Edward Lee - Incubi

“Vee are zah heralds,” Marzen added. “Vee are zah portents.”

Then a pause, as finely placed as a brick in a vast wall. Khoronos asked: “Ms. Polk, have you ever been in love?”

Heralds , she thought . Portents . She sensed a point, but Khoronos’ last question bushwhacked her. “I was once,” she answered. “At least I think I was.”

“You confuse physicality with spirit,” Marzen said.

“To know love, you must bring them together. One without the other is a lie, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” Veronica said. Already the conversation darkened her. It brought up ghosts of Jack.

“You don’t love yourself enough to love someone else.”

God, he was rude. “How do you know?” she challenged.

“I’m merely being substantive. It’s clear, though, that you lack something within yourself.”

“What about you?” she dared. “Have you ever been in love?”

Khoronos’ piercing eyes seemed to float before the question. “Many times,” he said in a lowered voice.

All the while, Marzen, the German, had been eating, as if he’d heard this discussion repeatedly in the past. A brief glance from Khoronos, then, commanded him to leave the room.

Now Veronica felt more on guard. She tried to change the subject. “Isn’t Amy Vandersteen coming?”

“In the morning,” Khoronos said. “Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m uncomfortable with the subject.”

“Why?”

“Because you make me feel like I’ve made a mistake.”

“In coming here?”

“No.”

“Why, then?”

He was putting her against herself, making her fight her own twin. Where the hell had Ginny gone? Why couldn’t she come back and save her from this…interrogation?

Instead of responding, Veronica stared Khoronos down.

“I love anyone who is true,” he said. “I want you to be true.”

What did that mean? He must know of the power he had over her. Was it really truth that compelled him, or cruelty?

“Why are you sad?” he asked.

She felt limp in her seat. “I used to be in love with this guy, but I ended the relationship, and now I’m not sure if I did the right thing.”

“Only you can decide if you did the right thing. How do you propose to do that?”

Veronica stared.

Khoronos rose at the end of the table, his face clement in some kind of boundless — what? Wisdom? Or was it truth, the sum of wisdom? That’s what Veronica sensed in him now — an utter lack of falsehood. Here was a man who truly did love.

Here was a man who knew .

“I’m sorry to have upset you,” he said through a voice that issued like smoke. “You are a great artist.”

“I’m not a—”

“And once you are able to see yourself, and your desires, in a more truthful light, you will be even greater.”

“I—” she muttered.

“You will be timeless, Ms. Polk.” The subtle, incised smile touched her like a caress. “You will be immortal.”

The Mitchell’s Brewery clock ticked toward midnight.

“I better get going,” Faye Rowland said. “I live in Tylersville — that’s fifty miles away — and I’ve got to drive to the LOC in the morning.”

Jack, somehow, had stayed sober. Getting plowed in front of the girl would not make for much of a professional first impression. He admired her perseverance; she’d suffered an hour’s drive just to get briefed early and save time.

“You can stay at my place if you want,” he offered, then regretted it . She probably thinks I’m putting the make on her. “I’ve got several extra rooms, and I live a bit closer than Tylersville.”

“How close?”

“About a quarter of a mile.”

“Okay,” she said. “I mean, if it’s no trouble. I’d get an earlier start in the morning if I stayed tonight.”

“No problem.” Jack motioned for the check.

“Is the clock two hours fast?” Craig asked in disbelief.

“Lately I’ve been turning into a Scotch-filled pumpkin at midnight.” Jack paid up, and when the girl was out of earshot, he whispered, “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Sure,” Craig said, “And I’m a virgin. Later.”

Jack took Faye up the short steps to the street. A used-book store across the street had a poster in the window: “Big Brother is watching you.” Lately, Jack felt watched everywhere he went, overlooked by his own doubts in himself. But tonight he was impressed; this was the first night in a while he’d left the Undercroft sober.

They drove in Faye’s car, a big red Chevy clunker that sounded like a Russian tank. He showed her into his row house and flicked on the lights. “I got three rooms downstairs. Two I rent to college kids, but they’re on break.” He showed her the spare. “Linen closet’s there, shower’s there. I’m upstairs if you need anything. And thanks for doing this for us.”

She kicked off her shoes. “Researching a ritual murder is a bit more interesting than running state unemployment fluctuations all day. I’m happy for the change.” But when she set her briefcase down, Jack noticed the wedding ring on her hand. How could he have missed that?

He tried not to act surprised. “Oh, and feel free to use the phone if you want to let your husband know where you are.”

She looked remiss, then laughed. “Oh, this?” she said, and held up her hand. “I’m not married, I just hate being pestered. I only wear it to keep the predators away.”

Jack gave a sad smile. The comment swept him, and his mood crashed. Honey , he thought, you’re gonna need a lot more than that to protect you from the predators in this town. Just ask Shanna Barrington.

“Good night,” he said.

“Good night,” Khoronos said.

Veronica turned at her bedroom door. “See you in the morning.”

“Remember, Ms. Polk, you’re also here to create. Start giving your project some thought.”

They’d sat up for hours after dinner, discussing only artistic formalities. Their conversation was harmless, but this, she knew, was part of Khoronos’ tactic. He’d sown his psychological seeds at dinner; now was the time to let them grow. What did he want of her? Just a painting? Formalistic chitchat? The man, and his cryptic motives, distracted her. She had no idea what to paint.

“Dreams,” Khoronos remarked now. He was a shadow on the landing, faceless.

“What?” Veronica asked.

“Pleasant dreams.” He drifted back downstairs.

Dreams , she thought, and closed her door. Had he meant that she should use her dreams as her models? She’d painted many of her dreams in the past, but lately she’d stopped that. It seemed indulgent, selfish even. Love is in zah heart , Marzen had said. Creativity is rooted in the heart , Khoronos had added. Was it really an indulgence, then? Dreams were manifestations wholly of one’s self — in a sense, of the heart. Khoronos had even implied that all true art had its corms in the indulgence of the artist. Seeing, and the intricacies through which one saw, meant everything. Indulgence is vision , she thought, and giggled. She liked the sound of that.

She felt odd somehow. She turned off the lamp and let the moonlight seep in. The open French doors admitted a warm breeze. A moment later, she was taking off her clothes.

What am I doing? she asked herself. She stood nude before the doors. Anyone who might be out back could look up and see her. But the impression appealed to her: being viewed in secret. Indulgence is vision. I’m just being indulgent . She giggled again. Then she stepped out onto the veranda.