Satan's Whore

He saw her out of the corner of his eye as he finished his coffee and pastry. A face in profile. A flash of thigh between a skirt and a leather-booted calf. A tingle of recognition out of all proportion with what he had glimpsed. And that feeling, that overwhelming, nameless feeling that he'd learned to trust. Call it intuition. Call it a sixth sense. Whatever it was, it had just spoken to him. Loud and clear.

He was on his feet in an instant and threw some coins on the table. Before he could question this impetuosity, he hurried after her. Outside, a name came to his lips, a name which he had learned after first seeing her several nights ago in the company of a tall, blond gorilla. After that first sighting, he`d rushed to the archives to find the strange portrait that he'd discovered months ago. He took a photograph of it with his iPhone. There could be no doubt.

The woman was across the street, about to be lost from view. He couldn't lose her. Not now. Who knew if their paths would ever cross again?

He took a chance and yelled out the name he had learned. "Katarina!" he shouted. "Katarina von Regensburg!"

The woman was some distance away now, separated from him by several dozen shoppers and tourists. Her back stiffened and her step faltered, a slight hesitation that to him betrayed recognition. The woman stopped and slowly turned. He took in her face. There could be no doubt, he thought. Dark, almond-shaped eyes, spaced widely apart over sculpted cheekbones. The delicate nose over full lips. The firm jaw and chin that bore a hint of a cleft. All of which framed by raven-black hair. It was Katarina von Regensburg, somehow transported to the here and now through the centuries. He was convinced of it.

He approached her through the throng on Zwingerstrasse, each step adding certainty to his conviction.

***

The name shouted in the street brought a chill to Kat. She turned, knowing as she did so that it was a mistake. She should have ignored it and kept walking. But she had to know who had spoken her name.

She turned and saw a man bearing down on her. By his dress and size, the man who approached her looked American. By the clear-eyed eagerness with which he approached her, he was naive. Or a zealot. Whatever he was, he was danger.

"Thank you for stopping," he said in German, his accent betraying him as a foreigner. "I'm Daniel. Daniel Smith."

"Now that I have stopped, Mr. Smith," said Kat, "perhaps you'll tell me the meaning of this." Her statement was abrupt, even by the standards of the brutally polite natives of this city.

The man, a boy really, scrutinized her unashamedly. He was large and muscular but hadn't yet grown into his size. A mop of blond hair waved in the breeze over piercing blue eyes. There was intelligence in them, but also a barely contained excitement. "I've seen you before on the main street, walking with some guy..."

Kat remembered now. The sudden flash of interest from someone hidden in the crowd. An interest marked not so much by its intensity -- Kat was more than familiar with arousing interest -- but by its flavor. There was no other way to describe it.

"I never thought I'd see you again. I mean, you might have been a tourist or something and gone home to wherever."

Kat smiled tightly.

"That smile," he stammered. "Uncanny. And the way the light is hitting you now...."

She knew that she should leave. She knew that something was terribly wrong and dangerous. Instead of leaving, she said, "Perhaps you should explain."

"It's just... well... I noticed that you're the spitting image of Katarina von Regensburg. In fact, I'm surprised that you responded to the name."

"I was responding to a lunatic American yelling nonsense in the street. No doubt others did as well. "

Her words didn't cause the acute embarrassment that she'd hoped. Instead he tilted his head and studied her with discomfiting intensity, as though committing her to memory.

"But now that you have accosted me, perhaps you can tell me of this person and why you would think that I am she."

"It'll sound silly."

"It already does."

The man-boy was silent for a long moment, as though now doubting the intelligence of his brashness.

He took a deep breath and then spoke in an excited rush. "When I saw you the first time, it was as though I recognized you. There's a portrait of you or someone who could be your twin in the university archives. I'd come across it some months ago and didn't think much of it until I saw you in the street. It's remarkable, really. The hair is a bit different and the clothing too, but everything else -- your face, your bearing -- is identical. I have to say that it doesn't do you justice."

"It's not me, obviously."

"I'm not so sure."

Kat laughed. "How old is this supposed likeness?"

"The portrait was done in the 1700s."

"There you go then. It's a coincidence, nothing more, unless you wish to imply that I'm three hundred years old."

She'd expected him to apologize for the slight, however ridiculous -- most men would -- but he ignored the opportunity.

"But it's not so much the portrait that intrigues me, it's what is written beneath it."

Kat felt a chill but forced herself to remain calm. "And what might that be?"

"It's in Latin and was inscribed some time later by a hand other than the artist's."

"You're an art historian?"

"No. I just know that the artist would not have spoiled so exquisite a work with what was written."

"Which is?"

"Vade retro Satana. Nunquan suade mihi varna!"

Kat knew the rest but remained silent. Sunt mala quae libas!

"Do you know it?"

"No idea."

"It means Begone Satan. Never tempt me with your vanities! What you offer me is evil!"

"Curious," said Kat weakly.

"It's a damning inscription at the very least."

It had been a message to her and everyone at the court. Karl Phillip had thought that the inscription alone would have been enough to banish Katarina from the court and send her back from whence she came. He was correct only in the first point. She was still very much alive, and he, of course, had long since turned to dust.

She never thought that she'd hear those words again.

Kat could not entirely suppress the tremor in her voice. "Damning yes, but nothing to do with me. And, I must say, you have some nerve approaching strangers with such stories."

"You don't look well."

"I don't take well to being accosted in the street by someone who is obviously a lunatic."

The boy smiled knowingly. "You seemed to recognize the Latin, much as you recognized the name."

Kat had had enough. The boy obviously had no difficulty believing the unbelievable. There was nothing she could say that could divert him. She grew angry. "What are you implying?" she asked, stepping into his personal space. The tremor was gone now, replaced with a quiet firmness.

The boy took a step back. "It's just.... Nothing."

Kat took another step. "Because if you're implying that I am in league with the devil or some such nonsense, and if you truly believe it is so, then you're clearly out of your depth."

"I..."

His back pressed against the wall and she pressed against him. Kat could feel him responding to her closeness in a way other than fear.

She placed a cool hand on his cheek and leaned into him. "In fact," Kat whispered into his ear, "you would do well to forget me and whatever it is you think you know about me. Do you understand?"

She didn't wait for an answer.

***

Daniel watched her leave in a swirl of leather and the clicking of her heels on the cobblestones. He leaned against the wall, fighting the sudden tightness in his chest. He took a deep breath and then another.

Unconsciously, Daniel crossed himself.

He could still feel the closeness of her. The pressure of her against him. The breasts that had brushed his chest. The leg pressed between his. The hand on his cheek. The perfume of her that lingered in his nostrils.

He still felt the sudden, inexplicable arousal and shoved his hands in his pockets to hide it.

What have I done? he asked himself.

As improbable as it was, the woman was Katarina von Regensburg. There could be no doubt. For some reason, the fates had brought them together, not once, but twice. Once to alert him and today to help him confirm his suspicions.

If fate had engineered these meetings, what else had fate ordained?

***

Kat berated herself for even stopping at the sound of her old name. Idiot! No one outside of the family knew that name, and now some oafish farm boy from the armpit of America had it on the tip of his tongue. This was a disaster and not least because she had handled it so badly.

By her overreaction, she might as well have tattooed the word Succubus to her forehead.

Damn!

Kat took the most circuitous route home, relying on long unused skills to ensure that she was not being followed.

If her encounter with the brash young American had taught her anything, it was that she could not continue in her current state. That she had allowed herself to be cornered like that was testament to her weakness, the fact that she'd been out of the game too long. She'd lost her edge. Jean-Paul was right -- she was a liability to the clan.

As much as she recoiled at the thought of partaking as she once had, she knew that to do otherwise would be the end. She either had to surrender or hunt again.

She might start by hunting the American, she thought absently. She wondered what it would be like to feed from him. There was an earnest purity about him that would have made him a prize in other circumstances, yet she could not bring herself to prey upon him. It was remarkable, but her touch had revealed no chink in his armor, nothing on which to gain leverage. Usually she could discern such things in an instant.

She shook her head. Why was she even thinking about him in that way, this big lumbering paragon of overzealous virtue? Even if she did have a type, he wasn't it. He was somehow too wholesome, too overwhelmingly present, too stereotypically all-American. She was typically drawn to those with some kind of flaw, be it a physical scar or some defect of character. Imperfection was, after all, more interesting than its opposite.

She hoped that he would heed her warning and forget about her.

In time, she would then forget about him.

Until then, she wondered what he would taste like.

***

Tonight she would feed.

It wasn't so much that her inactivity risked the clan -- though that was part of it -- it was that the need had been growing in her for so long that it could no longer be ignored. It had just taken until now to recognize it. The night with Jean-Paul, as abhorrent as it was, had awakened her to her nature. The meeting with the American had brought home to her how weak she really was.

Besides which, Kat had to get out. The atmosphere in the grand house had become oppressive since that night with Jean-Paul. Though nothing more had been said on the matter of her welcome or lack thereof, she couldn't help but sense the weight of expectation and that of impending judgment.

With the decision made, she readied herself.

Over the centuries, she'd kept up with the changing ideals of beauty, from the pale, voluptuous ideal of the Renaissance to the corseted fashion of the Victorian era. But for the discomfort of corsets, this period was when women looked like women, with the possible exception of the 1950s. This new millennium placed a premium on the boyish -- the narrow-hipped and emaciated. As a result, this was one era in which she chose to diverge from the ideal. She preferred woman with boobs and hips and the classic hourglass figure.

Kat appraised herself in the mirror. Not bad for an old broad, she thought. She had her hair in a ponytail. Men liked that, the implied innocence of a schoolgirl. Dark bangs neatly framed equally dark eyes that were expertly outlined in mascara and smoky eye-shadow. For tonight she applied blood-red lipstick.

No, there was nothing even vaguely emaciated about her figure. Her full breasts stood proudly on her ribcage. Each nipple bore a ring, one for Damian and the other for Britt, the incubus and cambion with whom she was bound. She quickly looked away from them, following instead the trim line of her waist as it flared into shapely hips. Hips made for child-bearing, Damian had said more than once. A bitter joke. It was a comment that could be interpreted as nasty, but then, he was equally unable to sire children. It was a statement of fact, sad rather than mean-spirited.

Kat sat on the edge of the four poster bed and sheathed her shapely legs in black stockings, stroking their length to ensure perfect smoothness and alignment. Around her waist she wound a garter belt, cinched it, and fastened the stockings. She stood and studied herself again. The black lace of the garter framed a trim exclamation mark of pubic hair. Barely visible was the golden ring that pierced her clitoris. Tonight she would eschew the matching lace panties that she'd set aside, opting instead for the freedom and excitement of scarcely concealed nudity.

She donned a bra that caused the tops of her breasts to swell. Whatever else men might say, in the end they all yielded to the mysterious cleft between two ample breasts. She completed the ensemble with a low-cut, cream-colored blouse and a leather skirt that barely hid the straps that held her stockings.

After lacing on a pair of black leather boots and grabbing her purse, she set out.

She wandered among the pedestrians on the Haspelgasse by the Church of the Holy Spirit, expertly setting her four-inch heels on the uneven stones of road. This wasn't too far from where she had first encountered Daniel. Tonight, she could discern no trace of him. Just as well.

It was early yet for her, barely past midnight. Too early to project into the bedrooms of the city to identify those most susceptible to the attentions of a succubus. Yet she enjoyed being out of the house, walking among the unsuspecting and innocent masses.

In the time that she'd been here, she'd heard more than her share of German music. That is why the strains of jazz that wafted out onto the street drew her. She entered the bar. A jazz quartet occupied an impossibly small stage in the corner. She recognized Coltrane. She sat at the bar and ordered red wine. The musicians were trying their best to rise above the din of drunken laughter and shouted conversation. She nodded at the bassist who returned the acknowledgment with a smile as he caressed the neck of his instrument with remarkable eroticism.

She was lost in thought when some activity caught her attention. A young waitress had stopped at a table to deliver a tray of beer to a group of men whose behavior clearly needed no additional lubrication. One of the men, a burly bear, reached around the girl's waist and pulled her onto his lap. Kat glanced at the barkeep. Otherwise occupied, he failed to notice the waitress's predicament.

Kat slid off the bar stool and made her way to the group. "Leave the girl alone."

The waitress looked at Kat in surprise and took the opportunity to escape the man's hands and scurry away from her tormentor. She left with a look of gratitude.

"She's too young for you."

Kat willed herself to retreat. This was too dangerous. She couldn't get into it with him, yet here was a man who clearly needed to be taught a lesson. She longed to bring him down a peg or two, and perhaps feed at the same time. Dumb idea, she knew. She should hunt elsewhere. To begin the dance with someone who was still awake was reckless, plain and simple. Sleep offered the victim deniability, whatever the evidence to the contrary.

"That's the way I like them," the man said.

He was a boor, a blue collar brute playing to his equally rough friends. Drunkenness often brought out man's true nature, from the maudlin to the violent. This man was far from maudlin.

"Bet you're not man enough to handle a real woman." His friends hooted and slapped him on the shoulder.

"What the hell are you?" he asked as he tried to find the waitress again. "Her guardian angel?"

"You're half right."

The man leered at her, the girl forgotten. "I bet you're no angel."

Kat grinned back and placed a hand on his shoulder. She then slid it down his barrel chest. She leaned over him, nearly spilling out of her blouse. "Quite the opposite."

The man was buffeted with renewed gales of laughter from his drinking companions.

"You've met your match, Gunther," said one.

"He wouldn't know what to do with you, what with his brewer's droop," said another.

The man called Gunther rose unsteadily to his feet. "If that was a wager, woman," he growled, "I'll take you up on it."

Kat took a deep breath. She didn't remember wagering him anything, but the man had made her decision for her. "Come along then."

Kat stopped at the bar and purchased two bottles of wine from the barkeep. She asked him to partly remove the corks before he placed them in a bag. Gunther came alongside and set his arm around her waist. The barkeep raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

As they left, she glanced at the bassist who'd just returned to the stage. He caught her eye and shrugged sadly.

Count your blessings, thought Kat.

Gunther swayed in the middle of the cobbled path that led steeply to the castle. "You'll kill me before we get there," he groused.

"If you can't manage a simple walk, I might have overestimated you. Besides, you being dead would defeat the purpose."

"Then let's stop here. Let me catch my breath."

Kat stopped and retraced her steps to where Gunther stood bent over, hands on his knees. "This had better be worth it. How about a kiss to revive me?" He seemed marginally less drunk than before.

"Just a kiss?" asked Kat.

"A kiss to start, then."

"And some wine. You must be thirsty."

He stood up straight and she stepped into his arms. She felt small and vulnerable in his embrace, but she wasn't worried. She kissed him chastely on the cheek. "Satisfied?"

In answer he grasped the back of her head in a meaty hand and turned her face to his. He violently pressed his lips to hers. Kat tasted stale beer on his breath and tongue. His arms wrapped around her waist and slid down, cupping her buttocks. He teased up the edge of her skirt and found the bare flesh of her cheeks, his fingers teasing around for the touch of fabric of any kind. Not finding any, he grunted in surprise and approval.

Kat squirmed out of his arms. "Now for the wine."

She bent over the bag, presenting him a view of her bare ass and pussy.

"Gott," she heard him exclaim.

She handed him the bottle. "Drink up. You'll need your strength."

He finished the bottle just before they reached the locked gate of the castle and pitched the empty into a garden. He staggered to her side and stroked her ass again with proprietary familiarity.

"Now what? It's locked."

The wine was beginning to work its magic. Gunther squinted, willing his eyes to focus. He was truly drunk now. He leaned heavily against a wall to keep from falling over.

Kat concentrated on the lock and exerted her will. A loud snap announced that it had been defeated.

"How?"

"Shh," whispered Kat. She cupped his groin and squeezed gently. "Follow me."

Heidelberg castle housed two immense wine vats, the larger of which, the Heidelberg Tun, featured a dance floor.

"They used to dance up here on the barrels," said Kat, pirouetting neatly in the center of the wooden floor beneath the vaulted ceiling. "The party would go on until the sun came up. Can you imagine the bacchanalia?"

Gunter leaned against the wooden railing. "Didn't come here for a history lesson or to dance. Least not that way."

The moonlight slanted through the window and Kat remembered. "You are utterly without imagination. Perhaps that is your problem. Let us drink a toast to less complicated times."