Heinrich sat there in the dark for as long as he could stand it. It felt like days; he hoped it was hours, and later on, he believed it was probably only minutes. He wasted half of his matches before he gave up trying to light them.
Then he sat back and tried not to think.
He fell asleep.
When he awoke, he tried the matches again, and the third one sputtered to life. He held it to the water-and-oil soaked rag at the end of the torch. The oil was stronger than the water, just barely, and it caught.
Heinrich stood and looked around. This was probably going to be his burial chamber, and for some reason, he wanted to know its contours. The light caught the reflection of metal on the wall right away. He walked over to it and found ancient iron chains, almost all the way rusted through, with barely enough of the metal left to catch the torchlight. Heinrich’s feet scraped over something crusty, and he leaned down with the torch. It was a thick layer of rust-like material, but he sensed it had once been organic. It looked like dried blood, but it was an ocean’s worth, inches thick.
This is where they kept the Succubae, he realized. This is where the Guardians bled them.
He closed his eyes as a vision came over him with the force of truth, Blood calling Blood.
Three immortal creatures—sisters—unable to move and bled of their life’s essence, day after day, for centuries. He imagined their captors feeding them just enough life force to keep them alive; condemned prisoners, perhaps. Or perhaps the sisters had kept their pleasing forms and the caretakers had taken their pleasure with them, letting a little of their own spirit enter the Succubae before bleeding them again.
The torch was sputtering, and Heinrich broke out of his reverie and continued his examination of the cavern. The torch was down to bare wood now, and it was going out. In those last seconds, he saw the hole. He scrambled to it, shoved the torch into the gap, and stared upward. The chimney went up at least as far as the light could shine.
The torch went out.
He sat for a long time, trying to summon the courage to once again squeeze himself into a gap no wider than his shoulders.
He had no choice.
He shuddered and crawled into the hole before he could have second thoughts. He shimmied upward. The chimney was so tight that he could hold himself in place with minimal pressure. There were small crevices that he could fit his toes into, but it seemed to take forever to move a few feet, and his legs were quivering from fatigue before he’d gone very far. The passage went on and on, just large enough for one small body. If he hadn’t been starving, he doubted he would have fit.
Halfway up, he realized who had created it.
He continued on, knowing that if the Succubae had escaped, so could he.
Finally, as his arms and legs were ready to give out, he saw a pinpoint of light above. It gave him the hope to go on. The pinpoint got bigger, until he could see blue skies, the passage of a white cloud across them. He had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. The air was cleaner too, and the temperature was rising.
When Heinrich finally crawled out of the hole, the sun was overhead. He was on the mountainside. Below, he could see the red roof of his cottage, like a toy house.
He staggered to his feet, determined to reach safety before dark. He’d rest later, when he was home.
As he reached out to steady himself, something sharp cut into his hand. It was a purplish color in the sunlight, broken off and jagged.
He pulled a talon out of the rock, bigger than any eagle’s, as if left there by a prehistoric creature. As he leaned over to examine it, his eyes fell onto the hole he’d just emerged from. There, around the edges, were deep grooves.
Each groove was the size of the talon he now held in his hand.
Chapter 14
“Do you have any pictures of her?” Cary asked.
Serena nodded and reached into her handbag pulling out a sheaf of photos. Cary leafed through them, frowning. “You can barely make her out,” he said.
“She has a knack of looking away at the right moment,” Serena said. “These are the best I could find online. Even when her picture is taken straight on, she’s blurry. I think it’s one of her powers.”
“Well, a big enough reward and people will at least try,” he mused. “A thousand bucks ought to get some reaction.”
“A thousand dollars for the reward?” Serena repeated. “I can do that,” she said without blinking.
It confirmed what Cary suspected. He’d noticed that she wore nice, if conservative, clothes, and sensible but expensive shoes. She wasn’t hurting for money. In the circles Cary ran around in, a thousand bucks might have been doable, but there would have been a telltale hesitation.
“There’s this artist I know,” he suggested reluctantly. “She’s really talented at portraits.”
***
Rachel answered the door in a paint-splattered smock. “I’m in the middle of something, Cary,” she said. “Can’t talk.” Cary’s old girlfriend was incredibly focused once she started a project; no interruptions were allowed.
“This is important,” Cary said. “Please, Rachel. We can pay you.” He glanced over at Serena, who nodded.
Rachel finally looked them over as if seeing them for the first time. Her glance lingered on Serena, and she gave Cary a knowing look.
“Let me see the pictures,” she said after they explained what they needed. “You think this girl killed Doug?”
“Maybe,” Cary ventured, but Serena answered the question with a firm nod.
“Pretty, in a pixyish sort of way,” Rachel mused, sifting through the photos. All the pictures were fuzzy, the MPDG a blob in the center of them. But Rachel could apparently fill in details that others couldn’t see.
Cary and Serena exchanged glances. They hadn’t said anything about the MPDG angle.
In minutes, with the help of Serena and Cary’s descriptions, Rachel had sketched a stunningly accurate representation of Kristen/Suzanne’s face without the Goth or steampunk trappings.
“You sure you don’t want some color?” Rachel asked, as if leaving the picture unfinished bothered her.
“No color,” Serena said firmly. “Whatever hair or eye color you use will be wrong by now.”
Rachel shrugged and started to hand over the drawing. As Cary was about to take hold of it, she suddenly took it back. She lifted the picture and frowned.
“Strange…” she said.
“What?”
“I’ve seen her before.” Rachel went to her desk, turned on the computer, and drummed her feet, waiting for it to boot up. When it did, she tapped a few keys, then grunted. She turned the monitor in the direction of her guests.
There on the screen was Kristen/Suzanne. She had flowers in her green hair: very bohemian.
“Where did you get this?” Serena breathed. “Who is it?”
“That’s just it,” Rachel said. “It isn’t anyone. This is a composite I came across the other day. They asked a bunch of boys and men to construct their dream girl by morphing different actresses and models until they reached a consensus about who was the most desirable girl they could think of. They actually had different categories. This was the “Cute” girl. There was also “The Slut” and “The Sex Goddess” and a bunch of others. Funny thing is, they all pretty much look alike—at least to an artist—except for the superficial stuff like hair and makeup.”
Rachel lined up the pictures, and it was true that if you looked closely, they looked very much alike.
Cary nodded agreement. I’d do ’em, he thought.
“So…” Serena murmured. “These are wet dreams for sweaty, horny boys?”
Cary shifted uncomfortably.
Rachel laughed. “Pretty much. Personally, I think they are a little generic…which makes sense. ”
Cary had a moment of doubt. Had they just constructed an illusion? Had they tapped into an archetype rather than depicting a real girl? But the more he stared at the sketch without all t
he embellishments, the more Suzanne Winders came alive within the lines on the page.
They left Rachel’s house after promising to keep her up to date. At the last second, she grabbed the sketch and scrawled her name along the bottom. She handed it back with a smile.
They went to the nearest printer and added the reward money information at the top of the flyer. “Have You Seen This Girl?” it read. “$1,000 for information on her whereabouts.” They discussed which phone number to put on it, and in the end put on both of their cell numbers, as well as the number of the Cambridge Hotel.
“I’ll pay the staff to do the phone screening,” Serena said.
“Where do we start handing them out?” Cary asked when the printer handed them a box containing 500 flyers.
“She’s most likely at one of the schools,” Serena said. “College or high school, probably, though she’s gone as low as the eighth grade. Churches…she finds lots of unwary victims there. Or someplace young people hang out. Movie theaters. If she’s desperate, she might try a bar, and if she’s truly desperate, she’ll try an older-trending bar where a cute girl is like catnip.”
“Let’s try COCC,” Cary suggested.
They drove to Central Oregon Community College, which was on top of one of the hills overlooking the town. “Harvard on the Hill,” Cary commented. “Or Cock on the Rock.”
Serena frowned at him, but didn’t say anything.
They hiked around the campus, showing the picture to students hurrying by, but few stopped long enough to glance at the sketch. None showed more than vague recognition. The $1,000 reward caught the interest of some, who stared at the image, only to reluctantly shake their heads.
They tried the high schools next.
“My alma mater,” Cary said as they drove into the parking lot of Bend High. There were tons of kids hanging around the cars, smoking cigarettes, goofing off between classes. They approached a group of boys, whose eyes instantly went to Serena.
Cary handed them all flyers. “Anything at all?” he asked as they examined them.
The boys shook their heads. Then one of them cocked his head a little. “You know…this looks a little like…”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence, because a gruff voice interrupted.
“Who are you?” A middle-aged man with black horn-rimmed glasses came hurrying up. “You can’t be here.”
The boys were stamping out their cigarettes and turning away, walking toward the school. Within seconds, the parking lot had emptied out.
“We’re just looking for someone,” Cary said, handing the man a flyer.
“I’m Principal Catledge,” he said. He lifted the picture and frowned. “She looks damn familiar, but…you can’t be here.”
“We won’t get in you way,” Serena said, and explained that they were looking for a runaway girl.
Cary tried not to stare, surprised that she had lied so effortlessly.
The principal softened his tone after hearing Serena’s explanation. “I sympathize with your need to find her, but I can’t allow you to do this. It’s against school policy to have civilians on school grounds unless they have children on campus.” He sighed. “With all these school shootings, I’m sure you can understand the necessity.” Serena and Cary both nodded and then left reluctantly.
After that, they left the schools alone. They tried churches, but since it was midweek, most were empty.
“Where else?” Serena asked, deferring to Cary, who knew the town. “What about malls?”
“We don’t really have any,” he answered. “They were torn down. There’s downtown and the Old Mill District.”
“Then that’s where we start.”
***
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Cary said after they had spent a couple of hours handing out flyers downtown, only to see most of the few takers ditching the flyer in the first trash can they saw.
They decided to take a break. Serena went to get them some food, and Cary watched her appreciatively as the counter guy flirted with her and she ignored him.
“It’s going to take forever,” he said as she set the tray of sodas and pizza on the table.
Serena nodded her agreement, dropping into a mesh patio chair outside the sidewalk café. Cary gobbled his food down, realizing he hadn’t eaten pizza since he started dating Rachel, who only ate raw vegetables and fruits. He’d been forced to squirrel away chips and beef jerky to satisfy his hankerings.
“We’re going to have to post these flyers after all,” Serena said.
Cary finished off his pizza and wiped his greasy fingers on a napkin. He shrugged. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
“Well…we tip our hand and she flees, and we never see her again.”
“Well, you know…other than that….” He broke off abruptly, then met Serena’s gaze with a puzzled smile. “You know, it just occurred to me. The law isn’t after Suzanne. The authorities don’t have a clue. What are we going to do if we find her?”
“I just want to track her,” Serena said slowly.
Cary nodded, trying to his doubt. When she had paid for the flyers, he had seen a pistol in her purse. He thought he knew what she meant to do with it. She wasn’t trying very hard to hide her intentions.
***
Serena thought she knew what Cary was hinting at, but she wasn’t about to make him an accessory to the crime. She would use the gun, given the chance. She didn’t think it was possible to trail the MPDG much further. The Kristen creature was too canny, too devious. All the money in the world wouldn’t be enough. There was only one way to end her evil.
With a bullet to the head.
Serena stared at the pizza in her hands, appetite suddenly gone. She dropped the slice onto her plate, wishing her quest for vengeance could have such an easy ending. She took a long drink of soda, more to keep busy than because of thirst. Would a bullet to the head be enough? She doubted it.
She was going to need to fight magic with magic, God help her. Because that was the kind of creature she was dealing with—the ogre under the bridge, the bloodsucker in the night, the wolf in the woods.
She pulled out her tablet while Cary watched curiously.
Serena: I’m pretty sure Eisheth is here and she is injured.
Rick: Have you seen her?
Serena: I have a local witness.
Rick: Let me know when you know for sure.
Serena: I think you should come. I think I’ll need your help.
The light blinked, showing that Rick was typing a response, but no text appeared for several long minutes. Then…
Rick: I’ll start making plans.
Chapter 15
The Daughters of Lilith were left in dark for an eternity, unfed, to fade slowly back to their shrunken forms, far away from mankind and their thoughts and desires, trapped in a living death.
They screamed in rage into the void. They didn’t speak to each other. They didn’t need to, for they all felt the same horror; it swelled and filled each of their souls. They were at their weakest when they were imprisoned, and neglect made them even weaker. But they were Goddesses, immortal, and though they shrank and withered, they did not die.
Finally, they felt the men approaching, sensing them from the moment the doors opened far above. Their screams stopped. As one, they chose not to reveal their pain and distress to their tormentors.
The Goddesses could smell the men, hear their breathing, perceive their thoughts.
Eisheth came back to herself. The screams had been ever present, each of the sisters taking turns, as if one was expressing the agony of all. The sudden silence was shocking. Her mind focused.
When the men entered the cave, Eisheth struggled to morph her image into a pleasing form. Her sisters attempted the same thing, but succeeded only in putting more flesh on their bones, flesh that was sickly and craggy in the light of the torches
From the revulsion on the men’s faces, Eisheth could tell that the glamour had failed
. The men wrinkled their noses and averted their eyes.
All but one.
The Storm King marched up to them and waved his torch in their faces one by one. “Where are you, my love?” he asked.
“I’ll kill you!” Eisheth screamed then. The chains clanked as she pulled against them, trying desperately to reach her tormentor mere inches away. She succeeded only in burning herself in the flames.
“Did I ever love such a pitiful creature?” Komor mused. “No, not loved. But I was fond of you and your boundless naiveté.”
“I will kill you and all your kind,” Eisheth said. But it came out as animalistic growls.
“What’s that?” Komor asked. “You will what?”
I will eat your soul.
The clear, strong thought took every ounce of strength she still possessed.
Komor grunted and put his hand to his head, then shook it off. He motioned for his men to come forward. Each was carrying a jar in one hand, a knife in the other. Eisheth hissed at the man in front of her, and he stumbled backward, tripped on a rock, and rolled into the dark lake below. He screamed, and it echoed, sounding eerily to Eisheth like the screams of her sisters. He floundered, and before any of the other soldiers could reach him, he disappeared beneath the black surface, as if dragged under.
Komor snorted in disgust. He grabbed the jar the man had dropped and drew his sword. He looked over Eisheth’s body intently, motioning for one of his soldiers to bring the torch closer. Trembling, the man extended his arm, standing as far back as he could manage.
Komor poked the end of the blade into a withered breast. A red trickle dripped down her concave belly and then stopped. He cursed and pushed the blade in farther; again, a small dribble and then nothing.
“The Spring Rites are tomorrow,” Komor said, stepping back. “While the villagers may not miss you much, they do miss your blood. Must I cut you to pieces to get it?”
“Do so,” Eisheth managed to say out loud. Do so, she thought to herself, and reap nothing the next year and the next. See how much the villagers love you then.
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