Find Out What Blaze Is Planning

Lois drank, and Deadman, speaking through the pale lips of the goth, explained.

"Demons build cults for several reasons—to spread their influence on Earth, attract people that will pledge their souls to them, gather resources to expand or sustain their power in one realm or another—the demon behind this cult, she's a kind of succubus. Feeds on the psychic energy of humans released by orgasm. Some of that goes to sustain her form in this realm, or fuel her powers. Most succubi try to hide their feeding, make it last as long as they can—feeding too often from the same victim, and they'll die, literally sucked dry. That creates attention."

Lois hadn't finished her drink, but she found Deadman had already ordered another one for her. The reporter finished the drink in her hand in a long slurp, tilting her head back to get the last tingling, gooey drop, then set the glass down and reached for the fresh cocktail.

"This one, though, she's planning something. Building up a lot of energy in a short period of time. I think that's why the women went missing—she's made them into her familiars. Marked and bonded them to herself, so that she can feed through them. When she whores them out, the psychic energy from the orgasm feeds through them back into her. That let's them maximize her feeding." He stared at her as she drank, watched the muscles in her throat work. "But I still don't know what she's planning to use all that energy for. It has to be soon, or it'll attract more attention than just me—heavy hitters like Doctor Fate, or maybe a rival demon. By the time they get involved though, the women might be too far gone."

The reporter set the glass down. A small pool seemed to burn in her stomach now, and yet another drink arrived—not cool like the others, but warm as she brought it to her lips. It almost worried her how much she was getting used to drinking these things.

"What do you mean, 'too far gone'?" she asked between sips.

"Humans aren't built like succubi—they orgasm too. Each time the women cum, some of their energy is lost too—and the channel is rough on the psyche. They start to lose pieces of themselves. Too much sex and they'll be hollow shells of themselves...permanently damaged...maybe die. Normally I'd possess one, to figure out what's going on, but the succubi's hold is too well-established for that. That's where you come in."

"And what do you want me to do?" The reporter asked. Her mouth felt sticky, globs of grey-white goo stuck on her teeth, and she ran her tongue over them to try and clean them up. Wondered what her breath might smell like.

Rat's eyes looked at her, oddly unblinking. "I can't get close enough...but you can. By becoming one of her familiars." She coughed a little, felt the grey goo rise in her throat. Deadman signaled the bartender, leaned across and whispered something to him, then turned back to Lois.

"What?" The reporter frowned. "You must be joking."

"Succubi and incubi mark their familiars with their sexual fluids," he said, a note of urgency creeping into his voice. "The process is quickened if the familiar does it knowingly, but any willing ingestion begins the process. These cocktails," he pointed at the three empty glasses, "contain the succubus' love juices. You're already on your way to becoming a familiar. That's how the succubus scored the other women. They didn't know what was happening to them. But if you do know...if you do it willingly, the transformation can happen fast, and we can use that connection to find out what she's planning. Once we foil that, the succubus will be deported back to hell, and all the familiars will be released. We can end this tonight."

Lois stared at the empty glasses...and thought of the ones upstairs.

How much? she thought. How much demonic cum did I drink tonight?

She steeled herself as the warmth in her gut seemed to grow, and suffuse throughout her body. Lois could almost feel it working now that she knew and accepted the truth...and there was no way out, except deeper in.

"What do I have to do?" she said, with a hint of resignation.

A pitcher arrived. The contents were grey-white, and thicker than milk or Kahlua. There was a red-and-white striped straw sticking out of it. Lois felt eyes upon her, and knew that several of the patrons had taken notice and were watching.

"Drink," Deadman said.