Soul Sucker Ch. 01-10

Chapter 3

Frances Dortmund's POV

One Wynkoop Plaza, Denver, Colorado

Saturday, August 6, 2022

The residential parking garage gate recognized the transceiver in the window of my Indian motorcycle, and the gate lifted before I came to a halt. I drove down the ramp into the underground parking area for motorcycles near the elevators. I removed my helmet and shook out my long, blond hair. The curvy, black-haired waitress was no more. Once I left South Dakota, I shapeshifted into a lean, athletic Swedish woman in her early thirties. My light-blue eyes and delicate features looked around and found the floor empty. Still, cameras monitored almost everywhere these days.

After the six-plus-hour ride south from Sturgis, it took me a few minutes to bag up everything from the saddlebags. I had to swipe my resident badge to enter the lift and again to access my floor. In preparation for my next mark, I purchased the entire floor last month for just over four million dollars. The luxury condominium had three bedrooms, 360-degree views of the city, and an obstructed view of Coors Field nearby. The nearby entertainment and shopping made perfect camouflage for an investor who picked Denver for its outdoor activities and social life.

Exiting onto the seventh floor led into the foyer of my condominium, I dropped my bags on the reclaimed pine floor and smiled. The security system automatically alerted my system when any vehicle linked to my unit entered or exited the garage. My long-time confidant was walking out of the kitchen to meet me. "Welcome home, Mom," Lana said with a big smile.

My sudden appearance didn't faze her a bit. I hadn't called to warn her because I didn't want to leave any extra traces of my time in Sturgis. I'd slept on the ground outside town to avoid a hotel room, paid cash for gas and food, and pocketed only cash tips. I didn't even carry a phone since there were too many ways for the surveillance state to track someone. The driver's license and social security numbers I used on my job application were fakes. There was enough to withstand some scrutiny, and beyond that was a black hole.

I smiled and held my arms out, and she slid into them for a hug. "Your trip was successful?"

"Yes, it went without issue, and the Master is happy for another few weeks. We'll monitor the investigation until it is closed to a natural death." If Todd's friends told the police he was flirting with me that night, even if he bragged he was taking me home, so what? The bar took on nearly a hundred temporary employees during the rally, and a handful of servers often quit after the first day. Not everyone could handle the kind of crowd that showed up for it. Raven was a ghost, one identity among dozens I maintained in my office safe until needed again.

One curse of my existence was how I had to move frequently and maintain multiple identities. Now that I was in Denver, Ingrid Andersen was home. "Lana, you need to get used to calling me Ingrid. We will be entertaining guests soon." One slip could create suspicion.

"Of course, Ingrid."

"Thank you, Lana." My assistant had come a long way from the skinny, malnourished ten-year-old prostitute I'd found after killing her pimp in Bucharest. She'd blossomed as my adopted daughter, growing into a statuesque five-foot-ten woman with strawberry-blonde hair, sky-blue eyes, and an ass that could stop traffic. She wasn't just a pretty face; she was a lawyer with a Masters in International Finance. She oversaw my finances, including the maze of shell corporations that allowed me to shift assets around. At thirty-eight, she'd proved her worth over and over. "I've readied the hot tub for you. Lunch will be ready in forty minutes."

I nodded, looking forward to easing the aches from the long ride. "Is Lonnie home?"

Lonnie was her twin brother. The two were kidnapped in rural Ukraine and sex trafficked to Eastern Europe, where he suffered in the same brothel until his rescue. "He is meeting a contact at the university and will return in a few hours."

Lonnie was in charge of investigations and backgrounds. I could change my appearance at will, but I needed paperwork and history to back it up. In previous centuries, you just moved somewhere new. With government databases and the Internet, it was much more complicated these days. Lonnie would build my identities from the ground up, starting with a birth certificate from a child that died soon after birth. He would spend decades building that legend; school records, a driver's license, college degrees, passports, bank accounts, and employment history. They got grades, paid taxes, and owned assets. When it was time to pose for pictures or take a driving test, Lonnie would set it up, and I'd shapeshift into the woman needed. Raven was one of over a hundred I could choose from, each capable of withstanding anything short of a full FBI background check. Lonnie would create four to eight new identities a year, and keeping them ready for me was a big job.

I'd spent the week before Sturgis traveling to ten cities, updating identities as needed. I was tired, having been up since noon on Friday. "I'll talk to him after I sleep." Lana took my jacket and chaps from me, then removed my motorcycle boots. She took my things to the laundry room as I walked to the primary bedroom suite.

I took a quick shower to rinse the road dirt off, then walked naked down the hall to the enclosed patio area facing north. I turned on my music, picked up the glass of wine Lana left for me, and stepped into the roiling tub. Damn, I loved the feeling of the jets on my back after a long ride! I moved around, letting the waters relax my muscles as I sipped the wine.

I closed my eyes and thought back to my latest victim. I felt no guilt or remorse over killing him; I'd lost that in my first century as a succubus. I gave that man less sympathy than the steer that provided the steak Lana would be searing in a cast-iron pan for me. After all, the steer had done nothing wrong; he'd followed another steer through the chute, and BAM! Dead. Ending the lives of evil men was a job I couldn't quit, so I made the best of it. Master allowed me the freedom to choose the victims, and I could sense their souls to find the evil ones.

I am a succubus, purpose-built to seduce and fuck. I gave my victims the best and last sex of their lives, taking as much enjoyment out of the act as I could before Master took over. My sense of smell was far more sensitive than a human's, close to that of a wolf. It allowed me to track down victims and sense their emotions.

And I had to hunt. Master was required to consume souls regularly to remain on the mortal plane. As a demon, he was unable to interact directly with mortals. When I invited him inside me, I thought it would be a partnership. Instead, I became the puppet on the string he could use to fill his needs. I'd fuck them to death, and Master would eat their souls.

For over a millennium, we'd kept each other alive. In biology, this is called a symbiotic relationship. A sea anemone traps and poisons fish for food, but the clownfish is immune and finds protection among the tentacles. In return, the brightly colored fish attracts other fish.

I didn't want to be his puppet, but there was no escaping Master. He was deep in my head, knowing all my thoughts and intentions. Disobedience meant pain, and refusal was useless. Master could take over my body if he needed. All the freedoms I had existed between his feedings. As long as I kept him sated, I could do anything else with my life.

Life sucked, but it sucked less with money. I have centuries of knowledge in my head, but that didn't mean life was easy. Until recently, women were property, and I refused to let a man own me. It didn't help my sexual charisma attracted males like flies to shit. I used my abilities to carve my way through life by following a simple plan.

Identify a wealthy man.

Make him fall in love and marry you.

Feed him to Master shortly after becoming his wife.

Move away as his grieving widow.

Change my name and appearance and start over.

I'd followed this plan through the years. I'd used it on thousands of men in Europe, Asia, Australia, and the Americas. I couldn't marry a new man every month, and the process took time. The 'money' kills were a year or two apart. 'Opportunity' kills like Todd filled the time in between, ideally happening in other cities to avoid raising suspicions near my residence. Serial killers kill dozens, maybe even hundreds, in their sick lives.

I'd tallied over a hundred thousand victims.

"Ingrid, your lunch is ready," Lana said from the doorway. She held out a soft robe and slippers for me.

"Thank you," I said. I followed Lana to the kitchen, taking a seat on the island. She'd prepared a steak with mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli, one of my favorite meals. "Any problems while I was gone?"

"None at all," Lana replied. "Lonnie has been populating the file on Landon Street and updating your identities. I've been moving money around from our last mark."

"Did the life insurance pay off?" I'd talked him into taking out a ten-million-dollar policy a month before we married.

"Not yet," she replied. "They have sixty days to pay up. I've converted the liquid assets and placed the property up for sale. I moved the proceeds offshore and transferred them into different shell corporations. Next year, we'll move your identity offshore, and she disappears."

"Any investigations into my late husband's tragic death?"

"The autopsy was clean, so we're good."

I barely stayed awake through lunch. "I'm heading for bed. We'll meet in the morning."

"It's good to have you home, Mom. I love you."

"I love you too, Lana. Take a little time to enjoy the summer night." I kissed her forehead, then walked to my bedroom. I loved my son and daughter with all my heart, but they were mortal. They would eventually grow old and die, leaving me alone yet again.

Well, except for the demon I couldn't escape from.

Chapter 4

John Miller's POV

Manhattan Life Building, New York City

Monday, August 8, 2022

I hung my suit jacket on the hook next to the entrance to my cubicle. My dad used to tell me, "Son, if you're in your twenties and your name is on your shirt, that's good. If your name isn't on the door in your forties, that's not good." Here I was, forty-four years old, with a company badge clipped to my shirt. My nameplate was on the five-foot-tall wall enclosing my six-by-eight-foot cubicle, but at least I had a window.

Of course, my life wasn't exactly the management path. I'd been a hockey phenom in high school, landing a hockey scholarship to Boston College. I'd been a better athlete than a student, lacking the talent in either area to go farther. I was more interested in the women and the parties, and there were plenty of both while I was there.

I joined the Boston Police Department after graduation, rising to Detective six years in. I worked in the gang unit, vice, property crimes, and organized crime before spending the last five years in Homicide. When the Floyd riots and the Defund the Police movements were in full force in the summer of 2020, things started changing for the worse and quickly. I took my retirement with many other cops who'd had enough.

I kept pictures on the wall of my cubicle to remind me of the good times. One photo was from the end of our 1999 college playoff run. Terry Callahan was sitting to my right on the bench, and we both looked crushed. I had my arm around his shoulders as we faced the end of our hockey careers. He'd gone on to law school before joining the FBI. I looked at the picture of him at his graduation ceremony with his wife Cathy on one side and I in my Boston Police dress blues on the other. Other frames were selected or cropped to remove my ex-wife from joint family vacations in happier times. The most recent photo was from my retirement party.

I didn't blame Maggie for leaving me. Being a cop's wife sucks, and I continually put the job before her. Add in a drinking problem and an affair, and I was lucky she stuck it out for ten years. Thank God we never had kids! Terry and Cathy helped me get my act together and got me into treatment for my depression and alcoholism.

It's not a stretch to say the Callahans saved my life. I became a brother to them and an uncle to their six kids. With five daughters before he finally got a son, Terry needed all the male influences in his house he could get.

I fingered my eight-year sober coin in my pocket while waiting for my computer to boot up.

Terry spent fourteen years in the FBI before a drunk driver plowed into the driver's side of his SUV while following a suspect. His left leg was crushed, and the doctors had to remove it above the knee. It took him almost a year to complete his rehabilitation, and he took medical retirement. With his investigative experience in white-collar crime, he was hired as a fraud investigator with Manhattan Life and Casualty Insurance. He'd taken over their Department of Investigations five years ago and hired me as soon as I processed out of the Boston PD.

I spent the next hour catching up on emails and updating the progress of the eighteen active cases I'm working on. Most of the office workload was around insurance fraud in our home and auto policies or suspicious death claims. In most cases, payouts get disbursed within thirty days of a claim. We only get involved If enough red flags get raised. If there is evidence of fraud or a crime, the investigation could stretch into years as the court cases work through the system.

All insurance policies have fraud and crime exclusions written in them. Our department determines if these exclusions apply and makes criminal referrals when warranted. Terry often assigns me life insurance claims, where I use my experience as a Homicide detective to look for unnatural deaths and suicides.

My computer beeps, warning me the morning staff meeting is in five minutes. I finish the email I'm working on and stand up, groaning as I do so. I played on the Boston Police Hockey Team for years until the wear and tear caught up to me. These days, I stay fit by bike riding and using a Mixed Martial Arts gym near my apartment. On Sunday, the gym held ranking fights. I was a middleweight, pushing 185 pounds on my five-foot-ten frame. I went up against a twenty-year-old kid with a strong ground game, losing on an arm-bar submission in round three. It was a good fight, but I didn't bounce back like I used to. Aleve was the other 'little blue pill' I relied on these days.

I grabbed a notebook and headed down the hall to the small conference room where we held our morning staff meeting. "How was the weekend," Bill asked as I sat down.

"Lasted three rounds and lost, but I got my shots in," I told him.

"I'm more interested in that blonde waitress you went out with on Saturday."

I shrugged. "Joy was fun, but we don't connect that well outside the bedroom. She didn't stay over."

"Did she add you to her booty-call list?"

I chuckled. "Joy is another party girl who hits thirty, sees her window closing, and is looking for someone to marry in a rapidly shrinking market with declining asset worth. I asked Joy out because she was hot and interested in me. I'm not interested in marriage, and I made that clear on Saturday. Never again." I checked the messages on my phone. "She did text me twice after the date, and I haven't responded. I wouldn't mind another hookup, but that's all she can hope for."

"Either you rocked her world in bed, or she doesn't believe you," he replied.

"She'll figure it out. They all do, eventually." We didn't have time to continue the conversation as Terry walked in. He was Boston Irish through and through, with close-trimmed red hair, a fair complexion, and freckles on his rounded face. He wasn't fat, but he'd put on weight since leaving the FBI, leaving him with a "Dad Bod." He got around pretty well now with his artificial leg, moving to the head of the conference table and setting a stack of files down.

After the usual updates of work in progress, we got down to the new cases. Terry slid me a file. "I need a rush on this one, John. It's a ten-million-dollar term-life policy for Michael Petersen, purchased on June 8th." I flipped the file open as he talked. "Beneficiary was his new wife, Jordyn Carter, who he married on July ninth in Indianapolis."

I looked at the paper. "Deceased on July thirteenth?"

Terry nodded. "On his honeymoon cruise to Alaska. His wife called the emergency number on the ship at seven-ten in the morning and said he wasn't breathing. The crew couldn't revive him, and his body was taken to the coroner in Anchorage later that day."

I flipped through the file to the autopsy, skimming the summary. "Death from unknown natural causes."

"I flagged it because of the timing and the lack of a definitive cause of death. His widow had Michael's body cremated the day after the death certificate was issued. She's the only beneficiary and next of kin. It's all too clean for me, so see what you can dig up before we have to pay off."

"I'll get right on it," I replied.

I took the case file back to my desk. I read through it quickly once, then read it carefully while taking notes. Michael was 29 years old and inherited his father's transportation company after his death five years ago. Peterson Trucking was a mid-size firm with a valuation of around twenty-five million dollars. Michael had the same life and health insurance coverage as his workers. Their $500k death benefit had paid out a week ago.

The autopsy report was interesting. In medical terminology, 'Natural Causes' meant the proximate cause of death was not an external event. It was a baseline determination; it took evidence of foul play or external trauma for the coroner to change the cause to 'accidental' or 'homicide.' In this case, the autopsy showed no cardiac disease, the toxicology was clean, and the only marks on his body were horizontal scratches on his lower back and buttocks. "Fucked to death on his honeymoon," I whispered to myself. "There are worse ways to go." The report noted evidence of recent and repeated sexual activity. He had alcohol in his system, but the level was well below the legal limit at the time of death. Michael's blood and hair samples showed no evidence of illegal drug use. The toxicology showed no poisons or other drugs. There was no bruising or evidence of a fall or other trauma. Based on the body temperature when the coroner took custody of the body, he'd died between midnight and six AM.

He was young, healthy, and active.

And then his heart stopped beating.

I had a lot of questions, but I kept reading. At this tier of insurance coverage, the person requesting coverage needed a simple physical. I read through the report from one of our affiliated doctors, finding nothing.

The file included the reports from the cruise line. Their medics found Michael in his bed at seven-fourteen. They began CPR and used a portable defibrillator to no effect, and the ship's doctor declared him dead at seven thirty-five. The doctor's statement said the death was consistent with heart failure. Ship's cameras showed Michael and Jordyn entering their suite at twelve-fourteen, and both appeared healthy and relatively sober.

I got up after ninety minutes and made copies of the autopsy report, physical, and cruise ship statements. I walked to the elevator and exited two floors down. Doctor Amanda White's office was just around the corner. Her office door was open, so I knocked on it. "Got a minute, Doc?"

Amanda looked up from her computer, her grey eyes looking over her reading glasses. She was in her late fifties, married, and came here to escape the medical insurance nightmare of modern medical care. Most of her work revolved around reviewing physical exams for health risks. "Sure, John. What do you have?"