Incubus

threads of his sanity snapping. He needed to get out of there, now. He spun on his heel and growled over his shoulder, “We’ll see if your words stay so sharp after a week here all on your own.”

  …

  Niclas carried out his duties that week with the pinpoint professionalism everyone knew him for. A few of his fellows joked about the Jew he’d taken to the pens, and when were they going to start smelling the dead body anyway? He would chuckle and respond that he did these things by the book, as always, and the man was alive and, presumably, as well as he could be in such a cell. On the surface, everything appeared fine.

  At night, however, Niclas was a completely different person.

  Simcha’s eyes haunted him. The mere memory of them caused him to shiver with a feeling he dared not name, though inside he knew with curdling shame that it was lust. If he could sleep for longer than a half-hour, he would wake up tormented by dreams that made him sick to contemplate. He never gave into his foul urges - to do so would have been a personal defeat, both against himself and against the voice that still beat itself into his brain every time he was alone.

  Why are you fighting it, Niclas?

  “Shut up,” Niclas whispered to the empty room.

  Think how good it could be. Do you honestly think he’d tell anyone? Who would believe him? If he even had the nerve to tell anyone. He might be belligerent with you, but threatening to expose your dirty little secret? You’d kill him before he ever got the chance.

  “Why are you doing this? Why are you telling me this?” he wheezed, burying his face in his pillow and trying to think of something, anything other than the mocking voice and Simcha’s lazy, lucid brown eyes.

  Because you’re ignoring it. You know it’s true, Niclas, but you’re ignoring it. How long do you think you’ll be able to last, hm? What will you do when he is led to his death? The possibilities, the thought of what could have been, they’ll destroy you.

  “Go away,” he repeated. “Just…just fucking go away.”

  Such language, Niclas. Do you think Simcha would be offended…or aroused? He seems to be attracted to ruthless authority, even if he doesn’t show it.

  “Leave me!” he shouted, not caring if someone heard.

  Very well. Good little Nazis need their sleep, after all. We’ll talk more in the morning, Niclas.

  “We will not.”

  Oh, but we will. You can’t make me leave, Niclas.

  …

  It didn’t stop. At the end of the week, Niclas knew what he needed to do to get that voice out of his head. He wasn’t proud of it, and he wasn’t looking forward to it, but he would do anything to get rid of the voice at this point.

  Just once, he told himself. Just once, to slake his curiosity and need, and who would ever have to know besides him and Simcha? Knowing inside what he was about to do both thrilled and sickened him, but as the voice so frequently reminded him, he had little choice.

  “You swear you’ll leave if I do this,” he whispered as he adjusted his collar in the mirror.

  You’ll never have to hear from me again.

  “You will keep your word?”

  Niclas, I always keep my word.

  “I’m unconvinced.” Niclas managed to put on a normal face. As he left his quarters and headed towards Simcha’s cell, his mind reeled with possibilities and terrors. Simcha could have died from thirst or cold. He could scream for help, and Niclas would be ruined or worse. So many things could be different or go wrong…

  But when he opened the door, there was Simcha sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest in an effort to stay warm. He looked up at Niclas with that same indifferent expression he’d worn a week ago, then sighed and looked down at his feet.

  “I know what you’re going to do to me. I saw it in your eyes when you threw me in here.”

  Niclas snorted, closing the door behind him with feverish nervousness. “I’m not here to kill you.”

  “I didn’t say you were.” Simcha looked up at him again, this time with the first and only traces of fear Niclas would ever see on him. “Is that why you didn’t kill me? You’re…well, if they knew, they wouldn’t let you be in the military any more, that’s certain. But that’s just it. We’re both different. Whether you like it or not, it’s a breath of fresh air.”

  “I’m not like that,” Niclas growled. “I’m not gay. You’re completely wrong.”

  “Then why are you going to do this?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  He didn’t let Simcha continue to speak. He also refused to dwell on his actions any longer than it actually took to perform them. Niclas did what he came to do in a hurried, agitated frenzy, biting back his own noises with great effort and using one hand to stifle Simcha’s. The voice had been right - this was what his blood had been purring for all week.

  And, true to its promise, once he was done, the voice was gone. He could actually feel its absence. It was like a hornet had been nestled in the back of his head, and it had just now taken off for a better home.

  Not that it mattered. Niclas felt a wave of nausea course through him, and he leaned against the wall in a sickened daze. “What have I done?” he gasped. It didn’t even take a minute after his release for the fog that had been jumbling his thoughts for the past seven days to lift. What had he done? He’d lain with a Jew because a disembodied voice in his head goaded him into it? What the hell had he been thinking?

  Simcha grinned at him from his half-clothed spot on the floor. “Hating yourself, Niclas?” he purred.

  “Shut up,” Niclas grated.

  Simcha stood and brushed the dirt off his elbows and bottom. “You know, I’m getting pretty tired of you telling me that.”

  That took Niclas aback. He glared over at Simcha and asked, “What?”

  He rolled those wide, russet eyes. “All this past week, every time I so much as made a peep, it was ‘shut up’ this, ‘go away’ that. No manners, you Germans. But I guess that’s what I like about you. You rough, rowdy bastards, sexually inhibited to hell and back again. Your stability is always at its breaking point, and damn it all, did I really pick a winner this time.”

  A horrified feeling came over Niclas. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I think you know, Niclas.”

  He pressed his back to the door, shaking his head. “No!! You don’t know anything about me!”

  “You think so?” Simcha approached him, getting directly into his face without so much as an inkling of worry. “I know everything you’ve been through this past week, Niclas. That voice in your head? Me. I’ll admit it was draining, projecting myself like that when I was so weak, but that lovely little adventure down there was just what I needed to feel rested and refreshed again.” He pointed to the gun in Niclas’ holster. “Now, Niclas, you’re going to shoot yourself in the head.”

  “No,” Niclas panted in horror, even as his hand inched towards the gun.

  “Yes. It was fun, scrambling the wits of such a perfect German military machine like you, but I need my future partners to be more accessible - a prisoner of war isn’t going to seduce anyone, and you’re in line to be promoted in the near future. So many people lust after power, so they’re not going to get much easier to come by, now are they?”

  This was happening too quickly. Niclas was terrified as his own hand clamped around the butt of his pistol. He watched Simcha’s eyes go from brown to a misty gray-red, and bile rose in his throat as he clamped his teeth around the icy metal barrel. “What are you?!” he pleaded around his mouthful. Unfortunately, he didn’t get to hear the answer, because it was at that moment his index finger put five pounds of pressure on a four-pound trigger, and the inside of his head spattered against the wall.

  …

  Niclas Philo emerged from the cabin with a subtle, handsome snarl, scratching in irritation at the blood spatter on his uniform. Two of his fellow Nazis were running over, stern looks on thei
r faces. “Niclas, is everything well? We heard a gunshot.”

  He regained his composure and nodded. “That animal attacked me. He’d torn a piece of his pants away, twisted it, and dipped it into his water to freeze into a knife. It couldn’t have killed me, but it certainly would have hurt.”

  The other two looked stunned. “What they won’t try! Is he still in there?” the older one asked.

  “Yes, but I’ve set him on fire. There was a sickness about him. I don’t care if a prisoner gets it, but I’d hate for a guard to, so I took the liberty of sterilizing the cabin with flame. I doubt the superiors will mind, but if they do, I will take my punishment accordingly.”

  They shook their heads. “It won’t come to that. It was a smart move if you think other guards could get ill from it. You’d best lie in your quarters for a while, just in case. It’s best to be well-rested. We’ll let Generaloberst Eberhardt know what happened,” the younger insisted, eyes falling on the blonde’s stern face in undeniable hero worship.

  “No, I’ll keep a safe distance and tell him myself, but then yes, if he allows it I will rest. Thank you for your concern.” He snapped a salute at them for formality’s sake. They returned it, and as they walked in opposite directions, he could hear them whispering about how Eberhardt planned on permitting him a small vacation in celebration of his upcoming ranking promotion.

  He grinned. The younger one was handsome, and seemed to really respect him. Perfect. It would take some work - not