She remembered coming into the world, confused and disoriented. The spells that summon demons of any type are meant to bring them into the world weakened, because at full strength a demon is not to be trifled with and certainly not to be ordered around. They are also very specific because demons have different abilities and different weaknesses.
What Vernon Dunlow managed to do was summon and free a very confused and wounded demon. He also effectively locked it in its new location: inside the body of his dying daughter.
Jonathan Crowley claimed he’d just been passing through to check on Vernon when he entered the house. By rights he should have killed Vernon Dunlow on the spot and destroyed what was left of his daughter along with the demon.
Instead, he let both of them live. He’d just recently become a father himself and the change in his life had, in his words, “softened him.”
There were several problems that cropped up as a result of her new existence. One of the most unsettling for everyone involved was that while she didn’t have her full powers and likely never would, she had some of them. The first power of a succubus is seduction. It was her duty to seduce, entice and please whosoever summoned her. The ability was there, but uncontrollable. Men who saw her were drawn to her, even when she was a child. Several close calls led to her father calling on Jonathan.
Despite the inconvenience it caused him, the man came back. He was, to date, one of the very few men she’d ever met who didn’t practically fawn over her. At first he did something to mute her abilities. She became, for a time, a little girl who was cute and not a magnet for every man’s sexual desires.
As time went on, he started teaching her how to handle the situation herself. The problem seemed to be that as she got older, her natural ability to look attractive grew stronger.
Then, six years ago, when she was physically only sixteen, Crowley disappeared. He’d trained her well enough, but without his help from time to time, she still became the center of attention wherever she went.
For six years she’d endured the looks, the obvious desire of the men around her, and fended them off. She didn’t want to be extraordinary. She wanted to have a life.
Jonathan Crowley had been, and still was to her reckoning, the only decent man she’d ever met aside from her father. He had never found her all that remarkable, and never spent more time looking over her body than actually dealing with her as a person.
“I’m sorry, Jonathan. I am. But I need you.” She was barely aware that she’d spoken aloud.
He didn’t move from where he was. He didn’t even bother looking up. “Has it gotten bad?”
“Yes. I can’t really leave the house very often, not without an escort or two.”
He sighed and rolled over on his bed, looking at her closely. “Anyone tried to get stupid about it?”
“A few times.” Thinking back on boys and men she’d thought were her friends, she couldn’t count the number of attempted assaults on both of her hands.
“I’m tired, Amelia.” The usual cockiness was gone from his voice. He was, for the moment at least, more like the man she’d always known than the man she’d seen emerge from his transformation.
Her eyes burned from the desire to cry. Jonathan Crowley was not only a good man, he was a friend, one of the few she let herself have. He’d been, in the time they’d known each other, almost a father figure. He’d even turned her away the two times she’d been foolish enough to try seducing him; moments of weakness where she had simply wanted to see how he would react if she actually focused her natural talents and worked at swaying a man instead of just letting nature take its course.
He was a decent man, and he’d told her very clearly that he only loved one woman. He forgave her, and kept coming back around to deal with her, even when she threw tantrums and had trouble controlling some of her less human urges. She was human in a lot of ways, but her demonic nature showed itself from time to time and there was little she could do to stop it. He’d helped with that, too.
She’d paid him back by making him come to her when he was at his weakest and almost dead. She knew, could sense inside of him, how much he wanted to die, and she called him back to her for her own selfish needs.
No matter how she thought about it, that was what it came down to. She’d been selfish.
“I’m sorry, Jonathan.”
“Don’t be. Just for now, be silent instead. I mean it. I need to think, Amelia.”
She closed her mouth and tried to rest.
Ten feet away from her, Jonathan Crowley pretended to sleep as well. She could tell that he was awake, could feel the turmoil inside of him. She could always sense the emotions of those near her, for that too, was one of her abilities. She couldn’t read minds, but she could feel their desires, their fears and their needs.
Jonathan Crowley wanted death or failing that, he wanted peace.
She mouthed the words I’m sorry one last time and slowly, very slowly, drifted into slumber.
***
Something significant had occurred while it was learning about the smaller life forms. It didn’t know exactly what that something was, but the atmosphere within the building was charged with new emotions.
Still, it was tired. It had learned a great deal in the basement of the building, had come to understand so much more about physiology than it had dreamed there was to know, and still needed to learn more.
Its mind felt overwhelmed and for now, it would rest.
Alex Granger was sleeping when it entered his cell, but came awake as soon as it touched him.
“Where have you been? I was worried.” Alex’s lips moved, but no sound passed through them, the words were only in his host’s mind. Granger was scared, afraid he’d been abandoned by his god.
I was learning, Alex.
“What did you learn?”
So many wonderful things.
“Can you show me? Tell me?” So eager, that childlike voice. So desperate for conversation, even if there would be no memories later to be savored. Alex Granger never remembered the things it told him, but he always listened, desperate to escape from the confines of his own ruined mind.
It shared all that it had learned and watched Alex’s reactions to the knowledge. For the first time, Alex Granger understood that he had been wrong to kill, even in the service of his personal god. Every action had a consequence of some kind, and every death was a significant thing. Not necessarily bad, but significant.
“I have sinned so many times.” Granger’s voice was fraught with sorrow, ripe with painful revelations that he would lose within a few minutes. Phillip Harrington had seen to that when he let his hand slip inside the brain of its host.
Hush, Alex. All that you did, you did for me.
“Then you aren’t angry with me?”
No. You have always been faithful to me, and I will reward you when the time comes.
“Will I have to wait much longer?”
Only for a while, Alex. When I know all that I need to know, you will be rewarded.
Granger closed his eyes and stopped speaking, exhausted and satisfied with the words of his god.
It rested with him, feeding Alex and in turn being fed.
Alex Granger was flawed, but he served a vital role. He gave his worship to it.
Still, Alex was dying, however slowly, and would soon be useless as a shelter from the outside world. That could prove a dilemma. It wasn’t completely sure it could live without Alex and it had no desire to die.
Perhaps, it mused, more worshippers are necessary to make the proper transition. It slept, still pondering the symbiotic nature of their dual relationship.
Achieving Godhood was proving more difficult than expected.
Chapter Sixteen
The dreams were different this time, at least for a while. At first, Crowley just coasted through a day of his life, sharing time with Elizabeth and the kids. There’d been a fairly secluded lake and park not far from their home, and they settled in ther
e to have a picnic.
Jeremy was laughing at everything, and kept calling out to Wendy, who was busily chasing a butterfly. At four she remained firmly convinced that if she could ever catch one, it would taste like butter. Jonathan didn’t feel the need to ruin her childhood desires.
Theresa was being introspective, something that Elizabeth always worried about and that Jonathan knew just meant she was a thinker before she was anything else. Of all the children, it was always Theresa who took the time to think about not only what she wanted to say but how she wanted to say it. She had her mother’s looks and her father’s brains, according to Amelia. John simply knew she had a special place in his heart, though he loved all of his children.
The dream was vivid: he could smell the grass, the lake, the cold fried chicken and Elizabeth’s subtly intoxicating jasmine perfume. He could hear the ducks on the water fussing and the sounds of his family laughing. The combination of sounds was a symphony that played in his soul.
Of course it had to go wrong. Somewhere along the way the good times had to be trashed and even in his dreams that was the sad fact of the matter. One by one they disappeared, each member of his family vanishing as his eyes left them. His panic didn’t start right away; it waited to sneak up and take him by surprise instead. By the time he realized there was a problem the children were gone and the sweet sound of Wendy’s laughter was a faded memory an instant later.
He looked for Elizabeth, desperate to warn her, but it was too late. She left no hint of where she’d disappeared to, no sign that she had ever been there, save for his certainty that she’d been next to him a moment before.
He stood as quickly as he could, the damned artificial leg making even that act seem awkward. The lake to his right was still there, but the ducks were gone and the color was off. Lakes were not supposed to be the color of old blood or smell like them, either. Jonathan tried to call their names, but his voice failed him, the words wouldn’t slip past his lips.
The sky darkened as thick black clouds scudded through the air and blocked the sun. Though the wind blew from the east and brought the charnel scents of the lake with it, he saw the clouds come from everywhere filling the heavens with darkness and him with dread.
The rain came next, plastering his clothes to him with each chilling drop.
Jonathan looked in every direction, seeking any sign of where his family had gone and finding only more misery. The trees around him, only moments ago in full bloom were barren and twisted imitations.
“Enough.” He finally choked the word out.
“Enough! You want so much from me, you make your goddamned demands, but what do I get in return?”
You have unfinished business. When you have made your amends and handled the affairs you have accepted, you will be granted your boon. He knew the voice from other nightmares, an amalgam of a hundred or more voices speaking in perfect harmony.
“I haven’t asked you for anything yet!”
You will.
“Fine! You want to grant me a boon, you give me back my family you bastard!”
There was no answer. He’d expected none.
The rains came down harder and when he looked at the lake, the waters danced in response to the droplets that struck the surface.
***
John woke up in the darkness of the room, remembered the details of the dream and felt rage sweep through him. He sat up slowly and heard Amelia’s soft breathing as she dreamed whatever miseries the world threw at her unconscious mind. He knew her sleep was troubled as surely as he knew that she could feel the emotions of everyone around her. Of course her sleep was restless, as restless as the minds that filled the buildings around them.
He could have wakened her, could have offered her an escape, but decided against it. Petty or not, a great deal of his anger was focused on her.
He knew the second she woke up. Amelia lay as still as before, but her breathing changed and he could feel her eyes on him.
“You hate me, don’t you?” Damn her and her meek voice, her almost childlike innocence.
She is a child, you moron. She’d been living in a sheltered world and you’re the one that put her there. Call it payback for all you did to her.
“No,” he sighed. “No I don’t hate you, but I’m still pissed off at you.” She drew in a breath and he interrupted before she could speak. “Don’t apologize again, either. That just makes it worse.”
“I’ll go away if you’d like.”
“What I’d like and what I’ll get aren’t the same thing anymore.”
“I can’t make it right, Jonathan. I wish I could.”
“Don’t try playing innocent with me, Amelia. I know you too well. You knew what you were doing and you knew what would happen.”
She flinched at the tone in his voice. He’d never once touched her in anger, seldom touched her at all, but she flinched as if he were an abusive father. In certain ways, he supposed he was, but only when she deserved it. He never lashed out at her with his fists. He lashed out with the tone in his voice.
Regret ran through him and almost immediately it turned into anger. He didn’t want to feel guilt for anything when it came to Amelia, but he almost always did.
“I tried, Jonathan!” Her voice was desperate in the darkness. “I’ve tried so hard and it still keeps slipping out of me, and I can’t stop it without you!”
He leaned back against the wall, sitting cross-legged at the center of the bed, and looked at the darkness where he knew she was. “I should leave you like this. I’ve trained you, I’ve helped you, I’ve even forgiven you for all of the other shit you tried to pull on me, and I think I’d enjoy knowing you were as miserable as I am.”
Amelia didn’t respond, but he heard the sniffles when they started and knew if he bothered to turn on the light that he’d see her sitting in almost the same position he was, crying as quietly as she could. That was probably near the top of her list of personal fears, being left in the shape she was in. In her case beauty was a curse and he knew he was the only cure.
She knew it, too. Worse still, he could do it; he could walk away and leave her on her own and she’d never say a word about it.
Jonathan Crowley rose from the bed and settled himself on the carpeted floor in front of her rollaway.
“Get down here.” His words were spoken softly, but held a hint of the disgust he felt for himself. He hated being compassionate, it only led to trouble every damned time.
She sat in front of him on the ground, her eyes searching his face for some hint of what he was feeling, as if she didn’t already know.
He held his hands out in front of her, inches away from her face and her heart. He spread his awareness, looking past the physical and into the places where magic could be easily seen. The power radiated from her like the sun at high noon, and he squinted against its intensity.
Yes, she needed him. He was surprised that she’d lasted through the years since he’d disappeared. Thinking of what she’d probably gone through left him with one more reason to feel like a lowlife for yelling at her.
The incantation was short, but draining. When he was finished, the power coming from Amelia had faded down to the level of a sunset on a stormy day. She was still beautiful, but she was no longer stunning. Most men would notice her, but few if any would be distracted by her mere presence.
“Thank you, Jonathan.”
“Shut up and go back to sleep, Amelia.”
Crowley crawled back into his bed and closed his eyes, hating himself for his mercy.
***
Carl Branaugh started his day with coffee and a large stack of pancakes, same as he did before going on any shift. The Turnstile Diner had the best prices and the food was plentiful. With the hours he worked he never knew when he’d get around to lunch and dinner, so he made sure breakfast was significant.
It was back out to the asylum today to get some work done on the open cases, but first he’d look over a few files. There still wasn’t a na
me for the John Doe found in the pipes. He doubted there ever would be. There were three mutilations he still had to look into, and then there was all of the madness he’d dealt with the day before: ghosts and stranger shit that he didn’t want to deal with.
Unfortunately, Captain Marcelli didn’t look at it in the same light. As far as the captain was concerned, the cases had to be solved by somebody and Carl was the only detective within thirty miles of Cherry Hill. Three B and Es and two muggings would be handled by uniforms in the meantime. Pity the damned town didn’t have more interesting crimes. If it did, he could have worked his way out of the Cherry Hill stuff.
When breakfast was done, he gathered the files he’d already picked up from his desk at the office and headed for the nuthatch. Cherry Hill Road was a long stretch of two lanes that ran from town to the asylum. There were a total of seven bridges along the route and he’d driven it enough times to know the details of the route clearly. Most of the area was swampy and unpleasant, but not too hazardous as long as the rain wasn’t coming down.
He’d made it past the sixth bridge when he felt that something was wrong. Whatever it was, he couldn’t put his finger on it at first, and it was something strong enough to make him stop his car and climb out to see if he could figure it out. The sun was up, the sky was only partially cloudy and the air was pleasantly cool and fresh, but there was something…
“Shit.” The hairs on his neck lifted and his skin tried to slither.
There were seven bridges, all of them old, familiar to him. All of them made of concrete and steel. So why was the one just down the road from him now covered and made of wood?
He looked back down the winding road to the previous bridge and saw that it, too, had changed. Wood and shingles and a fresh layer of paint, but not fresh enough that it could have been put up in the ten hours since he’d last been at the asylum.
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