Succubus Shadows (10 page)

“He never came back. First time I saw him was last year. My mother didn’t hold a grudge, though. She would talk about him all the time…said he was beautiful. I don’t know if she meant as an angel or a demon, though. Probably he looked the same, seeing as they’re the same beings, really.”

“I’m guessing he didn’t look like John Cusack though.”

“No.” This made Roman laugh again. “Probably not. My mother took on mundane jobs whenever we moved villages—washing woman, field worker. But at least she was free. And she still danced sometimes. I saw her once, when I was really young…just before she was killed. There was a festival, and I remember her dancing in front of the fire, wearing this red dress.” All mirth disappeared from him. “That image is burned into my mind. I can see how an angel would have fallen for her.”

I didn’t ask any questions about how she was killed. In those days, it could have been as simple as a raid or attack. They were commonplace. Or, more likely, she’d been killed in an attempt on Roman and his sister. He’d once mentioned that they were always on the run from angels and demons.

“So maybe you learned to dance as a subconscious tribute to her,” I said, shifting to something lighter.

That half-smile returned. “Or maybe I just inherited my father’s attraction to graceful, sensual women.”

The song ended, and we stood there, frozen in time with our hands still entwined. Foxtrot was hardly the bumping and grinding seen in modern clubs, but our bodies were close, and I felt like I could sense the heat from his. Whether it was real or imagined, I couldn’t say. But I did know there was something very seductive about dancing, about mirroring another’s body, and somehow, I wasn’t surprised when he leaned down and kissed me.

I
was
a little surprised that I kissed him back. But not for long. Because as our lips met, I realized how much I’d come to regard Roman as a comforting fixture in my life. We’d grown from adversaries to friends to…what? I didn’t entirely know. I did know that I liked having him around and that I’d never really shaken the attraction that had drawn me to him long ago. I also knew that I was lonely for the touch of someone I liked and that I had an automatic instinct to respond to this sort of thing.

His mouth pressed harder against mine, as hot and demanding as I recalled. His hands quickly moved from the formal orientation of foxtrot to something more intimate and eager, sliding down to my hips and somehow managing to push me against the wall while also shoving my shirt up. My own hands were around his neck, my lower body pressing against his as I felt all my nerves set on fire and lust coursing through me.

He managed to break away enough to pull my shirt off, and then his hands moved to my breasts, which were wrapped in a white lace bra. He glanced down and made a face as he pulled from our kiss. “Can’t you make it a front hook?”

A small bit of shape-shifting made the bra disappear altogether. “Don’t trouble yourself,” I said.

He smiled and moved his lips to my neck while his hands cupped the curves of my breasts. It made it impossible for me to take his shirt off, but I slid my hands under it, loving the feel of his warm skin and taut muscles. I tipped my head back, letting him taste me and increase the intensity of his kissing.

And through it all, there were no voices in my head. I heard none of his thoughts, sensed none of his feelings. I was alone—alone with my own reactions, simply enjoying the way my body felt with no other interruptions. It was glorious.

I at last managed a break that let me pull his shirt off, and then my hands moved to his pants, putting us in a brief deadlock as he tried to move his lips to my nipples. I won and watched his pants fall to the floor. With that concession, he pulled me down as well and continued his efforts to kiss my breasts, almost kneeling before me as he did so. I ran my hands through his hair, gripping his head while his mouth sucked and teased. As he did, his eyes glanced up and met mine. I saw the desire in them and—something more.

Something I hadn’t expected to see. There was…what? Love? Adoration? Affection? I couldn’t quite pin it down, but I recognized the general category. It was a slap to the face. I hadn’t anticipated it. Lust, I’d expected. A primitive instinct to throw me down and fuck me, in order to relieve his body’s need. For so long, I’d operated on the assumption that he kind of liked me and kind of wanted to hate me. Yet, now, I realized those nice moments we’d had recently weren’t coincidence. His sharp attitude had been a facade, meant to hide his feelings.

Roman still loved me.

I identified it for what it was. He wasn’t doing this just because he wanted my body. He wanted
me.
This was more than just fulfilling a physical instinct for him, and suddenly…suddenly, I didn’t know what to do. Because I realized then, I didn’t know why
I
was doing this. There was a fair amount of lust on my part, and I’d grown closer to him since his return to Seattle. But the rest…? I wasn’t sure. There was so much going on right now: Maddie, Simone, Seth…Always Seth. Seth, who even now made my heart ache while I was wrapped in the arms of another man. My emotions were a tangle of confusion and hurt and desperation. I was with Roman as some sort of reaction, some attempt to fill the hole in my heart and seek false comfort. My feelings didn’t match his. I couldn’t do this with him. I didn’t deserve to do this with him.

I pushed him away and jumped to my feet, backing off toward the hallway.

“No…” I said. “I can’t…I can’t. I’m sorry.”

He stared up at me, understandably confused and a little hurt after the ardor I’d displayed seconds ago. “What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”

I didn’t know how to explain it, didn’t know how I could even begin to articulate what I felt inside of me. I just shook my head and continued backing. “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry…I’m just not ready.”

Roman sprang to his feet in one graceful motion. He took a step toward me. “Georgina…”

But I was already moving away, off to the safety of my bedroom. I slammed the door behind me—not from anger, but from a desperate need to stay away from him. From the hall, I heard him call my name and feared he’d come in anyway, despite my refusal to answer. I had no lock, and even if I did, it wouldn’t stop him. He said my name a few more times, and then silence fell. I think he returned to the living room, backing off and giving me my space.

I flung myself onto the bed, gripping the sheets tightly and trying not to cry. That horrible despair that plagued me so often filled me now. It was an old friend, one that I would never be able to leave. All my relationships—friends and lovers—were a mess. I was either hurting them, or they were hurting me. There was no peace for me. There never would be, not for this servant of Hell.

And then, through that horrible, clenching pain inside me, I felt the lightest of touches. A whisper. A breath of music, of color, of light. I lifted my head up from where I’d buried it in my pillow and stared around. There was nothing tangible, not exactly, but I could sense it all around me: that warm, comforting siren song. It had no words, yet in my despair, I could hear it perfectly. It was telling me I was wrong, that I could have peace. And not just that—I could have comfort and love and so much more. It was like arms beckoning to me, a mother welcoming home a long-lost child.

I slowly rose from my bed, moving toward that which had no form.
Come, come.

Outside my door, I heard Roman shout my name, but the tone was different from before. This wasn’t confusion or pleading. It was frantic and concerned. The sound was grating to my ears as I stepped closer to that beautiful warmth. It was home. It was an invitation. All I had to do was accept.

“Georgina!” The door blew apart, and Roman stood there, blazing with power. “Georgina, stop—”

But it was too late. I had accepted.

All that joy and protection wrapped around me, taking me into its arms.

The world dissolved.

I
woke to blackness. Blackness and suffocation.

I was in a small room, a box really, crammed in so tightly that my arms wrapped around me and my knees were drawn to my chest. Weirdly, my limbs seemed too long. My whole body did, actually. My body changed all the time with shape-shifting, but this wasn’t what I’d been wearing with Roman. This was different. For a moment, that horrible space seemed to close in around me. I couldn’t breathe. With great effort, I tried to calm myself down. There was enough air. I
could
breathe. And even if I couldn’t have, it wouldn’t have mattered. The fear of suffocation was a human instinct.

Where was I? I didn’t remember anything after the bedroom. I recalled the light and the music and Roman bursting in too late. I’d felt his power build up, like he was about to take action, but I hadn’t seen the conclusion. And now, here I was.

Before my eyes, two identical luminescent forms suddenly appeared, like torches being lit in the darkness. They were tall and thin, with willowy, androgynous features. Black cloth wrapped around their bodies, seeming to glow with a light of its own, and long black hair flowed from their heads, blending in and losing itself in the cloth. Their eyes were a startling radioactive blue, too blue for any human, and seemed to bug out of those long, pale faces that were neither male nor female.

It was weird too because it was like they stood before me in a large room, as though they were ten or so feet away from me. Yet, I was still crammed into the confines of my box and its unseen walls, barely able to move. Aside from them, everything else was pure, unfathomable blackness. I couldn’t even see my own body or any other features of the room. My brain couldn’t get a grip on this spatial hypocrisy. It was all too surreal.

“Who are you?” I demanded. “What am I doing here?” I saw no point in wasting time.

The duo didn’t answer right away. Their eyes were cold and unreadable, but I saw a bit of smugness in their lips.

“Our succubus,” one said. His—my brain decided to assign them a gender—voice was low and raspy, with a lisp that reminded me of a snake. “Our succubus at last.”

“Harder to catch than we thought,” added the other, voice identical. “We thought you would have succumbed long ago.”

“Who are you?” I repeated, anger kindling. I squirmed in a futile attempt at escape. My confines were so tight that I didn’t even have the space to beat my fists against the nonexistent walls.

“Mother will be pleased,” the first one said.

“Very pleased,” confirmed the other.

The way they alternated phrases reminded me of how Grace—Jerome’s former lieutenant demoness—and Mei used to interact. That had had a charming, moderately creepy
The Shining
feel to it. This…this was something else. Something terrible and icy, burning my senses like nails on a chalkboard.

“Mother will reward us,” the first said. I decided to call them One and Two for the ease of mental processing. “She will reward us when she is free, when she escapes the angels.”

“Who’s your mother?” I asked. A troubling suspicion was beginning to form.

“We will avenge her until she can do it herself,” said Two. “You will suffer for betraying her.”

“Nyx,” I murmured. “Nyx is your mother. And you’re…you’re Oneroi.”

They said nothing, which I took as affirmation. My head reeled. Oneroi? How had this happened? Oneroi were a type of dream demon—but not demons like the ones I interacted with. Heaven and Hell were forces in the universe, but there were others, others that mingled with and often ran parallel to the system I existed in. Nyx was one such force, an entity of chaos from the beginning of time, when the world had been created from disorder.

And the Oneroi were her children.

I knew a few things about them but had never seen them—or ever expected to. They visited dreams, feeding on them. Nyx had done this too, but the manner had been a little different. She had manipulated people into seeing the future in their dreams—a twisted version that didn’t unfold the way the dreamer expected. It had led to crazy actions that spawned chaos in the world, allowing her to grow stronger. She’d also fed on my energy directly, taking it in its purest form and distracting me with dreams of my own.

But Oneroi fed on the dreams themselves, deriving their power from the emotions and realities fueled by the dreamer. My understanding was that they also had the power to manipulate dreams but rarely had reason to. Humans provided plenty of hopes, dreams, and fears on their own. They needed no outside help.

That was the extent of my Oneroi knowledge, but it was enough. Feeling even a little informed about the situation empowered me. “That’s what this is about? You took me because of Nyx?
I
wasn’t the one who caught her. The angels did.”

“You helped them,” said One. “Led them to her.”

“And then refused to save her,” added Two.

With a pang, I remembered that horrible night, when Carter and his cronies had recaptured Nyx after her devastating free-for-all in Seattle. An angel had died that night. Another had fallen. And Nyx had promised to show me a future and family with a man I could love, if only I would give her the rest of my energy and let her break free.

“She was lying,” I said. “She was trying to make a deal when she had nothing to offer.”

“Mother always shows the truth,” said One. “Dreams can be lies, but truth is truth.”

I decided pointing out the redundancy of that statement was useless. “Well, I’m sure she’ll appreciate the Mother’s Day gift, but you’re wasting your time. Jerome will come for me. My archdemon. He won’t let me stay here.”

“He won’t find you,” said Two. This time, I could definitely see smugness. “He
can’t
find you. You no longer exist for him.”

“You’re wrong,” I replied, with a bit of my own smugness. “There’s no place in this world you can take me where he can’t find me.” That was, of course, assuming they hadn’t managed to hide my immortal aura. To my knowledge, only greater immortals could do that. I wasn’t sure where Oneroi fell in.

One actually smiled. It was not attractive. “You aren’t in the world. Not the mortal world. This is the dream world.”

“You’re one of many dreams,” Two said. “One dream among all the dreams of humanity. Your essence is here. Your soul. Lost in a sea of countless others.”

My fear stopped me from offering commentary on his sudden shift into metaphor. The metaphysics of the universe and its layers and creation were beyond me. Even if someone had explained them to me, it was something past the comprehension of a mortal, lesser immortal, or any other being who was made-not-born. I had enough understanding, though, to recognize some truth in their words. There was a world of dreams, a world without form with nearly as much power as the physical one I lived in. Was it possible to trap my essence in it and hide me from Jerome? I was unsure enough that I couldn’t write it off.

“So, what?” I asked, attempting haughtiness but mostly sounding as uneasy as I felt. “You’ll just keep me in this mime box and feel better about yourselves?”

“No,” said One. “You’re in the world of dreams. You will dream.”

The world dissolved again.

It was my wedding day.

I was fifteen years old, jailbait in the twenty-first century but more than old enough to be a wife in fourth-century Cyprus. And more than tall enough too. The Oneroi had sent me into a memory or a dream of a memory or something like that. It was a lot like the dreams Nyx had put me in. I was watching myself like a movie…yet at the same time, I was
in
myself, experiencing everything quite naturally.

It was a disorienting feeling, made worse by the fact that I had never wanted to see my human self again. Selling my soul had come with obvious downsides, but there had been perks too: the ability to shape-shift and never again have to wear the body that had committed such grievous sins in my mortal life.

Yet, there I was, and I was unable to look away. It was like being in
A Clockwork Orange.
My younger self had been about five feet ten inches tall by today’s standards and a giant of a woman in an era where people had been shorter. When dancing, I’d been able to put that long body and all those limbs to good use, moving gracefully and effortlessly. In everyday life, though, I’d always been painfully conscious of my height, feeling awkward and unnatural.

Watching my old self walk now, from the outside, I was astonished to see I didn’t appear as clumsy as I’d always believed. That didn’t negate the revulsion I felt at seeing the thick, waist-long black hair or passably pretty face. Still, it was kind of a surprise to watch reality (if this was reality) and memory meshed.

It was just after dawn, and I was carrying a large amphora of oil out to a storage house beyond my family’s home. My steps were light, careful not to spill any of it, and I again marveled at the way I moved. I set the vessel down beside others inside the shed and started to head back toward the house. I’d barely taken two steps outside when Kyriakos, my husband-to-be, appeared. There was a covert expression on his face, one that instantly told me he had sneaked over here to find me and knew perfectly well that he shouldn’t have. It was an uncharacteristically bold move for him, and I chastised him for the indiscretion.

“What are you doing? You’re going to see me this afternoon…and then every day after that!”

“I had to give you these before the wedding.” He held up a string of wooden beads, small and perfectly formed with tiny ankhs engraved on them. “They were my mother’s. I want you to have them, to wear them today.”

He leaned forward, placing the beads around my neck. As his fingers brushed my skin, I felt something warm and tingly run through my body. At the tender age of fifteen, I hadn’t exactly understood such sensations, though I was eager to explore them. My wiser self today recognized them as the early stirrings of lust, and…well, there had been something else there too. Something else that I still didn’t quite comprehend. An electric connection, a feeling that we were bound into something bigger than ourselves. That our being together was inevitable.

“There,” he said, once the beads were secure and my hair brushed back into place. “Perfect.”

He said nothing else after that. He didn’t need to. His eyes told me all I needed to know, and I shivered. Until Kyriakos, no man had ever given me a second glance. I was Marthanes’ too-tall daughter after all, the one with the sharp tongue who didn’t think before speaking. But Kyriakos had always listened to me and watched me like I was someone more, someone tempting and desirable, like the beautiful priestesses of Aphrodite who still carried on their rituals away from the Christian priests.

I wanted him to touch me then, not realizing just how much until I caught his hand suddenly and unexpectedly. Taking it, I placed it around my waist and pulled him to me. His eyes widened in surprise but he didn’t pull back. We were almost the same height, making it easy for his mouth to seek mine out in a crushing kiss. I leaned against the warm stone wall behind me so that I was pressed between it and him. I could feel every part of his body against mine, but we still weren’t close enough. Not nearly enough.

Our kissing grew more ardent, as though our lips alone might close whatever aching distance lay between us. I moved his hand again, this time to push up my skirt along the side of one leg. His hand stroked the smooth flesh there and, without further urging, slid over to my inner thigh. I arched my lower body toward his, nearly writhing against him now, needing him to touch me everywhere.

“Letha? Where are you at?”

My sister’s voice carried over the wind; she wasn’t nearby but could no doubt show up if she sought me. Kyriakos and I broke apart, both gasping, pulses racing. He was looking at me like he’d never seen me before. Heat burned in his gaze.

“Have you ever been with anyone before?” he asked wonderingly.

I shook my head.

“How did you…I never imagined you doing that…”

“I learn fast.”

We stood there, locked in time for a moment. Then, he pulled me back to him, his lips crushing mine once more. His hand returned to my dress, hiking it up over my waist. He held my bare hips firmly and pressed himself to my body. I felt him hard against me, felt my body respond to something that seemed both new and natural at the same time. The fingers of one hand slid over, feeling the wetness between my thighs. His touch felt like fire, and I moaned, wanting him to stroke me there more and more.

Instead, he turned me around so that I faced the wall. With one hand, he kept the skirt of my dress up, and with his other, I had the vague impression of him fumbling with his clothes. Then, a moment later, he pushed himself into me. It was a shock, like nothing I’d experienced before. I’d meant what I’d said earlier: that I’d never been with another man. And even wet with desire, it still hurt to have him inside me that first time. He seemed too big and me too small.

I cried out at the pain, an odd sort of pain that didn’t diminish the fire that had been building within me. His thrusts were hard and urgent, no doubt fueled by feelings he’d long been holding back on. And after a while, the initial pain seemed irrelevant. Pleasure began to grow as he moved into me over and over, and I adjusted myself so that I bent over more and let him take me more deeply. He thrust more forcefully, and I again exclaimed in surprise and blissful pain. I heard a muffled groan, and then his body shuddered as he spent himself, his movements at last slowing down.

When he was done, he pulled out and turned me around. It was the first time I’d seen him naked in all of this. There was blood and semen on both of us, which I tried to clean off my thighs before finally just letting my dress fall back over me. I’d be bathing before the wedding anyway.

Kyriakos had just finished putting his clothes back on when we heard my name again. This time, it was my mother. He and I stared at each other in wonder, scarcely believing we’d just done what we had. I was aglow with love and the joy of sex and a whole host of new feelings I wanted to explore in more detail. Fear of my mother drove us apart.