Incubi

Chapter 32

Ginny cranked out the last page from the Smith Corona XL that Khoronos had provided. Her story was done. It was only about 1,500 words, but she’d redrafted it obsessively. Even with her novels, it was not uncommon to rewrite eight or ten times. Art did not come easy for some; most of writing was rewriting. And to hell with all this word processor stuff. Ginny couldn’t imagine writing with anything but a loud, clanky typewriter. It was the activity that spurred her, margin bells ringing, keys clacking, the carriage whipping back and forth as her muse poured out of her fingertips. All her friends at her writers’ group told her she was crazy not to own a computer. “Oh, but Ginny, you’ll save so much time!” “I’m not interested in saving time, I’m interested in creating art,” she’d come back. “Oh, but Ginny, it all goes on disk! You just push the print button when you’re done! Laser jets! 256 RAM! 20-gig hard-drive! How can you live without one!”

“I will not sell my muse to technology,” Ginny would then say, and if they kept it up she would politely point out that her books sold millions of copies while theirs sold thousands. To put it another way, Ginny was sick to fucking death of hearing about fucking computers.

Her story was called “The Passionist.” Eight hours of writing left her feeling like eight hours of road work; she’d proof it later. She drifted downstairs, blinking fatigue out of her eyes. Just past nine now, it was getting dark. No one was downstairs. She’d peeked in on Veronica only to find her dead asleep. As for Amy Vandersteen, Ginny hadn’t seen her since yesterday.

She went out on the back porch and smoked. A cigarette after finishing a story was better than a cigarette after sex. The rush lulled her almost like pot and she looked dreamily up to the sky. The stars looked like beautiful luminous spillage; the moon hung low. Since coming here, since meeting Khoronos, she found beauty everywhere she looked. She saw wonders. Her vision had never shown her such things before.

She went back into the kitchen and microwaved a bowl of Korean noodles, which she found bland. She hunted through the spice rack for something to spark them up. Curry. Chili powder. Chopped red peppers. Below the rack, though, stood an unmarked jar. Ginny opened it and sniffed. The stuff looked like confectioners’ sugar, but when she tasted some on the end of her finger, there was no taste at all.

“Try some,” advised Gilles, who sauntered into the kitchen.

Ginny looked at him. God, he’s gorgeous. All he wore were khaki shorts and a red sweatband on his brow. “It doesn’t taste like anything,” she said.

“It’s like oysters. It makes you feel sexy. Try some.”

Ginny giggled and did so. It still tasted bland, but it amused her the way Gilles was watching her, head tilted and arms crossed under the well-developed pectorals. “Where’s everybody?” she asked.

“Erim and Marzen are meditating. They are very spiritual people. Spirit transcends flesh. Did Erim ever tell you that?”

“A million times,” Ginny said. “Synergy. Transposition.”

“Yes. Do you know what all that means?”

“I don’t know.”

“You will.”

Even his weirdness was attractive. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the fresh Band-Aid on his chest.

“My offering. I don’t expect you to understand that.”

His offering? Oh, he was weird, all right, but she didn’t care. The magnificent body and sculpted face were what she cared about. When she turned to rinse out the noodle bowl, his hands were on her back, kneading her stiffened neck muscles, teasing them loose. “God, that feels good,” she murmured.

“What does God have to do with it?”

“It’s a figure of speech, Gilles. Jesus.”

“Him too?”

His practiced fingers stifled her laugh. She wore no panties or bra beneath the sundress (Ginny didn’t like constraints when she wrote; at home she sometimes even wrote nude); she could feel his contours against her buttocks as he continued to massage her neck. This was all too obvious, though she did not object. Why should she? “I want to touch you,” he said then, and turned her around. What a line, she thought. Now she faced him, backed against the counter. She ran her hands up his chest and grinned.

“I want to touch you,” he softly repeated.

She felt perfectly slutty raising the hem of her dress. His hand slipped over the downy hair at once, then lowered to investigate her sex. The long finger made her moist right off.

“So you’ve finished your story?”

“Uh-huh,” she said. She was fascinated just watching, just looking down and seeing the hand play with her.

“What is your story called?”

“‘The Passionist,’” she breathed.

“A title born of truth, of yourself? You are very passionate,” he said.

Shut up, she thought. Had she subconsciously written the story for him? Her stories were allegories, her characters symbols of emotions. Perhaps she’d written the story for herself. Anything we create is part of what we are, she half thought as Gilles’ finger probed. The last line was this: Come away with me and my dream.

But what was her dream?

The kitchen was dark. Ginny felt slick and hot. Had the white spice really turned her on? She knew it was Gilles. Flesh, she thought suddenly, and absurdly. She wanted his flesh, not his spirit. She was only being honest with herself: his passion could take a hike, for all she cared. She wanted his cock.

He took his hand away and put the finger in her mouth, making her taste herself. She lowered his khaki shorts. Immediately his flesh was hard in her hand. That’s all a cock really is, she symbolized, amused. A handle that women use to lead men through life. She led him down to the floor by it. He stepped out of the shorts. Ginny pulled her dress up as Gilles arranged her on her hands and knees. “Like this?” he inquired.

“Yeah” she whispered, almost impatiently. The wan light from the living room was all that lit the kitchen. She could see the outline of his shadow above the outline of her own — she looked ahead as he inserted himself. The separation of images captivated her. She watched his shadow. He pushed her dress further up her back, then splayed her buttocks to penetrate more deeply. The angle and depth felt so good it almost hurt.

Ginny continued to think about things as he continued. She thought about love and lust. A few days ago she thought she might be able to love Gilles, but that seemed so foolish now. Love was foolish; it was an emotional play-act where the final exit was always the same: failure. Veronica had branded Ginny’s ideologies as cynicism, but then Veronica was a head case to begin with; she wouldn’t even admit she was still hung up on Jack. Love seldom worked. Wasn’t Veronica proof? All love did in the end was tear people apart.

The notion that her ideals might be flawed never occurred to her. Ginny was at home with her ideals. Love had blown up in her face enough times. Men had used her, so now she would use them back, with her body and her looks. Seeing Gilles’ shadow make love to her, without seeing his face, heightened the philosophy.

“You are beautiful,” Gilles whispered. His hands gripped her hips. His rhythm picked up. He wasn’t making love to her as much as he was probing her. Probe me all you want, she thought, biting her lower lip. Just don’t love me. If you love me, I’ll burn you.

His rhythm slowed a moment. Ahead, his shadow seemed downcast. Was he sad? Perhaps he had a lover somewhere, and he felt guilty now. Men could be such pussies. They’d realize their falsehoods and continue to be false anyway.

Then he said: “You are beautiful and you are true.”

More passionist crap, Ginny thought. It frustrated her. The only way he could go on was to try something romantic. Did he think she was an idiot? She reached back and tickled his testicles, to goad him on. “Don’t stop!” she whispered. Why was he hesitating? His shadow stood crisp and motionless in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry for what!”

He began again, thrusting much harder. That’s better she thought. Suddenly he felt snug in her, his penis like a stout plug in her sex, stretching her. He was getting her close now.

“You are very true.”

Shut up shut up! She closed her eyes, closing out his shadow, to concentrate.

“But not true enough,” he finished.

Ginny didn’t hear him, too busy summoning her orgasm. Hence, she didn’t see him either. She didn’t see his shadow and how drastically it had changed. The widened shoulders and arching back. Then a large angulated head, and the twin protuberances like horns.

When Veronica woke, the first thing she saw was the painting. Now that she’d finished, her fatigue caught up with her; she’d slept all afternoon into the night. The clock read 9:30; her window framed full dark glittered with stars. She leaned up and stared at the painting, but remembered that she’d been dreaming of Jack. The images didn’t mix. Her dream had just been pieces of them when they’d been together. She knew she should call him, at least to let him know everything was okay. But he was too reactionary, and jealous to the point of despair. Why reconnect herself to that? Stewie was another matter; he was business. She’d simply become too lost in everything — her work, her development, Khoronos — to remember to call him. He probably had all sorts of things lined up for her. Yes, she must call him, but…

Now that she thought of it, she could not remember seeing a telephone anywhere in the house.

When she’d originally called the number on her invitation, a woman transferred the call. It seemed a little funny.

A sense of emptiness followed her downstairs. Where did everyone disappear to so often? Downstairs was dark. She looked around the entire first floor but found no phone. I’ll ask tomorrow, she concluded, and went outside.

The big pool lay still in the moonlight. She noticed the gate in the back fence open and decided a walk in the woods would be relaxing. You couldn’t do this in the city; you couldn’t go for a nice, quiet walk in the woods because there was no woods. Just throngs of people, traffic jams, and smog. Since coming here, Veronica had never felt so purged of the world.

But where will I go now? She strayed along the moonlit path. Back home, to reality. How long would Khoronos want them around? The estate was just a playground. Sooner or later she’d have to get back to her profession.

What would it be like when she saw Jack again? She hoped he wasn’t moping over the end of their relationship. Ginny said that denial was actually assertion. But was it? Veronica felt convinced that getting back together with Jack would be a mistake. But—

I miss him, she realized.

The path opened into the little dell in which stood the white kiosk. She could just sit here and think, in the moonlight. She needed to think about things now that her work here was done. Yeah, just think, just think about things. She stepped into the kiosk—

— and froze.

The image seemed unreal. I’m still dreaming, she thought very slowly, and then the details of what she saw came quickly into focus. Veronica’s throat shivered shut. Her eyes darted frantically, each revelation striking them like a blow to the head.

It was a corpse that lay sprawled upon the kiosk floor: a nude woman besmirched with blood. In the moonlight, the blood looked utterly black. A tremendous stain spread from the apex of the corpse’s legs. The navel and sunken nipples looked like sockets, and the face…the face…

Veronica turned and ran.

— the face had been eaten off.

Her terror propelled her back down the path. Suddenly the woods seemed labyrinthine, insolvable. She thought in primal one-word bursts. Murder. Help. Phone. Police. She ran manic back to the house. Who was it? The corpse, bereft of a face, defied identification.

Up the wooden steps, across the deck. In the kitchen she stopped. What! What! “Somebody! Help!” she yelled, but the plea only echoed. She sprinted up the steps and burst into Amy Vandersteen’s room. The room’s tenant was not within. Veronica was about to run back out, but something locked her gaze. A lone sheaf of papers lay on Amy’s writing desk.

Amy obviously had accomplished little of her project, too distracted by drugs. The pages were an attempt at some sort of an outline, a scene from a projected screenplay.

A man made of flames? The similarity urged Veronica away from the desk. She dashed next to Ginny’s room, not surprised that Ginny wasn’t there. The manuscript, stacked neatly atop the typewriter bore the title “The Passionist.” She flipped to the last page and scanned the last paragraph of Ginny Theils’ taut, clipped prose:

…touched her, and in that touch she saw all the love in the world. Flesh made perfect, all flaws purged by the fire. “I am risen,” said the voice, but it was no human voice at all. The voice, like midnight, like truth, was incalculable. “Be risen with me.”

“But I’m not worthy!” she pleaded. “I’ve sinned.”

“And I now absolve you, with fire.”

She openly wept before the flow of love. I am risen, she thought. Trembling, she reached out. His hand closed over hers.

“Come away with me and my dream,” said the man made of flames.

Veronica’s heart wrenched in her chest. It was impossible. They’d all had the same vision in their dreams. The Fire-Lover. The man made of flames.

She was too confused to sort her thoughts. Then the words, behind her, rose in the air like a palpable shape.

“All the truth that you can bear, Veronica, is yours.”

She shivered as she turned. Gilles blocked the doorway. “What have you people done?” were the only words she could summon.

“There’s so much that you don’t understand, but you were not made to understand. You’ll see it all, though. In time.”

“You’re murderers,” her voice whispered. She stepped back, and Gilles stepped forward. His muscles flexed beneath his tight, tanned skin as he moved.

He opened his hands. Suddenly his eyes showed only white. “I am risen,” he intoned. “Be risen with us.”

Madmen, she thought. Her instincts poured adrenaline into her heart and she rushed forward. She tried to claw at his face, but his hands snapped up her wrists. She bit into his forearm. He didn’t flinch. She bit down harder and felt her teeth grind against bone. He only winced slightly, holding her. Warm blood flowed into her mouth. Even when she bit out a collop of flesh, he barely reacted.

“Don’t hurt me,” he said. “We have a gift for you. It’s a precious gift. Your transposition will show you wonders.”

She fought against his grasp, but his forearms, firm as steel rods, didn’t budge. His grip on her wrist made her hands go numb.

“You cannot hurt me,” he said.

Veronica squealed. Her foot lashed out and caught him directly between the legs. Gilles’ hands snapped open — suddenly he was on his knees.

Veronica leapt over him, scrambled out of the room and down the stairs. Fleeing to Ginny’s car would be pointless; she didn’t have the keys and she didn’t have time to look for them. She yanked on the front door but nothing happened. The dead bolt had no knob, just a keyhole. Locked.

She sensed the shadow that appeared on the landing.

She rushed back into the kitchen. Get a knife! She heard footsteps as she hauled open drawers, spilling their contents in a clang of metal. Her fingers closed around a fileting knife, when she noticed a lower cabinet hanging open. Immediately she noticed what was inside.

A phone.

It was a portable phone. A small whip antenna stood out of its handle, and a big battery pack was screwed into its housing.

A tiny yellow light winked when she turned on the switch, and the buttons glowed. Beeps resounded as she punched in 911.

She listened, panting. Nothing happened.

“Goddamn it!” she squealed. She’d never used one of these. It wasn’t like a cell phone. She fumbled with the receiver, sensing the footfalls coming through the living room. A top button glowed SEND.

Before she could push it, she was screaming, rising, being lifted up by her hair. The heel of Gilles’ bare foot slammed down on the phone and cracked its black plastic housing.

“You don’t understand.” His accented voice was clement, soft. Her scalp barked with pain. She whipped around—

“Veronica, please—”

She brought the knife across Gilles’ face. Its blade sliced cleanly through one cheek and out the other.

He stiffened and let go. In silence he brought his hands to his pouring face and stared at her. The stare seemed to dare her. I can’t hurt you, huh? she thought. Then she lunged again—

“Please, don’t,” he pleaded.

— and planted the knife into Gilles’ left eye.

He stood shuddering. Blood flowed like a cascade down his chest, yet he didn’t fall. His right eye held wide on her while the fileting knife jutted from his left.

And then, with resolute calm, he slowly removed the blade. Clear fluid ran down his cheek. The knife clattered.

“Please, Veronica. I won’t hurt you.”

She screamed again, a high keening sound, as the hand came around and grabbed her throat. Suddenly she was kicking, held fully off her feet.

“He won’t hurt you,” Marzen said very gently. “But I will.”

The grip of the German’s big hand tightened. Veronica gagged. Aloft, she seemed to be running on air, but soon her movements began to grow feeble.

Marzen’s face looked up at her. Blank. Pitiless.

I’m dead, she managed to think.

The hand squeezed off all the blood to her brain, and down she went, into darkness.