by Unknown
Ru-Noc
Droth
City of the wakens
Black Drayke could barely bring himself to look at MeLora. The desire, the driving hunger to steal her spirit, ate at his soul. She crowded him, to the point he felt claustrophobic and smothered in slimy oil.
MeLora was now the proverbial thorn in his side. She wasn’t of royal blood and that made her a liability. He wanted her and her babe out of his life.
What’s more, he didn’t trust her.
She hid things from him and that annoyed him more than anything.
A witch who kept secrets was dangerous.
Right now, he had more pleasurable things on his mind. His body burned with excitement.
Every day he changed.
His body felt heavier. More…sexual. To put it bluntly, he needed to fuck.
His brain seemed covered with a thick sludge and with each chant he uttered, with each use of Black Magick, his body altered.
MeLora had done something to him to aid the process. He knew it. He didn’t know what. He didn’t know how, or when, but she’d done something. He felt the sludge of her hex crawling like a snake beneath his skin. The change didn’t bother him. In fact, he rather enjoyed the transformations taking place, but it enraged him that she’d managed to accomplish it without his knowledge or consent.
Like a tuning fork, his body vibrated as it slowly transformed. Perhaps MeLora hadn’t done anything to him, after all, because the change seemed to strengthen every time he drank one of the bitter concoctions Wizard Marcelo created just for him.
This very morning, after he had ingested some of the potion, two tiny blisters had appeared on either side of his scalp, the beginnings of horns. Embracing the complete transformation taking place in his body, he slid his tongue along his budding incisors. They also had altered, forming into razor-sharp fangs.
After returning from the palace this morning, he’d stood in front of the bathroom mirror, surveying the incredible changes. Naked, he’d been in awe of the dark brown and ocher-colored scales that spread across his bare shoulders and lower back. The scales looked wet and shiny, brand new in their infancy, but definitely the shadow of wings formed beneath his flesh.
His sac felt larger, fuller, heavier, swaying between thick, muscular thighs. His cock stood proudly, an iron pike, and broader at the tip. He supposed he was actually changing into the monster he’d always been accused of being.
Black Drayke threw back his head and laughed. His change into a demonic creature both surprised and pleased him. Skimming his tongue over the developing incisors, he grinned, satisfied with his new toys. By tonight, the incisors would be developed enough to rip flesh.
He would taste more than Helayne’s soul tonight. Tonight, he’d feed off her. Literally. Tonight, the demon would have his first taste of flesh. The hours he’d just spent tormenting Helayne were mere child’s play compared with what he’d do to her tonight.
The sweet taste of her spirit still lingered on his tongue. The pleasure of repeatedly bringing it to the brink of utter destruction glowed like a warm light in his mind, shining through the black muck.
He’d spent hours tasting her soul, and yet, he felt cheated that he wasn’t able to complete the last step of the stealing ritual. Now his need to mate scalded a path through his groin.
Maybe it was the changes taking place in his body that kept him in a constant state of arousal now. Maybe it was because Beltane grew stronger with every rising dawn.
But simply having sex with MeLora wasn’t going to be enough anymore.
She couldn’t satisfy this insatiable hunger. He had to capture Saylym and soon. No other would satisfy him.
Taking a soul, now that made it all worthwhile, it was as addictive and thrilling as any opiate and enhanced every climax. He needed that powerful release.
How many times had he drawn Helayne’s soul to the tip of his tongue and tasted it last night? He couldn’t remember. There were periods of time he couldn’t remember what he’d done to Helayne. It all seemed like a dream, as if he dwelled in a world of fog and mist and blackness.
The last time he’d tasted her soul, he’d applied enough pressure to force her spirit over half-way into his body. It created such an ultimate high, his body shook with the force of her glorious energy and purity. He climaxed instantly.
Helayne had already turned cold, her lips blue, and her body still and lifeless beneath his. Bruised shadows lay darkly beneath her staring, doll-like eyes. For a moment, as he looked down into her lifeless face, he thought he’d gone too far.
Then she shuddered, her full breasts heaving against his chest. She gasped and gulped in frantic breaths of pure air. To reward her for not dying, he smiled down into her frightened gaze, and laughed, savoring the power he held over her, reveling at the torment he saw on her beautiful face. “I’ll leave you now, My Queen,” he whispered. “Dawn approaches. But have no fear, I’ll return tonight.”
Black Drayke sighed and smoothed his mustache with thumb and index finger. The greasy shadows of Black Magick tainted his mind, taunted him–commanded–demanded the pleasure of a spirit to settle their ominous presence back to their cold, stark realms.
His constant desire to steal a witch’s spirit had become overwhelming. He felt like tearing his hair out by the roots. The relentless voices in his mind drove him to the brink of utter madness. The constant need for sex kept him on edge.
Tonight, yes tonight, he must return to Helayne. The anticipation thrilled him. His blood crackled with raw impatience. And when he finished drawing on her soul, finished relishing the taste of her glowing spirit, he would return here for MeLora and finish this thing between them.
What he really needed was a young, beautiful, virgin witch. That would be the ultimate power, the ultimate high and sacrifice for this new demon forming in his body. Saylym. She was virgin. He knew it. He’d smelled her virginity when he’d been in her shop.
And the craving to possess her gnawed away at his mind. She could satisfy this ravaging need ripping him apart.
But he couldn’t think. His mind was too black, too dull. He had to figure out a way to get her alone.
And not expose his plans.
He wasn’t ready for an all out declaration of war with the royal family. Not quite.
For now, he’d settle for tormenting his beautiful Helayne.
Gods, he prayed to the dark god that he could manage to allow her to live as long as necessary. He must be patient. He had to wait, wait for the completion of the change taking place inside him. Then, like the demon growing inside him, he’d strike and destroy all who were in his way.
He wished he could take MeLora’s soul now. He needed that power, that strength of her spirit surging through his body. But he wasn’t ready to make that final break with her. Things could go awry. Patience. He had to practice patience. Slow down. Think things through.
Once he knew everything MeLora knew of the past, she was history.
Black Drayke stopped pacing the floor of the bedroom he shared with the witch and repeated a soft chant he’d muttered earlier. He grinned, a malicious curve twisting his lips as he heard MeLora’s soft whimpers coming from the private chambers behind the door. He could still gain some pleasure from the pain he inflicted upon her.
He hoped she puked up her guts.
She was in the bathing chamber, doubled over with dry heaves. Hmmm. It seemed as though the babe wasn’t bonding with its mama very well. He chanted a second spell and snorted with laughter when he heard MeLora scream in agony—time to get rid of her little bundle.
He chose a simple chant, one that would inflict the most pain upon her. If he couldn’t take her soul just yet, then he wanted her to suffer while losing his babe. It gave him immense pleasure to know that in a very short time, MeLora would expel the child from her body.
He stretched and popped his knuckles, satisfied with his magic.
Oh, yeah, he was feeling much better.
Black Drayke smiled at Me
Lora’s soft cry. “Black Drayke. Help me! Please. It feels as if a red-hot knife is cutting through my belly. Please. I’m losing our babe.”
“What do you think I can do to help?” he called through the door.
Opening the door, he peeked in at her. He gripped his hands together to keep from applauding. It was almost done. She lay curled upon the floor clutching her stomach, twisting and turning in agony. He rubbed his hands together. She could lie there on the floor and rot for all he cared. He had better things to do with his time than worry about MeLora and her misbegotten babe. She wouldn’t go far. He’d delight in finishing her off when he returned in the morning.
“I’m going now, my precious. Have a nice day. When it is done, try to get yourself up off the floor and clean up the damned bloody mess you’re making.”
Black Drayke slid his dark cloak over his shoulders, smoothed his mustache and stalked from the house. He left MeLora crumpled there on the floor like a discarded tissue, panting and crying, as wave after wave of pain sliced across her belly.
Outside, he paused one last time to glance back at the house. Soon, very soon, he would whisper the stealing chant against MeLora’s soft lips and drain her spirit from her.
For the first time, a pleased smile settled on his face.
Black Drayke pursed his lips and whistled softly, and then he snapped his fingers. Instantly, he was standing on the streets of Sanctuary.
Now, he would set about making this bungler of magic his own.
Chapter Twenty-One
Governor Phips set up a special Court of Oyer and Terminer comprised of seven judges to try the witchcraft cases. The appointed men were Lieutenant Governor William Stoughton, Nathaniel Saltonstall, Bartholomew Gedney, Peter Sergeant, Wait Still Winthrop, Samuel Sewall, John Hathorne, John Richards, and Jonathan Corwin.
~Salem Witch Trials
May 27, 1692
Ru-Noc
Droth
City of the wakens
As soon as MeLora was certain Black Drayke had left the house, she rose from the floor, an icy smile curving her lips. “Fool,” she muttered, flicking her wrists to—as Black Drayke had instructed—clean up the bloody mess.
What an ass.
She cupped her stomach in a protective gesture, assuring the child he was safe from his father’s evil plans to destroy him. Black Drayke, the idiot, was so filled with conceit it’d never cross his mine that she’d duped him. The warlock’s ego was unbelievable. She smiled, pleased with her ability to deceive him.
She’d present Darak with a fine son on All Hallows’ Eve, a son with her lust for power. As soon as her babe was safely delivered, and King Darak had declared him his heir, the king would tragically, and unfortunately, meet with his demise.
She chewed on her lip, considering the name for her unborn son. Lucifer. She actually liked the name Black Drayke had chosen. She tapped a long nail against her lips and smiled. It was appropriate. She would keep it.
And this time—this time—she’d keep her son. It wouldn’t be like it had been during the Salem witch trials and afterward. There wouldn’t be a coven to order her to abandon her children and go. There wouldn’t be a coven to curse the illumrof man who’d given her other children, not this time. This son would live to become an adult.
How many sons had she and John created together? Three? Four? She’d deliberately blocked the painful memories. It didn’t matter how many, because each child had died at the age of twelve. The coven’s cruel spells had been a deliberate slap in her face. The thing she wanted most was to conceive and give John a son, just so she could turn her nose up at the rules the coven enforced upon her, but it never happened.
That had been her punishment, declared by Queen Shy-Ryn’s, Circle of Three, for her and John’s adultery. For their betrayal of Elsbeth and her daughters, no child of her and John’s would ever reach adulthood.
She’d been glad when John died. His death had released her from the hex she’d been forced to endure and share with him. MeLora fumed over the fact that she hadn’t been able to rid herself of John when she desired it. The Circle of Three forbade her to leave or kill him. She’d stolen another witch’s mate. She’d made her bed, and for her shameful crime, she’d cease to exist if she harmed John in any fashion.
John had to succumb to natural causes, and he’d lived to be ninety-eight. Those years spent with him had been miserable. Her hatred and contempt for the weak illumrof had grown stronger with each passing day. She detested his whining, his weakness, and his frailty as he aged, but deep inside she gloated, because she’d taken him from Elsbeth. And although they hadn’t lived, every child she and John made together had been a male.
That was something Elsbeth hadn’t been able to do.
With the passing of centuries, and after John passed, she’d occasionally met Black Drayke. He’d given her children as well, but the coven had been determined she’d never keep a single child she bore. One by one, her children were taken from her. But she’d gotten even—if she couldn’t have her children, then neither would the coven. So she placed a spell on every child born to her and Black Drayke.
She stored the pain of giving them up in a secret place in her heart. But she vowed vengeance for her children. The coven would pay. Someday, somehow, the coven would pay.
Looking back, she realized she should have chosen a different man than John Connor, but she’d been young, and it had been so much fun to destroy Elsbeth’s happy home, to seduce her aunt’s husband, and make him her own.
But the fool had become infatuated with her, even without the use of magic. Once Elsbeth was out of their way, John pleaded with her to be his bride.
MeLora straightened her shoulders and gently rubbed her stomach. Yes, this time would be different. Luke would live and rule as king as was his right, and no curse passed down through the ages from the coven could prevent this son from ruling. Not this time.
She allowed the gown she wore to slip to the floor. Standing naked before the same mirror in which Black Drayke had so admired his new physique just a short time ago, she snickered. His brains were in his cock, so she’d seen to it that his craving for sex increased threefold. No matter who he fucked, his desire for sex would never again subside or be satisfied. Until the day he died, he would always be searching for something more, something better, but he would never find it.
The black-veined, gossamer wings on her back unfolded and fluttered, creating a gentle breeze around her. “Ahh,” she sighed with pleasure.
For centuries, she'd hidden the demonic changes in her body, but in this moment of privacy, she allowed her incisors to burst free and lengthen, permitted the fully developed horns hidden beneath her thick hair to stand up full height. In reality, they were quite small, a mere two inches tall, but she was proud of them.
Black Drayke hadn’t a clue that she was the puppet-master here, the one with all the power, the being who granted him the demonic changes he so craved. The fool believed the wizard’s weak concoctions were the cause of his transformation.
Wizard Marcelo was a weakling and a witness to their plans to overthrow the crown. She would have to do away with him. MeLora chuckled. The old wizard would make a tasty treat for her ravenous appetite. She was hungry. Starved. She hadn’t eaten flesh in weeks. The old man would make a fine meal.
So would Black Drayke.
It had been her plan to have Black Drayke assist her while she stole the king. He would keep Helayne out of her way. That was the only role she needed him for, and he had done the deed rather well. In the last twenty-four hours, King Dark hadn’t asked a single question about his missing mate. No. She’d kept his mind on other matters.
Tonight, Black Drayke would use his newly developed fangs on Helayne, and he would rip her to shreds. He would find his craving for flesh was even stronger than his need for sex. But he would gain little satisfaction from Helayne’s body either way.
MeLora stroked the slight mound filling her belly. She felt feel the
babe’s mind seeking contact with hers. “Soon, my son,” she crooned, soothing the infant. “You will be king one day. I promise.”
The babe settled back into an uneasy sleep. MeLora smiled contentedly. Dear, dear, Black Drayke had a lot to learn about witches if he believed every little chant he whispered actually worked on one such as her.
It was time for her to leave him. He’d served his purpose. Now he was a threat to her and the babe. She wouldn’t allow him to harm Luke.
Tonight, she’d move in with the king. Poor Darak, he never seemed to realize when she was absent. She snickered. Of course, she made certain he didn’t remember when she was away from the palace.
The drugs she’d given him would remain in his bloodstream until either she gave him the antidote or his spirit journeyed to another plane. She smiled. That would leave only his three children to destroy, then she could step into full power, with no one standing between her and the throne.
Oh, yes. She would whisper commands in his ears and he would heed them. She’d instill memories in the king’s mind of Helayne cheating with other warlocks over the years. There would be doubts cast that Talon and Stry were his sons and heirs.
She’d make certain of it.
MeLora rubbed her hands together, fluttered her wings, and then folded them neatly in place. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect.
And now, to seek out that bitch, Saylym Winslow.
Chapter Twenty-Two
These magistrates based their judgments and evaluations on various kinds of intangible evidence, including supernatural attributes (such as “witchmarks”), reactions of the afflicted girls and direct confessions. Spectral evidence, based on the assumption that the Devil could assume the “specter” of an innocent person, was relied upon despite its controversial nature.
~ Salem Witch Trials
May 27, 1692