Demon Dreams

by Nikki Sex

  The wind of power blows, faster and faster—it sparks and crackles. What magic is this? I sense demon energy, but something else, as well.

  No longer earthbound, suddenly, I’m free!

  Exciting. Liberating. Fuck, I adore escaping my body!

  Passing through the bedroom ceiling with ease, I avoid each atom. Every sparkling molecule seems huge to my enhanced vision. I see everything, but “see” isn’t the word for it. I sense, feel, hear, smell. The Magic Lands are so beautiful. I’m aware of the living barrier—I understand the ward.

  Stafford’s here with me as together we view the world.

  I know everything.

  I am a god.

  Why the hell is it so hard to remember all this incredible shit when I wake up?

  Magic and energy roll over my metaphysical tongue. I sense it, smell it, feel it, taste it. My inner monster has a thought, a kindness. It’s part of who he’s become—a demon with the desire to do good.

  The creature is hungry, shall we let it feed?

  Why not? I easily view past the visual spectrum, all colors including infra-red and ultra violet waves. I know the living heat I’m looking for. We saw them recently. It’s the dead of night, but that doesn’t matter.

  Yes!

  Waking the starlings, we make them rise upwards into a swiftly soaring flock. I recognize the weight of them, sense their warmth, taste the rapid pulse of their tiny hearts. I rouse them with the joy of sky dancing.

  I gather all the birds I can.

  They’re magnificent!

  Thousands of starlings are called—we join them. We are them—elegantly swaying, sailing on the winds of the cool night breeze. Moving as one in a seemingly perfectly choreographed black cloud, airborne, we swarm and spiral—swoop and drive.

  Stafford’s joy matches my own, while my demon sings with delight.

  Flying with them is unreal. Their small wings—all synchronized, move in harmony upon the wind. They make a loud whooshing sound with each turn, every dizzying dive—each upward swoop.

  In this bizarre must-be-real-but-can’t-be-real physical reality, we’re flying! How much fun is this? In spirit form, ecstatic with soundless rapture, I can’t stop laughing.

  Feed the creature. Feed it. Yes!

  Between one heartbeat and the next, we soar, euphoric with bliss and joy. My demon knows where to send us. Instinctively, as fast as possible, we go there.

  Suddenly, we slam into instant death.

  At three A.M. Pacific Daylight Time, Stafford and I wake to bloodcurdling shrieks.

  A moment later, I’m stunned to abruptly realize—the screams are coming from us!

  At three A.M. Pacific Daylight Time, over two-thousand starlings, flying at full force and velocity, crash into the Sheraton Vancouver Wall Center. Windows crack and shatter. Waterfalls of glass stream down the side of the building, onto the street below. Blood, dead birds, and feathers rain from the sky. The 48-storey skyscraper looks as though it’s been hit by a bomb.

  As each one dies, the creature feeds, and feeds, and feeds. The flock of birds isn’t enough to satisfy its bitter hunger, but it takes the edge off.

  In this moment, I feel life and death both at once.

  It’s wonderful.

  It’s terrible.

  The top news story of the day is a mind-boggling mystery. Why would over two-thousand starlings, creatures that are not nocturnal, suddenly fly full-speed to their deaths, slamming into a downtown building in the dark of night? Was it an accident caused by restless flight and night blindness? Or inexplicable animal suicide?

  Why would that happen? Well, I know the answer.

  I caused it.

  How? You may well ask. I’ve spent most of my life trying to teach my inner friend the difference between right and wrong. I’ve stifled his instinct for slaughter, violence, torture, and mayhem. I’ve demonstrated the virtues: prudence, restraint, humility, wisdom, justice, persistence, kindness, patience, and courage.

  He’s learned to enjoy helping, he can even gain energy from healing. But, I think my well-intentioned plan backfired. I screwed up.

  Don’t you hate the law of unintended consequences?

  Somewhere, something extremely powerful, and—I fear, also evil—had been starving. My demon, empathizing with the creature’s intense hunger, along with his newly discovered mission of helping, decided to feed it.

  I recognize the blood-red aura. It’s the same batshit crazy entity that Stafford and I encountered when we recently returned to the Magic Lands.

  Well, fuck a God damned duck. Or, in this case, a shit load of starlings just got fucked.

  The road to hell truly is paved with good intentions.

  What on Earth have I done?

  Chapter 19.

  Much later, fast asleep, I wake, achingly aroused. Heart pounding, at first, I think I’m having an erotic dream. A fiery wind of breathtaking power stirs the air.

  Stafford’s mouth covers mine. One hand cups my breast, the other moves between my legs. I moan when his fingers push inside.

  I sense his greed—his need, and arousal through our mating bond. Instinctively, I respond in kind. This urgency is ours.

  His mouth takes my breast, his teeth scraping. Positioning himself, he drives inside. I arch toward him, moving in time with his thrusts.

  “God, Stafford,” I cry out with shock and pleasure.

  His growl is primal, his touch possessive. “I can’t get enough of you.”

  “Mmm,” I agree.

  There’s no need to speak, he knows exactly how I feel. We scream, growl, pant, gasp, and convulse, gripping each other, writhing with pleasure. The violence of his need all but erupts inside me.

  My senses blur. He’s close to coming—or is that me?

  With his next deep plunge, I’m thrown into a staggering climax. My nails draw blood from his back, making my demon hum, while my inner wolf snarls with desire. I feel his ferocious completion, as he feels mine.

  Stafford’s heart drums in time with mine. We continue to shudder as we slowly return to Earth. Rolling to the side, he tucks me into the solid length of his body, cuddling and spooning close. Arms tight around me, I sigh with pleasure as he nuzzles into my neck.

  The Beast Lord’s passion is tireless. I often wake through the night to the sound and feel of his hands on me.

  “Full moon tonight,” I murmur. “Our beasts feel it.”

  “Yes, this will be our first as a mated couple.”

  “Does that make a difference?”

  He chuckles. “Only as different as night and day, wet or dry, asleep or awake. It’s abso-fucking-amazing.”

  Contented, I sigh.

  “Go back to sleep, Jan,” he murmurs, stroking my back. “I’m sorry I woke you. You’ll need all of your energy for tonight.”

  “Mmm.” I agree, as I drift off.

  ~~~

  The sports arena spills over with people, from the swimming stadium to the forest that surrounds us. Diverse backgrounds, different shapes, sizes, colors and physical builds—what they have in common is they’re all psychic. That and the ability to shift into animal form.

  Today is an Inter-Pack-Inter-Shifter Celebration—the event has been planned for weeks.

  The week before the moon graces us with her presence, every werewolf becomes more and more on edge. This hyper-alert, hyper-sensitive state is far more a good thing than bad. From a human perspective, it compares to long, sensual, super-extended foreplay.

  Perceptions are altered, becoming more acute. Scents are keener, sight clearer.

  Blood runs hotter.

  Emotions and sensations become stronger.

  When the moon is waxing, the beast is very near the surface. The need to shift, to run, to hunt takes over, making one’s inner wolf impossible to resist. The night of the full moon is the ultimate crescendo—the climax of this building energy. It blows us all away.

  Every shifter looks forward to letting their beasts run wild.
Uncertainty, doubts, and confusion vanish under the moon’s cleansing light.

  No guilt. No judgment. No thought of consequences. Complexities and complications of humanity drop away. The wondrous pleasure of a wolf’s existence is in simply being.

  Wolves don’t think—we are.

  Running in the light of the full moon is about magic, power, and instinct. For days, my beast has been restlessly pacing inside of me. I feel her imperative urge to hunt, reassure her that we will. I may not be able to shift, but together, we’ll join our mate tracking prey.

  Tonight, my wolf, my demon and I—all of us will run under the magic of moonlight with him.

  All wereanimals join with the Beast Lord to discuss plans, programs, or issues affecting the paranormal community. Werewolves as a species make up the majority, but they’re the only ones affected by the full moon.

  All North American wereanimals are under the rule of the Beast Lord, sovereign of the Magic Lands. This was a doctrine invoked by Stafford, a “united we stand” kind of deal.

  Stafford is the first and only “Beast Lord.” His predecessor was a power-hungry, destructive psycho. My mate is a formidable, yet fair ruler. Loved by many, liked by most, he’s earned the respect of all.

  Those that don’t like him, fear him (with good reason).

  Today, both human and beast forms compete in a mini Olympics, track and field, wrestling, swimming, and various other games.

  There’s a surprising variety of wereanimals attending—fox, coyote, lynx, and horses. Like the wolves, the majority remain in human form, unless competing in an individual species race. Unfortunately, the bears are hibernating.

  I cover my mouth to curb a sudden snicker. I must ask Stafford if there are any werebulls. If so, are bull shifters also bull shitters? Or are they just “bullied?”

  Regardless of the cold, lunch is set up outside. Cooked meat, applesauce, every fruit I can imagine, my wolf even scents pomegranate. Tables in and around the sports arena are piled high with spare ribs, beef, lamb, chicken—every form of meat, as well as salads, various rolls, veggies—it’s all here.

  For werewolves, eating is a competitive sport of its own.

  Prizes are awarded for fastest, strongest, yadda, yadda. Yet, many contests are plain silly fun, such as “Largest, Ugliest, Most Sensitive Nose” for the stalking contest, or the “Crafty Non-Coyote, Coyote” award for cheating without being caught.

  Owen won the award for “Best Tracker,” surpassing more experienced wolves. Charmingly young, eager, and embarrassed, he blushed and stammered throughout his halting acceptance speech.

  Everyone’s in a super upbeat mood. Having guzzled vats of high alcohol homemade beer, mead, and wine may be part of the reason.

  After a long day, late in the afternoon, Kalev, the Beast Lord’s second, notifies everyone—via text—that their Alpha will be giving a speech. Everyone gathers around the stage to listen.

  Assured of his indisputable authority, my mate stalks onto the stage—making my libido spike. I follow in his wake, watching his gorgeous muscular body, admiring his hard, tight ass.

  Fuck, he’s scorching.

  The Beast Lord is the ultimate in preternatural physical perfection. He radiates effortless power as he mounts the platform like a king.

  He’s the King, the animal sovereign—and he’s all mine! Yippee!

  Now what shall I do with him—or to him? Oh, let me count the ways! Delicious possibilities fly through my mind.

  Stafford picks up on my feelings, if not my exact thoughts. Eyes dancing, he turns to me with that playful, crooked grin of his. It’s an invitation to tease and tickle. To laugh, mock fight, and wrestle each other until we end breathless and mindless from unbelievable sex.

  “I’ll pencil that in for later,” I send to him.

  Some devil inside me—or should I say demon, compels me to send a graphic image of him struggling against me while my wolf and I hold him down. We pin him until he’s powerless, ripping away very bit of his sometimes-stuffy English composure. We use him, take him—and make him beg. In the finale, we both come, screaming with pleasure.

  “You’re on.” He smirks, sending a picture of flipping me over, reversing the roles. “Forget the pencil,” he teases. “Use permanent marker.”

  Snapping back to the present, we look out at the awesome sight. Jam-packed, shoulder to shoulder, the crowd fills the arena. A sea of faces looks our way, not one patch of grass can be seen. Thanks to their long-standing inability to procreate, few wolves here are under forty.

  There’s no sign of a microphone or amplifier—they aren’t needed. Wereanimals hear everything, particularly when paying attention.

  Momentarily staring out over his people, Stafford stands before them with a naturally regal bearing. Raising his arms, he shouts out, “Welcome all equine, lynx, fox, coyote, wolves!”

  The horde cheers, the sound echoes off the surrounding forest.

  “Welcome, United Pack members—welcome, River Run pack!”

  Stamping of feet, cheering.

  “Cave Dweller.”

  More cheering!

  “Northern!” Stafford names the eleven packs, all with an overwhelming response. “Reborn from human, we are shifters!”

  Again, he’s met with resounding cheers.

  “We are united! We are family! We are pack!”

  Everyone’s excited. I feel the warm tingle of my pack bond, an earthy, pine-scented energy flows over me like the strong, steady stroke of a comforting hand. Pack magic connects us all.

  Pack, pack, pack, pack!

  The Beast Lord raises his hands, producing utter silence. No surprise there. He’s accustomed to everyone listening and obeying without question. “Like all families, sometimes we have misunderstandings. Sometimes there are differences of opinion. What matters is we are joined in blood! Joined in magic!”

  More applause.

  “I’m taking this opportunity to update and inform you on the many changes in the last few months. Financially, we in the North American Magic Lands are all extremely wealthy.”

  Applause greets this announcement.

  “We have many talented wereanimals who contribute to our success. Each of us is important, we all have a valuable role to play. Whatever your desire, be it education, invention, assistance in setting up a business—your family will help you reach your goal.”

  As people start to clap, Stafford lift’s his hands to stop them. “You will be glad to know, due to increased production, everyone will be receiving a pay increase.”

  Damn, the crowd’s explosive roar of approval nearly blows my head off!

  Chapter 20.

  I’m so proud of Stafford. He once told me a large part of his job is helping people find what they’re good at, what they want, then helping them achieve it. The previous Magic Lands Alpha was a sadistic asshole who enjoyed humiliating pack members, purposely crushing their dreams.

  “Our last Alpha was a good role model,” Stafford once told me. “Whatever he did, when I became the Beast Lord, I simply did the opposite.”

  Due to their fast metabolisms, shifters must consume gallons of alcohol to feel any effect. Many are so ridiculously happy, soppy, or goofy, they must’ve downed tubfuls.

  “For those of you who have an idea for ways to spend this financial largess, please submit your proposals in writing.”

  “Right on!”

  “Beast Lord! Beast Lord! Beast Lord!” A great number of people begin to chant.

  He raises a hand, silencing everyone. “The next subject concerns only the wolves. It concerns having children.”

  The crowd goes wild.

  Grinning, Stafford patiently waits for everyone to calm.

  I smile, my heart full. My mate and I spent time this morning admiring our own two growing fetuses—not that we could see anything.

  “As you all know, Wyatt successfully came to term through an artificial womb. His siblings—Jonas and Myriam—were also recently born. They�
�re presently out of danger, but remain in neonatal intensive care. In time, this expertise and equipment will be given to each pack, for the Alpha to choose the next in line to have children. Until we can manufacture more artificial wombs, the Spukani pack will remain the center for reproduction. I caution you all, this technology is not perfect. There will be failures—there have already been many. Currently, my mate and I have two children being gestated, along with another fetus. If all goes well, your Beast Lord will be a father by early spring—as will the Alpha of River Run pack.”

  This time the happy, high-spirited crowd really loses their shit. It feels as if the very heavens reverberate with their joyous cheering. The energy resonating is beautiful, even moving. A sense of unity hums through the pack bond.

  You’d think people would be winding down after all this loud clapping, shouting, cheering, and foot stomping.

  Not so.

  I suspect they’re just getting started.

  “There’s been talk of favoritism concerning Samara and Quentin’s three children. Let me make it clear how this happened. In determining the type and amount of fluid, nutrients, and so on, the fertilized eggs from numerous couples were used. While perfecting our artificial wombs, most fetuses died, unborn. Only the last three attempts survived—all from Samara and Quentin.

  “Our technology is newly conceived, so to speak,” He raises his eyebrows teasingly, causing many chuckles and snorts at his play of words. “This invention changes everything. I ask for patience and understanding. Don’t lose heart. It will take time, but all who want children will become parents.”

  My poor ears! Seriously, are they bleeding? This isn’t a round of applause—it’s a stadium roar. A drum roll of foot pounding, pulse bounding joy.

  I don’t mind one bit, their joy is contagious. My jaw hurts from smiling.

  Holding up his hand, all sound halts, as expected. “Full time mothers,” Stafford nods at Samara, “and fathers,” he looks at Quentin, “will be given a parental allowance for their valuable contribution to the pack.”

  The happy horde hoots and whistles exuberantly—not for the prospect of ongoing payment, but because there now are children in the Magic Lands.