Those Who Fight Monsters: Tales of Occult Detectives

by Gustainis, Justin

  Even before the chanting stopped, the shadows had pulled together until there was a black mass hovering over me. It stretched and filled out, taking on the shape of an obscenely well-muscled man. Skin the hue of burnished copper. Hairless. Wonderfully naked, but his most important muscle was covered by a leather apron.

  Only one demon made it a point to wear a workman’s apron of tanned human skin: Baruel, so-called Master of All Arts. He was a creature of Pride, one of Lust’s natural enemies. Baruel was also an asshole, but that had nothing to do with him being one of the Arrogant. He was one of Hell’s elite, and as befitted any infernal Lower Down, he had an ego that dwarfed Mount Everest.

  Baruel would have no qualms about destroying me; it was a Pride thing.

  Snarling, I struggled against the handcuffs, to no avail. Think, Jesse. There’s got to be a way out of this that didn’t end with my severed head on a silver platter.

  Baruel loomed over me, his red eyes glowing with malefic presence. He took in my naked, bleeding mortal form, then squinted and looked past the temporary shell. He sneered, baring his fangs. “Magician!” he boomed. “You dare to disgrace me with this paltry offering?”

  “Hey now,” Noel said, affronted. “She’s sexy and dying. What’s wrong with that?”

  “She’s even lower than mortals! Her kind are nothing more than clap-carrying, pox-ridden dogs!”

  I could almost hear Noel’s brain try to process the demon’s words. He said slowly, “You mean she’s … a prostitute?”

  “No, you ass,” I sighed. “He means I’m a succubus.”

  The confused look on Noel’s face would have been funny if not for (A) me being trapped in his magic circle, (B) me still bleeding and in pain, and (C) a demon of Arrogance standing over me with murder in his eyes.

  “I’ll destroy you for this insult, Noel Le Noir,” Baruel promised, his voice rumbling like doom. “I’ll make a new apron out of your hide.”

  Noel raised his weak chin and declared: “You can do nothing to me, demon. You’re bound by the circle. You can’t break it.”

  Easy for him to say. He was safely outside of the circle. Anyone can taunt a tiger when it’s on the other side of the bars.

  Baruel smiled slowly, stretching his mouth impossibly wide. Then he leaned over until he was at the edge of our prison, and he blew out a breath. The candlelight flickered … and part of the salt outline of the circle vanished. The hum of magic sputtered and died.

  Yes! Score one for evil! I grinned as I felt my power surge through me. Now at least I had a fighting chance.

  Poor Noel looked like he’d just crapped in his boxers. “You can’t,” he stammered. “The circle…!”

  Baruel cracked his huge knuckles. “I’m the Master of All Arts. I taught you more about magic in a dozen years than other humans can learn in a dozen lifetimes. Do you really think I don’t know how to break a human magician’s circle?”

  Noel paled. “But you never did before…”

  “The sacrifices were tasty. Until now.” Baruel grinned hugely. “I’m not in the mood for succubus. I think I’ll dine on magician.”

  “Told you so,” I said to Noel. But he was too busy calling up some magic spell or another to pay any attention to me.

  Baruel, for his part, launched himself off the bed and out of the desecrated circle, his fingernails already lengthened into claws. Noel barely got a shield of light up in time to deflect the blow. Screaming like a nun at an orgy, he let loose a magical blast that would have singed off Baruel’s hair, if he had any. The demon bellowed and slammed his fists down. Noel threw himself to the left, avoiding getting pounded into pudding. Baruel’s hands momentarily stuck in the ruins of the bedroom floor. Still screaming, Noel made a “Here, boy” motion, and a black-bladed sword appeared in his outstretched hand. He lunged at Baruel, slicing at the demon’s neck.

  Don’t mind me, boys. Keep yourselves entertained as I poof away my bonds like so…

  Free, I sat up and rubbed my wounded belly. With a wisp of my power, the bleeding stopped, the cut scabbed over and faded, and I was back up to full strength.

  The demon and the human were tearing into each other, no holds barred. I frowned, debating whether I should help Baruel. Even though he was an Arrogant bastard, and one of Hell’s elite to boot, he was still one of my own kind. Noel, furthermore, tried to sacrifice me. I expect that sort of thing from demons, not humans.

  And it would irk Baruel for the next two millennia if I helped him. Creatures of Pride didn’t do well with charity.

  I aimed at the back of Noel’s head, ready to throw my magic at him, but Baruel saw me. He lobbed a bolt of power at me, and I yelped as I scampered out of the way.

  “I’m coming for you next, little whore!” he roared. “I’ll destroy you for your part in this!”

  Well, fuck that noise. I plopped down on the bed and let them fight it out.

  A minute passed as Noel and Baruel danced — the one a high-level magician of the dark arts, the other his demonic teacher. The two struck and parried and struck and scored and struck and dodged. Blood and ichor flew. Curses rang out. I buffed my nails.

  Before another minute passed, they both scored fatal blows. It took them both two more minutes to figure out they were dying. (Men, whether human or demon, could be a bit slow on the uptake.) Noel crashed to the ground, limbs quivering. Baruel sank to his knees. Dark stains pooled beneath them both.

  I stretched and stood up.

  By the time I picked up the black blade that had slipped from Noel’s fingers, the carpet was saturated with blood and other body fluids. I stepped carefully so that I wouldn’t slip. Balancing in four-inch heels could be such a bitch. Baruel, I noted, was halfway to decapitated.

  No one likes a half-assed job. I separated the demon’s head from his neck.

  Then I turned to Noel. The master magician lay dying, too far gone to mutter any anti-death spells. His body was nothing more than strips of bloody flesh.

  Yum.

  I sliced away the scraps of clothing that covered him from torso to thigh. With a pulse of my power, the most important part of him stood at attention. And then I straddled him there on the ground. I even took his hands and put them to my naked breasts. I thought he’d like that; clearly, he’d been a boob man.

  Smiling, I gave Noel Le Noir the last ride of his life. With his final breath, he called my name … and his soul was mine.

  Turns out, practitioners of the dark arts taste like chicken.

  You’d think a place called Pandemonium would be chaotic. But no, the administrative level of Hell was frighteningly orderly. There was paperwork for everything … and with every additional form, you had to get back on line and wait your turn to file the new paper. And the line tended to be three years long.

  I was consoling myself by humming Michael Jackson tunes when Daun popped in, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Figures,” he said, shaking his head. “The only time a fifth-level succubus has ever taken out a Master of the Dark Arts, and it gets cancelled out as a Wrongful Termination of one of the elite. Babes, I don’t know whether to be impressed or bust a gut laughing.”

  I sniffed. “My reputation precedes me.”

  “Jezzie, it’s all over the Pit. Demons and damned alike are taking bets on whether you get everything squared away before Salvation Day.”

  Terrific.

  It was grossly unfair. Even though Noel had delivered the fatal blow to Baruel, my cut had been the final one — so in Hell’s book, the kill was mine. And that meant I was stuck with miles of paperwork. And if that weren’t bad enough, Lillith was furious with me. Apparently, offing one of the elite demons of Hell is something that she, as my queen, was answerable for. Oopsie. She’d already promised me a decade’s worth of torment.

  And it was all because I’d done my job and hadn’t died in the process, even with her setting me up.

  Not like I could complain about it. I worked for Hell. Shockingly, management tended not to
be overly sympathetic.

  “And,” Daun said, “I was right about the Shield Against Evil, wasn’t I?”

  Fuck me with a halo.

  “Don’t fret, babes. I won’t remind you that I was right. Well, not much. I’ll probably stop after a century or so.”

  I sighed. “Great.”

  “Did you at least keep the thing?”

  “Couldn’t,” I said. “It went kablooey when Noel died.”

  “Charmed items tend to do that when the charmer expires.”

  “My afterlife sucks,” I said with a sigh. “I wish I could just give it all up, run away and start over.”

  Chuckling, Daun stroked my cheek. “Even if you could run away, you wouldn’t. There are plenty of things worth staying in Hell for.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Like what?”

  “Like the promise of sex so steamy, the Lake of Fire would be a cool dip in comparison.”

  Ooh.

  “Why don’t you get off line,” Daun murmured, “and come with me. I promise I’ll make you forget about your troubles for a few days.”

  “Are you tempting me, sweetie?”

  “Of course.”

  Bless me, Daun always knows just what to say. And do.

  Grinning, I took Daun’s hand and let him pull me out of line.

  As for what happened next … well, let’s just say that I was a very sated succubus. Once again, Daunuan was right: I forgot all about my troubles during the five days we were together. It almost made going to the back of the line worth it. Almost.

  Ah, who am I kidding? Of course it was worth it. Sinfully, delightfully worth it.

  I’d just never admit that to Daunuan. He’d never let me live it down.

  Jackie Kessler lives in upstate New York. She is the author of the “Hell on Earth” series, co-author (with Caitlin Kittredge) of Black and White and its upcoming sequel Shades of Gray, and, writing as Jackie Morse Kessler, the author of the upcoming young adult novel Hunger. She has a web presence at

  www.jackiekessler.com

  The succubus Jezebel has turned her back on her Hellish past (sort of) and now lives as the human Jesse Harris, working as an exotic dancer in New York City. Note: this story takes place before Hell’s Belles.

  Impossible Love: A Piers Knight Story

  by C. J. Henderson

  “Whoso loves believes the impossible.” — Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  “Piers, what a surprise. Do come in — uh, both of you.”

  Having Professor Piers Knight show up unannounced on his front doorstep surprised Albert Harper. It was an unusual thing for the professor — Knight was not known to risk wasting time by dropping in on people who might not be where he presumed they should be. He liked things confirmed. He liked his routine neat. And part of his routine for some time had been visiting Albert Harper.

  “I could say something inane about just being in the neighborhood,” Knight said, “with someone in tow whom you’ve never met, but that would be what we in the business call ‘a lie.’ So I hope you’ll forgive the unscheduled visit.”

  Knight had dropped in on the younger man numerous times since their initial contact in one of the professor’s classes. Harper was a young man to whom Piers had taken a shine. The pair shared much, including liberal political views, a keen appreciation for Asian cuisine, and a taste for mystery novels. They were comfortable in each other’s company, and their degree of similarity had kept them in irregular touch for several years.

  It was a relationship Knight wanted to maintain.

  He worked as a curate at the rightly famous Brooklyn Museum. As such, Knight had access to both religious and blasphemous articles of historical significance from throughout human history. On occasion, he had found it practical to borrow certain of those items for the purpose of self-sponsored experiments and investigations. In his time he had seen horrors and wonders. And, every time he narrowly survived one of the things he had found, he realized that he wished to spend time with the Harpers.

  After a while, the thirty-four year old Harper thought he knew why; he had become, for the professor, a case study. Or, if he had not himself, his family had.

  The Harper clan consisted of but two souls — Albert Harper and his daughter Debbie. Both were victims, in their own way. Debbie, of the ravages of Down syndrome. Albert, of the train wreck known as divorce. When Debbie had been born, it had only been a matter of days before her condition was diagnosed. She was afflicted not only with the disease, but with its severest strand.

  Many children with the same handicap led nearly normal lives. The training was grueling for the parents and teachers, but it was possible. Working harder than regular students, many Down kids could learn to communicate with their parents, after a fashion. They could go to school, ride bikes, play with others, watch and understand television programs. In adulthood they could move about town on their own, hold down simple jobs, even marry and grow old with someone.

  The high-end performance children, that is. Not those like Debbie.

  Debbie was not high-end. Debbie Harper would never be able to communicate with others in any fashion. She would never go to school, ride a bike, play with others. She did watch television programs, but she did so without understanding. Her eyes were simply drawn to color and movement. In adulthood she would almost certainly never go anywhere on her own, hold down any kind of job, or marry anyone. It was not even certain she would grow old.

  “So,” asked Harper, as his visitors entered his living room, “what’s the reason I’m unexpectedly playing host to a man who never drops in out of the blue, and a mysterious lady I don’t know?”

  Albert had raised Debbie for the last seven years on his own. Her mother, Linda, had stayed for almost eight months, after which she could not take it anymore.

  It.

  “It” was her word for what their lives — her life — had become. She had wanted a daughter who gurgled and cooed, whose eyes shone with recognition of shapes and faces, who delighted in new sounds, who turned her head with interest and excitement at each new experience. Linda had wanted a normal, regular, healthy daughter whom she could dress in pink and take inordinate pride in as the new arrival learned all the simple things babies learn every day.

  Once it had become obvious that Linda was never going to have her long-dreamed-of perfect, bright-eyed child, that her baby would not be an accessory to her life, but that she would be one of her baby’s — a constant care giver, the rest of her days devoted to a child who could barely respond to the simplest stimuli — she had begun talking with Albert about placing their daughter in a home. Such was not an option as far as he was concerned. And so it was, after a year and five months of marriage, and twenty-two weeks of parenthood, that Albert had been left alone with his speechless daughter to stare at the numbing future ahead of them.

  “This is a friend of mine,” Knight said. Giving his companion a moment, he seemed to be allowing the wrinkled black woman time to regain her strength. It had been a long walk, up the front walk from the curb to the car, and she was old, very old. It was obvious to Albert that the woman had been beautiful in her time. Indeed, her black eyes held a shine that seemed to belie the deep wrinkles.

  “Madame Sarna Raniella, meet Albert Harper.” The old woman nodded in a friendly enough fashion, but did not offer her hand.

  Pointing toward the child sitting motionless in the living room beyond, Knight said to Harper, “Madame Raniella is going to sit with Debbie for a few minutes, while we take a walk outside.” Knight turned to the old woman, and, seemingly responding to an unspoken question, she said, “As we discussed, I shall talk to her, Piers. Constantly. Fear not — I will keep her engaged.”

  “Good. As long as she doesn’t answer, everything should be fine.”

  Without a further word, she made her slow way toward the sofa. Sitting down near Debbie, she began a seemingly endless stream of conversation. She spoke with the girl about cartoons she remembered, the snack cakes her
mother had baked her, how fascinating it was that leaves changed colors in the fall — apparently anything that came to mind. Albert noticed that her gaze seemed intently focused on Debbie.

  On her eyes, he thought. She’s watching her eyes.

  And then he finally responded to the gentle pressure on his arm, allowing Knight to maneuver him out onto his front porch and down the steps. As the two men headed for the sidewalk, Albert said, “Going to tell me what this is all about now?”

  “Yes, I am. And I’m not certain how you’re going to react. I have something very disturbing … well, not to me, but to you…

  Knight stopped speaking, obviously at a complete loss as to how to proceed. It was clear something of great importance was clawing at him, demanding release. Suddenly, as if struck by inspiration, he said, “Albert, you once told me the story of the first time you held Debbie. Tell it again, won’t you?” Harper looked at his friend through hard eyes. He started to protest, but Knight cut him off gently.

  “I understand your reluctance, my boy. Truly. But I promise you, I have a purpose. I do.” Harper turned his head away, his shoulders shaking slightly. After a moment’s silence, however, he closed his eyes and began to speak.

  “It was in the delivery room. Debbie’d just been born. I was standing there a little stunned. They’d cut Linda; I wasn’t expecting, no one had warned me … blood had just flown through the air. ‘Normal,’ they said. ‘Nothing to worry about’ — but I wish someone had prepared me for … anyway, let’s just say I was in a state, you know?”

  Knight nodded, listening patiently.

  “So, while I’m still reeling from it all, out of nowhere the nurse brings Debbie over to me.” Harper’s face softened, the approaching memory so gladdening his heart the air seemed to freshen about him.

  “She was so tiny, so fragile, I took her from the nurse, and I was staring at her. Of course, her eyes weren’t open, but I could feel this, this need, you know, spilling out of her, looking for something to grab onto, and before I knew it, I’d raised her up to where I could press my forehead against hers, and when I did that, I swear I felt her inside my mind. I…”