Succubated!

Una paced in the confines of the elevator, her tail lashing back and forth like an agitated cat’s. Thoughts spun through her mind: Another demon. Possibly two of them; or is Nestor just a mortal? His presence was undeniably strange. The imposing man’s face flashed into her mind: those placid eyes and full, unsmiling lips. Where do I know him from? She remembered the muscular hands clenching his scotch glass… and imagined those hands gripping her hips, lifting her into the air with unnatural strength.

She blinked as the elevator reached the ground floor. Hurrying out of the building along a lush red carpet, Una considered her moves. At least one demon; Nestor and Kyber—no, Nuska! The name I, or Yael, once knew him by. Call Susan and fill her in… find out whether John’s all right. I need a phone!

She looked around. Of course, the city had removed all the defunct payphones years before. Lord, I know everyone has mobile devices now… but couldn’t we have payphones for situations like these? It was the thought of a middle-aged human, she knew, not a demoness who was simultaneously ancient and young.

Keep thinking: my phone is still at the loft, where I left it weeks ago. Can’t fly there—too drained, plus those moths might still be around. Shit, why didn’t I realize? All too convenient; those damn things herded me right to that building. Motherfuckers!

Una stamped her boot on a sidewalk grating, making it clang. A passing woman, gray-haired and walking a small dog, stared at her in alarm. A red demon complete with horns and tail, she realized. I’m scaring the locals; someone will call the NYPD before long.

She swiveled to find a street sign: 66th and Central Park West, of course. Right by the Lutherans. Una headed towards Columbus Circle. Pedestrians on the street were already growing scarce; how long had it been since she flew into that terrifying cloud of moths?

At the subway entrance, she realized she had none of the trappings of her mortal life: no purse, no wallet, no subway pass, and no money to buy one. Unless she wanted to walk all the way across the Brooklyn Bridge, she’d have to try something else.

Eventually Una resorted to the same tactic she and every other New Yorker who rode the subway had seen a million times: she waited outside the turnstiles, asking departing passengers if they could swipe her into the station. Most of the passing crowd ignored her or stared in shock at her demonic features. Still, it only took two minutes before a young woman in an expensive business suit, distracted by her smartphone, offered her pass without thinking.

“Thanks,” Una said, a little guilty as she swiped and went through the turnstiles, then handed the pass back to the woman, who stared in sudden surprise. A train was waiting as she hurried down the stairs: the downtown A express. Perfect, Una thought as she boarded. Less than a dozen stops and I’ll be within walking distance of… home? She’d only stayed in the loft for a few, carefree weeks—but ever since leaving St. Andrew’s and the priesthood behind, it was the only place she really thought of as home.

The crowd inside the train parted for her, a few startled passengers stepping backwards to avoid the leather-clad girl with the moving tail. At least I’m wearing the boots Susan bought me, she thought, although they made her noticeably tall.

“Sorry, but can I sit? It’s been a long day.” The man with his gym bag on the seat next to him grudgingly moved it, letting her slump onto the bench and lean forward, one hand on her forehead, hopefully covering her horns a little. She tucked her tail around her waist again, trying to will it into stillness despite her anxiety.

By the next stop, Una could hear the whispers. Maybe her hearing had improved since she’d last been here, or maybe nobody was bothering to keep quiet.

“… a cosplay thing? Her makeup is…”

“… that tail! I wonder how she got it to move…”

“… horns are real; she must be one of those…”

“… is she? Holy shit, I think she is. Maybe we should…”

Una wished she had headphones to drown them out. For that matter, she wished she had Susan’s ridiculous overcoat, or her sunhat, or sunglasses. She’d have even settled for an out-of-style headband to cover the base of her horns.

It wasn’t until the train had passed midtown and stopped at West 4th Street that she ran into real trouble. The Manhattan tourists had mostly departed, with no desire to visit Wall Street or Brooklyn at this hour. Instead, a group of twenty-something club goers got on and sat across from Una. It’s not that late, she thought. Must be a slow night, or a reason to leave early.

A man with a baseball cap and a goatee leaned towards her. “Yo, is that real?”

Una avoided eye contact and put one hand on her ear, pretending she was listening to music.

“Hey, bitch! I’m talking to you!” The man’s tone had gone from curiosity to aggression. “Is that a real tail?”

Una glanced to the side. To her dismay, her tail had slipped out of her waistline zipper and was twitching between her and the wall of the train car. She grabbed it gently, and the man noticed.

“I fucking know you can hear me, you demon cunt!” He was on his feet now, pointing at her. “Are you even a human being?” Una clutched her tail with one hand and kept the other one on her forehead. Maybe if she just stayed quiet—

“Give me a break, Ronnie,” a female voice cut in. “She’s just one of those loser wannabes. It must be a… whatchamacallit. Animated costume.”

“Animatronic, dumbass,” said another man. Una lowered her hand from her head and risked a look: a girl with blonde dreadlocks and baggy jeans perched on the knee of another, larger guy in a tracksuit.

“Don’t look at me, cosplay girl,” the woman said in disgust. “Are you supposed to be a succubus? Who do you even think wants your skank ass, with your tits hanging out?”

My tits? Una couldn’t help but glance down. She’d left the front zipper of the suit open again, for ventilation. Or maybe on succubus instinct. She sighed inwardly.

The girl was on her feet now, too. Una tried to slide down the bench, but an older man with large headphones and a thick mustache was sitting in the way, looking confused and holding his headphones over his ears.

The girl was right in Una’s face: “I bet she’s some psycho junkie, and her demon outfit is just, like, her Halloween costume from last year, and she’s wearing it because she’s too fucked up…” She trailed off.

“What the fuck?” she continued. “Look at her eyes! They’re all weird.” Her tone had changed, becoming frightened and uncertain.

Una pushed the mustached man’s leg aside, apologizing, and stepped over him to get away from the girl.

Suddenly, Ronnie was in her path, brandishing a phone with the camera pointed at her. “Look at what we have to deal with in our city,” he was muttering as he aimed. “Fucking demons, just walking around, you never know what kind of sick, evil shit they’re going to…”

Una shouldered him out of the way, but he grabbed at her tail, yanking her backwards. She felt a stab of pain and let out a yell. He let go, looking angry and scared.

“Hey now,” muttered an older Black man, “No need for that.” He was the only bystander who’d said anything at all, and nobody seemed inclined to pay attention.

“I thought it’d come off!” Ronnie barked. “Is that shit glued on, or is it real?” He held the phone aloft. “I’m getting her face! Shit like this has gotta be illegal. Twist bitch...”

Una wrapped her tail around her waist and went to the next row of seats. Two mousey girls got up and hurried further down the car as she approached, and she sat in the place they’d vacated, at the end of a bench. The train departed Fulton Street, its brakes screeching as it descended into the tunnel under the East River.

She glanced around, trying to scent desire, glimpse an aura, or anything that might help her. All she perceived was fear and nervous tension, not exactly a succubus’ chosen flavor.

Unfortunately, Ronnie and two of his larger friends were following her. “You,” the one in the tracksuit said with a slight southern drawl. “Get off the train before there’s trouble. Nobody wants your kind here.”

Una glared at him, and he blanched slightly. “Fuck you,” she said, trying not to feel intimidated by his size and the tattoos on his neck and arms, which strained the fabric of his jacket. “I have the right to ride this train just like anybody else.”

“Rights?” The girl with the blonde dreadlocks was right behind her boyfriend, flanked by Ronnie and a third man with a buzz cut and a blue bandanna. “What rights, bitch? Are you saying you’re a citizen? You don’t have rights, you weren’t born here, you’re not even a fucking person! You're a twist. You came here through a portal from some creepy other world.”

Una’s gaze flicked to her. “I was born in Columbus, Ohio.”

“Bullshit,” said the tattooed man in the tracksuit. “You’re a demon. From Hell. And a demon killed my brother. Tricked him into giving up his organs.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Una said, feeling weary, “but I wasn’t there. I’m not the one who killed your brother. Hell, I don’t even know that demon.” Unless the demon’s name is Mastema, Nezz, Yael or Kyber, she thought. It didn’t seem likely.

Track suit scowled, his fists clenching and unclenching. Shit, Una thought. This is getting bad. Come on train, just get to the next stop. I’ll take the next train from High Street if I must.

As if some horrible contrarian spirit had heard her thoughts, the train slowed with a grinding shriek. The lights flickered, and the announcement system crackled: “We’re being held here by the train dispatcher due to a signal malfunction. We apologize for the delay and will be moving shortly.”

The mood in the car grew noticeably more tense; every other passenger was watching the confrontation now, staring from behind their newspapers and tablets as if waiting for a violent movie to start. Some of them held their phones up. The tattooed man stepped closer, menacing; Una tried to stand, but the train bumped and screeched to a stop, and she found herself sprawled back onto the bench.

A thunk echoed from the other end of the car. Someone had dropped something heavy on the floor. Una and the man next to her both glanced over, but could only see a large black case taking up much of the aisle.

The case began rolling, and heavy footsteps moved behind it. Passengers scrambled out of the way. Then Una could see it—the case was a bass drum, and a broad-shouldered man was pushing it towards them, around the poles in the center of the aisle.

The man wore a leather jacket festooned with patches, a gray hoodie underneath the jacket, black jeans, and heavy combat boots. His skin was green, Una realized, as she got a better look at him. Ronnie and his other two friends moved back towards the subway car’s doors, looking confused. He paid them no mind, just pushing his case and whistling tunelessly.

Large lower canines protruded from the man’s mouth, framed by sideburns that led up to a tuft of unruly hair, sticking straight up. An orc, Una realized. This guy’s an orc?

The orc reached Una and the tattooed man. “Pardon me,” the orc said in a gravelly baritone. “Gotta get through.” Their breath smelled like cloves and marijuana smoke; the other man stepped back, staring with his mouth ajar. The orc sat down next to Una.

“Hey,” the orc said. “Good to see ya. How’s it going?”

“I’ve been better,” Una replied, quite truthfully.

The man in the tracksuit clenched his fists again. “Hey, asshole, you better watch what you’re stepping into…” He trailed off as Una’s orcish defender turned a placid, indifferent gaze in his direction, their eyes almost completely hidden behind unruly, curly hair.

“Excuse me, sir. I’m trying to have a conversation with this lady here. Is that all right with you?” The orc’s tone was mild, but Una heard an undertone of menace, and so did Tracksuit. He backed up a step as the train began to move again. The car fell into a hush of whispering, and Una looked over. Ronnie and his other two friends were approaching, but so was the older Black man.

Ronnie reached his target. “All right, Greeny. That’s enough. Get off this train. This is human country, not for twists.”

The orc shook their head slightly, as if puzzled, then turned to Una. “What kind of music do you like? I’m a drummer, but maybe that’s obvious.” They nudged their drum case with the toe of one boot.

“Uh,” said Una, not sure how to respond to the apparent non sequitur. “I’m not sure. I used to listen to a lot of classical music, but that was before…” She trailed off. Before I became a succubus, she realized. But this was the last place she wanted to get into that.

The orc helpfully picked up her dangling thought. “Everyone’s tastes change! Looking at your style, I thought maybe punk.”

Una glanced down at her tight bike suit and boots: “Yeah, I guess I could see why! I did hear a good Nine Inch Nails recently…”

“That’s not punk music, young lady.” The Black man, smiling through his gray beard, had sidled up next to the orc, leaning on the pole at one end of their bench.

The orc laughed. “Nope. More like industrial.” Ronnie, Tracksuit and their friend with the buzz cut had lined up opposite them, champing at the bit. Una’s glance kept straying to them as the conversation continued, but the orc and the older guy steadfastly ignored their angry stares.

The Black man’s smile faded. “You’re too young to know,” he said with a hint of reproach in his tone.

The orc held up two rough green hands: “Hey, I was into the first wave of grunge, too. You probably think I’m twenty or something, but orcs don’t show age like humans.”

Una smiled as the older man laughed. “They used to say that about us too,” he chuckled. “At least until you get to be wrinkled and gray like me.” The man was in his late sixties, Una judged, with dark skin and a receding hairline that was almost completely gray, but he was still handsome, with kind eyes.

“Hey, demon-lovers! Shut up and get off this train!” Ronnie barked.

Tracksuit cracked his knuckles. “You’re gonna regret ever coming through a portal.” The orc and the older man didn’t look up, but Una saw the Black man’s eyes harden behind his smile.

Beyond the group, a young woman stepped forward, holding her phone up and pointing it directly at Ronnie and Tracksuit. She didn’t say anything, but kept her gaze trained on the three men with a stern expression. Una saw that a few other passengers had their phones out, too. Ronnie glared at the phone-holders, but they were unflinching.

“Fucking narcs,” muttered the girl with the dreadlocks, who had joined her boyfriend’s group again. “All of you, narcs.” Ronnie was red in the face. Track Suit stared at the floor, while the third man chewed on his bandanna.

“Would you believe,” said the orc, “That I came from playing a classical gig? An ensemble needed a bit of percussion, so a friend called me in.”

“No shit?” said the Black man. “So you’re a professional musician.”

“Sure am.” The drummer extended a hand. “Name’s Paisley.”

The Black man shook it: “Nice to meet you, Paisley, I’m Bernard.” The older man’s gaze strayed to Una, as if curious to hear her name too, but he didn’t ask for it. But Una felt almost as if the hostile stares weren’t there, or at least that she could pretend to ignore them as well as these two.

“I’m Micki,” she blurted out, then wondered why she’d given that name. Am I trying to distance myself from my demon self? Or keep my other name secret? “Or actually… I’m going by Una these days.”

Paisley nodded nonchalantly, then extended a hand to her. Una took it, feeling the strength in the orc’s large, calloused fingers and palm.

She rubbed the back of her head with her other hand, feeling self-conscious. “I have to admit I don’t know much at all about music,” she said. “But I’m curious about lots of things!”

On the other side of the aisle, the three men were making loud comments to each other about demons, and orcs, and freaks in general. Now it was easy to tune them out. Una felt a glow of satisfaction. We somehow pulled this off. Avoid a fight and push through the fear.

“You should come see my band some time,” Paisley said. “We’re playing the Knitting Factory on Saturday.” They reached into their jacket pocket for a business card. Una took it, turning it over to see an image of an orc in a ball gown, holding a microphone and surrounded by instruments. It seemed Paisley’s band was called Duchess.

Bernard also accepted a business card. “I have no idea what kind of music you play, Paisley. But I always want to support people who are following their passion.”

“Can you guess what we play, Una?” Paisley seemed overly amused, and Una decided to play along. Anything to drown out the complaining across the way until the train moved again.

“Hmmm,” she said, peering at the business card again. “It’s got a feminine name, so something I’d imagine a female musician playing. And you play the drums…”

“Do you consider the drums less than feminine?” Paisley placed a hand on their chest. “I’m offended.” Their eyes twinkled merrily. “I’ll have you know that my turn to be Duchess starts next week.”

Una’s tail wiggled slightly as she tried to match Paisley’s level of amusement. “I’m sure you’ll make a beautiful Duchess, Paisley.” She paused, remembering something. “So you’re going to… what do you call it? Slide?”

Paisley looked impressed. “You know about Slide? Not many here do. I mean, maybe you’re not from here either…”

She shook her head. “I am. I just have a friend with… encyclopedic knowledge of this stuff.”

Bernard coughed. “Maybe you young folk better explain Slide to me, since it seems like I’m missing out.” Una flushed, worried she had made him feel old.

Paisley explained. “It’s a term for when you switch from a masculine presentation to a feminine one, or vice versa, and wear the clothing and makeup or whatever for that presentation. Orcs can Slide either way and we do every so often. It’s a whole thing.”

Bernard raised a bushy gray eyebrow. “Interesting! So you’re still male, but you dress up as a woman orc?” Una shifted in her seat. Bernard’s tone was friendly and curious.

Paisley shook their head. “I’m not either. Orcs don’t really have one gender, we just Slide, and our bodies Slide along for the ride.” Una saw Bernard’s eyes widen, as if he didn’t know what to say, but Paisley kept talking. “So, Una… got a guess about our music yet?”

Una scratched her head at the base of one of her horns. Across the aisle, the blonde girl was telling her boyfriend to shut up, because people were recording him. She studied the orc’s clothes and thought about Sliding. I only ended up wanting to Slide one direction, and don’t even want to think about the other—she caught herself before her thoughts drifted too far, and turned to Paisley with a slight smile playing on her lips.

“Umm… is it… orc-core?”

Paisley burst out laughing, slapping the top of their drum case. “Good one, Una! That’s definitely what it should be called. In fact, I’m gonna suggest we use that for promo. See if Duchess and the bois go for it at rehearsal on Monday.” They wiped a tear away. “No, we’re actually a glam-punk band. Doesn’t have the ring of orc-core, though.”

Bernard nodded. “You see, Micki? You’re better at this than you thought.”

Una leaned back, satisfied. The train shuddered into movement again, at long last. A collective wave of relief swept over the subway car, and the hostile party of four suddenly broke up, slinking away towards the front of the car. Paisley, Bernard, and Micki looked at each other, then relaxed.

“My stop is next,” said Bernard. “But it was a pleasure to meet both of you. I’ll have to come check out Duchess.” He winked at Paisley. “Before I go… do you mind telling an old New Yorker something, Miss Una?”

Una blinked, slightly apprehensive. “Sure, Bernard.”

“I’ve ridden the subway since Portal Day, So I’ve seen plenty of strangeness, just like everyone around here. But I’ve never once seen a demon like you, or even a green orc like our friend, until tonight. And now I’ve met both in one night! Are things changing again? What do you think?”

Una considered the question. I don’t need my demonic side to answer this, she realized. I still know how to answer like a priest. She took a breath. “Change is scary. Not least because it feels like it’s always on the way; change is the only constant, as a philosopher said. It’s the wind that shakes our boughs, snaps our plans like twigs, and pushes us around, gradually or suddenly. Sometimes it feels like even our roots are in danger of ripping free.”

Una stopped. Paisley and Bernard were both listening to her intently, and she realized she wanted to speak as Micki might, not just as Father Michael Belmont, or the powerful succubus Una. “But how do roots run deep?” She intertwined her fingers. “I think we’ve seen an example today: roots hold strong by connecting with each other. We may grow upwards from different sources, even different worlds…” Una nodded at Paisley.

“And our branches will soar and blow all over the place too—we have the freedom to enjoy industrial, death metal, orc-core, or even classical.” She winked at them both. “But somewhere in there, we’re connected. That’s why the most devastating changes can’t tear us away from where our hearts live.”

Paisley smiled at her. “That was beautiful. You have a way with words, Una.” She smiled back gratefully; Bernard looked as if he were trying to restrain tears.

Beyond the two of them, the girl holding her cellphone put it away and started clapping. Paisley and Bernard joined in, chuckling and patting each other on the back; and then Una saw that the clapping was spreading, rippling down the subway car like a wave, with a few yells of “damn straight!” and “hear, hear!”

If Una’s skin hadn’t been deep red already, the other passengers would have seen her cheeks turn scarlet; she waved at everyone as the applause rolled past her. Not my best homily, she thought. Mostly the old tree-root community metaphor. But timing counts for a lot.