Sc - the Succubus Job

Sidekick Chronicles - The Succubus Job

Disclaimer: This short story (and the others I plan to write) is a practice story, and it's here on Literotica because it contains explicit content. I would be hard pressed, however, to call it "an erotic story". This was written to amuse more than to titillate.

Now, the spectrum of human sexual experience is broad enough that it's technically possible that someone might be aroused by my stories. If that's you, I'm happy for you. You're weird, but in a good way. ;)

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Characters:

- Ordan St. Catar - Member of the Society of Stalwart Companions, AKA the Sidekicks. Professional Companion to Bluebell Darna.

- Bluebell Darna - Member of the Hero Contingent.

---

About this world:

In the multiverse, you'll find many Architects. They potter around their respective universes, fashioning the stars, and piecing together the planets that orbit them. Most take pride in their work, seeking to create perfection, readily abandoning worlds like our own when they have clearly turned out badly. Others have a cruel sense of humor; thinking that flat worlds riding on cosmic animals are very clever indeed.

And then there are the Accidents. These occur when the metaphorical cats of the multiverse stride boldly across the work tables of almighty beings, and carefully push everything onto the floor, even as they beg for a nice tune-flavored nebula to nibble on. Accidents can only loosely be called "worlds", and the ingredients that form them typically combust on contact. Entire planets and systems form, then vanish in spectacular fashion before the first proto-amoeba can say, "Evolution sounds like a cool idea."

But on very rare occasions, things don't immediately explode into bits, and an Accident turns into a semi-functioning world, of sorts . These worlds are beyond imperfect; they're downright untidy, uppity, and prone to lashing out in fits of adolescent anger. In certain cartoons, they might be depicted with pink hair.

These accidental worlds are supposed to be destroyed, but cosmic beings that reside outside of known reality usually have better things to do. They'll get around to it one day, when they feel like it, but not until they've had a few cups of coffee.

On one such Accident, life has managed to evolve, despite its own better judgement, and a lot of it looks something like us, much to its own embarrassment. Our story begins a few million years later, in a mountain range close to the world's equator. There is only one road through these mountains, and centuries ago, an enterprising merchant guild established a city in the largest valley along the trade route. This city is called Kingsmount.

It was, for all intents and purposes, a mistake. Just like the world it was built on.

The city itself was built upon an indigenous mass grave, which resulted from the site of the world's largest battle, at the end of the longest war. The battle took place on the site where peoples long past would sacrifice prisoners to their gods, because of the convergence of ley lines just below ground. The ley lines converge on that point because an ancient sorcerer dragged them there to stem the tide of monsters coming from the Hell Mouth that was even further underground.

Besides, he wanted to see if he could actually do it.

Kingsmount is a prosperous city, full of trade, industry, horrifying monsters, and worse... politics. The Trade Council rules the city, and wrestles with the politics. The local Hero Contingent wrestles with the monsters. Lastly, the Society of Stalwart Companions (sometimes known as the Sidekicks) wrestles with the heroes in an effort to keep the peace.

The monsters, it must be said, do a lot to keep the Trade Council from just doing whatever they please, at least until those monsters get killed. The monsters do not receive nearly enough appreciation for their efforts.

---

"The people of Kingsmount might have built their city on top of a number of unspeakable things, but they take comfort in this: at least they didn't build a city on a lake just because some meat-eating bird had lunch there. Their cousins to the south did just that, and have had cause to regret it; Kingsmount may have monsters, but it never quakes." - Martin Mudbeetle's Handy Guide to Kingsmount

---

Ordan St. Catar was having a slow day, thanks be to any god who cared. The hall of the Stalwart Companions was rarely full, and he was taking advantage of this rare moment to have a quiet lunch. There was no Bluebell, no monster to hunt, and the Old Man wasn't breathing down his neck via her lackeys. Best of all there were no fucking civilians begging for help because they summoned a demon "as a prank".

Yesterday had been interesting that way, and Ordan had had quite enough of "interesting".

What there was, was a simple beef stew. It had potatoes, carrots, some diced onions, and a healthy dose of spices: paprika, turmeric, and a few different kinds of pepper. This sort of stew was not common to Kingsmount, but it was simple to prepare in large quantities, and the staff at the Hall had quite enough to do.

He was seated alone at a long, sturdy wooden table with benches on either side, surrounded by the scents of old beer and wine, sweat that had soaked into the wood, leather armor, the oils used for cleaning weapons, and the stew, of course. This was paradise, and so it clearly could never last.

The Old Man herself walked in, flowing through the room like the anger of the universe. Ordan had been on break for one minute too long, been happy for one instant too many, and the gods would have their revenge. It would be bad; bloody, even. You always knew it would be bad when the Old Man was smiling.

The ancient woman sat down in front of Ordan, her own bowl of soup in one had, and a solitary piece of paper in the other. With the corners of her mouth still slightly upturned, she began to wolf down the stew. She looked as though she were no older than sixty-five, and well-preserved at that. Her long grey hair framed a round-ish, innocent-looking face, her skin was the color of coffee with the barest hint of cream, and her eyes seemed as if they'd seen the dawn of time.

Well... there were rumors about that, but people usually left the city far behind before they'd give voice to that sort of thought. This woman could rule the city if she cared to, perhaps the nation. She just didn't want to, and no one wanted to give her any reasons to reconsider.

Ordan eyed the paper. There was a time and place for formality, but the Old Man wouldn't stand for ceremony during the course of an ordinary work day. He opted for the casual approach.

"You brought me an assignment by your own hand. Is it that important?"

"Hmm?"

She raised her eyes from the stew, and glanced at the paper herself.

"Oh, gods no. I just wanted some damned lunch. I've been talking to the Trade Council all morning."

Her voice was strong, and her diction was clear. She was accustomed to making herself heard, by any means necessary. Ordan grunted in sympathy with her situation. He preferred the monsters to the Trade Council, himself.

"Standard murder... possibly." she continued, "Only one man gone so far, but it has all the signs of a magical creature. I want it taken care of before anyone starts to panic."

Ordan nodded, and slid the paper around so he could read it. There was little enough information. The unfortunate man had disappeared from the Foundry, Kingsmount's manufacturing district. The body had reappeared, as so many did, in an alley amongst the many factories there.

What made people suspect magic was that, firstly, he hadn't been robbed until his fellow factory workers found him. Secondly, he'd died with an ecstatic smile on his face. He had sustained damage from a fall, according to the coroner, but that apparently hadn't affected his mood.

People, if they're very lucky, might die with a sense of contentment, perhaps even happiness, while surrounded by family and friends. When that happens people say things like, "That's lovely, even if it's a bit sad. That's how I'd like to go, if I can't go out while uh... you know..."

Bodies found smiling manically in an alley tend to have the opposite effect on observers.

Ordan's heart sank.

"Oh gods on a stick, not again!"

The Old Man grinned wickedly at him.

"But you did so well with the last one!"

"She tortured me."

"In a sense, certainly, but you weren't truly the worse for wear. Besides, you only have to wait for Bluebell to show up and kill it."

That much was true. Ordan was just the sidekick; Bluebell would do the actual killing. The only problem was that to catch a Succubus, you usually needed bait. Ordan was a young man of twenty-two, for all that he'd seen more violence than many a career soldier. His profession kept him fit, and he had sharp features. He'd win no beauty contests, but his not-quite-narrow face, medium-brown skin, and green eyes had made more than a few ladies think, "He's alright. I could do worse."

If he wandered a few back alleys at night, smelling of alcohol and desperation, and putting on his best puppy eyes, it'd probably work. It had before.

Ordan sighed.

"We'll do it, of course."

The Old Man's smile softened.

"That's what I like about you, young man. You care. I sincerely hope you can hold on to that."

Ordan shrugged awkwardly. Older people had a habit of saying things like that to him, and it never felt right.

"I guess. I'll get going."

"Tell Bluebell I've got my eye on her."

Ordan left. He wouldn't tell Bluebell what the Old Man had said, because she already knew. Why the two women never got along was something Ordan might never understand. They were both smart, competent people, and the reason for their animosity would not be a petty one... but it wasn't his business.

He sighed lightly, and walked off in the direction of Bluebell's apartment. It was time to work.

---

Bluebell Darna was the unfortunate victim of parents who insisted on giving cute names to girls. It wasn't entirely their fault. They expected their adorable baby girl with light brown eyes would live 'til about the age of thirty at the most, and die giving birth to what was hopefully her second or third child.

Let us be clear: that's not at all what they hoped for, only what they expected.

They could not possibly expect that she'd become a three-hundred-year-old wizard with the social skills that the gods traditionally reserve for the less charismatic rocks. Kingsmount is close enough to the equator of this world (which we will call "The Accident" hereafter) that her pale skin stood out amongst those who'd been born locally.

A studious wizard she might be, but she worked with her hands, and spent a lot of her time running after (and away from) various cataclysmic events, monsters, and potential suitors (but I repeat myself). Thus, she was lean, even sinewy. She had a slightly narrow face, and hair that she had allowed to go grey, while the rest of her looked a healthy forty-five years of age.

Ordan found her hunched over her latest tome of magic, as she usually was. Oh, she did mix it up a bit. There were times when she was reading a tome she'd found, and there were times when she was writing one of her own, but almost always there was a tome.

She looked up when he came in. She never bothered with the niceties, and she wasn't going to start today.

"You're supposed to knock, aren't you? I know you've said something to me about that at least once."

"Twelve times. And I did."

He had, though it was common for her to simply ignore any sounds that had nothing to do with her current task.

"Ah. Work?"

"From The Old Man her own self."

She scowled as he placed the sheet of paper on her desk beside the book.

"She have anything to say, this time?"

"That she loves me like a son, and loves you more." Ordan said brightly, his tone not entirely concealing his sarcasm.

Sarcasm, thankfully, was something Bluebell would recognize, and one side of her mouth upturned ever so slightly, for about half a second, maybe less.

To truly understand the whole of another person, you have to know them as well or better than you know yourself. In Bluebell's case, you could make a lot of progress just by looking at her apartment. The apartment was large, as befit her station, salary, and her needs. And she needed books. There were books on every conceivable table, side table, extra desk, and shelf. There were no decorations, and what might be charitably called the living room held only two serviceable padded wooden chairs.

However, the stacks of books were neat. The desk was meticulously organized, as were the shelves of powders, dried plants, and other common spell ingredients on the back shelf. The kitchen table had just enough space clear for eating, and the dishes were scrubbed clean. The air smelled of paper, but tasted like the kind of fresh air you'd find on a northern winter's night, or (as it was in this case) after one of the more potent cleaning spells had run its course.

Bluebell read the file, then maintained a full-blown smirk for the entirety of two seconds, which was a record for her.

"Another one?"

"Apparently we did so well with the last."

"I should leave you with this one for longer. You wouldn't talk to me or anyone for five whole days after what she did to you. I got a good bit of work done here." she said, gesturing at her books.

Ordan scowled lightly.

"Sooner, please."

She stuck a cigar in her mouth, but neglected to light it.

"I suppose, if you aren't having too good a time with her..."

Ordan controlled himself. She knew very well that waiting even a second too long could get him killed — devoured by a succubus, no less — whereupon he would probably be eternally humiliated by his ancestors.

"I said..." she began to prod, not yet realizing he wouldn't take the bait.

"I know what you said."

"Oh. And I thought I'd actually made a joke that time."

"You did. You're just telling it to the wrong audience."

"Right, right. Different jokes to different people. Never figured out how to decide which jokes I should be telling to which people."

Ordan sighed, "You basically can't tell until you try, and you have to try with almost everyone you talk to."

"That... is too much work. And I already have too much work."

Ordan's bright tone was genuine this time, though somewhat muted, "That's why I'm here. We need to go now, if we're to make it to the Foundry. There's a rush on this one."

"Right, right. Murders are bad, magical murders make everyone nervous, and magical murders that involve sex are likely to start a panic. Sex always seems to make people panic. Morons."

Ordan shrugged, and inclined his head in agreement, "That's the way of it. Though we have to actually be sure it was murder."

Bluebell nodded and sighed, "Let me get my working dress on, and we'll go."

---

The Foundry was the center of the city, the choking black heart of Kingsmount; the Heroes and Sidekicks were both headquartered right on its outskirts. Though it almost never takes too long to get anywhere when you know a wizard, Bluebell and Ordan walked. A teleportation spell that takes twenty minutes to prepare is a waste of ingredients when you can walk for fifteen minutes, and achieve the same result.

Here in the Foundry were the manufactories, the smiths, the tanners, the printers, most of the artisans who required heavy machinery. Here also were the homes of most of the workers, and the stalking grounds of the most vicious businesspeople in Kingsmount: the middle-class prostitutes.

The commercial warfare that took place in the Foundry was the city's heartbeat. Everyone in any business had to compete for money, name recognition, and the first shot at the cleaner-looking customers. Manufacturing work is dirty work, and the tailors and prostitutes in particular appreciated a freshly-scrubbed client.

Incidentally, Ordan and Bluebell began their search near one such tailor's shop, near the site where the body had been found. The sign hung from green wooden beams, and said "Madame Sally's Dress Empoorium", which was Madame Sally always claimed was an intentional pun based on the needs of her frugal clients, and not (as everyone assumed) an unfortunate mistake.

It was at the Southern entrance to Forgeson's Alley, the small dirt street where the victim had been found. Forgeson's Alley was so named because it was the alley directly behind Forgeson and Grandson's Textiles, a large factory in the Foundry.

Lining the alley on either side were small, obviously poor, but well-maintained homes. On the factory side, the homes were arranged apartment style, and climbed the factory wall behind them. The body had been found twenty feet down the alley from where Ordan and Bluebell started, so it wasn't long before they found the spot.

It was, well, a spot. Of blood. They hadn't been long in coming to investigate, but a lot can happen overnight in an alley. In this case, the body had had to be moved, because it was a narrow alley, and while the whole business was obviously a terrible shame, everyone needed to go to work. At least they'd thought to send for the coroner.

Ordan squatted near the brownish stains. "It looks like he fell, alright."

Bluebell sniffed the air. "Didn't the file say he was smiling when they found him?"

"That's what made the fall suspicious."

Beyond the blood that had soaked into the packed dirt of the street, there was little else to go on.

Bluebell sighed. "There are times when I wished I'd studied time magic. Then I remember that all of the time mages I know are mad, and nearly useless."

It was harsh, but Ordan didn't contradict her. The nature of time was incomprehensible to most, and so were the people that studied it.

He shrugged, "Then I suppose it's time for the tracking spell."

"You always complain when I make puns."

"Your puns are horrible. Mine are glorious."

Bluebell scowled, but said no more as she pulled out a few reagents from her pockets, and got to work. She'd spent a lot of time in a forest near her hometown, and had picked up a few tricks from a druid who lived there.

Most different systems of magic on the Accident are somewhat comparable, and even sometimes compatible. Think of Wizard magic as a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. Then think of Sorcery as a toasted chicken sandwich. You could take an ingredient or two from one sandwich, put it in the other, and it might still work.

Now consider the song-and-word-based bardic magic, and think of it as a peanut butter and jam sandwich. It's still technically a "sandwich", but combining it with wizard magic might be inadvisable.

Although Bluebell was an Elemental Wizard by training and inclination, this small druidic spell worked well enough for her. It was a spell designed to reveal the movements of people and animals, any living thing really, by the traces of energy they left in the ground below them.

At first, the ground lit up with a nearly blinding magical light, as the spell revealed every footprint from man and beast in the past twenty-four hours. Bluebell and Ordan both cringed, and covered their eyes as fast as if they'd seen The Old Man dancing in her underwear.

Ordan cursed, "Fuck every god, we forget that every time."

Bluebell grunted, focusing on the spell. The light dimmed, as layers upon layers of footprints were hidden from sight. Soon, the alley was almost back to normal, with one set of human footprints, and approximately ten sets of cat footprints.

Ordan looked closely at the footprints made of light, then looked at the blood. Though he was no mage, he had been trained in the use of a few small but useful spells, and he'd been trained to use his inner sense of Sight, which allowed him to see magic being used. He made a mental note to come back another day, and see if any of the local cats had had kittens. Maybe Bluebell would like one.