Two black-robed figures stood in the candlelit darkness of a long abandoned crypt. The stone walls around them were crumbling and covered in knotted tendrils of ivy. Spider webs festooned the dusty corners of the room and beady eyes watched them from secret hiding places.
"Hurry up!" Bradley Higgins said. "He's coming."
Curses and loud crashing sounds came from somewhere near the entrance to the old cemetery. They got closer as a large figure barrelled through weed-choked aisles. Their pursuer was not far behind and the flickering candlelight would lead him straight to them.
"Be quiet!" Clive Figg retorted. He maintained absolute focus as he drew the last line of the pentagram with blood oozing from a cut in his forefinger. "We're nearly done."
He stood and examined his work. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Exactly as it was set out in the old pages. It needed to be for what they had planned.
The heavy footfalls were getting closer. They didn't have much time.
"The semen," he demanded of Bradley.
"Here," Bradley said, handing over a small glass tumbler covered in plastic wrap. "A virgin's, just like the pages asked for."
"It's yours, isn't it?" Clive asked.
"Uh ... yeah," Bradley said, staring at the floor in blushing shame.
"That won't be a problem after tonight," Clive said.
He threw the white fluid into the centre of the pentagram. The heavy footfalls were right at the entrance to the vault now. There was a load metallic crash as the gate was thrown aside. Clive put the sounds out of his mind and concentrated on reciting the words from the ancient pages. He had to be exactly precise on this.
He finished the summoning just as heavy footfalls were thumping down the steps to the tomb they were hiding in. He didn't have to wait long for something to happen. As the echoes of the last word faded away the lines of the pentagram began to glow with a deep crimson light, as if flames were shining up from the very depths of hell itself. A puff of thick black smoke swirled upwards out of the dusty stone floor. It grew thicker and twirled as if in the grip of a languid whirlwind. A strange fragrance, sweet like exotic poison, tickled Clive's nostrils.
The smoke dissipated and revealed a tall, extraordinarily beautiful woman.
No, not a woman. She could never be mistaken for a woman.
Large black bat wings were folded behind her back. A miniature pair sprouted from the side of her head, just below a pair of jet-black horns. A sinuous black tail swished behind her like a hungry snake. Despite this, she was still sexier than any girl Clive had seen in real life. The proportions of her body were impossibly perfect. From an ample chest, with milky-white breasts straining to escape a baroque black basque, her body tapered down to a narrow wasp waist before swelling back out into the inviting curves of her hips. Her face was as perfect as a Russian model's and colder than the wastes of Siberia.
"I am the succubus Nÿte," the demon said in a voice that was low and seductive. "What is your desire?"
At that moment a squat thickset man wielding a baseball bat barrelled into the room with a barrage of curses.
Five minutes earlier.
I'm going to kill them, Doug Barker thought.
He gripped the handle of the baseball bat tighter as he stomped down the road.
I'm going to take this bat and ram it right where the sun doesn't shine, he thought.
How dare they do that to his pride and joy. How dare they!
He'd tagged them for punks the moment his daughters had invited them over. Ashley was besotted with Clive Figg for some reason. She was at that unfortunate age when tall, dark and mysterious bad boys were completely irresistible. Doug didn't want to become the stereotype of an overprotective father, but there was something about these two. He didn't mind the dark clothes and alternative Goth look. Heck, back in the day he'd listened to Sabbath and Maiden and had hair hanging down to his waist. No, there was something sly and unwholesome about that pair, especially Figg. That one was a cocky bastard for sure. Carrying on like some kind of black magician with secret occult knowledge, even though it was just the usual bullshit teens experiment with when they want to be seen as different.
He didn't want his instincts as a father to bias his judgement though, so he'd done a little background digging. He went to an old friend, Joan Leonard, who was a teacher at Ashley and Claire's school and had also taught Figg and Bradley Higgins a few years back, and asked for a second opinion.
"Higgins is your average low achiever," she'd told him over dinner. "Not his fault. There's not much you can do when you're born as dumb as a box of rocks."
"The complete opposite. That's one bright kid. Really gifted academically."
"Too much of a rebel though?"
"Not really. He dressed in the usual outsider fashions, but he was always polite and deferential to the staff. A model pupil in that respect."
"But... ?" Doug knew Joan well enough to tell when she wasn't giving him the full story.
"Ah Doug, you know me. I don't like saying bad gossip on anyone if I don't have the facts to back it up."
"But there is something?" Doug had pressed.
"I didn't like him, none of the staff did," Joan had admitted. "There was something about him that got under the skin. And there was that incident with him and a girl a few years back. Nothing concrete though, he's the type where nothing ever is."
That was enough for Doug. He'd taken them to one side and politely, but firmly, told them to stay the fuck away from his daughters.
He'd thought that had been the end of it until Halloween had rolled round. The evening had been no different to any other Halloween. The kids of the neighbourhood had come round on their trick-or-treat runs and afterwards Doug had dozed off in front of the game with a beer.
He'd been roused by a loud knock on the door followed by giggles. It was too late for the usual trick-or-treaters, he'd thought as he checked the clock. Probably some of the older kids making a mischief of themselves. He'd soon sort them out.
There'd been no one waiting on the doorstep. Instead he'd seen a black-robed figure kneeling next to his Mustang on the drive. The figure had looked up and Doug had seen Higgins's piggy little eyes staring out at him from under a black hood. Figg was standing at the end of the driveway, regarding Doug with his usual arrogant sneer.
That pair, what were they up--
Doug had looked at the side of his Mustang, his pride and joy, and saw that they'd carved 'TRICKED' in ugly large scratches that stretched almost the full length of the car. He'd roared in rage, grabbed the trusty baseball bat he kept in a stand next to the door and stomped down his drive after them like the implacable monster of countless Halloween night horror movies.
I'm going to kill them.
Doug watched as they ran ahead of him down the road. At the end they ducked into the old cemetery.
Perfect home for freaks like them, Doug thought. He kicked the overgrown iron gate open with a crash. Inside the cemetery was an overgrown maze of old tombs. It would have made a perfect hiding place, but the moron pair were too stupid to extinguish their light. He saw it flickering in the entrance of an old mausoleum near the centre of the cemetery.
Those punks were in for the hiding of their life, Doug thought as he reached and stomped into the old tomb. Ahead of him candlelight flickered against the stone walls of an old stairway leading down. Beneath him he heard a voice speaking in an unfamiliar tongue. It sounded like Figg, but Doug couldn't understand what he was saying.
Surely he wasn't stupid enough to really believe that black arts stuff, Doug thought. What was he trying to do, summon the devil to protect his ass? Doug would have laughed at how ridiculous the idea was if he wasn't so pissed.
He needed to laugh at them. His blood was running seriously hot at the moment. He was steamed at what they'd done to his car, but he needed to temper that rage. They weren't worth going to jail over. A few bruises would be enough to get the message across. He imagined them cowering below, desperately trying to summon up Lord Satan. It was pathetic.
He stomped into the candlelit room. Figg was standing next to an old candelabra. He was holding a sheaf of yellowed old pages, each in its own plastic sheet protector. Standing by him was his moron-in-chief, Higgins.
"Right you fuckers..."
Doug stopped. There was another person in the room with them.
He turned and saw a strikingly beautiful girl. He hadn't seen a figure like that outside of the wet dreams about big busted cheerleaders he used to have as a teen. She was in some kind of Halloween fancy dress. A demon or devil. Her skin-tight leather outfit was so provocative it would have shamed a ten dollar hooker.
Who was she? One of Figg's freak friends?
Damn realistic looking costume though.
"Nÿte, deal with this piece of human excrement," Figg sneered.
"Fuck him up real good," Higgins added.
"As you command ... masters," the girl, Nÿte, said, before turning towards him.
Doug saw her face and immediately responded by swinging his bat at her head as if he was A-Rod trying to blast a home run out of the Yankee's stadium.
Now Doug considered himself a good, neighbourly sort of man. A man with a decent set of morals. Normally the notion of trying to knock a pretty woman's head off with a baseball bat wouldn't ever occur to him, no matter what kind of freaky costume she happened to be wearing.
.... There is more of this story ...