Blood of the Succubus

by McGeary, Duncan

  Lucinda’s voice lowered sympathetically. “It’s not about the money,” she said. “You can turn down the money. But something strange is going on with that girl, and these people seem to know what it is. I think you need to talk with them.”

  He listened to her voice. So calm, so down to earth, so different from Cathy’s ethereal chatter. “Will you go with me, Lucinda?” he asked abruptly, surprised at his own request.

  She gave him a grin. “You couldn’t keep me away.”

  Chapter 19

  Gasper Gerhard’s Journal

  I sensed the Succubae near just one more time.

  It was after I gave Heinrich to the neighbor woman to nursemaid. I was alone. I spent all my time in the caves, reading the histories. It was soon after my father died. No one was watching me, and I could do as I pleased.

  So I drank of the Blood.

  And I did not do the Cutting.

  I was making dinner when an overwhelming sense of desire overcame me. I sensed her sniffing around outside—how, I don’t know. It was as if we were connected. It was the Blood, I suppose. It drew her back. She sensed that her ancestral home was near, and she was getting closer every second.

  I wasted no time in performing the Cutting.

  I still wanted to live in those days. At the same time, I understood why the Succubus wanted to kill me. It was her Blood I drank to restore myself, taken unwillingly from her body. None of my forebears wrote about that dark time just before the Fall. They spoke vaguely of God’s retribution, but not why it was necessary.

  I suspect that we acted badly, we Guardians. That we bled the Succubae dry every chance we got. Our lore says that the Fall came because we were corrupt; we sold the Blood for profit and power. But I wonder if the Fall was because of how we treated the Succubae, who, according to the oldest transcripts, had once been worshipped as Goddesses.

  I think, perhaps, they have every right to hate mankind.

  ***

  France, 1958

  Heinrich decided to stay in France when his son was born, to become a true Gallic gentleman. He wanted to name his boy Gasper, but didn’t object when Adele Gallicized it to Gaspar.

  He stored what was left of the Blood in the cellar, covered by a layer of bricks, and tried his best to forget about the Succubae. Though he felt an overwhelming urge to use the Blood sometimes, especially when he was injured, and even more so when Adele or his children were hurt or sick, he avoided it. Such urges only revealed how dependent he’d become on it.

  He vowed he would never to use it again.

  And yet, he couldn’t quite make himself destroy the Blood. It didn’t belong to him—it was the Guardians’. (I am the last of them, he thought, but the ghosts of his ancestors hovered over his shoulders.)

  The more he read his father’s journal, the more Heinrich realized that his forebears had done their best—that they meant well. They were weak and scared, perhaps, but none of them had given up on their duty. He had no right to judge them. He was the one who was giving up.

  I will live a quiet life, he told himself. The Daughters of Lilith will have no reason to bother me. It ends here.

  He remained a teacher in the same school, and eventually, to his own amazement, even became the principal. Adele stayed home with Gaspar, and grew plumper and happier every year. It was the kind of life that his father had wanted. That all his ancestors had wanted.

  He’d never really had a mother, he realized now. Oh, of course he’d been born of a woman, but he’d been taken from her almost immediately. It was only males in the Gerhard family. It always had been, until Heinrich married Adele.

  In their fourth year together, he cut off the end of his finger while chopping onions. Adele was visiting her mother, and Gaspar was playing with his young neighbor friends.

  What can it hurt? he thought. There had been no reports of the Succubae anywhere in the papers. It was as if they had completely vanished.

  Heinrich went downstairs, took up the bricks, and took a small sip of the Blood. He sat in the basement, feeling the Blood course through his veins, and realized he had missed it. This was the real reason he hadn’t destroyed the Blood.

  He heard Adele arriving home above him. He was so filled with energy that he found himself practically running up the stairs.

  He took his wife, laughing, into his arms, and she returned the hug, having missed him. She was always the more affectionate one. They took advantage of Gaspar’s absence and almost ran to the bedroom.

  Nine months later, they had a daughter, Berenice.

  One morning, soon after the birth of their daughter, Heinrich gave his wife a kiss and walked to his school. He was wrapped in contentment, barely aware of his surroundings. He felt as if he knew every stone, every blade of grass.

  “Mr. Gerhard?”

  Heinrich kept walking, giving no sign he’d heard.

  A hand grabbed his arm and turned him around. A large man stood there, peering down at him. He was foreign, though Heinrich wasn’t sure how he knew that. He wore a black suit and a fedora, looking completely out of place in the rural village.

  “You are Heinrich Gerhard?” The accent was one Heinrich had rarely heard but instantly recognized: American.

  “Pardon,” Heinrich said. “You have made a mistake. My name is Henri Bartok.”

  “Yes,” the man said with a smirk. “Henri Bartok. You are the man I’m looking for.”

  Heinrich put a mask of mild curiosity over his face. “And you are…?”

  “My name is Ernest Harrison,” the man said. “I am quite a wealthy man, and I can make it worth your while to help us.”

  “Go on.”

  The man spoke loudly, as if unaware his voice carried to all the nearby houses. “I represent a group of men who have been trying to track down three…women, shall I say? I believe you know to whom I’m referring?”

  Heinrich felt the blood drain from his face. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “We call ourselves the Guardians,” Harrison said. “We have long been in hiding, but we are ready to emerge from the shadows at last to once again confront the Daughters of Lilith.”

  Rage surged through Heinrich at this smirking, ignorant foreigner. He found himself shouting nearly as loud as the booming voice of the stranger. “You come to my village and call out the name ‘Gerhard’ for anyone to hear? You are no Guardian, sir. You are a fool.”

  “Here now,” Harrison objected. “No one here cares what you call yourself. If you join us, you’ll be safe. We are preparing to capture the Succubae and once again harvest their Blood.”

  “Capture them?” Heinrich said. “You have no idea what you are doing.”

  “I assure you, monsieur, we aren’t ignorant savages. We don’t worship Goddesses, nor do we fear the Succubae. We are well armed and organized. We will take their blood and we will synthesize it, using modern technology. The Blood of the Succubus will be a boon to mankind.”

  “Synthesize?” Heinrich echoed, as though the word had no meaning.

  The American nodded. Can do, the expression said.

  “And what gives you the right?” Heinrich’s voice was still raised. He noticed his neighbors peering curiously out of their windows. Henri Bartok had a reputation of never losing his temper. He lowered his voice, murmuring, “Do you have any idea what our people did to them?”

  The stranger looked uncomfortable, and opened his mouth to protest.

  Heinrich overrode his objection. “Do you understand that we tortured them year after year, for centuries? Is that what you want to do?”

  “We will be humane,” the man began. “I assure you…”

  “Humane?” Heinrich took a step back, realizing the man and those he represented had no idea how dangerous the Succubae were. “You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

  Enough of this fool, Heinrich thought. The Succubae will make short work of him and his kind. And anyone who talks to them…

  “Pe
rhaps we don’t have all the information we need,” the man said. “Perhaps we would know more if we had the histories of our Order. We have only the stories our fathers have handed down to us. We believe we know what to do, but we are certainly willing to learn more. If you have such knowledge, Heinrich, then help us. Join us and tell us what you know. We will welcome it.”

  “What I know is to leave them alone!” Heinrich said, and turned to walk away.

  “The Blood,” the man said, loudly. “We need samples of the Blood.”

  Heinrich immediately turned back to the American. “Shut up, Harrison, do you hear? Just shut up!”

  “If you give us the Blood, we will leave you alone. Give us the Blood and histories of our Order, and you can go on living your life in peace, without any interference from us.”

  “The Blood is gone,” Heinrich said. “My ancestors used it up long ago. There is nothing left.”

  The American didn’t respond, but it was obvious he didn’t believe him. Heinrich didn’t feel like he could walk away until he was sure that this man and those he represented, these Guardians—these shadow Guardians—understood the danger.

  “You mustn’t confront them,” he said. “You cannot win.”

  “We are willing to take that chance.”

  “Then you are dead men,” Heinrich said. He turned and walked away, feeling the man’s eyes on his back. He was nearly to the corner when the American’s shout caught up to him.

  “This isn’t over, Monsieur Bartok. We will be watching.”

  ***

  It was 1958. Charles de Gaulle was in the midst of founding the Fifth Republic of France. As the head of his school district, Heinrich was called to Paris to confer with the minister of education, perhaps even to meet the great man himself.

  “I’ll only be gone a week,” he assured his wife.

  “But they’ll want you longer,” Adele said. “I just know it. They’ll want to put you in government.”

  He laughed. “Me? In government?”

  She didn’t laugh with him.

  “If the Great Asparagus is foolish enough to make the offer, I will turn him down,” he said. He began to leave the house, still laughing. He hadn’t quite reached the corner before Adele indignantly called him back.

  “Don’t you dare leave without a kiss,” she said. She put her hands on either side of his face. “Be careful, my dear. Come back soon.”

  He had never told Adele of his past, but she sensed that something made him always wary.

  He felt a chill as her warm hands clutched him, as if he was already a ghost. Perhaps I should stay. Let the Great Nose form his government without me.

  Adele let him go, and he stepped back. “Yes, well. I’ll see you in a fortnight or less.”

  It had been months since he’d even thought of the Guardians or them. His children were taking all his attention.

  Young Gaspar was turning out to be more like his mother: talkative, playful, and athletic. Berenice, on the other hand, even though still an infant, clearly took after Heinrich: quiet and somber, her brown eyes followed him around the room. Perhaps if it had been opposite, he would have remembered his own childhood more and would have been more afraid.

  Paris was bustling, excited that de Gaulle was taking over. Heinrich was happy to be in the middle of it all. He was in a meeting that later, he could never remember anything about—so incredibly boring that he’d been half asleep in his chair, with his eyes open but his brain switched off, when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  He knew then. Just from that touch.

  “Monsieur Bartok,” a man whispered in his ear. “You must return home. Something has happened.”

  They wouldn’t tell him, but he knew. He didn’t remember leaving the room or getting on the train. He came back to himself only as he reached the outskirts of his village.

  It looked as though the entire population of the town was waiting for him at the train station. His best friend, Adrien, who had taken Adele’s job at the school teaching English, came up and took him by the arm.

  “What’s happened?” Heinrich asked. “Just tell me.”

  “Come to my house,” Adrien said. “You can stay with us.”

  “Why would I go to your house?” Heinrich shouted. The crowd, which had already been quiet, fell completely silent. They were all wearing their Sunday best. And they were all wearing black.

  “Your house is gone, Henri,” Adrien said. “It burned down in the night. Adele…the children…they’re gone.”

  Heinrich found himself on the ground, looking up at the concerned faces of his friends. Time had passed; the sky was darker, the light diminished. He was covered in dirt. He felt grit in his mouth.

  He rose up silently. Adrien moved to help him, but Heinrich grunted warningly and his friend backed away. He felt strangely off balance, as if his legs were sticks. He took a step forward, then, reassured that he wouldn’t fall over again, he took another step. Followed by the townspeople, he made his way to the smoking remains of his home.

  “How?” he asked. The houses on either side seemed familiar and strange at the same time. There was something wrong, as if the world had suddenly shifted, as if he’d entered a land that looked like his own, but was different, foreign.

  “Arson,” Adrien said.

  “Arson? Someone set the fire?”

  “They left a note,” Adrien answered. “But it makes no sense.” He pulled a smudged piece of paper from his pocket and, with obvious hesitation, handed it over.

  It read:

  “Blood draws Blood. Guardians will never be safe, nor will you ever be happy. If you make a friend, he will die. If you marry, she will die. If you have children, they will die. And someday, when you are not expecting it, you will die.”

  Heinrich crumpled up the note and threw it into the still-smoking rubble, where it caught fire and flared up.

  “I want to see them,” he said.

  “You mustn’t, Heinrich. It is unbearable. I have seen them…there is nothing you can do.”

  “Show me,” he said quietly but with such force that Adrien stepped back, then turned and led the way to the police station. In the back, under blankets, were three shapes.

  They aren’t big enough, Heinrich thought.

  He reached out with a trembling hand, then froze. The tears started flowing, and then he was gasping, trying to catch his breath between spasms. He was on his knees, his hands on the cloth, unable to draw it aside. Adrien’s strong hands pulled him up and half carried him to the door.

  Heinrich was left alone on a bed, his face to the wall, unwilling or unable to say anything to anyone. Finally, they all left him alone.

  In the middle of the night, he went to the ruins of his house. He dug into the ashes, and the farther down he went, the hotter the debris became until it was burning his hands and arms, scorching away his clothes. He dropped into the black hole of the cellar and felt around for the loose bricks. The fire had not penetrated down here.

  His hands brushed across the smooth glass of the bottles and he took them out, one by one. He carried them close to his chest and somehow—later, he couldn’t remember how—got out of the hole.

  The police station was dark. It was a peaceful village, no need for a gendarme to guard the station. He broke into the back and tore away the shrouds covering his loved ones. In the moonlight they were little more than black, twisted shapes.

  Heinrich cried out, numb, but even this horror didn’t stop him. He struggled to find Adele’s mouth and poured the Blood into it. He was surprised to find himself praying aloud, for he had never prayed in his life, not once. He moved on to his children, using most of a bottle. The Blood flowed over their charred skin, and for a moment he thought he saw a flesh-colored remnant, and then it was gone.

  He stepped back, then lowered himself to the floor. He took one of the remaining bottles and lifted it to his lips. The Blood coursed down his throat, and he felt his energy and alertness return. His body wa
s whole, the burns gone. But for the first time after drinking the Blood, he wasn’t tumescent.

  There was a flatness to the brightness that filled him.

  He drank more, and finally he felt something: anger, righteousness, as if a prophet of old had taken over his body. The anger burst out of him, and he was surprised that he didn’t burst into flames to join his loved ones.

  Heinrich marched out of the police station and climbed the small mountain that overlooked the town, which was really little more than a hill, but with enough height that he could see distant fields in the moonlight. He took another mouthful of Blood. He raised his arms to the sky.

  “Come and get me!” he shouted. “I’m ready!”

  How long he raged at the moon and into the night, he couldn’t remember. Why the Succubus did not wait around to take him when she could have, he never understood. Perhaps she wanted to torture him a little longer.

  Then it was dawn. He was on the ground, awakening from a troubled sleep. The desolation of his loss overwhelmed him again.

  He arose and stumbled down the hill, but on the other side from the town, and he kept walking.

  Chapter 20

  Eisheth waited until nightfall before walking back to town. It was easier to maintain the illusion of beauty in the gloom and artificial light. She had tried to heal herself as she waited for the cover of darkness, but she could only do so much. It was either repair her body or use it to maintain her illusion.

  There are seedy bars on the outskirts of any town, biker or trucker bars that most people avoid—certainly that single, attractive women avoid. Eisheth found a square box of a building with a single small sign. Howard’s, it said. When she walked in, every man in the place eyeballed her, as did every woman. There were always a few whiskey-soaked broads around who immediately hated her.

  As she walked in the door, she immediately noticed the flyer on the bulletin board. She tore it off and examined it. It wasn’t a likeness of her now—she couldn’t manage such perfection—but it was close enough. At the bottom of the page was a phone number she recognized, and the address of a high-end hotel. It was Serena Carlton again, she was sure of it. She crumpled up the flyer and threw it in the corner.