by Eve Langlais
Before she and Chris could make it to their room, her mother waylaid them. A woman in her late fifties yet appearing more like her early thirties, Marya’s blonde hair held hints of platinum rather than gray, her features were still mostly smooth, and her figure, dressed properly in a blouse and pressed slacks, was trim. What stuck out, though, was the fact that her mother had missed a button. That never happened, and since when did her mom go around with flushed cheeks?
“I thought you were already gone,” Isobel said.
“Shortly. I see you brought him to join you.” Mother had treated Chris with icy indifference since he insisted they move out of the mansion and live on their own.
Being a shit disturber, Chris offered her his most charming smile. “If it isn’t my favorite mother-in-law. You’re looking less haggard than usual, Marya. Did you bathe in a vat of anti-aging cream?”
“Blood of virgins, actually,” Mother replied, utterly deadpan.
“Surprised you managed to find any in this day and age,” he muttered.
“Did you want something, Mother?” Isobel asked. “I wouldn’t want you to be late for your trip.”
“I was just about to leave but wanted to advise you we’ll be having guests for dinner on Friday.”
“Who cares? We’ll be back home by then,” Chris remarked.
Whereas Isobel, spotting the sly gleam in her mother’s eyes, asked, “Who?”
“Just a few friends. People you both might like to meet.”
“How many is a few?” asked Isobel while pondering the fact that Mother had used the word “both.” What was she planning?
“Nothing big. Under fifty.”
Which Mother truly did consider a small gathering.
“We’ll be there,” she announced.
“Excellent.” Mother beamed before sailing off with a swish of her perfectly pressed slacks.
Chris whispered, “Tell me you just lied.”
“We are going,” she said, heading in the direction of her room once again.
“You know I hate your mother’s stuffy parties.”
“We all do, but as the Antichrist, it’s important you make an appearance. How else are you going to gain allies?”
“I’m confused. I thought you didn’t want me ruling the world. But lately, you’ve been sending mixed signals.”
“I don’t want you killing everyone. Never said you shouldn’t rule. Even if you don’t go to war, it never hurts to have connections. Some of Mother’s guests own islands in tropical places.”
“So we’re playing nice for a free vacation.”
“No, we’re playing nice because if you’re having blackouts, and things seem too quiet, then it probably means we’re about to have fun.”
“Fun?” A hopeful glint entered his gaze. “Think I’ll get to use that new sword I ordered?”
“I do. Which means, I’d better hurry up and finish that cape I’ve been making for you.” Something to rival Lucifer’s own.
“No cape.” Chris shook his head. “They are the number one cause of injury among superheroes.”
“But you’re not a hero.” She peeked at him and winked. “You’re the villain.”
11
A villain?
If ever there were a word to make an Antichrist stand tall, his wife had used it. Still, shouldn’t a villain remember his bad deeds?
The thought plagued Chris, especially since he had to wonder if his blackouts were because of his mommy meddling again. Something kept nagging at him—out of sight, out of mind. It tickled the edges of his consciousness, but he couldn’t grab hold of it and drag it into the light.
Rather than fret about it, because worry was for losers, he chased his wife up the stairs.
She still had a room in her old family home. And by room, he meant suite, with a sitting area and a massive bathroom made for debauchery.
She already had the water going and her clothes on the floor by the time he reached her. His outfit joined hers in a dirty pile seconds after.
However, when he went to grab hold of her and draw her close, her nose wrinkled.
“Soap first. You smell like a zombie.” Which to the uninformed wasn’t the most attractive aroma.
For those out there who groaned because she made him wait, that waiting included her hands, covered in soap, lathering his body. They skimmed over his frame, familiar with his shape; yet each time she touched him, it was as if she discovered him anew, her exploration thorough, tantalizing. As if they were indulging their first time. Each caress drew a gasp or a moan or a shiver. The press of her lips on his skin branded him as hers.
When she dropped to her knees to worship his erect cock, he threw back his head and enjoyed it. She knew how to please him, her hand gripping the base of his shaft, a tight fist to hold him while her mouth did decadent things to him.
She ate his cock as if he were a delectable treat. Licking the fat head of it. Running her tongue up and down the length. Her hand kneading his balls when she took him deep into her mouth.
She sucked hard and kept a rhythm going, bobbing her head every so often, letting the flat edge of her teeth graze the flesh.
When his balls tightened, and his body went rigid, she didn’t stop. She sucked him harder, if that were possible; as if determined to suck every last drop.
And then it was her turn. Because this was one thing in his life that Chris was never selfish about. Sharing was caring. And eating her was divine.
The bench in the shower, which she liked to use to shave her legs, was at just the right height for her to sit and spread her thighs. He knelt before her and buried his face against her mound. Spread her pink nether lips with his tongue and gave her the tongue-lashing she so rightly deserved.
She pulled his hair.
Squirmed.
Cried out more than once.
And when she came against his tongue, yelling his name, it was as if he came again, a ghostly orgasm on a different level than the physical, but just as satisfying.
While the shower she’d insisted on did much to revive him, and the oral was stupendous, even after a nap, his arms wrapped around his wife’s naked body, he couldn’t help but mull over what she’d said.
Am I really such a villain? Thus far, he’d not done anything truly evil by the standard of evil deeds—which apparently was a huge tome kept in Hell that listed every possible sin. Only rarely was something new added to its venerated pages.
Or so he’d heard. His father had yet to invite him to read it for himself. Asshole.
He certainly didn’t feel like a villain most days. Villains didn’t have to do the dishes when their wives went out for ladies’ night. Nor did they pick up giant dog poop from a canine that purposely digested his food in the most obscene way possible. Even the thickest of masks didn’t hide the stench.
None of that was evil.
What of his nocturnal visits to the underground, supernatural fight club? Did those count if he couldn’t remember them?
Surely, villains never suffered from doubt like he did.
More worrisome was the fact that the more he learned, the less he knew. When younger, his future seemed simple. Being the Antichrist equaled taking over the world. The reality, though, proved more complicated.
Was it his destiny? Or had he lost that chance months ago in that crypt when he made that promise to her father?
Isobel doesn’t care if I want to rule the world. She’d more or less given him permission, which was totally cool. Now if only he knew how to go about doing that.
“You need an army.”
The whisper could have been his own.
“It is time to gather the forces, for there is a battle on the horizon. A grand reckoning is coming. All my enemies shall be destroyed.”
Now that definitely wasn’t his thought. He rolled out of bed and into the bathroom, easing the door shut behind him before whispering out loud, “Mother, is that you?” He felt like such a moron. Talking to thin air. Imagining voice
s in his head. But he knew all too well that sometimes those voices were real.
“Mother?”
For a moment, there was no reply, and then a chilled wind filled the bathroom despite the sealed window. It pimpled his skin and shriveled his dick.
A glance at the mirror showed it fogging over, and his breath emerged in a white mist. Either someone had cranked the AC, or shit was happening. He could have shouted with glee. Instead, he adopted a stoic mien.
When the voice came, it surrounded him, a cold hug that made his balls turtle, tucked so tightly, they might never drop again.
“Did you think I’d forgotten you, my son?”
Shit, it was the psycho herself. “Long time, no talk, Mother.”
“Is it? Seems like only yesterday.”
Ominous words. “Where are you?” Please say prison, because I am not ready to deal with you.
“Right here, my son.”
A scream almost escaped him as the fog in the mirror suddenly cleared, and a woman appeared. A familiar woman.
“Have we met?” Met and he’d not realized?
The eyes, black as night—cold, too—perused him. “Is it time for you to remember?”
Remember what? What had she done to him now? “Why must you always talk in circles? Would it fucking kill you to give me a straight answer?”
“I can’t die.”
A disturbing reply that still didn’t tell him anything. “Why are you here?”
“You called me.”
“Is that all it takes?”
“Now that the magical cloak hiding you has thinned, you have only to think of me and I will come to you, my son.”
Chilling, especially since she paired it with a creepy freaking smile. He retained his masculinity, barely, and touched the mirrored reflection. He half expected his hand to go through, but glass met his fingers. “How are you doing that?” Because it was a pretty cool trick. He could totally have fun with it at Halloween. Imagine someone saying, “bloody Mary” and getting him instead.
“Come to me, my son, and I’ll teach you.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so. I’ve seen what you like to do with bodies.” Especially dead ones.
“I have no need of your fleshy container anymore.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I walk the world in my own body. The seals that held me prisoner are broken. I am free again.”
“Impossible.” He’d kept the last seal intact even if it meant lying to Isobel about her father. Her daddy’s soul was the only thing holding his mother’s prison closed. The only thing protecting the world.
“Someone had the courage to do what you could not.” Disdain curled her lip.
“Who?”
“Someone who isn’t afraid of your destiny.”
Cryptic words to ponder later. “What happened to Isobel’s father?” Had his soul gone to a better place?
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
Not exactly surprising. “What’s your plan now that you’ve been sprung?”
“I plan to have my revenge.”
“Against who?”
“Your father, for one. And all those who helped imprison me.”
“You can’t kill the Devil.”
“Who said anything about killing? There are other paths to revenge. You have much to learn.”
“And you’re going to teach me?” He didn’t let her disapproval hurt—much. As if he cared what a crazy demi-goddess thought.
“We don’t have time for lessons. The horsemen ride even as we speak, sowing discord, readying the way.”
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, you should play it cool for a while? You know, enjoy life, not try and destroy the world. Maybe relax a bit on a beach, sipping piña coladas?”
“I have already spent too much time waiting,” Mother snapped.
“You do realize you’re setting yourself up for more jail time if you continue on this path. Do you want to be locked away for decades again?” Since he didn’t recollect her, he could only assume that she’d been incarcerated while he was still young. Clarice, the woman he’d believed was his mother for years, had never spoken of her.
“You think it was mere decades?” Laughter, discordant and sharp, erupted. His mother’s face creased in mirth, her eyes black and cold. “Time passes differently in some planes. I spent eons in that abyss. Expended all my strength birthing you and pushing you forth out of that prison. Then eons more waiting for my son to come into his power. For him to rescue his mother.”
“If you’re just here to blame me because I didn’t break you out of prison, then you can go away right now. I don’t need your shit. I’ve got enough on my plate to deal with.”
A sneer pulled at her lips. “Ah, yes, such a busy schedule, digging holes. Which seems like a waste of energy given you’re going to need those bodies to fight.”
“Fight who? You?”
More tinkling laughter. “You can’t hope to win against me. The more time I spend in this dimension, the stronger I get. Soon, I’ll have my revenge, and you’ll have to make a choice.”
She didn’t need to say it for him to know what choice she meant.
In, or out.
Did he side with his mother and go after his father? Or the other way around? He kind of hated them both at the moment, although—if he had to give the edge to one parent over the other—at least his mom had given him up in hopes that he’d have a better life than eternal damnation.
“Where are you now?” he asked.
“Close. I’ll see you soon, my son.” With that chilling remark, the mirror shimmered and once again showed his reflection. Scruffy hair standing on end, his nipples hard enough to cut glass. Next time he saw her, he’d better wear a parka.
Next time…
Was she really nearby?
If Mother had told the truth and she escaped, then that meant Isobel’s father no longer held the prison door shut. The man had sacrificed his life, using his own essence to keep it sealed. If that seal were broken, did that mean he’d died, and his soul moved on?
Only one way to find out. Leaving Isobel asleep, Chris dressed and then headed to the crypt.
He’d not been there since that night when he and Isobel went looking for her missing father. The night she didn’t remember because her grandfather altered her memories.
Two of them bound by oath, the lie a burning acid reflux that surely wasn’t a guilty conscience.
But Chris remembered, and the fact that he’d lied to her about it gave him heartburn.
He didn’t go alone. Goshen, that big hairy mutt, followed by his side, and while he’d never say it aloud, he was glad for the big fucker’s company. The last time he’d been to the crypt, he’d encountered some of his mother’s minions. The horsemen had done their best to make him fail in his mission.
This time, no doubt crept into his thoughts, urging him to turn back. Nor did the foliage show anything but the signs of fall approaching.
Twilight fell early this time of year, which meant he walked in near darkness, and yet he could see enough to find his way to the crypt hidden in the forest on Rasputin land. A tomb that didn’t try to lead him astray, unlike the previous attempt.
The magic that had once kept it hidden from prying eyes no longer pushed against his skin. The door yielded easily to his touch, the dust within coated the floor, showing no signs of disruption. The once lit torches were dead. He used the lighter he kept in his pocket to light one, the sputtering flame fighting against the thick gloom.
In the room below the crypt, he noted that the altar that had once held Isobel’s father’s body loomed bare. The magic in this place, the last seal holding the prison, was gone.
His mother was free.
And what did he do? Did he scream, “Run for your lives”? Did he blubber on the floor, a terrified mess?
Nope. He whistled as he strode back to the mansion. Hands in his pockets. Nonchalant as you please.<
br />
Looked as if he might need that cape his wife was making, after all.
12
The doorbell rang, and while Goshen perked his head, he didn’t remove himself from her lap. Given he weighed a ton, Isobel wasn’t going anywhere.
Before she could holler for Chris, he ran past the doorway to the living room shouting, “I got it.”
Did he expect someone? It would be a first. Her husband didn’t go out of his way to be social and invite people over. Ever.
Therefore, she assumed she was dreaming when he reappeared a moment later with Charlie.
Goshen bared his teeth and growled.
“Um, what’s he doing here?” she asked. Because the last time those two had gotten together, it had ended with Chris trying to rearrange Charlie’s face, and later with fireballs trying to singe his ass.
Chris, looking remarkably relaxed, replied, “I asked him to come over.”
Definitely hallucinating. But she went along with it. “What for?”
“Mother’s loose. I thought perhaps between the pair of us, we could find and stop her before she really gets started on fucking up the world.”
“Did you drug me?” she asked. “Because that made no sense.”
“On the contrary,” Charlie interjected, making himself at home by flinging himself onto the couch across from her. This finally dislodged Goshen, who parked himself in front of her, staring at the Son of God. “He’s showing initiative.”
Her husband, showing initiative? Something was definitely not right.
Chris chose a spot beside her, his arm casually draped over her shoulders, marking her as his possession. The feminist in her sniffed in annoyance. The woman in her purred.
“Whatever my mom has planned, we have to stop it,” Chris stated.
What was with this we shtick? “How?” she asked. “Because unless something has changed in the last twenty-four hours, you still don’t have a handle on your magic.”
“But, apparently, it’s there if I need it.”
“You mean if you get wasted. And who’s to say you’ll want to work against your mother when that happens? Maybe you’ll join her, and you’ll both want to end the world.”