Idle Hands: Finale

He grinned mirthlessly. All that was certain was that Rachel and the passenger she unwillingly carried in her mind would be the last. And that he would lay their deaths at the feet of the Dark One himself in exchange for being allowed to leave Earth and to take up residence in the Pit with the rest of his lord's demons. After nearly fifty years in the mortal realm, surrounded by teeming hordes of stinking humans, he wondered how full-blooded demons managed to keep their sanity.

But is Althea truly helpless? On and off over the past several days, he had been gnawed by that crippling doubt. Rachel and her family had somehow managed to rescue her physical form from the hospital, eluding him in the process. Had Althea's perverse spirit somehow been returned to her body? If it had been, he was looking at a fair fight which he very well might lose.

And there was nothing on earth Mortimer Kincaid despised more than a fair fight.

No, he decided. Rachel's voice on the phone a few nights before had been filled with barely-suppressed hysteria, delicious to his ears. The tree-hugging bitch had been all but incoherent. Even if Althea Carpenter knew how to get back into her own body, there is no way Wainwright could keep her mind in one piece long enough to help her do it.

Kincaid had done his homework. Two days of trawling through the murkier depths of the internet had told him that an unwarded succubus could indeed be torn loose from her body, though there was no mention at all about how she could be returned. In fact, legends said that a succubus could actually transfer her consciousness willingly to a receptive partner. But, he was sure, that had not been what had happened to Althea Carpenter and Rachel Wainwright. His instincts told him that by some bizarre circumstance, Althea had been unwillingly ripped away from her own body and forced to take up residence in Rachel's own. References had been few and vague to the point of gibberish, but Kincaid had seen a few dim hints toward the need for arcane rituals. Rituals Rachel would never be able to complete, considering her current mental state.

No, he decided firmly, putting aside his momentary timidity. Even if Wainwright knows what is going on, there is no way she could have planned and executed a proper ritual in the last few days. She needs access to books, grimoires, spells. Time to prepare. She knows her way around a courtroom. But here she is hopelessly out of her depth.

What a pity. He grinned, exposing a set of viciously serrated teeth. He looked over his image one final time in the mirror, adjusting his tie so it fell properly down the front of his silk shirt. His hair was combed, his skin dabbed with just a hint of tasteful cologne. In the inside pocket of his suit was a ticket to the College of DuPage's showing of Othello. He looked the very model of a successful attorney. Only his eyes, grayish-green and utterly lacking in humanity, gave a hint as to the identity of the ravening monster within.

"It's show time," he whispered.

*****

"Rachel?"

"Yes, Yasna?"

"How did you know that Josh was the right man for you?"

Startled by the question, she looked up from her laptop to the younger woman, who was framed in the doorway of her home office.

"What?"

Yasna's hands were twisting together nervously. As Rachel watched, she shoved them deep into the pockets of her jeans, as if she were trying to hide them from view. "How long did it take for you to know that Josh was going to be your husband? That you would marry him and have children and everything?"

"Oh, that. About half an hour."

"So it was love at first sight?"

"No." She smiled. "It was love at first conversation. Come on, sit down. I'm not going to have this talk with you looming over me like a cop in an interrogation." Her smile took the sting out of her words, and Yasna sat down in the chair opposite her desk.

"Falling in love with Josh..." she faded off wistfully. "It was my freshman year of college. Second semester, during basketball season." When Yasna looked at her blankly she elaborated. "That was when the University of Illinois was actually good at sports. Or, at least, didn't suck.

"My parents were both huge basketball fans, and I grew up watching the 'Flying Illini' back in the late eighties. Those were some great teams. So when I started school, I got season tickets for the basketball team. That night Illinois beat the ever-loving piss out of Iowa, which is always a good thing. God, we loved to beat Iowa," she said with cheerful malice. "And afterward I went to a party with some friends of mine at an apartment over on Chalmers Street, rather than going back to the dorm.

"That's where we met. The stereo was blasting some of that terrible early 90's dance music. Ace of Base or someone like that." She made a face as Yasna laughed. "And he said hello, and I said hello, and he asked me what my major was, and I asked him what his major was, just like a hundred different conversations I'd had with a hundred different boys since I'd started school.

"But there was something different about him. He was an artist, which I was shallow enough to be impressed with at the time. The U of I was chock-full of engineers and computer science students. Still is, I guess. An artist was a bit of a novelty. And he actually listened when I answered his questions, rather than staring at my tits, which was a welcome change." She made a face. "I'm sure you know what that's like."

Yasna nodded. "A friend of mine in college who had big boobs had a t-shirt with 'eyes up here, buddy' written across the front."

Rachel laughed. "Well, we talked and talked and talked, until the party was over and they practically had to kick us out of the apartment and into the night. Which was no treat when it was February and five below outside and the wind whipping across campus. God, I've never been colder in my life than some of those winters down in Champaign. Brutal. Anyway, he asked me out on a date the next night, and we drove to a cheap little diner not too far from campus. Neither of us had much money in those days. All of this," she gestured with a wave at the house, "came later.

"So we talked some more, through supper and then four or five cups of coffee. I can't even remember what we talked about. We don't have much in common now, and we had even less then. He was in the College of Fine and Applied Arts, and I was Pre-Law. He was from downstate, I was a suburban girl. His parents were ex-hippies, my folks were working class. He was a Democrat, I had grown up worshiping Ronald Reagan.

"But I just loved to listen to him. He was so enthusiastic about everything, and we just seemed to...to spark ideas off each other. And despite all our differences, we agreed on the big things. Values. Family." She grinned. "Basketball."

"He was good-looking then. But I think he looks better now." Her smile grew wicked. "I bet his hair will go silver in a few years. Yummy. By the time we were done with our meal I was half in love with him already. So I suggested that we skip the movie and go back to my place. Luckily my roommate was out of town. Or I would have had to kick poor Deirdre out.

"Then we made love." Her eyes grew hazy. "Oh, Yasna. If I was half in love with him at the start of the night, I was gone by the end. In bed he...he worshiped me. That's the best way I can say it. He worshiped me. He treated every part of my body as if it were holy."

She gave a sudden, deep-throated laugh which made her jump. "It wasn't until a long time later that I found out he came to my bed a virgin. But it explained quite a lot, actually.

"So, if you're looking for help with your love life, I'm not sure if I can give you a good answer. I knew almost from the first moment I laid eyes on him that Josh was the right man for me. But to explain how I knew? It's like describing the sound of purple."

"I love her," Yasna said softly. Rachel couldn't tell if she was talking to her, or herself.

"Then tell her," she replied, equally softly. Rachel didn't have to ask who.

"I'm afraid."

"Well, of course you are. It's always scary to tell someone you love them. What if that love isn't returned? That's a terrifying prospect." She made no mention of Yasna's previous marriage, or of her own trepidation where her somewhat confused sexual feelings were concerned. Best to let her deal with those things on her own, without bringing her own baggage into it.

"But look at yourself, Yasna. You're a lovely, intelligent, strong, successful woman. And Althea hasn't been able to look away from you since we put her back inside her body. I think you're a bit of a challenge for her, actually. How many people have ever told her no? All you have to do, all you have to do, is to let her know how you feel. Once you do that, everything else will happen as it should. As it did for Josh and me."

Yasna lifted a questioning eyebrow. "But if what I've heard is true, your own marriage wasn't always a happy one. Didn't you get divorced?"

"We did. And soon we're going to be un-divorced." Her voice was tart, and she forced herself not to sound defensive. "And we did have our own troubles, no doubt. But that was never a result of us falling out of love. Never that. We always loved each other. It was more a consequence of our own pig-headed stubbornness. Especially mine. The inability to admit a mistake. Or that the person you're arguing with might be right. So we owe Althea big-time for helping us get back together. She helped me realize just what a fool I'd been, so I invited Josh back up here for a weekend. That was...about a week ago." She shook her head. "Wow. It seems longer. Time flies when you're having fun, I guess.

"Anyway, I'm not sure there's anyone on the planet who knows more about love than Althea does."

Yasna blushed. "I'm not talking about sex."

"Neither am I," she said, becoming somewhat irritated with the younger woman's thick-headedness. "I'm talking about love. Althea is more than just a half-angelic woman who gets power from sex, Yasna. She is full of love. What do you think a succubus is, when you get down to it? She is just a great big ball of love wrapped in a sexy shell. Think about it. Her entire life has been an act of love. How incredibly easy would it be for her to just give up, say 'fuck it' and stop? But she doesn't. She keeps on. Day after day. Every day protecting people who never say 'thank you.' Hell, who don't even know she exists.

"But she also needs someone. A husband." Her voice grew low and gentle. "Or a wife."

"She has you. And Josh and Jeremy and Maria and all the rest."

"Oh, Yasna." She kept her voice low and loving, the way she used to counsel her own children when they made a silly mistake. "There is a great deal of difference between a lover and a mate. I love Althea to distraction, but I would never consider marrying her, even if I could get away with bigamy. You, on the other hand..." she trailed off suggestively.

"You are perfect for her."

Yasna looked down at her feet. "I wish I could believe that."

"Silly woman. It's not what you believe. It's what she believes."

*****

Alex paced back and forth in his bedroom. It was nearly five o'clock, and his stomach was swarming with butterflies.

For years, he had dreamed of this day. The day when he would finally take the first steps of a new journey. For years, he had fought against the iron will of his mother, who if not actively opposing his career, certainly didn't do anything to aid it. It was only with Althea's influence and his father's cooperation that he had won the chance to transfer to Northwestern at the beginning of the fall semester next year.

And the beginning of that journey would not take place at Second City or Julliard or the Yale School of Drama, but at a small theater on the campus of a second-tier community college outside of Chicago.

Life was funny, sometimes, but he wasn't laughing now. He stood by his bed, the tattered, dog-eared script in his hands, and ran his lines for the thousandth time. He was caught between his confidence in his own skill and the inevitable first-night jitters.

"At least it isn't Macbeth," came a voice from the doorway. He turned, smiling, to see Althea.

"The Scottish Play?" he asked, using the euphemism many actors gave to a work they considered cursed.

She nodded, slipping into the room. Without her hands moving, the door swung shut behind her. The back of her white skirt twitched, and Alex caught a glimpse of her tail as it slipped back under the hem, which barely reached to mid-thigh. He swallowed. While Althea had been present a few days ago when he and his mother made love for the first time, she had not yet taken him to her bed as her lover. Alex had not suffered for lack of attention, however. Between his girlfriend, Maria, his mother, and his sister, he was getting enough female attention to sate even his enthusiastic young libido.

"Althea?"

"Yes?" Her voice was low and throaty. The mere sound made him surge to aching hardness in his jeans. He closed his eyes and fought the instinctive urge to throw her to the floor and take her like an animal. His mind snorted derisively at him. Any man who tried to force Althea Carpenter against her will would end up with a bloody stump where his dick used to be.

If he was lucky.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," he said at last. "Some guys have told me it's a bad idea to have sex before opening night."

She raised her eyebrows at him, but did not halt her slow, swaying walk. "So how does that work, exactly? All your acting skill is stored up in your cum, and you'll suddenly turn into a pumpkin if you get laid?"

"Well," he swallowed through a throat suddenly gone desert-dry. "Not exactly."

"So. What? Exactly?"

He lifted his hands helplessly, then let them fall. "I don't know, Althea. Actors are all crazy and superstitious. You know that."

"I do. Edwin Booth and I were lovers for a while in the 1870s when he toured Europe. Poor man. One of the greatest actors of his generation, maybe the greatest American stage actor ever, and he lost two wives young and had to deal with the infamy of his brother being an assassin.

"I used to give him a blow job before he had a big performance. It helped him relax, he said."

"So....you're doing this for me?"

"Oh, no. I'm doing it for me. I'm not worried about your performance tonight." She laid a hand on his cheek. "I know you'll be fucking brilliant. I saw it the other day at your rehearsal. Someday, Alex, they are going to talk about you like they talk about Booth and Barrymore and Olivier. You're that good. All you need is time. And practice." As his jaw dropped in astonishment at her praise, she continued. "But I need a couple of things. First, I need your power. The come of a virile young man." She closed her eyes, but her body shook in a shiver of desire, and she moved closer until their bodies were all but touching. "If I am right, Kincaid will be the most powerful demon-spawn I have faced in generations. And warding this house is a drain on my resources. I do not dare face him unless I am at the peak of my powers. Your seed will give me that."

"And second?"

"I'm afraid, Alex. Not for myself," she said hurriedly, as he opened his mouth in protest. "I've lived a long life. Longer than anyone else on this planet, when you think about it. If I had to, I would change many things. But I would not change how I have spent it. When I look back, I think I have made a difference.

"But I'm afraid of failing. Of failing you and your parents and all the rest. And of failing the Almighty herself. If I don't succeed tonight, if I challenge Kincaid and he defeats me, he will engage in an orgy of destruction the likes of which this town has never seen."

She took a deep breath, and he was astonished to see tears glimmering in the glorious depths of her green eyes. "Alex, I want you to make me a promise."

"Anything."

"If I fail, if I die, and you somehow escape, I want you to call this number." She handed him a small card. A phone number was printed on the white surface in stark black letters. No other information was to be seen. "I've given it to your parents as well. And to the rest of the family. It will help you reach my sisters, Lucifer and Tera. They will come. And when they do, Hell will pay."

He nodded quietly and slipped the card into his back pocket.

"Good. That's done." She sighed gustily. "I haven't been this nervous in years."

"You have stage fright?"

She waved away his incredulous question. "Not really. Some. Screw it. Yes. I'm frightened. Before, all I had to lose was my own life. Now," she hugged him tight, her breasts flattening against his chest. "I have a lot more at risk."

Suddenly he felt a small, hot hand resting on his erect cock. When he looked down, her eyes were twinkling, all sign of her prior anxiety fled. "Which is why," she husked sexily, "I need to forget about all that for a while, and concentrate on your beautiful body instead." With frightening ease, she had him naked from the waist down. "Why don't you put down that silly script, and fill your hands with something else instead?"

"All right." With a casual flick of his wrist, he deposited the script on his bed, then unbuttoned the front of her blouse. Her breasts all but spilled into his hands, warm golden flesh with dark bronze, tip-tilted nipples. He cupped them gently, his thumbs moving from the inner curves to the firm nipples and back again, then leaned forward to brush them with his lips.

"Lovely," she groaned. As her hand closed around his cock, he wasn't sure if she was talking about his caresses or his manhood. But he was too far gone to care. Her skin felt like burning silk around his rod, at once incredibly delicate, but also on fire with carnal heat. He closed his eyes, fighting for control, as her thumb swirled around his glans, coating him with his own secretions.

"Men." Her voice was fondly exasperated as she read his thoughts. "Why do they always have to pretend to be supermen? I'm trying to make you cum, Alex. I'm not going to be angry if you shoot off quickly. The opposite, rather. If I can't make you cum, I'm going to start to think that there's something wrong with me."

"There isn't a single damn thing in the world wrong with you, and you know it," he replied. "I don't know," he continued, answering her question while leaning in for a kiss. "I guess its years of reading about how men are supposed to make women climax before we do. If we don't, we're failures."

"The only thing I need from you, gorgeous man, is enough warning to get my mouth around your beautiful prick, so I can swallow your seed. My orgasm can wait."

He frowned as an unpleasant thought struck him. He pulled away slightly.

"What?" Althea asked, knowing him well enough by now that she could sense his hesitation.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, trying to pose his question in the most tactful way possible. His hands still held her breasts, the glorious dark nipples looking, in his eyes, like tight-furled rosebuds, not quite ready to flower.

Maybe that's what she is. A flower, waiting for sunlight.

"Is that how you get your power?" He made an abortive gesture, trying not to offend her. "Does the death of sperm somehow give you what you need, like you're some kind of superhot vampire?" He winced as the graceless words emerged, and wanted to punch himself in the mouth. Idiot.

"No." she shook her head, the tumbled tresses of her blond hair framing her lovely face. "Not even a little bit. Not even close. Of course, your sperm will die inside me. They all do." For a moment she looked haunted by an ancient grief. "But that's not where the power comes from. It comes from the...the spiritual part of the exchange. The greater the bond between us, the more power I gain.