Blood of the Succubus

by McGeary, Duncan

  “But that won’t do me much good in the future, will it?” Komor mused.

  “You must feed us,” Naamah said. “Give us water.” Of the three, she had managed to look the most human. She’d always taken the form of a slender woman, so maybe it was easier for her. Instead of looking like a monster, she looked like an old and shrunken woman.

  Komor turned, seeking out which of the dried mummies pinned to the wall had spoken. Eisheth was in the middle, Agrat Bat to her right, Naamah to her left.

  “Bring water,” he commanded. Several of the soldiers inched down the slippery rock to the water below. They filled their jars and climbed back up. Then they roughly pulled the sisters’ heads back and poured the water down their throats.

  It was just water, brackish tasting, but it was ambrosia to Eisheth. She felt her body filling out and her thoughts becoming clearer, and most of all, she felt her spirit returning. Even for Goddesses, water was life.

  She turned her head. Her sisters were recognizably human now, though far from beautiful.

  “Who brought food?” Komor shouted.

  A few of the men hesitated.

  “Come now, I’ll reward each of you with an equal weight in gold.”

  The soldiers reached into pockets and pouches, dragging out dried bread and jerky, carrots and turnips, more provisions than anyone would have guessed. Komor divided the food equally, and the men carefully fed it to the Goddesses, whose teeth grew sharper with every mouthful. The men were almost throwing the food at them by the end, and the gnashing was loud and frightening.

  “Enough,” Komor said impatiently. The sisters were clothed in flesh now, Agrat Bat the plumpest, as always. He sliced her arm and held a jar beneath it. An inch of Blood filled the bottom, but no more.

  “Give me what I want, or I swear I will slice you into small pieces!” Komor shouted into Agrat Bat’s face. Her blue eyes were impassive, but she was smiling slightly.

  “If you want our blood,” Naamah said, “you will need to feed us more than food and water.”

  “Quiet, sister!” Agrat Bat commanded.

  After all they had been through, Naamah still had it in her to pout.

  “Agrat Bat is right,” Eisheth told her. “Sister, you must not give them what they want.”

  Komor marched over to Naamah. “What is it you need, Goddess? Tell me and I will bring it to you.”

  “I need the life of a man. I need his seed and his spirit.”

  Komor stared at her for a few moments and then threw back his head and laughed. His men joined in, though it was clear from their expressions that not all of them understood why they were laughing.

  “You need to lay with a man?” he roared. “I thought it was going to be something difficult!” That set him to laughing even more. He stepped back and loosened his leggings, then pulled out the cock with which Eisheth was so familiar. It was already hard. He stepped up to Naamah.

  “You were the one I always wanted, Goddess Naamah,” he said. “But you were skittish. Not like Eisheth, who believed everything I told her.”

  “Sister,” Agrat Bat said. “Don’t do this.”

  In answer, Naamah spread her legs. She managed to look almost beautiful.

  The Storm King grabbed his erection in hand and stepped forward…and at the last second, looked into Naamah’s eyes.

  He grunted and stepped back. He turned to his soldiers. “My men come before me,” he said, and laughed. “Who wants to be first?” Not waiting for an answer, he grabbed the nearest man and shoved him toward Naamah.

  The soldier didn’t question it. He eagerly lowered his pants and shoved his manhood roughly into Naamah. He pumped rapidly, grunting with every thrust, while the other men shouted encouragement behind him. He shouted, grew still, then laid his head on Naamah’s breasts.

  Naamah could have lowered her mouth onto him then; she could have severed his jugular. Instead, she licked his neck.

  The soldier raised his head, looking surprised, then shoved against her, starting all over.

  The other soldiers grew even louder at this quick recovery and cheered him until he came once more. Moments later, with a loud groan, he started moving against Naamah again.

  Naamah was now so beautiful that the soldiers had grown silent and were moving forward, surrounding her. When the first man fell backward onto the ground, a second man was already taking his place.

  Others gathered around Agrat Bat and Eisheth.

  Eisheth wanted to resist, but when the first member was presented, she wrapped her legs around the soldier and started draining him.

  There was another shout, but this time it was not from pleasure, but from alarm. “He’s dead!” someone cried.

  Komor’s men, who had been silently waiting their turns, gathered around the soldier lying on the ground. His eyes were wide open, his mouth twisted in pleasure or pain or both. He wasn’t breathing.

  The men who were inside the three sisters at that moment tried to pull out. They couldn’t. One man lasted for three orgasms before slumping to the ground; the other two men took a little longer, but in the end they too were dead, their life force drained.

  Komor watched it all, a strange expression on his face, almost as if he was pleased. When the last man had dropped to the ground, he approached Naamah. He bowed his head, as if in respect. Then, without a word, he sliced into her wrist and held the jar below the stream of blood. The jar was soon filled, and he motioned urgently for another one, and then another.

  Three jars were filled from each of the sisters.

  Komor motioned for his men to leave. Before he followed them, he said, “I’ll be back next year, Goddesses.”

  Agrat Bat spoke the instant he was gone.

  “You have cursed us, Naamah. You have cursed us to eternal torment.”

  ***

  They were not left alone for an entire year this time. Only weeks passed before a single old man came down, lugging two large bags over his shoulders. He fed them each a meal in turn, and made many trips down to the lake to refill the goblets he had brought.

  He left, but he returned the next week and the next.

  As they became stronger, the sisters bent their thoughts to the lone man, filling his mind with images of all the wonderful erotic things they would do to him. He shook his head a couple of times. It was as if he was deaf.

  Finally, he turned a toothless grin to them and lowered his pants. There was nothing there but scar tissue.

  He came back every few weeks for most of the year. He talked to them, though they refused to respond. His name was Barrs, and he was an escaped slave who owed his freedom to the Storm King. He seemed almost fond of the sisters, calling them Goddesses and bowing when arriving and before leaving.

  Then, one day, it wasn’t he who came but three young maidens. They each carried a bag of fresh food, better than the usual fare, and the sisters ate until they were satiated.

  It was all done in silence, as if it was a solemn duty. The three girls didn’t even speak to each other.

  “Where is Barr?” Agrat Bat asked.

  “The old man?” one of the girls asked. “He’s passed on.”

  Eisheth noticed that Naamah had a strange smile on her face. All during the feeding, one of the three girls had kept looking at the Goddesses, her gaze lingering on each of them in turn. Now she arose and approached Naamah, and to everyone’s astonishment, Goddesses and girls alike, she leaned over and kissed Naamah on the lips. Then she groaned, went to her knees, put her head down to Naamah and began licking her.

  The other two girls watched in amazement, until one of them approached Agrat Bat and fell to her knees.

  Eisheth bent her will on the third girl, who looked horrified. She was backing away, and even though Eisheth filled her head with all the erotic energy she possessed, the girl ran out of the cavern.

  The other two girls stayed there. Weeks passed as they serviced the Goddesses until they slowly starved to death.

  Only a few day
s after the last girl died, two more young women entered the cavern. They didn’t look happy. They stood near the entrance for a long time, and then, glancing at each other as if to give each other courage, they held hands and approached the sisters.

  Only as they drew near did the Goddesses realize they were men with long, silky hair, their faces covered in makeup.

  The Daughters of Lilith couldn’t help but try to summon them closer. It took the efforts of all three of them, but finally one of the men broke away from his companion and approached Eisheth. He lifted his dress, and his manhood was hard beneath it. She drained him quickly, sensing his confused and contradictory thoughts.

  The other man ran away.

  ***

  And thus, by trial and error, the men of Storm King’s Mountain learned what worked and didn’t work.

  Eisheth lost track of the years. Komor did not appear again for several seasons. She knew he was coming the moment the doors opened. She felt herself becoming alert and focused for the first time in years.

  When the Storm King walked into the cavern, all three sisters bent their wills toward him. He staggered. He avoided looking at them as he approached.

  This time, instead of a condemned prisoner as sacrifice for each of the sisters, the Storm King’s soldiers had brought with them a dozen chained men. Eisheth recognized them as villagers, among them Coss. He was no longer the handsome young man she remembered; there were deep, unhealed cuts on his face, and one ear was half missing.

  “You are not giving us enough,” Komor announced. “My city grows rapidly. More of your Blood is required.”

  “Gladly,” Agrat Bat said. “Come and give me your seed…or are you afraid?”

  “If it would mean more fertility for my fields that my people might be fed, I would do so,” Komor blustered. It was a speech meant for his followers. “But my people still need me alive.”

  He is no longer dressed in armor, Eisheth saw. He is old before his time.

  His beard was shorter now, flecked with gray, and he seemed smaller, as if he’d shrunk several inches. There were lines of care on his face. He was no longer a warrior—he was a politician.

  Coss was unchained first, stripped of his rough robe, and pushed by chance in Eisheth’s direction. He fell against her. He didn’t appear to be afraid, but grateful.

  “I’m sorry,” Eisheth said.

  “Do not be, Goddess,” Coss said. “I cannot live any longer under such terror. I am ready to give myself to you.”

  Komor overheard. “How admirable!” he exclaimed. “Giving himself for the people! I will be sure to tell them of your brave and unselfish act.”

  Coss didn’t last long. He gave most of himself the first time; there was little left after that.

  One by one, the condemned prisoners were fed to the sisters. Komor stood back, and the soldiers approached warily. The more life force given to the Goddesses, the more their allure grew. The men were tied together so that none could break away.

  The soldier who cut into Eisheth was trembling. As he held the jar beneath the Blood, he climaxed without touching her or himself. Then he fell down, spilling some of the precious fluid. He was cut away from the rope and dragged away, replaced by the next man.

  More Blood was taken that year, and for many years after. The Storm King stopped coming to witness the bleeding. But Komor took Coss’s words and repeated them: I am ready to give myself to you, and twisted the words and their meaning so that boys and girls were raised to give themselves to the Daughters of Lilith and think it an honor.

  ***

  Their tormentors once again called themselves priests and priestesses, but they were no longer serving the Goddesses. They were Guardians of the Blood, the All-Healing, Keepers of the Secret Ceremonies. Each year, villagers were led down into the cave, drugged senseless, and given to the Daughters of Lilith.

  One year, as Eisheth was being bled, she asked where the Storm King was.

  “Komor the Great died many years ago,” the soldier said. “His son Marrs is King now.”

  The torment continued, year after year. What the priests and priestesses looked like changed. What they wore, what they spoke, what they called the Daughters all changed over time, but the basic rites never did: darkness and revival, and a teasing pleasure followed by pain, and then the long, slow diminishment—century after century after century.

  ***

  The years passed until Eisheth no longer knew who they were Culling. She was taking the life force of a young man when she realized that he was of a different race than she’d seen before, dark and muscular.

  “They are prisoners of war,” Agrat Bat said when the bloodletting was done and the chamber was empty. “Our Blood is used to conquer, not heal.”

  The next year, Eisheth watched more carefully. Along with the priests and priestesses and the sacrificial victims, young boys were being led to the cave. But they were not there for sex with the Daughters of Lilith.

  Instead, the priestesses—young and pretty—were given to the young men, to complete their journey to manhood.

  But first, the boys were given sharp knives and instructed to approach the sisters. “Cut them wherever it pleases you,” the boys were told. “Cut them as much as you desire, and drink of the Blood of the Succubus.”

  The Daughters of Lilith hissed and screamed, and shouted threats and curses, and the priests whipped them until they were quiet. Then the boys approached and cut them, some timidly, taking but a drop, but others slashing into them again and again and drinking deeply. The priests didn’t seem to care.

  The priestesses gave themselves to the boys, and the Blood of the Succubus healed them, and the rites were fulfilled for another year.

  ***

  As the years passed, the Storm King became but a memory, worshipped at first and then eventually forgotten. He was long dead when the Guardians, as the sister’s keepers were now called, realized that the Daughters of Lilith could be bled all year long, and that the Blood would remain fresh and potent.

  After that, it was an endless existence of pain and of pleasure, of sex and of death.

  The priests and priestesses no longer came, and once again prisoners and slaves were brought, and the Bleeding lost any semblance of ceremony, but became a grim, unpleasant task carried out about by men who mutilated themselves. Slowly, Eisheth became aware that they no longer were called Goddesses. The Three Daughters of Lilith had a new name: the Succubae.

  And so Agrat Bat’s prediction came true:

  “You have cursed us, Naamah. You have cursed us to eternal torment.”

  Chapter 16

  Eisheth waited until Jeremy’s car turned the corner before taking her eternal form. Larger, stronger, and—to any human—more monstrous than before, she lashed out at the mailbox on the curb, sending it flying across the street. Car alarms went off up and down the block.

  Lights came on across the street, and her burly neighbor, Bruce Patterson, who also happened to be her landlord, came out in his bathrobe.

  She shifted back to her Cute Cathy form just in time. It took more and more energy to maintain the illusion. She hungered for a sustaining meal, but it had been too long since she had taken a man. The bear’s claws had left deep gashes in her back, which still bled if she moved too much or too fast. The bloody nose the new Cull—my failed Cull, she reminded herself—had given her, which normally would have healed at her first thought of it, still seeped Blood.

  Her landlord spied her and stomped across the street toward her, his big belly threatening to push his bathrobe open to reveal all. He seemed to catch her thought and tightened the sash around his waist.

  “What are you doing, girl? You know what time it is?”

  I could take his head off, Eisheth thought. Gut him right here.

  She’d contemplated him as a Cull when she’d first arrived in town, but he was madly in love with his dowdy wife, and she’d learned long ago that she couldn’t win a man like that.

  “I�
�m sorry, Mr. Patterson, I think I’ve had a little too much to drink.” She swayed slightly and let her voice quaver just a bit.

  His scowl softened. “Well, go to bed, girl. Take it easy; you want to save a little of that energy for when you’re older.”

  “I will,” she said, turning and walking up the sidewalk. “Sorry…again.”

  Eisheth closed the door to her first-floor apartment and shifted again. She looked around at the steampunk-themed items she had put together for her Suzanne persona, and started slashing everything in the place. She’d haunted the flea markets and yard sales in her first days in town, picking clothing up at random, nothing she really cared about, nothing that meant anything to her: a top hat she’d put some goggles on, some vests, some clunker boots that went up to her knees—anything to maintain the Steampunk Suzanne illusion in case someone dropped by unexpectedly.

  The furniture had come with the place, garage sale stuff. She smashed it to pieces.

  She wasn’t staying in the apartment a moment longer.

  She’d find a temporary hiding spot, and as soon as she regained enough strength, she would leave this awful town. She would head south for the winter. She hadn’t been there in years. Southern California was always prime pickings; she just had to be careful not to overwork any one area down there.

  Eisheth sat in the middle of the floor amongst the wreckage, mulling over her situation. She must weigh her options carefully and avoid doing anything stupid, like losing her temper, destroying a school, and leaving witnesses. She grimaced, remembering the Colorado high school where that had gone down. When she was this weak, she had a tendency to act rashly to seduce the first man she saw without measuring his vulnerabilities and without thinking of the consequences. It was best to pick men or boys with few friends or family—or even better, without friends or family of the female variety. Most women saw through her illusions too easily.