by Nola Sarina
My sweet sister was a different creature now than when we were children. The death of our parents stunned us both, but for Gypsy, who was already a little bizarre compared to her peers, the blow was tenfold. She went into shock after they died, and I even had her admitted to the hospital when she hadn’t spoken a word in three weeks. My heart clenched in my chest just remembering my fear that I’d lose her, too. Eventually, with the right therapists, she came around and I brought her home, though she was never the same, buoyant twin I remembered from childhood. We resumed life side by side, working together, learning together, and coping with adult life way too soon. And in the end, the transition proved far more difficult for me—with the awakening of the incubus and my first murders—than it did for her. My sister was intelligent to the point of brilliance, terrible at building lasting friendships, and absolutely obsessed with a very narrow focus.
That focus was the tool I used to earn the pleasure of a smile on her face. Buying her a new toy was the only way to get this kind of reaction from Gypsy, so our birthday was the day I picked to indulge in her smile every year.
It was the least I could do, for all she did for me.
The racetrack was only half an hour away. I parked in front of the gates, ignoring the vacant lot full of spaces, and stepped out of my car. The security staff waited there, and one spoke into the microphone hidden beneath his suit jacket. The gates slid open in response as Gypsy stepped out of her car and shut the door, cradling the keys I tossed her like the most precious of treasures.
I held out my elbow and my sister snorted with mockery before linking her arm with mine as we strode into the racetrack.
She released me and swore with delight as she bolted onto the track at the sight of her present.
Positioned before her on the racetrack pavement were three bikes. I silently approved of Jim and John’s setup of the surprise and breathed with relief that what I ordered was what showed up.
“I ordered them last minute so you wouldn’t have time to snoop through my bank records and figure it out. You’re a tough woman to surprise.”
“Is this the Suzuki Hayabusa GSX1300?” Gypsy asked, stroking the sleek, pearl white finish of one bike.
“That one’s yours,” I said. “Next year’s model. The other one is mine.” I shrugged, having been unable to resist a new toy of my own.
“Well, you’ve gotta race me with something, right? Black and metallic blue. Fitting, for you.”
I grinned and strode forward to run a finger along the finish of my own bike. “Top speed of 190 miles per hour. One-ninety-seven horsepower . . . ”
“ . . . and the fuel-injected 1,340cc, four-stroke, liquid-cooled, double-overhead cam engine,” Gypsy cut me off, vibrating with delight.
Motorcycles were Gypsy’s passion, her obsession. She’d ride all day and all night, if it kept the business afloat. I was secretly glad she couldn’t do that, for she liked dangerous speeds without considering the consequences, and even when I raced with her, I feared for her safety. “I went for speed rather than price,” I defended my selection of the less expensive racing bikes. “The profile is fucking awesome. You’ll practically disappear into it when you ride.”
Gypsy glanced at me but could barely take her eyes off her present, thumbing the key. “It’s perfect, Asher. You know I love Suzuki. What’s that one?” She pointed to the third bike, an older model.
I ran my hand through my hair, suddenly nervous. “Uh . . . that’s a project I worked on this year. I had Samuel order the parts online, to hide it from you, and paid him cash. It’s modeled after the 1972 Harley Davidson Super Glide. I’m not perfect at building them, like you are, but I thought I’d take a crack at it. Still needs a coat of paint . . . I ran out of time.”
She straightened and turned to me. “You built it?”
I sighed, hoping she didn’t think it was a piece of shit. Cuz it kind of is . . . “Again, not the most flashy gift, but I put in a lot of hours. I’ll keep working on it, if it’s not up to snuff.”
Gypsy closed the distance between us as I fidgeted, wary of her assessment of the gift. She had built at least a dozen bikes since I graduated from high school—she graduated early, years before I did—and was an absolute expert mechanic.
She stopped in front of me, searching my eyes, confused. “I don’t know what to say.”
I blinked, disappointed. The sentimentality of the gift might be lost on her, I realized . . . or she might understand the emotional value of my time investment but not be able to express any appreciation for it. “How about, ‘the exhaust manifold needs to be realigned to the pipe?’”
“How about, ‘I’ll help you realign the exhaust manifold, and thank you?’”
I grinned, relieved, and grabbed Gypsy into a bear hug. “You’re welcome. Happy birthday.”
We raced for hours. She gave me a heart attack on every turn, hooking so sharply that her knee nearly grazed the ground. The bikes were muscular in both power and style, and I gloried in the handling of the machine. Pearl white suited Gypsy nicely, and when we finally killed the engines, she tossed her helmet on the ground and held her arms up to the sky, rejoicing in the energy of racing delight.
I parked my bike and laughed with mirth as I joined her. The darkness of my life was so brightened by her vibrancy on these rare occasions, and I scooped her up into yet another embrace and spun her around as she laughed, a gift of her own for me.
“Hey, how much money do I have?” I asked Gypsy, remembering my conversation with Aria as my sister stepped back and began to polish dust off her bike.
“What do you need to buy? I’ll assure that you can afford it.”
“No, I don’t need anything. Just wondering how rich I am, since I get enough attention for it.”
“You have twenty-five percent more than I have.”
“How does that work? You handle our investments. Yours should pan out easily as well as mine do.”
Gypsy shrugged. “You don’t spend much. And you have a penis. Penises earn more income than vaginas.”
I burst out laughing. “What?” I managed between gasps for breath. Even after twenty-two years of twinship, Gypsy could still stun me with her words.
“Men earn twenty-five percent more than women do. As women work equally hard as men, I can only reason the difference has to do with ownership of a penis. I apply the theory to our investments, as well; there’s no way my own investments are foolishly played.”
I stared at Gypsy, shocked by her reasoning, until she cracked half a grin. It was then I realized she was joking, as well as she could joke, still enthused with a good mood by the excitement of the racetrack. I laughed.
“You have enough money to live affluently for twenty lifetimes,” she said. “If my market predictions are accurate, as they always are, your cashable amount will double by the end of the month. You also have a cash savings account with a high interest rate that earns more interest in a day than you spend in a month, and a credit line with no limit whatsoever. I shuffle the excess into your investments whenever you’re not flashing your plastic for a while. That doesn’t include your share of the hotels or property values—New York apartments, Minneapolis office, the cabin, the gym, and Spain.”
“That’s a lot of money.” I shook my head.
“Yes, it is. Thank Mom and Dad for dying.”
“And damn the bastard that cut their brakes that night.” The conversation was repetitive and cold, as neither of us could spare any energy for grieving their deaths. Or, at least, I couldn’t spare the energy. I wondered if Gypsy felt the grief at all anymore. We gave up searching for the bastard who sentenced our parents to death when the authorities gave up.
“Constant mesh shifting is my favorite,” she said abruptly as she brushed her hair out of her face.
“I’m glad you like it. You can never have too many bikes, right?”
She shook her head and gazed at the white machine of ultimate speed with adoration. “No. Never too many
bikes.”
I smiled, remembering Gypsy’s obsession with bicycles before she was old enough to ride something with real speed potential.
“Um . . . I’m sorry to kill the moment,” she said. “No pun intended.”
I stiffened and the smile melted from my face.
“Your birthday present is in your car.” Gypsy rested her palm on my shoulder once and then withdrew her hand, awkward and sheepish, as the information sank in.
I wasn’t about to let Gypsy feel poorly for the gift I knew she procured for me. I forced a thankful grin onto my face and rubbed her arm in reply with appreciation, and then turned away and walked out of the racetrack. I hoped my swift departure didn’t disappoint her too much, but I couldn’t continue to celebrate, my mood was so dampened by the horrid necessity my condition presented. I strode out into the parking lot and nodded at the Jim and John, who grinned, anticipant.
Sure enough, in my Lamborghini was a blond with endless legs. She was very skinny and had a Russian accent. I slid into my car and listened to her gasp of pleasure at my appearance. She introduced herself and started to yap, so I clamped my hand over her mouth and silenced her.
When she was quiet, I pulled ten thousand dollars from my wallet. I didn’t typically carry cash, but I took out enough to send the security staff to purchase any accessories Gypsy might decide she needed at the racetrack. “Disappear,” I ordered the whore. “Never come back here. Come back and I’ll kill you. Understand?”
The girl’s face froze and the blood drained from her cheeks. She nodded and I watched a tear form in her eye. I handed her the cash and looked away.
“Get out.” She obeyed instantly. I tore out of the parking lot and left her standing, bewildered and confused on the pavement near the security. As I hit the main road, I dialed Gypsy.
“Displeased?” she asked.
“No, just selective. Sorry, Gyp. I have someone in mind.”
“Name?”
“Working on it. I’ll have her name and address for you to check out soon. Let me know if she’s an easy mess to clean up. If not, I’ll take you up on your offer.”
“As you wish. Will you join me for dinner tonight? Mrs. Libby is making salmon.”
I was never too eager to join her for dinner in the home where we grew up. The house felt creepy without Mom and Dad, but Gypsy never seemed to care. “Nah, I’m heading to the Lacy Teacup. See if I can manage a last name from this girl for you to look into.”
I knew most brothers and sisters didn’t have a relationship that allowed for much conversation about sex. But she and I discussed it often, and she knew every horrible detail I didn’t want to share with her, since we spent years trying to find a way for me to charge the needs of my incubus side without killing. Our efforts proved fruitless, so as we resigned to my fate as a killer, I was grateful Gypsy was exactly who she was. It saved some embarrassment for both of us that she felt nothing toward the concept and practice of sex, at least. Hell, the first time she had sex, she called me on the phone to make sure she did it right, and I had to beat the hell out of my punching bag for three solid hours just to stop myself from finding the guy and relieving him of the burden of having a face. I was that protective of her.
That was why the situation with Detective Jacobson pissed me off to the point of bright red rage. It didn’t matter how many times she said it didn’t bother her to do so, it seemed depraved to me that the detective would demand it as a price.
I frowned, recognizing the hypocrisy of my finding any sexual act depraved.
“You still hanging in there, desperation-wise?” her voice through the phone drew me away from the anger that surged up at my recollection. “Last time was cutting it close.”
I took a steadying breath and assessed my level of need. “I’m fine,” I muttered, trying not to give away my uncertainty. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Happy birthday, Asher.”
“Gypsy,” I said. “I can’t imagine enduring all of this without you. You’re everything to me. You know that, right?”
“I know.” Her voice was soft with understanding, but because she was Gypsy, she hung up without another word.
She treated her endless support of me as an obvious thing, as though she couldn’t fathom it any other way. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she washed her hands of me altogether for the things she endured because of my weakness, yet she stood by my side year after year, kill after kill.
I took the scenic highway, cruising along the forested edge of Lake Superior, admiring the endless, pristine, blue water as I drove.
Gypsy was right. Last time cut it close. When I first woke the incubus up, I sometimes didn’t last more than a week without sex. My kills racked up fast the first two years, but I gradually gained more control. Last time, I made it to a full six months, but as I drove home one night, the savage persona of a hungry incubus kicked in. The urge to charge my body tried to claim my consciousness. It was as though I stepped back from my body and let the need to fuel have control as I parked off a deserted road and stalked toward a house. My limbs were on fire with every step I took . . . the incubus’s control was hot, burning through my veins with need. I peered through the windows, hearing the sounds of a woman dressing. She was in her forties and her husband was home, so I dug my knife out of my pocket and bit it between my teeth, climbing up the side of the house. I was fully prepared to break in, murder the husband and fuck the wife into oblivion. I didn’t think I could stop myself.
But as I slipped my hand beneath the cracked window to the empty bedroom, the moonlight glinted off the knife between my teeth. My father’s initials, my initials, A.C., flashed into my field of vision, engraved on the shiny blade. I stared at it for a moment and my senses returned to me.
There was no way to justify my life, my needs or my existence. If I didn’t fuck and kill, I would become insatiable and insane. I would break into houses and rape and kill. Which was worse? I couldn’t stop my needs, and Gypsy, in all her matter-of-fact brilliance, researched legends of the incubus. She believed if I allowed the incubus side of me to take over my consciousness and command my body through his lust, he would own and dominate me forever. I would break into houses over and over again like this, raping and killing on a warpath until somebody managed to stop me with mortal effectiveness.
As my father’s initials glinted in my vision, I felt piercing, deep shame. I was a killer of lust and played host to some dark thing, a part of myself I hated. I shook my head and slipped my hand out of the window.
Allowing the incubus to control my selection was stupid. If my late mother and father had to watch me from somewhere above as I killed over and over again and their beloved, once-broken daughter cleaned up my messes, the least I could do was try to reduce my crime. I vowed never to rape. Though I would murder my victim with the withdrawal of my cock from her begging body, the sex, at least, would be consensual.
That night, when I refused to succumb to the incubus’s total assumption of my soul, I slid my knife into my pocket, climbed down and snuck back to my car. Once inside, I texted Gypsy.
Kellie Hendricks. Journalist who interviewed me. I’m taking her tonight.
It was simple from that moment.
Now, as I drove along the same highway where I nearly committed a crime of even graver consequence months ago, I glanced in my visor mirror.
My eyes were white around the edges of the black starburst from the center of my pupil. The black only extended halfway out into my iris. My needs as an incubus would demand another life soon. And much as I hated myself for my pride, I couldn’t indulge in the whore that Gypsy procured for my appetite. I wanted Aria. I didn’t know if I could manage to fuck and absorb someone who was a friend, but for some strange reason, making Aria my friend seemed somehow more honorable than killing the whore in my Lamborghini.
Maybe I hoped I could enjoy her company and enjoy the kill more, as a result. Maybe I just thought she was exceptionally hot.
M
aybe I hoped that killing a friend would hurt me on a deep enough level to be something of a penance for the murder.
I cranked the steering wheel and followed a sharp curve. Yes, I would make Aria my friend. Yes, I would probably murder that beautiful friend. And I had to start to earn her trust immediately, before things got too bad and I snapped again.
Chapter 8 – Asher
I had a good rhythm established to deal with my condition. In between kills, I nourished my needs through personal training, charging from the faint endorphins and energies my clients released as I pushed them to extremes of workout. Casual touch between me and an ordinary human during physical exertion fueled the incubus slightly and kept him at bay. Exercise itself helped to hold off my need to breathe life away from another, too. I worked out for an hour every morning, trained clients for four hours each day and worked out for another two hours every evening. As a result of all the exercise, I was in prime physical condition and had a hearty appetite, but Aria’s meal for me yesterday tapped me out at my limit of fullness. I didn’t think I could stomach another meal.
But I wanted to go eat there anyway.
The Lacy Teacup was oddly chaotic and busy, but Aria was nowhere to be found. I had a coffee served by Bernadette and eventually asked for the manager.
“She didn’t show up,” he scowled. “Third day on the job and already flaking out. Typical.”
I finished my coffee, tipped double the cost of the bill as usual and left.
My Super Car was parked in the same place as yesterday, and I found myself lingering outside the car, uncertain. Several women passed by and stroked the hood or flashed me flirtatious grins, but I was disinterested. Had I scared Aria off?
A police car pulled up beside me. Killing used to leave me with paranoia around police, but I had dealt with the cop panic for so long that all I felt was a mild increase in my heart rate, a fight-or-flight response muted, and I uncrossed my arms, straightening.