Incubi

“Is the clock two hours fast?” Craig asked in disbelief.

“Lately I’ve been turning into a Scotch-filled pumpkin at midnight.” Jack paid up, and when the girl was out of earshot, he whispered, “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Sure,” Craig said, “And I’m a virgin. Later.”

Jack took Faye up the short steps to the street. A used-book store across the street had a poster in the window: “Big Brother is watching you.” Lately, Jack felt watched everywhere he went, overlooked by his own doubts in himself. But tonight he was impressed; this was the first night in a while he’d left the Undercroft sober.

They drove in Faye’s car, a big red Chevy clunker that sounded like a Russian tank. He showed her into his row house and flicked on the lights. “I got three rooms downstairs. Two I rent to college kids, but they’re on break.” He showed her the spare. “Linen closet’s there, shower’s there. I’m upstairs if you need anything. And thanks for doing this for us.”

She kicked off her shoes. “Researching a ritual murder is a bit more interesting than running state unemployment fluctuations all day. I’m happy for the change.” But when she set her briefcase down, Jack noticed the wedding ring on her hand. How could he have missed that?

He tried not to act surprised. “Oh, and feel free to use the phone if you want to let your husband know where you are.”

She looked remiss, then laughed. “Oh, this?” she said, and held up her hand. “I’m not married, I just hate being pestered. I only wear it to keep the predators away.”

Jack gave a sad smile. The comment swept him, and his mood crashed. Honey, he thought, you’re gonna need a lot more than that to protect you from the predators in this town. Just ask Shanna Barrington.

“Good night,” he said.

Chapter 9

“Good night,” Khoronos said.

Veronica turned at her bedroom door. “See you in the morning.”

“Remember, Ms. Polk, you’re also here to create. Start giving your project some thought.”

They’d sat up for hours after dinner, discussing only artistic formalities. Their conversation was harmless, but this, she knew, was part of Khoronos’ tactic. He’d sown his psychological seeds at dinner; now was the time to let them grow. What did he want of her? Just a painting? Formalistic chitchat? The man, and his cryptic motives, distracted her. She had no idea what to paint.

“Dreams,” Khoronos remarked now. He was a shadow on the landing, faceless.

“What?” Veronica asked.

“Pleasant dreams.” He drifted back downstairs.

Dreams, she thought, and closed her door. Had he meant that she should use her dreams as her models? She’d painted many of her dreams in the past, but lately she’d stopped that. It seemed indulgent, selfish even. Love is in zah heart, Marzen had said. Creativity is rooted in the heart, Khoronos had added. Was it really an indulgence, then? Dreams were manifestations wholly of one’s self — in a sense, of the heart. Khoronos had even implied that all true art had its corms in the indulgence of the artist. Seeing, and the intricacies through which one saw, meant everything. Indulgence is vision, she thought, and giggled. She liked the sound of that.

She felt odd somehow. She turned off the lamp and let the moonlight seep in. The open French doors admitted a warm breeze. A moment later, she was taking off her clothes.

What am I doing? she asked herself. She stood nude before the doors. Anyone who might be out back could look up and see her. But the impression appealed to her: being viewed in secret. Indulgence is vision. I’m just being indulgent. She giggled again. Then she stepped out onto the veranda.

It felt good here — nude in the open air of night. She parted her legs and let the faint breeze touch her sex. That felt good too. Now she was symbologizing: the night was her lover, the moon its eyes, the breeze its hands which traced up and down her body. Yes, that’s what she wanted — a faceless lover, a stranger full of primordial desire. No formalities, no bogus social games or strained inhibitions. Her mind at once filled with raw images of sex. Rough but seeking hands ranging her skin, male weight atop her body, a mouth sucking her nipples till they hurt. She tried to put a face on the lover, but it didn’t work, as though a lack of identity was what made the fantasy truth. It didn’t need a face to be real. All it needed was a heart and a cock, a hot curved cock stuck in her up to the balls. Here was vision, alright — turning fantasy to an inner truth. Khoronos had helped her see herself more honestly. That’s how she felt just then: being fucked by a new sense of truth.

Next she was whining softly. When enough of her consciousness leaked out of the muse, she discovered her finger burrowed deep into her sex. What am I doing! she screamed in thought.

She slipped back into the bedroom, her sweat now a bath of embarrassment. What if someone had seen? I must be nuts!

When she clicked the French doors shut, she heard the bedroom door click open. A gasp froze in her chest, and she whirled.

The figure stood in the faint spilled light of the hall. It was a shadow, it was faceless. Veronica just stared. The figured closed the door and stepped forward.

“I vill go back aus if you like,” it said. It was Marzen, obviously. Closer now, she could see he was naked in the blocks of moonlight, though the room’s high shadow hid his face.

“Do you vahnt me to leave?”

Her stare locked forward, “No,” she said.

“Zen close your eyes.”

Veronica did so with no hesitation. This was the last appendage of any fantasy: reality. She wanted her eyes closed, to keep him faceless. She could sense each of his steps as precisely as if she were seeing him. She didn’t even flinch when he took her hand.

He brought her hand to his mouth and sucked the finger she’d been masturbating with.

“Get down now,” came the clipped whisper. “Down on zah floor.”

Veronica lay back on the carpet, spreading her legs. She pulled her knees back to her chin, showing it all to him without scruple. She felt wicked, lewd. I’m a slut, she thought, stifling a giggle. She parted her thighs as widely as she could, her feet in the air. Her sex felt like a pot of warm oil.

At once Marzen began to lick it. He licked slowly and hard. The sensation, as well as the crude immediacy of the act, jolted her. It felt delicious and wild. Then the tongue bore down over the opening and penetrated her. She wished it could be huge; she was being invaded in a trespass that made her want more, that begged for a deeper and more meticulous inquest. Her bare feet clenched in the air when he began to suck her clitoris.

This promptitude and complete lack of ceremony drove the pleasure deeper. There was no falseness here — just guileless lust. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Marzen the faceless phantom, the night called — her selfish fantasy enfleshed.

Oh, no, she thought. She was ready to go off already. Something began to crest, something huge in her that demanded exit. Her breasts ached, her sex and belly and inner thighs felt aflame. Just as her orgasm would break, Marzen stopped.

Her eyes slitted open. Marzen was kneeling between her legs; she could see the shadow of his erection in the moonlight. All she wanted in the world just then was for him to sink it all into her at once. Just get on top of me and fuck me, she was dying to say. Put your cock in me and fuck me right into the floor.

His big blue eyes roved from her sex to her face. “Love iss metamorphosiss,” he said.

What was he talking about? She reached forward to take hold of his penis, but he slapped her hands away. When she leaned up, his big open hand landed between her breasts and shoved her back down. It was not a gentle