.
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