Succubus 2 (Hell To Pay): A LitRPG Series Read online

  SUCCUBUS 2

  Hell To Pay

  A LitRPG Series

  A.J. Markam

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  Other Books by A.J. Markam

  SUCCUBUS

  LitRPG - a quality control tech meets his dream girl inside a video game. Turns out she's a demoness.

  DEAD MAN GAMING

  LitRPG - a safecracker has to infiltrate the Russian mob, who are posing as a bunch of orcs in a virtual reality video game.

  OPERATION ZODIAC

  Sci-fi - elite American military group uses bleeding edge tech to fight the wars of tomorrow.

  1

  At one of the lowest points in my life, the videogame gods answered my prayers and I got a job doing quality control on the biggest virtual reality role-playing game in the world. Think Dungeons & Dragons, but it seems real. Taste, touch, sight, smell – all real.

  Then things got a little weird.

  I basically slipped into a coma while inside a long-term immersion unit. It was a new prototype designed so you could game for weeks without needing to eat, sleep, or take bathroom breaks.

  Spoiler alert: they got me out.

  But while I was trapped inside the game, I did my job. I played a Warlock – basically a magic-wielding sorcerer with the ability to summon demons and force them to fight for me.

  I helped defeat and kill a murderous priest, a lecherous slave trader, and a demonic overlord. (Well, okay, technically I only chased the slave trader to the demonic overlord, who then killed the slaver himself, but… details.)

  I liberated an entire city of demon slaves and basically gave them a Cliffs Notes version of the Constitution so they could govern themselves instead of being in thrall to someone else.

  And… I met a girl.

  The most beautiful, erotic, playful, and complicated woman I had ever met in my entire life.

  I fell in love.

  She left, which devastated me.

  Then she wrote me asking for my help.

  And that was how I came to find myself in the grimiest hole-in-the-wall bar imaginable, deep in the bowels of a shithole city called Kvartos.

  2

  Kvartos was a contested city, meaning all races could mingle peaceably in its streets. However, it was located in orc territory, and I wasn’t a high enough level yet to ride a horse. Which meant I’d spent the last four days on foot, crossing scorching plains of scrub brush and sand, canyons littered with sun-bleached bones, and steppes full of rivers of magma, all while trying to sneak past big green uglies who liked wearing 37 enemy skulls as ‘flair’ on their armor.

  Some of those skulls didn’t have all the skin off them yet, either.

  Ugh.

  Besides the orcs, I’d faced down sandworms, viperbats, lizard people, scorpion centaurs, and more. I’d died 12 times. I’d been resurrected in tiny cemeteries, shallow graves, and mass graves. (Waking up inside a mass grave – not pleasant, let me tell you.) I’d finally made my way to Kvartos, which was sort of like a steampunk version of Mos Eisley on Tatooine, except with hundreds of acres of tarpaper shack slums and skyscrapers made out of welded-together scrap metal.

  And by far the nastiest thing I’d experienced so far was the Netherworld Tavern.

  The place was basically a small cave in a cliff. From the smell, they’d killed the former inhabitant but hadn’t bothered to remove it.

  There were mushrooms literally growing on the floor. Lots of them. Like, a tiny forest. This was in an industrial city, mind you, not in some woo-woo druid village out in the swamps. And things were crawling through the mushrooms. Millipedes, snakes, lizard-rats… I shuddered and tried not to look every time I felt something crawl over my boot.

  When I said the bar was small, I meant it. The place was barely big enough for ten people. Which was good, since there were only six or seven in the entire place. A couple of goblin outlaws, a bounty hunter troll, and some really shady characters hiding in the shadows in the back.

  The bar itself – you know, the part you ‘belly up to’ – wasn’t much more than a piece of planed timber that bore the remnants of a hundred thousand unwashed forearms and 15 million spilled drinks. If I had scratched it with my fingernail, I could’ve cut a quarter-inch groove in the gunk on top of the wood.

  Behind the bar was an orc – a hunched-over old codger missing most of his teeth, but who was just as surly as any other bastard I’d killed in the last four days. He used the same rag to dry the drinking glasses that he used to wipe the counters. And occasionally his sweaty face. Unfortunately, I saw him do the face-wiping after I’d already finished half my beer.

  The bottles lining the shelves ranged from earthen jugs to unmarked, chipped bottles, and a couple of leathery sacks that might have been made out of pigs’ bladders. I decided on principle not to order anything that came out of a bladder.

  The room was dark, with grotesque memorabilia on the walls. Skulls of various types (fortunately without any skin on them), rusty scimitars and glaives, and the heads of animals prepared by an incompetent taxidermist.

  You ever seen that meme of the woman who tried to restore a hundred-year-old fresco of Jesus, and when she was done, it looked like the Pillsbury dough boy had been toasted in the oven while wearing a fur parka? Yeah. That was the level of artistic competence on display. There was a wyvern head that looked like Barney’s crackhead cousin, and a giant lynx that resembled the Cheshire Cat with crappy veneers. The place looked like the Animaniacs had taken some bad acid and interior-decorated the place for Leatherface.

  I sat at the bar with my faithful imp Stig, who was on his third stein of ale since we’d entered.

  Stig was a drinker. He might have looked like Yoda’s ugly, grey, anorexic cousin with glowing yellow eyes, but he could put away some booze for his size. And after four days tromping over dusty wastelands, he wasn’t about to be put off by a bit of orc sweat coating his drinkware.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t just the two of us.

  A skinny blue demon sat on my right. He had a watermelon-sized head, beady little eyes, and a really strange voice – kind of breathy, high-pitched, and whiny, sort of a cross between a squeak and a sigh.

  There’s this documentary called The Mayor of Sunset Strip about a guy in Los Angeles named Rodney Bingenheimer who was the first DJ in the US to play singles by the Ramones, Van Halen, and the Sex Pistols.

  Sounds cool as shit, right?

  Nope. I’m sure he’s a great guy, but he has this weird, singsong delivery to his voice that makes him sound like Napoleon Dynamite got castrated.

  That’s what Dorp sounded like.

  That was his name: Dorp.

  Least baddest-ass demon name ever.

  “How did it feel when you stormed the throne room in Abaddon?” my drinking companion asked. “Was it really cool? Did everybody cheer for you? Did they know they were participating in a really historic moment for all demonkind?”

  “No,” I said between gritted teeth. “We were all just fighting to stay alive.”

  “When it was all over, did they put you up on their shoulders? Did they give you three hip-hip-hoorays? Did they name any streets after you?”

  “No, and there was no reason for them to,” I said in irritation. “They risked their lives, they won their freedom, they deserved it. In fact, they helped me even more that I helped them.”

  Now you may be thinking, Ian, you’re an asshole. This demon Dorp just really wants to hear about your biggest achievement in the videogame so far, that’s all!

  And I totally would have agreed with you – back
during the first hour. Maybe the first four hours, even.

  I was on, oh… hour 96 by this point.

  Next thing I bet you’re going to say is, Well why didn’t you just walk away, dumbass?

  That was the problem. I couldn’t.

  Because I had summoned him. And then I had freed him.

  Which meant I could summon him again if he died… but I couldn’t ‘banish’ him if he annoyed me. And he didn’t have to obey anything I told him, like ‘Be quiet.’

  Basically, having him there annoying the hell out of me was my own damn fault.

  Unintended consequences are a bitch.

  During the Battle of Abaddon, I reached Level 10 as a Warlock but hadn’t really capitalized on it at the time. Afterwards I was too busy doing other stuff (cough cough hot sex with a succubus cough cough).

  After Alaria sent me a letter asking me to come rescue her, I figured I had better take stock of my abilities.

  First thing I realized was that I could enslave a new demon to join me in battle. I had slain the requisite number of opponents in Abaddon, and had the necessary hundred souls to forge a new collar. Of course, my plan was to summon the demon, then immediately give it its freedom and the choice of whether it wanted to follow me or not.

  I was hoping for some badass bruiser with the ability to shoot laser bolts out of his eyes.

  I wasn’t expecting that Pee-wee Herman took a bunch of Quaaludes, had a threeway with Strongsad and a smurf, and out popped Dorp.

  At least he had a somewhat interesting power: he was an Illusion Demon, which meant he could make other people see things that weren’t there. He could even reach into the minds of my enemies to see what terrified them the most and basically create a lifelike hologram of their worst fears.

  He’d actually proved invaluable on the trip to Kvartos. He’d saved me and Stig a couple of times when he projected Dvrak, the orcish God of Dishonorable Death, in front of a bunch of quaking orc warriors, allowing us all to slip out the back.

  But God damn he was annoying.

  “I heard they wanted to make you their king,” Dorp said in his goofy, slo-mo, high-pitched voice. “If they wanted to make you their king, why didn’t you let them, boss?”

  “You don’t have to call me ‘boss,’ Dorp.”

  “But Stig does.”

  “Yeah, but Stig does because it he’s an asshole,” I said.

  “Right, boss,” Stig said, though he shook his head ‘no.’

  “So don’t be an asshole like Stig.”

  “Okay… Master.”

  “Dorp,” I sighed with my eyes closed, “that’s even worse. Don’t call me that.”

  “Okay… but why wouldn’t you be the demons’ king in Abaddon?”

  “Because I think everybody should be equal, that’s why.”

  “But – ”

  “Dorp, let’s just drink in silence for a while, okay?”

  “O-kaaaay,” he said sadly, sounding like Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh – if Eeyore sucked helium.

  Five seconds later –

  “I think you would have made a great king – ”

  “Thank you,” I interrupted. “But now we’re being quiet, right?”

  “O-kaaaay…”

  Ten seconds later –

  “I totally would have fought with you in Abaddon – ”

  “I’m sure you would have, but now we’re going to be quiet, okay?”

  “O-kaaaay…”

  Twelve seconds later –

  “I would have voted for you to be king if they – ”

  “DORP!”

  “Sorry.”

  Fifteen seconds later –

  “I totally would have found out Malfurik’s weakness and – ”

  I bared my teeth at him like a great white shark.

  “Sorry,” he murmured, then lapsed back into silence.

  Maybe this time he would shut up for twenty seconds.

  “Freakin’ fanboy,” I muttered under my breath.

  Stig overheard.

  “Fanboy? Whassat?” he slurred.

  “It’s…”

  How do you explain the concept of a ‘fanboy’ to someone who doesn’t understand the concept of movies, television, or comic books?

  “It’s somebody who loves something a whole lot. Like, obsessively.”

  Stig frowned. “Whas wrong with that?”

  “Well… nothing, exactly. I mean, I’m sort of a fanboy about – ”

  I was about to say ‘Star Wars and OtherWorld,’ but stopped myself.

  Stig leapt in. “Hot chicks.”

  I laughed. “One in particular, yeah.”

  “I’m a fanboy, too,” Stig said, and held up his flagon of booze. “Of thish.”

  “No, you’re an alcoholic.”

  “Whassat?”

  “Somebody who loves alcohol too much.”

  “Ohhhh… I’m an alcoholic!” Stig announced happily to the orc barkeeper.

  “Good for you,” the orc snarled.

  Stig looked back at me. “So a fanboy ish good, then.”

  “No, it usually means the person’s really annoying.”

  “Ohhhhh. Then you’re definitely a fanboy, boss.”

  “Thanks,” I snapped.

  “I’m a fanboy, too,” Dorp said. “Of you!”

  “Yeah, and I don’t want you to be.”

  “But why? You’re the greatest warlock who’s ever – ”

  “Dorp? What did I say about being quiet?”

  “…sorry,” he said sadly.

  I sighed and turned back to Stig for advice. “What should I do about him?” I whispered.

  “Drink more, boss.”

  “What, does that make it more tolerable?”

  “No, but you get that much closer to passing out so you don’t have to listen to him.”

  Dorp started talking again. “Boss – I mean Ian – did I tell you that – ”

  SHINK!

  A giant blade whizzed out of nowhere and decapitated Dorp.

  I screamed and jumped back in terror as his head thumped on the bar and stared up at me in shock.

  “Uh ohhhhh,” Dorp said in that breathy, whiny voice, and then both his head and his body disappeared in a puff of smoke.

  I looked up to see the old orc wiping a scimitar with his glass-cleaning rag.

  Behind us, the other patrons in the shadows burst into a polite golf clap.

  “Fanboy,” Stig sneered dismissively at where Dorp’s head used to be, then took another drink.

  “WHAT THE HELL?!” I yelled angrily at the orc.

  “Damned braktik talks too much,” the orc snarled, and looked at me like, You want some of this, too, punk?

  I stood there at a loss.

  This guy had just murdered my demon.

  But… I didn’t really like my demon.

  And damn the quiet was nice.

  Plus, I could summon Dorp again whenever I needed him. Which I wasn’t going to do until I was basically on death’s doorstep.

  Suddenly I realized that I could have killed Dorp myself and saved myself 95 hours of annoying prattle. Or I could have at least threatened to do it. That might have bought me a little more peace and quiet.

  I probably should have killed the old orc, too, on general principal. But I was supposed to get information here about Alaria, and I didn’t think it would go over well with management if I started slaughtering their employees.

  “What should I do?” I whispered to Stig.

  “About what?” Stig asked.

  “Him killing Dorp.”

  “Tip him double,” Stig advised.

  The orc chuckled as he put the scimitar back under the bar, the way a bar owner in the real world would hide a shotgun or Louisville slugger. Then he topped off Stig’s drink from a pitcher of what looked like bog water. “On the house.”

  “Tip him triple,” Stig said, and chugged away.

  “Do you know a guy named Mirk, by any chance?” I asked as I took m
y seat again.

  “Who’s askin’?” the orc grumbled.

  “A friend of Alaria’s.”

  The orc got a daydreamy grin on his face. “Alaria…”

  “Are you Mirk?”

  “Yup,” the orc said, and went back to polishing glasses with the rag – now imbued not only with his sweat, but ‘essence of Dorp,’ too. “How’s my future wife doin’?”

  Ew.

  I wasn’t really digging on a big green monster having fantasies about my girlfriend, but – whatever. Now was not the time to start staking out my domain.

  “She left me a message that said you would know how to find her.”

  “She was in here just a week ago. Said she was going to take down one of her old masters.”

  ‘500 XP’ floated up through the air.

  I’d fulfilled one of the many items taking up my quest list: Mirk My Words – get information about Alaria’s whereabouts.

  ‘Mark My Words.’

  If I ever got to talk to Westek’s writing staff, we were going to have to discuss their stupid quest titles.

  That would have to wait, though – I was back in the immersion rig for another week at least. Although I’d made them promise to deactivate the video feed as a precondition for my coming back.

  Just in case Alaria and I… ‘celebrated’ when I found her.

  “Do you know which ex-master she was going after?” I asked.

  “The Dread Pirate Tarka.”

  “Pirate?”

  “Aye. The Scourge of the Seven Skies.”

  “Skies?”

  Then I remembered: besides regular maritime transportation, OtherWorld sported a steampunk-like assortment of giant airborne ships. Imagine taking an old wooden frigate from the 17th century and slapping a couple of massive hovercraft fans on it – of course, hovercraft fans constructed with 17th-century technology. Still, it was pretty awe-inspiring to see the mammoth ships soaring through the air. I just had no idea that there were actually pirates involved.

  Made sense, though. If there was shit to be stolen, who cared if it was on land, sea, or air?