American Succubus

By G.F. Skipworth

A race of enlightened magical women protect the men of Earth from a sisterhood that still views males as food. It doesn't matter who you are - fighter, fighter pilot, cellist, or ballet dancer. If you've ever been stalked by one, lived with one, married one or, Heaven forbid, picked a fight with one, you don't need us to tell you what trouble you're in. The men who love them try to do their part, but how will these loons survive a cage match with the meanest women in the universe?

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.F. Skipworth
• Release date: Feb 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311855237

G.F. Skipworth

George Skipworth has toured much of the globe as a concert pianist, symphonic/operatic conductor, vocalist, and composer/arranger. However, on the day he sat down to write a 4th Symphony, a novel came out instead. 12 books later, and he's still going strong

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AMERICAN SUCCUBUS

G.F. Skipworth

Rosslare Arts International

Copyright©2012 – G.F. Skipworth, Rosslare Arts International and Rosslare Press. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles, reports and reviews.

First Edition

ISBN – 13: 978-0-9837600-1-6

Acknowledgements

To Barbara, as ever

To the Kostur family, in gratitude for hospitality, feasting and sweet times

To the grand City of Baltimore, gorgeous old thing that she is

To the forty foot Perpetua – On to Tahiti!

To our succubi friends, wherever they may be

To cellist and friend Dorien Deleon - no actual cellos were harmed in the writing of this book

Come on, Flipsy, show me everything you know about love – everything. It’s all right. I can take it. I’m an Empress!

Episodes

The Winbournes

The Cellist

Marle and the Witch of Cladei

Glen Raises the Dead

Baltimore Calling Lathrin Wells

Rosy and the New World

To the Hills

Life at Peabody Prep

Paki Hanlon

Chaltis and the Seven Ponds

A Call to Sisterhood

Little Boy Cellists Who’ve Seen Too Much

The Shrink

What is Man?

Flipsy

Cardiff International

Bodacious Betty

The Road Home

The Wells of Lathrin

Dr. Dave

Bowed, but Not Broken

Captain Chesapeake

The Maryland Empress

Death by World Burger

Three Rounds with No-Name

As the Worm Turns

It’s Time

Come-Uppance

For Sailors Who Hate to Fly

Meeting Momma

Calling Dr. Dave!

Old Friends, Old Dreams

A Break in the Case

Jalousie

Pre-Fight Hype

Love, Libraries, and Log Cabin Syrup

The Weigh-In

Miss Miami Tasty Tuna Goes to War

The Super-Middleweight Championship of the World

AMERICAN SUCCUBUS

The Winbournes

If there was one thing that could be said about Gerry Winbourne, it was that the brawler of Highlandtown was a fighter from head to foot, just like every man in his family had been for centuries. His Welsh grandmother could trace most of their careers, and when modern boxing became an official sport, the Winbournes were first in line to establish their supremacy. Gerry’s father, Glen, was a light heavyweight who cut a legendary swath through Great Britain and most of Western Europe. Then he worked his way down the east coast of America without incident, at least not in the ring. Arriving with no pedigree at all, he was mistakenly cast as a fill-in journeyman for the class of New England, mid-Atlantic and southern boxers to pad their win-loss records with an easy night. One after another, though, they discovered that few of the silver spoon fighters could survive more than a few rounds with the likes of Glen Winbourne. As he rose up the competition ladder, it didn’t seem to matter. In terms of talent and ring smarts, he was never truly tested in those years. There was even talk of a title fight if Glen could rack up one or two more heads on the wall, top contenders if possible.

It all stopped in its tracks, though, suddenly and without explanation. Gerry, never got the straight story on what happened to his father. He remembered that the patriarch’s eyes turned dark and vacant, a strange look for a young man who had never been a drinker or prone to melancholy. A general malaise came over him, over the whole house in fact, and no one knew the reason. It was either that, or no one was telling. None of it made sense. There had been no discernible physical change. At least, the doctors didn’t find anything. Glen’s wife, Maisie, grew reflective in those years, and mellowed in her overworking ways. Nothing went overtly wrong with either of them. They just fell asleep.

Gerry’s grandfather, Marle, was a welterweight who couldn’t seem to attract enough interest in the old country to make a real living of it. He’d cracked every skull in Wales at county fairs and local exhibitions, but outside of one historic fight against the Welsh champion, Geraint Tynter, he never ventured outside of the province. They did give him his chance under the big lights, it’s true. Marle carried Tynter twelve rounds, and was making short work of him when it all just stopped. Marle stood up for the thirteenth round and sat right back down again. His lifelong desire to be there among the elite slipped away in a few seconds, leaving him to look like a vagrant in a train yard. Something had gotten hold of him, and the championship that was his for the taking vanished as he refused to rise again. His corner men spent years in the taverns telling the story and searching for an answer. Things like that, though, don’t have answers, unless you’re willing to entertain some expansive thinking. Welsh boxers aren’t known for such a habit, and Marle was no exception. Much of his days after that were spent sitting on the bed and staring out the window from his farm in the wind-blown grass hills. None of that was in play on this night, though, as Gerry wandered along Baltimore’s splendid waterfront, one of the most beautiful anywhere. Fight Night at the Charles Street Armory had ended less than an hour ago, and the young middleweight had cleaned up the floor with a high-pedigree kid from Virginia, some Golden Gloves hotshot with a real future ahead of him, until he met Gerry Winbourne. It wasn’t Madison Square Garden, but for an eighteen-year old kid taking on his first series of pro events, it was all going like a Winbourne boxing career should go. Like his ancestors, no one saw him coming, and he was all but unstoppable.

The cafés, dressed up with strings of dangling bulbs between, put a glimmer on the water Gerry had never seen before, and like the rest of the night, it was magical. The partiers had gone home. He had a girl on each arm for a while, but since his victory didn’t bring a large purse, they didn’t stay long.

Victory brings its own special elation, and no one ever tires of it. For the young, though, it’s a door-opener, an invitation to all the crowning achievements to come. For Gerry, it was his first true public appearance, and he’d gone about his business as if in a dream state - no nerves. The spectators knew that something special was up, and the News-American confirmed it the next morning, Gerry’s first day off in a while. He’d not only taken out a strong, smart kid marked as a sure title contender, but he’d hurt him so badly that the Virginian wunderkind’s career aspirations were put into doubt. Gerry wasn’t a callous type, but he, like the kid from Richmond, understood that you go in there on a personal decision, with a full acceptance of what can happen.

Tonight, it was a stroll around his new kingdom, and the waterfront was his favorite part of it. Less than a hundred yards to the right stood the old McCormack spice plant, still hard at work. On any given afternoon, you could walk down Light Street and smell the spice of the day. The drab brick exterior with the many small windows reeked of turn-of-the-century labor. Gerry had seen the old industrial newsreels as a kid, always set to driving music and heroic narrations that made it all sound like a war. Across the water was Fort McHenry, where the British attacked in the War of 1812. The harbor wound around to the left until it reached the Chesapeake, and right there at the city’s edge was anchored its pride and joy, the U.S. Constellation.

What a thing of beauty she was, looking just as proud and fit for duty as she was in 1797, to her rebuilding in 1854. She was the last warship constructed that used wind power alone. This was no bon-bon ship, either, working well into the twentieth century. Gerry didn’t have any particular bent for the sea, but this ship was one of his favorite works of local art, and Baltimore had plenty of local art.

Many people are quick to mention that Baltimore has always been a candidate for most haunted city in America, especially in the nineteenth century. Ghosts are everywhere, so the locals say. With an inordinate number of churches in the city, they are seen kneeling at communion rails and patrolling the aisles at Mass in Sunday processions all over town. They poke their heads out of every nook and cranny to scare visitors and buyers in old houses. They come out of fireplaces, art museums, antique concert halls and national monuments. That is perfectly reasonable, with Baltimore owning the house of Edgar Allen Poe. People are fond of saying that if the dead intend to inhabit the city to such an extent, they might as well start paying taxes and share the rent. Nowhere, however, was the pastime of haunting more prevalent than in close proximity of the water, and the goings-on aboard the U.S. Constellation was the stuff of local legend. Between ghost tours of the inner harbor and pamphlets naming each phantom, complete with the odd circumstances of their passing, the population of Baltimore has had more fun with the paranormal than anyone in the country. Gerry was no stranger to it, and loved to drive his younger brother Evan into a dead faint whenever he could with stories of the headless cut man, or the moaning of Jack Mortician Johnson’s ghost under the floorboards. Evan studied at the music conservatory’s prep department up the street, and was easy prey.

One of the advantages of visiting the Constellation’s ghosts was the tour’s claim that several of the apparitions could be named. One had been executed by being strapped before a cannon’s muzzle, while another was a former commander. A favorite story on the docks was that of the priest who mentioned how much he’d enjoyed the tour host, only to find out that there wasn’t one. A few phantoms hung around out of fondness for the ship, and many more were said to walk the decks anonymously.

Gerry ambled by, caught up in the immediate memories of his victory that night, and began to reenact it on the dock. He’d let the kid hang around for four rounds, just because he loved being in there so much. Thirty seconds or so of study and he could have easily taken him out, but that would have cheated the fans, so he let the poor sucker think that they were peers. Gerry’s professional goal was to mix all the hand and foot speed of Ali (along with his tactical talents) with the swarming style of a young Roberto Durán. To rival the combination power of Ali’s blurry hands while moving forward in the style of the fierce Panamanian? Accomplish that, and he’d be nature’s perfect fighter. Gerry’s first three rounds on this night were just a tip of the hat to those old guys who followed and wrote the books about the legends. But the fourth round! The fourth round was about the new wave, the fighter who couldn’t be dented and wouldn’t stop coming, no matter what you did to prevent it. Gerry wondered what Mr. Richmond was doing tonight after his first loss. Whatever it was, he probably wasn’t standing up to do it. Well, that was too bad. The moron shouldn’t have taunted him, shouldn’t have played up the class thing. Even more than winning fights, Gerry loved wiping the smiles off the faces of arrogant opponents, and the insult on such a night as this brought out a higher order of no mercy in the Welshman.

Cutting short his retake on the fight, Gerry realized that he was tired, and that ticked him off. Four rounds shouldn’t make you feel like that. It was late, though, and once you’ve turned off the adrenalin tap, it’s hard to turn it back on, especially if you’ve had a few. The Constellation was quiet, and this being Gerry’s victory celebration, he thought that somebody out there ought to say something in tribute, but nobody offered. Removing his baseball cap, he spread his arms and bowed to the old ship. Hearing no answer, he smirked, lifted his head and playfully cocked one ear. Helooooh…anybody in there? Anybody home? Dead or alive? Helooooh! Come on out and meet the next Middleweight Champeen of the world. This is your big chance. Gotta buy a ticket after tonight! The ship barely rocked in the silent Baltimore night, and nothing made a sound except those things that should. Well, okay then, ghosties. I hear ya…it’s your night off. Need resting up for all those tourists tomorrow, but y’all just don’t know what you’ve missed. And it’s weird for ghosts to be closed at midnight anyway! You gotta rethink your business plan, get it together! His words trailed off, the novelty of the joke faded, and Gerry turned to head home. Baseball cap back on sideways, he strutted back down the promenade, slow, lazy, and humming out of tune.

"Shady lady – wont’cha come home with me?

Shady lady, don’t ya know it’s quarta ta three?

You’re the girl my Momma talks about

The one no man can see

A sudden breeze picked up from Curtis Bay, and the Constellation rocked, just a little. Gerry left the waterfront trying to remember the second verse.

The Cellist

How Evan Winbourne ever found his way into a family of fighters is anyone’s guess. The polar opposite of Gerry, the skinny kid with hair sticking out in every direction and the thickest glasses this side of Glen Burnie had the further temerity to play the cello. Lucky for him, music is given a rather high place among Welsh families, but if you really want to do it right, it’s best to be a singer…and not a tenor. That’s for the Irish. A Welsh baritone can go a long way in life, so long as he doesn’t stray too far from his national boundaries. At eleven years of age, it’s hard to know whether you’ll become a baritone, much less a good one, so you do something like play the cello, because it covers the bass and baritone ranges like no other instrument can.

It’s just a natural hazard that while you’re waiting for your voice to settle, you’re going to catch a lot of flak from those closest to you. Nobody can deliver flak like an older brother, but Evan, the super featherweight, had already developed into a pretty tough nut, despite his size. Teaming up with his mother, they were usually able to keep the pugilists of the clan in their place. One of the prize students at Peabody prep, where all the musical wunderkinds studied, he’d already taken first prize in a regional competition covering Washington, D.C. and northern Virginia. The prize included a check for four hundred dollars, and when Glen and Marle down-played his achievement, raving on about Gerry, Evan was quick to remind them that he’d made more money in one day than this older brother had made in four years of knocking himself senseless at Ipsy’s gym. That incited a riot at the Winbourne household. The modest Highlandtown structure between the harbor and Dundalk, already too small for so many self-assured personalities, suddenly grew a lot smaller, but Evan held his ground. His father turned to face him, hissing like a snake ready to strike. Maisie feared that one of her children had finally gone too far, and was lost forever. Idiot! He was an amateur in those four years! Glen shouldn’t have bothered. His youngest son was and always would be too fast for him. You said it, dad, not me! So, I suppose no one’s interested in this check for four hundred dollars, right? Glen and Marle stiffened and leaned forward, as if an opponent had cast aspersions on their honor. Both men knew, however, that if they killed Evan, his mother would almost certainly notice it.

The morning after Gerry’s triumph was one of the calmest ever at the Winbourne household, except for the Saint-Saen a minor Cello Concerto carrying on in the back room before breakfast. They’d gotten used to that, but Evan was taking on that infamous line of parallel sixths in the first movement. That group of phrases is exasperating enough for the person practicing it, but for innocent bystanders, it’s gruesome. In fact, the entire piece is better practiced in the evening…in the middle of the forest…in Siberia. Once it’s mastered, the whole thing is quite lovely, but until then, it’s a test of character for any family. Maisie could see that her husband and his father were coming out of their morning comas, and would soon explode at the sound of one more failed parallel sixth, so breakfast became a rush order. With Evan at the breakfast table and blessedly silent at last, she thought there might be a chance for some peace and quiet, but Marle took care of that without ever emerging from his stupefied expression. So, when are you going to stop practicing and do something? Evan had several good comebacks, but he couldn’t choose, and his father was sitting awfully close, so he selected an innocent one, relatively speaking. Define ‘do something.’ Is there something around here to which you’d have me aspire? He’d lucked out. With his command of grammar and choice of words, neither man understood the question. They knew that it was a smart-mouthed comment, but their hands were tied for the moment. Grandfather tried again…So what are you gonna do when you’re sitting up there in one of those ‘competitions’ with that fool box, and you realize that you’re never gonna amount to a thing? What are you gonna do when you’re lookin’ at all the other people who did the same dumb thing, and you’re standing there feeling like an idiot for what you’ve done with your life? What are you gonna do when you find out you’re not even one of the better ones in that group? What are you gonna do then? Evan paused for a second, measuring the length of his father’s left arm. Making a good decision, he picked up his plate and headed for the sink. The only thing a man can do, Grandpa. Sit back down, let his jaw fall open like an orangutan and let somebody else walk away with the championship – know what I mean? Before Glen was on his feet, Evan was locked in the bathroom with Maisie guarding the door.

The incident passed by the time Gerry came in or, perhaps, got up. No one could be sure. His features looked like the face of the moon coming through the door to breakfast.

The whole family noticed it at once. Had they left the armory early last night? Did their son have another fight they didn’t know about? Evan had been granted safe return to the table, and peered up at his older brother through the giant, brown-framed glasses. He peered even harder when Gerry reached his chair. Glen let his sixth fried egg fall back on the plate. Grandpa Marle leaned as far back as he could without breaking, and froze with his lips and eyes contorted like one of those Picassos down at the Walters Art Gallery. Maisie did nothing, but unfortunately, her hands didn’t either, so everything she was carrying hit the deck, and most of it was made of glass. Gerry stopped and looked at each member of his family individually. They looked as though they’d been freeze-framed. Mom? No answer. Pop? The faint twitch of the eyelid, but no answer. Grandpa? That was a rhetorical question. For all Gerry knew, Marle was dead, although only sixty-five. Evan was not dead, however, and sprang into action by asking the most obvious question one could ask, at the top of his lungs. Hey, Gerry! Who’s your new friend? Hi, I’m… His father’s hand stifled the rest of it, and the family held its morbid pose like a portrait of Dorian Gray’s kinfolk.

Marle and the Witch of Cladei

Grandma Waeli missed it all, and Marle wasn’t worth a tinker’s dam at explaining it. More’s the pity. This didn’t need much in the way of explaining, though. They’d all seen it. Most families wouldn’t have, but the elders had direct experience with it, and Evan just had the special sight. When Waeli thought back to the time it happened to Marle, she liked to keep on going to the days when they courted, to the time when her husband-to-be was a juggernaut, the invincible farm boy from Lathrin Wells. Waeli had never appreciated the underlying violence in fighting, especially when it was underscored by a marked hatred. She knew from the first instant, though, that Marle didn’t think that way. He was a friendly sort, but fighting fended off his greatest fear - inertia. Sitting amidst his own diminishing skills was both absurd and frightening to the hyperactive Welshman, so he let no grass grow under him. When there was no hay to pitch or a local villager to fight, he was lying on his back, hoisting Waeli up into the air like a human barbell. She was petite in those days, but a hundred pounds is a hundred pounds. Waeli loved him because he couldn’t sit still, and because he wouldn’t give in to anything. His stubbornness was like the flag of Marle’s inner nation, and the more unreasonable he got, the more she loved him. Attach yourself to a man who surrenders, she’d always say, and you’ve surrendered. And once you’ve done that, you don’t deserve any better.

What happened to Marle destroyed just about everything that Waeli saw in him, but she didn’t turn and run. Everybody and her sister had a theory about it, and they ranged from black magic and the evil eye to contaminated ginger root and bad lambs’ quarters. The lady who organized the stacks at the postal house said that Marle should stand out in the next rain and sing a hymn to St. David, then sing it again backwards. That’d bring the holy comeuppance onto whatever was ailing him. There were cups of goat’s blood blessed by the good Reverend down the hill, and the Tyson sisters to the west would have beaten and prayed over him until hell wouldn’t have it.

The difficulty of it all was that Waeli was, at least compared to the rest of Lathrin Wells, a modern sort of woman. The townspeople had always suspected it, but gave her the benefit of the doubt until they were behind her back again. The last straw, though, was that after all the good advice the village had gone to such trouble to offer her, what did she do but go and see young Mr. Fraya, the local physician…the very opposite of all that is holy in village culture. He came from Cardiff, and had been in Lathrin Wells for two years now. The number of patients he’d gathered in that time could be counted on one hand. His only recourse was to turn to veterinary matters. This was considered virtuous by the locals. It followed in the footsteps of the Savior. Human doctoring was presumptuous and vain, and those new-fangled instruments might as well have been the devil’s own tools of torture from down below. Waeli talked with the good doctor, long and often, but neither the physician nor veterinary side of him could come up with a thing. Pale and weak as Marle was most of the time, nothing in his blood or mind seemed amiss. It was like the inside of him had just fallen out, and the doctor thought she’d better get him over to Cardiff, because it was getting worse and might soon kill him. Well now, wasn’t that the dilemma? Cardiff was three days away, and there wasn’t a tenth enough money for even one or two introductory meetings, but by God, she’d find a way. She’d do it.

A day later, true to her word, Waeli hitched the wagon and somehow got Marle up there in the front. By now, he was past speaking, turned a ghostly shade of ash, and had trouble breathing or staying awake. His eyes rolled, and from time to time, he lurched as if in a cry for help. In back was a basket of the garden’s best, and a young lamb. Waeli hoped that even a city doctor would see their value and take them in lieu of a fee. They clattered away from the stone house as if Waeli meant to run the horse all the way to Cardiff. That didn’t make sense, but it felt right. They weren’t to get far, though, and that was probably a good thing. As Waeli wheeled that buggy into the village, there stood every woman within ten miles to meet her. They didn’t budge as she spurred the horse on, and he finally trembled to a halt. Before the ring of women, some that she knew and some that she didn’t, stood Maggie Seither, one of the family’s closest neighbors. She was a large, tough woman with the voice of a trombone and a will that wasn’t to be trifled with. Beside her, though, stood a dark-haired younger woman of perhaps twenty, delicate and wrapped tightly in a shawl. She had fiery black eyes, and would have been ravenously beautiful if she’d had any interest in it. Waeli ignored her for the moment. Maggie, my friend, have pity on me. My man here will be dead in no time if I don’t get him to Cardiff. Why won’t you let us pass? Marle groaned and leaned forward. Waeli was afraid he’d fall over and crack his head. Waeli, a single horse can’t make the journey, not at the pace you need. He’ll be dead halfway there, and you’ll be in the middle of the wilderness with a dead husband, not knowing what to do. They can’t cure him in Cardiff. Your doctor friend is from Cardiff, and he couldn’t do anything. The pale woman with the coal black hair continued to stare up at Waeli, making no move to speak. There’s nothing else to do, Maggie. It’s the only way. Maggie advanced and took the horse by the bridle. There is, my dear, and it’s a sight better than a fool’s race with the King of Death. This here is Glynnis…Glynnis Morglen. She knows what to do. Waeli stood at her place, clenching the reins. Glynnis Morglen? The Witch of Cladei? You want me to turn Marle over to a witch? At last, the woman let the shawl fall around her shoulders, and changed her gaze to Marle.

Mrs. Winbourne, the time is past. He’ll not live to the end of town, much less Cardiff. You’re out of time. Ladies get him down, if you please. Overwhelming Waeli, who was lost in confusion and fatigue, Maggie and three of the women rushed forward. Within seconds, they had carried Marle into Herrien’s Dress Shop and into a back room with a cot. Waeli trailed after, moaning, I’m killing him, that’s what I’m doing. I’m killing him! Glynnis followed into the tiny bedroom and ushered everyone out. Pointing at Waeli, she spoke to Maggie Seither. No one is to come in…not anyone, especially her. Take her away and keep her quiet.

Through the night, the women of Lathrin Wells waited. Those with their ears to the door reported hearing stretches of gentle singing, and a monotone conversation in between. Miss Tarti said that at regular intervals, she’d heard bubbling sounds, smelled smoke and the reek of sweat. Then, the whole village heard what sounded like the worst marital argument ever heard in the county, but Marle’s voice wasn’t one of them. It all stopped well on toward morning, and only the gentle creaking of the cot continued.

None of that sounded or smelled right for what came out of that door