“Girlfriend?” Cary repeated, loudly, scornfully. “Is that what they’re saying? Hell, Doug only knew her a few weeks. She bewitched him somehow. I can’t explain it. But she was no good for him. He died because of her.”
“Why do you say that?”
He stared at her, confused. The sadness that had lain beneath his features, no matter how much he was trying to hide it, broke through. Then the tears really started to flow. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, and Serena had to fight the almost overwhelming impulse to hug him. Cary was close enough to her in age that he might get the wrong idea, but they were far enough apart in age for her to keep her distance.
“You wouldn’t believe me,” he said.
“Don’t be so sure,” she said. She couldn’t keep the bitterness from overtaking her. “My son was murdered and no one would believe me.”
Cary looked shocked, at a loss for words. Finally, he stuttered, “I’m…I’m sorry.”
Serena closed her eyes, trying to get ahold of her emotions. Keep on target, she thought, surprised that the single-minded determination she’d been cultivating for years could be so easily softened by someone’s sympathy.
They sat in silence for a time, watching deputies come and go, bustling about in the self-important way authorities used during emergencies. Later, Serena found what passed for coffee in the alcove that led to the sheriff’s office and brought Cary a Styrofoam cup. He accepted it with a tired smile, wincing at the taste.
Serena followed his example. The coffee was awful, bitter and strong. Just what she needed to wake up.
“So you flew here all the way from Boston?” Cary asked, finally. “Do you need a ride anywhere?”
She shook her head. “Why don’t we meet in the morning?” she asked before she realized she was going to. She wanted to hear Cary’s entire story, but she was so tired she was dizzy.
They arranged to meet the next morning at the Starbucks near the Cambridge Hotel downtown.
Serena knew she needed rest before she could really take in what Cary was going to tell her—or what she hoped he was going to tell her. But she couldn’t help but ask the one question she always asked.
“Can you describe Suzanne Winders in one sentence?” Serena said as they left the sheriff’s building. Cary paused, holding the door open for her.
“Describe her?” He frowned. Then it was as if the answer came to him. “Too good to be true,” he said.
It’s her!
His answer stripped away the disillusion and weariness of years without a lead, the frustration and disappointment of the lack of progress in Bend. It was her!
What’s more, Kristen hadn’t completed the kill. Serena wasn’t completely sure her information was accurate, but according to some sources, that meant Kristen would be weak and searching for a new target. She might move out of the area, but Serena figured there was a good chance that she’d want to restore her powers by taking someone’s life force first.
Serena would have to hurry, because Kristen would act quickly, maybe within as little as a couple of weeks.
She said goodbye to Cary and drove to the hotel deep in thought. She quivered with nervous energy, and she anticipated a sleepless night. But she was out before her head settled into the pillow.
She slept soddenly, without dreams, but woke feeling groggy. She wasn’t young anymore; she was coming up on forty. The image of Cary Deakins entered her mind, and she tried to dislodge it. The forties were supposed to be the new thirties, but as far as Serena was concerned, she was entering old age. That’s how she felt, anyway.
She booted up her laptop.
Serena: She’s here! I’m sure of it.
Rick: Be careful. Keep me posted.
Serena: I’ll be all right.
Rick: Don’t confront her alone.
Serena: As soon as I’ve found her, I will contact you.
Rick: Wait for me before you do anything.
She rewarded him with a smiley face and clicked off.
Chapter 4
The Succubus shrieked. Windows of homes opened to the warm fall air were slammed shut, the residents wondering what strange creature had made such a horrible sound.
“Sisters!” she cried in the ancient language. “I’ve been hurt!”
Her sisters weren’t listening; she knew that. But it didn’t matter; it was how she’d always responded to pain and frustration.
Eisheth was enraged. She’d come within seconds of Culling that boring young man after spending nearly a month under the name Suzanne Winders, making sure he was completely in love with her. She’d expected a huge payoff. The more a Cull loved her, the more she got out of him.
She’d thought camping was a brilliant new strategy. Take them into the woods, Cull them, and then leave the desiccated remains for the animals. She’d bat her big eyes at the authorities over becoming “lost,” show her girlish grief, and they would sympathize and coddle her. They would never suspect her.
It had never occurred to Eisheth that wild animals could be a danger. She’d spent far too much time in the city in the last few centuries. She had been the Goddess of harvests and domesticated animals. Her aspect had been of hearth and home, and her worshippers farmers and tradesmen. She’d let her sister Naamah deal with the woodsmen and the wild woods.
She might have been able to fight the bear, but she’d been too startled. She used most of the energy she’d Culled from Doug just to get away.
Being torn apart by a bear would have been far worse than not consummating the Cull, as bad as that was. It took almost all her life force to maintain an attractive body: that kind of damage might take decades to repair, hundreds of successful Cullings while she expended most of her own life force merely maintaining the illusion of beauty.
Eisheth had worked hard for the great body she now had, her beautiful, even-featured face, her thick hair, wide eyes, and high cheekbones, her cute, innocent appearance. Varying hair and eye color took relatively little energy, and she made such changes as a matter of course. She’d vary her clothing and approach with each Cull, but she mostly stuck to the perky but helpless type that most men liked.
Looking like Marilyn Monroe might work too, but the more attractive she looked, the harder it was to maintain. Cuteness was a lot less work. She only had to mimic the personality that she knew men craved, mostly feigning admiration, listening to them, and laughing at their jokes. That was usually enough.
To hell with them…to hell with them all. To have to feed on the beings I hate most.
Eisheth’s curse wasn’t that she couldn’t screw any man to death, but that she could only Cull one man at a time, wasting precious time seducing them. For the Cull to be most powerful, her victims had to give themselves to her, even if only subconsciously. She couldn’t get it wrong. If she was rejected for any reason, if the Cull wasn’t achieved, she would weaken and her powers to seduce become less reliable. She’d be forced to pick up lower and lower-status men, whose life essences were barely enough to sustain her.
Once, after been severely injured in a car accident (she still neglected to look both ways when she entered roadways), Eisheth had taken a bum on Burnside in Portland in desperation, and it was as if she hadn’t gotten anything from the Cull at all. She’d had to Cull three more bums before she moved her way up to a horny college kid, fat and disgusting, then to a rich old man, then finally to some middle-aged businessman cheating on his wife while out of town. Their life forces were dim, pathetic, and barely present. It wasn’t so much that she’d managed to seduce them as she’d become a mere slut, letting them have their way with her until they couldn’t do without her. Then she’d taken them.
The quickest she’d ever gotten a good Cull was one week. She’d said all the right things at all the right times to a strong, handsome young man in Greece, who became so infatuated with her that she could have had him within a day. But she couldn’t afford a mistake.
Especially in ancient times, a failed sed
uction could be dangerous. If the fact that a Succubus was among them became common knowledge, Eisheth was in danger of being tracked down and destroyed by the local populace. But these days, fortunately for her, people didn’t believe in such things as Succubae.
She couldn’t really die, but she could become a mere shadow, an erotic thought, a wet dream among teenagers who needed little encouragement. She’d spent centuries in such a tenuous state, and she had no intention of returning to it. Ever.
She would try someone younger this time, hopefully someone with a strong life force. Teenagers seemed to often miss who was the strongest among them, and they made easy targets. At the same time, it took more of her life force to maintain the illusion of being younger, so there was a tradeoff.
It just so happened that the school year was starting, so she could scout out the late bloomers; try to grab one quick Cull. She’d been using the camping trick for some time now. Despite the bear, she decided to stick to her plan. It was easy to lead her prey far into the wilderness, where they normally weren’t ever found. She just had to be more careful about the wildlife.
Usually, Eisheth was long gone by the time they were discovered. It didn’t make the papers the way a draining did.
She’d take her prey into the woods and disappear. Maybe to a new state. Hell, maybe to a new country.
Reduced to running, to hiding.
Sometimes it was hard to remember that she’d once been a Goddess.
Chapter 5
Once their names had been blessings, not curses. They had been Goddesses, not Succubae.
It was hard for Eisheth to remember now that she had ever loved humans. She could not summon the emotion, even in her most quiet, contemplative moments, which were few and brief. The hate was always there, always boiling. In her mind, she could see those days, but she could not feel them.
Of them all, the villagers loved Eisheth best. Agrat Bat was distant, unattainable by most men. High priestesses attended her, and her fertility rites were for the whole village and surrounding territory. She performed only on High Holidays.
Naamah was the Goddess of pleasure, of the wild woods, and she had her following, of course. The young women loved her and her ways, and she loved them in return. Sex was not something to be ashamed of in those days.
But Eisheth was the Goddess of home and hearth. Couples prayed to her that they might be blessed with children.
The sisters mostly kept apart, for together they were too potent an influence. Only in spring, when planting commenced, did they appear together, that their Blood could bless the season, producing abundant crops, resistant to animals and insects and disease.
The mountain village thrived. Because of the Goddesses, women were equal to men, if not superior. The women were entrusted to rule the village, and outsiders came for their judgment and justice when there were disputes.
Such a paradise could not long continue. Word spread of the Three Daughters of Lilith’s blessed realm.
Despite the millennia, Eisheth remembered the day it had all changed.
***
It was the first day of spring. There was a cool brightness to the air, the last breath of winter softened by the sweet whispers of spring.
Eisheth stood at the edge of the white stone path, looking like a simple villager, though there was a space around her that no mortal dared to enter. She glowed in the light, gathering the rays of the sun around her, holding her hands out in blessing.
Naamah was further down the path, her followers clustered around her, arms and legs and bodies intertwined, a swirling, ever-changing knot of erotic energy, even in the early morning. Eisheth could feel it from where she stood, and she contemplated the men standing at a discrete distance from her, wondering which of them she should bestow her blessing upon and take to her home and bed to further sanctify the coming of spring.
They were waiting for Agrat Bat.
The doors of temple opened, and her retinue of priests and priestesses emerged, carrying Agrat Bat on a litter. The carriers stumbled under her weight. Agrat Bat was huge and round, with pendulous breasts, oak beams for legs, and huge branches for arms, her blonde hair a wild halo about her round face. Her skin was pale, and she had piercing blue eyes.
The villagers, in contrast, were small and dark. Blue or green eyes were almost unheard of, but blonde hair was rare enough to be reserved for a Goddess.
Eisheth had shaken her head at the grandiosity of the temple. But in hindsight, it was a minor grandiosity. The temple was small, but made of bricks, unlike the wattle and daub of most the village huts. Her followers lived in the front of the temple, Agrat Bat lived in the back, and the altar was between them.
Beneath the temple was the entrance to the caves from which the Daughters of Lilith had emerged, so long ago that they had forgotten the how and why of it. They simply knew that the caves were their birthplace. A higher power—or time itself—had erased their memories of more than that.
Agrat Bat gave her a glance as she passed, and Eisheth exchanged a knowing smile with her. Even Agrat Bat couldn’t overlook the pomposity of High Holy Days.
Agrat Bat was, by unspoken agreement, the elder sister. Naamah was the baby, Eisheth the middle sibling. They didn’t know if this was true, but it seemed right.
It was Agrat Bat who gave herself on this day. Naamah and Eisheth would also join in the festivities, but in private, behind closed doors. It was Agrat Bat’s duty to perform in public, and she reveled in it.
She stepped down from the litter, a small cloud of white dust rising from the path as she landed.
A priest stepped forward to face her and raised his arms. It was Zuoso who gave prayers, as usual. Every year he changed a few of the words, but little by little, it was becoming a ritual.
“Goddesses, the motherly source who brings forth all the life from the earth, we ask that you present us with your virtues, that we may call on your goodwill to keep away disease and plague, infestations and barrenness, and bless us with nourishment, save us with your medicines, and engender love between man and woman, as we are of the earth and the earth is fertile. Illuminate with your feminine warmth the hearth, and raise up our fortunes, and deliver us from fallen hopes. If it pleases you, for we have worked hard for your favor, bless this land and our homes.”
At the end, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head.
Agrat Bat put her fat hand on top of his head and answered, “We are here. Your prayers have moved us, and we will give you succor. For we are the natural mothers of all things, the powers of life in our forms, the Three. Leave off your sorrow on this blessed day, for we give ourselves to you, that you may flourish in the coming year.”
She turned, and everyone became still and quiet.
All was prepared. The green bedding was set in the middle of the field. Men lined the border between the path and field, and many could not hide their growing erections.
Agrat Bat didn’t seem to think about her choice. Her fat finger landed on a middle-aged man in the middle of the line: Moros, the blacksmith, the only man who was nearly as big as Agrat Bat. He followed her to the soft green bower. Agrat Bat removed her cloak and tossed it casually to the side.
The erotic energy in the air was overwhelming by now. Even Eisheth felt the urge to touch herself, though she resisted. The lesser mortals around her couldn’t resist. Men and women were pairing off, and not always with their usual partners. On this day, all was allowed—no one was to judge. But they had to wait; the Goddess came first. She must complete the ceremony.
Agrat Bat lay down, her breasts weighed down on each side. She opened her legs, her sex already glistening. Moros removed his clothing, nearly stumbling in his haste, and the villagers laughed. Despite the importance of the ceremony, it was a joyous time, and laughter was allowed, even encouraged.
He practically jumped on the Goddess. She took him in, enveloped him in flesh. Moros put his hands on her breasts and began to quiver. It wasn’t really love-making, more l
ike a spasm, and then he was spent.
Again the villagers laughed, but it was a good sign. The village would be blessed with an early and healthy crop.
The sexual energy was not dissipated, however. With the ritual done, the men and women quickly disappeared into their homes or the surrounding wilds, there to expend themselves and further bless the crops.
When most of them were gone, the three sisters gathered.
“You couldn’t keep him waiting?” Naamah teased.
“I tried,” Agrat Bat said, frowning.
“You can’t help it, I’m certain,” Eisheth said. “But fortunately, your retinue looks ready to satisfy you.”
Indeed, the robes of the priests were tenting outward at the waist, and they couldn’t take their eyes off her.
“Let’s get this over with,” Agrat Bat said. She was still naked. Eisheth and Naamah soon joined her.
The eldest sister held out her hand, and one of the priestesses stepped forward, proffering an obsidian knife. It was the sharpest blade in the village, protected and sheltered on the temple altar.
Agrat Bat went first. She cut into her wrist and the blood flowed. She marched down the rows of plantings. It wasn’t necessary to touch all of them with her blood; it carried far, and its effects lasted long. Naamah and Eisheth followed as their sister marched from field to field, down to the smallest gardens. The human attendants stayed back on the path and watched. As she bled, Agrat Bat grew ever smaller, until she was emaciated, almost a skeleton.
Then she turned and gave her middle sister the blade. Eisheth tried not to wince. She cut into her forearm enough for droplets to appear, and she blessed the few places Agrat Bat hadn’t reached, until she looked down and saw that the bones in her arms were protruding, her skin stretched tight.
She handed the knife to Naamah, who had even less substance to give, but it was necessary that she contribute, so that all three sisters were seen to be part of the ceremony. They were the Three Goddesses, and all were worshipped equally, if differently.
Blood of the Succubus Page 4