Snippet of the Day
Oct. 25th, 2010 12:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltdFrom S is for Succubus, in Howl at the Mistletoe.
I walked, making a mental list of places a succubus on the town might enjoy. Strip clubs, either to feed on the free-floating lust or pick up some cash working. Not the brothels. The vampire cartel had those sewn up, and nobody crossed the King. It wasn't a matter of living to tell about it, it was more like what the old man would do to you once you were dead.
Elvis's crossing over to the Nightside in '77 created a huge shakeup in the Nightfolk. He never claimed to be anything but white trash with more money than God, and the old-style superiority-complex vampires were scandalized. But he surely kept the vamps in line. We hadn't had an exsanguination in twenty-seven years. I didn't have enough clout to see my own vampiric territory manager, let alone the King. So screw the bloodsuckers, they weren't in on this.
Bars, casinos and dance clubs. I could skip the Pumping Station and Backstreet, at least. Those were purely incubi hunting grounds. But I couldn't rule out churches. Some demons like the irony of feeding on the faithful. I didn't know how they managed holy ground and all that, but I had a sneaking suspicion it was because there was no such thing as holy anything. It'd sure explain why none of the crosses seemed to work. I'd catch early service at St. Mary's, late services at First Congo and then the evening one at Six Flags over Jesus, or rather Bellevue Baptist. I'd check Idlewilde Presbyterian and a couple others if this ran into next weekend.
I headed down to the bus stop. Presidents Island, and maybe a run over to the truck-stops in West Memphis. Lonely men came off the boats and the road looking for a lay. But, the little lady didn't know what I knew. As we turned onto the Island, I rubbed the odor killer I bought from the morgue under my nose.
Used to be, this place shut down at five o'clock on Friday, like all honest businesses. Then about twenty years ago, some genius got the bright idea of importing zombie labor from the coast. Just like that, the longshoremen were out of a job and all their payroll went into the bosses' pockets. A longshoreman costs forty grand a year, plus benefits. A zombie costs about a grand. They may only last three months in our climate, and they're slower than mud, but they're cheap and tireless and OSHA doesn't mess with zombie ops.
Nowadays no one goes to Presidents Island. Not unless they have to. My odor-killer didn't cut all the stink, and the poor truckers who hadn't known about the zombies loading them, well, they all sat in their cabs looking a uniform shade of sickly green.
A few questions of the dock bosses made it clear I was the first female to set foot on the island in a long time. I headed back to town pretty fast.
Beale gleamed in neon, just firing up for the night, so there was no time for a shower to get the zombie reek off of me. Swell. I looked like a tough and smelled like a vagrant.
The carriages stood in their lines along the sidewalk. Most of the drivers were human, but I spotted another lycanthrope in the group. Some 'thropes were very good with animals, while others couldn't get within a block.
Cinderella's pumpkin coach, twinkling with little lights, clopped past, filled with two pretty high school girls and their dates. The fake unicorn in the traces was a nice touch. I got a closer look at the driver, and decided someone had a better job scruffing up a real unicorn to look fake.
The girl behind the reins looked about sixteen, but you can never tell with half-Sidhe. We don't get too many down here. The way the moon caught her hair and seemed to shimmer on her pointed features, giving her away to those who knew. Most of the folks just saw a pretty girl in rubber elf-ears driving a fake unicorn and hauling a tacky carriage.
The 'thrope, whose cabriolet I was leaning on, grinned at me. “I hate her. She works steady all night because she's so pretty. Half the girls are in love with the fairy tale and the rest, boys and girls, fall in love with her.” He waggled his shaggy eyebrows, looking adorably puppyish. Most 'thropes past puberty couldn't carry that look off, especially the wolves. His horses could smell both the pixie sugar and the zombies and couldn't decide whether to nose at me or shy away. “Need a ride, Ma'am?”
I handed him a card. “I need information. I pay well for useful intel. I'm a P.I. and I work for the Nightfolk. I've got a succubus gone missing that I need to find.”
“Not many demons around tonight.” He sniffed at me. “You stink of silver.”
I opened my shirt and showed him the heavy silver chain I wore. “Keeps my throat intact.”
“Wise lady. I'll keep you posted.” He tipped his hat.
I walked, making a mental list of places a succubus on the town might enjoy. Strip clubs, either to feed on the free-floating lust or pick up some cash working. Not the brothels. The vampire cartel had those sewn up, and nobody crossed the King. It wasn't a matter of living to tell about it, it was more like what the old man would do to you once you were dead.
Elvis's crossing over to the Nightside in '77 created a huge shakeup in the Nightfolk. He never claimed to be anything but white trash with more money than God, and the old-style superiority-complex vampires were scandalized. But he surely kept the vamps in line. We hadn't had an exsanguination in twenty-seven years. I didn't have enough clout to see my own vampiric territory manager, let alone the King. So screw the bloodsuckers, they weren't in on this.
Bars, casinos and dance clubs. I could skip the Pumping Station and Backstreet, at least. Those were purely incubi hunting grounds. But I couldn't rule out churches. Some demons like the irony of feeding on the faithful. I didn't know how they managed holy ground and all that, but I had a sneaking suspicion it was because there was no such thing as holy anything. It'd sure explain why none of the crosses seemed to work. I'd catch early service at St. Mary's, late services at First Congo and then the evening one at Six Flags over Jesus, or rather Bellevue Baptist. I'd check Idlewilde Presbyterian and a couple others if this ran into next weekend.
I headed down to the bus stop. Presidents Island, and maybe a run over to the truck-stops in West Memphis. Lonely men came off the boats and the road looking for a lay. But, the little lady didn't know what I knew. As we turned onto the Island, I rubbed the odor killer I bought from the morgue under my nose.
Used to be, this place shut down at five o'clock on Friday, like all honest businesses. Then about twenty years ago, some genius got the bright idea of importing zombie labor from the coast. Just like that, the longshoremen were out of a job and all their payroll went into the bosses' pockets. A longshoreman costs forty grand a year, plus benefits. A zombie costs about a grand. They may only last three months in our climate, and they're slower than mud, but they're cheap and tireless and OSHA doesn't mess with zombie ops.
Nowadays no one goes to Presidents Island. Not unless they have to. My odor-killer didn't cut all the stink, and the poor truckers who hadn't known about the zombies loading them, well, they all sat in their cabs looking a uniform shade of sickly green.
A few questions of the dock bosses made it clear I was the first female to set foot on the island in a long time. I headed back to town pretty fast.
Beale gleamed in neon, just firing up for the night, so there was no time for a shower to get the zombie reek off of me. Swell. I looked like a tough and smelled like a vagrant.
The carriages stood in their lines along the sidewalk. Most of the drivers were human, but I spotted another lycanthrope in the group. Some 'thropes were very good with animals, while others couldn't get within a block.
Cinderella's pumpkin coach, twinkling with little lights, clopped past, filled with two pretty high school girls and their dates. The fake unicorn in the traces was a nice touch. I got a closer look at the driver, and decided someone had a better job scruffing up a real unicorn to look fake.
The girl behind the reins looked about sixteen, but you can never tell with half-Sidhe. We don't get too many down here. The way the moon caught her hair and seemed to shimmer on her pointed features, giving her away to those who knew. Most of the folks just saw a pretty girl in rubber elf-ears driving a fake unicorn and hauling a tacky carriage.
The 'thrope, whose cabriolet I was leaning on, grinned at me. “I hate her. She works steady all night because she's so pretty. Half the girls are in love with the fairy tale and the rest, boys and girls, fall in love with her.” He waggled his shaggy eyebrows, looking adorably puppyish. Most 'thropes past puberty couldn't carry that look off, especially the wolves. His horses could smell both the pixie sugar and the zombies and couldn't decide whether to nose at me or shy away. “Need a ride, Ma'am?”
I handed him a card. “I need information. I pay well for useful intel. I'm a P.I. and I work for the Nightfolk. I've got a succubus gone missing that I need to find.”
“Not many demons around tonight.” He sniffed at me. “You stink of silver.”
I opened my shirt and showed him the heavy silver chain I wore. “Keeps my throat intact.”
“Wise lady. I'll keep you posted.” He tipped his hat.
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no subject
Date: 2010-10-26 02:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-26 05:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-26 05:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-26 06:32 pm (UTC)And I never did hear what you thought of the collection. *nudge, nudge*