Whelp

Whelp

Stephen Brooke ©2020

Zargaroth looked up from his manuscript. “Carrying another mortal whelp, are we?” he asked. “How many is this for you?”

“I lost count centuries ago,” came the flat, emotionless reply, “though this is the first in many years. Men do not call for us as once they did.”

“They’ve stopped believing you succubi exist,” said the arch-demon. “And from what I’ve heard, human women are doing your work for you quite nicely these days.”

“Amateurs,” spat Mepathet.

Zargaroth sneered. “All you know you learned from them. Even the shape you wear to allure men. Now, let’s get the thing out of you.”

“It is ready. I gave all of myself to it I could, so it would grow the quicker. It hurt.”

“Yes. It was your duty to do so.” Everyone hurt here. “I suppose you thought of getting rid of it.”

“Every second. I know better than to flout the master’s will in this.”

He nodded his tricorned head. “Even to think it is dangerous. But inevitable.”

The demoness nodded as well. “I have wondered why he does not gather the by-blows of the incubi.”

“Those born of mortal women belong to the mortal world. We have no claim on them.”

“Ah. This I did not know.”

“And it will make no difference to your existence. Knowledge is just another burden for us. It mocks our impotence.”

“All things do.”

“Yes. Would there were an end to things. Would there were an end.” It was almost a sigh and almost a curse.

That was what their master worked for. Both knew this and it was the only knowledge truly worthwhile. An end to suffering. An end to existence. He had promised this eons ago, in the times before time was.

“It is kicking at me,” noted Mepathet. There was no emotion, no judgment, only a statement of fact.

Zargaroth laid a clawed hand on her belly. “A lively one. Whence came his seed? A strong man?”

She gave only a weary shrug. “They all seem weak, those who call to us.” The demoness gazed down at her swollen body, pondering for a moment. “This one seemed more curious than lustful. He had no sense of being sinful. Most are racked with guilt over their falling.” A mirthless laugh erupted. “Falling as did we.”

“Such amoral men have fallen already. He had no need of your body to lure him.”

“I was called. I must go.” She had no enjoyment of her trysts. She could not even savor the corruption of men’s souls. Not anymore. All was the same gray meaningless existence she cursed. The pain of being.

“Three days?” asked Zargaroth. Mepathet nodded. That was normal for a succubus’ pregnancy, if she put all the resources of her body into the whelp’s development. It was painful but it was best to be rid of the thing as soon as possible.

“Then let’s remove it.” He cleared his throat and spat a small flame into a corner. “Without damage.”

That needn’t be said. Their master required it. “It is attempting to expel itself,” Mepathet said. She could feel it, a sharper pain than the dull ache of having the thing within her. Would that she could resume her old demon form. It would make things easier but she had so long worn the shape of a mortal woman that it had become who she was.

Zargaroth knew how to get it out. Not without pain, to be sure. What cared he for the pain of another succubus? He had midwifed for uncounted, uncountable, demon mothers over the millennia. Tentacles curled from his wrists, probed, wrapped themselves about the thing inside her. “It comes,” he stated.

A moment later, a fat brown mortal boy was grasped in his talons. Almost tenderly, he placed it on the table of polished black stone.

Mepathet gazed at the little thing. The whelp of that mortal man with whom she had lain. The man meant nothing to her. But this creature—it was of her. She couldn’t feel anything for it, could she?

“It will make a fine treat at the master’s table,” said Zargaroth. “Leave now.”

Dully, Mepathet nodded her head and went to wait again to be called.

appears in Lands Far Away 2021