Idle Hands

Idle Hands

Part One of The Succubus

She'll be sorry she didn't go out with me,

Pete Miller thought spitefully.

In the abandoned warehouse the preparations had all been made. Around the unconscious woman on the floor, Pete had drawn a circle in silver dust. Inside the sacred circle, runes written with terrifying, fanatical precision demanded the obedience of unearthly powers. Thick black candles were lit at the five points of the inverted pentacle which filled the circle, ready to funnel mystical energy towards his obsession.

In the dim light which shone blearily through the grimy windows, Katrina Dunlap looked pale and wan, completely unlike her usual vivacious self. Her dark hair was spread untidily on the concrete floor, and her stylish clothes were dirty and rumpled. It had taken some clever sleight-of-hand and a sizable bribe to one of the kitchen workers to spike her drink in the cafeteria. It had taken even more care to unobtrusively guide her into his car and drive her out to his chosen spot when she had stumbled, blank-eyed and senseless, out of the dorm. He had been incredibly lucky none of her friends had seen them together. Pete knew she had told them she didn't want anything to do with him.

His lips tightened angrily. Why wouldn't she go out with him? Just because she saw him peeking in her window one night. He raked a frustrated hand through his greasy, matted hair. That was a sign of

devotion

! Why couldn't she see that? The restraining order was

completely

unnecessary. He would never hurt her.

Unless,

he thought,

she wanted me to.

He pictured her naked body, tied to a bed, her white skin pale and vulnerable, waiting for the lash of his belt, writhing with desire.

The idea made him hard inside his grimy jeans, dirtied from hours spent tracing ancient sigils on the floor.

Well, she would learn her mistake soon enough, Pete thought. As soon as he had completed the ritual which would bring the spirit of passion into the circle, Katrina would be unable to resist him. The succubus would enter her mind, overwhelming her weak and feeble defenses. When she woke, she would see her master standing above her. They would be together, as God had meant for them to be.

He opened a leather-bound book and leafed through the brittle pages of the grimoire. It had taken him weeks to find and verify its authenticity, and even longer to wrest it away from its reluctant seller, despite his willingness to pay any price and the speed the internet gave to such transactions these days. He studied the detailed illustrations and compared them to the designs which he had so painstakingly inscribed into the floor of the warehouse. He nodded, satisfied. All was in order.

He drew a sharp knife and nicked the skin at his wrist. Blood dripped into the circle. In response, a low, moaning wind stirred the dank air of the warehouse, scattering leaves, dust and bits of shredded plastic. He walked counter-clockwise around the perimeter of the circle, chanting in the dim light.

"Althea,"

he intoned in Latin.

"First daughter of Lilith, who was the first wife of Adam. Lilith, who spurned God's will. Lilith, who would not submit to Adam's authority and mated with demons. May your daughter heed my call. Althea. Hear me. Obey me. Come to me."

He could feel the power gathering. The hair on his arms stood up, and the flames of the candles flared. Inside the circle, Katrina stirred uneasily, struggling towards sluggish consciousness.

"Inhabit my beloved,"

he continued, his clumsy tongue fighting the unfamiliar language.

"Turn her heart towards me. Let us be one."

He completed the first circuit, and switched to Greek. Then to Farsi, Hebrew, and on the fifth and final journey around the circle, Aramaic. Above him, dust and litter spiraled in a vortex. The flames of the candles surged upwards, bright as spotlights.

"Be us now whole!" he screamed in English, caught up in ecstatic fervor. He smote his hands together, and the sound echoed through the building. "Be us now

one!

"

Two things happened simultaneously. The doors of the building burst open, letting in the pale May twilight. Large men in dark blue uniforms were outlined in the light.

"Freeze!" one shouted. "Hands in the air!"

At the same time a

presence

struck his mind. He flinched and sank to his knees, cradling his head, which suddenly seemed swollen and full, too small to contain the two souls within it. Undeniably,

overwhelmingly

female in tone, the new spirit filled his being with a bright radiance which made him want to cower and beg forgiveness.

And it was

pissed.

~You fool!~

it cried.

~What have you done?~

"I...I didn't..."

~Be us now

one

? Are you fucking

kidding me?

You pulled me out of my body and into your own mind! A

man's

mind! By Lucifer's Cock, when I get out of your head I am going to

gut

you!~

"I said

freeze,

scumbag," the police officer in the doorway snarled. He glanced at the tableau on the floor. "God, you're sick. And you're lucky someone saw you shoving Ms. Dunlap into your car. I don't know what the hell you had planned for this poor girl, but it just would have made things worse for you.

"Turn around, stay on your knees, put your hands on your head," he said, with the air of someone who had said the same thing too many times to count. He holstered his weapon and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

Pete hesitated. His eyes flickered between the woman he loved and the cuffs in the officer's hands.

I'll never see her again.

Pete Miller broke. Screaming in rage, he lurched to his feet. Slashing with his knife, he lowered his shoulder and bowled over the officer. He hit the floor, sputtering curses, as Pete bolted towards the open door. Arms pumping at his sides, he hit the doorway at a dead sprint.

A gun roared behind him and a hot, heavy fist seemed to punch him in the meaty part of his thigh. He lost his balance, caught it, and staggered through the door and into the parking lot. Looking down, he could see the leg of his jeans growing dark with blood.

Shot,

the last shreds of his rational mind told him. He kept running, ignoring the shouting men who pursued him and the police cars which were converging on him from all directions. He limped up the embankment towards 75

th

Street and darted into the late afternoon traffic.

~

Watch out, you fool!~

Pete Miller never saw the bus that killed him.

*****

"No, Jeremy, I

don't

want to settle. And neither do the clients. We've finally got those bastards from Antioch Chemical on the run. They never thought we'd find an ex-employee with the guts to break a confidentiality agreement and testify against them. God, wasn't she brilliant on the stand today? They hammered away at her for three hours, and she never came close to cracking."

"Yes, Ms. Wainwright. So I should tell the lead counsel for Antioch to go pound sand?"

Rachel laughed as she spoke to her intern on the wireless headset from her car. "Try to keep it a little more diplomatic than that, Jeremy. But I wouldn't mind if you suggested, very politely, that we will take a great deal of pleasure in watching their client's stock crater once the punitive damages are declared. And that seeing eleven corporate officers serve jail time once the feds and the EPA get their teeth into them is not without its charms." Her hands tightened on the steering wheel of her Mercedes. "God, jail is too good for them. One day, Jeremy, when they look back on the ruin their lives have become, I want them to remember the name of Rachel Wainwright."

"I'm sure they will," he said politely. "What time do you plan on being in the office tomorrow?"

"Seven in the morning for the pre-court preparation session, then in court at nine, just like we have for the past three weeks. Anything I should know about before I let you go?"

"Just that tomorrow is my last day, Ms. Wainwright. My internship expires tomorrow." There was a slight hesitation on the other end of the line. "Some us are going out for a drink, after work. I would be honored if you would join us for a little while."

Rachel blinked hard, her eyes misting, as she braked for her exit from the tollway. "Jeremy Edwards, are you asking me on a date?" Her voice took on a teasing tone.

"No, ma'am! I just..." Jeremy's voice trailed off, then firmed. "I've learned a lot from you over the past few months. I wanted to take an opportunity to thank you."

Rachel let her voice warm. "You can repay me by becoming a good lawyer, Jeremy. But I think you're well on your way already. I'll think about that drink. See you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Ms. Wainwright."

Rachel pulled off her earpiece and set it on the passenger seat as she pulled off the tollway. This late in the evening, traffic was light. She turned on her blinker and slid onto 75

th

Street. Almost home.

Almost home.

Her lips tightened. How could it be that someone who was so successful in her work life could make such a muddle of her family? She sighed tiredly, resigning herself to another night of awkward conversation, bitter arguments, and tense, angry silences.

There are people who actually look forward to going home at night. Not me.

Maybe she should call Joshua. Her ex-husband had a way with the kids which she had never had. Maybe he could make Alex and Sarah see sense. Or at least broker some sort of cease-fire between them. Maybe...

She bolted upright in her seat as a limping figure careened out of a parking lot to her left and threw itself out into traffic. It narrowly dodged one car, but then a city bus hit the man dead-on, throwing his body twenty yards through the air until he collapsed in a bloody, broken-limbed tangle in front of Rachel's Mercedes. She slammed on the brakes, her head whipping forward with the force of her deceleration, only narrowly avoiding running the body over.

"Jesus

Christ

!" she screamed. She was thrown back into her seat as the car lurched to a halt. She hit her hazard blinkers and opened the door, dialing 911 on her cell phone as she exited the car.

One look told her there was nothing she could do, even if she had any medical training. The young man's chest was crushed, both legs twisted and broken. She knelt down beside him, heedless of the pavement which bit into her knees through the beige cloth of her skirt.

"Yes," she said to the dispatcher who answered her emergency call. "There's been an accident. A young man has been hit by a bus and injured badly at 75

th

and Janes. Please send an ambulance immediately."

She took the boy's raw, bloody hand.

God, he's younger than Alex.

He might have been good-looking when he got older, she thought. But his face was studded with a volcanic case of acne, and his hair was oily and unkempt. "Relax, kiddo," she said, pitching her voice low. "The ambulance is on the way. You're going to be all right," she lied.

The boy turned his face towards her. It was filled with pain and confusion. "...hurts," he whispered. Blood leaked from his nose and the corners of his mouth.

"Yes, I suppose it does," she said. "Didn't your mother teach you to look both ways before you crossed the street?"

His eyes widened, then he gave a cut-off laugh, scarcely more than a heavy breath. Something stirred behind his eyes, and for an instant, the hand in hers grew warm, as if his life, fading away, had paused for an instant to say farewell. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see police cars tearing up the street towards them, their lights flashing and sirens screaming. The driver of the bus had climbed out of his vehicle, and was now slowly walking over to her, his dark face gray with shock.

"Hello," the boy whispered.

When Rachel looked down, he was gone.

*****

Over an hour later, the police finally let her go home. She had discovered to her consternation that the young man who had died, practically in her arms, was a kidnapper. He had drugged a young woman at Northwestern and hauled her out to the suburbs. Once there, he had started a bizarre ritual, the purpose of which the police were still trying to ascertain.

"Strangest thing I ever saw," said the detective who had taken her statement. He jerked his head towards a warehouse a few hundred yards away. "He had this poor girl laid down in a circle, with weird markings all over the floor. Candles and whatnot all around her. And some old book lying there when we cleaned the mess up. God knows what he thought he was doing." He nodded as a young woman was led into an ambulance. She was covered in a blanket, and even at this distance they could see her staggering steps were slow and uneven.

Rachel rubbed her forehead and grunted. She was tired and stressed and sick to her stomach after watching a man die, and all she wanted was to leave this scene of bloody death and mayhem. She brushed ineffectually at her skirt, which was grimed with dirt from where she had knelt on the road. "Can I go?" she asked. "I've told you all I know. Which isn't much. I need to get home and make sure my kids are all right." Rachel had called Sarah, her daughter, to let her know the would be even later than usual tonight. But right now she needed the comfort only her home could give her.

"Let's have the doc check you out, and then we'll let you be on your way," Detective Garrity agreed. He stood and raised his voice. "Doc! Get your ass over here. That boy ain't going to get any deader. And this lady has been real patient so far."

"You're an embarrassment to the force, Detective," a tall, shambling man said, making his way over to them. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, and he wore an aura of unhurried competence. He pulled a penlight out of one pocket and shone it in Rachel's eyes. She squinted at the glare.

"And you're making a witness wait while you poke around at a guy who's going to be laid out on a slab in the morgue in a couple of hours. I don't know why he's more interesting dead than she is alive, Augustine."

"Call it professional curiosity, Darryl. I was hoping to find some clue as to why this guy went completely off his nut that way. Useless, I suppose." He turned off the light and dropped it back into his slacks. "Your eyes are dilated, but that's normal in this light. No signs of a concussion."

Rachel made an noncommittal sound.

~He's cute.~

Rachel shook her head in surprise and grimaced, massaging the back of her neck. Where had that thought come from? Since she and Joshua had broken up three years ago, she had scarcely spared a thought for men, no matter how attractive they were.

"Does your neck hurt, Ms. Wainwright?" Although the question was polite, Rachel could hear a faint tone of suspicion threading through his voice, and immediately understood. As a lawyer, she had seen evidence of the depths to which people would sink when confronted with temptation. Bogus cases of whiplash were among the most prevalent of nuisance lawsuits that people used to try to squeeze money out of other motorists in rear-end collisions. Or, occasionally, police and fire departments.

"Don't worry, Dr. Augustine," she said. Her mouth quirked. "I'm an attorney." She smiled as his eyes widened in alarm. "But I like to think I'm one of the good ones. I'm not going to take the Village of Woodridge to court on a whiplash case."

"Well, you'd have a hard time against me or the police," Dr. Augustine said, his dark eyes glinting in the dim light of the police flashers.

He really is good-looking,

Rachel thought, to her faint astonishment. "You might have a better case against the estate of that poor bastard over there." He nodded his head towards the cloth-covered lump in the road. "Or maybe the bus company," he mused.

"Bite your tongue," she said. ~

Or use it to kiss my ass.~

a voice said, deep in the recesses of her mind. ~

Or fuck my ass. That would be even better.~

She blushed suddenly.

God, I must be even more tired than I thought.

"Are you ready to cut me loose?"

Augustine stood, extending a hand to help Rachel to her feet. "Go on home," he said. "If you need me, here's a card. I know you're not acting like it," he said, his voice suddenly serious, "But you've gone through a terrible trauma. It's not every day you see something like this, Ms. Wainwright. If you need someone to talk to, I'm available."

~

Oh, that sounds promising.~

She dropped her eyes to his left hand. ~

No wedding ring. He

is

available.~

Rachel took the card and slipped it into her purse. In just a few seconds, she was on her way home.

*****

She parked in the multi-car garage, noting that both Alex and Sarah were home. Both their cars were parked neatly in their spaces. She slipped through the entrance from the garage into the house, calling out, "I'm home!"

"Hi, Mom," called Sarah. Inevitably, the voice came from the kitchen. She followed it, walking across the polished dining room floor.

Despite the tension which seemed to follow every conversation with her children these days, Rachel loved her house with the fierce, possessive passion that only came when one saw one of the foremost goals of their lives achieved. She had been raised by her parents in a series of small apartments in Oak Park, one of the near-west suburbs of Chicago. Then, when she went to college, she and and her boyfriend (later husband) Joshua had lived in a succession of crummy apartments and rented houses.

When she won her first big case and had been elevated to partner in what was now the environmental law firm of Chihiro, Pelligrini, Buchanan and Wainwright, she had used her bonus on a down payment for her dream home. A massive, sprawling structure built on two acres of land, it backed up against the DuPage County Forest Preserve on the west side. Two stories tall, it had five bedrooms, three baths, and a fully-finished basement. The interior was as well-furnished and decorated as good taste and her money could make it, with restful colors, good, solid furniture, and state-of-the-art home-theater systems both on the main floor and in the basement.

"It's more than we need," she had admitted to Joshua when they talked about buying it. "But dammit, Josh, it's what I want. And it'll be good for the kids to have room to run around and play, rather than be stuck in that postage-stamp of a yard over on Prospect."

At the time, twelve years ago, Alex had been nine and Sarah nearly seven, and Joshua had still been trying to establish himself commercially as an artist, despite rave reviews from the critics. That was one debate she had won, she remembered with satisfaction. She hugged her daughter and kissed her cheek, staying away from the spoon she held in one hand. "What's for supper?" she asked. "And where's your brother?"

"Alex is upstairs in his bedroom," Sarah replied with a smile. "He's practicing his lines again. And we have pasta primavera for supper, with a nice salad and some breadsticks on the side."

"That sounds wonderful," Rachel said. But her voice lacked enthusiasm. Sarah's desire to be a professional chef was almost as troublesome as Alex's obsession with the theater. She had refused to apply to any colleges during her senior year of high school. Now, nearly a year after her graduation, she seemed completely content to live with her mother until Rachel finally acceded to her desire to enter culinary school. She had taken over the cooking duties at home, which Rachel appreciated, since she was an indifferent cook at best.

The trouble with Sarah, Rachel had decided long ago, was that she was too much like her father. Like Josh, when faced with a disagreement, she refused to argue. She simply carried on as if the other party agreed with her until you were forced to give in through sheer exhaustion. This particular battle had been going on since the previous June, with no sign of a resolution.