by Alia Bess
“What did you just do?” she cried unnecessarily.
“He raped you,” her demon answered tonelessly.
“No he didn’t!” Victoria gasped. “He was masturbating!” She pointed at the bloody Roman, “And I only sucked the big German! Besides, you brought me here. I thought you wanted me to do that!” Her eyes were wild. This didn’t feel like a sex game anymore.
“He raped you,” her demon insisted. “In the bathhouse.” The demon’s eyes were glowing now. “I couldn’t stop him then, Maggs.” He looked at her and his voice broke. “Because I was in chains.”
Chapter Seven
Victoria sat up. She was in her bed upstairs in the lake house. Morning sun came through her opened shades and flooded the room with a cheerful golden light that did not cheer her in the least.
She put a hand to her throat. I might have dreamed that whole thing. She looked down at herself. She was wearing her flowered nightgown, the one with the ribbons that looked like rosebuds. She could not remember putting this one on.
She frowned and got up. Downstairs the coffee tasted flat and the chirping birds annoyed her. She closed the kitchen blinds against the glorious spring day outside.
She sat on her hard kitchen chair and slurped her bad coffee. She could have dreamed the whole thing. Maybe. Yes. That was it.
She relaxed and took another drag on the coffee. It started to taste a little better. She smiled and set the mug down so she could reach for the blinds. The little birds outside the window reminded her with their tiny peeps that she needed to fill the feeder again. The golden sunlight shot a beam to her kitchen table. She smiled. It is going to be a nice day, she told herself. She heard a soft metallic clink and looked down at her coffee mug.
A beautiful beaded collar in lapis and silver and coral lay in the center of the table. The sunlight made the shining silver sparkle, and the rich blues and reds of the beads glowed their rich colors. She narrowed her eyes. She was not afraid to touch it.
She took another sip of coffee and stared at it. She looked around the kitchen, expecting the demon to appear next. She wondered if he drank coffee and glanced at the steaming pot on the counter to make sure there was enough for two.
Nothing else appeared. No one else either. The next sip of coffee was stone cold. She looked at the kitchen clock over the sink. An hour had passed. She blinked. The collar necklace was still there. I’m not afraid. She touched it. It was cool and smooth. She lifted it and looked at it carefully. It looked brand-new, but there were tool marks on the silver beads and on the clasp. A modern piece would have no marks and a cheap one would have visible seams on the metal. She let the beads slide over her fingers. Each bead had been hand carved. Each was unique. Modern beads were turned by machines. She set it down again. Even if it were not centuries old, its beauty and quality would make it worth thousands.
Victoria finished her cold coffee and set the cup down with a firm thud. This was the collar she wore last night at the orgy. She looked down at the rosebuds on her nightgown. Explanations would have to come later. She took a deep breath and got up to rinse her cup. He may show up any minute.
But he did not. Days went by. Her nights were normal nights. The sun went down. It grew dark and the stars came out. She waited sometimes until after midnight but he did not appear. She tried going to bed early, as the sunset glowed orange on her walls. Still, he did not appear. In any form. She started to miss him.
She filled the bird feeder and sat outside in her lawn chair. Her sister was moving in next weekend. She had a few days left of peace and quiet. A few days to decide if she were crazy or not.
The beautiful collar was in her panty drawer. She sighed. She was not crazy. That was why he sent it. The little finches and sparrows hopped in her trees and bounced on the grass, picking up seeds that had dropped from the feeder. Their simple pleasure in sun and seed made her feel happy. She stretched out her legs and leaned back, taking a deep breath of the springtime air. He might be finished with her. Perhaps the murder of Cestius was all he wanted.
This didn’t make sense, though. He was a demon. He could have killed Cestius any time he wanted to. She remembered Michael Brand from Legal and her brief burst of happiness faded. No. That was not it. Any why kill Cestius anyway? He said it was because the Roman had raped her. She shook her head. She had no memory of a rape. Then she sat up quickly.
The demon had called her ‘Maggs’.
A creepy feeling prickled the back of her neck.
She remembered this feeling. It was just like high school, waking up and getting dressed, waiting for the bus and then realizing you had a test that morning and had never studied for it. She shuddered. It was that feeling that made her study every night when she was in college. She hated that feeling. She felt it now.
“Damn,” she said and all the little sparrows flew up and into the neighbor’s trees. “Where are you?” she called. She didn’t expect him to respond.
Her phone buzzed and she looked at it. Her sister, Sharon. She let it go to voicemail. “I wish I had your number,” she murmured to the demon. “I’d call you right now.”
She prepared the downstairs bedroom for Sharon and the library for the two boys. All the books had to be carried up the stairs and pushed into the bookcases she had moved to her bedroom. This was unpleasant. Books are heavy. After all, they are made from trees. Victoria grimaced on the landing and put a hand on the small of her back.
She looked down at the books in the box she carried. Mostly histories. I might be having a psychotic break, she comforted herself. I’ve read so much, surely these ideas are just running amok in my head.
Lonely people read. Victoria remembered her mother telling her that. She sighed and made the last of the stairs. She plunked the box on her bed and sat beside it. It had been a week since his last visit. He had been gone weeks before. She glanced at her window. Didn’t she want him to stay away? Isn’t that why she let Sharon in? Something felt different now.
She stood and lugged the box to the shelves, making sure the Roman history went to the left of the medieval history. She stopped. Why call her Maggs in Roman times? Why not Livia or Antonia? And what was his name? She put another book on the shelf. She liked Jack, the blacksmith. Maggie called him ‘Jack’ to tease him. His name was John, of course. He hated the French and Jack was just a variant of Jacques. How did I know that? Victoria rubbed her eyes. She set the book down and wandered into her shower and turned on the hot water. She took off her clothes and stood in it until the steam covered the glass and fogged the stall. Her hair slicked down her back and her face was hot with the water but she did not feel clean.
She soaped herself and rinsed, then did it again. And a third time.
“Maggie,” she heard him call her. She put her hand on the tap and stopped the water so she could listen.
“Yes?” she whispered. If it were him, he would hear her no matter how softly she spoke.
“Help me.”
She pushed the sliding door open hard and leaped naked from the shower into her bedroom. Empty. She dripped on her carpet as chill bumps raised on her arms. “Where are you?” she called. Then louder, “Who are you?”
The day before Sharon and the boys were scheduled to move in, Victoria drove to the older part of downtown and parked. She put all her change in the meter and walked down the old sidewalk and looked in the windows of the dilapidated storefronts. This section of the city was the vibrant shopping center when her parents were kids. Now the trash-strewn gutters and cracked pavement reminded her of apocalyptic movies from the seventies. Tucked away between all night theatres and abandoned shoe stores was a second-hand bookshop. She knew this from her college days when she had to track down an out-of-print volume to make her thesis more interesting than the twelve hundred other ones being submitted that semester.
She stopped in front of a dirty window. Empty. Too much time had passed already. The bookshop was no more. The door was open, though, like many of the abandoned sho
ps. There was nothing left to steal, and a locked door only encouraged vagrants to break windows. She pushed on the glass and stepped inside. No lights meant it was dim inside, but she could see a shaft of light at the other end that suggested the back door was open as well.
She heard a dull thump. “Hello?” she called out instinctively before cursing under her breath. She should turn around and try a library instead of calling to some crackhead or drunk sheltering inside.
“Yes?” The answering voice did not sound drugged or drunk.
“Sorry. I was looking for the bookstore that was here…” years ago, she finished to herself.
“No one reads books anymore.” An old man stepped into the half light. Victoria thought he looked like a drunk or a druggie, but his eyes were too bright. He wore a long white beard and the very top of his head was bald. Over his ears his white hair was long and touched his shoulders. He looked like da Vinci.
“I do.” She replied a little defensively.
“You are one of those,” he smiled. His teeth were still good, straight and white. Though they could be dentures.
Victoria smiled back, but she was aware it probably looked more like a grimace. “I am one of those. I came to look for a book, but it is too late.”
“Yes. I just packed up the last volume.” He smiled sadly again. “If you had come last week I could have helped you find that book.”
“Oh?” Victoria breathed a sigh of relief. Not a vagrant. A bookseller. Hard to tell the difference anymore.
“What were you looking for? I ask only out of curiosity. Everything can be found online, now. Why come downtown?”
Victoria agreed. “You can buy anything online, but you have to know what you are looking for. I was hoping to talk to the bookseller and get some answers. I am still not sure what I am trying to buy.”
The old man laughed. “Then step into my office,” he made an expansive gesture with his hands and pointed to the back door. She followed him through the dusty interior of the old bookshop. The marks where the shelves used to be were evident on the floor and the walls. The occasional scrap of paper and dust jacket littered the cracked linoleum. At the back door Victoria looked out at the service entrance and a small panel truck.
“You have heard of Parnassus On Wheels?” The old man asked.
She laughed. “Christopher Morley. Oh my God. And this is the modern version?” She took a step closer to the white truck as the old bookseller opened the rolling panel at the back. Inside were boxes, stacked nearly to the top of the truck, all neatly labeled. “Where are you taking them?” she asked.
“This is my truck. I suppose they will stay in there. The truck is useful as a storage facility and I don’t have to pack and unload over and over. I will travel to swap meets and book fairs.” He shrugged. “I always wanted to see America.”
She nodded. Right now that sounded like a good thing. She wished she could just get in a truck and leave. But no, her demon would find her anywhere and until she solved this problem she could never enjoy a vacation.
“I was looking for a book on the occult. On demons, actually.”
He looked interested. “Are you a writer of Young Adult sexual fantasies?”
She laughed. “No, do I look like one?”
“You do.” He smiled. “What kind of demons do you want? I have all kinds.” He took a stepstool out from the back of the truck and set it on the ground. He stepped on it then grabbed the handle on the rear and heaved himself into the back. He pointed to a box. “Babylonian ones are here,” he turned “and Enochian, Catholic, and Crowley’s are here.”
“Aleister Crowley?”
“Is there another?” he tilted his head at her.
She blushed. “No. I suppose not.”
“What do you need?”
“Answers.”
“Ask away.” He was clearly enjoying the attention.
Victoria remembered what her mother had said about lonely people and books. She responded, “I need to know about…” she tried to think of the right word, “hauntings.”
The old man frowned. “Hauntings are ghosts, not demons.”
“Right. Right.” She had used the wrong word. “Possessions?”
He stared at her. “I don’t think that is right either.”
“Visitations?” She was desperate.
“Maybe.” He eyed her with more seriousness now and moved to another box and pulled it down from the stack. He opened it up and took out a leather volume. He turned to look at her. He shook his head and put the book back and reached for another. “This one, I think.”
Victoria pressed herself up against the bumper of the truck and reached for the book he handed to her. The Nature of the Ethereal Realms. “Yes!” she cried. “This is it! How much is it?”
The old man chuckled as he closed the box. “It’s a loaner. Bring it back when you are done.”
Victoria looked up from the back cover where she had been reading about the author. “Bring it back? How can I bring it back?”
The bookseller handed her a business card. “Just call me.”
He smiled as he climbed out and put his stepstool inside. “I’ll want it back,” he said as he pulled the rope that brought the panel door down and locked it inside the bumper with a thump.
“Thank you,” Victoria meant it. The old man got in the cab and started the diesel engine. He drove away while she read the table of contents. She scanned down to the chapter she wanted. Incubi and Succubi: When demons visit you in the night.
Chapter Eight
Victoria didn’t waste any time getting to her book. She had her feet on the divan, her full spectrum light over her shoulder and a huge mug of hot tea. All her blinds were closed…just in case…she glanced up every time she turned a page hoping to see him. She brought her eyes back to the pages disappointed every time.
Her demon was an incubus. She was certain of it. She had all the symptoms of incubus attention: Sex in the night with an ethereal being. However, the logical part of her mind scoffed. She was physical. She pinched her knee. It was still flesh. How could a spirit touch her in any way? Unless he was physical. Or she became ethereal too. She wondered about that. Now she would need another book. One on astral sex. Astral sex started to make more sense to her. The time-slipping was dreamlike. Anything can happen in a dream. Her demon’s marvelous shape-shifting while impossible in physical form was not even surprising in a dream landscape.
But no, near the end was a chapter on astral sex. She flipped the pages, thanking the old bookseller for finding the perfect book for her. Here it was, real astral sex between ethereal bodies when both were out of their physical ones. The author stated emphatically that the sensations were not only analogous to physical sex, but enhanced. She smiled. Definitely enhanced. She thought the skills of her demon had been responsible, but now she had an expert’s opinion. It was better sex. She wiggled her toes remembering a few of the more interesting couplings.
But the book did not mention the physical aftermath. She touched her neck. The collared necklace was still in her drawer. It was real. The demon had sent it to keep her from telling herself she was just imagining everything. Victoria planned to show it to Sharon when she arrived. If Sharon could see it, then it was real.
She flipped back to the chapter on incubi. The book had a few suggestions for ridding oneself of a troublesome ethereal sex partner, but now Victoria did not want hers to go away. The huge red demon with the curled ram’s horns could go away, but she missed the one that looked like a man. The Roman was handsome, and the blond one as well, but the blacksmith was the one she thought of at night alone in her bed.
They are all the same, she told herself. Just changing forms. But why? Was he bored with only one body? She looked down at hers. She was average. Not too fat, certainly not skinny. Not gorgeous, but she turned heads at the office. If she had the ability would she change her body to suit her mood? Like she could change clothing depending on the occasion? She thought it might b
e amusing for a while, but she would eventually settle into a favorite form, the way she always came home from work and slipped into her soft sweat pants and thick tee shirt before relaxing on the sofa with the television remote.
She liked being Maggie, legs spread apart for the blacksmith, receiving his long hard cock for the first time. That body was smaller than this one and not as well nourished. The slave girl had been prettier. She smiled to herself. This is like choosing a dress for the prom. But the demon had called her ‘Maggs’ even though he was in the Roman body and not the blacksmith’s.
She looked down at the pages of her book. Nowhere did the author explain how the nether realms worked, or how one might deliberately call an incubus. She frowned. The bookseller had books by Aleister Crowley. Crowley knew how to summon demons. She picked the business card from between the pages. The card read, Albert Magnus, Bookseller. She turned it over, there was no number on the front. Nothing on the back either.
She made a frustrated noise and tucked the card back into the book and closed it. She went to her computer and searched for Albert Magnus. She found quite a bit about a man with the same name who had been dead for centuries. She found nothing on an old man still living, or his bookstore.
She went to bed. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She called to her demon. Called him John and Jack. She called him Caesar and Spartacus for good measure. She went over every demon name the book had mentioned. Her mind always went back to the blacksmith. Jack. Her hand slipped slowly down to the cleft between her legs.
She leaned back against her pillows as her fingertip circled the sweet spot. She curled and uncurled her toes. She thought about his black hair, the dark stubble on his jaw and the strength of his hands as he clutched at her shoulders. She took a deep breath and her finger slid along the folds, now slick with the memory of Jack’s thick cock. She squirmed, imagining it sliding into her again. And again. Her clit sang with the memory and the attention of the finger. One leg twitched as the electric tingles of her orgasm moved along her inner thighs. She let her breath out slowly, enjoying the warm feeling that stayed with her long enough for her to fall asleep with a smile.
