The Incubus Detective
The Incubus Detective
By:
Breccan Storm
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Prologue
The investigator’s every move was so slow, so confident. This was the first thing that Ashley noticed about him. Well, maybe fourth, following his incredible eyes, wicked smile, and absolutely perfect frame. Ashley, struggling to avoid being completely hypocritical, tried to focus on the topic at hand, her reason for calling the investigator in the first place.
“I have no evidence,” she said. “I just know it’s happening. I’m not sure how to handle it. Confronting him seems—”
“No, Ashley. You won’t want to confront him about this. Not yet.” His voice had a suave yet animalistic quality to it. If ever there was a man capable of growling while speaking, he was sitting before her now. He had used her name, too. It was so personal, so charming. He went on. “If anyone is going to step into a conflict, it will be me, and I would like to avoid that. May I ask a personal question?
“Of course.”
“Has he been satisfying you? In the carnal sense, I mean.”
“No, it’s been months. I think that’s what first made me suspicious.”
“I understand. And what about before all of this started? Did you have any fantasies or desires that didn’t quite fit his interests?”
This question sent a parade of sexual images across her mind, distracting her once again.
“Yes.”
“Ok.” The investigator clicked his pen and produced a note pad. “Anything you can tell me about those?”
“I don’t see what my fantasies have to do with—”
“Say no more, Ashley.” The man lifted a halting hand. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” There he went, using her name again. Ashley shook her head.
“Not at all.” She stood. “Drink?”
“I’d love one, thanks.”
“Whiskey? Scotch? Rocks?”
“Dealer’s choice. Stronger is better, though.”
She wasn’t certain why, but despite it only being lunch time, she poured triples for the both of them. Scotch for him, vodka for her. Straight, on the rocks. She never drank like that, but had suddenly become inspired.
“Wow,” the man said, accepting the clinking glass from her. “I see you know how to take an order.”
Ashley smirked, returning to her ornate, extremely expensive, antique armchair. She took a sip of vodka.
“I have my moments.”
The questioning went on, increasingly relaxed by the powers of social lubricant. Whenever the man spoke, Ashley found her attention drifting to his strange eyes. One was nearly black, the other red. She wanted to ask, but couldn’t bring herself to break the flow of their conversation. Red eyes typically meant albino, but this man was certainly not one of those. His deep tan made him look as though he worked outside all day.
Ashley found her mind wandering to the topic of tan lines, before being jerked back into the moment by the conclusion of the meeting. The man stood.
“Thank you for the drink, Ashley, and for what it’s worth I’m sorry your husband is putting you through this.” He shook her hand with his, which felt warm and firm at the same time.
“I appreciate that,” she said, showing him to the door. “When will I see you next?”
“As soon as possible.” He smiled, and stepped out of her afternoon.
She watched him walk away for a little longer than the typical norm. Her mind was caught up in a titanic struggle against itself. She had called him here to expose her cheating husband, yet now she was convincing herself that cheating wasn’t such a bad thing. She closed the door, and though she wasn’t sure why, she felt the urge to try out the man’s name, taste it on her lips one extra time.
“Maven.”
Chapter 1
He loved his job. Sure, things could get “rough and tumble” from time to time, but the perks dramatically outweighed the pits. All throughout the cab ride to his favorite watering hole, Maven basked in the powerful feeling of the sexual tension that he had crafted with Ashley. Although it gave him immense energy, it came at the cost of minor distraction. Maven was allotting a decent portion of his will power to keep from turning his ride around, going back to Ashley’s exorbitant home, and pulling the rubber band even tighter. As nice as the tension was, the final snap would be even better.
The rest of Maven’s mind was sifting through the actual job. Ashley’s description of her husband included the phrase, “He was a good man.”
Past tense.
That meant that she already knew the outcome of the case that she had hired Maven to solve. What she was really after, deep down, was the identity of who her husband was cheating with.
Stanley Belman was a high-end New York attorney, the definition of “Big Shot.” Obviously he had never heard the old saying, “power corrupts,” and had fallen victim to its prophecy. The depth of that corruption had been brought into sharp focus when Ashley told Maven the name of a bar that Stanley had been frequenting. “Scuzzy” would be one way to describe the strip club that wore a dive bar’s clothing. “Maven’s favorite” would be another apt descriptor. The coincidence of Stanley’s tastes overlapping with Maven’s was noteworthy, at the very least.
The cab came to a stop, Maven paid the driver, and he stepped out into the late-evening light. The sidewalks were devoid of all life, save the possible unnoticed cockroach or hidden rat. Warehouses in various states of disrepair lined the street. There was one slightly off detail to the scene, though. Despite being in plain sight it had a tendency to only be seen by people who were searching for it.
Among the various large, rusted freight doors, there was a small one made of lacquer-finished mahogany wood. A single antique sconce glowed just above it, casting an orange glow onto the area that surrounded the entrance. Maven made his way across the street, flung open the door, and stepped into the delightfully dour atmosphere of Charlie’s Blue Bawlers Bar, an establishment without a sign and most likely without a permit or license.
The small, hole-in-the-world dive bar looked best when it wore red, as it was now. The dim crimson glow reminded Maven of hell’s finer parts. Out of a speaker system that was at least thirty years old, there quietly played a bluesy guitar riff that sounded as though the performer had either been dying or coming down off of one drug or another while he played.
Before he could plunge into this oasis of true darkness, Maven had to contend with some minor harassment, delivered in the form of two enormous women.
“Identification,” Helga said, her Swedish accent showing through. She stepped in front of him, using her giant form to block the landing strip that Maven called a bar.
Helga’s sister stepped in. “Leave him alone.” Olga was just as large and just as Swedish as Helga. “Can’t you see he’s had a long day?”
Maven debated telling them that his day had actually been invigorating and arousing, and that the tired look on his face was always there. He opted for a kind-hearted greeting, instead.
“Evening ladies.” He produced his photo I.D. “How’s the air up there?”
“Thin,” Olga said. “Like my patience with you.”
�
��I haven’t even done anything.”
“Consider it an advance payment.” She took his I.D. and examined it.
“In other news,” Maven said, putting on the voice of a news anchor. “An area bouncer is shocked to find that a regular bar patron is still of drinking age, even after all these years.”
“You can never be to sure,” Helga said. “I’ll need to pat you down for weapons, now. Hands on the wall.”
Olga rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Helga just let him in.”
Maven winced at the invocation of the lord’s name. “Could you not?”
“Right,” Olga said. “Sorry.”
A scratchy voice from somewhere behind the bar invaded the interaction.
“Yo! Are we a bar or courthouse? Let the man through for Christs’ sake.”
Maven winced a second time, but recovered quickly. He tipped an imaginary hat at the two bouncers, smiled, and sidled up to the nearest barstool. The source of the scratchy voice stood on the other side, performing the time-honored ritual of all bar tenders, drying a beer mug with a white rag.
Charlie, the owner, manager, and tender of Blue Bawlers, was the perfect compliment to the hired muscle that stood guard at the door. He was a dwarf, barely tall enough to look over the bar. Both he and the ladies were right on the line of scale between human and mythical. Thus, the Bawler’s human patrons never suspected a thing.
“What’ll it be, Mave? If you would just settle on a usual I could have it ready for you when you sit down.”
“My only addiction is novelty. Got anything new on tap?”
“Not in the last ten years. Please stop asking me that.”
“Squeaky wheel gets the grease.” His swift mind made a quick detour to Ashley. He thought of what she had been drinking, how he almost tasted her scent when they said goodbye. “I’ll take a vodka, and get Mister Pour down there something he likes.” Maven pointed to the opposite end of the bar, indicating a bearded man that was dressed in a suit coat fit the fashions of the late eighteen hundreds. Judging by its threadbare state, it was a bonafide original.
Charlie filled the order without another word, and when he gave the bearded man his drink, Maven made his approach. The Pour Man’s name carried a double meaning, like a forked tongue. When his mood was high, he had a tendency to yield an outpouring of lengthy, full, and often entirely false stories presented as the truth. Having spent nearly two centuries on Earth committing various evils, he had an awful lot to say.
When he was low, though, he was only approachable if you poured him a drink. Scottish whiskey was his personal high-octane gasoline, and he liked to keep a full tank.
“A demon bearing gifts,” the Pour Man said, grumbling through his thick Scottish accent. “Yeh here to make a wish?”
Maven smiled. “Hey Pour. How’s the oldest devil in New York.”
“I’d say the oldest devil in town is probably money, but if you’re referring to this fella’ sitting before you, he’s getting better with every sip. You’re not meeting your creepy little nymph friend here, are you?” He took a few nervous glances around. It was always so strange when the Pour Man showed even a tinge of fear. Maven put him at ease by telling him he was here alone. The Pour Man relaxed.
“Great.” His accent gave the “R” a generous roll. “What are you after, Maven?”
“What?” Maven feigned taking grave offense. “A guy can’t enjoy another guy’s company?”
The Pour Man responded first by taking another generous swig of his drink. “Sure they can. A demon and a devil, though.” He shrugged. “That’s pushin’ it a little.”
The devil’s words reminded Maven how truly unique this very moment was. Much to the confusion of the uneducated human, devils and demons typically hated each other with a vengeance. The fact that Maven could share a room with the Pour Man without trying to tear him apart was true testament to the “warm” environment that Charlie had crafted at Bawler’s.
“Gee wiz Pour, I thought we were friends.”
“Will you get on with it? I’m a thirsty man and the more talking I do the less I can drink.”
“Alright, fine. I’m wondering if you know anything about a guy named Stanley Belman.”
“Oh, good.” He swallowed his whiskey like it was water. “I’m your spy now?” If there was one thing that the Pour Man despised, it was mixing his evil-doings with Maven’s. A devil’s work was systematic, calculated. A demon’s was pure chaos. These were two fundamental differences that had been at odds with each other since before the dawn of the universe.
“Not a spy,” Maven said. “Just a good listener. If only these walls could talk, I would ask them.”
“Ah, that takes me back to the third circle of hell. Now that was a real establishment. Not that the walls ever said anything useful.” He scratched his beard. “Or nice. Come to think of it, the place was a real shit hole.”
Now it was time for Maven to respond with a simple swig. The Pour Man went on.
“Yeah I know a few things about your man Stanley. Not that he makes listening hard. He’s got a boisterous way about him, you know? Deep pockets and a big mouth. The two tend to go hand in hand.”
“His wife thinks he’s cheating.” Maven leaned back onto the bar, turning to appreciate the view of shaking, barely covered asses and tits up on the stage. “Hear anything damning on that front?”
The Pour Man laughed his loudest, slapping the table.
“Cheating? Whatever gave her that idea? The man has a hard on every time he walks in here.”
“He could just be… enthusiastic.”
“Aye, enthusiastic he is, enough to throw an ocean of money at Charlie’s dancers. He pays in ones, too. Pretty cheap for a big-shot attorney.”
“Rich and stingy. Another hand in hand relationship?” In Maven’s world, there was no such thing as a universal correlation, only chaos and the mind’s tendency to place meaning where there is none. He nevertheless thought it wise to butter up the devil sitting before him by suggesting such connections.
“Across all time.” The Pour Man swept his hand across the air. “Believe me, I’ve seen it. So I’m guessing your chasing this fella’s whereabouts?”
“I am.”
“Good for you. If the guy had a single redeeming quality I might be inclined to make you pay more than one drink for information like that. This bit you’ll get on the house, though, since the suave roach hurts my ears when he talks. Are you familiar with a girl named Double D?”
“No. Local choir girl I assume?”
“Quit your wit. Her stage name is Desirous Dixon. She dances here on Wednesdays. Last night Stanley stuffed an unseemly amount of money down her shirt, tucked right between that ample cleavage of hers. Upfront payment for less look more touch. They left together, probably to lay some pipe.”
“Any idea where?”
“Knowing Miss Dee-Dee, probably her back yard.”
“That’s not what I meant, Pour.”
“I know but I couldn’t resist. Can’t tell you where they got off to, but I could guess, and so could you. It’s not like people drive out of state for that sort of thing, and there are plenty of dirty mattresses in the neighborhood. A shame you weren’t here last night. You could have asked him yourself instead of falling into debt with a devil.”
“I thought you said this one was on the house.”
“Nothing’s free, Mave, nothing at all. Now what say you leave me to this fine bevvy? It’s not healthy to drink in the company of others.”
“Have it your way.” Maven stepped away. “Thanks, Pour.”
“Don’t say ‘thanks.’ It hurts my ears.”
“Fine then. Go fuck yourself.”
“Right back at you, boy.” The Pour Man offered a reluctant smile before signaling Charlie for a refill.
On his way to the door, Maven took only brief notice of the various exotic dances that were being performed around the polls on stage. He wondered if fishnets beneath neon light would ever go o
ut of style. The girls were good at what they did, even though they weren’t Maven’s type. They were too available, too thirsty. Maven preferred to work harder than sliding bills under G-strings.
The strings he preferred to pluck away at were those of the mind, first the waking mind, then the dreaming one. He checked the time, wondering when Miss Belman would lay down for the night.
Definitely not yet.
So, the work would continue just a little longer. There were maybe three motels within walking distance of Bawler’s, most of them probably kept their doors open and lights on thanks to the patronage of the Bawler’s clientele.
“Want to give me a pat down on the way out?” Maven asked Helga as he moved to the door. “I might have stolen a shot glass or something.”
“Watch it, little man, or you’ll earn yourself a cavity search.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Maven said, despite how truly horrifying the idea was. “You ladies behave.”
“We will.” Olga grinned. “Relative to you, ‘good’ is easy.”
Maven stepped out onto the street, thinking about the parting words. He wasn’t that bad, was he?
Chapter 2
Maven’s brief tour of the area’s finest motels was a filthy one. Most of them hosted unlit parking lots, balconies that were populated by questionable folk, and at least one stray, used up needle waiting for its chance to pass on a powerful dose of hepatitis.
Despite his demonic nature, these weren’t the kind of establishments that Maven frequented. The way he looked at it, there was no way to make mud any dirtier, no way to ignite what is already burning. His favorite kind of filth was the kind that he created himself, converted through chaos, from clean or innocent. Motels such as these had no use for Maven, and he had no use for them, except on nights like tonight.
He had the distinct displeasure of speaking to numerous nightshift hotel clerks. Each was reluctant to raise their voice or listen to Maven’s, which made conversation through bulletproof glass a challenge feat. Their lack of shits given over their job did have its advantages, though. Anywhere else in town, the front desk workers would viciously protect the identity and location of their guests. In this case, they would hand out credit card numbers to get Maven to leave them alone so they could get back to watching mundane things on the TV like the weather, or infomercials.