Succubus Read online

  God only knows what kind of chaos that would unleash. Best not to think about it.

  Christian looked out the window at the world passing by. He noticed that the bus was on Center and Temple Street. This was where he got off.

  After yanking on a small cord dangling over his head, Christian stood up as the bus rolled to a stop. He carefully shifted his sheaths to make sure they were at least partially concealed by his cloak―he got enough looks for just the cloak―and exited the bus.

  The sights and scents of the city pervaded his senses as he ambled down the street. Crowds of people shared the sidewalk with him—the woman gripping her child’s hand as she tried to keep him from running off, the old man who walked with a stooped back and used a cane, the mass of blue-collar workers getting on and off buses and walking out of subway stations. The congestion of the walkways was second only to the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the roads.

  The city was far too busy for his tastes. The people of Los Angeles had no concept of relaxation, and the city reflected the state of its people.

  By the Almighty, I wish this place at least had a nice park where I could sit down and read one of my light novels.

  He arrived at the main headquarters of the Executioners’ California Division. The building, like most buildings belonging to the Catholic Church, was reminiscent of a cathedral. It towered over him, nothing like the skyscrapers surrounding it, but imposing in its own way. Large white bricks gleamed in the sun as if freshly painted, and the many Corinthian columns lining the entrance shone with a brilliant luster. A stained glass window above the entrance depicted the birth of Jesus Christ.

  No one would deny that it was a beautiful building, but Christian had always thought it a little too obvious a place for the headquarters to be located.

  Entering the building through a single door located in a small alley on the left brought Christian into a modern waiting room. Several chairs lined the outermost wall near the entrance. The white floor tiles sparkled under the overhead lights, and multiple paintings hung from the walls.

  In the back of the room equidistant from the north and south walls, a young woman sat behind a desk.

  Her long brown hair lay smoothly against her head, and matching brown eyes hid behind a pair of rimless glasses. Her gray business suit flattered her figure, allowing her to look professional while maintaining a womanly appearance. While her outfit lent her a sense of professionalism found in most middle-aged men and women, she was actually two years younger than him.

  She looks more like a businesswoman than a member of the Church.

  Christian walked up to the desk. The woman hadn’t noticed him yet, busy as she was typing on a computer. He waited for several seconds, but when it became clear that she wasn't even paying attention, he coughed into his hand.

  “Claire.”

  The woman looked up from her work. Her eyes widened in surprise, then gave a delighted smile when she realized who was standing before her.

  “Christian, you’re back. Tristin was just telling everyone about how you completed another mission. Congratulations.”

  I will not kill my comrade. I will not kill my comrade. I will not kill my comrade.

  “Thanks. I guess.” Christian returned the smile with an uncertain one of his own. He liked Claire, really, but the way her eyes sparkled when she spoke with him made him uncomfortable.

  “You do very good work. I heard from Tristin that you took out an entire coven this time. I’m sure God is pleased with the work you do as well.”

  I’m going to kill him.

  “Thank you,” Christian said, withholding a grimace. “May I go on in now? Or is Samantha busy?”

  “Go ahead.” Claire gestured toward the hallway on her left. “She’s expecting you.”

  “Thanks again.”

  As Christian moved toward the hallway, Claire called after him. “You’ll have to tell me about your latest mission when you finish talking to Samantha. I would love to hear about it.”

  Christian didn’t answer her. Not only did he feel uncomfortable when people tried talking to him about his job, but it was against protocol to reveal anything related to his missions with someone who did not hold a certain rank in the Catholic Church’s hierarchy. Claire was just an aide. Her job was to act as a secretary, help answer inquiries, and keep the day-to-day operations running smoothly—not to know the details of his missions.

  Besides, she shouldn’t know the gory details. The least I can do is spare her from those horrors.

  He walked down the long hallway, his booted feet clicking against the black marble tiles. The hallway wasn’t very high, reaching just a few feet above his head.

  He passed several doors before stopping at the end of the hall in front of a double door. The dark wood stood in stark contrast to the golden plaque in the center and the white walls of the hallway surrounding it. Embedded into the plaque was a single name, written in elegant cursive: Samantha D’Arc.

  Christian knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” a female voice called from the other side.

  Opening the door and walking in, Christian took a moment to gather his wits by studying the room’s interior.

  The white walls were practically bare of ornamentation: only a sword blessed by the pope himself, an antiquated-looking gun, a medal shaped like a crucifix, and a single photograph of the pope. There were no chairs or couches, just a couple of filing cabinets stacked against the wall, and a desk located in the very back.

  The desk was the most ornate item in the room. It was large, crafted in the shape of a crescent, and made from finely grained rosewood. Several golden motifs of a crucifix, the symbol of the Catholic Church’s Executioners, lined the bottom edges and legs.

  Sitting behind the desk was a young woman. Dark, straight, almost raven-black hair flowed down her head, nearly reaching her waist, and long bangs covered her left eye. The single piercing blue eye that remained visible flickered back and forth, reading a report on her desk. Her thin lips were set in a small frown of concentration.

  She wore the robes designating her as a commander of the Executioners, though the outfit looked more like a military uniform than a robe. Its crisp, dark-blue pants and long-sleeved shirt were fastened together with straps instead of buttons. The difference between this outfit and standard military garb—aside from the straps—lay only in the dark-blue cape that fell to her ankles.

  Christian walked farther into the room, his footsteps undoubtedly alerting the woman to his presence.

  “I’ll be with you in just a moment,” she said, not looking up from what she was reading.

  He stopped a few feet from the desk and stood with his feet spaced shoulder-width apart, his hands clasped behind his back. Christian knew her routine by now. Whenever Samantha became like this, it was impossible to get her attention short of making the roof collapse on her.

  “My apologies for making you wait,” Samantha said as she finished going through another few sheets of paperwork.

  “No apologies necessary. I understand that you’re busy.”

  Samantha’s head snapped up at the sound of his voice.

  “Oh… Christian.” She sounded surprised. “I’m sorry. If I had known it was you, I would have stopped working. You should have said something.”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  Samantha smiled. “That’s just like you. Always putting others ahead of yourself.”

  Christian shifted uncomfortably. Samantha must have noticed because she straightened a moment later, and her face smoothed into the impassive and collected gaze of a leader.

  “I’ll receive your report now.”

  “Right.”

  Christian took a second to collect himself and then gave her a report of his encounter with the vampire coven. Samantha listened, nodding at some places and frowning at others. When he finished, she leaned back and sighed.

  “An entire coven,” she muttered, looking tired. “I can’t believe an
entire coven was hiding out in Los Angeles, and we never realized it until now.”

  “The Intelligence Division definitely dropped the ball on this one.”

  Samantha shook her head. “The Intelligence Division wasn’t at fault. We’ve received reports that several covens have been migrating to the western United States for some reason. I didn’t believe any of them would have the gall to move so close to an Executioners regional office, but it seems I was mistaken.”

  “They probably didn’t know. It’s not like we have a sign pointing at us or anything.”

  “Maybe, but it should be common knowledge among the supernatural population that all major cities in the US have a regional office. Even if we don’t advertise ourselves, it should be more than obvious by this point. No, I believe this is something else. It’s almost like something has them spooked.”

  “Spooked?”

  “It’s nothing. Why don’t you head to the barracks and take this time to relax? I’m sure I’ll have more work for you soon.”

  “Ma’am!”

  “And please don’t call me ma’am. I’m only a few years older than you are. We were even trained to be Executioners at the same time.”

  “My apologies, ma—Samantha.”

  “Better. Now, go rest up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Christian…”

  “… Sorry.”

  ***

  Several hours later, Christian sat in his room writing up his report. Despite having given one orally to Samantha, he still needed to file his report with the Intelligence Division. They would create the copies. One would be sent back to Samantha, and another would be filed for future reference.

  It was nearing noon. His report was almost done; there were just a few more details to work out, a bit more information to give. After that, he could get some rest. He might not have been injured during his mission, but fighting vampires always tired him, especially because he refused to use performance-enhancing drugs like most of the other Executioners.

  His cloak hung on the coat hanger located in the corner of his room near the door. He now wore only a black sleeveless shirt and black pants. His boots and gloves had also been taken off, leaving him barefoot and his hands uncovered. While it was a simple pleasure, he reveled in the sensation of his extremities being unconfined by clothing.

  Samantha would probably say I was being uncouth. The thought made him chuckle.

  As he wrote up his report, recalling the battle so he could give more details, he thought back to how he'd first become an Executioner. After his home had been lost to him when he was six, he’d been taken in by the Catholic Church. On his tenth birthday, they began training him in the art of combat.

  Orphans who grew up in one of the Church’s orphanages ended up working for the Church in some way—usually. A few went on to become clergymen and priests. Some worked as secretaries and aides. Others rose to prominence and became bishops.

  Christian had gone on to become an Executioner. The normal citizens, those who attended sermons to worship God, knew nothing about this secret sect of the Church. It was for their own protection.

  Executioners were given the task of eliminating abominations from the world. They killed the unholy creatures that had no qualms about snuffing out human lives: vampires, werewolves, demons, trolls, goblins, chupacabra, mermaids, sirens, succubi, and so on. For the sake of humanity, Executioners stained their hands in blood. To protect the innocent, they committed one of the sins that the Ten Commandments forbade: Thou shalt not kill.

  Even though he disliked killing, Christian took his job as an Executioner very seriously. He never wanted to see someone else suffer because some aberration decided to slaughter innocent people for their own sick amusement.

  His pen moved with fluid grace as he put the finishing touches on his report. After reading it over and making sure it contained all the pertinent information, he set the sheet back on the desk.

  A loud yawn escaped him and, after stretching his arms above his head to try to work out the stiffness in his muscles, he looked at the clock. It was an hour past noon.

  He stood and moved away from his desk, stumbling toward the bed. His bedroom, much like Samantha’s office, was rather Spartan, possessing little in the way of furniture or decorations. The Catholic Church did not believe in having more possessions than was strictly necessary. Humility was a virtue to be upheld. The newer members, those who had only became Executioners recently, didn’t care about those virtues, but he did.

  The only object in his room that could be considered in excess was the sleek, advanced-looking tablet sitting on his desk. It was his only personal possession, aside from his weapons and clothes.

  As he crossed the room, Christian divested himself of his clothes and left them on the floor where he dropped them. He reached his bed and quickly crawled underneath the covers. He fell asleep, and in his sleep, Christian dreamed of fire and smoke, of lives lost and lives taken. His dreams always were the stuff of nightmares.

  Chapter 3

  Fire was everywhere. It consumed everything. No matter where I looked, all I could see was the bright red flames that engulfed my home. All around me there roared a blazing inferno that caused my skin to blister and my body to burn.

  It was not just my house that was on fire. Everything else was on fire, too. The entire town I lived in was burning. The once humble dwellings of my neighbors were caught in a blaze. The house belonging to the funny old man who always told jokes had collapsed on itself. Walls reduced to rubble. Roofs crumbling as flames crackled and popped.

  I could hear screams in the distance. Cries for help. Cries of despair. I wanted to scream, too, but couldn’t.

  Smoke filled the sky, as well as my lungs. It clung to my skin and clothes. It clogged my throat. I couldn’t breathe, I could scarcely think, as I stumbled through the acrid blackness.

  “Mom! Dad!”

  I called out to my parents in desperation, or I tried to. The smoke made it difficult. Several times, I found myself choking as I attempted to shout.

  “Mom! Dad!”

  Smoke or not, call I did. Over and over again.

  “Mom! Dad!”

  I called because I couldn’t believe they were not here with me. I had to believe they were around here, somewhere, someway, somehow. They couldn’t have vanished. They had to be here.

  “Mom! Dad!”

  They had to be!

  “MOM! DAD!”

  But there was no one. No one but myself and the infernal flames and the cries of the damned. My parents were gone.

  Tears gathered in my eyes. Yet even those were consumed by the heat of the flames, the liquid evaporating almost as soon as it was produced.

  Where were my parents? What had happened to them? Why was I alone?

  ***

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  “Wakey-wakey, rise and bakey!”

  Christian’s sleep was rudely interrupted by childish words produced by an annoyingly familiar male voice. Opening his eyes, he looked around, groaned, and then rolled over onto his side and tried to go back to sleep. Maybe if he ignored the voice, his tormenter would leave him alone.

  “Come on now, sleepyhead! Get that butt out of bed!”

  The knocking persisted, as did the voice. Worse still, the owner of said voice had started rhyming. That the man banging on his door had now resorted to terrible rhyming only served to give Christian a headache. There was no way he couldn’t not answer the door, not unless he was willing to deal with the mother of all migraines.

  “Christian! Christian! Come on, Christian!”

  With an exasperated groan, Christian stumbled out of bed and made his way to the door.

  He flung the door open with startling violence and cast a withering glare at the man who dared to interrupt his sleep.

  “What?!”

  “You’re always so cheerful when you first wake up,” Tristin, the person on the other side of the door, said with his ever-prese
nt grin. Wavy blond hair hovered over light blues eyes, and framed a handsome face. Pretty boy. That’s what this guy was, one of those Prince Charming types, the ones that made women flock to them just by standing around. And Tristin never failed to bask in their attention.

  Though just how all those women dealt with his personality was beyond Christian.

  Tristin chuckled in response to the scowl Christian sent him.

  “Nice to see you acting so lively today. You may want to put some clothes on, though, as I doubt others will appreciate your state of undress as much as I do.”

  It took Christian a moment to process those words into something that he could understand. After several seconds of silently staring at the other man like he had two heads and a pair of bat wings coming out of his back, he looked down at himself, and squawked when he realized something that his sleep-deprived mind had not comprehended yet.

  He was still in his boxers.

  “Hold on a second.” An embarrassed flush crossed his cheeks as he slammed the door in Tristin’s face. He made his way across the room, grabbed his pants, and shoved himself into them before once more opening the door.

  Christian cast another tired glare at the young man who’d come knocking. Now that he was a little more awake, he noted that Tristin wore his full uniform as a member of the Intelligence Division. The dark long-sleeved turtleneck shirt complimented Tristin’s sun-kissed skin. It was a dark charcoal color, the same color as the man’s pants. A small shoulder cape covered his left shoulder to the bicep. Strapped to his right thigh was a small 9mm pistol, standard issue.

  “What do you want, Tristin?” Christian asked, his voice snappish. He was not in the mood to deal with this man. “It’s too early in the morning to deal with your antics.”