Succubus Hunter 2 (The Succubus Series)

by Daniel Pierce

  The security waved the tall men past as the doorman opened the way for them with no words exchanged. I tried to slip past with them but one of the security guards put a hand out to stop me. Maybe I didn’t smell enough like boiled meat.

  “I’m on the list,” I lied. “Look for James Johnson.” Most people believed John Smith to be the most common name in America, but James was even more popular as a first name. Meanwhile, Smith had a bad habit of making people suspicious as a fake surname, and there were nearly as many Johnson’s. Most guest lists had at least one James or Johnson on them. It was trite, but effective. I like effective. It’s better than dead.

  “What list?” the doorman asked. So much for luck.

  I tried to reason out how they knew which guests they let in and who to reject. It was possible they had memorized every single one of Pembroke’s associates over the years, though based on how many how many people I had seen come up here that would be an incredible feat, immortal or not. Perhaps there was a secret code or gesture each guest had to give, but I had been right next to the tall men and not seen them do anything besides look stony faced. Unless smelling like boiled meat counted as a password. Given that they all studiously ignored me and each other, I suspected anonymity was at a premium here.

  “That would be the list of people who’ve taken time to dress for an evening here. Such as myself,” I said, waving airily at my tuxedo.

  One of the security guards stepped toward me. “Alright, sir. I think you need to get back into the elevator now.”

  I backed up defensively and prepared to summon The Night Flail if the guard decided to act on the aggression I currently saw in his eyes. In doing so, I dropped the suppression of my aura.

  Their eyes lit up with something that looked like recognition the moment they got a sense of me. The security guards backed up and went back to their positions by the door as the doorman held it open for me. “My apologies, sir. Our mistake. Please go ahead.”

  It took me until I had already cautiously passed through the door to make sense of it all. They were only letting in people who they sensed were more than human. By suppressing my aura to try and blend in, I had almost blown my chances to even get in. At least that meant I wouldn’t have to spare any concentration on hiding my presence. In this case, my ability was a virtue beyond preserving me against the undead. It was a ticket in; a mask beyond anything I could wear. It was my true nature, and it made me, for the moment, one of them.

  It also meant that it was unlikely that would be any mortals at this party besides me, as the ever-increasing assault on my instincts told me. A while back I had entered a nightclub that was a secret hunting ground for Succubi and my instincts had been so overwhelmed by their presences that I nearly collapsed. I’ve since learned how to block it all out in order to keep myself from being dazed, but there was still something unsettling about being the only human around. It was like being the only turkey in a party full of wolves.

  Of course, this turkey was armed with a magical wolf-killing weapon. With that in mind, I strutted confidently into the party.

  The penthouse was sparingly furnished, though what little there was all mirrored the architecture: sleek and black and modern. A string quartet played classical music in the center of a large dining area, though they could hardly be heard over the murmur of conversation.

  The guest list was a real who’s-who of the immortal community. I saw Succubi and Incubus and had to resist the urge to take out my flail and eliminate them from existence then and there. A couple chatting near the back were clearly vampires given the paleness of their complexion and the intensity of their gaze. Near the bar, a young woman was giving off a faint glow, though I wasn’t sure what kind of creature that made her and thought it was rude to ask. Even among immortals, there are such things as manners. Occasionally.

  What connected them all was their manner of dress: everyone was in well-tailored tuxedos or dresses that seemed to come from the early 20th century. I was glad that Lyanne and Eve had spent so much time making sure my Tuxedo was exactly right, though I was fairly certain its price tag was considerably less than what the other guests were wearing.

  At least there was an open bar. I walked up and ordered a whiskey from a black-and-white clad servant. As I waited, I scanned the room for Pembroke. What did a mummy look like, anyway? My mind went to the Hollywood depiction of toilet-paper clad Egyptians walking with their arms stretched stiffly in front of them. Somehow, I doubted I would find anything like that among these sharply dressed immortals.

  I decided to chat up some of the guests to discern the identity of the host. As the whiskey was placed in my hand, I was ready to turn my attention to the glowing woman at the bar beside me, but my other hand brushed against the hand of someone sitting on the opposite side. I turned to apologize …

  And came to face to face with a princess out of the old fairytales. She seemed so fragile, willowy like she’d be bent over by a strong breeze, but all that lent a delicate twist to her beautiful features. There was something about her that suggested ancestry from eastern Asia, perhaps China. Her eyes were deep and thoughtful, as if she was taking in everything around her and contemplating what it all meant with the patience only an immortal can bring to bear on daily tedium.

  She beat me to the apology. “Sorry. I was just reaching for my drink.” She took hold of her glass of wine but her eyes never stopped studying me. “You’re an interesting one. You’re not an immortal, are you?”

  I was doing a great job of fitting in. “No, no I’m not. You?”

  “I am something else as well.” She finally broke eye contact with me to take a sip of her wine.

  The conversation might have ended there, and perhaps I should have turned my attention back to locating the mummy party host, but I was enraptured by this mysterious woman. “I’m Kurt, by the way.”

  She smiled back at me. “Jexie. You come to these immortal gatherings often, Kurt?”

  I looked around at the collection of wealthy fiends that surrounded me. “Can’t say I’ve received an invitation before. I’m actually mostly here for work.”

  “Work?”

  “I hunt Succubi.” I punctuated the sentence with a sip of my whiskey.

  Jexie laughed, a musical noise. “Refreshing for a man be honest about his career, especially in SoHo.” Her eyes glanced to a Succubus who was leaning in close to one of the band members. “So who’s the target? Her?”

  I sighed. “Not this time. I’m more here to have chat with the party’s host.”

  “Pembroke?”

  Perhaps this would be a profitable conversation after all. “You know him?”

  “We’ve met. Last time I saw him was when he came into The Dispensary, a bar I frequent, when he first arrived in the city and I saw him talking to the owner.”

  Everything always seemed to come back to Maura. “You’re one of Maura’s regulars?”

  “I’m in there from time to time. She knows things.” She sighed and gave me an exasperated look. “Do you really want to talk about Maura right now?”

  “I guess not.” I thought for a second and realized something. “You know, I told you what was different about me, but you haven’t told me about what makes you fit to hang out with a bunch of vampires and demonspawn.”

  She smiled and lightly touched my arm. I thought it was just an intimate gesture, but then I felt a coldness flood through me. Her eyes fluttered and I had sense that something was passing between us.

  Strangely, I was not worried. “What are you doing?” I asked, more curious than anything.

  Jexie took her hand off me and her eyes came back into focus. “I can speak to ghosts. Well, that’s the simple explanation. It’s not really talking, it’s more like…viewing the memories of spirits, and sometimes I can direct which memories I want to see.”

  I was confused. “You were speaking with a ghost by touching my arm?”

  She held her arms out in a grand gesture. “They are all around
us, even when we cannot see them. The ones closest to us in life follow us, and by touching you I can communicate with them. Someone named Tandi is very angry with you, by the way.”

  “Good.” A thought occurred to me. “Does it just work with people, or can you communicate with ghosts around objects?”

  “If there was a strong enough connection to that object in life, yes. Many are connected to the places they lived, or to their most cherished possession.”

  There was something I wanted to ask, felt compelled to ask, even though a part of me was screaming not to. I knew better than most that there were some questions that you never wanted the answers to. Right now my life was filled with mysteries I was able to put behind me by focusing on my work, but if I had a chance to get those answers I could not resist. I just hoped I wouldn’t regret asking the question.

  “What about a weapon?” I asked.

  Her eyes were bright with interest. “It depends on the connection they had. You have something in mind?”

  I nodded. “Would you …”

  “I’m interested. Do you have it with you?”

  “Yeah but … I shouldn’t take it out here. There are a lot of immortal eyes and I’m pretty sure pulling it out will lead to a real riot.” I thought it over for a moment, then felt a grin tug at my lips. “Actually, takin it out here would cause the best-dressed stampede you’ve ever seen. Might be best to use, ah. . .discretion—for the moment.” I gave her another appraising look.

  She glanced around her. “I see your point.” With one gulp she polished off the last of her wine, then she grabbed me by the arm and bade me to follow her. “Come on, this way.”

  A minute later we were locked in a bathroom off from the main floor. Or it appeared to be a bathroom, but I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just a bathroom-themed apartment given its size. The bathtub would have done a good job masquerading as a pool.

  Jexie was looking somewhat eager. “Let’s see it.”

  Not the first time a woman has said that to me in a bathroom.

  I held out my arm and The Night Flail was there, wrapped around my wrist in the way it always was, even when I was not aware of it. Jexie’s eyes went wide as she studied the weapon. I wondered if she had supernatural senses similar to mine, and what those senses would tell her about the flail.

  Slowly, cautiously, she reached out a hand to touch it. She gently put her hand upon it—

  The world blinked out, replaced with flashes of light. I tried to focus and I could just barely make out images in the light in the moment before they disappeared and were replaced with the next ones.

  A man dressed in rough leathers, his beard long, unkempt, and greyed with ash, was digging in a mine deep in the earth. His pickaxe struck something strange, something that had no business being this deep underground. He pulled it out, his well-toned muscles just barely up to the task, and as the weapon came free its chain wrapped around his wrist, binding them forever.

  A woman, dressed in plain linens, was digging in field with a shovel. She had the power of a man twice her size. Around her were a pile a bodies, all men, one of which was wrapped with a familiar flail.

  Then came flashes of violence that were too quick for me to make out properly: people being killed, monsters being destroyed, weapons flashing, fires burning.

  A man in an old-style suit and a fedora was wielding the flail against any army of encroaching creatures, his face resolved in determination despite the overwhelming odds.

  A body, wrapped in the flail’s chain, was lowered into flowing water.

  Everything got brighter, and I saw her: my mother. But she was not the gentle woman I remembered. This version of her was fierce, violent. Blood dripped from her, and I couldn’t tell how much of it was from her, and how much of it was from the Succubi dying around her. She was my mother, but she was something more—an apocalyptic vision of vengeance itself, her eyes filled with the resignation of a hunter. Look what you made me do, her expression read as she twisted the head from a howling immortal, its claws raking the air around her.

  And then I was back. I was dizzy from the flashes, and the confusion of what I had seen was not helping. In a way, none of it was surprising: I knew my mother had hunted before me and left the task to me when she passed, and yet it was still hard to imagine her as anything other than the gentle woman who had raised me. The woman I had seen in those visions seemed like a stranger who just shared her face.

  Jexie didn’t seemed shaken in the slightest. She must have been used to this by now. “Do you want to know what your mother used to kill undead?”

  The question came out of nowhere and left me dumbstruck. “Y—yes.”

  She closed her eyes. “She knew of the flail. It was put there by your family long ago, but your mother never needed it. She used a simple knife. Do you recall it? Black handle, dull blade. Your grandfather—"

  “Peeled apples with it when I was a kid,” I finished. “My god, yes—I remember. But why? Why that knife?”

  There was silence as Jexie dug through those memories for the answer. “It’s the Hunter, not the weapon, and her skill was unapparelled. Wielding the knife, your mother was among the greatest of Hunters. But you—you were meant to kill bigger things than just Succubi, and the flail can do that, if you learn how. It is powerful, powerful even when ranked among the great weapons of history.” Jexie gave a delicate shudder that matched her willowy presence. “And there have been many weapons, Kurt, but this one is heavy with the accrued use of time. No wonder you feel—immortal.”

  Normal parents pressure their kids into becoming doctors or lawyers. Mine pressured me into taking on the forces of the undead.

  I let the flail vanish while I contemplated all this. In the end, I hadn’t really learned anything I didn’t already know, but I confirmed things I had long suspected. I regretted not knowing more about my mother’s other side when she was alive, and now I would never get the chance. I was sure she would have had some insight into what was going on, but the veil between mortals and where the flail belonged was no longer in place. I stood astride the two places, wielding the flail and somehow not completely belonging anywhere. Except at my farm, and with the women around me.

  When I came back to my senses, I noticed that Jexie had moved close to me. Very close. “What is your end game? With the flail?”

  It took me a moment of thinking to come up with the honest answer. “To end their predation. To put their souls to rest.”

  Jexie’s smile was both warm and alluring. “Then you’re the man I’ve been waiting to find.”

  “For vengeance? Or pleasure?” I said.

  Jexie’s eyes widened at that. “Pleasure? You think this my chosen vocation?” Her snort was playful; her expression was not. “I can think of better things to do with a man in a tuxedo.”

  “Like?”

  She ran a painted nail down my arm, then touched my hand. The hairs stood up at her caress. “Do women respond—well? To you?”

  “Yes.” I took her hand in mine, feeling the warmth of her elegant fingers. She was fine-boned, but sculpted rather than thin. “At first I thought it was the flail, but then I came to a different conclusion.”

  “Which is?” Jexie asked.

  “I wield the flail. It doesn’t wield me, despite how I felt at first. And that kind of power becomes obvious to other people. To people like you, who can see what my. . .intentions are,” I said. Now it was my turn to touch her. I traced the delicate line of her jaw, her neck, and then finished with a lingering touch at the hollow of her collarbone, a small shadow in the porcelain of her perfect skin. Her eyes closed, just briefly, and when they opened they were bright with need.

  “I think I agree,” Jexie said. “Are you going to kiss me, or what?”

  I kissed her, and there was nothing delicate about the insistence of her tongue. We came together, standing, then she reached up and freed her breasts so I could taste each in turn. Her nipples rose to greet me, defiant points on soft fle
sh, and then we kissed again, our breath growing short as we reached the bridge where something was about to happen, but we weren’t sure how.

  We solved the problem together.

  Jexie turned to face away from me, her smile languid in the enormous mirror before us. With slow hands, she lifted her dress, kicking her heels away without breaking eye contact.

  “I don’t need a second invitation,” I said.

  “Good,” she hissed, moving her legs apart to welcome me inside.

  And what a welcome. While Jexie was delicate, the grip of her around my length was anything but as she slid backwards, pushing down under our skin met and I was buried as far as I could go.

  And then we began to move.

  With her hands on the cool marble counter, I watched in frenzied fascination as she lifted and fell, her dress hiked up in place by my hands on either of her pale hips. Every twitch of her body sent a jolt of pleasure through me, and seeing her in the mirror made me a voyeur in my own life.

  We slowed, stopped, and moved again, my hands on her breasts; kneading, toying, stroking. Jexie was keen to touch, and she reached back, urging me as our breath grew quicker in unison, and then in ragged gasps, and finally, she clenched around me in a grip of iron and velvet that left me no choice. I came with a long hiss of pleasure, adding to her own sibilant yesssssss that went on for a second or an hour.

  She leaned back against me as I pulsed inside her, our lips twisting to meet.

  “I think I know what your intentions are,” Jexie murmured, looking at me through the mirror.

  I began to move again, and her eyes went wide, lips curled in a smile of wicked joy. “You do now.”

  We rejoined the party, me feeling slightly guilty about having ruined the careful preparation of my tux by Lyanne and Eve. But only slightly.

  We had only taken a few steps back into the party when Jexie stopped me. “That’s him, over there. Pembroke.”

  She pointed over to a man dressed in what I would describe, for lack of a better word, as foppish attire. His suit seemed to come from a different era, one in which stuffed shirts, padded sleeves, and frills were in style. It seemed like something that would come out of a 19th century period piece than something someone would actually wear.