Incubus

by Allison Graham

Incubus: The Bestiary Tales

  By Allison Graham

  Copyright 2011 Allison Graham

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  A Brief Notice: This book contains non-explicit homosexual content. If you are offended by things of this nature, you may wish to skip Incubus. None of the Bestiary Tales are required reading to understand the others, so you will not miss out on any essential canonic details.

  Also, the author wishes all inform readers that she respects and appreciates all cultures; all anti-Semitic comments in Incubus are not her personal opinions, but a hybrid between third-person narration and Niclas’ personal views, used for effect.

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  Berlin, Germany - 1945

  When Niclas Philo first saw him, he regarded him as any other Jew - something to be cleaned from the bottom of his shoe, or worse. And what else could one expect? His was not an especially complex story. Niclas been one of the last among his group of friends to jump onto the anti-Semitic bandwagon, but when he did, he quickly surpassed them in his military career. He had always been a fast study and a determined worker - a valued trait in any field - but especially where he was. His superiors favored him, women swooned for his perfect Aryan form…he was the perfect German, and the perfect Nazi, no doubt in line to be promoted in the near future. Even thinking conservatively, the man was well-off.

  And he knew it, which was why he flared with rage when this subpar human’s locked eyes with his. It wasn’t even as if the prisoner did it accidentally - there was a purposeful glower behind his eyes, a flash of boldness and hatred in those orbs of murky brown.

  Niclas backhanded him without even turning his torso. “Don’t presume to challenge me, even if it is only with your eyes,” he said coldly. Then, as an afterthought, he seized the man by his collar and glared down at him. “What is your name?”

  “Simcha Bakst,” he said steadily. There was no tremor of fear in his voice, not even the slightest flicker of doubt in himself. “Seized from - “

  “If I cared, I’d have asked,” Niclas spat, dropping him to the cold, muddy ground. “Watch yourself around your superiors.”

  “Certainly. If I see one, I’ll let you know,” Simcha said, looking straight back up at him with a defiant grin.

  Niclas’ face flushed red with fury and he offered Simcha another blow, this time to the other cheek, for his wit. His index finger twitched with a barely-contained desire to put some bullets in this man’s knees for his insubordination. He contained himself, though, and decided to go about his anger in a more professional way. “Don’t group this one with the others,” he growled to one of the guard escorts. “Set him aside for some time in the cabins. I’ll beat respect into him if it takes me the rest of the war.”

  “Taken a special hatred to him already, Philo?”

  At the deep, commanding voice, Niclas shot up straight and slammed his heels together in perfect military posture. “Generaloberst Eberhardt!” he said stiffly. He could barely contain his embarrassment; just how long had his respected superior been listening? “Please, forgive my aggression; I’m afraid I - “

  “No need,” Eberhardt replied, offering him the signal to relax. “I heard him. I’m not surprised. He drove the men mad on the way here, and you’re not the first to hit him.” The official scratched at his chin in thought. “So, you want him in the cabins? I don’t see why you couldn’t kick him around for a while. To be honest, after what he said, I’d have shot him.”

  “I was tempted,” Niclas said, glowering down at the man. Despite the circumstances, the prisoner still seemed composed, using a grimy sliver of stone from the ground to scrape out the mud caked beneath his fingernails. His calmness was maddening. “If I do, will I be reprimanded?”

  Eberhardt smirked. “I’m supposed to say yes.” Niclas knew what that meant; it was a ‘no,’ as clear as if he’d said it aloud. “Why don’t you go off and have your fun, Niclas; I’ll put one of the guard escorts in your place.”

  That gave Niclas a chuckle. “Thank you sir, but I’m not going to kill him. You know me - everything is to be done by the book. Thank you for your generosity, and be assured, he’ll be alive when I’m through with him.” Though he’ll wish he weren’t, Niclas finished silently, fastening his pale-sky eyes on Simcha. “You. Follow me.”

  “Very well,” he responded, standing to his feet. He dropped the stone to the floor. Niclas nudged the man in front of him and began marching him in the direction of the isolation cabins he’d been referring to. ‘Cabins’ was a rather homey word for five-by-five concrete rooms with one tiny window apiece, but Niclas wasn’t about to argue semantics with whoever named them. The solemn gray cells performed their duty well, the Jews who emerged being broken in spirit and mind.

  “So, to the coolers, then?” Simcha asked.

  “Shut your mouth.”

  They trod through hard-packed mud in silence until about halfway there. Then, something strange happened to Niclas. Nothing that impaired him in anyway, but it caused him to stop in his tracks all the same.

  You don’t really want to hurt him. Look at him. Something about that indifference intrigues you, doesn’t it?

  It wasn’t a conscious thought. Neither was it his, really. It was as if a voice, strong and sure, crawled into his head and whispered directly to his brain. Niclas froze and shook his head, confused. His pause made Simcha turn.

  “Changed your mind?” he asked.

  Niclas blinked the mental haze away and scowled. “You know, that damned attitude of yours is only digging you a deeper grave.”

  Simcha turned back and continued walking towards the cells. More trudging, more silence.

  Look at him, Niclas. He’s worried about you even though you plan to thrash him senseless.

  Niclas was taken aback by the voice’s return, having assumed it was a fleeting moment of insanity. He forced himself to keep walking, nudging the bedraggled other along every time he started to fall slow. Internally, he was busy convincing himself to ignore the voice.

  Yes, yes. You can try to ignore me. But since you won’t be able to, I’ll make you a deal - before you go to beat him, just take a look into his eyes. A good, long look. If you still decide you want to destroy him, I’ll leave.

  He couldn’t believe he was making bargains with disembodied phantoms in his mind, but Niclas quickly agreed. Anything to be rid of this bizarre affliction. He knew there was no way he’d ever be disinclined to attack a man who so brazenly disregarded the authority of the German race, no matter what was in his gaze.

  He shoved Simcha into a vacant cell, smirking at the sound of skin hitting stone uncomfortably hard. “We’ll see if you stay so uppity when the floor is littered with your teeth,” he snickered. He then grabbed Simcha’s chin and pried his gaze upward. “Go on, look at me. You certainly didn’t seem afraid to do it before.”

  “I’m still not afraid,” he responded, locking eyes with Niclas. Game and match, Niclas thought savagely.

  But it wasn’t.

  It was supposed to be straightforward. A swift glance into those stagnant pools of unappealing brown, and he could bury his knee in the man’s gut as an appetizer to later enjoyments. But behind Simcha’s eyes was something…something different. Not defiance, not determination, nothing he could possibly hope to place. It was something that made his clenched fist slacken, his tense muscles unwind, and the blood singing in his temples still to a dull beat. He let go of the man’s face and stumbled back until he hit the wall, unable to tear his gaze away. As he stood there, stare locked on Simcha’s, the feeling changed. His blood began to pound again, but not with anger. It now moved in a way it had only ever moved before for women. A sick feeling envelop
ed his stomach and he forced himself to look away, sinking his teeth into his tongue to distract himself. The coppery taste of his own blood helped to dim the flickering warmth he felt building in his chest…but it didn’t matter, he thought viciously, because it wasn’t going to happen again.

  You think so?

  “Damn it!” Niclas roared, shaking his head as if to throw the voice out of it.

  Simcha frowned and backed away. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “You!” he lied, pointing at him with ferocious energy. “You don’t even care whether or not I repaint this cell with your blood!”

  “I absolutely care whether or not you do that.”

  “Then show it! Stop mouthing off to me! I could kill you, don’t you realize that?! Kill you!! Any other guard would have put a bullet in your chest by now!”

  “So why haven’t you?”

  Yes, Niclas, why haven’t you?

  Niclas could almost feel the tenuous