Succubated!

When she opened her eyes, Micki was lying on a soft bed in a dark room; she could hear nothing but her own breathing. A window was open; the air smelled like fresh rain. Micki sat up and immediately felt dizzy, nauseous; she shut her eyes again, to make the spinning pass. What was wrong with her? Had they drugged her again?

As she came to, she realized she was wearing only a thin nightgown—beneath it, her skin was bare and startlingly red. She looked around for something familiar: a white wall, bedsheets, table, chair, a clothes dresser. Then it came back to her: the Vatican black site, the encounter with Sister Mary Margaret, the dream of Spencer’s offer. She went to the door; it was heavy and locked. At least this room boasted a separate bathroom in a small alcove.

She checked the window. It was slightly high, with bars, but through it she could see the tops of trees, a tangle of vines. Micki breathed a sigh of relief; her kidnappers had kept her underground for too long. The window had no latch or bolt, and could open or close with a crank, but when Micki reached through the bars, a tracery of silver light appeared, burning her flesh. She gasped and pulled her arm back, her fingertips cooling.

With trembling fingers, she undressed and put on some underwear that she found inside the dresser, a plain pair of black leggings and a thick white T-shirt. Nothing with metal, nothing that could rip or cut. She walked to the mirror over the sink: her hair was already longer than the ragged cut that she’d sported before her encounter with Mary Margaret. Still only a few inches long, the short style made her look like a tomboy, perhaps a rocker girl.

How long have I been unconscious? Or does my hair grow quickly now? Is that a succubus thing? Micki studied her face, trying to discern if she’d changed at all. Her lips were full and sensual, her eyes wide-set beneath thin, straight eyebrows, her cheekbones high enough to be called angular, her nose prominent but well formed. She couldn’t be mistaken for a boy, even without her obvious curves, nor for a human; everywhere she looked, her skin was supple, smooth, and a deep red color. Out of her short hair poked her two arches of horn, gray and ridged.

Micki touched her cheek. Was this what her body would feel like from now on? This firm, wine-dark flesh… it was just another change, but also so much more—a metamorphosis into a creature beyond the ordinary, clearly inhuman. Will I be able to walk down the street? With these horns, this tail? I could hide those for a time, but not this skin. Would they fear her? Hate her? Love her? Micki blinked. If she was a succubus, couldn’t she choose her form, as she’d seen Yael do? If she hid her nature, then she might appear as almost any kind of woman. Couldn’t she?

She did not know how to begin, so she stared in the mirror and concentrated. Horns… disappear! Tail, begone! Micki struggled with a mixture of confusion and longing. Why does this feel important, right now of all times? Perhaps she feared that she’d never have an ordinary life, recalling the residue of her dream watching “Nice Micki” in the park. She furrowed her brow, willing her horns to shrink again.

Nothing happened.

She’d only been able to direct a transformation once or twice, and even then, without conscious, wakened thought. Maybe she didn’t have the energy. Perhaps this place and its silver security fence prevented her. She took a deep breath and tried again. Again, nothing.

“Yael?” she called. “Are you there?”

Silence. Then, faintly: “Micki?”

“I can’t make my horns or tail go away,” Micki whispered.

There was a moment of silence; then Yael replied, as if down a distant hallway: “You’ve only just shed your skin, girl. Without an infusion of power… you’d need the desire of another to ride on.”

Micki sighed. “What does that mean, ride on? Yael, where are you? Can you come to me?” The succubus had turned her life upside down, so he hated to admit it, but Micki had grown used to Yael’s presence, Yael’s advice, the feeling of those soft, illusory arms holding her at night. It was comforting to hear her speak, even quietly.

“Not yet,” came Yael’s answer. “I’m still weak. Soon enough—but not today.”

“Are you all right? Did they hurt you?” Micki realized she was speaking too loudly to hide their conversation—but at this point did it even matter if anyone heard?

“When you changed—when that harpy Mary Margaret revealed herself… She must have been part of what held the spirit web around this place. That’s what caused all the shaking and lights flickering. I got tangled in it, a little shredded… sorry, pet. I can’t quite reach where you are yet…”

Micki swallowed back tears; it felt like such a long time since Yael had shown her how succubae touch themselves. Had that been yesterday? “It’s okay,” she murmured. “I’ll wait for you. Not like I have anywhere else to be.” Yael’s voice was silent.

The moon shone over the trees from outside the window, and a chilly breeze blew in. Reluctant to close the window because of the wards, Micki lay down on the bed and pulled the thin blanket around her. Thankfully, there was a heating vent next to the bed, softly exhaling warm air from somewhere deep in this building. Micki lay still and listened to the wind in the trees, the night sounds of the building. As the heating ducts cycled off again, something clanked within the vent.

“Yael?”

There was no response. Micki leaned over and peered through the slits of the heating vent, to see whether she could spot anything inside; she saw nothing but dust cobwebs. She heard a thump, then a voice, from the depths of the vent.

“Who’s Yael? Is that who you were talking to?” came a soft whisper, with a slight lisp.

“Yes!” Micki exclaimed excitedly. “Who is—who is this?” Her heart leaped to hear a friendly voice. A few moments later, she asked again: “Is someone there? Can you tell me who you are?”

A pause followed. “I don’t know,” said the voice finally. “I’m afraid.” Then, after a brief silence: “I didn’t do anything wrong. But I heard them talking… you’re a demon, aren’t you?”

The voice sounded like a child’s, or that of a teenager with a young and hesitant cadence. Instinctively, Micki felt the need to comfort whoever this stranger was. I am still a priest, she thought, with no flock remaining. But I’m also a demon. What did they say about succubae? Daughters of Lilith, the mother of monsters. Did that mean she could bear children… or monsters? She blinked. Best not to think about such strange things now.

“It’s all right,” Micki said. “They call me a demon, but I’m just… someone who’s gone through strange changes. I have a… a spirit inside of me.” She heard the person on the other end of the vent shift position and draw closer to the far side. “My name is Micki,” she continued. “What’s your name? How old are you?”

“My name is Sherill,” the voice whispered. “I’m eighteen. Or I should be, by now? I’ve been here a long time… I was seventeen when I got here, but I’m pretty sure it was my birthday last month. Do you know what day it is?”

“Oh my god,” said Micki before she could stop herself, realizing what the young woman must have been through. “I’m sorry—Sherill, are you hurt? Have they done anything to you?”

There was another pause, much longer; Micki worried that she’d scared the girl. Finally: “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. My mom died, though—that’s why they took me away. My dad… he worked for the Church, but his boss said I’d be better off here. Because of… what I look like now, I guess.” Sherill paused again, then asked, “Are you really a succubus?”

“Yes,” admitted Micki. “Or at least, that’s what everyone else thinks.” Another pause. “It doesn’t matter what people think of me anymore.”

“Why not?” asked Sherill.

Micki weighed her answer. “You can’t be free or happy if you only try to make yourself what other people expect of you. We must all figure out who we are, for our own sakes….” she trailed off. Sherill was silent. “It’s not easy. But it’s the only way to truth, freedom, and happiness.”

Sherill giggled. “You sound like my counselor at group therapy.” Micki chuckled too; it was nice to laugh with someone—nice to feel even a hint of happiness. “How come you’re not asleep?” the girl asked. “I can’t sleep sometimes when there are other people around…” Micki wondered how much the girl might know about the place they were in, or her own situation.

“Me neither,” agreed Micki. “Or at least, not when those people want to visit me in dreams.”

There was a gasp. “You mean… like a baku? Did a baku come to your dreams?”

The question startled Micki. “No…? Not yet, anyway.” She paused again. “Actually… I don’t know what a baku is!”

The girl laughed again. “You’re funny! I wish I could meet you. Sorry, I guess I just assumed… I’m a baku, or part baku. My mother was a baku, a dream eater. Her people devour nightmares and help people have pleasant dreams.” A note of shy pride tinged her voice. “She taught me how to do it. Hey, succubae go into dreams too, don’t you? My mom said something about that, once…”

Micki hummed. “Yes, the succubus I know—that’s who you heard me talking to before—she does that all the time. I’m new enough at this that I’ve got zero idea how to!”

“Ever since I got old enough,” Sherill whispered, “I can slip into other people’s dreams. It’s scary sometimes, and I think it’s part of why they’re… studying me. But it’s like you said… part of me. A gift from my mother.”

Micki raised her eyebrows and nodded before remembering that the girl couldn’t see her. “That’s impressive, Sherill!” She stifled her alarm at Sherill’s mention of being studied. Care and companionship first; she’s clearly scared and alone.

Sherill remained silent for a moment, then asked, “So you don’t want to sleep because she’ll come into your dreams?” When Micki didn’t respond immediately: “If she visits you every time you sleep—”

Micki interrupted. “No, no… it’s not like that. Sometimes she visits. But it’s okay; it’s like seeing a friend and getting to talk to her.”

Sherill sighed. “Yeah. I used to visit friends that way, especially Vic. Um, he’s my boyfriend. Or he was. We’d just decided to be boyfriend and girlfriend.” She sounded unsure of herself. “I haven’t seen him since I got here.” A longer pause followed. “What about you? Are you seeing anyone?”

Micki smiled at the question but hesitated before answering. “Not… seriously? I have a few friends who I guess I’m… seeing.”

“A few!” Sherill gasped. “You really are a succubus.” She dissolved into giggles.

***

The routine Micki had grown used to by the end of the previous week was gone, disrupted by whatever had caused the move to this new, above-ground section of the Vatican’s facility. Micki was often alone. Father Kincaid stopped by to apologize, in his milquetoast way; he brought her some innocuous reading material and a Bible and explained that her training would continue “pending the arrival of new personnel.”

Yael’s voice was present when Micki called out for her, but the succubus couldn’t seem to sustain long conversations. Instead, Micki spent hours talking with Sherill, although the girl was sometimes busy reading, sleeping or absent from her room for stretches of time. “They’re running tests on me,” she explained, but didn’t seem to want to talk about it further.

Micki had one other visitor, though only in her dreams. Thomas Spencer kept appointments like clockwork every few nights. The two of them had fallen into a terse, politely guarded attitude with each other, like chess players unwilling to reveal a single thought. They talked of theology, human nature, and the role of the supernatural in society; Spencer seemed surprised by Micki’s familiarity with such topics. The conversation was mostly pleasant until they touched on matters of Micki’s future, where an impasse always lay. Micki would grow tense, and Spencer would sometimes withdraw in frustration.

While awake, Micki exercised, imagining herself in a prison training montage. Unlike her human form, her demonic body didn’t seem to need the workout to stay in shape, but she could feel herself building muscle that might come in handy. In the afternoons, she rested and read, meditated, or talked with her neighbor.

It was raining when she heard Sherill knock at the vent in the other room open, and sigh.

“Do you think we’ll ever get out of here, Micki?” she asked. “I mean—if you fully transformed into a succubus… could you grow giant claws, or bat wings, rip the wall open and fly us away?”

Micki laughed. “I don’t know. Probably not.” She felt like she should offer greater comfort, the promise of an escape, but wasn’t sure how to do so without fantasizing or patronizing the girl. “Do you think Monsignor Spencer has a plan for you? Or perhaps the Vatican does… I just can’t imagine that they would keep you here indefinitely. You’re an adult now.”

Sherill tapped her finger on the wall. “They’re keeping you here, right? I guess they think you’re dangerous. Maybe they think dream-eating is dangerous too…”

Micki rolled onto her side and faced the wall. “In my case, I’m guessing they don’t want to waste any resources on a novice succubus who isn’t actively trying to destroy them or swallow souls. Spencer tries to convince me to join him, but I suspect they’re just going to forget me here, lost in an oubliette.”

“What’s that mean? Oh wait, I remember French class… a forgetting-place? Hmm.”

Silence floated across their dialogue before Sherill spoke again.

“I know you said you didn’t want dream visitors… but Micki, I don’t think there’s anyone else here and I haven’t seen anyone in so long, and I was wondering if—I’m sorry, if—”

“Yes!” said Micki, feeling a paroxysm of sympathy. “You can come visit my dreams. I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

“Oh, thank you…” came the quiet voice. “Just… let me know sometime if you get sleepy.”

“As a matter of fact, I was just thinking I might take a nap soon,” replied Micki. “But I don’t know if I’ll have any interesting dreams.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that at all!” said Sherill. “That’s what makes dreaming fun!”