Valentine’s Day Succubus

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A Valentine’s Day Succubus

Wesley Forthright considered himself a man of routine, which is to say he considered himself a man who enjoyed things arriving when and where they were meant to. His afternoon scotch-and-soda, for example, should appear promptly at half-past four, borne aloft by a deferential servant who understood the importance of silence, ice, and not sloshing the soda like a common drudge.

Instead, it was four-forty-two, his glass was dry, and there was not a servant to be seen.

This was unsettling.

The Meridian Club prided itself on discretion, exclusivity, and a staff that seemed to materialize precisely when summoned by the clearing of one’s throat. Today, however, Wesley had cleared his throat to the point of sounding consumptive, and still nothing.

“Extraordinary,” he muttered, levering himself out of his favorite leather chair.

What made the situation particularly galling was that Patricia was usually on duty at this hour. Patricia — whose competence was matched only by her… generosity of figure. Wesley would not have described himself as a man ruled by base impulses, but he would freely admit that he often ordered a second drink simply to observe the careful bend she employed when setting it down on the low table beside his chair.

A bend that defied Euclidean geometry.

Thus motivated, Wesley set off in search of assistance, wandering deeper into the club than he ever had before. He passed billiard rooms, card tables, and a smoking lounge where three colonels appeared to be arguing over whether one could, in fact, shoot a tiger while falling off an elephant.

And then he noticed a door.

This was peculiar, as Wesley was certain the corridor ended in a coat closet. Yet here was a tall oak door, slightly ajar, from which a warm glow and the unmistakable scent of old leather and burning wood spilled.

Curiosity, that old enemy of good sense, nudged him forward.

The room beyond was magnificent.

A library — no, the library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves bowed under the weight of ancient tomes. Brass lamps gleamed softly. A fireplace roared with cheerful enthusiasm, casting light across a thick rug worked with intricate symbols that Wesley assumed were either decorative or aggressively foreign.

At a heavy desk near the hearth lay an open book, its pages yellowed and thick, beside a candle that had burned down only slightly. Someone had been reading recently.

“Hallo?” Wesley called.

No answer.

He approached the desk and peered at the book. The heading read:

On the Proper Summoning of Entities

Wesley blinked.

To be continued on Patreon.com/guigar