by Aja James
© Copyright by Aja James 2019
Dear Reader:
I hope you will enjoy the eighth installment of the Pure Ones saga on the following pages (Book #10.5 in Pure/ Dark Series). You will soon see that much more is yet to come.
Every story has many points of view, many different interpretations and versions of the truth. So what about the perspective from the Dark Ones’ POV? I hope you have a read in Book 2, Dark Longing. And meet the Creature for the first time in Book 1, Pure Healing, available in Audible.
Email me at [email protected] to find out more. And follow me on https://www.facebook.com/AjaJamesAuthor and https://aja-james.blog/. I will have free chapters, behind the scenes and other goodies on the Pure/ Dark Ones series.
I love hearing from you!
Enjoy!
Aja James
Contents
Glossary
Prologue
Chapter One: My Childhood Dream
Chapter Two: The Boy with No Name
Chapter Three: Beneath the Mirage
Chapter Four: The Death of a Dream
Chapter Five: The Boy and His Cat
Chapter Six: The Illusion of Hope
Chapter Seven: Hitting a Wall
Chapter Eight: Sacrifice
Chapter Nine: The Creature is Born
Chapter Ten: Hero Worship
Chapter Eleven: To Stay or Not to Stay
Chapter Twelve: Painting the Soul
Chapter Thirteen: My Brother, My Friend
Chapter Fourteen: The Other Me
Chapter Fifteen: Pure Darkness
Chapter Sixteen: Third Time’s the Charm
Epilogue
Other Books in the Pure/ Dark Ones series:
Glossary of Characters
Character Relationships and Timeline
Glossary
Awakening: test of courage and strength of spirit which leads to the subject, who possesses a Pure soul, coming into his/her Gift, a supernatural power, if he/she passes the test.
Dark One: supernatural being who prefers to live in the night and who gathers energy and prolongs his/her life by feeding off the blood, and sometimes souls, of others. Dark Ones are born, not made. Sometimes confused with the term vampire.
Decline: condition in which, or process of, a Pure-Ones’ life force depletes after he/she Falls in love but does not receive equal love in return. The Pure One weakens and his/her body slowly, painfully breaks down over the course of thirty days, leading ultimately to death unless his/her love is returned in equal measure.
The Dozen: see Royal Zodiac.
The Elite: six royal personal guards of the Pure Queen.
Eternal Mate: the destined partner to a given Pure soul. Each soul only has one mate across time, across various incarnations of life. Quotation from the Zodiac Scrolls describing the bond: “His body is the Nourishment of life. Her energy is the Sustenance of soul.”
Gift: supernatural power bestowed upon Pure Ones by the Goddess. Usually an enhanced physical or mental ability such as telekinesis, superhuman strength and telepathy. True Blood Dark Ones also possess powerful Gifts. See True Blood.
The Goddess: supernatural being who is credited with the creation of the Pure Ones. She is a deity to which Pure Ones devote themselves. She protects the Universal Balance.
Nourishment: the strength that Mated Dark Ones take from each other’s blood and body through sexual intercourse. Once Mated, they will no longer need others’ blood to survive, only that from each other. Sexual intercourse is required to make the Nourishment sustaining.
Nourishment is also what Pure males provide their females as Eternal Mates. See Eternal Mate.
Pure One: supernatural being who is eternally youthful, typically endowed with heightened senses or powers called the Gift. In possession of a pure soul and blessed with more than one chance at life by the Goddess, chosen as one of Her immortal race that defends the Universal Balance.
The Royal Zodiac: twelve-member collective of the Elite, the Circlet and the Queen of the Pure Ones.
Sacred Laws (Pure Ones): One, thou shalt protect the purity, innocence and goodness of humankind and the Universal Balance to which all souls contribute. Two, thou shalt maintain the secrecy of the Race. And three, thou shalt not engage in sexual intercourse with someone who is not thy Eternal Mate. Also known as the Cardinal Rule.
Shield: referred to as the base of the Royal Zodiac, wherever it may be. Not necessarily a physical location.
Sustenance: the strength that Mated Pure-Males take from the Pure-females’ spirit. Once Mated, the Pure-male becomes dependent upon the Pure-female for sustaining his life. If his Mate dies before him, he too will perish. In equal exchange, the Pure-male provides Nourishment. See Nourishment.
Zodiac Prophesies: events yet to come, foretold by the Seer of the Pure Ones through the Orb of Prophesies.
Zodiac Scrolls: events past, recorded by the Scribe of the Pure Ones.
Prologue
*THE CREATURE*
Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess whose innate light rivaled the heaven’s brightest stars.
She lived in an ivory castle on the highest mountain in the grandest empire on earth. Her mother was a noble queen, wise and fair, but she ruled with an iron fist, her powerful Consort at her side.
The princess had a sister who was just as beautiful, but as dark as the princess was light. For a time, they grew up in peace and carefree happiness, beloved across all the lands.
One day, the princess met a humble young man, the son of the village blacksmith. Humble he might be, but he was so beautiful to the princess’s eyes, she dreamed of his long, sun-spun hair and bright seafoam eyes every night thereafter.
The princess and the blacksmith’s son soon fell in love, but alas, they were torn apart by war. All that remained of their star-crossed love was a baby girl, born with honeyed waves of the brightest gold and eyes that sparkled like the purest sapphires…
That’s what the Pure Ones passed down through oral legends, anyway.
Pure rubbish, I say.
The truth is likely closer to the Dark Ones’ version: that the Pure Blood Slave of Princess Ishtar Anshar, Tal-Telal, seduced her into giving him the secrets that helped the Pure Ones win the Great War.
I finally got to see the legendary General in the flesh a couple years ago when he was the guest of honor at my Mistress’s much anticipated family reunion.
Not much to look at, I have to say. Not sure how the Princess fell for that scarred wreck of a male. Blind too. Well, perhaps he cut a more dashing figure in his golden days. One can never account for taste.
But I’m weaving the fairytale in my head around the Pure Ones’ happier version of events, embroidering little curly cues around the details of the story as I think it through. After all, this one will go into the collection of fairytales I’m storing up for a happy little boy, perhaps the happiest boy I’ve ever met. It wouldn’t do to throw soot on his blindingly bright joy.
Even a monster like me knows that.
What? Was this not the monologue you expected to read? Did you think my mind overfloweth with Machiavellian schemes of mayhem and destruction?
You’re not wrong.
It’s just that, as I sit here bound in hair—that’s right, hair!—the freakiest, strongest hair known to immortals and humans alike!—I don’t particularly feel like plotting Armageddon.
I’m tired.
I can be tired too, you know. Carrying out Medusa’s behests and staying one step ahead of her (so I don’t “suffer the consequences”) is hard work. I need a vacation. I haven’t taken a day off in…
Forever.
And I’ve already tried to esca
pe. The damn hair has a life of its own! The devil! I’ve tried to shift into different humanoid forms (if only I can shift into other forms—I’d be a virus. I bet the hair can’t hold microscopic things. Ha! But alas, viral transformation is not within my powers), but the hair shifts with me, expanding and tightening to conform to my shape. I can’t wiggle out of my bindings no matter what I do.
So, for the time being I’m stuck here, tethered to a couple of steel poles, sitting between them on the floor. I’m in some kind of sanctuary or spa-like chamber. I can hear water flowing in a pool nearby, splashing from a fountain.
It makes me want to pee.
I wonder if I’ll be punished for peeing on the pretty marble floor.
I’m a prisoner here at what I assume to be the Pure Ones’ stronghold, otherwise known as the Shield. I don’t know where it is, since I was blindfolded on the journey from Egypt to here, wherever here is. For the past week, I’ve been left relatively to my own devices in this chamber, with infrequent visitors who tried to get some useful information out of me about my Mistress. They all went away in a fog of frustration.
I love chatting. I can expound for days. And I’m very good at saying a lot without saying anything at all. Hence, the teeth gnashing frustration my captors walk away with. Once in a while, one of the males take me to the en suite bathroom to relieve my bladder, rather like walking a dog.
Woof. Woof.
And every day, three times a day, one of the females bring me food. I don’t eat it. I have an aversion to food. I only drink the water and partake of the soup if it comes with my meal. I doubt my captors will give me what I really need, the stuff that flows in their precious veins, because one of them will have to provide it.
Starvation it is then.
No biggie. Nothing I haven’t handled before. I can go weeks on soup and water. If I degenerate into a raving lunatic from lack of Pure blood, I guess they’ll at least be entertained by the freak show.
Maybe they’ll put me out of my misery then—I would like to die by scythe. The Protector’s weapon of choice, to be precise. I’ve seen footage of his fighting prowess. That thing slices through necks like cutting air. I’ll barely feel a thing. What a great way to go!
Hence, as I am sitting here waiting for my eventual demise, I’m whiling away the time embroidering stories to leave a frighteningly precocious little boy with butter blond hair and sapphire blue eyes. Like his mother.
Not Inanna, his adopted mother. His real mother—Olivia. The human I miraculously impregnated nine years ago.
I want Benjamin to have something to remember me by when I’m gone. Well, I don’t want him to remember me per se. I’d rather he didn’t know about all the heinous things I’ve done. Not that I’m ashamed of them, mind you. My twisted black soul is beyond redemption and regret.
But…
If I had one tiny little favor to beg of the heavens, or whoever the powers that be, it would be that Benjamin remembers only the whimsical, happy stories from his dear departed papa (sperm donor, more like). And leave out all the rest.
He’s the only connection to the world that I have. He’s the only thing that will never be taken away from me.
Because he is my son.
He has my blood. He has…The best of me.
Please, God! Goddesses! Heaven and Hell! Let him have only the good, none of the bad. He must. He’s so beautiful it hurts to look at him.
I wish…
But wishes aren’t for sinners like me. So I’ll cut that bullshit right out.
Now that I am counting down the days to the end of my own, I wonder whatever happened to my parents. At one point, I must have had a Ma and a Pa. Even monsters have to be born and pushed unceremoniously out of some hapless female. Back when I first came into the world, there wasn’t modern science as we know it now. There were no test tubes to create me in.
If they’re still alive (highly doubtful), the fairytales will be for their enjoyment as well. Perhaps I’ll even paint myself into the lovely fiction. Imparting a rosy impression of happy times. Perhaps I’ll even be a prince.
Why not?
After all, this is my memoir.
I’ll write whatever I fucking please.
Chapter One: My Childhood Dream
*ERE*
There once was an orphan boy who always knew he didn’t belong.
In the village where he was raised, people clustered in three distinct groups.
The humans who toiled the earth, grew cops, raised animals for milk, eggs and meat. They were the laborers, farmers and butchers. Lowly living that provided just enough sustenance for their families and a little extra to sell for coin.
There were the handful of Pure Ones that the good citizens pretended didn’t exist. Humans were jealous of their eternal youth and unparalleled beauty. But because they served a distinct purpose in the circle of life—as the blood slaves of the all-powerful rulers—they were relegated to the periphery of society. Despite their servitude, Pure Ones found joy in small, simple things. They were artists, musicians, craftsmen, and the most amazing storytellers.
Last but never least, there were the fearsome, awe-inspiring Dark Ones. Who ruled supreme under the dominion of the most beautiful Dark Queen the world had ever beheld. They possessed knowledge, magic, and science. They conferred with and interpreted the stars. Their stories were written instead of told, in a precise, geometric script in countless scrolls. No one else had papyrus. It was more precious than gold.
The orphan boy couldn’t read or write, nor did he know magic or wield special powers, so he was definitely not a powerful Dark One. When he was injured, he healed much faster than humans, so he could not be one of them. But neither did he want to be a Pure One, the lowest of the low. Pure Ones could be forced into slavery at any moment in their lives if they did not already belong to a Dark household.
The boy rather liked his freedom. And most days, he could pretend.
He dreamed of a loving mama, a protective papa, and a brood of siblings to play and fight with. But just the good kind of fighting, full of laughter and make believe. Where his brothers and he battled beasts and dragons of old with wooden swords, and rescued fair maidens (his sisters, of course) from secret towers. Most days, he was the best of all races:
He was human…
What a strange dream.
I have it often. It is so vivid, I sometimes confuse it with real memories. The setting is sometime during an ancient empire. By the clothes people wear in my dream, and whatever landscape I can remember upon waking, I’d place it during the Akkadian Empire, over four thousand years ago.
Why would I, an academic professor living in the twenty-first century New York City, be dreaming incessantly about ancient Akkad?
I’ve studied the time period, certainly. But never in any detail. I’ve spent more of my Masters and multiple PhD programs digging into ancient Persian, Egyptian, Roman and Greek empires. There’s more written for those eras, after all. More artifacts as well to substantiate the interpreted and extrapolated histories. Therefore, there’s more material with which to create curricula for paying students and for research grant applications.
An assistant professor without full tenure gets paid enough to scrape by, but not enough to chase after obscure, unpopular classes and research topics for his own interest.
Thank goodness I inherited the basement apartment in Back Bay, Boston, and the shoebox in SoHo, Manhattan. At least I save on rent in such sought after neighborhoods. If only I can recall who bequeathed those properties to me…
There are gaping holes in my memory—this is the least of my lapses.
If you asked me what I did yesterday, from the time I woke up to right this moment, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. I only have vague impressions and fleeting flashes. I don’t recall waking up. I don’t recall what I ate for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I don’t recall going to work if it was a workday, nor sleeping in if it was a weekend. I
only remember pieces. Distinct chunks of time that don’t always have a pattern to them. Why some memories stay in my mind and not others I couldn’t tell you.
More often than not, I dream. My dreams are more vivid than any real life could be.
Except where my life involves specific people and places that are strangely memorable. So memorable, in fact, that I relive those few scattered interludes over and over in my mind—My visits to an all things shop called Dark Dreams. My interactions with its owners, Tal and Estelle, a kind old lady who insists that I call her Mama Bear. My banter with a little boy named Benji, whose effervescence and light remind me of a cheerful sunbeam on a cloudy day.
And in particular, my friendship with one Sophia Victoria St. James.
I recall every interaction I’ve had with her so clearly. As crystal clear as my dreamscapes. I remember the first time we met—at the cafeteria on Harvard Yard. I remember feeling as though I was punched in the solar plexus. Breathless with both anticipation and…dread. My gut churning, my lungs seizing, my heart pounding, my palms sweating.
She is so very lovely.
Her youth, innocence and vitality were painful to take in. And yet, my feet took me to her, my body folded itself on the seat beside her, and my mouth opened on its own volition to spew flirtatious babble at her entirely without my permission.
I couldn’t resist. I needed to know her. I wanted her to know me.
Pay attention. See me. Hear me. Hold me.
Well, I can count on one hand how many times she’s held me in our acquaintance of three years. Brief, platonic, affectionate hugs. Nothing more, nothing less. In the beginning, I would have sold my soul to have it be more.