For A Few Souls More (Heaven's Gate Book 3) (25 page)

THE BRUTE AND THE BEAST

1.

P
OPO HADN’T KILLED
a sexual partner in decades. While not a claim many would feel the need to take pride in, for an Incubus it was a surprising achievement. It was all very well being of the higher caste, a rank of demon respected and feared throughout the Dominion, but if it meant you couldn’t sleep with someone without reducing them to a lifeless husk it was murder on a long term relationship. So he had adapted. It had been a surprisingly easy process but not one he chose to explain to the world at large. While an Incubus, like a Succubus, was a sexual demon, the force it fed on was not purely carnal. It was, for the sake of a term, ‘life force’ and while it was the act of sex that channelled that force, opened the mouth so to speak, he had soon found that he didn’t need the donor to be aware of the fact they were donating. This realisation provided a simple change to his dining habits, one that he had adopted ever since.

In the early hours of the morning, just before dawn, when most people were fast asleep, he would find himself somewhere quiet to sit, close his eyes and tap into the dreams of those around him. That was where the sex normally came into play on the part of the donor, it caught them at their most honest. However much people liked to pretend in the bedroom, dressing up in costumes, slipping on characters, it always boiled down to flesh and hunger. It was animal, it was real. For all the theatre leading up to it, there could be no lies at the point of orgasm. Sleep was similar, a time of dreams and lowered defences.

Popo would slip into a dream state, working himself to orgasm, becoming part of the subconscious world around him. Then, at the moment of climax, he would breathe in. In this way he could take all he needed, a little from each, nothing they would notice, but a feast that kept him healthy all the day long.

He kept the method to himself, not because he was ashamed of it but because he didn’t want people to view him as a danger. He took nothing from them they couldn’t afford to lose but they might not see it that way and the last thing he wanted was to be hounded out of town as an onanistic leech.

Since taking over the hotel he had taken to performing this ritual on its roof. From up there he could look out over the whole town, imagine each and every one of the sleepers around him as he teased himself with spit and thumb. Sometimes, when the connection was particularly strong, he could even visualise the dreams of the sleepers. He would sift through them, lifting out the erotic as extra fuel (another thing he would not have admitted to, as few like a voyeur). These little pornographic shows were fascinating to him. From the romantic to the bizarre, the simple to the bacchanalian. He knew all the town’s secret loves. He had witnessed Billy the engineer admit his lust for Elisabeth Forset, and she for him, but only within their separate beds. How he had longed to simply force the two into a double room and demand their honesty. Now, at least, it seemed he no longer needed to intervene, the barriers between them had fallen and they were finally together. He witnessed Biter, lost to a dream of countess jiggling rear ends, nose to buttock in a delirium of scent. He witnessed the ever fecund Fenella, her brood the eager helpers on the Land Carriage repairs. She was like him, a solitary lover, she needed only to dream to impregnate herself, each of her many children the product of nocturnal imaginings. What would the fathers think, he wondered, if they knew how their dream seed had helped to grow flesh? What would the noble Lord Forset say if he realised that the cheeky creature he had played peek-a-boo with the day before was his own dream child? Popo didn’t think the old man would approve.

He also witnessed the nocturnal thoughts of the governor’s aide Elwyn Wallace and his partner Meridiana. There was another solution to the long term problem of being a sex demon, he thought, find yourself a partner who can’t die then you can get up to whatever you like in the bedroom without fearing fatalities. Lucky for her.

He had finished his morning feed with a shiver and a sigh when he noticed movement on the street below. Crouching on the edge of the roof he recognised one of Fenella’s young, escaped from the house no doubt, and eager to play while others slept. He tried to see which child it was, they were all so similar with only the slightest variation in their features to differentiate them. He wondered if one of them was his. It would be a considerable blow to his pride if not.

The child was running towards the edge of the town and Popo decided he had better be the good citizen and capture it before it became lost.

He descended through the hotel, the nighttime chorus of snores and creaking bedsprings following him down the stairs.

Outside, he couldn’t see the kid. Adopting a gentle jog—he couldn’t move too fast, not so fresh from feeding, a process which left him bloated and dizzy for half an hour or so—he moved up the street in the direction he had seen the child running.

He passed the general store, the square, and jogged on towards the far side of town.

He finally caught sight of the child, dragging a length of wood behind it. It was an off-cut from the repairs to the Land Carriage, Popo guessed, now turned into a toy to draw lines in the dirt of the road.

“Hey kid,” he called, keeping his voice low for fear of disturbing the sleeping town. Perhaps it was too low for the kid to hear, or maybe it was just feeling willful as it continued to run towards the barrier, bursting through it and out into the world beyond. Popo growled. The kids were under strict orders from their mother to stay within Wormwood’s limits.

He gave chase and crossed the barrier, momentarily disorientated by the sudden light that hit him on the other side. He had forgotten how time shifted differently on both sides of the barrier. Who knew what day he had walked out into? Who knew what day would greet his return, for that matter? He could be out here for minutes only to find he’d been missing for a day on his return. Damn kid.

He rubbed at his eyes, cursing the dizziness that still coursed through him. After a feeding he liked to do nothing more than lie back and doze. All this running around was throwing his equilibrium. Certainly, if he had been at his best, he’d not have let the mortal that had crept up behind him get so close. There was a loud crack as the length of wood the kid had been playing with hit the back of his head and he fell to the ground, suddenly aware of the presences around him.

“Foul beast,” someone said, “look at the state of him! Shameless!”

“I think we all know what he was going to do to this thing when he caught it,” said another.

He was clubbed once again and he felt consciousness slipping from him. The last thing he saw was the sight of Fenella’s squealing child, held aloft by one spindly foot, being scrutinised like a fish netted from the river.

2.

“W
AKE UP,
”
A
voice said to him. The pain in his head had spread it seemed, both his hands and ankles throbbed so hard he dreaded to think what he was going to see when he finally opened his eyes. He decided it was probably for the best to keep them closed.

“I won’t ask again,” came the voice. “I’ll just set to work on you with something sharp until you find feigning sleep impossible. Perhaps I should just remove your eyelids, that might force you to be more polite and look at the man who is talking to you.”

“Is this violence really necessary?” asked another voice.

There’s hope yet, Popo thought, if at least one of these people has the spirit to ask that question.

“Perhaps it would be better if you left, Father,” the first voice replied, “I have no wish to upset you. But before you do, I’d advise you to take one more look at this beast and reassure yourself that we’re dealing with something beyond God’s mercy, and therefore beyond ours too.”

“I thought God was supposed to be all-merciful?” Popo asked, scared at the way his voice sounded so weak. He opened his eyes. “Isn’t that what mortals always say?”

He was in a small tent, five men surrounding him. He looked at his hands, sickened to see they had been nailed, rather than tied, to the chair he was sat on. No doubt the same could be said of his ankles, though he was in no position to strain and check.

“See how he mocks the Lord?” said one of them, the one who had been doing most of the speaking, “like a true child of Satan.”

“Actually,” Popo replied, trying not to let his fear show while taking the opportunity to assess the man, “Satan was one of God’s most loyal helpers.” The man was tall, his moustaches full and preened, a man who took pleasure in his image. There was nothing to be ashamed of there. Popo, while not one for clothes (there wasn’t a pair of trousers that could accommodate him) had been known to succumb to vanity on many occasions. The look in the man’s eyes, however, was worrying indeed. Despite his words there was no sense of fervour there, he was not a man who thrilled at the good book, his gaze was calm and cold. His religious affectation was a means to an end. “Last I heard,” he continued, “he’d retired from a life of testing the faithful. I believe he’s now running a trout farm somewhere in England.”

The cold-eyed man feigned anger. His mouth contorted but his eyes told the truth, chilly and practical, as he stepped in and dealt Popo a slap with back of his hand. “No more blasphemy,” he said.

He turned to the man Popo assumed was the ‘Father’ due to his monk’s robes. “Leave us,” he told the man, “this is not going to be quick or pleasant and I have no wish to upset you further either with his words or my responses.”

The monk hesitated for a moment and Popo realised he had misplaced his flippancy. He had played into the cold man’s hands with his talk of Satan—though he had spoken truthfully as far as he was aware. The monk nodded and stepped outside the tent, leaving Popo to the attention of the cold man and his three colleagues.

“There,” said the cold man, “that’s probably for the best. We don’t want to distress the Father any further, do we?” He looked to the other three men. “Are the rest of you happy to stay and do what must be done?”

“It’s clearly a devil,” said one, a pudgy man with yellow skin.

“You can count on me, Mr Atherton,” said another, “I won’t blanch when the going gets tough.”

“I know you won’t, Phil,” said Atherton, “you’ve a strong heart.”

“Me too,” said the final man, ageing disgracefully beneath an unruly mop of grey hair. “I’m only too happy to take a swing at the cursed thing.”

No doubt the old codger felt he had to compensate for Phil’s enthusiasm, Popo thought. He even placed a wonderfully heavy emphasis on the last syllable of ‘cursed’.

“I don’t know what you think needs to be done, gentlemen,” said Popo, realising it was likely fruitless to try and talk his way out of the situation but willing to try, “but I’ve done nothing to you. I was merely trying to fetch back the child of a friend.”

“You call that thing a child?” asked Yellowskin.

“Yes,” said Popo, “I do. Where is he?”

“You don’t seem too distressed at your situation,” said Atherton, not answering the question. “You like a bit of rough treatment, do you?”

It took Popo a moment to realise Atherton was referring to his erection. As a permanent fixture he sometimes forgot how distressing some mortal men found it.

“If so,” Atherton continued, “I can promise you’re going to very much enjoy what lies ahead.”

“It’s just the way I am,” Popo explained, then, unable to help himself, “though I’m gratified it’s taken your fancy so. In other circumstances I’d let you indulge yourself with it but I’m not feeling particularly loving at the moment.”

For the first time, that coldness in Atherton’s eyes thawed and he beat at Popo with a ferocity the Incubus was barely able to endure.

When he finally stopped, Popo found it hard to breathe and his mouth was filled with blood.

“You think you’re funny,” said Atherton, flexing swollen fingers and regaining his own breath as he took a step back, “but you will learn. I want to know all about that town. How many of you are in it. What abilities and weapons you have. Every last detail. I’m not going to ask you now. I’m going to let you rest a while, let you really enjoy the pain, then I’m going to come back and we’ll talk a little more.”

With that, he stepped out of the tent. Popo realised he’d probably struck a nerve, for all the good it had done him as Atherton had certainly struck a few in return.

“Well,” said the old man, “that sure told you, huh? Maybe you’ll watch your damned mouth next time.”

Again, that emphasis, damNED, it would have been sweet were Popo not in such pain. He spat blood onto the floor, only to feel his mouth begin to fill up again. And was that a tooth working itself loose? Popo thought it probably was.

“I asked a question earlier,” Popo said, no humour in his tone now. They had gone beyond trading insults. “I asked where the child was.”

“That thing weren’t no child,” said Yellowskin.

“Some kind of demon,” said Phil, “the way it chattered and screamed.”

Popo clenched the arms of the chair, though it was agony to do so.

“Phil smacked the shit out of that thing until it quit its noise,” said the old man, “took some doing too. Used that length of wood to turn the ugly thing to paste and still it cried.”