Hethrederin, the dwarven receptionist, reminded me of my leave while he filed the Elf’s report. Per Guild rules, we worked two weeks on, one week off. This guaranteed no one overworked themselves. For our health, or so they claimed. We were too valuable to burn out. What would the clients think if they found us too exhausted to help them?172Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡngVo4lnFlt
Regulations banned us from taking a Guild sanctioned job during our week off, but nothing stopped me lining up with the rest of our city’s entrepreneurs.
Buskers and shoppers bustled about the marketplace, even at the crack of dawn. The bleary-eyed guard, who directed foot traffic, gave a grateful grin as he accepted my bribe.
“A prime spot just opened up. Right next to the bakery. May your patrons share in your generosity, good sir. Anyone gives you trouble, tell ‘em Gregory sent ya and to come deal with me.”
He returned my bow with a crisp salute and waved his hand to stop another group, clearing my way through the gate. Nice guy. Though that was all guards when presented with donations.
Fresh baked bread wafted from the bags carried by the stream of pedestrians. The bright lettering of my sign, a gift from a mage in return for some monster parts, flashed above my head.
Maps! Translations! General Labor! Good rates, and an experienced hand!
A few people came to chat, straightforward requests to start. Tourists from the outlying village wanted city maps depicting all the normal sights: museums, exhibitions, specialized adventurer graves. They cost three gold coins and came with a freebie info dump of several places to avoid. One elderly woman needed help to understand a letter written in elvish, that turned out to be a court document. My hands shook reading the charges, thirteen accounts of murder.
She seemed nonplussed, paying me a full fifteen gold before shuffling off. Requests trickled to a crawl after that, leaving me to watch the other acts. Close by, trained animals balanced on balls, wowing the crowd as the duck and porcupine hopped between them. A few urchins scampered past, happy to buy me a loaf for lunch. At two gold coins? A bargain. My mistake didn’t become apparent until the swarm descended, begging to run errands.
None reacted well to being turned away and showed their objections through petty acts of revenge. It started with minor pranks that grew in size and severity. An occasional mud ball that splattered my back? Irritating, but harmless. The cart they sabotaged that almost ran me over? That was the final straw.
Back-Alleys blurred together, as the feral urchins chased me deeper into the city. A corner caught my sigh, causing me to stumble, and consider dropping it into the dirt. But no. The sign drew in business, no matter how much it slowed me. Neither taking sharp lefts nor rights mattered. The children dogging my heels with ease. They knew these disused pathways better than anyone and herded me while laughing about The Wastes and a pig’s breakfast.
They were closing in when a furred arm grabbed my color and yanked me into a nearby dilapidated hovel. The children screamed past, and my breathing slowed as the adrenaline evaporated. Safe, at least, from being torn apart by street urchins.
“You translate? Name?”
My back slammed against the wall as my legs reacted to the new sound. My focus had been on the feral children, to the extent my rescuer had been of minor consideration. A cloaked figure stood nearby, with two floppy ears poking out from either side of their hood, and a furred hand pointed a finger in my direction.
Dogman cultists. Great.
Miscreants and delusional believers who followed the orders of The Great Stick frequented this cult. This odd entity rested inside a modest temple somewhere in the underworld’s nicer sections. They desired to end the world, though, any plan they tried, they foiled themselves. Harmless, and therefore one cult The King tolerated.
Scholars and drunks debated about The Great Stick. Some decreed it a broken nature spirit, others theorized the whole thing to be a prank being conducted by an Arch-Devil or a High-Fae. The important thing was the cultists believed in doing whatever it asked, no matter the potential cost.
“Lieko, and yes, for money.” Better to be specific when answering the cult’s questions, otherwise they assumed you’d help because The Great Stick said so.
“Ruffus! He who hears The Great Stick without aid! Sit. We talk.”
Dread filled me. That meant he was a high priest, so saying no could have disastrous consequences. Which meant we’d have to discuss terms.
The dust on the chair acted as a cushion, at least, as he started his lecture. The job was surprising in its straightforward nature, compared to their past requests. No using a world ending orb to play fetch, or escorting younger members as they went door knocking.
With a flourish, Ruffus produced a book and slid it across the table, followed by a bag of gold.
“We find book. Demonic. Need translation. You do?”
My nod set him panting in excitement. Demonic wasn’t too hard to translate, being one of the four big languages other than common. My training involved learning each, so no misunderstandings with the various clients would occur.
“I can. But not here. You know demonic artifacts are illegal in the city, right?”
His puzzled expression was confirmation enough. Fantastic.
“Have you shown this to anyone else?”
His tail thumped against the chair as he shook his head. That was a relief. My shoulders relaxed at the knowledge no guards surrounded us.
“Do you have somewhere safe we can go?”
One ear raised as though he were listening to something. He barked, then panted for a few seconds.
“The Great Stick has spoken. To cathedral!”
Without another word, he grabbed my wrist and tugged harshly, forcing me to scramble to grab the coin bag. Delight filled me at its weight, even as Ruffus kicked aside some boxes to reveal a trapdoor. The bag clipped onto my belt, as he gestured for me to climb down after him.
What other choice was there?
With a creak, the trapdoor closed over my head, and my sign scraped the wall on the way down to join the softly growling high priest.
***
In a surprising twist, the sewers smelt better than The Grey Morass. Ruffus marched down passageways, twisting and turning deeper into the sewer. Aches and pains filled my feet until we stopped at the first door that bore any markings.
Scratched within the wood, easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention, were four words: Cult Hideout, keep out.
Ruffus barked twice before he knocked. The door slid open, and a rather pretty canine woman appeared to greet us. Her robes were a deep crimson and covered in fanciful embroidery that reminded me of interlocking branches. Expensive, no doubt. What fur was visible from underneath her robe showed signs of recent cleaning, and her fluff shone in the nearby torchlight.
The High Priest’s actions made me curious. Who was she? A bishop? Those priests were crazy, travelling to hell for the yearly pilgrimage. Sweat beaded on my forehead.
Either way, not someone to annoy.
Yellow eyes, piercing and filled with power, met mine, and she ran a tongue over her muzzle.
“Is he the one?”
Her tone was hushed, though her raspy voice carried in the tunnels. Ruffus bowed again and gestured towards me.
“Yes Door Keeper.”
“Very well.” She stepped to the side and nodded. “Inside. Take him to the chamber. Anything he needs, he gets. The Great Stick will recoup our costs tenfold.”
My heart leapt into my throat, stopping me from asking any of my many questions. What did that mean? What costs? They wanted a translation, didn’t they? Regret at not letting the urchins catch me gnawed at my insides.
Ruffus said nothing as we hurried past copper pipes before he shoved me into a grimy room. A mismatched set of chairs and a narrow writing desk greeted me as they loomed out of the darkness cast by the waning torchlight. He left me to check the ink and paper, retreating outside with a bark. Through the door, Ruffus shouted a promise to station a runner nearby to perform any additional tasks required.
With a glance, the book showed off its oddities. A basic copy of Demonic Summons - Third Edition, and like most, made of a strange material that was neither paper nor the flesh it attempted to mimic. The difference here was its legibility, written in ordered scripts of demonic, without the spiraling tangents and mad ramblings prevalent in most tomes.
While studying, several of my classmates went mad trying out the starter scrolls our generous instructors provided. The Guild still demanded their tuition, though no one was sure how they paid off their debt, or where they vanished afterwards. One girl swore she saw the Medics Guild’s undertakers arrive during a moonless night not long after, but no one believed her.
The other was that it had chapter titles: Demonic Lore. Tales of the Great Lords. Summons for dummies.
That caught my attention, and may have caused a few botched translations in my rush to reach it. A majority of the entries no one should summon, unless they had peculiar tastes. Numerous varieties of Nightmare Fiends, a demonic pig that ate brains, and an evil wind that followed you for several days making farting noises.
One, however, was more than tempting — the Imp.
Imps were blue furred rats, whose narrow faces held too many eyes, and four tiny wings that should never allow them to fly. Imps, not caring, did anyway, to the great delight of crowds of onlookers. A preforming duo, on market day, flew through flaming rings and a shower of gold coins.
Plus, according to the book, they were smart, capable of turning invisible, and learning common if their summoner taught them. The components were easy to find compared to the rest. Instead of virgin sacrifices and captured screams of undying minstrels, the items were on hand. A rat carcass, some blood from the summoner, and a written page of the summoners’ deepest desires.
That last requirement felt odd, but demonology got weird. Not that it mattered. Stacks of parchment sat on the desk, and sewer rats were plentiful. The runner didn’t blink at the request for corpses.
Instead, his ears perked up, and his tail wagged as he bolted off.
My focus on the job wavered, as ideas for my new pet sprang to mind. Preform shows? Use them to scout more dangerous areas? Sell their services to others? The glint of gold in the flickering torchlight snapped me back to reality. They paid me to work, not daydream. It wouldn’t do to act unprofessionally on the off chance they talked about my services.
The table creaked as the increased speed of my writing shook the desk.
***
Eerie green light spilled from the summoning circle, now etched into the floor. Mismatched chairs stood at the stars’ five points, each with a piece of rat carcass rested on it. The runner needed precise instructions to stop mangling the corpses, but now an intact rat sat in the middle of the circle. His bloodstained muzzle presented questions, though he refused to discuss the process. Oh well, not my main concern anyhow.
Besides, this next part required focus.
A single slip could lead to a potential disaster that would wipe the city, or create a massive political mess. That being The King’s reason for banning demonic summing within the walls of The Capital.
Everyone knew Reginald the Green, and his incubus brothel idea. It didn’t work, and took days to clear out. The entire disaster ended in multiple broken marriages, and some refreshed ones.
My small guild regulation book fell to the floor when my bag bumped the table, causing me to pause in my last check of the circle. A thorough examination of the booklet assured me no regulations outright forbid me owning a pet. Though, walking into town with a demonic entity on my heels might raise some questions.
A simple lie should explain it away, though, — a wizard did it. Even the common folk knew the wizards near the teleportation gate practiced illegal magic. It was one reason they left The Capitol to start with. If someone asked about the cost? A trade, one they asked me not to discuss.
Imps were common enough in the grand scheme of things. It would be fine.
Besides, the surveyor’s upstairs kept pets. The best known was a celestial rhino, now banned from entering the building after destroying several antiques.
With the book returned to the desk, and everything but my sign stored in my bag, the time to start the ritual had arrived. The runes appeared correct, and the chant was perfect. With a deep breath, my mana cycled to immediate effect. Flickers of green flames sprang up amid the parchment and consumed it until it was nothing but ash. When my pitch rose, so did the ash, each clump following the sound to rise and fall. Without losing a speck, they soon moved to cover the dead pieces of the rat.
The demonic words owned me, forcing me to continue, even as the chairs caught ablaze and filled the room with smoke. It stung my eyes and burned my throat until the words came out closer to coughing, then chanting.
Then everything stopped.
Smoke filled the room, blinding me as sounds of something shuffled in the darkness. A wind howled, and the smoke receded, vanishing into the palm of a red-skinned hand. In a controlled motion, the hand closed into a fist, causing the air to become breathable.
“Are you alright, Master?”
The sophistication that permeated the voice sent shivers up my spine. Every syllable was an audible delight on its own, but when combined? An opera of nobility. And the woman that voice belonged to? All of that, and so much more.
Her flowing evening gown was mesmerizing with its ever-shifting colors, a fashion worshiped by The Capitols’ nobility. Bat-like wings spread from her back, curled to not hit the barrier the circle emitted. Perfect teeth appeared as she smiled, and as her hand reached for the locket hanging from its silver chain, my gaze shifted to her neckline.
No rival for Minnius, but easily enough to cause a quite a stir among the royal courtesans.
My voice shook as her deep red eyes locked onto mine.
“You’re no Imp.”
A slender shoulder rose. “No. Would that be my master's preference? An odd choice, but not. Impossible.”
Her expression made me uncomfortable. If she was the type of demon she appeared, then her implication had connotations that frightened me.
“No. No... that’s. No. You’re fine. Perfect even.”
She clapped twice; the sound echoing around the room. “Fabulous. Would this be the Dogmen’s Cathedral, by any chance?”
That threw me off guard. Why would she be asking that? Was this a place of power?
“Yes?”
“Underneath The Capitol?”
“Yes?”
More clapping, and this time she strode forward, hands flat against the barrier. “Good. Lots of escape routes then. One more question?”
“Yes?”
“You were never taught how this worked, were you?” Her lips parted, letting out a quiet laugh before she skipped out of the circle.
***
Warmth vanished from my skin as she cupped my cheek. Her now prominent scent, a mix of ocean air and fresh parchment, tickled my nose.
“My poor Master, no need to be so concerned. Anyone could have fallen for my little trick, truly.” Her lips met mine, and pieces of me vanished in the taste of strawberries dipped in cream.
The kiss ended abruptly and lasted an eternity. My breath seized, air condensing into a ball that pressed against my rib cage until her finger traced circles on my chest. The ball of air shrank in size before it followed the movement. Her meaning was clear. She controlled my lungs, and only her hand on my chest that allow me to breathe.
“You did me a favor, you know? I so do. Appreciate. When someone does me a favor.” Her eyes glowed, and her hands reached for my shoulders. They squeezed and kneaded, and before my brain finished comprehending her words, she had me stomach first on the ground.
Delicate hands worked over my back, finding knots of tension, and as my muscles relaxed, small pieces of me vanished. This was heavenly.
“I never wanted to be a succubus, you know,” she continued. “I always wanted to open a massage parlor. Help people. But I died, and here I am. All desires made manifest to suck the life essence of the living.”
My calves relaxed under her probing touch, for the first time in my memory. A hiss escaped me, and she giggled.
“Feels good? Good. What was I saying? Oh! Yes. My parlor. A place I could help people relax. Apparently, that has a different connotation in the underworld. Who’d have guessed? So I needed a way topside. Someone foolish enough to try out a spell, and here you are. You’ll have to die, of course. Sorry about that. I require energy to sustain my form here, seeing as you didn’t bind me. Not part of my rewrite of the ritual.
“But you were trying to summon a pet. An imp, right? Right. So I’ll send you some compensation. Someone whose served alongside me for a long time. You’ll love her. Truly. And it looks like we’re finished. But one last—”
Her voice cut out as my energy evaporated entirely.
172Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSNA7mOJ9Mj
A/N - A lot of different versions of the Succubus have appeared over the years. What type is your favourite?172Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjkJ6jyD6O9
