Succubated!

Maria did an amazing job of lifting the spirits of the refugees, and her mood was infectious. She kept running up and down the bus aisle, visiting Bill with a kiss or an inappropriate squeeze, checking on Una and Susan, then racing to the back to check on the others.

The hours passed, and traffic on the highways grew dense as they approached the city. To distract from anxiety and boredom, Maria led the bus in goofy campfire sing-alongs, made up games, and got most of the refugees to introduce themselves.

Of the group, the four who John had encountered in the woods were the most forthcoming. They were also inquisitive about what to expect when they arrived in New York. Curious from overhearing the chatter and guilty about not having more answers, Una drifted back through the rows to listen in. Susan followed close behind.

Yevgeny Borodkin, the older man who the others regarded as a kind of leader, said he was a “vodniček,” a name that Susan recognized as a kind of water spirit. Una was glad to see that Susan had immediately begun taking notes—a sign she was still her usual self, at least on the inside.

When Susan asked Yevgeny about legends of people with fishlike eyes and gills, he looked offended. “You scholars… hmph, old stereotype!” he barked. “Maybe eight, ten generations ago some university man met some of my people who look like what you say—markers of the older blood. Extremely rare now. Now everyone has eyes and nose like humans; no one is born with fins or gills anymore. Mixing of the blood, you know?”

Una nodded thoughtfully. It was comforting to know that she wasn’t the only one who felt like a hybrid, between human and something else. But Yevgeny came from another world, with an entire culture at his back; his powers were traditions that he’d apparently inherited from his ancestors. In the fight with the manticore, he’d only had access to enough water to soak the ground into a bog, but the effort had made a difference.

The three youths who’d accompanied Yevgeny in that fight were far less steeped in tradition. Reem Hassan had lost her parents at an early age because of civil unrest. All she knew was that she could manipulate flames and fire and could cause parts of her body to burst into flame. Rather, she had been able to before Spencer had conducted “tests” on her.

Una could scarcely imagine what the girl might accomplish if she could regain her full powers and develop into adulthood. For a moment, she felt a twinge of concern—was the Vatican right, in some sense, to restrain powers like these, to keep them under control? She shook off the thought. If there was reason for caution, it could coexist with dignity and autonomy. And Spencer hadn’t helped anyone harness their powers; he’d made them into experimental test subjects.

Reem didn’t seem one to dwell on her strife-torn younger years or on the trauma of recent days. She preferred to cope by cursing Spencer and the Church with a colorful streak of expletives. Una couldn’t help but laugh, and felt a twinge of kinship. She, too, had suffered at the hands of the Vatican’s “top exorcist.”

The other two young people were quieter. Aidan, though he’d been brash after the encounter with the manticore, seemed thoughtful and withdrawn on the bus. Una caught him staring at her more than once, and he seemed more comfortable querying Maria about where they were going and what to expect there. From what John had explained briefly on their run through the woods, the lad had some kind of power to communicate with animals.

The final and youngest member of the quartet was Niamh, whose eyes sometimes looked milky, as if blind, and at others a perfectly normal hazel. “She’s a seer,” whispered Susan. Before Una could ask what that meant, the little girl looked over and waved with a smile, clearly having heard from three rows back.

The remaining passengers on the bus, who’d remained trapped behind the basement’s magical barriers, proved far more reticent. The two sisters introduced themselves as Lila and Alia, and kept their black-and-white masks on, lifting them to take a sip of water or a bite to eat. They could have been twins, though with vastly different complexions—one pale as snow, the other the shade of dark honey.

Caspian was the tallest and broadest of the group, slightly larger than even Susan. Although his hair was graying, he seemed much younger than his friend Yevgeny—or at least, filled with a different sort of vitality. When Maria asked him to tell his story, he simply smiled, showing a mouth full of white, even teeth. “Just Caspian,” he said, and left it at that.

The last person on the bus—if they could be called a person at all—was the small, cloaked figure, shrouded in folds of fabric and thick hair. It sat in the furthest corner, in the back row of the bus, and looked out the window, occasionally tapping the glass or scratching at the fabric of the seat.

“Yevgeny says it’s a domovoi,” Maria whispered to Susan and Una. “He says it’s harmless, but needs a home to watch over?” Susan nodded knowingly and added to her notes; Una peered over her shoulder and saw her writing the word “tutelary.”

Maria insisted on telling her own story to the refugees, of course, then turned to Una and Susan. “And this lady here…” she said with an introductory flourish, “…is the amazing succubus who transformed me!” Una smiled sheepishly and gave a small wave. The refugees applauded, for the most part.

Una didn’t have much to add, other than that she had also escaped from the black site, after weeks of imprisonment by Monsignor Spencer and his staff. She felt guarded about sharing the most disturbing part of her ordeal—that she’d spent part of that time with her memories erased. That he’d forced her into the role of his protégé, based on his own warped ideas of youthful masculinity.

The refugees had all spent time imprisoned in groups, in solitary confinement, or undergoing various tests and experiments. They had understandable venom for their captors and the Church. They’d never seen the more open, voluntary side of Spencer’s project—the camp where he’d trained potential recruits for his supernatural-empowered task force. Una, having spent time with those recruits in her involuntary guise as “Mick Belmont,” knew that they were mostly ordinary young people with a hint of power or ancestry. None of Spencer’s trainees had abilities—or problems—as powerful as those of the refugees.

As they drew closer to New York City, hitting gridlock outside of White Plains, Una felt a stab of anxiety. They had to tell the bus driver where to go, and she still had no idea where to direct him. Susan, who seemed increasingly exhausted and uncomfortable, placed a hand on her arm to steady herself.

Then Maria held up her phone. “It’s John!” she exclaimed. “Should I answer it?! Do you want to answer it?”

“Yes!” yelped Una, scrambling towards Maria and taking the phone from her outstretched hand. “Hello? Jo—who is this?” She’d picked up without considering the possibility that someone else might have John’s phone.

The response came immediately. “Father Hayes here, Father.” Una exhaled, relief washing over her. He answered the phone in a familiar, corny pattern they’d joked with years before, saying “Father” in the same cadence he always had.

“Where are you? Did they do anything to you?” Una knew she sounded frantic with worry, but she couldn’t suppress it. The others on the bus watched her, hushed.

“I’m all right. Nobody’s laid a finger on me,” John replied. “Listen. I can’t talk… long. You should bring your… out-of-town guests to the place we’ve been holding services. You got that?” John’s voice sounded slightly strained. They must be eavesdropping, she thought.

“Back to the Church? I mean, I know you mean the community center, not the Church itself… but is that safe?” Their actual house of worship, St. Andrew’s Church, had remained closed since their encounter with Mastema, the demon of contempt.

John was quiet for a long time. The line was oddly full of static, and a clicking noise, repeating.

“I don’t know if it would be… for you. For others, I have assurances. It’s… a whole political thing. So maybe… if I don’t see you there, I’ll find some way to meet up with you soon.” He’s telling me to stay away? Because of politics? That wasn’t terribly reassuring to Una; she’d always detested the maneuvering of Church officials. Still, politics suggested there might be factions vying with each other; she knew the Curia for Supernatural Warfare, Spencer’s rogue department, had its own enemies.

“I see. Assurances from whom, if I may ask?” She tried not to sound haughty but found it difficult not to adopt an imperious manner. Somehow her body’s habits, or her personality, had grown more like Yael than she realized consciously.

John chuckled for a fleeting instant. “You might find this—well, I’ll just say that it’s an interesting situation. It’s Monsignor Albert’s deal.” He coughed. “Look, Spencer’s nowhere to be found. He fled in disgrace.”

Una’s thoughts whirred into gear. John knows what happened to Spencer. He hasn’t told them; he’s keeping my involvement under wraps.

John continued his veiled explanation. “The Vatican’s treating it as a disgraceful scandal, and—” He cut off as someone interrupted him, the sound muffled. Una heard John’s voice protesting. “All right, I understand,” she thought she could make out.

John spoke again. “I have to go. There’s more to say, of course, but for now—just trust me, all right? I won’t let anything happen to them, or Sherill.”

“Sherill? Is she with you?” Maria and Susan were huddling close by now, trying to hear. Una felt relieved that she hadn’t put the entire conversation on speakerphone; who knows how the refugees would react to hearing they were going back to a Church-run facility.

“She will be before long,” said John. “She’s awake and doing better. Micki—Una. I’ll see you soon. I gotta go.” The call cut off, and Una looked up at Maria and Susan in frustration, seeing her worry mirrored on their faces. They all wrapped their arms around each other for a moment, in a silent circle of comfort that needed no prompting. They’d been through too much, and it wasn’t over yet.

***

A coughing fit struck Susan thirty minutes later. The bus had crossed into New Jersey, creeping along the cliffs overlooking the Hudson River—and beyond it, the shores of Manhattan. Una started up in concern, seeing Susan double over in the seat across the aisle. Her arm was across the other woman’s powerful shoulders by the time Susan hacked, then fumbled for something in front of her. A small glass jar, Una saw. Susan coughed a last time and spit something into it—something that glowed with a golden light.

The musclebound scholar sagged against Una, then turned to see the worried, quizzical expression on the succubus’ face.

“Sorry.” Susan grimaced, reached towards her mouth as if to wipe her lips, then stopped herself and ran her tongue around them instead. The movement was so incongruously lascivious that Una almost laughed, and Susan smiled weakly at her. “Sorry,” she repeated. “It’s gross, but I don’t want to drool angel phlegm on anything. Could be a biohazard.”

“Angel phlegm?!” Una’s voice was incredulous but curious.

Susan shook her head. “Not really. I don’t know what it is. It’s just… whatever’s inside of me, building up and leaking out. I haven’t figured out what to do with it, other than—” She coughed again, her shoulders shaking. On instinct, Una lifted her hand to stroke Susan’s hair: thick and luxuriant, with wide bands of white-gold disrupting the black. Susan seemed to swallow, and then straightened, but with a pained, feverish expression.

“If I can—if I can get home, I’ll deal with this.” Despite her enhanced musculature, Susan seemed deflated. “How far are we from Manhattan?”

Una stood to peer out of the window. She could see Manhattan from here, across the river, but miles of traffic crawled between the bus and the nearest bridge. I can’t go downtown with them, Una remembered. Not if John’s right. She arrived at a decision.

“Pull over,” she called out to Bill. “Whenever you can.”

***

At the Palisades, the cliffs overlooking the Hudson River on the New Jersey side, Bill brought the bus to a halt at a small rest stop. Una stood and addressed the refugees in the back of the bus, with Susan just behind her.

“Father John Hayes—some of you met him, fought beside him. Father Hayes gave his assurances that you’ll be safe at the community center where he works.” She shook her head. “But I can’t go with you. I’m liable to attract more attention, and I don’t want to put any of you in further danger.” Grave faces met this pronouncement. Susan rested her hand on Una’s shoulder.

“Susan will go with me… we have to get her home. But Maria will stay on the bus, so you’re in excellent hands.” Maria flashed a wide grin at the assembled group and gave a thumbs-up sign. Damn, Una thought, I hope I’m right about that. Her gaze darted involuntarily to the wave of honey-blonde hair at Maria’s forehead, concealing the two slight bumps. Is she getting along well with everyone because I transferred some kind of power to her? Or just because she’s Maria?

Susan needed Caspian’s help to climb down the steps from the bus before she leaned against Una’s waiting arms, looking exhausted. When Una looked up, she saw a face pressed against one window—Niamh, the young girl who Susan had called a seer. She raised her small hand, touching the pane with her fingertips as if reaching out to Una. Niamh’s freckled face looked solemn, but then her lips curved into a small smile.

To Una’s surprise, she saw the other refugees—Yevgeny, Aidan, Reem and a few of the others—crowd up to the windows in much the same way. They waved and reached their hands out to her, fingertips pressing against the windows.

“Una! Take care!” someone called out. Other voices joined in, yelling farewells.

Caspian chuckled, climbing back aboard the bus and leaning out. “They’ll be fine,” he grunted, meeting Una’s gaze with a dark-eyed stare of his own. He gave her a two-fingered salute, then slid inside. Bill closed the bus doors and pulled out of the parking lot.

Susan, leaning on Una for support, turned to look at the demoness. She wore a puzzled look on her uncanny, beautiful face.

“Not exactly the typical influence of a succubus,” Susan said, “but not entirely unexpected. You’re a powerful figure who led them out of captivity after breaking your own chains. Stuff of modern legend.”

Una’s full lips twisted in a frown. “But you’re the ones who came and got me out of there!”

“Only the very last part of your escape,” corrected Susan, “You and Sherill had escaped from Nezz, and got stuck in that shaft. But you’re the one who broke Spencer’s control, who brought the place down.” Una shook her head, remembering that awful night. The mental collapse of Sherill’s father, James Kincaid, had instigated those events. Spencer’s own rash decisions had furthered the collapse of his compound. I’m just the one who’s still alive and walking around, she realized.

“You grew wings and burst out of there, tangled with an archdemon. They were all whispering about it on the bus—you’re the smoking hot demoness resisting the forces of control, and you look the part. We’re just your crew.” She flexed one brawny bicep. “Maybe I’m the muscle now?”

Susan sighed and looked skyward. Dusk was falling. A few rays of light illuminated the clouds with linings of pink and gold, but night’s shadows advanced and would soon swallow those. Susan leaned back against Una and closed her eyes. After a time, she spoke: “How are your wings?”

“Are you thinking we should take the quick route and fly over the Hudson? I still feel full of energy—even with the muscle, I think I could lift you again. As for my wings… fine, last I checked?”

Una flexed her shoulders, where her wings would appear if she unfolded them. “They’re the only part of me I don’t have to worry about much—I don’t understand how they vanish when they’re folded up, but I’m grateful for it.”

Susan coughed briefly. “It’s conjuration. Fascinating subject, really… it uses a principle like portals, or summoning. The conjured object, and for various reasons it’s actually easier with attached body parts, rotates from an n-dimensional manifold into—” Susan coughed again, and suddenly swayed. Una, alarmed, caught her before she could stumble.

“Susan! Are you—” Una’s own exclamation cut off as she stared in fascination at Susan’s eyes, wide open and staring as she lay back in Una’s arms. A tear formed in the corner of Susan’s left eye, but more than a tear. The liquid bulged into a spherical globule of fluid that emanated shimmering, golden light as it welled out of Susan’s tear duct.

“Ca-catch it, Una. Don’t let it fall, I don’t know what—” Susan coughed, and the ball of fluid rolled down her cheek. Una grabbed at it with her free hand, and it splashed onto her palm.

Una screamed in pain. Her flesh was sizzling, burning. The fluid seared into her hand, and she sank to the concrete ground, lowering Susan with her, trying not to drop her. She watched as the fluid seemed to evaporate—or absorb into her?—leaving only a circle of smoking skin as evidence. Then the crimson tissues of her hand seemed to regrow, healing over the burn.

Still, Una felt something inside her palm, touching her bones and joints, writhing. A feeling grew within her, a shuddering sensation of blind rage, as someone had chained her once more, forcing her to struggle against bonds. She laid Susan on the ground, feeling her own muscles tense and strain. Una stretched, raising her hands to her temples, clasping her horns. The ridged protrusions arcing over her hair felt as if they were pulsing.

Una let out a roar of pain and anger, raising her fists in challenge to the skies. She screamed wordlessly in defiance again, letting the sound trail out of her lungs before the feeling passed. She dropped to her knees next to Susan. It took her a moment before she could speak. “What… what the fuck was that?” she gasped.

Susan rolled her eyes; her mouth moved for a moment, but no sound came out. Then she whispered, “Get us home… Please, Micki. More seeds are trying to drop… I’ll explain on the way.”

Una nodded. She unzipped the back of her bike suit, and let her wings burst forth, folding out from an impossible un-direction, from nowhere. She stooped and picked Susan up in her arms, fueled as much by adrenaline and panic as her own demonic strength. Holding her love close to her cheek, Una rose into the air with a heavy series of flaps.