Demon Lovers: Succubi

by Lori Selke

  But she annoyed Arash. He wanted her out of his life. He’d said so.

  “Why did you say it?” she asked finally. “All those years ago—why did you want me to go away if you were—” She swallowed, barely able to form the words through the knots in her throat. “In love with me.”

  “I had this idea that you were too young. I’ve been alive a hundred years. I’ve lived through a lot. You were barely twenty-two years old, just out of college. I thought I’d be taking advantage. If I could go back and change that day, I’d drag you off to my bed and I wouldn’t let you go. But I thought I had time. You’d grow up and I’d have another chance. But then you vanished for more than ten years and when you finally show up again, you’re in love with a human and you want to destroy yourself.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Gods of Hell, I’m an arrogant fool.”

  “That I can agree with,” she said.

  “Well, that’s one thing, anyhow.” His eyes narrowed. “I’m not letting you do it, you know. Not now, not ever. I’ll be on you like white on rice, so you might as well give up. If you want this human, then you and he are both going to have to accept you as you are.”

  She nodded and dropped her barriers. She was flooded with sensation and the torrent of sexual manna emanating from the club. It soaked into her like rain on parched Texas dirt. She sighed as she felt her skin pull back into youthful shape. Her hair turned lush, soft and thick, and her entire body sizzled with life. She sighed and stretched. “That feels good.”

  “It looks good, too,” Arash growled, watching her like a dog watching a juicy bone. But there was more in his eyes than lust. She could see pain and fear and a shocking vulnerability.

  “I guess this means you should open the door and let me go,” she said.

  His expression flattened and he stood jerkily, crossing the room to punch a code into the keypad. The inner bars retracted, and he twisted the handle and swung the door open, gesturing before him. “You’re free to go.”

  She stepped into the doorway. Free to go. She’d been free ten years ago, too. She’d walked away with a broken heart. Was she really going to do it again? Especially now that she knew how he felt? Now that she knew she’d only buried her own feelings? She’d never gotten over them. Was she really going to be that stupid?

  She took another step and stopped.

  “Something wrong?”

  She nodded slowly and turned halfway, still uncertain whether she should run or not. “You could be lying now.”

  Tension ran through him. His body clenched, and he practically hummed with emotion. “I’m not.”

  “But you’ll just let me leave. Again.”

  “I won’t be far behind. I have to get dressed first.” He looked down at himself and then back up, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I don’t want to get arrested.”

  “It would certainly make the papers,” she said.

  “Probably, but the real problem is that it would waste time, and I’m done with that. I’m coming for you until you tell you me you don’t want me. But I warn you: you’ll have to do better than that kiss we just shared, because whatever you might say, that kiss says you still have feelings for me.”

  She smiled slightly. “I do want you. I just don’t know if I want to want you.”

  His hands twitched like he wanted to reach for her and barely stopped himself. “I can work with that.”

  She nodded and walked out. She was across the room before his voice stopped her again. It was strangled and hoarse.

  “Are you going back upstairs? To him?”

  She drew a breath and let it out slowly. Oh Mother Lilith, I hope I’m doing the right thing. “No. I’m going home to wait for you.”

  And then she left.

  ~ ~ ~

  Recovery—Lawrence Scott

  Historically there seem to be two types of succubi in legends and tales: those who thrive solely on sexual vitality, and those who also play some role in the dance of good and evil, corruption and redemption: contestants in a battle of a more spiritual or cosmic nature.

  In “Recovery,” newcomer Lawrence Scott takes a serious look at a succubus who comes to question her old patterns of behavior. Claire needs a bridge to something new. This succubus and those she has hurt could all use a chance at redemption—but will they get it?

  There might be a way to get there from here, but it’s a path not easily seen. Everyone involved needs to get clear on a few things first…

  Recovery

  “When human beings began to increase in number on the earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that the daughters of humans were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose…”—Genesis 6:1-2 (NIV).

  The Beginning of Clarity

  The succubus lay next to Jean on a queen-sized bed covered in satin sheets. Jean has wonderful taste. She took a moment to relish a beautiful Persian carpet on one wall. The other walls were decorated with Renaissance art, the furniture with reproductions of classical Greek motifs. A sigh beside her brought her attention back to the bed. She caught herself about to think “our bed.” She turned to watch the “older woman” sleep; the term amused her, considering she was almost as old as time in this universe.

  It was very early in the morning, an hour or two before dawn on a sleepy Friday in March. Succubi did not sleep, as a rule, since sleep came from grace, much like peace and silence. Before her fall, her kind helped sculpt the universe. But eons afterward, while working on this planet and others like it, many had lost themselves in their passion for human lovers. And most of us who did fell from grace, becoming demons of a sort. A bittersweet sadness passed through her.

  At the moment, she was “Claire,” a twenty-three-year-old curvaceous brunette graduate student majoring in English Literature, working toward becoming a writer. With the onset of the computer age, she had had to painstakingly create her cover identities if they were to survive any scrutiny. Over a year and a half ago Jean, a slender blonde who was barely forty, had become her professor—then, about three months later, her thesis adviser. Claire had planned to compromise her adviser with seduction, but somehow every time Jean had refused to break the rules for her, Claire had capitulated in some fashion—including changing advisers to eliminate any conflict of interest. Jean was still on her review committee, but that was hardly compromising.

  The succubus looked at the sleeping woman again and smiled, a shy, tender smile, filled with affection.

  What is wrong with me? She frowned, nonplussed by the emotion. It had been building in the past two months that they had been, say the word, dating.

  She touched Jean’s face, tracing her jawline with the tips of her fingers. Although her first impulse was to seduce the woman lying beside her, naked and lovely, something held her back. Instead, she touched the center of her lover’s chest. Jean opened one eye and smiled a sleepy, happy smile back at her. Instead of the usual lust her clients felt for her, Claire sensed the familiar mix of joy, desire, and devotion coming from Jean. For an instant her eyes brimmed with moisture. She blinked. Tears are for those in a state of grace, too.

  Jean’s eyes opened a little wider. Softly, she pulled the succubus close. Claire felt a wash of affection and a strong desire to comfort the tears she shed. It warmed her.

  I can’t feel affection. I can’t.

  Yet she snuggled into her lover’s embrace. The glow became a gentle tide rising and cresting over her, peacefully lifting her in waves as Claire slid deeper into…

  * * *

  She woke to the sound of an alarm clock going off. Jean was already up, walking back into the bedroom with a tray holding steaming cups of café au lait. The succubus smiled and accepted one from her. She took a sip, a hint of cinnamon caressing her taste buds as well as her nose. A peaceful warmth filled her again, as though the cup were filled with contentment.

  Her lover sat down on the bed, taking a coffee and setting the tray against the wall. She held her cup in both hands, staring do
wn into it. Claire felt certain her partner was at a loss for words. “Jean, what’s wrong?”

  She sensed a hint of shame passing through the room. Concern gripped her as she saw pain cross Jean’s face. Her lover inhaled, then exhaled. “I need to talk to you about something very important.”

  “That sounds ominous. What’s the matter?”

  “I am developing intense feelings for you.” She stopped, her eyes bright.

  “I have feelings for you, too,” Claire said automatically, her eyes blinking in surprise because it was true.

  “Before I can tell you I love you, I need to get something off my chest.”

  Hearing the profession of love, even implied, shook Claire to her core. A terrible feeling of unworthiness came over her as images of lives she had destroyed threatened to come to mind. She forced them back down. “Take your time, sweetheart. You can tell me anything.” She paused, swallowed, and said “And for what it’s worth, I think I’m falling for you, too.” This can’t be happening.

  Jean nodded, gulped in response, and then took a sip of her coffee. She took another deep breath and slowly let it out. Claire could swear she was counting. Then she said, “Claire, you need to know that I was not always like I am now.”

  “What do you—”

  Jean cut her off. “No, honey, please let me finish, or I might not be able to do this. And no, it can’t wait any longer.”

  The succubus nodded and closed her mouth, real fear creeping into her heart. I’m supposed to feel glee at discomfort, not fear and dismay. Now she was unsure which worried her more, the lack of glee or her own angst.

  Jean swallowed hard and continued. “I lost my last post as a professor about ten years ago. The reason was that I was drinking on the job.”

  Claire felt herself frowning in surprise. Normally, demons and other fallen were drawn to human weakness like green bottle flies to a festering corpse, but she sensed nothing of the kind here.

  She could feel Jean’s apprehension at her reaction. “Wait,” she reassured her. “I’m just surprised. I’m not horrified.”

  “It is okay if you are horrified. The reaction is only natural.” Her lips twisted a little bitterly. Claire felt a momentary impulse to kiss those lips back into the soft smile that pained her by its absence.

  “It started after my second book was published. It was a huge critical success. I won awards, got invitations to speak all over the country. Then one of my colleagues, Harvey Elgin, wandered into my office, asking me if I had a new project to work on. I guess he could hardly wait to see my next book. Suddenly, everyone was asking the same thing, or worse, asking me how it felt to face the possibility that I was nearing thirty and my best work was already behind me. Some asshole editor from another publishing house reminded me that he had rejected everything I submitted to him because he felt that I didn’t have two good books in me, much less two great ones.” She took a deep breath.

  “But you have three incredible books and four best sellers now.”

  Jean nodded. “But that came later. Before I knew it, I wasn’t writing anything. I started drinking at parties thrown by editors and admirers. Their adoration made me feel more and more like a fraud. I think I was drowning my guilt at writing crap on the rare occasions that I could force myself to sit at my computer typing like a monkey. Eventually, I wasn’t writing at my desk, I was drinking. A bottle of wine became a box of wine, while convincing myself that a glass or two was good for my heart or helped me sleep. Then I started drinking every night when I got home from my office, or in the hotel room after an engagement.

  “Before long I was slipping a bottle of booze, usually single malt Irish whiskey, in my desk at work. After my morning lectures, I would pour a nip in my coffee. By the end of the day, I had a buzz. By eight, I was passed out.”

  Enthralled, Claire asked the question that was burning within her. “What stopped you?”

  Jean smiled ruefully. “One day at the end of my lecture, one of my students came up to me and asked me why I hated myself so much. He was in his late thirties, trying to finish a degree. I thought he was crazy until he told me his story about how drinking in college lead to his alcoholism and dropping out. A friend in AA offered him a second chance after he hit bottom. Living in denial, I didn’t want to listen to him. Then the term ended, and I was fired by the university at my tenure review. By then my agent had quit, as had my editor. My lover of seven years moved out during finals week. At the bottom, I had a moment of clarity of my own. I saw my life falling apart around me and how my own insecurities were somehow a part of it all. Booze was my way to avoid facing it. From that moment on, I stopped wallowing in self-pity and sought out my former student.

  “He became my sponsor. It wasn’t easy, and I fell off the wagon three times before it took. But now I’ve been sober for almost seven years.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Jean?”

  “Because for an alcoholic there can be no secrets with people you love. If I deal with you dishonestly, I am lying to both of us, and I will stumble again. You also have to know what kind of person you could be dealing with if I ever put myself in the path of my old temptations. Before you decide that my past is unimportant, please spend the day thinking about it. I don’t expect a decision now. That would also be an act of dishonesty. I would be issuing an ultimatum even if it didn’t seem that way. Such things never end well, as I would be trying to manipulate you, while indulging myself in an act of self-sabotage.

  “That’s also why I didn’t want to discuss our feelings until after you knew that I’m a recovering alcoholic. To do otherwise would risk manipulating your feelings. I did that with my last partner; I won’t do it with you.” Jean sipped her coffee nervously. “I hope you come back to me tonight, but I understand if you disappear from my life. If you don’t want me on your dissertation committee for any reason, I will recuse myself as well.” With that, she left the bedroom.

  Claire at Work

  Marlin was standing out on a street corner. He looked up. It was 88th Street and 25th Avenue. Two doors down, his wife, Anna, had just entered an old tenement house that looked to be abandoned. His chest hurt as he stood there, debating with himself about whether he really wanted to enter the building and find her. In the pit of his stomach, he knew what he was going to find. She was selling her body for ecstasy she could resell to buy liquor and amphetamines. It was her daily routine, drinking until she passed out at night, followed in the morning by uppers to help her get up in the morning.

  The memory of the taste of Excedrin or meth on her tongue and lips made him shudder involuntarily. His stomach roiled as well.

  Steeling himself, he made up his mind to go in. He hoped there were no pimps or drug dealers here tonight. He didn’t have a gun with him and, after Anna had drunk their checking and snorted their savings, he was not in any way able to afford a throwaway. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Using his service piece would create too many questions he could ill afford to answer. So, before he left, he locked it in the gun safe.

  He quietly walked up the steps and peered at the door leading into the building. Although it appeared to be padlocked, like the window in the middle of the alley behind it, he knew there was a way to open it and enter the building. Squatters had been here first, more than likely, Marlin thought, as he continued searching for the way to open the door. He realized with a start that the hasp the padlock passed through was held by what appeared to be nails, not screws. On an intuition, he pulled on it and it came right out of the door frame. The nails were barely stubs, some loose wire attached to the broken nails. After a moment, it occurred to him that the wires helped people inside pull the hasp back into place. An animal level of cleverness. I guess that’s about all these junkies and meth-heads have left, he thought grimly.

  He opened the door carefully and quietly. It seemed to cooperate with him. At least something is today. He squinted into the gloomy interior. The doors to the individual apartments were gone, pro
bably stolen and sold for scrap. Fire doors didn’t last long in a place like this one. He paused for a moment to consider if he should “close” the door behind him, and decided it was better to have a clear exit in case things went sour later.

  Inside, he realized that there were at least thirty apartments on the first floor of the old place. Finding Anna was going to be harder than it looked. If she’s not having sex, you mean. He nodded to himself again. He walked silently down the main hall, listening as he went for telltale sounds. Through the fourth door on the right, he heard moaning.

  Slowly, he crept up to the empty door frame. Someone had hung a tattered sheet over it for some measure of privacy. But not much, that’s for sure. He could see four candle flames through the sheet and silhouettes of a man and a woman. The man was standing up, his hips shaking, as the woman knelt in front of him, her head moving, swaying back and forth in front of the other silhouette’s crotch. They were moving in sync as the man’s moans grew louder.

  Marlin started to rage. His vision clouded red, but somehow he made himself reach out slowly and, with a single finger, pull back the curtain. Time stopped as the tattered sheet inched out of his field of view, revealing the scene. Unconsciously, he bellowed her name and a very unhealthy stream of expletives as his worst fears were realized.

  * * *

  The week before St. Patrick’s Day found Anna going through the motions to earn a bag of X that would pay for a month of partying. She knew Derek could care less. All he cared about was getting off. She could use her hand, a dildo, a jack-off sleeve, or any hole. Lube or dry enough to rip his skin, it was no nevermind to him. But he gave twice as much for her mouth. Anna convinced herself she wasn’t a prostitute because she was really taking advantage of the rube. He had plenty of X on him tonight. Hell, he’s probably flying on it now. Derek’s body certainly felt a little hotter than usual. One of these days, his brain is going to fry. Tonight would pay for the meth she chewed with Excedrin every morning as a hangover cure, giving her that extra edge she needed at work.