Blood of the Succubus

by McGeary, Duncan

“You do this every month?”

  Gasper looked surprised, then said, “Oh, I see. I can see how that would be horrifying.” He walked to Heinrich’s side and put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’ve been sick a long time, son. If I didn’t do this, the disease would have taken me a long time ago. I don’t know why, but it always returns, more virulent than ever.

  “But you, Heinrich, won’t have to do this again after the first time—at least, not for a long time. Once a decade, if you wish to stay youthful; longer if you don’t care about that.”

  “I don’t understand,” Heinrich protested. “Scientists say that sex is as much in the mind as it is in the body. Why would this…Cutting…keep you from feeling desire?”

  His father looked bemused. “I don’t know. I’ve often wondered the same thing, but I could never find the answers in the books. Perhaps because this came from a time before science, when such explanations meant nothing. Which reminds me…come with me.”

  They crossed the corridor into the room Heinrich had spied that was piled with books, papers, and scrolls. “These manuscripts,” Gasper motioned to a table stacked high, “will tell you everything you need to know, answer all your questions. It is the history of our family, of the Guardians.”

  “I don’t understand. Aren’t you going to teach me?”

  “Not enough time,” Gasper said. “The Russians will search this house. You must hide down here. I have lain in enough supplies in the next chamber for you to live for several weeks. Make use of this time. Study these books. Wait until the enemy is gone. But whatever you do, don’t come out until you have…done as I have shown you. I’m sorry, son. If you do not do the Cutting, the Succubae will find and kill you. Promise me.”

  Heinrich had no intention of cutting off his manhood, especially since he’d so recently discovered the use of it. But he also knew his father wouldn’t let him go until he promised.

  “Very well, Father. I will do as you ask.” So we both lie, Heinrich thought. One thing he knew. He would never do the Cutting. He would rather die first.

  “Good.” Gasper frowned, as if trying to remember something. “Good.”

  He picked a book off the nearest table and began to leave.

  “Why are you taking that one?”

  “This?” Gasper said. “This is my journal. You can read it when I’m dead.”

  Chapter 3

  Serena Carlton browsed the articles open on her laptop, closing one after another before pausing.

  Here was a promising one. A woman had stabbed her boyfriend to death in self-defense in Cleveland. “He was crazy-drunk,” the article quoted her as saying. “He broke a window and was crawling inside with a tire iron. I grabbed a kitchen knife…I didn’t mean to kill him, I just wanted him to stop.”

  Serena straightened, reading the quote again, more slowly, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. The cadence of the words rang with familiarity. They sounded almost lighthearted, over-explanatory, exactly the kind of thing Kristen would say to sound innocent or appear to be the victim.

  The most recent clue on Kristen Larkin’s trail was two years old. Kristen wasn’t her real name, but Serena had to call her something.

  She skimmed the rest of the article, then sat back and sighed.

  “Amber Powell and Jared Fromm were in a relationship for three years.”

  Serena grimaced and closed the article. Kristen never stayed with any man for more than a few months.

  Two years of dead leads and the same cold trail. Kristen Larkin was a ghost. There were roughly forty-five murders in America every day. A third of them were domestic, meaning the murderer and victim knew each other; most often, the killer was male and the victim was a spouse or a significant other, a family member, or a close friend. There were some stranger-on-stranger murders that might be her doing, if she’d managed to keep the relationship secret, but Kristen was nothing if not flamboyant.

  She was hard not to notice, and Serena was counting on her staying that way. Someone always said something along the lines of, “Such an outgoing girl!” or described her as “Charming, vivacious, and funny.” All were keywords in Serena’s search.

  Popular media had a name for cute, eccentric girls like Kristen: the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. In movies or on TV, the Manic Pixie Dream Girl came along and solved all the male protagonist’s problems with a twinkle. Serena thought of them as MPDGs.

  Kristen was impossibly young, utterly charming, and unbelievably deadly. Young men always fell for her. Kristen always looked for the cutest guy around without a girlfriend. “Who’s the most popular/unpopular boy in the school?” she’d ask, innocently. Most of the time, the young man wouldn’t have a sister, and few, if any, friends who were female. They were boys like Eric. The mother was often absent or too busy to pay attention to her son’s activities. Serena winced. That described her so well. She’d worked her way up the corporate ladder for years, ever since Eric entered first grade.

  Strangely, even though Kristen was irresistible to the boys, the other girls didn’t find her threatening. “She’s cute!” they’d say, and give each other knowing looks. It was as if they were glad to see the awkward girl they all liked, the one with the great personality, finally getting it on with the nice, lonely guy whom many of them had contemplated but passed over. The other girls were happy for both of them. Only later would they agree that they’d always thought there was something off about her.

  Serena had searched reports going back twenty years; there were an extraordinary number of MPDG murders. Kristen, or whatever she called herself, had a wide range, hooking up with boys as young as high school and men verging on middle age.

  And then, to Serena’s astonishment, she’d found more evidence, going back farther than twenty years, all the way back to the 1800s and maybe—depending on how you interpreted the data—even farther. That’s when Serena’s investigation took a sudden turn into the strange and macabre. At first, it was curiosity that drove her. She didn’t really believe any of it, but as the evidence mounted, she started to become convinced.

  She also learned to never speak of her suspicions out loud.

  It had been the same for generation after generation. Then, suddenly, just in the last few years, the MPDG had changed her modus operandi. Either that or she was dead, with no body found. Maybe Kristen had been kidnapped by one of those international human trafficking rings. It would serve her right.

  She had disappeared.

  Is it because of me? Serena asked herself.

  Unlikely. In the courtroom, Serena had stared Kristen straight in the face and told her that she would spend the rest of her life searching for the proof that Kristen was a murderer.

  Kristen hadn’t even blinked. No, she’d simply smiled that bright little smile. Everyone in the courtroom but Serena had smiled with her.

  Serena almost succumbed to despair many times. Her son’s murder had made her grim, humorless. She was dogged and thorough, but she couldn’t charm the police or witnesses the way Kristen could. Absolutely no one believed the petite, charming girl could have killed anyone except in self-defense.

  But they hadn’t known Serena’s shy, gentle son. That he was the monster was unimaginable. It was this injustice that gave Serena the strength to go on.

  She might have thought she was crazy if not for the fact that soon after the trial, she got an interesting visitor.

  The doorbell rang one midafternoon. She almost didn’t answer it—her friends had long ago given up on her—but insistent knocking followed the bell.

  “What do you want?” she asked before seeing who was on the other side of the door.

  It was a well-dressed man, young and blond. She recognized the type from her corporate years. Privileged and with a MBA that he thought made him smart.

  “Ms. Carlton, my name is John Carmichael,” he said.

  It was a made-up name, she was sure. Most people trailed off at the end of their names, they said them so often. This last name came o
ut hard and clear.

  She didn’t say anything, just stared at him.

  “I represent a group that is searching for the same woman you are,” he continued.

  “And who is that?”

  The young man gave her a confident smile. “We call ourselves the Guardians, and it is our duty to track down this woman and to capture her.”

  “Why?” Serena demanded. “Why don’t you help the cops? Why are you coming to me?”

  “The woman in question is very dangerous, Ms. Carlton. We’re concerned for your safety.

  “How nice of you.”

  “But we also don’t want to scare Kristen Larkin—or whatever she’s calling herself now—into hiding. We are on her trail. I assure you, she will face justice. But you must desist in your search.”

  Serena didn’t answer.

  “You’ll only get yourself killed, Serena.” With that, the man who called himself John Carmichael turned and walked away. A limo waited in the street, and he got into the back.

  If the visit was supposed to stop Serena from investigating, it had the opposite effect.

  She searched the Internet, looking for answers, and came across a site that referred to Manic Pixie Dream Girls as being modern-day Succubae. Most of what was there was amateur porn, often incorporating people made up to look like movie or reality TV stars. Terrible stuff. But there was one little corner of the webpage that asked: “Have you encountered a real Succubus?”

  She clicked out of curiosity, half afraid of what she’d find.

  It was a simple blog, with no pictures, no porn, and no embellishment of any kind. Which was kind of reassuring, somehow. It was someone talking about who the Succubae were: their history, their dangers, their attributes, even their names: the Three Daughters of Lilith, Agrat Bat, Eisheth, and Naamah. At the description of the middle sister, Eisheth, Serena’s blood ran cold. It fit Kristen to a T.

  The blog was a revelation. There was a ring of truth to it, even though on the surface it appeared completely crazy.

  Most of what Serena now knew came from Blood of the Succubus webpage, if it was true and not some paranoid delusion so convincing it had managed to suck her in.

  She’d been talking to the blogger, a man named Rick, almost daily ever since she’d found the site. She wasn’t sure how old he was, or where he lived, or even if he was really a man.

  One of the first things she told him, after they moved on to using Facebook messaging, was about the visit from John Carmichael. Until that moment, she’d sensed that “Rick: was only moderately interested in her. After that, they were in communication every day.

  Serena: I had a very interesting visit from someone who called himself a Guardian.

  Rick: A Guardian? Are you certain?

  Serena: Positive. He said his name was John Carmichael.

  Rick: Stay away from him.

  Serena: Who is he? What are the Guardians?

  Rick: They want to capture the Succubae, to harvest their Blood.

  Serena: Their Blood?

  Rick: I will explain everything.

  And so he did, and as crazy as it all sounded, it all made sense.

  Serena rose and poured herself another cup of coffee, noticing the sink full of dirty dishes and the dust bunnies under the cabinets. She’d been a neat freak once. She’d had time to be: she’d inherited enough money not to have to work.

  She caught her reflection in the computer screen, surprised as always by the youthfulness of her face. Her peers sometimes remarked that the mirror showed them as older than they felt. She had the opposite reaction. Eric was born when she was seventeen and died when she was thirty-four. She was only thirty-seven now, but felt like an old lady.

  Concentrate! Serena pinched her cheek. She was always afraid that by woolgathering, she’d miss a clue. She went on reading, but found nothing. At the bottom of the list of articles was a section about missing persons, which she usually gave at least a cursory glance.

  “Missing in the High Desert Badlands,” the headline read. She nearly turned off the computer, but at the bottom were some quotation marks, and she always read anything that was a quote, certain she would instantly recognize Kristen’s phrasing.

  A young couple had gotten lost while hiking near Bend, Oregon. They’d become separated, but somehow the woman had found her way to Highway 20, where she’d flagged down a car. They still hadn’t found the young man, a Doug Johnson.

  “Doug’s with Mother Earth now,” the woman, Suzanne Winders, said at the bottom of the article. “I’m sad, you know, but I know that the Goddess has enveloped him in her sweet embrace. He was a beautiful young man, so wise, so knowing. He knew the dangers, but chose to be close to nature. The wilderness is where he wanted to be.”

  It was her.

  The earth goddess thing was new, but not the offhand way she depicted someone’s presumed death as if it were a blessing. It was her hallmark. Then there was the way she unwittingly used the past tense to refer to someone who was, after all, only missing.

  Bend, Oregon. All the way across the country, but that wasn’t surprising. Kristen Larkin could show up anywhere, at any time. If she held true to form, she’d soak up as much attention and sympathy as possible before disappearing again. The article was only a day old. They hadn’t even called off the search for Doug Johnson yet.

  Serena bookmarked the article. First thing in the morning, she’d Priceline a flight and head straight to Portland. She’d rent a car and be in Bend by evening.

  Would Kristen look the same? Serena had seen her with every color and style of hair. But one thing remained the same, no matter whether the picture was from twenty years ago or five years ago.

  Her face never changed.

  Serena sent an email.

  Rick,

  I think I have found her. She’s on the West Coast, in Oregon. I’m headed that way. I’ll let you know what I find.

  Serena

  She turned off the computer. The mysterious Rick, who sounds so old, who knows so much, she mused. She kept hoping that if she got close enough to finding Kristen, he’d join her and they’d meet at last.

  Oh, well. While his information was helpful, she didn’t really need him. She’d kill the Succubus all by herself.

  ***

  The search for Doug Johnson was still in full swing when Serena arrived in Bend. No one seemed to know where Suzanne Winders was, and no one in authority seemed to care.

  Serena wasn’t surprised. The Kristen MPDG was usually gone before Serena ever arrived, but she’d never arrived this early in an investigation before.

  The Sheriff’s Office was on the northwestern edge of Bend, where the county wilderness search crews were headquartered. Serena posed as a reporter and mined as much information from the harried front desk officer as she could.

  She was still there when they got the call.

  The deputy listened to the phone, his face growing long, and he hung up after a few “Yes, sir’s” and “No, sir’s.”

  “What happened?” Serena asked.

  “I can’t tell you,” said the deputy.

  “I’m on deadline for tomorrow’s edition,” she said. “Come on, let me submit my story in time.”

  The deputy stared at her for a long moment. “Off the record?”

  Serena nodded.

  The deputy looked around and lowered his voice. “It was a bear. I mean, it had to be a bear or a cougar, but a bear is more likely.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Oh, yeah. The body was pretty torn up, but Sheriff Maxwell knows bear attacks. He’s leading the search party.”

  Weariness dropped over Serena like a heavy blanket. All this way for nothing. It had been so promising…but not every Manic Pixie Dream Girl was a murderer, nor was every murder done by a MPDG.

  She had risen to leave when she spotted a young man sitting in one of the plastic chairs that lined the hallway. He stared at her, and Serena sensed he was attracted to her. But there was something
more. Something made her walk over to him.

  “You knew him, didn’t you?” she asked. “Doug Johnson?”

  “He was my best friend,” the guy answered. His eyes watered, and he put his face down, hiding it. He was good-looking in a small-town way, with hair that looked like it was dyed a rust red and curling tattoos on both arms. He wore a skintight black T-shirt and jeans.

  “You heard?” Serena said. She sat down next him. She didn’t know him, but there was something about the genuineness of his concern that reassured her.

  “They found him,” she whispered, glancing behind her at the deputy. Then she hesitated. Maybe it wasn’t for her to tell this young man what had happened to his friend. But he was looking at her expectantly, so it was too late now. “I’m sorry,” she said, reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder. “He’s dead. A bear attack.”

  To her relief, Doug’s friend apparently already knew. He shook his head. “That’s what they say,” he said, and looked away.

  Serena felt her hopes rising and was slightly ashamed of it. A young man was dead. But…there might be more to this story. She leaned toward Doug’s friend. “You don’t believe them?”

  “Oh, I’m sure a bear killed him. But that’s not what got him in trouble.”

  She hesitated, hardly daring to breathe. Press too hard and he will shut down, she thought. “My name’s Serena Carlton.” She stood up and put out her hand, as if starting all over. “I’d love to hear your story.”

  The young man wasn’t very good at hiding his feelings. Surprise came over his face, and then doubt, as if he wasn’t sure his own instincts were right. But most of all, she saw relief that someone was willing to listen to his concerns.

  He stood, finally remembering his manners, and shook her hand. “Cary Deakins.”

  They both sat back down, and it no longer felt like they were strangers, but friends.

  It’s been a long time since I felt this comfortable with someone, Serena thought. And yet I barely know him.

  In her confusion, she blurted out the question she’d intended to lead up to. “Do you know the girlfriend?” she asked.