Edward Lee - Incubi

The mirror reflected back her thirty-one years like an inner eye of all that her past had led to. Becky Black assayed herself nude. Minuscule bikini marks resembled white satin underthings against the dark tan. She worked hard to keep trim; she stood 5’6” and weighed 107. She was lithe, not skinny. Long sleek legs ascended to a sculpted contour of hourglass curves. A thought from the past lingered when she looked at her breasts . Cupcakes . They were firm as lemons, with soft-pink areolae. Philip had referred to them as cupcakes during his efforts in the bedroom. He’d used all kinds of silly, adoring little pet names for her body parts. Her breasts were “cupcakes.” Her navel was her “Becky button,” and her vagina was her “little lamb.” This aspect of his adoration amused her. Philip was arcane and very loving, but little else. “I love you more than you ever have been loved or ever will be loved,” he often cryptically remarked. This was probably true, but so what? Their one-year marriage left her bored and unimpressed. His love did not scratch her itches, so why should she feel guilty? She’d cheated on him like a she-demon at the merest turn of his inept back, the poor fool. Frequently, she had called him at work while handsome strangers put the blocks to her. Marriage seemed a silly — even embarrassing — blight that too many people let crawl over their lives. It seemed like a mistake. Philip’s love did not change the way she viewed her desires. Love did not give her completeness ; adventure, risk and physical diversity did. Once she’d been talking to her friend Debbie, and said, “Marriage is like going to McDonald’s every day and eating a fish sandwich. Sometimes a girl wants a Big Mac,” which may have been the first time in history that fast food assumed a philosophical application. Philip was a fish sandwich. The marriage fell apart in a year.

Release! She thought of birds soaring from the prisons of their cages. She was free. Without the millstone of marriage about her neck, society became her own private playground. It amazed her how easily the lure of sex transformed mature, capable men into mindless marionettes with erections. She could walk into any bar at any time and leave with another pinch of the spice her life needed. She picked up all manner of men: young, old, rich, poor, conventional, eccentric. The McDonald’s theorem held true; it was variety that fulfilled her, not complacency. Becky Black didn’t want love. She wanted fireworks every night, a new Roman candle to explode in her, and catherine wheels of flesh to light the fuse of her lust.

She didn’t care how shallow her plight might truly be.

The night seemed to ripple with waves of energy, charging the City Dock into a carnival. Becky parked across from the Harbour Square Shops. Frolicking droves of revelers moved from one bar to the next. Pedicabs carried lovers away under the moon, and music beat in the air. Becky’s sheer, clinging dress inspired a periodic whistle; four midshipmen in summer whites leered as her long legs carried her across Randall Street, high heels clicking. A new place called the Map Room beckoned her with cubistic neon squiggles in the window; she entered into a crush of young lawyers and upper-class floozies. Another clique bar, where people came to pretend to be chic and paid eight dollars for a mixed drink. New Order beat bleakly from high speakers; more neon lights flashed. At the long black marble bar, men stood leaving their Porsche and Jag keys in plain view, while their dates sat perched alertly on Art Deco stools, laughing at jokes they didn’t get. The waitresses looked like an old Robert Palmer video, and the barkeeps looked like genetic hybrids of Mickey Rourke and Morrissey. False pretenses raged; Becky liked the place.

“Excuse me, miss—”

The sparsest of accents, sexy in reservation.

She turned around.

“May I buy you a drink?”

She stared through the utter failure of trying not to. The urge was a summons.

He was beautiful.

“Yes, you may,” Becky replied as the clock struck midnight.

Veronica sat up late in the vast living room, sharing her company with Amy Vandersteen. Very little in life came easily, Veronica reasoned, but disliking Amy Vandersteen was an exception. She was arrogance, pride, and ego all wrapped up in one.

“I’m doing a short screenplay, a melange,” Amy said. She stretched rudely on the couch with her feet up. “I’m not clear yet as to the leitmotif , but Erim suggested I use my dreams as the basic thematic premise.”

Erim , Veronica thought. She still didn’t know how to assess Khoronos; her initial physical attraction seemed to be restructuring itself into something more complex. Yet whatever the attraction, she still had to confess an incontrovertible jealousy.

She didn’t, for instance, like the way Amy said Erim . The lax, easy tone implied they’d known each other for years, which she undoubtedly wanted everyone to think. “So what do you think of… Erim? ” Veronica finally asked.

“Oh, he’s absolutely awesome,” Amy replied, wriggling her toes in the plush couch upholstery. “He’s the most aesthetically sagacious person I’ve ever met, and that’s saying something, considering my own creative status. He and I get along famously.”

Veronica’s frown menaced her face. “Famously, huh? How long have you known him?”

“Oh, just a few weeks. He came to my latest opening, Princess Sex and Death . It doesn’t matter that we haven’t known each other long. Truly great relationships often begin spontaneously.”

Veronica wanted to howl. Relationship! All she wanted to do just then was dump her iced-tea right into this silly woman’s lap.

“He told me he’s from Yugoslavia,” Amy went on. Her face was a smugly content mask within the frame of ridiculous white-dyed hair. “I don’t know about the other two, but who cares, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“Gilles, Marzen — they’re babies. You can have them, you and your novelist friend. Me, I prefer an older man, more mature and sophisticated. I’m gunning for Erim.”

Veronica, hot not to scowl, reserved comment, though several rather articulate ones came to mind. This “retreat”—the entire idea of it — perplexed her more and more. So far it was a bust. They’d had a few communal meals together, a few conversations, and that was it. In fact, Veronica hadn’t seen Khoronos and his two protegés all day. She hadn’t seen Ginny either, not since morning.

She picked at a tray of cold hors d’oeuvres they’d found in the refrigerator: handmade Korean egg rolls and spiced cabbage. No dinner had been prepared tonight, which made her wonder further. Khoronos might be mysterious and intellectual, but as a host he was striking out. With her fingers, she ate several pieces of cabbage.

“This stuff’s not bad,” she remarked. “You should try it.”

Amy Vandersteen grimaced at the tray. She dug in a pocket, extricating a tiny steel pipe, a lighter, and a vial.

“You’ve got to be out of your mind,” Veronica groaned.

“Why? It’s a free country.”

“Someone could walk in.”

“Who? Just your novelist friend, and I haven’t seen her. Erim left with Marzen and Gilles hours ago. He has a beautifully restored Fleetwood, all black. He said they won’t be back till morning.”

This, too, puzzled Veronica. “Where did they go?”

Ms. Vandersteen tapped white powder from the vial into the steel pipe. “Business, he said.”

Business? At midnight? Just what kind of business was Khoronos in? “Did he give you that shit?” she asked.

Amy laughed chidingly. “No, he did not give me this shit . Frankly, I don’t think Erim uses coke, none of them do.”