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Her eyes went hot. That’s the only word I can think of to describe it. An enraged fire blazed behind them, making it perfectly clear that no matter how much this Miss Spry looked like Katharine Hepburn, she was not. Her unearthly rage instantly rekindled my fears about demons and pitchforks and hellfire. The room, despite its French doors and view of the garden, was not a safe place. I shrank back in my chair.
“We don’t talk about that one,” she said, clearly enunciating each word. I nodded quickly, eager to show her that I did understand.
“Now you are in the center of all this.” She put a little X in the middle of the triangle. Her temper had blown over in an instant, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Not living, not dead. Right.” So what did that make me? A zombie? A vampire?
Miss Spry smiled slightly, as if guessing my thoughts. “My dear, you are a succubus.”
My jaw went slack. A succubus?
There was a knock at the door, then the prison guard entered pushing a tea tray. Miss Spry thanked her and began pouring tea from a china pot. She offered me a cookie from a silver tray.
A succubus? In college, I’d taken a course on mythology and remembered that a succubus was a female demon with insatiable sexual desires who slept with men before sucking out their souls. And now I was supposed to be one of these creatures? Was this woman kidding me?
“I’m an elementary school teacher,” I told her.
“I know.”
“I haven’t had sex in over a year.”
She pursed her lips. “Let’s just keep that to ourselves, shall we?”
“Look at me,” I insisted. I stood up to give her the full view. Since the divorce, I’d added several extra pounds. I also hadn’t had the money to visit a salon so my roots showed under the dye job and highlights. My nails, once perfectly manicured, were bitten to the quick. “I’m a soccer mom, not a super model.” I had a thought. “Maybe you’re confusing me with my stepsister Jasmine?”
“No, you’re the one,” she said firmly. “My dear, it’s what’s in here that counts.” She tapped the side of her head.
“What’s in here?” My voice was climbing octaves, making me shrill. “What’s in here is trying to make sure that my daughter has clean underwear every day, and that she’s done her homework. And that my niece, Ariel, isn’t going to burn down the house again. And that my sister doesn’t get a hold of my credit cards. And that there’s enough cat litter in the house so that the cat won’t start peeing in the plants…”
“Ms. Straight.”
“And then there’s my ex-husband. Don’t even get me started on him…”
“Ms. Straight!”
I was pacing now, too aggravated to sit still. “And my job. My stupid job. You’d think the school district would want to hire a woman with a master’s degree in women’s studies, but no! How am I supposed to pay bills on a substitute teaching job?”
“Sit down!” The eyes behind Miss Spry’s steel-rimmed glasses glowed hotly.
I sat.
“Now drink your tea, and listen.”
I took the cup with a trembling hand and took a careful sip. After years of living with my stepfather, the tea expert, I consider myself quite an authority, yet I’d never tasted tea like this. It was strong but not bitter. Its rich flavor reminded me of fall leaves, the smell of the first frost, and honey.
“How much do you know about your family?” Miss Spry asked. When I shrugged, she said. “Did you know that your mother was a succubus?”
My mother, the ex-hippie, who claimed that she’d traveled (and slept) with every rock-n-roll legend who’d ever tuned a guitar at Woodstock. My mother who would willingly tell anyone (her hairdresser, her gynecologist, the paper boy) about the time she’d spent with Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters aboard their psychedelic bus. My mother whose freak flag could have been the official banner of Haight-Ashbury. My open-yourself-to-all-experiences mother was a succubus.
At last, something that made sense.
She continued. “Your grandmother, too, was a succubus.”
My grandmother? I’d never met my grandmother – she’d long died before I was born – but I still couldn’t imagine it.
“As was her mother and her mother and so on. It’s a line of women extending back to Sarah Goodswain.”
Sarah Goodswain? I’d never heard of her. My mother wasn’t one for genealogies, and I wondered if she even knew this information.
“Sarah was born in Salem, Massachusetts in 1723 and, in 1744, she was arrested for being a witch.” Miss Spry smiled slightly. “She wasn’t a witch, of course; none of those young women were. But Sarah was a clever girl. She realized that the only way to escape hanging was to do exactly what she’d been accused of and make a deal.”
A deal? With whom, the Devil? Could people actually do that? Then again, I was hardly an expert on religion. Yes, I’d gone to Catholic school, but that place had taught me only two things: (1) everything I did was a sin and (2) I hated God as much as he hated me. When Grace went through a religious phase and asked me about God, I acted like he was a bad boyfriend. “You’re better off without him. Trust me,” was all I’d said.
“So you’re telling me that my great-great something grandmother made a deal with the Devil?”
“We don’t use that word here,” Miss Spry said tartly. “Let’s just say that Sarah made a deal with someone who could get her out of prison and away from Cotton Mather and his father. She promised that she would do the Master’s bidding in return for her freedom. But the Master is clever, too, and he drives a hard bargain.” Miss Spry’s eyes twinkled. Clearly she admired this Master person. “He made Sarah agree that every female descendent in her line would follow her path and become a succubus. And that path, Ms. Straight, has finally led to you.”
I shoved my cup aside, slopping tea over Miss Spry’s spotless desk. “Don’t I get a say in all of this? I mean, a succubus? A demon that sleeps with strange men? No. Way.”
“First of all, you are not a demon. You house a demon. The same demon that your mother and grandmother had. In fact, the same demon that Sarah herself had. You are essentially still human, but now a demon shares space inside of you, and gifts you with its powers.”
I started to object, but she held up her hand. “Secondly, a succubus is a seducer, Lilith, not a slut. It isn’t so bad.”
“It’s not so bad! Are you kidding me?” I leaned forward in my chair. “What if I refuse?” I might have acted brave, but my legs trembled and my mouth was bone dry.
I expected the older woman’s eyes to go hot again, but instead she smiled. “You may choose not to become a succubus if you wish.”
There was an unspoken ‘but’ at the end of that sentence. I just knew it.
Miss Spry didn’t disappoint me. “But then, of course, you’ll remain here.” She hesitated just a moment. “Dead.”
Dead. The word hit like a jab to the solar plexus, and I sank backwards in my seat. “I can’t be dead! I know I was hit by a car, but still.” I stood up. “I mean, look at me! I look fine. I feel fine.” I spun in a little circle. “No injuries. No scars.”
She shrugged. “Believe me. You are dead. In fact right now, your broken body is crumpled on the road, and a stray dog is lapping up your blood. But don’t worry. The funeral director will do a fine job of covering up the damage, so your young daughter won’t have to witness the gruesome condition of your corpse. Of course, it won’t prevent her from becoming hysterical when she sees you lying in your coffin.”
Miss Spry’s cunning little smile lit a fire inside me. “You can’t do this!” I lunged across the desk. Miss Spry lifted her hand in defense, throwing me across the room. I hit the wall so hard that all the air in my lungs expelled in a single gasp. My chest ached as I sucked wind.
Miss Spry left her desk to stand over me. Her face was hard; her eyes hot. “You either become a succubus, or you die and the next female takes your place. Either way, the line will continue unbroken. There are no exceptions.”
Die now or allow the Devil to take my soul. It wasn’t much of a choice. Still, I didn’t have to think it over. My mother had abandoned me when I was a child, and I wouldn’t do that to my own daughter. When my lungs reached equilibrium, I gasped, “Fine. I’ll do it.”
Miss Spry nodded. “Good. I’ll return you to your world, and you can resume your life. When I need you, you’ll be summoned. And you will come.” I’d spent maybe half an hour with this woman, but I already knew that tone and that expression. Miss Spry would not be crossed. If she said come, I came.
As it turned out, I hadn’t been wrong about what would happen to me in that place; I was just wrong about who would be owning me. It wasn’t the woman in the prison cell after all. No, I was Miss Spry’s bitch.
When I came back to reality, I was standing on the same sidewalk where, seemingly ages ago, I’d been texting Jasmine. My hip ached, either from the impact of the car hitting me or the impact of Miss Spry throwing me against the wall. I couldn’t be sure.
In fact, I couldn’t be sure about any of it. I still had my purse, and my cell phone was in my pocket. Yet, at the same time, I was missing a shoe, my watch was broken, and tire tracks climbed up the side of my slacks. Feeling sick and disoriented, I heaved up my guts all over the clean sidewalk in one of the nicest suburbs in the city.
It was my guess that succubi generally don’t do this as it’s not very attractive.
My head felt strangely empty, like I needed to remember something important. The jail cell, the conversation with Miss Spry, even the taste of the tea…all of these things were pieces to a puzzle I couldn’t solve. I drove numbly, obeying all of the traffic laws out of habit, but not really paying attention to what I was doing.
By the time I got home, it was fully dark, and every light in the townhouse blazed. I sat in the car for several minutes, trying to think of how to explain the missing shoe, the tire tracks up my pant leg, and the fact that I had borrowed Jas’s purse without her permission. At last, I simply gave up and went inside, figuring whatever happened, happened.
Grace, her face tear-stained, met me in the doorway and hugged me so tightly that my injured hip protested. “Mommy! Where were you?” I was instantly on alert; she hasn’t called me ‘mommy’ in years.
Behind her stood a very worried-looking Ariel and a mournful Jasmine who was leaning against the hairless wonder who, seemingly years ago, had been sleeping on my couch. I felt a glow in my chest. They loved me! They were worried about me! “I’m okay,” I assured them. “I wasn’t that hurt.”
“Hurt? What are you talking about? Who’s hurt?” Jas looked offended, as if I was trying to upstage whatever she had going on.
Before I could make my big announcement – that I’d been hit by a car, killed, sent to Hell and survived the trip thank-you-very-much – Grace pressed her face into my side. “She’s dead, mommy. Gramma’s dead.”
The puzzle pieces finally fell together. I’d been made a succubus because my mother had died, and someone needed to take her place. Like Miss Spry had told me, one generation must always follow another.
Chapter Three (#ulink_a2856932-0df0-5db1-9ab2-87eed92c9d4d)
The next morning, before my eyes had fully opened, I remembered three important things: my mother was dead, I’d been hit by a car, and I was now a succubus who worked for the Devil.
At least one of those things seemed very unlikely.
I investigated myself in the mirror. My face looked as it always did: green eyes, pert nose, rosebud mouth. The weariness in my eyes and faint wrinkles on my forehead didn’t result from any near-death experience. No, I blamed those on the divorce, the fire, and the fact that I could no longer afford my favorite Estée Lauder moisturizer.
Surely, if I’d been turned into a demon, I’d look different. I examined my scalp for demon-style horns and glanced over my shoulder expecting a red, forked tail. Seeing neither, I undressed and took a good look at myself. My body was just as I remembered: a waistline I wished would grow smaller, breasts I wished would grow larger, and an ass that was still nice and firm.
Yesterday’s run-in with the Volvo had left no bruises, scratches, sprains, or broken bones. How could I have been hit by a car, yet escape without injuries? Now, it wasn’t only the trip to Hell that I questioned. The accident, too, seemed unlikely.
As I showered, I tried to explain away my memories. A seizure, perhaps? A hallucination? Or maybe the stress of the past twelve months had reached critical mass, and I was fully insane.
After pulling on a pair of jeans and a sweater, I decided to experiment. Gathering my courage, I called, “Miss Spry? Are you there?”
Nothing answered.
“Hello? Demon overlord?”
Still nothing.
Yesterday, the bars in the waiting room, the endless gray corridor, and the terrible woman with the hot eyes had seemed so real. Now, those memories held the haziness of a dream. I shook my head as I left my bedroom. A succubus! Of all the stupid things to imagine. Real life was tough enough. The last thing I needed was drama from the spiritual realm.
To my surprise, I wasn’t the first one awake. Tommy, Jasmine’s friend, sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and eating a peanut butter sandwich. The night before, Jas had begged me to let him stay over. Since I’d been too overwhelmed to worry about the rules, I’d allowed it providing that he slept on the couch.
Seeing me, he frowned and tilted his head in a way that made me paranoid. Did he sense something different about me? Something that I hadn’t discovered myself? Then, to my relief, his face smoothed and he smiled.
“Coffee?” he asked, rising.
I nodded and sank into a chair. “You’re up early.”
“My job starts at seven.”
Job? Jasmine finally found a guy who was employed? Hallelujah and pass the ketchup! “What do you do?”
“I’m a mechanic. Mostly, I work on transmissions.” He set a mug in front of me and reclaimed his seat. “It’s not glamorous, but it’s steady work.” He sipped his coffee. “What about you? Are you an early riser, too, or couldn’t you sleep?”
I shrugged. “A little of both.”
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
“Thanks.” The news of my mother’s death had yet to sink in. It seemed as distant as a dream.
“If you need to talk, I’m glad to listen,” he continued. “When my sister died, my friends were the only things that kept me sane.” Tommy certainly looked intimidating, but his bald head, tats, and numerous facial piercings seemed to mask a gentle nature.
I didn’t want to discuss my mother’s death. In some ways, that was the least of my problems. To keep the focus off of her, I asked about his tattoos.
He held out his arms. “My friend did the work, but I drew the art. This one’s my favorite.” He patted his chest.
“The demon tattoo,” I said, remembering.
“It’s not just a demon.” He lifted his T-shirt, revealing the picture. “See, up here is the demon, but down below is an angel.”
Sure enough, there were two creatures locked in battle. The snarling demon was held in place by an equally ferocious angel. The angel gripped the demon’s hairy back leg while the demon sunk its sharp teeth into angel’s fiery wings. It wasn’t clear who was winning the fight.
“I call it ‘Duality’,” Tommy said. “You know, like in the dual nature of man.”
“Which is?”
“That we all want to behave better than we do. For example, most people will say that they want to feed the hungry, but they won’t give a homeless guy a dime because they’re frightened or disgusted by him. Or people want to be honest, but they cheat on their taxes.”
“So you think that there’s a balance of good and bad inside of everyone?”
“Not a balance, no. Evil tends to overwhelm good.” He pointed to his stomach. “See? The angel has a hold on the demon, but the demon’s already drawn blood.”
My hands tightened on the coffee mug as I thought of Miss Spry and her hot eyes. “So evil always wins.”
“Not if we keep fighting.”
I couldn’t take my eyes from the tat. What if the previous day’s experiences were real? What if I actually had become a succubus? Would I still be able to battle my evil nature? “What if someone had an actual demon living inside of them?” I hadn’t meant to ask. The question had just slipped out. Embarrassed, I forced a laugh. “Hypothetically, I mean.”
Tommy’s smooth forehead furrowed. “Demons are stronger than mortals, so I guess that a person with a real demon inside them would lose.”
My throat clicked as I dry swallowed. “Lose what? Their goodness?”
His serious gray eyes met mine. “No, their humanity.”
After sending the girls off to school, my mother’s death hit me unexpectedly hard. My mother was really, truly dead. My sense of loss came as a surprise since Carrie and I hadn’t been close – her decision, not mine. Still, I felt a sharp pang of grief. I was a first grader all over again, standing onstage during my spring dance recital and praying that, just once, my mother would show up. The terrible longing that had plagued me throughout childhood resurged with a vengeance. I sat on the couch and cried.
Surprisingly, my stepsister offered to drive me to the funeral home and help make Carrie’s arrangements. I was touched. Usually, moral support isn’t Jasmine’s forte. For example, when I told her that my ex-husband was having an affair, she said, “Maybe it’s because you’re getting fat.”
Today, however, she hugged me tightly, something that once again brought me to tears. “Your mom was the best,” she said. “I’ll miss her.”
