Tears of Blood (4 page)
Authors: Simone Beaudelaire
Mojave Desert, 1979
It turned out a pregnant succubus
was not that different from a pregnant human. Sarahi was normally ravenously
hungry, and as her belly expanded, her hunger grew more and more. And like a
human woman, only certain foods appealed to her. She was no longer able to take
nourishment from any source other than the sweet love energy of her angel.
Lucien fed her lavishly, filling her
greedy belly with the choicest of pleasures, spending so much time with his
lady that he was disciplined more than once for not being where he was supposed
to be. It was his own fault. She was so luscious he couldn’t stay away.
He never told her she was
draining him. The more energy he gave to the sustaining of their child, the
weaker he became. How could he say a word? She would be consumed with guilt,
and for naught, because the baby needed to be fed, and this was the only
nourishment its mother could take.
Still, it was a relief when, on that
Midsummer’s Eve, Sarahi woke with a start, wracked by labor pains. Lucien
had summoned the Indian woman who had agreed to act as midwife, and the two of
them oversaw the birth.
As the dawn pierced the horizon,
Sarahi gave a long loud wail and the midwife scooped into her arms a tiny,
squalling bundle of limbs with a wisp of fuzzy dark hair.
Lucien kissed his lady, proud of her
strength, while the woman cleaned and examined the baby. Then she laid him
tenderly in Sarahi’s arms and showed the succubus how to place her son on
her breast.
Lucien looked on, pride swelling his
heart. He was blessed beyond what his kind could ever have expected. Sliding
his arm around her pale shoulders, he kissed the fiery hair at her temple.
A
boy...that’s good. At least I don’t have to try to be father to a
succubus. He’s going to grow up to be a fine, strong naphil.
"What should we call him,
love?" he asked her.
"I think... Josiah," she
replied.
"Josiah. Excellent. I like
that."
He leaned over and kissed the baby
too.
Lucien had been gone for five weeks.
The work had been excruciating, long and dangerous. Several of his fellow
nephilim had not returned. But Lucien had been determined to survive. He had
others relying on him now.
In truth, this was the reason his
kind vowed celibacy. The responsibility of caring for a woman and a child meant
he was not able to throw his life away in pursuit of his mission. But having
tasted the sweetness of Sarahi’s kiss that long ago day in Rome, this
conclusion had been inevitable.
He found his lady inside the trailer,
sitting on the bed, propped up on pillows, their son cuddled to her breast. He
was alarmed to see that as she fed the baby, tears were spilling down her
cheeks. Her slender shoulders shook with quiet sobs.
"What’s wrong, my
love?" He slid into the bed beside her, stroking the dark skin of his son’s
cheek where it touched her pale flesh.
"Oh, Lucien!" She leaned
against his shoulder and wept as though her heart were breaking.
He stroked the scarlet silk of her
hair, waiting for the storm to pass, wondering what on earth had upset his lady
so much.
"Talk to me, Sarahi. What is
it?"
"It’s the baby,"
she wailed.
"What? Is he ill?"
"No. Worse. You can’t
imagine how bad."
"Why?"
"Lucien, look at him."
Josiah had finished nursing, and she
lifted him to his father, showing Lucien the brilliant green eyes shining from
the dark face.
"How nice, love. He has your
eyes."
"Demon eyes."
"So he takes after you in some
ways. He’s a boy. Therefore he’s a naphil."
"No, love. He’s
not."
"There’s no such thing as
a male succubus."
She sobbed. "If only that were
true. Haven’t you heard the legend of the incubus?"
"Bah. Old wives’ tales.
There’s never been such a creature."
"Lucien, he takes my energy
with the milk. I can feel it. He is an incubus. This is terrible."
Lucien’s mind was reeling.
"Is that really such a bad thing? Legend says the incubus will have
incredible powers. With us to teach him right from wrong, he’ll be an
agent for good."
Sarahi shook her head. "Do you
remember the day we met?" She struggled visibly to control herself as she
spoke.
"Of course."
"I told you our kind fed
because we had no choice?"
He looked at her but said nothing.
She closed her eyes.
"It’s true, but not the whole truth. We feed, and in the feeding,
our men are weakened. Eventually this weakening damages their souls and
destroys their will. They become enslaved."
"Is this the fate you had in
store for me? To be your captive angel?"
"No!" she cried.
"Never that! I love you, Lucien. I believed you would be strong enough,
and I would not be able to harm you in that way." She grasped his arm,
willing him to believe. "Besides those men are not enslaved to the
succubus. They belong to our mother. To Lilith. They are brought to her, and
become her property."
"To what end? Are they her
army?"
Sarahi laughed, a little
hysterically. "How like a warrior. No, love... well yes, they fight if
necessary, but no. They are drones."
His dark eyebrows came together in
consternation.
"Like bees, Lucien. She’s
the queen. Their job is..."
"To breed."
"Yes. She is the only one of us
with pure demon blood. Our half-demon heritage is not strong enough to take a
man’s seed. Only she can breed with them. That is how the succubae are
created."
"So she really is your
mother?"
"Yes. But the succubae are not
truly her goal."
"Then what, Sarahi? What does
she want? What are we fighting against?"
"She has been trying for
centuries to have a son."
He looked at her in silence while the
implications sank in. "She’s trying to create an incubus?" he
asked at last.
"Yes. If it is her son, she
will have control. She can finally have her revenge." The despair she was
feeling showed on her face.
"Love, your mother is a
powerful demoness, nearly a goddess. Against whom does she seek revenge?"
"Against all the children of
Adam, and the One who loves them. She has nurtured her hatred and humiliation
for millennia. She believes with the power of the incubus under her control,
she can enslave all the children of Adam, thereby inflicting the ultimate
suffering on..."
"The Creator."
"Yes." She looked into
his eyes, stricken.
"But, Sarahi, this is not her
son. He’s ours."
"Do you honestly think that
will stop her? If she finds out he exists, she will claim him. And it’s
only a matter of time. Just last week, one of my sisters came by to visit and
asked why I was cradling a baby."
Lucien stared at his lady, horrified.
"I told her I was trying to
seduce his father. She thought it was a great joke, but that story won’t
hold forever.
She
will eventually find out and take him from me. She'll
turn him. Oh, Lucien, you should have killed me when you had the chance."
He gathered her into his arms, the
baby cradled between their bodies. She hid her face against his shoulder.
"No, my love. I could never kill you. I love you."
"And I love you, Lucien. That
is why I need your help."
"Anything, my love."
"You have to take the baby.
Hide him. Hide him where even I cannot find him. Find a place where he will be
safe." He could feel her burning tears rolling down his shoulder.
"Take Josiah? Love, how will
you stand it?"
"You have to. I don’t
want him going to her. It’s best this way." Her voice broke. She
drew an unsteady breath and continued. "And you have to go away from me
too. I can’t have you near me. If we created one incubus together, we
could create another. I can’t bear it."
"I won’t leave you, Sarahi."
"You must. You have to raise
our son. Teach him what is right. Teach him to be good, to be light, so he
won’t be swayed by
her
temptation."
He looked down into her glimmering
green eyes. She was right. This must be done. He lowered his lips to hers in
the most aching of kisses.
"I will for now, my love. But
we will be together again some day, I swear it. I love you, Sarahi."
"And I love you, Lucien."
She clutched the baby close to her
breast, then lowered him a bit, looking down at his little face as love and
despair warred in her expression. She touched her lips to his forehead.
"I love you, my little one." Her voice broke. Tears splashed on the
baby’s nose and she kissed him again and again.
At last, she hesitantly extended
Josiah. "Take him while I can still let him go!" she wailed.
He gathered their son into his arms
and stood, turned as though to leave. Then he turned back.
"Swear me a vow, my
love."
"Anything."
"Don’t starve. Live. Wait
for me."
She nodded. He was gone. The sound of
Sarahi’s heartbroken sobs rang out across the nighttime silence of the
desert.
Part II
A Remote
part of Central Montana, 1989
"Mr. Smith, tell me the story again," ten-year-old Josiah
begged. "Tell me about my father."
"Joe, I’ve told you three times this week," the
silver-haired black man sighed, frustrated by his young ward’s pestering.
"It’s okay, Josiah," Annie replied. "I remember
it. I’ll tell you."
Josiah smiled, white teeth flashing in his café au lait face,
but he was in no way deterred. "I want to hear it from your
grandpa," he told his friend.
"Well, Josiah," Mr. Smith replied, "I’ll
consider it... after practice."
Josiah commenced to whining as only a small boy can whine, but Mr.
Smith put his hand on the child’s thin back and ushered him out of the
central meeting hall of the compound to the courtyard. Annie trailed
along, trying not to look too eager.
Why doesn’t Josiah like practice?
I love it! I’d do it every day if I had a chance!
But today, it seemed, grandpa was feeling traditional. Maybe the fact
that the other elder clerics were patrolling the shooting range had something
to do with it. Those old men and women didn’t care for the sight of a
pistol or rifle in the hands of a young girl. Grandpa handed the semi-automatic
handgun to Josiah and reminded him to aim only at the target. He stood by
watching the boy aim, fire, and miss. The recoil nearly knocked Josiah on his
butt. Annie grinned. She could control a pistol. It was easy for her. But she
had gotten some height in the last year and Josiah was still little-kid small.
Annoyed at being left out of target practice, Annie crept away from her
grandfather, who was showing Josiah – again – how to strengthen his
stance to compensate for the recoil. She crossed the flat expanse of treeless
grass which formed the courtyard to the far corner where, against a white stone
wall, a small pavilion with a bright green roof and matching columns provided
shade for the six ancient specimens that, along with grandfather, provided
leadership to the Order of Clerics.
She stood behind one treated lumber support column and peeked at the
group.
They’re so OLD. That one there must be forty!
Unabashedly
nosy, she listened to what they were saying.
"Yes, I know he’s a unique creature, but so far he shows
signs of being nothing more than what he is... a weak naphil. He’s shown
himself slower, smaller, and less adept than any of his brethren," said a
woman with white hair like meringue, styled in a puffy bouffant on top of her
head.
"He’s young," retorted a balding gentleman with
windshield glasses perched on a short, upturned nose. "And it’s
been millennia since there was a new naphil. Maybe they develop more
slowly."
"Ha!" laughed a third, another man, this one with a nimbus
of silver hair and deep wrinkles on his cheeks.,"He’s only one
quarter angel, three quarters human. We should train him as a cleric and forget
about the rest. How’s his father? Is he out of confinement yet? No one
fights like Lucien."
"He is to be released later this week," said the first
woman, resting her hand on one of the rough-hewn columns.
Away across the lawn, the pistol sounded another deafening blast. Annie
turned to look. This time Josiah was actually sitting on the ground. The shot
had gone wide again, she could see. The target remained unblemished.
Grandfather reached down a hand to Josiah and hauled the boy to his feet,
quickly averting his face. Annie saw the flash of irritated amusement.
A sigh from behind her brought her attention back to the elders.
"We’ll be lucky if he even manages to be a decent
cleric," said nimbus.
The others nodded solemnly. Then windshield glasses added, "As
many nephilim as we’ve lost in just my lifetime, I had such high
hopes."
"Stop, friends," said bouffant. "We are not alone.
Come out, little one. We know you’re there."
Annie’s stomach swooped. Face burning, she stepped out from
behind the column.
"Eavesdropping, were you?" bouffant asked her, scowling.
Annie gulped and nodded. No point in lying. She’d already been
caught.
"Why?" bouffant asked, her expression more unwelcoming than
ever.
Instead of answering the question, Annie posed one of her own.
"You were talking about Josiah, weren’t you?"
"What concern is that of yours?" the elder snapped.
"He’s my friend," she retorted, refusing to be cowed.
"There’s nothing wrong with him."
"Oh, child. If only that were true," windshield glasses
stepped over to her and placed one hand, heavy as a whole ham, on her slender
shoulder. "But don’t worry. We’ll train him up. He’ll
become a warrior yet. Believe it."
"Oh, I do," Annie replied, pushing a lock of bushy light
brown hair out of her face and boldly meeting each set of eyes; blue, gray,
green, with her own dark brown ones. "He’ll be the best of all of
us. At least, as long as you refuse to let
me
train. After all, we have
women senators and women ambassadors. Why not women warriors?"
"Now, now," windshield glasses patted her head soothingly.
"When you get older, you’ll understand. Battles are no place for a
girl, and the one we’re facing is so terrible. You’ll be glad to
hide away in the tower."
"Maybe
you
will," she retorted, jerking her head
away from his hand, "but no matter what it takes, I’ll be on the
field with the warriors."
"Watch your tone," bouffant snapped, but the two men
laughed indulgently and shooed her away. Sulking, Annie crept back to target
practice just in time to see Josiah fire another wild shot. This time he
remained standing, but the bullet went high above the target, over the stone
wall at the far side of the courtyard, and embedded itself in a pine tree
growing out of the hillside.
"Oh for Heaven’s sake," Annie sighed. She walked
right up to Josiah and wrenched the gun from his hand, pushing him down with a
nudge of her shoulder. "Do it like this." She aimed at the target
and pulled the trigger, burying a bullet just to the left of the
bull’s-eye. "That’s how you fire a kill shot," she told
her friend. Then she tossed the pistol to the grass beside him and stalked back
into the compound.
***
Three days
later
Lucien stretched out to his full height. Not used to traveling by car,
he’d been unprepared for the tight quarters. His almost seven foot frame
could hardly be squeezed into the cramped interior. And then he’d been
driven almost a full day without the chance to extend his limbs. This was the
last phase of his punishment. During the long drive, he’d remembered,
over and over, the day it had begun.
He’d arrived, ten years earlier, at the compound. It was in this
white block in the Montana wilderness where all clerics lived, where the
nephilim went to heal from injuries and rest after long campaigns. This time,
he’d done the unthinkable. He’d arrived with an infant in his arms.
The son of a naphil. The day was etched forever in his memory.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Stop that pounding, I’m coming," a cranky-sounding
female voice responded to his knock. The door flew open to reveal Pearl Smith,
a beautiful biracial girl who’d had a crush on Lucien when she was young.
Two years married, she was expecting. Her belly swelled tremendously. She must be
about due to deliver.
"Lucien!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. He
turned slightly to the side, protecting his precious bundle from her
exuberance.
"What do you have there?" she asked.
"I need to see your father," he replied, ignoring her
question.
Pearl nodded, her masses of light brown curls dancing with her
movement. "Come on." She grabbed his arm and led him to the
conference room where the elder clerics, all seven of them, were seated around
a wide oak table. Surrounding them on all the walls of the room, shelf after
built-in wooden shelf groaned with books, all ancient, moldy, and warped. On
the table, a scroll on lambskin had been carefully laid out. The margins of the
parchment, as well as the spines of many of the books, bore a strange symbol
embossed into the material and gilded. A flared base tapered to a sharp point,
like a fence finial. In the center, a gold circle was centered on the spike.
Two blades, like back-curving daggers, crossed just below the circle, their
‘handles’ affixed to the spike before crossing and curving down
towards the base and upwards toward the point. It was the symbol of the
incubus, he had been told. Though he’d never much cared for prophecy.
Heads of gray, white, silver, and one salt-and-pepper leaned over the
treasured document. The shades had been closed to prevent sunlight from
damaging the crumbling material, and only a small lamp illuminated the room.
The darkness seemed to close in on Lucien like a physical touch. He longed for
the hot, clean air of the desert, lightly perfumed with cactus flowers and
Sarahi’s sweet scent.
At the sound of the door bursting open, the four men and three women
turned.
"Pearl," Mr. Smith, the head elder, exclaimed. "You
can’t just interrupt a meeting like that..."
"But, Father, Lucien has come. He needs to talk to you."
Fourteen eyes turned his direction and skewered him.
"Well, Naphil, what is so very important you couldn’t wait
a few minutes to brief us?"
"Mr. Smith, I..." He closed his eyes, unsure how to
continue.
"You what, Lucien?" the man said, rising and crossing to
him, laying a hand on his arm. His eyes fell on the baby. "And who is
this little fellow? Just a few weeks old, I’ll warrant. Goodness, he
looks like Pearl did at that age. Whose baby is this, Lucien?"
"He’s uh... mine," Lucien managed to force out at
last.
Mr. Smith looked askance at the him, his brown eyes huge with shock.
Though nowhere near the age of the rest of the elders seated around the table,
the force of his personality showed he would be in charge in due time. He had
leadership stamped all over him. The surprised eyes crinkled at the corners and
the full lips fell open in a loud laugh.
"Yours? Lucien, you goof! I never knew nephilim had a sense of
humor."
"Um, we don’t," he replied.
The laughter died instantly. Eight humans inhaled sharply.
"Lucien?" Pearl asked in a trembling voice.
Mr. Smith was still examining the baby. Josiah yawned, his tiny mouth
cracking wide. And then he opened his eyes and regarded the middle-aged
gentleman with a puzzled expression.
Mr. Smith’s eyebrows drew together. "He is yours. I can see
that. So, Lucien, second in command of all nephilim, a general in the army of
half-angels, has broken his vows. Who, may I ask, is his mother?"
"That I will not say," Lucien replied. "But she did
not abandon our child by choice. She’s in a... dangerous
situation." He looked down into the green eyes which so resembled his
beloved. His heart clenched and his eyes burned. He looked up at the
elder-in-training, his former sidekick, and let his desperation show. "I
have broken my vow. I admit it. Punish me any way you want, but please. Help me
with my son."
Mr. Smith shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but Pearl
jumped in ahead of him.
"Of course, Lucien. Of course. He’ll need to be fed. I
think... I can get one of the other mothers to feed him until..." She
placed her hand on her belly. "And then I’ll care for him myself.
Nurse him myself. I promise you, no harm will come to your baby while I
live." She leaned up. Lucien bent to receive the gentle touch of her lips
on his cheek. He closed his eyes against a flood of relief, but a single tear
escaped. With one arm holding Josiah, and the other around Pearl, he was unable
to wipe it away, and it slipped down the length of his cheek and dropped from
his chin to the floor.
"Lucien."
He blinked, shaken from the deep memory. He stood before the same white
stone wall he’d seen hundreds of times since the decision had been made
to transfer one fifth of the nephilim to North America, in the year 1712. This
had been a center of angelic power long before even the distant cities of
Billings, Helena, and Glendive had been built. From there, it had been easy
enough to pop over to Virginia and keep an eye on the English settlers, to
Louisiana to monitor the French, and to the southwest to watch the Spaniards
for signs of demonic infiltration. Even now, they remained in relative
isolation, despite the intrusiveness of the modern world. The nephilim
preferred it that way, as did the clerics, an order of warrior priests and
scholars who supported and fought alongside their semi-angelic counterparts.
Without the clerics, the nephilim could well have been wiped out by now. And it
was to them Lucien had submitted himself for punishment.
