Dark Possession

by Aja James

  But the truth was, he couldn’t give two fucks about the King’ safety.

  Not that Ramses needed the protection.

  The Dark King stifled a frustrated sigh.

  Amidst all this mayhem and madness, what was he doing while his Chosen focused on neutralizing the ever-escalating chaos their enemies bred?

  He started his night by entertaining the Great Lakes vampire queen when she showed up in his Atrium uninvited.

  Which led to a messy business that unfortunately required the employment of various parts of his body—into various parts of her body.

  She’d left satisfied with their private tête-à-tête, while he was left with the urge to douse himself with bleach.

  Directly on her heels came the right hand of the British Columbia vampire queen. In exchange for their continued tacit support of his unstated dominion over not only New England, but also most of North America, a great deal of funds and weaponry would exchange hands.

  Further, in fair trade for intelligence about the animal spirits currently hiding out in the Yukon territory just north of their boundary, currency of a more personal nature was provided, not unlike the requirements of the Great Lakes queen before her.

  If Ramses cared more, perhaps he might have paused to appreciate the irony:

  In the middle of his cock thrusting in and out of the queen’s second-in-command, she moaned a well-argued case for her Liege to be considered as a potential Consort for the one and only Dark King in the world.

  Such a union would certainly help solidify his implicit rule over North America, for the British Columbia queen had the allegiance of the rest of the Canadian vampire hives.

  Perhaps there was a less “involved” way to deal with these meetings, Ramses allowed. But sex was the most expedient path to get what he wanted each and every time.

  Vampires loved to fuck and fight. Blame it on the bloodlust.

  And too, he was not a patient male, nor did he wish to mince words.

  His body was a weapon in his arsenal, just like his mind. He’d long since become inured to wielding it as needed for maximum impact with minimal fuss.

  She’d taught him that.

  It wasn’t personal. It was business.

  This being the case, he did what he had to, even if he took no pleasure in the process.

  Meanwhile, this… adventure-filled night was just getting started, with no escape in sight.

  Appearances must be upheld. It wouldn’t do for the most powerful ruler of the most powerful vampire hive to roll his eyes or growl in frustration. Though he’d done that internally many times over the past couple of hours.

  He almost preferred the bartered fucking to the current interminable soliloquy of complaints.

  Almost.

  “…so you see, my Liege, my House’s claim to the western territories is far more substantiated by written records meticulously kept throughout my noble lineage than Andor Varna’s tenuous grasp. Hundreds of years ago when the contracts were signed and sealed, the legalities therein were enforced by law. Now, in modern times…”

  The claimant vampire noble droned on in his nasally voice, hands clasped behind his narrow back.

  A back Ramses could easily snap in two with his bare hands.

  Internally, his eyes rolled again, deploring how far vampires had come down in the world.

  The modern versions of Dark Ones left much to be desired. So watered down from their former glory that it was like comparing Sabretooth tigers of old to the clawless housecats of today.

  To see what had become of the great Dark empire she’d built over three millennia, Ashlu’s soul must be cringing from the Heavens.

  Or, more likely, Hell.

  It mattered not to Ramses where her spirit had gone, or even if it still existed in the Universal Balance. The organ that used to beat only for the Dark Queen Ashlu had turned to stone long ago.

  As impenetrable as the rest of him.

  Outwardly, Ramses nodded and blinked at appropriate moments to indicate that he was paying attention.

  It was no secret that Varna coveted the New England throne. He’d tried to usurp Jade Cicada’s rule before Ramses. But when the critical moment came, when he could have challenged Ramses for the figurative scepter, he’d taken one look into his opponent’s sharp, obsidian eyes and known beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was no match and never would be.

  In fact, no one amongst the most powerful Dark noble houses was a match for Ramses. They didn’t know why. They only suspected that he was very ancient and very powerful.

  But they didn’t know.

  Like prey with undeniable instincts for self-preservation, they’d all bent a knee when Jade abdicated the throne to Ramses.

  Clawless housecats, each and every one.

  Ramses’ upper lip curled in disgust at the thought, startling the speaker into an abrupt stop mid-sentence.

  “Continue,” Ramses bid the Dark noble.

  Yes, please do finish the hour-long monologue, get to the point, so they could wrap this session. Ramses was already late for his next appointment.

  “…I request your support in this matter, my Liege, before Varna takes a more violent, unlawful approach to settling our dispute.”

  Ramses sat up slightly straighter on a deep inhale of patience-fortifying breath.

  “Indeed. You shall have it.”

  Before the noble could launch into extravagant thanks for the king’s largesse, Ramses slowly rose from his seat.

  “Leave the specifics with one of my Sentries on your way out. I must attend to other pressing matters.”

  The noble bowed deeply and backed out of the throne room in the same submissive posture.

  As soon as he was gone, Ramses signaled to two of his Sentries to follow him out of the Cove.

  He didn’t need their protection, but again, appearances must be kept. As it was, he was already disregarding protocol by not having one or more of the Chosen with him away from the base, but he wasn’t about to waste any of their scarce resources on himself.

  In any case, only Eli was available. And he had a more important job to do, protecting the Cove and his females.

  It was just as well, because the meeting Ramses was headed to now he’d rather keep to himself. Maximus, his right hand and Commander of the Chosen, would not approve.

  Not that Ramses needed anyone’s approval to do anything he wanted. But he was still new to his role, and while he had the respect of the Chosen, their trust and loyalty had yet to be won. All of them were human and Pure One sympathizers for one reason or another. Just like their previous queen.

  While Ramses was…decidedly not.

  In fairness, he didn’t have a preference for any race. He only believed in power. Survival of the fittest, and rule by the strongest.

  He’d allowed himself to be weak before. It was a mistake he didn’t intend to ever repeat again.

  During the two-hour ride from NYC to the secluded woods of the Catskills, Ramses considered how best to handle his current dilemma.

  He was on his way to receive a “gift” from an anonymous benefactor. A vampire ring-leader who was gathering increasing support for his or her bid to aggress upon, and enslave, Pure Ones once more. As such, Ramses had a good idea what the gift was.

  The question was whether he would accept or reject it.

  If he accepted the gift, he would be implicitly condoning the ring-leader’s plans, which would lead to increased tensions between the Pure and Dark Ones, and potentially full-blown war.

  If he rejected the gift, he’d be implicitly supporting Pure One sympathizers and going against the majority of the Dark noble houses under his rule, which would lead to increased internal tensions, and potentially civil war within his hive.

  It was an ingenious way to test his allegiance and resolve, a forcing mechanism to make him choose.

  Which, to date, he hadn’t.

  The Chosen continued to carry out Jade’s last edicts, and he hadn’t interfe
red. Nor had he explicitly supported the tentative truce and alliance between the races.

  When the Pure Ones came calling, he only admitted Jade Cicada into his presence. The former vampire queen was their go-between, now that she was Mated to the Pure Ones’ Consul. In this way, he neither directly confirmed nor denied their so-called allies.

  A corner of his mouth curled on a third option.

  He could always make the “gift” disappear, removing the necessity of having to accept or reject it.

  But first, he was curious to see it. And perhaps take a small taste.

  He was a Dark One, after all.

  There was no greater ambrosia to vampires than the sweet nectar of Pure blood.

  *** *** *** ***

  Eveline Marceau was not the sort of female who frequently found herself in precarious situations.

  She was rather consternated, now, as she was dragged and pushed through what sounded and smelled like dark, dense woods, blindfolded and bound, though thankfully not gagged. She hadn’t spoken in countless hours for this very reason. No need to incite her captors to silence her.

  Adventures such as these simply didn’t happen to females such as she.

  Yes, as one of the Dozen, the inner circle of the Pure Queen Sophia, Eveline encountered various intrigue and danger once in a while. But that was because of the individuals around her, caused by factors exogenous to her own little world.

  None of the “exciting” stuff happened to her specifically.

  Well…

  Except for that one time when she was almost burned alive after being accused of evil sorcery. Which, to be fair, the humans might have had a point. But she hadn’t intended for what happened to happen.

  In the end, no harm done. Not to the humans, and not to Eveline, since she was rather immune to fire.

  And then there was that other time when she accidentally rendered a whole village of men blind (literally) with lust. So uncontrollably aroused were they, that the poor women (and in some cases, other men) couldn’t move for days after the “storm” without wincing from soreness in intimate places. It took yet more days before the affected men regained their eyesight.

  You know the saying too much sex could blind you?

  Or was it too much masturbation?

  Eveline mulled on this a bit.

  She could recite ancient tomes with precision, but modern anecdotes often confounded and eluded her powerful mind.

  Whichever the case, she rather suspected that it was her spell back in the day that created this human aphorism.

  Suffice it to say, Eveline had hightailed it out of that village as soon as the proverbial shit hit the fan.

  Who knew her little spells could go so awry?

  She didn’t use what humans referred to as “magic” very often, precisely because of these strange, unpredictable side-effects.

  Eveline considered herself a logical, placid, eminently reasonable sort of female. She loved books. Words. Stories. Languages. Both written and oral.

  If the role of Scribe for the Pure Ones wasn’t typically taken by a male, she’d have happily hoarded that honor for the duration of her immortality. Because of her particular abilities, however, she’d inherited the role of the Seer some centuries ago—the individual who occasionally divined potential futures from the Orb of Prophesies.

  Sadly, Orion, the previous Scribe and closest confidante of Eveline, had perished a few years ago, leaving his role vacant among the Dozen. With the gap, she naturally assumed both responsibilities, for they worked closely together.

  As with everything in the universe, there was always balance. Time wasn’t linear like humans believed. The past always repeated itself in the future, unless the souls that shaped the present made different choices that led to different paths.

  Eveline happened to love her job. She was essentially the librarian and the fortune teller for the Pure Ones. She could lose herself for days deciphering old texts full of symbols she’d never encountered before. Her nose was always in a book, her face hidden behind a lengthy scroll.

  She read and deciphered everything.

  Religious texts. Educational scripts. Instruction manuals. Fanciful stories. And, of course, histories.

  She was so immersed in her reading that she seldom looked up from it. Which meant that she often walked into doors, walls and various pieces of furniture. Good thing Pure Ones healed fast! Else, Eveline would be perpetually black and blue from accidental bruises.

  All this was to say, Eveline Marceau was not the type of female who found herself in this present type of situation:

  Kidnapped, bound and blindfolded in the middle of nowhere woods, heading to…

  Some dire consequence, no doubt.

  This kind of drama simply didn’t happen to females like her!

  She would have used what little “magic” she had to free herself earlier if she thought she had a high probability of being successful.

  But A, her abilities weren’t very reliable, and she’d probably land herself into deeper trouble if she tried to cast a spell willy nilly.

  See above unfortunate events.

  B, she needed a focal point for her magic that was external to herself. And her emotions had to be particularly strong to harness her power. Or her life had to be in imminent danger.

  See above again.

  Eveline wasn’t the sort of female who often found herself at the whim of her emotions. She was exceedingly calm, mild-tempered and rational. No matter the circumstance. This was a boon most days, because it meant that the “accidents” she caused with her magic were far and few between.

  But tonight, her equanimity was only helpful to the extent that she wasn’t hyperventilating because of her predicament. Where most females might have been sobbing or shaking with fright and apprehension, she remained quiet and calm.

  Surreptitiously, she sniffed the air around her.

  It was cool and fresh, which told her that she was far from any populous city. Fresher than even in the suburbs.

  Leaves rustled overhead as a chilly breeze swept through.

  She was definitely in a forest. Perhaps in the mountains.

  But where exactly?

  She was urged to move again by a forceful shove in the back.

  The hand stayed in the middle of her back to guide her, given that she was still blindfolded and didn’t know where she was going.

  Several times, she stumbled over rocks and roots. Rough hands yanked her up and pushed her to keep walking.

  Where were her captors taking her?

  There was more than one of them. All male, by Eveline’s estimation, according to the weight of their steps and the smells of their bodies. Somewhat odiferous from exertion.

  There was one in the front who sometimes waited for the others to draw closer before moving on again. There was one in the rear, she could hear. And there was one who kept pace with her, often pushing and pulling her where he wanted her to go.

  They didn’t speak to her or to each other. But they were able to act in perfect coordination. Perhaps they used hand gestures as ancient warriors and human soldiers did?

  They didn’t mistreat her.

  Much.

  They were simply executing a mission, Eveline guessed.

  But what was their mission? What did they want with her?

  Since she had nothing better to do, Eveline began to weave a story around her…unexpected adventure.

  Perhaps she was captured for some ancient ritualistic sacrifice for some secret society of demons and goblins that couldn’t be looked upon, or she’d be turned to stone. Hence the blindfold.

  Well, that was rather gruesome. Scratch that.

  Perhaps some enterprising, doting papa was misguidedly stealing brides for his son—or rather just the one bride, because Eveline was not a fan of harems—and she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. And he just happened to prefer only Pure females.

  If this little fairytale were true, she hoped
her intended Mate was tall, but not too tall, since Eveline herself was rather petite. She hated to be dwarfed by intimidatingly large males.

  He ought to be lean and hard, but not too muscular. In fact, the less muscle the better. She couldn’t imagine herself pressed up against a stony chest and steely stomach. The prospect made her wince; it just didn’t seem comfortable in any way.

  No, she preferred a gentle sort of male.

  Kindly. Scholarly. Someone with whom she could have intellectually stimulating discussions. Who wore glasses in the most attractive, elegantly masculine way.

  Her ideal male had light blue eyes, pale, hairless skin and full, kissable lips. His voice might be a clear tenor, perfect for singing folk ballads. (She rather fancied ballads). He’d have buttery blond hair, wispy like feathers.

  His lovemaking would be tender and gentle. He’d whisper sweet nothings in her ear and hold her close afterwards, but not too close, because Eveline believed emphatically in personal space. It would be a civilized, satisfying affair. And it would occur with no greater frequency than once a week.

  Her ideal male would certainly not engage in the sweaty animal rutting that Eveline read and heard about. Her newly discovered friend, Aella, the Strategist among the Dozen, liked to relate all the sweaty, naughty details and watch Eveline’s ears and cheeks burn.

  On second thought, no, thank you.

  She didn’t really want to voluntarily or involuntarily bind herself to some hapless male, kissable full lips notwithstanding.

  She was perfectly happy by herself. The opposite sex was more trouble than they were worth, in Eveline’s considered opinion.

  Her captor jerked her forward when her musings slowed her pace.

  Alas, her theories were getting increasingly far-fetched. A self-protective mechanism that helped her avoid the most probable scenario, given all the facts she’d mentally collected thus far.

  What were the odds that her Eternal Mate awaited her at her unknown destination?