Despite his fear and pain, Doug was once again moving inside her. Her hunger and his desire were one. Pain and pleasure burned him from within. He couldn’t stop. This time when he came, he cried out in agony. Nothing came out; it was dry and painful, and all his joy had turned to dust.
Suzanne stared down at him, her eyes black and malevolent. Laughing coldly, she began moving again, and he was unable stop her in spite of the pain. He writhed but could not unseat her. She milked him, again and again. Doug slipped in and out of consciousness. His ribs poked out, his once-generous belly was completely concave, and his arms were too thin and weak to push against her any longer.
He was going to die, and even through the anguish, or somewhere on the other side of anguish, he heard her let out a guttural snarl, and he almost laughed. What a way to go.
By now, Suzanne looked nothing like a human. Her hair stuck straight up from her head like tiny daggers; her arms were thick and muscular. Her massive thighs squeezed him incessantly.
A growl came from outside the tent, so loud that it rattled the tent frame.
The canvas shivered as if from a blast of wind. The ground shook, as something heavy fell outside. Branches snapped, and dust flew through the opening of the tent. A huge and bristling shadow loomed over them.
Suzanne’s relentless movement stopped; her face became recognizably human, full of surprise.
The tent tipped over and something large landed on both of them. Claws ripped through the fabric and into Suzanne’s back. She let out an inhuman, screeching cry. She rose, leaving Doug exposed and shrunken—all but one part. He was bigger than ever before and raw from the friction.
As she rose, Suzanne’s blood splattered down on him and dripped into his mouth. Life returned to his body, and he could finally move.
Her blood can save me, he realized. His hand closed on the tin where the forks and knifes were stored. He grabbed a utensil, hoping for a sharp knife; it was a fork, but he stabbed her with it anyway. It was enough. Her blood splattered onto his face, and he found his voice with a loud shout.
The growling grew as the tent was pushed one way, then another. Then Suzanne fled, the sounds of her passage fading in seconds. Doug rolled to one side, trying to raise himself, but he was still too weak. Something slashed through the tent, and there was a snuffling sound near his neck, and stiff bristles of fur poked into his skin. Suzanne’s blood was reviving him, but it was too late.
The bear’s jaws closed on his throat. As he lost consciousness, the bear’s claws tore into his most vulnerable part.
The biggest surprise to Doug was that he could still scream.
Chapter 2
Gasper Gerhard’s Journal
The Blood runs low.
I should let myself grow old. I should preserve it for the following generations. But like my father before me, I am profligate with my use. Like my father before me, I have given up hope.
Despite my vows, I treat my son as my father treated me, and for the same reasons. I cannot face what I am about to do. I read the journals of my forebears, trying to find strength in their words, to understand how we have managed, each generation in its own way, in fulfilling our oath.
Only our family has had the peculiar strength to do the Cutting. All others failed. And who can blame them?
My son is innocent. God forgive me for what I am about to do. I almost hope he will break away and end our Guardianship once and for all.
Czechoslovakia, 1944
“Never go into the cellar,” Heinrich’s father told him.
It was same every month: Heinrich lying in bed as his father’s heavy footsteps passed by his door, and moments later, the soft swish of a rug lifting, the jangle of keys in the lock, the creak of the cellar trapdoor opening, and the thud of it landing on the floor, then Heinrich tiptoeing out of his room, peering around the corner to catch his father staring into the depths of the cellar, his mouth a grim line, and sighing heavily before taking that first determined step into the darkness.
Heinrich hurriedly pressed his ear to the floor, listening to his father’s footsteps receding. Then it was quiet for a long time. Heinrich would fall asleep on the floor, only wakening when his father once again ascended the stairs, the old man’s tread steady but tired, as if he’d spent the day working the fields.
There was often a stain at his father’s crotch when he emerged, and it wasn’t until he was older that Heinrich guessed the cause. His father, a widower, was old when Heinrich was born, and even older now.
Heinrich wondered why his father never took another wife, why he had no brothers and sisters. He never spoke of Heinrich’s mother, who was a dim memory. There were whispers about his father being less than a man. Heinrich was constantly getting into fights to uphold his father’s honor.
Never go into the cellar.
He never said why, no matter how Heinrich pleaded, until finally, one day, his father caught him sleeping near the trapdoor. “If you insist on knowing,” his father said, “I will tell you when you are sixteen. It will be your problem then, and be damned for it.”
Never go into the cellar, son. Never.
By the time he was sixteen, Heinrich almost forgot the mystery of the cellar. War was overtaking Czechoslovakia, siphoning off all the young men of their mountain village. Only the small cottage of Gasper and Heinrich Gerhard escaped Nazi notice, as they possessed a good German name and German blood. The old man was obviously crippled, his legs bowed at a painful angle, as well as a little touched—anyone could see that just by looking into his fevered eyes. Heinrich was too young to be conscripted, and looked even younger.
“If anyone asks, say you are twelve years old,” Heinrich’s father commanded. Miraculously, they were untouched by the war, except for experiencing the same shortages that everyone else did.
The Nazi armies went east, and then it was just rumors of vast battles—entire cities destroyed—and the occasional rumble of fleets of planes passing overhead, until, inevitably, the Germans returned; but this time they were the ones in full retreat, with the Russians in relentless pursuit.
As thunder rumbled on the horizon, Gasper stared out the window day after day, drinking the local strong, homemade liquor, letting the fields go fallow. Heinrich contemplated disobeying the old man and running away to fight for the Germans. But most of all, he just wanted to get away.
Heinrich was beaten for the slightest infraction: not milking the cows early enough; not harvesting the potatoes when they were ready. Sometimes he was punished for reasons he didn’t even understand. But it never occurred to him to disobey his father in anything, much less about the cellar.
Never, ever go into the cellar.
So it was a revelation when, as the end of the world approached, Heinrich discovered sex. Most of the other boys had been taken away by the army or to work in the factories. It turned out that there were benefits to being the only male in school.
Lately, he’d noticed girls staring at him.
It was Marlene who lured him behind the schoolhouse, slid her hand down his trousers, and fondled him. A funny feeling rose in his groin. He spurted white, sticky liquid high in the air, catching the girl on the cheek. She wiped it away with a giggle and a funny smile.
Heinrich’s knees buckled at the release.
She grabbed his hand and lifted her dress. She was slick, and he almost pulled away, but she put her hand on his and guided him, and he stroked her until she let out little whimpers and shuddered a few times, her mouth open, her eyes closed. By then he was hard again, but she walked off without another word.
He sought out Marlene after school a few days later, but she was surrounded by her friends, who rudely turned their backs on him. Marlene did the same. He was too embarrassed to approach her again, but found it easy to mimic her motions, and it was almost as good. Too good. He repeated the experience whenever he found a few moments alone between school and chores.
One day his father, while building a fence, smashed hi
s hand. The tops of two fingers were crushed. The bandages were stiff with blood. That same day, he caught Heinrich playing with himself, and he flew into a rage. He gave Heinrich the worst beating he’d ever had.
“Why?” Heinrich cried out in the middle of it.
“You must never give in to temptation,” his father admonished. He sounded worried, not angry. “Someday you will have a son, just one, and then you will never again think these thoughts, do you understand?”
“No,” Heinrich said. “I don’t understand anything!”
Gasper raised his fist to deliver another blow; this time Heinrich didn’t flinch. He raised his own fist in response. He wasn’t going to let the old man hit him anymore. He would block the drunken blow, perhaps even—and his heart beat rapidly as he considered it—hit back.
His father saw it in Heinrich’s eyes. He lowered his arm with a sigh.
“It is time,” he said sadly. “I’d hoped to keep you innocent, a boy a little longer.” He strode to the center of the room and lifted the heavy carpet. He pulled a key from his pants. The lock was recessed into a groove. He fumbled to open it with his mangled fingers, and finally the lock clicked open.
Heinrich heart raced even more. The cellar, at last!
Gasper descended the broad stone steps without looking back. After a moment of hesitation, Heinrich followed.
The basement wasn’t built of brick walls like their neighbors’ basements, but dug out of the living rock, the black cavern going on forever in the darkness, far beyond where lantern light could penetrate. The floor was worn smooth, as if a million footsteps had passed that way.
“The Russians approach,” his father intoned. “Your only chance will be to hide from them. With any luck, the trapdoor will fool them.”
“What about you, Father?”
“Me?” Gasper stopped in the middle of the corridor as if he hadn’t thought of it. He shrugged as if it was of no importance. “I have been lax in my duties, son. You must learn in a few days what it took years for my father to teach me. But you’re a smart boy…I’ve always thought so.”
Down they went into the darkness, a much longer flight of stairs, with ruts worn deep in the rock. They passed through empty chambers, each one bigger than the room before. The rough ceilings were black with soot, as if from the long use of torches.
As they went deeper, Heinrich felt a stirring down in his privates. It was as if Marlene was taking hold of him and caressing him, but stronger. Stronger even than that first time he had stroked himself and climaxed and thought he was going to die. This was all of that and more.
He let out an involuntary moan, and his father looked at him sharply. Heinrich flushed and looked away.
They came to a place where a rockfall had blocked the tunnel—long ago, judging from the depth of the dust between the boulders. There was a chamber to one side that was full of old books. Gasper turned into a larger room on the other side.
There was a single long, battered table in the center of the room, and the walls were lined with shelves. There was a row of knives laid out, from large to small, along with a number of cups and goblets of different sizes. Deep grooves were slashed into the wooden surface. Red grooves.
Most of the shelves were empty, but one held a row of bottles. Heinrich recognized the liquor bottles his father guzzled from. But these were filled with a thick red liquid and sealed with wax. At the end of the row were several stone jars looking as if they had been carved out of the surrounding rock, with waxed cloth around the lids.
By now, Heinrich’s erection was impossible to hide. He was embarrassed. The heat of shame and desire burned through his body, and tears came to his eyes. He couldn’t help but check his father’s crotch, which was strangely flat.
“I transferred most of the Blood to these newer bottles,” Gasper said. “I’ve always hated the taste, so I mixed it with honey. This Blood should last forever without becoming bitter. Certainly, it has lasted thousands and thousands of years.”
He took down one of the stone jars, his arms sagging under the weight, nearly dropping it. He lunged toward the table and barely made it; the container landed on the scarred wooden table with a thud. He broke the wax seal and sniffed the contents, nodding in satisfaction.
“I believe Blood and honey, properly taken care of, will never decay.”
“Blood?” Heinrich finally blurted out.
“The Blood of the Succubus.”
“Succubus?” The word didn’t mean anything. He’d never heard it before.
“Demon, fallen angel, goddess…no one knows.”
Heinrich blinked but did not speak. You believe this, Father? His friends and teachers had all told him his father was crazy, but he’d defended the old man. After all, he thought, Gasper Gerhard had a secret that none of them knew about. Someday it would all be explained by what was in the cellar.
It turned out they were right all along. Gasper was crazy.
“We lost our way, I think,” Gasper went on, not noticing the look of disbelief on his son’s face. “Our ancestors did things they shouldn’t have, and God has rained down his retribution.” The old man swayed on his feet, as if even the thought of it was too much.
“All you all right, Father?”
Gasper suddenly straightened up. He was taller, his legs unbowed. “How old do you think I am, son?” he asked.
Heinrich had often wondered. “They say Mother was younger than you when I was born…” he ventured.
His father remained silent.
“Sixty?”
Gasper Gerhard laughed. “So old?” He unbuttoned his shirt, dropping it to the stone floor, revealing a sculpted chest that belonged to a much younger man. He wiped his face on the grimy fabric of his shirt, and a youthful countenance stared back at Heinrich.
“How…?” Heinrich wondered aloud.
Gasper sighed. “I am old, Heinrich. Older than you can imagine.”
Old?
His father removed his trousers, and his legs were straight and strong. In a moment, Gasper stood naked in the flickering torchlight. But something was wrong. At first, Heinrich was unwilling to look there. But finally, it was impossible to avoid.
Between his father’s legs, there was nothing. Just blank flesh, and a small hole with a metal tube running from it. It wasn’t like a man, but it wasn’t like Marlene either. It was alien, unnatural.
He recoiled, barely conscious of moving toward the door. His father’s voice stopped him. Not because it was angry, but because it was the opposite—a soft entreaty.
“Son…please let me explain.”
Heinrich turned reluctantly and watched as Gasper lifted a stone bottle and drank deeply from it. He set it down, his eyes shining, smiling a little. Slowly, he began unraveling the bloody bandage over his fingers
“Come here and look at this, Heinrich,” his father said. Reluctantly, Heinrich peered over his father’s shoulder. He let out a gasp. The fingers were whole.
Gasper flexed his hand, smiling in satisfaction before turning to meet Heinrich’s gaze. That’s not all.” He pointed down to his groin. There, dangling between his legs, were the parts of his body that had been missing.
“I wanted you to see this, so you’d believe,” Gasper said. “But, sadly, I can be like this but for a short time each month, and then…”
He grabbed a thin, sharp knife off the table, reached down, and pulled his cock and balls together. He positioned the stained blade against his skin. Sweat stood out on his brow, and his teeth were bared as he hesitated.
“You’d think it would be easy after all this time,” Gasper said. “But it only gets harder.” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, once, twice: then, with a sudden jerking movement, he sliced away the new flesh.
He gave a groan, which grew into a bellow. Blood running down his legs, he stuck a finger into the open jar, and dabbed it on the gaping wound. He screamed again and fell to his knees, then toppled to the floor and curled up.
Heinr
ich watched in horror, uncertain what to do. But slowly, the color returned to his father’s skin. Within a few minutes, Gasper rose, completely healed. But where his genitals had been was again smooth flesh, a shadow in the firelight. Blood no longer trickled down his legs.
“I’ve never gotten used to it,” Gasper said, breathing hard and wiping sweat from his brow as he rose to his feet, trembling. “The Blood helps the pain, but it doesn’t banish it completely. I hate that you will have to go through that.”
Heinrich let the words penetrate, the matter-of-fact way his father had said them.
“No,” he said.
Gasper sighed. “I felt the same way. But in the end, I did it.”
“You can’t make me,” Heinrich said.
“No, I can’t,” his father said sadly. “But when the Succubae come for you, you’ll have no choice.”
“I won’t do it.”
“Then our line dies. Perhaps it is time. I don’t see what good the Guardians have done anyone. If it ends with you, so be it.”
Gasper moved from around the table, and Heinrich almost retreated. But the look on his father’s face was of concern, not anger. He stood in front of Heinrich with a grave expression. “I should have prepared you better, but I thought I had more time. I’m one hundred and eighty years old, son. My father before me lived almost three hundred years. It is said that others in our family lived longer even than that. All because of the Blood.” He reached over and lifted one of the bottles. He frowned. “A blessing, you might think. But it is a curse. It is because the Blood draws the Succubae that we must resort to the Cutting.”
He started putting his clothes back on. “When I was younger, I thought to break the cycle—to take these bottles and move someplace better. Maybe even see if I could find a way to destroy the Daughters of Lilith, as was prophesied.
“But I’m tired, son. I have no desire to continue on. I would have, given the chance. I would have trained you properly.”
Blood of the Succubus Page 2
