Born of Darkness

by Rita Vetere

  "Jasmine.” He heard her sigh in her sleep as he converged around her, enveloping her. “My queen ... my creation."

  She stirred, and Ahriman noticed the way the moonlight transformed her skin to alabaster and the toes of her delicate feet into pearls. Desire surged in him. He whispered close to her ear as she slept. “How the sight of you consumes me. I long to feel your creamy skin against my own, to taste your mouth and smell your perfumed hair. You are mine, although you know it not."

  She sighed softly once more as his words penetrated her dream.

  Ahriman was unable to resist touching her golden tresses, fanned out across the pillow. He gently stroked her hair, combing it with his fingers, then moved along the delicate curve of her neck to her shoulder. Drifting beneath the coverlet, he travelled the length of her body, taking in her sweet scent. He memorized every detail of her, the curve of her hip, her tiny waist and small round breasts, her sculpted arms, the fingers of her slender hand. He wrapped himself around her, loath to release her and the sensations she aroused in him. But release her he would, for tonight at least. His ability to glamour her would be strongest at the full moon.

  "Tomorrow, when the moon is round and I am once again flesh and blood, I will return to claim you. For now, sleep my beauty. And dream of me."

  * * * *

  Open your eyes!

  Jasmine was startled out of sleep by the voice of the woman who had taken up residence in her head. She sat bolt upright, breathing heavily. She'd been dreaming about Christopher, she thought, but the remnants of the mildly erotic dream evaporated the moment the imperative voice had sounded.

  The moonlight pouring in from the window seemed to have a strange, foggy quality. She held her breath, waiting to see if the voice would speak again. When it did, it uttered only a single word.

  Beware.

  From the dim recess of her consciousness, a chorus of wails sounded.

  God, what's happening to me? Am I losing my mind? She rubbed at her eyes. When she opened them again, the moonlight had returned to normal, the mistiness gone. Through her window, in the night sky, an almost full moon was made ghostly by drifting clouds.

  She reached over and switched on the lamp next to her bed. Everything looked in its usual place, but the room was infused with a rich scent she couldn't place, a spicy fragrance with an underlying sweet smell. She found the scent strangely soothing, even though she knew it had no business being in her room. She waited to see whether anything else would happen, or if the voice would speak again.

  "Tell me who you are. What do you want?” she asked of the empty room, but the voice remained silent.

  Now that she'd heard it a second time, Jasmine was convinced she'd not been speaking to herself. It crossed her mind that Aunt Dora might be trying to communicate with her from beyond the grave. Her aunt had tried to utter a warning to her on the night she died, and the voice had also been trying to warn her about something. But that did not ring true. The woman's voice bore a heavy accent, one she still could not place. She decided it could not be Aunt Dora. She was no expert on ghosts, but she doubted Aunt Dora had developed a foreign accent after death. It also occurred to her that whatever or whoever was trying to communicate with her might not be evil-intentioned, otherwise, why the warning? And what, exactly, was she supposed to be in danger of?

  Unanswered questions rolled around in her head. She tossed and turned for the rest of the night and watched the sun come up. Around seven, she got up to shower and dress and then called Carla.

  "Did I wake you?” she asked.

  "No, I was up. Is everything all right?"

  "I don't know,” said Jasmine. “I need to ask you something."

  "Ask."

  "I was just wondering ... after your parents died, did you ever, well, hear voices or anything?"

  "What do you mean? Like my mom and dad talking to me? Are you talking about ghosts?"

  "I don't know. It's just ... I heard something last night, and not for the first time. A woman's voice, but it sounded foreign, not like Aunt Dora at all. And it seemed to be trying to warn me about something."

  "Well, I can't say I ever experienced anything like that after my parents passed on. But..."

  "What?"

  "I don't know, things just seemed really strange after they died and there were a couple of times I felt like I was losing it. Grief can cause strange behavior. Trust me, I know."

  Jasmine sighed. “I suppose you're right. Carla?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Thanks for listening."

  "S'okay. Anytime you need to talk, I'm here."

  * * * *

  On her way to a lecture at the university later that day, Jasmine wandered in a daze, unable to put a name to the peculiar malaise she felt. It was more than just being short on sleep. Her thoughts were muddy, her mind clouded with confusion. The voice from last night still weighed heavily on her mind, and she'd not been able to shake off a growing sense of apprehension. The rich, unfamiliar scent still lingering in her room this morning was another mystery she'd not been unable to unravel.

  For the tenth time, she found herself wishing Christopher was here. As if in answer to her thought, her cellphone went off, startling her back into reality. Christopher's number popped up on the call display. She smiled and quickly answered.

  "Miss me?” he asked.

  "No more than usual, which is all the time now."

  "I can't wait to get back to you. Farnsworth is driving me batty. How are you?"

  She hesitated, wondering whether to tell him about last night. But he was hundreds of miles away. She knew she would sound delusional if she tried to explain it over the phone.

  "Hello ... are you still there?"

  "Um-hmm, sorry, I was just trying to get better reception,” she said absently.

  "Are you all right, Jasmine?"

  She caught the concern in his voice and did her best to reassure him. “Sure, of course. I just miss you. That's all."

  "I'll be back in two more days, and then we'll make up for lost time,” he told her. “Jasmine?"

  "Yes?"

  "I love you. Being away from you has made me realize just how much."

  It was the first time he had spoken the words out loud, and her heart soared. “I love you too, Christopher. Hurry back."

  After saying good-bye to him, she felt a little better. When Christopher returned, she would try to explain to him about the voice. Maybe he could help her make sense of it. In the meantime, she thought it might be a good idea to sleep downstairs on the chaise-lounge tonight instead of her bedroom. The thought of waking up to that voice again gave her chills and, so far, her bedroom was the only place she'd heard it.

  To cheer herself up, she replayed the sound Christopher's voice, telling her he loved her. She felt strongly that being with him would finally give her the sense of belonging she had looked for all of her life. As she walked, she found herself hoping Christopher wanted children. The unexpected thought sent tiny butterflies fluttering against her stomach, and she reminded herself that this was what it felt like to be a woman in love.

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  Chapter 13

  At ten-thirty that night, wearing her softest cotton pajamas, carrying a velvet throw and one of the down pillows from her bedroom with her, Jasmine prepared a makeshift bed on the antique chaise in the living room. The wood trimmed chaise-lounge, covered in rich burgundy damask, was where Aunt Dora used to retreat when she couldn't sleep. Jasmine missed her aunt more than ever, and the fact that many of Aunt Dora's sleepless nights in this same room had been on Jasmine's account did nothing to lift her spirits.

  She moved to the window to draw the heavy, yellow silk curtains. It was full dark and, with the lamp on, she would be on display to anyone walking along the sidewalk in front of the house. Just before she yanked the drapes closed, she could have sworn she saw something moving beneath the shadow of the large black walnut tree close to her house.

  She ran
to turn out the lamp so she could peek out the window in anonymity. Her vantage point provided a clear view of most of the street, but the low branches of the trees shrouded parts of the walkway in darkness. She waited. A moment later, something darted from the shadows, and Jasmine shrieked. When she realized her imagined stalker had been nothing more than a cat, she exhaled in relief. The feline scrabbled up the rough bark of the tree trunk. In the next instant, she heard its cry of attack, followed by the screeching of an injured bird. The leaves in the low branches of the tree rustled violently as the hunter snatched its prey. The sound made by the dying bird was pitiful, and Jasmine quickly closed the curtains tight.

  Witnessing the cat's attack on the helpless bird left her unsettled. It felt like a bad omen, a warning of some pending misfortune. Stop scaring yourself. Turning the table lamp back on and settling herself on the chaise, she closed her eyes, willing herself to go to sleep before her imagination got the better of her.

  * * * *

  Dizziness rolled over her as she floated up through layers of sleep to consciousness, a sensation of riding on the waves of a tumultuous sea. She opened her eyes to utter blackness. The lamp she'd turned on earlier was no longer lit. In the darkness, something caressed her cheek. She screamed, or tried to, but found herself in the grip of a strange lethargy, as if she'd been drugged. Her movements as she tried to sit up were sluggish and slow, like moving underwater. Wake up, you're dreaming. But when she went sprawling while trying to get to her feet and hit her chin on the ground, the pain was real enough. This was no dream, she realized with a shock.

  She could see nothing in the pitch black room, but the air was infused with the same spicy-sweet scent from the night before. The sound of someone breathing close by reached her, and she froze. She was not alone in the dark room.

  Her heart thudded madly, but she remained perfectly still, sprawled face-down on the floor. The sense of danger emanating from whatever hid in the darkness lay heavily in the air, palpable. She heard the rustling sound of movement and, in the next instant, she was lifted off the ground by strong arms. She tried to struggle, but that odd feeling was on her again, so she barely managed to lift her arm before it fell back. After being gently deposited back on the chaise-lounge, she heard—no, felt—the thing's heart, beating alongside her own racing pulse. She barely had time to absorb this fact when the beeswax candles on the mantle of the room's fireplace suddenly ignited of their own accord. Jasmine gasped.

  By the light of the glowing candles, she saw him. The man who had so terrified her on the night of her birthday, the man in black, was in the room with her. He stood still as a statue, regarding her, and Jasmine's heart exploded in terror.

  Do not fear me. I mean you no harm.

  Jasmine heard him as plainly as if he had spoken, although his lips had not moved.

  Candlelight shimmered over his imposing form and in his raven hair. He stood close enough that she could see the handsome features of his face clearly, as well as the look of deep desire that crossed his face as he studied her. His eyes were indeed black as she had sensed on the night she'd first seen him, but the irises were ringed with gold, the most extraordinary eyes she'd ever seen. Unlike the first time she'd seen him, his face held no hint of maliciousness now. Looking into his eyes caused her to swoon. She was drowning in them, and struggled to regain control of herself. His intoxicating scent filled the air, his charismatic presence kept her spellbound. The image of a dying bird in the jaws of a feline flashed across her mind, just as the voice of the woman reared its head, crying out a warning. Run. Remove yourself from his presence. Go now.

  Hearing the voice again cut through some of the lethargy she felt, and Jasmine almost managed to move from the couch when the man sent another thought to her, paralyzing her.

  Remain where you are. There are matters of which we must speak.

  Fear wormed its way into her again, yet she could not seem to help herself from sitting back down in response to his command.

  You may use your thoughts to converse with me. I can hear them, just as I know you can hear mine.

  She tried to tear her gaze from his hypnotic eyes, but found herself unable to. The woman's voice inside her head cried out again, but it seemed far away, barely audible this time.

  She directed a thought to him. Who are you? What do you want from me?

  I am Ahriman.

  He moved toward her.

  Stay away.

  He continued his approach.

  She struggled to try to rouse herself from the stupor, but managed to move only a fraction before he reached her. Once again, the moment he touched her, she could hear the blood racing through his veins, could feel his heart beating as if it was her own.

  Do you not sense it? We are the same, you and I. Do not be afraid, my little one. All is as it should be.

  His thoughts enticed her like the song of a siren.

  Instinctively, she knew whatever was sitting next to her was not entirely human. Yet she felt a connection to him, as surely as she'd always known she was not the same as other people. The thought shocked her, causing her mind to form a question. What are you?

  He brought his hand to her face and stroked it gently. Instead of cringing from him, she found herself moving toward his touch, hungry for it beyond belief.

  Does it matter? Do you not feel the same need for me that I crave from you?

  He took his hand away. Instantly, sorrow filled her at the loss of his touch.

  It is not within your comprehension to grasp the nature of my origin. At one time, I roamed the hidden realm as a spirit, an incubus, but I am much more than that now. I am a spirit who has learned to exist as flesh and blood, able to travel between both worlds as I please. I am the first of my kind.

  Part of her recoiled in horror, but another part was even more powerfully drawn to him, as a strange paradox of repulsion and desire rose up inside her. Why she felt compelled to the entity beside her, this unnatural being, she did not know.

  He snatched the thought from her mind. You are drawn to me because you are akin to me. We share certain traits. Suffice it to say you are, in part, a succubus. The other part of you is mortal. ‘Cambion’ is, I believe, the name which humans assign to those who are like you.

  Disbelief washed over her. A succubus? What madness was this? Let this be a dream, she prayed, hoping against hope that none of this was actually happening.

  You are not dreaming. I am as real as you. And I have waited centuries for this moment to arrive. You belong at my side, Jasmine. Although you know it not, you have been travelling toward me all your life. Accept me, for it is your destiny to be with me.

  He reached for her, gently pulling her head toward his and covering her mouth with his own. His scent surrounded her, acting like an aphrodisiac on her heightened senses. The moment she tasted the ambrosia of his lips and felt his hands on her body, she knew all was lost. His lightest touch ignited a passion so strong it frightened her.

  As he began to move his powerful body over her own, she responded instinctively, like an animal carrying out a mating ritual hardwired into her being. She felt helpless, unable to stop herself from responding to his advances. Within minutes, she surrendered completely to him, a surrender that went beyond the physical into the spiritual the moment he entered her. As he took her, body and soul, she exploded in passion.

  * * * *

  Ahriman watched Jasmine as she slept beside him, guarding her jealously, like a wolf protecting its kill. His exquisite creation, this halfling, would be the key to his immortality in the physical world.

  She had asked him what he was, and he'd told her, in part. His history, however, was long and complicated, and one he had never shared with another living being.

  As Jasmine slept beside him, Ahriman evoked the few memories remaining to him of his beginning, his mortal life in ancient Persia. His was an old soul, and his recollection of his human existence had dimmed, as first centuries and then millennia passed. The memorie
s he did retain were fragmented. He could still recall the brilliant white sands and hot, dry climate of his ancestral home, and he had a vague recollection of his abode—a stone dwelling built around a shady courtyard. Associated with that were images of richly furnished rooms, where thick carpets covered the floor and tables were set with silver plates and golden goblets. He remembered, too, his sleek and muscular steed, draped in armor, upon which he had ridden into battle. The name of the Persian King under whom he served was Cyrus, he recalled, but he had long since forgotten the man's face. Nor could he any longer summon the faces of the many wives he had taken during his human lifetime, or those of the countless other women he had defiled. Ahriman could no longer even remember the manner of his corporeal death, only the dismal realm he had entered into afterward, where his soul had languished in darkness for over a thousand years.

  He shook the memory of those dark centuries off. Things were much different now. For the past millennia, Ahriman had imposed his rule over the inhabitants of the dark realm, and his power remained undisputed. For it was he who had uncovered the greatest mystery of the hidden world, he who had discovered the portal—the doorway between the hidden realm and the physical plane. The knowledge of the location of the portal remained his and his alone. His ability to travel as a spirit between the two worlds at will had rendered him powerful.

  It was not until six centuries ago, however, that his power had become absolute. It was then Ahriman had discovered, quite by accident, how to incarnate while in the physical plane.

  On the occasion of his first incarnation early in the fourteenth century, his spirit had streaked through the hidden portal, about to embark on an excursion into the world of mortals, only to collide head-on with a man of nobility, a Count in the land known then as Germania. The unlucky nobleman had been engaged in rutting with a servant girl as Ahriman made his entry. In a twist of fate, the man's body and soul had merged with Ahriman's spirit at the exact moment of release. The unfortunate Count died instantly. Since that time, though, when Ahriman ventured into the physical plane, he found he could materialize, albeit for mere seconds at first, gradually building to short periods lasting minutes.