Succubus Takes Manhattan

by Nina Harper

  Meph, as always, ordered the cheese plate.

  It was dark by the time we finished and we walked the few blocks between the restaurant and the hotel even though I was wearing four-inch heels. Meph puffed on a cigar as we took the short stroll, and no one talked. We’d run out of chat and really no one wanted to discuss what Marten was about to do.

  As we walked, Marten seemed to retreat into himself. He didn’t look at me, didn’t give the appreciative glances that I had come to expect from him. He didn’t accept one of Meph’s cigars, didn’t respond to any of Nathan’s remarks.

  Finally we got to the suite and Nathan turned directly to Marten and asked, “Okay, what do we do?”

  Marten told us to clear the living room, get the furniture out and make things open. He directed that we set up one of the side tables just to the north of center of the room, cover it and lay out his magical weapons. That seemed rather interesting since magicians usually do not like others touching their tools. On the other hand, Mephistopheles probably knows more about setting a ritual altar than any four ceremonialists put together.

  “And what will you be doing?” I asked softly.

  “My job,” he answered.

  But I knew what he was going to do. Demons have to know the basics of the rituals in which we can be summoned, if only to know if that magician has the right to call us and when we can break the hold. If a magician has not observed the correct fast, has indulged in any of the pleasures of the senses, or has not prepared every element of the ritual with full focus and intent, then he is fair game.

  So I knew that tonight Marten would start with a bath in still water, infused with demon-specific herbs (in this case, I would expect vervain, nettles, maybe dragon’s blood root and possibly belladonna or poppy or cacao leaves) and sealed with magical sigils. After the bath he would anoint himself with ritually prepared oil specific to the working and possibly the astrological conditions, and then dress in only a simple robe tied with a cord around the waist.

  I thought of this as I heard the bath run and smelled incense. Nathan had done most of the heavy lifting and Meph had set up the altar. The long embroidered gold gauze cloth lay over shimmering white satin. These must have come in Marten’s bag, probably wrapped around the long sword and the chalice that Meph had arranged. I found a bottle of Perrier in the mini fridge and poured it into the elaborate silver goblet covered with repoussé roses and lilies. I studied it for a moment; it was beautiful, and if I remembered my lessons correctly roses stood for desire and lilies for knowledge. A very small brazier held a charcoal already lit and turning slightly gray at the edges. With what must have been a demitasse spoon I scattered fragrant resins and herbs—myrrh, balm of Gilead, cedar—over the coal.

  Meph set up another much smaller altar in the north. This one he covered with a white pillowcase, and on it he laid a book and another candle. This was the demon altar, where we hoped Raven would materialize.

  At that point, Marten came in, fully prepared in his robe and insignia. And even though there was nothing designer about it, he cut a dashing figure. The robe itself was silk in a blue so dark that it looked black except where it rippled and caught a stray photon from the candles. The silk was very thin and clung enough to accentuate his athletic build. Around his waist was a dark silvery-black cord, and a pewter lamen hung around his neck. His hair, still damp from the bath, clung to his neck and the ends, which had started to dry, curled over his shoulders.

  In a word, yum. Marten was quite a delicious specimen in street clothes. Robed and ritually intent (not to mention ritually pure), he was irresistible. What is sexier than this already very sexy man who has gone for weeks without any sex—just for me? Who has fasted? Who has concentrated his will? Devastating. No Hellspawn could resist him.

  I think I was quivering with desire when I saw him clothed in the power of his will. Because the center of all ceremonial magic is the trained, focused will of the practitioner. I’m not even sure if he saw us—nothing could break his concentration.

  “Can we watch?” Nathan asked.

  Marten did not react at all. Perhaps he hadn’t even heard the question.

  “Not a good idea,” Meph replied. “If an angry demon gets out of the triangle, she could tear you to pieces.”

  “But it’s not supposed to be an angry demon. We’re saving her,” I said. Truth was, I wanted to see, too.

  “Hmmm,” Meph said. And then he whispered very softly and herded Nathan with me back into a corner of the dining room. The table acted as a barricade and I felt safe when Meph threw up a wall of energy between us and the ritual space Marten was creating. So even if the demon did get out (always a possibility) and breach Marten’s defenses (which, given the way I was reacting to what he was creating would take a whole lot more power and training than someone studying in the Third Level could have achieved), it wouldn’t be able to get to us. Or maybe would find refuge here behind this wall with the ever-protective and -powerful Mephistopheles.

  Marten began with the Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram, the first thing every apprentice and wannabe magician masters (or attempts to master). Only performed by a true Ritualist, it was powerful and elegant. The chants vibrated and called the protective presences for each of the cardinal directions, sealing us from harm. The pentagrams blazed from his fingers in each quarter, the entire space quivered and became something different, something set apart.

  Then Marten began to set up specifically to call a demon. He drew a triangle around the small altar with a fat piece of yellow chalk. Then he picked up the sword and drew the triangle again, etheric brilliant violet energy pouring from the sharp blade. He followed with the censor and the chalice in turn, binding the holding area not only with the four elements, but in all four Worlds of Creation as well.

  Truth was, I was just a little bit impressed. He’d not only mediated the Worlds but created a reception for a demon that would be a prison as stout as Alcatraz. I shivered a bit, thinking of how it could contain me as easily as Raven or any other demon who might manifest itself.

  Then Marten cast the circle of protection that almost touched but did not actually abut the triangle. The magician does that to protect himself in case the demon does break the bonds, when under most circumstances the first instinct of the demon would be to tear the magician into as many bits as a shredder in a casino. So the worker stays behind two barricades and never bridges the gap. Never never never. They are all taught that a cunning demon will play docile and wait until the magician invites him or her into his circle and then wreak havoc.

  Protections completed, he raised the sword in salute and began a long summoning in that particularly bad, archaic Latin beloved of Hell. I never liked invocations and this one was particularly long and a bit over the top with the sycophancy. I had to work really hard not to giggle.

  Nathan, beside me, was saucereyed. He had never seen actual magic before, not like this. He’d seen what we’d bollixed up in my apartment, but this was something different, and it was in a language I didn’t think he could understand.

  “What’s he saying?” Nathan whispered so softly that I could barely catch his words.

  “It’s an invocation, and a really long one. Lots of flattery. They think that demons like a lot of flattery,” I told him.

  “You don’t?” he asked, half teasing.

  “Only when it’s sincere,” I replied. And I meant it.

  But the restraint of the practitioner, oh the restraint—that smelled more enticing than thick steak sizzling on the grill in September, sweeter than two dozen roses, more irresistible than a private sale at Barneys. As he chanted the words of invocation it was not the silly statements that flooded my consciousness, but the desire behind them. A desire so deep, so powerful, that this ridiculously good-looking hunk had not had sex, had not even masturbated, for weeks. Just in anticipation of this moment. Of me.

  Well, it felt like me. Down, girl. That was the point. The whole ritual was geared to create pre
cisely this effect in any demon in the area, any demon who could hear the summoning. Which, supposedly, was pointed to only one demon in particular, but I was here in the background and I couldn’t help it.

  Nor could Meph. Glancing over I could see him quivering, his face taut with anticipation. He had to have known that it would hurt like this to watch. Meph wanted to throw himself at the magician, into his circle, into his prepared prison even, for the chance to touch and savor that yearning soul. And Meph is mostly straight.

  Magic is made of the material of the soul. That they, the humans have, that we, the demons, desire to touch with all the aching agony of eternity. We serve On High, we serve forever, and yet we are always waiting outside. And here, offered before us, is the whiff, the taste of that which all Creation desires.

  The center of the ritual is the Offering. Because Marten didn’t do things halfway, he didn’t stint. If he put something on the table it would be something of value, something that I would be insane to refuse.

  Marten had stopped chanting. He raised a small knife and suddenly there was deep silence as if even Meph was afraid to breathe. Oh no, I thought. He wouldn’t. But Marten would, that was what made him truly great. Truly a Master who could command. He was not a bully. In ritual he was the same as he was in the bedroom, a seducer, always promising (and giving) those things a girl/demon craves.

  And yes, he gave like that in ritual, too. The thing above all things that the Hellspawn desire and adore, that we pursue and cherish among humankind, this he gave freely. He held the blade against the pumping blue veins of his wrist and then, in a single flashing movement, cut deeply. Not across, just a single deep nick. Dark blood welled up and he held his wrist over a second cup. This one was very small, a crystal cordial glass, simple and perfect. Drop by drop the crimson blood flowed into the glass.

  chapter

  TWENTY-SIX

  Some magicians would have stopped with the traditional three drops. Others, more committed and adventurous, would have done three times three. Marten stood rock steady until the glass was full to the brim, no counting of drops, no careful blotting. No, Marten just poured out his own life stuff, still warm and shimmering with the vital energy of his own soul, and created one of the most generous, elegant, perfect offerings I had ever heard of from his kind in three thousand years.

  Then he placed the tiny cordial glass on the flat blade of the sword and passed it to the smaller altar in the triangle. Only a blade could pass the bonds, and my breath caught in my throat as he manuevered the little glass onto the table without tipping it.

  Once the sword was withdrawn, he sealed the penetration points with words and will. But there was still a weakness there. There was a patch, undetectable to newer demons like Raven, but visible to me. After the triangle was resealed Marten tucked his robe around his legs and sat down on a cushion before his altar.

  “What’s he doing?” Nathan asked.

  “Now we wait for Raven to show. Given what he’s just offered her, she’d be a complete idiot to ignore the invitation. Well, I think she’d actually be under compulsion to arrive. Even Meph and I can feel it, and we’re not the targets.”

  “Why is he sitting like that?”

  Hmmmm. It might have made a more elegant picture if he’d been kneeling, I thought, with his head just slightly bent. The thought made my toes curl.

  Though, really, the cell phone would do just fine.

  What was I thinking? Nathan was right here. Was I over him, had I forgotten him in the extreme inducement of ritual?

  But I didn’t have time to consider the problem any further because a dark roiling started in the middle of the triangle. Marten’s walls held firm and I could see the neat, triangular construction of the trap.

  The gray, smoky etheric matter coalesced and I saw Raven, still looking like me, still wearing my Betsey Johnson blouse and her own stupid boots. She was all in shades of gray.

  As her form became stronger, more defined, I could make out the look of absolute panic on her face. “No, no,” she whimpered so softly that I could barely make out the words. Raven was not alone. Squeezed into the triangular confinement, another demon was materializing. Someone large, someone who took up most of the space, leaving Raven pressed against the invisible barricade.

  If only Marten had caught the head demon along with Raven in his net—but that would have been too easy. No, Raven had been overwhelmed and shunted aside for a male demon of incalculable beauty. He could have come off the cover of half a dozen romance novels, complete with the open white poet’s shirt and tight black jeans.

  I knew at once what he was. He was one of my embittered male counterparts. He was an incubus. He must have been one of Raven’s tormentors, and had grabbed her to ride along when she was summoned.

  Raven, poor girl, was crying and trying to put a brave face on things. “Send us back,” she whimpered, trying to be strong.

  And, much as I had not been thrilled with her choice of footwear, or her angsty arrogance, I was still moved to my nonexistent soul by what she had endured. Her face and arms were covered in bruises and smeared with dirt and blood. Her hair, which was still auburn and in long curls, had been matted with sweat and filth and the weak new ichor that stained my Betsey Johnson.

  Her hands and wrists appeared to have taken the worst of it. Purple bracelets of bruises showed where the restraints had been too tight and that she’d fought against them, and her fingernails had been bitten or ripped down to the quick. Other wounds showed where she had fought and tried to defend herself against some kind of blade. Silver, I’d bet, because some of them were still oozing.

  I was moved to pity, but there was no time for that. The incubus was clearly not Raven’s friend and he was holding her with a large hand around her throat.

  “What’s that other demon?” Nathan asked.

  “They sent him with her so that the magician can’t bring her through,” Mephistopheles said. “It’s exactly what I would have done. Marten can’t pull Raven in without the incubus, who is loyal to my enemy. He’ll rip Marten and us to shreds if he’s permitted.”

  Marten had gone dead white and his breathing was shallow. He could not break the seals and bring Raven out while keeping the incubus confined. And from the way the incubus smiled, I had no doubt he was looking forward to ripping Marten to shreds.

  The incubus knew we were in a bad position. He smiled, a beautiful smile that would have been worth millions in a Colgate campaign, but so cruel it made me shiver.

  “Well,” the incubus said softly, in a voice that was low, musical and seductive. I wondered if human men saw me as I saw this creature, my counterpart. I remembered the incubi from long ago, before the great rift, but mostly I remembered the screaming, the politics, the boys who didn’t want to play with the girls.

  “Well,” he said again. “I wonder what you will offer me, Magician. The blood was . . . irresistible. As it was meant to be. But there are only two beings here with souls and I think we need to bargain. And—I am sorry to say, High Magician, you are tasty and oh so pretty, and I would enjoy claiming your soul. But you have already parceled out too much of it for my liking. I prefer to take the whole of a mortal soul.”

  Marten remained stark still, keeping his eye on the demon.

  The incubus’s eyes shifted and pinned Nathan.

  No. He couldn’t have Nathan. The words formed not just in my head but through my whole body. He could not have Nathan. The guy might have made me miserable and even made me cry, couldn’t handle Hell (okay, that’s kind of a tall order, come to think of it) and had left me. But he also read to me in my own language and was smart and funny and had worked really hard for us when Vincent was kidnapped.

  I glanced at Marten, sitting so very still and quiet. Would I have reacted so strongly if the incubus had wanted him? Of course, Marten understood these things; he was an experienced practitioner who knew what he was doing and getting into.

  None of that mattered. I wanted to pr
otect Marten too. He looked so vulnerable and brave there in his circle, unmoving. I could see the fear in the tension around his eyes and the way his hands went rigid, but I’d spent a lot of time recently paying a lot of attention to Marten.

  I was terrified for him. I was terrified for both of them.

  In that moment I realized that I was crazy in love with them both. Which meant I had to figure out a way to save them both.

  Well, the incubus said he wanted a bargain.

  That was . . . something I do exceedingly well. I know and love bargains and always have. Had I not bargained on six continents (there really being nothing on Antarctica worth acquiring)? Driven down the prices of opals and emeralds, Turkish carpets, and a lease in the East Eighties? Best ever, I had managed just last season to talk another twenty percent off the redline price for a Derek Lam dress and two Versace blouses at the last seasonal sale at Barneys.

  “Incubus, I have something that you might find appealing,” I shouted across all the magically barricaded spaces.

  “You? Succubus? Your kind are not friend to us,” he replied scornfully. “And you have nothing to offer me.”

  I grinned. I think I must have looked that way at the Barneys spring sale. “Oh yes, I do. I have something very tasty indeed. Not my own, no, but a whole soul entire. And it is a victim that I cannot claim.”

  The incubus licked his lips. “One you cannot deliver and you would give it to me? That is . . . interesting.”

  I took a deep breath. I would have liked to come closer to him but I was penned in by Meph’s magical barrier, to say nothing of Marten’s circle. I had to make the point from where I stood.

  “A human male, tall and well-favored,” I began. “Of my acquaintance and knowledge. I would give him to you, his place of work and his home address, and, when I am able to return to my home, a sample of his hair or nail or other piece of his corporeal being for you to use to identify him.”

  “This one you could not conquer yourself? That would be a sweet victory,” the incubus said.