by Lila Shaw
Evernight Publishing
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2013 Lila Shaw
ISBN: 978-1-77130-234-0
Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs
Editor: JS Cook
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To all the real men who make BOBs totally unnecessary.
SUCCUBUS STEAM
The Succubus Chronicles
Lila Shaw
Copyright © 2013
Sexual energy comes in more than one form, and many have attempted the manufacture of a counterfeit source. If an intrepid succubus were to become a free agent, with none to demand tribute from her, she might possibly craft a man-like substitute. I have never heard of nor would I personally make such choice, for I am the first succubus and have a duty to my kind. However, I have lived long enough to know that the moment anyone says something is impossible, someone will eventually prove him wrong.
—Miss Lilith’s Guide to the Care and Keeping of a Succubus
Chapter One
“Damnation!”
Why is a suitable spanner never handy when I need one? It’s my own fault I suppose. Perhaps if I put my tools away after using them, I wouldn’t so often find myself in a rage of futility. However, my computations did show that time spent putting tools away exceeded the periodic time spent hunting.
I search the vicinity of my creation and find what I seek right where I left it, protruding from the socket that will later house the aural reception and processing unit, the very heart and soul of my months of labor.
“Let’s see how this latest tweak to your settings has you functioning, my dear.” I speak to it, him, but realize from his silence that I’ve forgotten to re-engage the perpetual self-winding gears.
With a buzz then a tiny jolt, it stirs. Adam. My creation. His eyes flutter open. The pupils dilate and block out the red light glowing behind the lenses. He senses me. “Good morning, Violet,” he says, rising to a sitting position. Legs dangling off the edge of the table, he peruses me. “I adore you in lavender.”
I glance down at my attire and am greeted with shades of pink and ivory. Adam’s color rods will need further tweaking, but I’m much closer. He used to see only shades of grey, black and white.
“Good morning, Adam. Did you sleep well?”
He cocks his head. He should be able to answer my question, though he has no concept of sleep. The response I trained him to give is drawn from one of three possibilities: “I did, thank you”, “Passably”, and—
“Alas, it was a challenge.” The third option.
I provide my usual response of, “I’m very sorry to hear that, Adam. I hope we will be able to set you to rights soon.”
“I look forward to it.” His voice gives me a momentary shudder. I must confess to having stolen the timbre and cadence from a certain male of my acquaintance. Though I am estranged from the man, I do still love the voice, so much that I gifted it to Adam.
Our usual morning volley of conversation concluded, Adam sits quietly and stares blankly into the distance. I suppose I should teach him a few fidgets or tics if only to make him seem more human, though he is an amazing automaton. To say I am proud of my work is a gross understatement. Coming into the knowledge and experience to build a machine such as Adam hasn’t always been easy.
“Adam, let’s try a few diagnostics today, shall we?”
“As you wish.”
“Raise your right leg, please.”
Adam executes my command flawlessly.
“Very good, Adam. Lower your right leg and raise your left leg.”
Again he complies. I take him through a well-established routine and check a few new motions I’ve added. He performs all exactly as I expect, and my expectations are very high. They have to be. Given my own nature, I require an exquisite amount of finesse and complete discretion. If all goes well, Adam will be my lover.
The double-edged sword of being the product of a succubus mother and a mortal father is that while I am not a predator and can be satisfied, for a time, through self-administered sexual release, Society does not look kindly upon a wanton. A succubus half-breed, such as myself, who hobnobs with the highest echelons of London society, is bride in a difficult marriage of extremes. Any act that wants of propriety, and I would find myself ushered out on the first coach to the wilds of Cornwall. My half-sisters dwell there to feed upon the thick abundance of sailors passing through her ports. Yet, because my lifespan is finite, I do prefer the company of mortals to those who prey upon them, even if I must periodically engage in discreet acts of congress. My full-blooded succubus sisters are preternatural, but they are parasitic to mortals as are their loathsome incubus fathers and cousins.
If I could but keep a man enslaved in secret within the bowels of my home, I might achieve the same end. But I abhor slavery of any kind. An automaton, however, offers the unlimited, on-demand joys of the male sex, with the added benefit of complete discretion. He will be silent unless I permit him to speak, still unless I power his inner workings, and he will never speak cruelly or in a condescending manner to me.
My superb design has yielded iron and aluminum workings, covered by a material so identical to human flesh, it fools even my own discerning senses of sight, smell, taste and touch.
My Adam is nearly complete. I’ve stitched hair onto his head, my own as chance would have it, and onto his sex, his chest and arms. I even added a dash to his upper lip because I do adore kissing a mustachioed man, perhaps because it adds an air of danger without invoking true peril.
Adam’s limbs are long and powerful, sculpted in the manner of Michelangelo’s David. His face is rugged yet symmetrical, with sculpted cheekbones and jawline, but with full, fleshy lips and a dangerously provocative cleft in his chin.
I’ve reserved my best efforts in the design and function of his manhood. After all, that is his primary purpose: to sate my appetite upon demand, one that is both carnal and life sustaining. His cock is nearly the thickness of my wrist and the length of my foot and is fixed in a permanent state of readiness. He wears no clothing but the smile I affixed upon his handsome visage. He need not suffer any embarrassment over his nude and aroused state. He has nowhere to go and is happy–as much as an automaton can be– to forever remain at his station in my laboratory with its adjoining bedchamber.
Soon, I will be able to shed the yoke of this cloaked life, once Adam is ready.
My butler, Barrick, alerts me by way of a volley of signals that cascade into my laboratory far below street level. The end result is a reproduction of Barrick’s voice down to the last inflection in tone that alerts me to the arrival of my guests, thirty minutes prior to what had been arranged.
I do not enjoy the company of my half-sisters, yet they insist on making periodic visits to my London home. They are coarse and unpredictable and threaten my already precarious social standing.
“Why are they always early when I wish they were late and late when I wish they were early!” I proclaim.
“I do not know, Violet. Shall we discuss it further?” Adam says.
“That was a rhetorical question, Adam. There is no logical answer other than capriciousness.”
“Capriciousness,” he says, swirling the word around in his mouth. He tilts his head and makes eye contact. “Explain cap
riciousness.”
“Capriciousness means unpredictable, subject to whims, or in my sisters’ cases, behavior intended solely to disconcert.” I smile at his inquisitiveness and ability to increase his intelligence. I had intended a certain amount of growth in his mental faculties, but his enthusiastic expansion of such has surpassed even my dreams.
I disengage Adam’s gears with a sigh and place a kiss of hope upon his cheek.
The trip to my parlor I make at a leisurely pace. My sisters must be taught that I do not make haste to reward their ill-time arrival. Once settled, I give a nod to Barrick to admit my guests.
“Violet!” Morganna sweeps into my parlor, unfurling her scarf and unbuttoning her coat as she covers the distance between us.
“Thank you, Barrick,” I say. Morganna’s confidence that Barrick will catch and tend to her discarded items mortifies me. Barrick has always been a noble and faithful servant and does not deserve such haughty presumptiveness. “Would you bring us some tea, please?”
“Certainly, my lady and perhaps some of Cook’s tea cakes as well.” Barrick gives a shallow bow but not before I catch the lift of his sardonic brows.
Morganna spins as if she’s only now realizing a male is in the room. Unusual for her. Her lips purse and her eyes make a lazy perusal of Barrick’s retreating backside. “Your butler is a male masterpiece. You always engage and somehow manage to retain the most pleasing servants. Wherever do you find them?”
I embrace her and place a kiss upon each cheek. “Do you really care?”
Morganna rolls her eyes and drops into a brocade chair near the window. “How are you, my dear?”
I take the chair opposite and arrange my skirts to stall whilst I decide upon the best answer. “Well. I am well.” Short and simple rarely works but is always worth a try.
“Lyle says you’ve been hiding out of late, keeping your appearances in Society to the barest minimum. Why so, dear sister?”
And this is the main reason I do not like my sisters to visit. They attract unsavory types of creatures, in Morganna’s case, an incubus named Lyle. I am usually able to avoid him, but when my sisters visit, I cannot prevent him from calling upon them, nor they from inviting him.
“I’ve been quite busy tending to Great Uncle Malcolm’s affairs. Where is Demelza, by the way? She did accompany you did she not?”
“She did. She is at Lyle’s. I suspect they are … entertaining one another.” Morganna presses a demure hand to her mouth, mocking the scandal that would ensue if the ‘ton knew the type of entertaining my sisters preferred.
I stroll to my rolltop desk—eager to change the subject and hasten Morganna’s departure—and withdraw an envelope. “Here is what you came for.”
A few strides and Morganna is before me, her hand extended. “How much?”
“Five hundred thousand each for you and Demelza,” I say, referring to the size of her share of our great uncle’s liquid assets. As per his will, my two half-sisters are to receive forty percent each of his liquid assets to my twenty, but I receive all his other assets.
“Pity the old codger short-changed you, Violet. Considering you were always his favorite, I find that rather odd. This house cannot possibly be worth the difference in our inheritances.” She tuts and tucks the money into the bodice of her gown.
I tut as well for neither Morganna nor Demelza has ever understood my regard for our great uncle. To my great relief, they are also ignorant of his laboratory. That alone is worth the difference and more in our cash inheritances.
The discovery that my great uncle was not only an inventor, but also a master of automatons, ranked among the happiest moments of my life. He did at first question why one of my fair sex should find clockwork and steam-powered beings so fascinating. As I demonstrated my keen interest, not only in observing him in action, but in eventually surpassing his skill, he declared me his favorite niece. His death brought both crushing grief and great riches that included his well-appointed laboratory in the heart of London. That a comfortable abode lay above it in the quaint district of Mayfair has been an added bonus.
“Lyle sends his best, by the way,” she says, flashing a knowing grin bracketed by a pair of disarming dimples.
“I do not see why you two court that blackguard.”
“Ah, sister, you have obviously not been the beneficiary of his considerable talents in the boudoir.” She paces to the window and gazes out into the darkness cloaking the street. “You intrigue him, you know, by refusing to receive him. What man, mortal or otherwise, can resist a chase? You have only to let him catch you if you truly wish to be rid of him.”
I doubt that. “No, thank you. I don’t have time to play his games anyway.”
Morganna spins back around. “Pish. You two used to be friendly. So sad you had a falling out.” She retakes her chair. “Whatever caused it, tis a pity, because Lyle is quite,” she draws in a deep breath, “extraordinary!”
I cannot deny the kernel of truth in her words. Lyle is extraordinary—tall and handsome as the devil’s best with a velvet tongue capable of talking his way in between a nun’s thighs. Unknown to my sisters, Lyle and I have a mutual history. I must confess to having experienced a momentary lapse in judgment that acquainted me with another of his tongue’s talents. It also acquainted me with the hazardous nature of his particular brand of supernatural attention. The problem with having carnal relations with an incubus is he siphons off whatever sustenance I gain, rendering our coupling both fruitless and risky if he takes more than he gives. In Lyle’s case, our one encounter left me in an energy deficit for which I’ve never fully forgiven him.
“You forget I am not like you and Demelza. I do not have your… stamina.”
A soft knock on the door heralds Barrick’s return with a tea service and some of Cook’s finest cakes. He artfully arranges the tray and cups, rises and announces, “Miss Demelza and Mr. Lyle have just arrived. Shall I usher them in, Mistress?”
Morganna claps her hands. “Oh, they made it after all! Yes, yes, Barrick, please do have them join us.”
My mouth opens to protest but before I can do so, Demelza sweeps in. “Violet! My darling little sister.” She pulls me into an embrace and buries her nose in my hair. When she pulls back, her nose is wrinkled in disgust. “Phew! What have you been into?” She takes another sniff. “You smell of grease and,” another sniff, “coal.”
“Always a joy to see you, too, sister,” I say, with a hard edge to my voice.
A fit of laughter escapes her. She draws Lyle over, still laughing. “Lyle. She hasn’t changed a bit as you can tell.”
Lyle cocks his head to one side and studies me, raking his gaze from hips to hair to bosom, where he lingers inappropriately before meeting my eyes. “She’s still as beautiful as ever.” That voice, Adam’s voice, is like a fine brandy on a cold winter’s night—mellow, seductive, but with a slight bite. “Violet.” He takes my hand and presses a scorching kiss upon my knuckles. A frisson of lust courses from that tiniest point of contact straight to my sex. My knees buckle slightly from the potency of his effect on me.
Demelza slaps him on the shoulder with the glove she’s peeled off. “No, silly goose, not her appearance, her tart tongue.”
Lyle says nothing but smiles slyly at me. Mother Lilith, please help me!
I pull my hand back and point to the available seating for my late arrivals, indicating for Lyle to take the one farthest from me, not that it’s a safe enough distance to spare my sanity.
“What have you been up to lately, Violet?” Lyle purrs, pouring himself some tea. He really has no manners at all, and it’s not because he doesn’t know better. I’m convinced he does it solely to unnerve me.
“A bit of scientific observation, a few field trips, the usual.” My nefarious plan is to bore him into dropping this particular line of inquiry. “The London museum currently has the most delightful exhibit of flying ships, all steam-powered and beautifully rendered in brass and brightly hued canva
s. The propellers alone are works of art—brilliant amalgamations of science and artistry. It’s quite fascinating. I’m hoping to stowaway on one someday soon.” I can’t help but titter at my confession because it’s true.
Far from being bored like my sisters, however, Lyle perks up at my mention of flying ships. “Have you read about The Icarus? She is taking passengers as far north as Scotland, west to Ireland and east to Paris.”
“The Icarus? No, I haven’t.”
“Sister, please do not get him started on The Icarus or you’ll never shut him up,” Demelza pleads, her mouth full of cake.
Lyle grins, his teeth on display like a strand of perfectly matched pearls. “Yes. If one has sufficient disposable income, passage can easily be secured. I myself have enjoyed her ride at least twice. Once is never enough. Sailing through the clouds high above the rabble of humanity is a thrill few other experiences can surpass.” I’m shocked to note that despite his lascivious nature, Lyle is genuinely keen on something other than sex for a change. “Of course, in a few short weeks, I shall have my very own flying machine. You are more than welcome to fly with me, my dear. I can lift your spirits in more ways than one!” And there it is, back again. Infuriating man!
We drink our tea and make idle chitchat, during the whole of which my mind wanders to Adam. I cannot help it with his aural sire sitting directly across from me. When Morganna announces she is sufficiently stuffed and bored (and her money safely stowed) she stands to leave. Demelza follows suit. Lyle does not.
“Charming hostess as always, Violet, but I must be getting on.” Morganna reaches for and pulls the cord that launches a series of cogs and wheels. She smiles as the tones of a bell can be heard in a far away part of the house. “Uncle Malcolm always had the most delicious inventions.”
Within seconds, Barrick enters. I ask him to fetch their coats and rouse their carriage drivers so my visitors can, at last, take their leave.
Finally, Lyle stands, after my sisters are securely wrapped in their coats. He strolls to my side and gently presses his hand against the small of my back. The contact feels far too intimate, far too suggestive of other pleasures that tempt, oh yes they tempt, with a ferocity only an incubus can elicit. I clench my fists to hold my physical reaction in check.
