Incubi - Edward Lee.wps (20 page)

"Baalzephon," he muttered again. He signaled Craig for drink number four.

Baalzephon, Faye thought. Madness. Devils. He's right. They gave him a real winner this time.

And for the next hour she watched Jack Cordesman disappear into his own impresa, not one of triads or satanic rites, but the universal impresa: alcohol.

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Passion for everything, the strange words seemed to lilt in her head; they were like a shadow peering over her shoulder as she sketched. Veronica looked at the clock now for the first time since noon and saw that it was midnight. She'd worked twelve hours without even being aware of it.

Delve into your passion, whispered Khoronos' words.

Veronica felt stunned.

She rubbed her eyes and stretched. Prototypical sketches lay all over her worktable. She pictured herself sitting here all day and night, a blonde oblivione maniacally wearing out one charcoal pencil after the next. The block was gone; Khoronos' wisdom had inspired her into a creative tempest. At last, Veronica had begun to see her passion.

She examined her work in the bleary lamplight. Most of the sketches failed to convey the eye of her dream. They seemed compressed by structure; she knew the failure at once. True art must never be bound by structure. The dream, the fire-lover, was an image, not a concept. It was up to her to give the image meaning, to release it from structure into aesthetic truth.

Blake and Klimt had advised that the artist must always work until he or she dropped. Faulkner had recommended stopping when the going got good, to protect the creative élan from becoming famished. She tried again, reconstructing the fire-lover on a fresh sheet of Lanaquarelle pH-neutral paper. The figure must make the viewer feel the same impassioned heat that Veronica felt in the dreams. She gave it a new poise and put it further back in the jagged dreamscape, but she still couldn't quite make it work. She decided, then, that it was time to take Faulkner's advice.

Hunger gnawed at her belly like a taloned paw. She went immediately down to the dark kitchen and opened the fridge. Someone prepared snacks for them every night Marzen or Gilles, she guessed. Rolls of smoked Nova salmon, a creamy nougat on tiny bread pieces, and bowls of various spiced kimchi. Veronica ate insatiably.

Then she heard a splash.

It was a tiny sound, a secret. She looked abruptly out the window, then just as abruptly withdrew.

People were in the pool.

Next she carefully cracked the French doors and peeked out. Ginny and Amy Vandersteen, their shed clothes on the pool ledge, backpedaled in the luscious water before two onlookers Marzen and Gilles. Dressed only in white slacks, they were staring, smiling at Ginny and Amy. Voyeurs, Veronica thought. Like Khoronos. But Khoronos wasn't with them. A moment later, Marzen and Gilles had stripped too, and were lowering themselves into the pool.

Thanks a lot for inviting me, Veronica thought in complaint.

The four frolicked in the water amid tails of moonlight. Veronica felt something like jealousy bubble up she felt left out even though skinny dipping wasn't her style. Amy Vandersteen was giggling like a high school girl as Gilles cornered her and splashed water in her face. Marzen hoisted Ginny up and heaved her headfirst into the deep end. Then the frolic quieted.

Damn!

Veronica wished she could see more. The moonlight reduced them to pale forms in the water; they'd paired off in opposite corners. Amy and Gilles were more visible they were kissing. The director's arms wrapped intently about the Frenchman's muscled neck, hanging on. What burned Veronica more was the certainty that Marzen and Ginny were doing the same thing.

Damn, she thought again. Her breath thinned. Decency told her to leave. This was not what good girls did. Good girls did not spy on people. Go back upstairs, she ordered herself. Go to bed, forget about this. Of course, she didn't. It was fun, doing something her upbringing had taught her not to do. Just as she thought she'd like to see more, she got her wish. Gilles sat Amy Vandersteen up on the pool ledge. The woman parted her thighs and lay back, paddling her feet languidly in the water as Gilles brought his face between her legs.

Who's the voyeur now? Veronica thought.

Soon the images conspired: the dark, the quiet yard, moans enlaced with cricket trills. Veronica felt hypnotized. Could Khoronos' admonishments apply here? He'd told her she must examine herself, to pursue truths of her self-identity. Society would condemn this as voyeuristic, perverse.

So why am I doing this?

She contemplated the answer, the truth.

Because it excites me.

She let herself...what? Immerse? Confront? No, she injected herself into the fantasy.

She put herself where Amy Vandersteen lay, her legs draped over Gilles' shoulders. She wondered if Gilles was as deft of tongue as Marzen. Her imagination said yes. It was her mind that lay back in substitute of her body, and brought Gilles' mouth to her sex. The visualization made her wet at once.

Delve into your passion, Khoronos' words drifted up again.

When she blinked, they were getting out, standing naked in the moonlit grass; they were drying themselves with big white towels. Marzen's physique seemed even more magnificent than Veronica remembered, all sculpted muscles and tapered lines, and Gilles too, a more delicate version. Gilles dried Amy, and Marzen dried Ginny, then they switched. Both women looked dizzy in wantonness.

Then they were coming in.

Shit! She dashed through the kitchen entrance just as the swimmers entered. The entire house was dark save for the hall light upstairs. Giggles rose, bare feet padded across the carpet.

Veronica hid just out of sight behind the kitchen entry. Eventually, naked shapes rounded the lower landing. But there were only three. Ginny and Gilles scampered up the stairs first, followed by Amy Vandersteen. But where was Marzen?

"Ja, here she is," came the accented voice. "Our beautiful little peeper."

Veronica whirled. "Jesus Chr "

Marzen had sneaked up behind her.

"You like vahtching, ja? You like to see."

Veronica could only gaze back. He was a nude shadow, he was huge. Beads of water glittered on his broad chest. This sudden sexual presence overwhelmed her; she doubted she could even speak. The sudden truth relit in her mind: she wanted him again. All of him this time.

"You must join us, Veronica."

No, she started to say. She knew what he meant an orgy. He wanted her to be a piece of furniture in a game of sexual musical chairs. She couldn't think of anything less sincere. So why didn't she protest when he approached?

His hands pulled up her sundress and skimmed it off. He turned her around, popped her bra, and threw it aside. All this deepened her excitement, the rough yet exacting quickness with which he'd stripped her. Then he knelt and skimmed her panties off.

He picked her up and carried her toward the stairs.

She could think of nothing to say to him. She put her arm around his shoulder, felt the hard muscles, the heat of his solid flesh. She felt drifting as he ascended a step at a time.

When he took her to Ginny's room, he set her down. She could barely stand, she could barely think past her anticipation. Marzen went to the window, next to Gilles. Ginny and Amy Vandersteen sat on the edge of the bed.

Khoronos had told Veronica she must delve into her passions, even potential ones. But group sex? Her mind fought with the impulse, and lost. Right now she knew she would do anything for any manner of sexual release. She didn't know why, she just knew. Anything. Even a five-way orgy.

"Transposition," Gilles said.

"Mein Herz," Marzen said. "Mein Geliebte."

The men seemed very serious. They stood with their arms crossed, staring. Veronica, Ginny, and Amy stared back.

Ginny moaned. Amy, whose wet white hair looked like a swim cap, discreetly touched herself.

Veronica managed to mutter, "What the hell is this? What's going on?"

The men were waiting for something. But what?

"Are you guys gonna stand there all night," Amy Vandersteen finally said, "or are you gonna fuck us?"

Both men seemed to frown at the expletive, as though it soiled whatever was taking place here.

Veronica could not help but stare at them, at their penises, at their grandiose physiques.

"None of you are ready yet," Gilles answered.

"Not yet ready to transpose," Marzen added.

But Veronica knew already, a subtle hot shock in her chest. Self-identity. Discovering oneself as completely as possible. Passion. Even potential ones. Her horniness felt like a trapped animal raging to escape its snare.

"Before you can learn to love us," Marzen said.

"You must learn to love each other," Gilles finished.

The two men walked out of the room and closed the door.

Veronica felt a jolt: a touch. Amy Vandersteen pushed her back on the bed and kissed her on the mouth. Veronica paused, shivered then she gave in and kissed her back.

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To Jack Cordesman, hangovers were a familiarity. His head quaked when he leaned up in bed.

Sunlight through the blinds cut into his vision like a razor wheel. He lumbered to the bathroom, thrust his mouth under the faucet, and gulped tap water.

Then he threw up, another familiarity.

He could tell by looking at the bed that Faye hadn't slept with him. What the fuck happened? he wondered. He stumbled downstairs in his shorts, guzzled some orange juice, and threw up again.

It was 8:30; he was going to be late. No note had been left on the fridge, and Faye wasn't here. He tried to think, but he could remember nothing of last night past his sixth drink.

Birds chirped cheerily on the window ledge. Shut up, he thought. First he called work. "Running a little late." He tried to sound nonchalant. The desk sergeant didn't sound surprised. Then he called Craig.

"Everybody do me," Craig said.

"Hey, Craig, it's Jack. Did I wake you up?"

"No, I always get up at eight-thirty when I go to bed at four."

"Sorry. Look, I need to know what happened last night."

Craig serviced a bemused pause. "You got faced. Bad."

"How many did I have?"

"I don't know. Ten, twelve. I tried to stop serving you but you threatened to shit on the floor and close us down on a health violation."

What could he say? Nothing, he thought. Nothing he hadn't said before. "What happened with the girl?"

"Faye? Oh, she sat it out she's a good girl. At last call you passed out. We stuffed you in the car, drove you home, and dragged you upstairs."

"Did she stay? At my place, I mean."

"Yeah, in one of the downstairs rooms, I think."

"I guess she was pretty pissed," Jack lamented.

"If she was pissed she would've walked out hours before. Like I said, she's a good girl."

Don't remind me, Jack thought. "You were saying something before I got tanked. Something about someone looking for me?"

"Yeah, what's his name. The guy with the Ivanhoe haircut."

"Stewie," Jack said, like the name was phlegm in his throat.

"Yeah, that guy."

"What did he want?"

"He said he was looking for you, I said you hadn't been in. He drank up and left. That was a few hours before you and Faye came in. The candyass left me a nickel tip."

That's Stewie, all right. But what did he want that was so important he actually came looking for Jack?

Now what? Jack held the phone, his head thumping through silence. "Look, Craig, I'm really sorry about "

"I know. You're really sorry about getting fucked up and making an ass of yourself in public."

"I guess by now it goes without saying."

"Of course it does, so don't worry about it."

Jack was grateful for Craig's barman's couth breaking Jack's balls and being a good guy about it at the same time. "And thanks for helping Faye get my drunk ass home."

"Forget it," Craig said. "Before I go back to sleep, you want some friendly advice?"

"Quit drinking," Jack guessed.

"Hit the nail on the head. And the girl, Faye she's a decent kid, and I think she really likes you."

"So what's Craig's divine advice?"

"Don't fuck it up."

Jack reflected on the words through the dial tone. He was beginning to wonder what in his life he hadn't fucked up, and his present hangover only amplified the question. He went up to the shower, not just wondering what the future might hold, but wondering if he even had one.

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NARCOTICS, RITUAL USE OF: Medieval counter-worship displays a vast utilization of narcotic substances. In fact, many pre-Christian-era belief systems revered particular entities who supposedly presided over the existence of narcotic properties and pharmacological knowledge, and it is through such demonographies that similar influences probably became insinuated into later Christian counter-worship.

Boring, Faye thought in her study cubicle. She skimmed down the text, eyeing only for key words of significance:

known as elixirists, of special note with the aoristic orders of the late 1200s. Here we find an astounding logistic of narcotic manufacture. Drugs were generally used communally, during group rites of Mass, mostly root and botanical derivatives. Prelates often spiked thuribles with a preparation they called "cavernsmoke," which was said to "fortify the spirit for the service of our lords." What it really did was extend the initiate's susceptibility to hypnotic suggestion, increasing the likelihood of the commission of a crime. Cavernsmoke, as it turns out, was a tuber extract of a butyrophenone chemical chain which when induced affects a CNS depression and lowers a subject's conscious resistance to suggestion. Its chemical constituents are nearly identical to a modern psychiatric drug called Raxidol, which is still used to this day as a therapeutic hypnotic and involves a complicated synthesis process. This is just one example of a long series of sophisticated pharmacologies that included hypermanic drugs, psychostimulants, amphetamines, and opiate-based hydromorphinic pain killers and euphorics used today. One may find this premise very interesting: how did such cults, composed primarily of ignorant peasants living a thousand years ago, develop such a pervasive and comprehensive knowledge of pharmacological science?