Edward Lee: Succubi

“Then it’s all true,” Ann muttered. “Everything Tharp said—”

“Yes!”

“They want Melanie to be the physical body of—”

“Come on!” he yelled again.

But the voice stopped them in their tracks. They turned, staring. In the sliding glass door, Maedeen stood looking after them. She was holding what appeared to be one of Duke Belluxi’s lungs. Even at this distance, Ann could see the chaotic features of her transformed face, and the teeth glittering like chisel blades.

“Bring her back, Bard!” croaked the inhuman voice. “You can’t get away from us! You can never get away!”

Bard yanked her on through the brambles. The moon followed them like a distended, pink face. “I’m one of their helots,” he panted to explain, “but they never fully initiated me because they needed someone on the outside. I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to watch any more innocent people die for their devil. It’s your mother, Ann—she’s the wifmunuc. They’ve all been waiting for this day for the last—”

Thousand years, Ann finished in thought. Tharp had said the same thinly. But—

“Melanie,” she said “We have to get Melanie.”

“Melanie’s lost! She’s part of the bludcynn now. She’s not your daughter anymore, she’s hers!”

Ann pulled against him. “I’m not leaving Melanie!”

“I might be able to get her later,” Bard said. “But the most important thing right now is to get you as far away from the cirice as possible. If they don’t have you when the moon goes into complete apogee, then the Fulluht-Loc can’t take place.”

Could he really get Melanie back, or was he just placating her? Ann couldn’t think of a way to resist him; he was saving her life, after all. She supposed all she could do was hope and pray.

He’d parked his police cruiser at the end of Senlac Street, in the dark. He was sweating, harried. He rushed her into the passenger side, jumped in himself, and gunned the engine.

He paused on the shift. “It’s all true, Ann.”

“I…I know.”

“And I’m sorry.”

Ann tilted her head. He’d saved her life. What did he have to be sorry about?

His chubby face turned to her. “I’m very, very sorry.”

“But I’m not.” rose the voice from the darkness of the backseat.

Ann flailed, screaming. Bard’s fat hands grappled at her. He clamped her head in the crook of his elbow. She shrieked at the sharp deep prick of pain.

“Well done, Chief.” Dr. Ashby Heyd’s face emerged into the pink fight. “There, fine.” He gingerly withdrew the hypodermic needle from her neck. “That’s a good girl,” he said.

—

Chapter 34

Dr. Harold didn’t know what he was thinking. He’d stopped only briefly at his house—for his gun. Clinical psychiatrists easily received state gun permits. But what do I need a gun for? he queried himself.

What did he expect?

The highway seemed to thwart him, its abandonment, its wide, open darkness—or something. His high beams stretched out ahead of the car only to be sucked up by interminable black.

He did not try to calculate the coincidences, and the facts, that had been revealed to him tonight. What am I thinking? the question returned. It seemed fat, like a dull, protracted headache. What do I think I’m going to do? He felt certain that Tharp had already returned to Lockwood, that he was there now.

But where does that leave me?

He could call the police, but what would he tell them? That Tharp had gone back to the locale of his crimes to prevent the incarnation of a female demon? They’d be committing me, he considered. Besides, the authorities had ignored his and Greene’s early recommendations. Why should they listen now?

Maybe I should listen to myself.

The moon seemed to pace him, its odd pink light flittering through lone stands of trees. The light and the constant drone of the tires threatened to lull him at the wheel, or hypnotize him. Yes, he felt thwarted, he felt pushing upward against some bizarre mental gravity that was bent on repelling him. Paranoia, he dismissed. He felt he was racing against something, but he couldn’t imagine what. Time, perhaps, or unprecedented fears.

Or impossibilities, he thought.

The moon was so full now it looked pregnant in its raw light; it looked heavy enough to drag itself out of the sky and fall to earth. Doefolmon, the strange word came to his head. Moon of the devil.

And another word, a name: Ardat-Lil.

He could not erase the image from his memory. It seemed indelible—the sheer beauty wed into the features of sheer repugnance, sheer evil. Most religions were born out of reaction to other religions; their roots were obvious. But the Ur-locs? Pre- Christian? Even pre-Druidic? What bizarre sociology could’ve created such an idea?

Dr. Harold did not attempt to contemplate an answer.

He felt sick in increments, waning as the car droned on into the inclement dark. The pinkened moonlight on his face felt warm, humid. He could see it still, Tharp’s harrowing psych ward sketch transposing into a vision of stunning clarity: the perfect hourglass physique, the large and perfect breasts, and then the bestial three-fingered hands with talons like meat hooks, and—

The face, he remembered.

—a black, thinly stretched maw full of stalactitic teeth.

How long had he been driving now? It seemed like all night, or a week of nights. Perhaps he’d been driving in circles, his sense of direction perverted by Tharp’s perverted imagery.

Perhaps I’ve died and gone to hell, and this is how I am to spend eternity, driving forever in darkness.

Then the big green road sign flashed in the headlights, a beacon to his relief.

LOCKWOOD, 15 MILES.

The moon shimmered beyond the sign, beyond the night.

Beyond the world.

And beyond the eye of Dr. Harold’s mind, the dark sketch of the creature seemed to turn to flesh and smile.

—

Chapter 35

T he dream is vivid, hot—it always is.

“ Dooer, dooer “

“ It’s always the same: the back arching up, and waves of moans. The tense legs spread ever wide, the swollen belly stretched pinprick tight and pushing…pushing…pushing forth…

Then the image of the cup, like a chalice, and the emblem on its bowl like a squashed double circle:

She senses flame behind her, a fireplace perhaps. She senses warmth. Firelight flickers on the pocked rock walls as shadows hover. A larger version of the emblem seems suspended in the background, much larger. And again she hears the bizarre words:

“ Dooer, dooer.”

She’s dreaming of her daughter’s birth. Birth is painful, yet she feels no pain. All she feels is the wonder of creation, for it is a wonder isn’t it? Her own warm belly displacing new life into the world? It’s a joyous thing.

Joyous, yes. So why does the dream always revert to nightmare?

The figures surround her, they seem cloaked or enshadowed. Soft hands stroke the tense sweating skin. For a time, they are all Ann’s eyes can focus on. The hands. They caress her not just in comfort but also—somehow—in adoration. Here is where the dream loses its wonder. Soon the hands grow too ardent. They are fondling her. They stroke the enflamed breasts, the quivering belly. They run up and down the parted, shining thighs. The belly continues to quiver and push. No faces can be seen, only the hands, but soon heads lower. Tongues begin to lap up the hot sweat which runs in rivulets. Soft lips kiss her eyes, her forehead, her throat. Tongues churn over her clitoris, and voracious mouths suck milk from her breasts.