Succubi

They called it the nihtmir, or night-mirror. High priestesses were said to actually be able to see the Ardat-Lil in it. All sacrificial communities used dolmens, and many similarly retired the older ones for a higher use in their ceremonies.”

“At this dig,” Dr. Harold asked, “did they find the original Ur-loc dolmen?”

“The nihtmir itself? No, and that’s a bit strange. All the archaeological evidence suggests that the Ur-locs willingly dispersed themselves—disbanded, I should say—between 995 and 1070 A.D., and they apparently took their nihtmir with them, which must’ve weighed, mind you, close to a thousand pounds. It was probably about the size of a desktop.”

Nihtmir, Dr. Harold reflected now. Night-mirror. Hadn’t Tharp mentioned something similar during his narcoanalysis? And he’d mentioned chettles too, hadn’t he? “What’s this?” came the next query. A photo showed a pile of scrolls or something, as a field technician gingerly dusted them with a camelhair brush.

“It’s a manuscript,” Professor Fredrick informed him. “The only direct written record of the Ur-loc race. It had been buried in a cairn, in some very peaty high-sulfur/low-oxygen soil. The excavators were able to photograph most of it before it disintegrated. And this,” he said, “you should find very interesting.”

The next photo showed a drawing on a manuscript page. Dr. Harold recognized the sleek body and long flowing mane of hair, the talons and tiny slits for eyes above the stretched maw for a face, and the stubby protuberances, like little horns.

“The Ardat-Lil,” he muttered. “It’s almost identical to Tharp’s sketch.”

“Indeed it is,” Professor Fredrick replied. “No doubt Tharp researched the Ur-locs at a college library, and based his delusion on the information.”

Of course, Dr. Harold tried to agree. What other answer could there be? Still, the proposition pricked at him, like briars. “Do you think it’s even remotely possible, though, that some very distant remnant of the Ur-loc culture still exists, some cult or something?”

Professor Fredrick’s eyes fixed on him. Then the old, cragged face broke, and he began to laugh.

«« — »»

“I suppose now is a suitable time.”

“Yes,” Dr. Heyd agreed.

Milly and the wifmunuc peered down from the foot of the bed, the breasts bare, the faces intent in glee. Dr. Heyd opened his black medical bag.

“Nis hoefonrice gelic tharn lige,” said the wifmunuc.

“Fo hir doefolcyniges,” Milly finished.

Dr. Heyd filled the 10cc syringe, watching a few droplets sparkle.

“I want his death to be relishing,” the wifmunuc ordered.

“Nice and slow,” Milly added, her dark nipples erecting at the thought. “Nice and slow, for her.”

Dr. Heyd nodded. The pale figure on the bed seemed to tense a little, jaundiced eyes staring up, mouth propped open.

“He’s served well, in his own way.”

Goodbye, Josh. Dr. Heyd inserted the needle into one of the pulsing veins of Joshua Slavik’s upper arm. Then he slowly depressed the plunger.

“Wihan!” whispered the wifmunuc.

—

Chapter 27

“You two! Hey!” Sergeant Byron shouted.

The figures scampered away into the woods.

“Come back here! This is the police!”

Giggling fluttered up. They’d looked like kids, hadn’t they? Several tree trunks seemed pasty with some dark shine. Byron touched a trunk and his finger came away red.

Blood, he thought.

Chief Bard had dispatched him to search the woods around the edge of town, which made little sense to Byron. A lot of things didn’t make much sense lately. Bard wasn’t telling him much. Had he gotten a tip? It infuriated Byron that his own boss didn’t trust him with confidential information. What made Bard so sure Tharp would be hiding out in the woods?

And now this…these kids. Who were they? What were they doing?

Byron delved into the thicket. Fallen brush crunched underfoot. He tried to follow the giggling, and their sounds, but the brush grew so thick in places that he could barely pass without a machete. The late-afternoon sun drew mist up from the forest’s moist ground. He felt pricked, perspiry, and pissed off.

But then the thicket subsided. A trail seemed to etch a line through the woods. Byron followed it. He noticed more wet trees lining the way. Someone had painted them with something, something like blood.

Byron then stepped between a pair of gnarled oaks.

He stared down. What in God’s name…

He’d stepped into a small dell, a clearing. Three girls stood there as if they’d been waiting for him. They were grinning.

They were also buck naked.

“Who the hell…” But then he recognized them. Wendlyn Fost, Maedeen’s daughter. Rena Godwin. And the third, Josh Slavik’s grandkid. What was her name? Melanie?

Byron looked around for guys. A bunch of naked girls usually meant that a bunch of naked guys were close at hand. But there were none, he saw. There was only him.

“What the hell are you girls doing?”

They only grinned in response. They were passing something around, smoking. Pot smokers, he concluded. But this stuff didn’t smell like pot at all. It smelled light, cinnamony.

“We’re waiting for you,” one of them, Rena said.

Byron stared at them. They didn’t seem the least bit concerned that they were standing naked in front of a police officer. He gulped, though; he couldn’t help it. They were just teenagers but— Christ, he thought. Three pairs of breasts stared back at him, three pubes. Rena, the youngest, barely had any hair at all. The other two looked fuller, more shapely. But what were those pails on the ground? And brushes?

“Peow,” Melanie Slavik said. Her eyes looked bright but… funny.

Then Wendlyn added, “Let’s give lof.”

Rena giggled.

Give lof, Byron thought. It was a slow thought, slow like blood oozing from a wound. Something was happening.

The three faces—the three grins—seemed to reach into him, drag him down like drugs. They’re kids, he kept thinking. They’re just kids… I can’t…

They converged, laying him out. His vision seemed detached; he saw only in fragments, diced glimpses. Faces hovered over him, bodies, breasts. The little stone pendants swayed like pendulums as they eagerly clustered about him, unbuttoning his shirt and pants. Their giggling made him sick; soon it didn’t even sound human. It sounded wet, clicking, like voracious eating.

“The Fulluht-Loc is coming…”

“The doefolmon…”

“Give lof! To the Modor!”

“Wihan!”

“Dother fo Dother!”