by BETH KERY
“Fortunately, I think outside the box, Shirian. I do not bleat the weak logic that says Morshiel and Blaise cannot both be defeated because it has never been done before. I have searched for a way to make it happen, and thanks to recent events in Chicago, I now am ready to complete my plan.”
“But—”
“Quiet,” he commanded, when she started to turn. He pushed against her spine and she reluctantly presented her backside to him again. He resumed drying his abundant emissions from her bottom. “Just believe me when I say I have found a way to vanquish both of them. With your demon-power and my magic, we are going to see both Morshiel and Blaise conquered… right here…inside Sanctuary, in this very room. Will you look forward to seeing that?” he murmured as he urged her to turn.
Her face was a portrait of greed and malice combined.
“You can truly make it happen?” she whispered, awe spicing her tone.
He pushed on her shoulders, forcing her to her knees. He began to unfasten his pants again, removing his still painfully erect member. Her dark eyes went wide in panic, but he caught her chin when she tried to turn her head away. “I have made you submit, Shirian,” he said, pushing the crown of his cock between her lush lips. She recoiled, but he firmly pushed her head forward.
“Suck, demon. Make me come again.”
She was compelled to comply by the words, and he felt her vacuum him into her warm, wet depths. He watched her fellate him and smiled.
“Your submission is proof enough that I can make anything happen if I set my mind to it,” he said, before he closed his eyes and savored the pleasure of victory.
Chapter Fifteen
Isabel picked up the script for Antony and Cleopatra and walked listlessly over to the fire. It was difficult to keep track of dates within Sanctuary—it was as if time stood still there. Best she could tell, it’d been twenty-five days since she’d awakened, disoriented and distressed, in this luxurious room.
She had not seen Blaise now for nine days—ever since she’d awakened from her strange bout of illness. She was much more confident about estimating that period of time. Misery was like a weight, making time much more measurable. She approached the fire, wishing Royal was there, as he so often was in the evenings. His silent, watchful presence and intelligent gaze gave her the only comfort she took since Blaise had made himself scarce. Margaret and Aubrey had told her that Blaise had business on the surface world, but she wasn’t entirely sure she believed them. There was something in the way they grew tense whenever the topic arose that made her suspect Blaise was avoiding her again, as he had in the beginning.
She extended her hand, meaning to toss the script for Antony and Cleopatra in the flames, but she hesitated.
Why had he gone? She’d asked for him the moment she’d awakened from her illness. Margaret refused to meet her eyes when she’d told Isabel with a false sort of cheery briskness that Blaise was in the midst of a time-consuming business affair. According to Margaret, he was gone from Sanctuary for extended periods of time, and she didn’t know when he’d return to his regular schedule.
He’d left her.
Her feelings about him were so confused, it disoriented Isabel to try to focus on them. It was as if every time she grasped for the details of her rich, sensual dreams of him, her mind slid off a slippery target. She recalled her afternoons with him in his office, their rehearsals together of the play, their conversations.
But there was more. She knew there was. She knew him in a much, much more profound, intimate sense. She knew him as a lover. It frustrated and depressed her not to be able to hold fast to those ephemeral fragments of emotion, sensation and memory.
Even if it weren’t for Margaret’s uncomfortable acknowledgement that Blaise had left Sanctuary, she would have eventually realized he was gone. She knew it from the achy emptiness inside her, as if she’d been hollowed out and left raw on the inside.
“What are you doing?”
She glanced up. Margaret stood just inside the open door, holding a silver tray.
Isabel stared blankly at the script in her extended hand. Margaret set down the tray brusquely and hurried to her side. She put one hand on Isabel’s wrist, the other on her shoulder.
“You don’t want to do that, dear,” Margaret said, and Isabel knew the older woman understood she’d been about to burn the script—a tangible object that reminded her constantly of her afternoons spent with Blaise Sevliss…
…of falling in love with him.
“I’ve told you many times you need something useful to keep you active, interested. As long as you take it easy in rehearsals, Aubrey said taking part in the play will increase your strength after your illness.” When Isabel didn’t respond to the familiar lecture, Margaret whisked off the domed lid, revealing steaming eggs Benedict. “Some activity, along with plenty of good food, and you’ll be one hundred percent in no time. Come now, tuck in. It’s your favorite, or at least it used to be,” Margaret added under her breath as she poured some coffee from a carafe.
Isabel inhaled the food and—surprisingly—felt a twinge of hunger. “Are the sets almost finished, Margaret?” she asked, picking up her fork.
“Yes, I just spoke to Jessie this morning. He says Titurino has finished some truly magnificent sets. All they require is their lead actress.”
Isabel chewed her food thoughtfully. Her depression upon awakening and discovering that Blaise had left Sanctuary was nearly as deep and dark as her melancholy had been following her accident. It suddenly struck her that she’d promised herself she’d never allow her spirits to sink so low again, and look what she’d done. She’d allowed depression to suck her vitality again, all because of a man.
Well, not just any man. Blaise was hardly that. Still no man, no matter how spectacular that man was, should have so much power over her that she gave up on herself. She had come to understand that she was still being kept at Sanctuary for her own safety. She had nowhere else to go, and Margaret was right. She should try to do something purposeful with her time. Blaise had given her a rare opportunity to put on a potentially awesome production of a part she’d always wanted to perform. At least it would give her something to distract herself from this empty feeling inside her.
“All right,” she said quietly, picking up a chilled glass of milk. She took several large gulps, making Margaret nod approvingly. “I’ll go down to the theatre when I’ve finished breakfast. Would you mind letting Aubrey and the rest of the cast and crew know, Margaret?”
“Of course,” said Margaret, beaming. “They’ll be thrilled.”
Isabel glanced up when she noticed the older woman’s hesitation.
“What’s wrong, Margaret?”
“Perhaps you can convene with the others at the theatre later this morning? You have a visitor right now. He’s waiting outside the door.”
Isabel blinked in surprise and swallowed her food in a rush. “Who is it?”
Margaret bit at her lower lip nervously. “Well…he’s an extraordinary type of man—well, if you’d call him man. He sought me out this morning and asked if I’d introduce you to him. I do hope Lord Delraven will approve of me allowing it, but he’s not the type of person you easily deny,” Margaret muttered under her breath fretfully. She must have noticed Isabel’s amazed expression. “His name is Usan…and well,” she gestured awkwardly toward the door. “It’d probably be best if you just saw for yourself.”
Isabel stood and turned toward the door, her brow crinkled. She froze. Standing before her was the most singular man she’d ever seen in her life. He had coal black, wavy hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore the strangest clothes—a long, billowing, dark orange robe and a circular hat that looked like a saucer with an orange, fabric-snake coiling in it.
“Who are you?” she mumbled, taking a step toward him, utterly flabbergasted by what she was sensing from the man.
Her answer came to her in a rush of images. A dark green and brown planet, and cities with towers that reache
d to the heavens. Memorials and statues—tributes to a great, mighty nation and its heroes—crumbling and falling into decay. Seven males wearing robes identical to Usan’s standing before a golden-haired female sitting on a throne, their heads bent, eyes closed, faces solemn at being charged with their near impossible task. The vision of what was surely Earth from space, and then Usan’s hands—chemical residues permanently staining his fingernails—opening what looked like a giant metal waffle press. Inside, Isabel made out two human forms. She squinted and through a thick, pinkish tinted gel she saw—
She gasped.
“Yes, Blaise and Morshiel,” Usan said in her mind. “I know it must seem strange to you—a metal womb. Humans go about the matter of procreation with so much ease and elegance, the Magian’s alchemical process must seem quite crude to you.”
“Why did you make two of them?” Isabel blurted out in her mind, hardly aware she used telepathy. The ability had always been there, but she’d just required an expert telepath for the function to be fully activated.
“Polarity is required for consciousness…for the creation of a soul. Duality is the first friction that makes choice a possibility. You humans are familiar with this concept. Heaven and hell, God and Lucifer, good and evil…”
“Light and dark,” Isabel added.
Usan smiled and Isabel started at the sight of two lethal incisors set within a truly charming smile.
“Yes, sharp things, aren’t they? Reminders of our sin.”
Her brow furrowed. She couldn’t fully wrap her mind about what he meant. “Blaise believes he is a parasite,” she mused.
“What do you believe, Isabel?”
“A parasite takes from a host, and usually harms them. A parasite cannot participate in a mutual exchange or offer its host any benefits on a long-term basis. Such sharing is the basis of relationship and communion. Blaise can give as well as take, so by definition, he is not a parasite.”
Usan’s grin widened. It shocked Isabel that he seemed as pleased as a child being shown a delightful new toy when she also sensed a wisdom so vast, she couldn’t fathom how far it stretched.
“Well said,” he praised, stepping forward, hand outstretched in greeting. “You would have made a fine Exhalted Sinalt—one of the female wise ones that advise the Empress of Magia.” He clasped her wrist in both of his hands and—much to Isabel’s shock—began to remove one glove.
“No! Don’t—”
But it was too late. Her naked hand rested in Usan’s grip. Her body went rigid.
Images and sensations didn’t bombard her consciousness, as she expected. Instead they began to enter her awareness in a sort of focused, distilled stream that she could actually receive without losing herself or becoming disoriented.
“As you know from the science of computer technology, knowledge can be distilled. I have the ability to give you telepathic information in a very concentrated form,” she heard Usan say in her mind. “Your hands—your ability for receiving information—is a known gift on Magia, if not a common one. Your hands are like the port on a computer. I am like a drive, filling with you with knowledge. A small part of you will remember this information when I let go, but most of the knowledge will only come to you if a situation requires it.”
“What is going on? How dare you! Let go of her this instant!” Isabel heard Margaret exclaim.
She started to tell Margaret that everything was fine, but suddenly Usan released her.
“It’s all right. We’re finished,” he said.
“Finished with what?” Margaret asked indignantly.
“Margaret,” Isabel said weakly. “Have you been standing there this whole time?”
“Whole time?” Margaret asked. “What do you mean? I brought your breakfast and then he walked in here, took off your glove and grabbed your hand! You went so rigid, I thought you were having a fit.” Usan blinked meekly when Margaret gave him one last accusatory glare before she snatched Isabel’s glove from him and handed it back to Isabel.
“Of all the nerve,” Margaret mumbled under her breath.
“Oh…I thought…” Isabel glanced at her breakfast and saw a thin vapor of steam rising off her eggs. It really had been a matter of seconds since Usan had walked into her suite. It felt as if hours had passed.
“Amazing.”
“I could say the same of you,” Usan said in her head.
“I want to talk to you about Blaise,” Isabel stated as she waved Usan over to a chair at the table.
“Yes, I rather thought you would,” Usan said as he went to sit down.
“He is very stubborn,” Isabel murmured.
“Yes, I have noticed that about him.”
Margaret picked up the carafe and warmed Isabel’s coffee. Isabel inspected Usan where he sat calmly across the table from her. “He gets it from you. You are his father,” she said quietly.
Margaret let out a little squeak of surprise and nearly dropped the carafe on the table. Usan smiled in a friendly manner. “Dear Margaret, I value your individuality and spirit probably more than you know. I would not have appeared in front of you, if I did not. But would it be all right if I speak to your charge privately for a few moments? I promise I will keep her safe, for I know as much as you how precious she is.”
Margaret looked defiant and then uncertain when she glanced at Isabel.
“It’ll be all right, Margaret,” Isabel assured. “I’m fine.”
“Well, I’ll be right outside the door if you should need me,” Margaret said, casting one final suspicious glance at Usan.
Usan chuckled after the door closed. “Delightful woman. But yes, to answer your question about Blaise’s relationship to me, he carries my genes, so I suppose you are right about me being a father to him. We have different ways of thinking about paternity on Magia.”
Isabel speared a nugget of fried potato on her fork, suddenly feeling ravenous. Usan’s arrival had been just what she needed to energize her, focus her. Her entire world had shifted, yet again. Vast horizons spread out before her. Anything was possible.
Anything.
“You are proud of Blaise, despite your offhand manner,” she said before devouring the potato.
“I suppose some of humanity’s values have rubbed off on me a tad bit over the past few centuries,” Usan admitted, making it sound as if he’d picked up a few native customs while on vacation.
She pointed her fork at him and gave him a severe glance. “You shouldn’t have told him he doesn’t have a soul. That was cruel of you. Of course, he possesses a soul.”
“I told him that centuries ago. It’s not my fault he insists upon clinging to that truth. I’ve told him repeatedly that the only constant in nature is change, but he refuses to believe it in this case. He can’t fathom that his suffering has done the impossible. The friction of his pain has created a unique, powerful soul. My experiment has been a success.”
Shocked coursed through her. “Your experiment… Wait…you cannot mean…”
“Our entire purpose in coming to this glorious, soul-infused planet was to create souls in the beings we’d made in our laboratories. The combination of the Earth’s spirit, our creation’s suffering, in addition to singular females, such as yourself,” he nodded toward her with a small smile, “have made the impossible…possible.”
“But why?” Isabel exclaimed. She saw the outlines of the truth from the information exchange they’d shared earlier. Instinctively she knew, however, that hearing him speak out loud these strange, otherworldly truths would help her to assimilate the knowledge. “Why would you undertake such an experiment? Why would you go to so much trouble over seven males?”
“We had to show the Empress that it could be done,” Usan replied sadly. “You live on such a vibrant, vitessence-rich planet that you don’t realize there are places in the universe that have become barren, soulless. We Magia have raped our fair homeland over the years—industrialization, chemical and nuclear pollution, the robbing of Magian’s once
bountiful resources. Taking, always taking, and never giving back, never respecting the gift of our unique world until the riches ran out. You humans are much as we were millennia ago, mistakenly believing that the earth’s energy is something that will always be there for the taking, not recognizing that the planet itself possesses a soul that no matter how mighty, how rich, can be depleted over time, extinguished, until the planet’s song is forever silenced. We were like children let loose in a room full of powerful weapons, willful and ignorant of the consequences of our actions.”
“Does Magia still exist?” Isabel asked, spellbound not only by Usan’s story, but his palpable sadness and regret while telling it.
“Yes, yes, it is there. A shell of what it once was. My race lives for a very, very long time, so it is still populated, but we have been unable to create our own progeny for thirty millennia and more.”
“The Magia are sterile?” Isabel asked intently.
“In the biological sense, yes. We could create life, but only in the laboratory. We Magia are excellent alchemists. Our skills for science and magic are embedded in our very genes. But around four millennia ago, our clones began to alter. We had not realized, you see, that Magia itself played a role in the development of a sentient being. When we’d strangled out the last vestiges of the planet’s soul, we deprived ourselves of the ability to make new life.”
“You could no longer make the clones in the laboratory?” Isabel asked.
“The clones still breathed, and walked and talked, but they were…different. Magians began to notice the difference. They became horrified by that difference. The Magian clones were lacking in a soul. They were called the Sevliss. We studied the phenomenon for a very, very long time, my brethren and I.”
“Your brethren? The others who watch over Saint and Blaise and the others?”
Usan nodded. “Yes. We are called the Council of Seven. We are leaders of sorts, on Magia, due to our special skills at alchemy. The Empress charged the Council with the monumental task of discovering how to create souls in our progeny.” Usan paused and lowered his head soberly. “We have had many unsuccessful trials. It was not until we came here, to your beautiful blue planet, that we first tasted success.”