Succubi

“Killing Joke?” she enthused. “That’s my favorite group.”

“Yeah? I saw ’em a few years ago when I was passing through D.C., before they broke up. I met ’em after the show—pretty cool bunch of guys.”

This astonished Melanie. “You met Killing Joke?”

“Yeah, backstage after the show. They autographed one of my CD covers. I’ll show it to you sometime.”

Melanie didn’t know if she believed this. To her, meeting Killing Joke was the equivalent of a priest meeting the Apostles.

“Only bad thing about Lockwood is not many people are into good music,” he said. “Come on, I’ll show you my music collection.”

Melanie was taken aback. Should she go? She’d like to. But where to exactly? “Where did Wendlyn and Rena go?”

Zack shrugged. “Who cares? We’ll run into them later. Come on.”

“Okay,” she said. Zack stubbed out the joint and pocketed it. Mom would love this, she thought, amused. He led her outside across some yards. More houses like Rena’s could be seen, small but picturesque. Melanie walked along, still high from the joint. Zack walked close behind her; he took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. God, she thought. The tight T shirt clung to a well developed back and shoulders. He was lean but well built. His biceps bulged.

“You’re probably bored here already,” he suggested.

“Why do you say that?”

“I mean, a girl like you—in Lockwood.”

“What do you mean, a girl like me?”

“You know. Classy. Educated.”

Melanie felt flattered. “I like Lockwood. It’s different.”

Zack seemed to snort a laugh. “You’re right about that.”

She wasn’t quite sure what he meant. Great ass too, she thought, taking a glance. “Did you really meet Killing Joke?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Oh, I believe you, I just—”

“You’ll see,” he said.

She found his aloofness as attractive as his body. His slow casual gait somehow propelled him so quickly that Melanie nearly had to jog to keep up. She didn’t feel comfortable cutting between houses—someone might call the police; at least, in the city they would. In one window she saw several women sitting around a table; they seemed huddled. Then she saw the same thing in a window of the next house. Another room showed a man sitting alone. He was staring at the wall.

“That was quick,” she said.

The shortcut brought them to the town square in minutes. The sun was going down just over the peaked roof of the church.

That’s where he was taking her: the church.

What a strange place to live, she thought.

“Down here.”

In back, steps descended into a brick walled enclosure in the ground, and a door. A hinge keened.

“Home, sweet home,” Zack remarked. Light from a bare bulb lit a long cinder block walled room. One end was cramped with a small bed, a dresser, and a chair. But then she saw what most of the room was devoted to: rows of shelves which contained hundreds, if not thousands, of records and compact discs.

“Jesus,” she whispered.

“It ain’t Buckingham Palace, but it’s all I need.”

“No, I meant your collection.”

“Yeah, and check out my gear.”

Arranged at the back of the basement was a stereo system the likes of which Melanie could never imagine. Steel racks on floor points housed dual amplifiers the size of televisions, a Nakamichi DAT recorder, an ARCAM CD player, and a line conditioner. Another stand on points supported a turntable with a linear air bearing tone arm. A subwoofer separated two giant electrostatic speakers the size of doors.

“It’s my pride and joy,” Zack said. “Gotta leave the equipment on all the time or else it sounds edgy. A high end turntable blows compact discs away; most people don’t realize that. Of course, most people don’t spend twenty five grand on a stereo system.”

“Twenty five thousand?” Melanie whispered.

“Sure. Music’s my only pleasure. I don’t cut corners.”

“They must pay you pretty well to clean up the church.”

Zack laughed faintly. “They don’t pay me nothing, ’cept they give me the room for free.”

“Then how can you afford…all this?”

“Odd jobs,” Zack replied. He walked over to one of the shelves and removed something. “Check this out.”

Melanie held it as if it were an icon. The CD version of Killing Joke’s Nighttime. It had been autographed by all members of the band, and inside was a Polaroid of Zack standing next to the lead singer.

“Believe me now?”

Melanie nodded. All she could say was: “Wow.”

“You can have it,” he said.

Melanie was shocked. “Oh, no, I could never take—”

“If you want it, take it.” Abruptly, he turned away.

Melanie’s sense of cordiality lapsed. She knew she shouldn’t take it, but she did anyway. An autographed Killing Joke, she thought, awed. She would frame it, hang it in her room. “Thanks,” she said.

She perused his record shelves. He had everything. Everything by Killing Joke, PIL, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Magazine, Monochrome Set, Section 25, Strange Boutique—the old stuff that actually predated Goth. Melanie couldn’t believe the coincidence: her and Zack’s musical tastes were identical. He had everything by anyone good.

He played some records and discs for her. The huge speakers threw a soundstage that overwhelmed her. Zack seemed to enjoy playing the music as much as she enjoyed listening to it. He mustn’t get much of a chance to show off his system, not in a town like Lockwood.

They listened for hours. She never got bored, but eventually she grew fidgety. She knew what it was. When her high wore off, it left something like a hot anguish in its place. She felt steamy, tingly.

She’d never done anything so overt before.

She took his hand and led him toward the bed.

“You’re very special,” he said, and turned off the lights.

—

Chapter 16

Providence, Erik thought.

He had to travel in snatches, at night. Several times police had passed him—he’d thought sure that was the end. How much longer would his luck last?

He’d lay low tonight, he couldn’t afford not to. He’d driven past Lockwood on Route 13, to the woodlands. An old trail he remembered took him deep into the forest belt. They’d never find him here. He covered the van with brush and mud, to mask its lacquered white paint.

He knew he still had a few days.

He felt buried in the dark woods, closed in. Buried, he thought. Brygor-wreccan.