Conjuring Dreams or Learning to Write by Writing
Page 3
Seeds of Tomorrow
The figure lying next to him stirred silently, then slipped out of bed without sound, seemingly without even movement. For a moment, she was liquid gold before she solidified beside the rumpled bed. With her slanting obsidian eyes, she gazed at the still form of her sleeping companion, the unknowing Father of her Children-to-be. She smiled.
He was perfect. For centuries, she had waited for just such a man—for him. Waiting for the Father. There had been other possibilities, other men, but none had been perfect. Each had, in some vital way, been flawed, having some imperfection, however tiny, that had made him unacceptable, his blemish revolting in her exacting black eyes. Some were tall and powerful, forceful of character but lacking in cunning or wisdom. Some were brilliant but had no courage. Some were brave but puny. Some did not bear her Mark. All were lacking. So she waited—for him.
She had known he would come. Didn't they always? As many who bore the Mark were, he was dark and nobly handsome, built upon magnificent lines, tall and powerful, but, even more, he had the cunning that had come down from some previous Father, the brilliance of the most accomplished scholar—and subtle, oh so subtle. No human knew of these depths, deceived by his clever ruse of boredom and borderline intellect. They all thought him a moderately successful tycoon, more lucky than shrewd, not realizing that the visible was only a small fraction of his success. No one could have guessed the extent of his holdings or power. Many of those who looked upon him with contempt were really owned by him, all unknowing. But then, humans had forever been fools. She knew. He was brilliant. He was perfect. He was Roland. Now, he was the Father.
With almost affection, she turned his head with a slim golden finger tipped with fingernail naturally black. There, on his throat, was the Mark, imperceptible to all but her. The color was the same as that around it, but as she gently stroked the skin on the underside of his powerful jaw, she felt the thrill of touching that strangely rough skin—her skin.
Somewhen, centuries before, some beautiful maiden, for her Children were discerning as well as promiscuous, had been raped, her maidenhead stolen, by one of the Children. There would be no cruelty, no pain, but, even so, it would be horrifying for her. The maid, shocked by a rape too horrible to remember would forget or—perhaps—die, but the child would survive, would always survive. Every child of every child of her Children for eternity would bear a Mark. It was the Mark of her Children, the Mark of their Blood—and hers.
Licentious and fruitful as her Children were, she had had to wait for just the right descendant. She had had to wait for just such a noble specimen of her Children's children to seduce him, make him the Father. It had been a long wait, but a wise and pleasurable choice. She bent and kissed his Mark, her forked tongue twitching against the rough skin. So pleasurable.
And so easy. Humans, or near humans, were always so easy, so simple to seduce. Who can resist his own Mother? And she was beautiful, her midnight hair hanging to her waist, teasing the eye with its impossible gold highlights. Her ebon eyes shone with a mesmerizing luminescence that came from within, eyes shaped with that seductive Oriental flavor. The black silk dress embroidered with gold thread enhanced her incredible body and peerless complexion that glowed golden. The seduction was over in one moment. One look and he was hers.
She leaned over and brushed a lock of hair from his sleeping face, a look of almost tenderness in her glowing eyes, a rueful smile twisting her lips. So easy. Gently, she picked up her silk dress from the floor and draped it over her lover, winking at the ruby eye of the dragon stitched in the silk. 'Ruby-eyed indeed,' she thought derisively and then softly laughed in a low rumble that was almost a purr.
He stirred slightly, but she was not alarmed; he had exhausted himself. It would be many hours before he roused. Languorously, she slid her hands down her perfect body that centuries could not touch, delighting in the whispered rasp too slight for humans to notice, listening to the soft shush too gentle for human ears to detect as the scales, so finely linked as to be invisible to human eyes, slid against each other. It was only those of the Blood who had the strength to satisfy her—and her need.
"Ah, grandson," she whispered, "Perhaps, you should die last. That, at least, you deserve. More pleasure have you given me than any has before. If only I could keep you with me . . . " but it was only an idle thought. A human of his caliber would never be able to love the Mother while her Children—their Children—destroyed the human race.
So sad. Before, her Children were only to teach, to police, to frighten humans, but she'd slept too long and human memories were too short. Her Children had long since perished and humans had thrived. Humankind had had its chance and had poisoned its own world. Now, humans stood on the brink of self-destruction and would blithely destroy the rest of the world along with themselves. Their time was over.
Now her body was filled with seed for millions of Children—so foolish of human women to waste so much precious seed—Children so different from both parents. Legends of the past, scoffed and forgotten, would live again in glistening scales, rending claws and fiery breath. Her Children.
She whispered to the window and slipped onto the sill, still naked, then turned back. Perhaps, she should keep him . . . but no, he was the past. She would wait for those who would follow humans as humans had followed the races before. She must wait for his successor as she had waited for him.
She sprang into the air on wings that had not seemed there before, and, as she left, she was certain that this one would realize, would figure out who she was, who he was, would recognize the clue she left. When her Children haunted the earth, he would know that he was the Father of her magnificent Children, that he was the most blessed and cursed of men . . .
That he had held the Dragon Queen.