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…Clutching her crystal pendant, now glowing a moderate crimson, a sign of healthy and stable magical power, Vita Onmia stepped before Bron D’Extrian. Her gaze clawed over his hirsute, sinewy torso, following the trail of curly dark hair that ran from his breastbone, over his naval, and straight into his loincloth. “Good day to you, Bron.” “Welcome home, Your Majesty,” he responded in a rich, sonorous tone that sent heat to her groin. At first, his face displayed no hint of emotion, like any well-trained Vessel, but Vita soon detected a ghost of a smile hovering at the corners of his moist, full lips. “We have missed you.” Though he had voiced the word “we,” his lustrous green eyes warmed her to the depths of her soul, telling Vita he had truly meant “I” instead. “I have missed you all, as well,” she declared, turning in a slow circle to address her virile group of Vessels. “Soon, I will be calling for each of you in turn.” Her movement eventually brought her back to face Bron. It took all of her might to trim the desperation from her next word. “Lift.” Without question, Bron pulled up his loincloth, exposing what she had so desperately wanted to see…
ALSO BY PARIS DIXON Applaud The Winner Cry Merci Him Hot For Teacher Lechery For The Devil Morning Ritual My Lover, Her Slayer Passion Knows No Boundaries Savannah Steam With Catherine Snodgrass, writing as Caitlyn Willows Déjà Vu Treasure Hunters White Lies
THE ESSENCE OF MAGIC BY PARIS DIXON
AMBER QUILL PRESS, LLC http://www.amberquill.com
THE ESSENCE OF MAGIC AN AMBER QUILL PRESS BOOK This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.amberquill.com All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2004 by Paris Dixon ISBN 1-59279-220-0 Cover Art © 2004 Trace Edward Zaber
Layout and Formatting provided by: ElementalAlchemy.com
PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
To Marianne LaCroix for the inspiration and encouragement! To Megan Hart for pointing out the dastardly questions! I love and thank you both!
THE ESSENCE OF MAGIC
CHAPTER 1
“Welcome home, Your Highness.” Dazznic, Warlock Advisor Supreme and Keeper of the House, stepped forward. He bowed low at the waist, his snowy beard trailing nearly to the foyer’s red-and-white marble floor. “I trust you had a pleasant journey from the Spas of Petrik.” “Very pleasant, indeed, Dazz,” replied Vita Omnia, First Daughter of the Queendom of Travéttica. She laughed. “And stand up straight, for Queendom’s sake, my old friend. It’s only me.” The man rose to his meager height of five-feet-one, while his blue eyes snapped with age-old amusement. “I always show respect where it is due, my dear.” In a voice of uncompromising command, he ordered several attendants to remove Vita’s trunks from the carriages, then turned and held out his arm to her. She rested a hand on her escort’s sleeve, the velvet of his black robe familiar and comforting against her palm. Despite her enjoyable, twoweek stay at the relaxing spas, she had missed the palace—her mother 1
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and sisters, her lifelong teachers such as Dazznic, and her Royal Vessels. Especially one Vessel in particular, she thought, the chill of anticipation rushing through her veins. Dazznic ushered her into the vast hallway and toward the grand staircase. Warm sunlight streamed through the mullioned windows, forming intermittent blocks of golden rectangles on the crimson carpet. From ornate ceiling medallions hung elaborate chandeliers, their dripping crystals catching the light and casting prisms of color against the marble walls. “Tell me, Dazz, the latest palace gossip,” said Vita, her skirts swooshing around her feet. “Has C’Esset Yancia finally perfected the Spell of Disappearance, or can one still detect her mist? And Lancine D’Olica? Is she still suffering a hangover from that Rhunatox brew she purchased from that shifty mortal farmer? Why she would ever think to consume a home-stilled liquor is beyond my ken.” “News of your sisters can wait. Perhaps you should share with me the reason for your early return.” “No reason.” “Is that so? In all of your twenty-four yearly visits to the Petrik Spas, you have never once returned before the full month was out. What’s changed?” “Nothing’s changed.” “Never fib to your teacher.” Vita looked down at the wizened face, straight into those intelligent eyes. She should have known the Warlock Supreme, of all people, would see through her false air of nonchalance. And something in his expression told Vita he already knew the answer. “So you have made your selection,” he said, validating her suspicion. His thin lips bore the hint of a grin. No sense continuing the charade, she decided. “I don’t know for certain…” 2
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“In your head, perhaps. But in your heart? Yes, you have chosen. And knowing you, my most apt pupil, I am confident you have made a judicious selection.” Vita smiled and hugged his arm. “The only question, my dear, is which of the dozen Vessels you have selected. ’Tis a poser, for certain.” “Why, Dazz, I’m shocked. I thought you divined all. Running low on ingredients to put your Caldron of Sight to good use?” “Do not sass. As you well know, I am not privy to what happens within your chambers, so I cannot predict which Vessel has captured your heart. Besides, to look at them, one can discern no magnitude of difference. And no amount of ingredients for my Caldron of Sight can ever truly predict the workings of a Royal Witch’s heart.” “Trust me, Dazz, this Royal Witch couldn’t have predicted the workings of her own heart, either.” That ache of longing she felt had indeed surprised Vita. While reveling in the stimulating waters of the Petrik Spas, her mind kept returning to the palace. None of the substitute Royal Vessels the spa provided had come close to stirring the emotions she felt toward any member of “her Force,” as she liked to call them, nor to the one in particular whom she craved even now—her newest recruit, Bron D’Extrian. Though only a member of her Force for the past nine months, Bron had quickly moved to the top of her “favorite” list. While at the spa, Vita had dreamed of him nightly, thought of him throughout each waking moment. His absence had become so hard to bear, she’d canceled the remainder of her vacation and rushed home. More chills of giddy anticipation coursed through her body with each step she took down the hallway, ever closer to her chambers—and Bron. “Than I shall not ask for the Vessel’s moniker until your heart and mind concur with your choice,” said Dazznic, stopping before the 3
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wide-carved staircase shaped like a palette. “Remember the lessons I have taught you. Unlike your Witch Sisters, you have studied well, know every facet of what does and does not constitute the premium Vessel. Your gifts will indeed excel because of this.” He kissed the top of her hand, his whiskers like gilberhawk down against her knuckles. When he looked up at her, his blue eyes again sparkled with jocularity. “Now, if I can only narrow down which of the Vessels you have selected, I might gain an iota of slumber this evening.” Vita couldn’t help but giggle as he tromped off, muttering aloud the names of her Vessels and weighing their qualities, the same as she had done countless times in the recent past. Her heart throbbing with excitement, she gathered her skirts and raced up the staircase, her heels clanking against the marble steps. At the landing, she brushed strands of her waist-length, jasper-colored hair from her shoulders, smoothed her gown, and hastened along the portrait-lined corridors toward the west wing. The instant she turned the corner into a hallway leading to her private chambers, her fingers itched with the need to touch bare flesh, while her mouth watered with hunger to savor the Vessel who had so consumed her mind. MagiGuards, two beefy warriors clad in crimson-and-black livery, and breast-plates made of steelite, opened the wide set of double doors and bowed to her. Into another hallway she stepped, looking down a corridor with twelve doors, six on each side, each door leading to one of her various well-appointed rooms. Beside each door stood one of her Vessels. Her Force, Vita thought with tremendous pride. Yes, she decided, she had indeed selected well, probably better than any of her sisters, at least in her eyes. Of course, each Royal Daughter of the Queendom of Travéttica had chosen Vessels that appealed to her individual tastes. Vita had scrutinized and appointed her dozen with the utmost care, not only finding them extremely attractive, but potent in providing power. As Dazznic had said, to look at them, one might not see much 4
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difference. All of her handsome Vessels possessed dark, shimmering hair, with a tall, kingly frame, wide shoulders and strong arms, and a lean yet muscular physique. Their upper right arms bore a single tattoo of a Travét—a center circle with a large X running through it and four smaller circles within the main sphere. The large circle’s crimson color marked these Vessels as Vita’s, matching the crystal pendant she wore on a necklace. Her sisters’ Vessels possessed the same tattoo, but with a different color to coincide with each Royal Witch’s crystal. They stood at rapt attention, donned in nothing except thin, crimson-colored loincloths, so as to give Vita easy access to the magicgiving tool of their anatomy. Through her years of study, she had become a connoisseur of the male gender, selecting Vessels with hairmatted chests and bellies, not only knowing the myths regarding hair increasing enchantment potency, but also finding it extremely arousing. And each Vessel possessed round, fully distended testicles—again, for greater magical virility—and a lengthy magiwand, the device by which Vessels released seed to produce offspring after marriage, and the fuel Royal Witches required daily to maintain the power of Witchcraft. Viewing all that familiar male flesh practically begging to be savored, Vita again felt a surge of pride, and moisture seeped into her womanhood. Certainly, in her lustful mood, the notion of a day-long orgy with her dozen Vessels sprang to mind. It would be expected of her also, considering it had been two weeks since last she supped from her Force. The spa’s substitutes had adequately sustained her magical powers to the daily recommended dosage, but everyone knew only a Royal Witch’s chosen Force could supply more restorative, longerlasting fare. Her gaze, however, zeroed in on the devilishly handsome Vessel standing beside the fourth door on the right-hand side of the hallway. What was it about Bron D’Extrian that made her knees almost weak with desire? Made her entire body tremble with yearning? Made her want to sup from him and him alone for the remainder of her existence? 5
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Vita didn’t know. But in her mind, his attractive features, though similar to all of her Vessels, seemed somehow a degree more attractive, his body a tad more desirable, his magiwand an iota more succulent and able to provide a sweeter, more revitalizing nectar than the others. Could it be that what she felt toward him was what the Royal Sages of the planet B’Atrani called “love”? She could only surmise it was, and seeing him now, Vita felt almost drunk with carnality. Clutching her crystal pendant, now glowing a moderate crimson, a sign of healthy and stable power, she stepped before him. Her gaze clawed over his hirsute, sinewy torso, following the trail of curly dark hair that ran from his breastbone, over his naval, and straight into his loincloth. “Good day to you, Bron.” “Welcome home, Your Majesty,” he responded in a rich, sonorous tone that sent heat to her groin. At first, his face displayed no hint of emotion, like any well-trained Vessel, but Vita soon detected a ghost of a smile hovering at the corners of his moist, full lips. “We have missed you.” Though he had voiced the word “we,” his lustrous green eyes warmed her to the depths of her soul, telling Vita he had truly meant “I” instead. “I have missed you all, as well,” she declared, turning in a slow circle to address the virile group. “Soon, I will be calling for each of you in turn.” Her movement eventually brought her back to face Bron. It took all of her might to trim the desperation from her next word. “Lift.” Without question, Bron pulled up his loincloth, exposing what she had so desperately wanted to see. From a dense forest of pubic hair dangled his vein-laced magiwand. Even in its flaccid state, it hung thick and long, its pink crown peeking from beneath a slightly darker foreskin with the promise of sustenance and gratification. Saliva poured into Vita’s mouth as prurient thoughts consumed her. 6
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She sank to her knees and studied Bron’s magnificent organ before burying her nose in his bush, inhaling the musky, masculine scent she had so fervently missed. Pulling back, she cupped and squeezed his furry, low-hanging balls in one hand, then flicked the tip of her tongue over the slit in his magiwand from where his essence poured. Instantly, Bron’s flesh sprang to life, growing plumper, longer, and climbing toward the chandeliered ceiling. Within seconds, it stood as rigid and as regal as the Holy Obelisk of Enchantment—fashioned in the shape of a phallus—governing the Isle of Gizetta, only more seductive, beyond mesmerizing, and alive with energy. Vita turned her head from side to side, noting how the loincloths on each of her Vessels had begun to lift by themselves. Ah, yes, she thought again in self-satisfaction, she had indeed chosen well, and looked forward to draining their loads of magic power in the hours ahead. But first things first, she decided, stroking Bron’s hairy thighs and giving the fat head of his mammoth erection a lingering kiss. She climbed to her feet and glided toward her bedchamber at the end of the hallway. Without looking, she knew her chosen Vessel followed, his magiwand bobbing before him, ready for her special treatment.
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CHAPTER 2
Vita threw open the double doors. Across the room, an entire wall of windows gave magnificent view to the hills and dales of Wynorian, the capital city of the Queendom of Travéttica. Late-morning sunlight blanketed the lush forests, glittered off the River Izo, and lent a shimmering, golden hue to the varicolored blooms in the palace’s extensive gardens. Hanging low on the horizon, just over the tallest peaks of the Ciddalla Mountain range, the double-moons Nahlia and the smaller Zeta looked like coins of the richest bronze against the majestic blue-green sky. In the room’s center, directly beneath a skylight made of stained glass, sat a bed on a marble pedestal. The mattress, large enough to accommodate more than a dozen bodies, looked soft and inviting, with pillows galore and rosentia petals scattered upon the delicate sheets of crimson satin. Bron entered the chamber behind her and closed the doors, then as trained, scaled the pedestal’s three steps toward the mattress. All the 8
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while, Vita watched the rippling muscles in his broad back and sturdy legs flex enticingly. His firm buttocks, dusted with fine brown hair to match his legs, looked more majestic than the double moons outside her windows. He tossed off his loincloth, then crawled onto the bed and settled in its center, resting back on his elbows. Now alone with her, he abandoned the mask of punctilious civility. His handsome face became animated, displaying his true emotions, unmitigated lust being the preeminent, and mirroring her mood. She seductively stripped off her gown, revealing one full breast, then the other, and massaging her nipples into solid points before continuing. She did this not only because she knew arousing a Vessel to the utmost extreme would provide greater potency in his seed, but she wanted abundantly to please this particular man. The man whose succulent magiwand she craved to savor. As if reading her thoughts, Bron grabbed his substantial erection at the base, pointed it toward her, and began stroking himself. The foreskin alternately hid and revealed the head, now glistening with his juice in the sunlight. “Have you longed for my creamy nectar, Your Highness?” Her throat tight with excitement, Vita could only nod. She slid the gown over her hips, exposing to him the triangle of hair at the juncture of her thighs. When the gown puddled around her feet, she gingerly slipped two fingers between her legs and into her tunnel, already oozing with moisture. Together, they stared at each other for a long moment and pleasured themselves. “I have longed, too, Your Majesty.” “Tell me, Bron…” “I have longed for your warm lips, your skillful tongue, to caress my cock. To drain from me the power that has been building in my sack since last you supped.” Vita gaped at him. “For two weeks?” Vessels, in the absence of their Royal Witch, had free reign to 9
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release their pent-up magical essence into silver chalices. Servants removed the chalices on a daily basis, marked them as to which Vessel each chalice belonged, then stored them in a freezer for emergency purposes, similar to the way the Queendom of Travéttica had blood banks for the mortals of the world. This way, if a Royal Witch required additional power for a complicated, longer-lasting spell, she had a ready source from which to obtain the needed energy. “But why did you not drain yourself of this excess power?” A lecherous grin overspread Bron’s face. “You as well as I know the frozen essence is not half as restorative as a fresh source. For my Royal Loveliness, I chose to gift her with every bit of power I can generate.” The declaration touched Vita. Indeed, her Vessels had often shown her similar homage. The sharp tongues of her siblings didn’t produce the same steadfast loyalty and devotion from their Vessels, so Vita felt blessed. Once again, her rapt attention in MagiClasses had proven beneficial. “Always treat your Vessels with respect, not like toys, and they will happily grant you loving respect in return.” Even now, Vita could almost hear Dazznic’s lessons reverberating in her head. “But a fortnight is an awfully long time, Bron. Indeed, I had intended to be away for a month. What would you have done?” “A fortnight—one month—a full year,” said Bron, his hand still pumping his impressive organ in her direction, “it does not matter. All that matters is my Royal Loveliness receive the most and best I have to offer. ’Tis a solemn duty I joyfully perform.” Vita could take the temptation of his stiff, drooling cock no longer. She reluctantly withdrew her fingers from her dripping snatch and raced up the marble steps to the bed, intending to impale herself on the pillar of perfection in her Vessel’s hand. But he stopped her. Of course, she could have ordered Bron to fuck her senseless—her sisters, when faced with a similar situation, had done so time and again with their Vessels. But Vita’s knowledge in the 10
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Art of Legerdemain reigned supreme, and she knew, as well as he, what she needed from this wickedly handsome Vessel before they could couple. Resting back on the mattress, Bron released his magiwand. It slapped against his flat belly and temptingly bounced with a detectable pulse. “Draw from me, Your Highness, draw from me the power you need to replenish. It is all for you…for you…” Vita crawled onto the mattress beside him, her bare flesh meeting his, making her shiver in delight. Her fingers dove into his wealth of chest hair, while her mouth encased one of his nipples. She sucked and teased him into stiffness before moving to the other and replicating the act. Before her tongue left his chest, she had tasted every inch of it, leaving the hair matted and glossy with saliva. She worked her way down his muscle-ridged belly, kissing and tasting, kneading the flesh with her greedy hands. A lake of shiny, crystalline pre-essence had pooled in his navel and the web of hair surrounding it. She lapped up his juice, her tongue immediately tingling with the slightly sweet energy it possessed. Every drop of a Vessel’s essence had at least some regenerative power, and Vita had no intention of forfeiting a single morsel. After cleaning his belly of spilt sustenance, she focused her attention on his ironite-erect rod, now emitting warmth against her cheek. How beautiful the manly flesh looked to her eyes, noticeably throbbing and just waiting to be devoured. A gift for only her. With a hunger like none she had ever felt, Vita closed her lips around the mushroom-shaped head and sucked. More pre-essence tingled her taste buds, coercing her to draw as much of his petrous flesh into her mouth as possible. All of her Vessels possessed magiwands too large for her to deep-throat—Bron’s one of the largest—but that certainly didn’t stop her from trying. Her tongue went wild over his veiny meat as she crammed inch after inch into her mouth. She cupped his balls, massaging them, 11
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encouraging more of his juice to flow into her famished throat. When she pulled off of him in order to catch some air, she nibbled at his foreskin, knowing he enjoyed that, before once again filling her mouth and feasting on his shaft. Soon, he started moving his hips, ever so slightly at first, but with quickly escalating enthusiasm. Two weeks, Vita thought, lapping at the hard cock, relishing its warmth on her tongue, the way it pulsed against her lips, the abundance of essence teasing her palate. It surprised her that Bron could hold off as long as he did, especially after so many days without release, and her heart surged with delight that he had done so just for her benefit. She sucked harder still, needing to free him of his heavy burden. When Bron’s ball sack started contracting against her palm, Vita expertly tightened her lips around his shaft and prepared herself. In seconds, accompanied by his deep growls of satisfaction, he exploded. Seed pumped out of his cock, filling her mouth with bitter-sweet warmth. Watching Bron’s perfectly chiseled toes curl in orgasm, Vita swallowed with proficient ease while his violent blasts continued. How many surges of creamy essence he provided, she did not know, but never in recent memory had any of her Vessels gifted her with such a impressive load of pure energy. Already, the power within his juice seeped into her body, riotously coursed through her veins, making her think she could cast spells for a thousand years and not once have to replenish her powers. Drinking daily from the dozen substitute Vessels at the Petrik Spa had not come close to having this effect on her. Overwhelmed with sexual abandon, she swallowed Bron’s still-flowing nectar with rapacious nimbleness, draining from him every drop. By the time the cascade of essence trickled to nothingness, Vita buzzed with magical potency. Her fingertips and toes felt wonderfully numb, almost as if she had just ingested a dose of phorphitia, the most efficacious narcotic on all of B’Atrani. After one final loving suck, she released Bron’s still-erect cock from her mouth, then crawled on top of 12
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his writhing frame, hugging him to her. “Did—did my gift satisfy Your Majesty?” In reply, she held up her pendant, now practically bursting with crimson light, more than she had seen in many a month. She kissed his lips, thrusting her tongue deep into his throat and silently voicing her gratitude. His strong arms engulfed her, and within moments, she found herself flat on her back with his sinewy body atop her, grinding against her flesh. Before Vita could instruct him to do so, Bron filled her needy tunnel with his entire length of meat. He rained kisses upon her face, her shoulders, her breasts, allowing her feminine muscles to clutch his magiwand while she groaned her pleasure. “You are more beautiful than mere words can describe, my Royal Loveliness,” whispered Bron into her ear, his moist breath sending shivers down her spine. “I adore you more than life itself.” Vita clawed at his backside, knowing she dug her long nails a bit too deeply into his pliant flesh, but unable to help herself. Her need for release, as well as the magical power still humming through her body, had catapulted her beyond the limits of self-control. She just prayed Bron wouldn’t mind. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to feel any pain. As he suckled one of her nipples, he thrust into her with animalistic force, withdrawing his hard flesh nearly to the crown before lunging into her again at slightly different angles. Screams of passion filled Vita’s ears, and she barely realized they had poured from her own mouth. As Bron prodded her to the brink of climax, Vita briefly opened her eyes. Above the bed, the climbing sun speared directly through the skylight. The multi-colored panes of stained glass, also arranged in the shape of the Travét, seemed to shimmer with the same intensity she felt in her veins. The symbol of the Queendom of Travéttica reminded her that, before long, her 25th birthday would arrive, her coming of age ceremony. The Day of Achievement not only constituted her formal 13
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graduation into full-blown Witchhood, but also her Legal Joining. Like all Royal Witch’s in days gone by, she would select, then wed before the Coven Supreme, the Vessel of her choosing. Now, Bron’s majestic cock seemed almost to expand inside of her, his manic thrusts stoking a furnace of carnality deep in her core. Vita used her limbs to clutch his perspiring body to hers. She tossed back her head and shrieked her first release. Her body trembled, shaking the huge mattress upon which she writhed. Oh, she thought, luxuriating in the heights of euphoria, what mighty young Witches Bron’s seed might one day create with her. On her Day of Achievement, the Coven Supreme would bless the union and then, only then, could a Royal Witch produce offspring without any harmful side-effects. The Vessel, then titled the Royal Sovereign Vessel, would have his genitals magically enhanced even more, thus gifting him with, in some instances, nearly ten times the power to provide magic to his Witch Bride. Each female produced from this union would inherit the cumulative powers of both parents, while the males produced from the union would serve as an army of Warlock Advisors, like Dazznic, and train and counsel future Witch Generations. Yes!—damn it, by all the powers of Witchdom!—she had indeed made her selection, she mused, as Bron’s magiwand pistoned in her moist canal and rocketed her toward another mind-bending explosion. Like the Royal Witch Mothers before her, she would mate with a virile, loving Vessel, and continue the line of Royal Witches that had, in just a few short centuries, made Travéttica the most powerful and largest Queendom on the planet. Her mind now began to merge with her heart. She would unite with Bron, for no other Vessel had affected her, had invaded her soul, like Bron D’Extrian, a supreme beast of a mortal. A wave of climatic cries issued from Vita’s lips and seemed to shake the rafters. Her nails raked Bron’s sides, back, and buttocks, and she dug her teeth into his shoulder to silence her screams. Shuddering with a second, more elevating orgasm, she finally collapsed beneath her 14
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Vessel, loving the warm solidity of his cock as it continued to occupy her spasming hole. Only her lover’s burgeoning grunts and growls whisked Vita back to reality. Bron pulled back his head, his princely face scrunched in blissful agony, and peered deep into her eyes. “I love you, Your Majesty.” Her heart surged with raw emotion. She took a deep breath and voiced the words she had wanted to declare aloud for so long. “And I love you!” Bron gave her a deep kiss, then pulled his shaft from her clutching tunnel and hurriedly straddled her torso. “Taste my love—absorb my power.” Vita lifted her head and opened her mouth just in time to drink from his cock, spewing like a white fountain. The essence of magic blanketed her tongue, and the instant she swallowed, the extra energy boost galloped through her veins. Yes, she thought, hungrily milking the throbbing magiwand and staring into the green, glittering eyes of the man who consumed her heart, mind, and soul, she had indeed made a worthy selection.
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CHAPTER 3
For several hours, Vita Omnia rested in her mortal’s muscular arms, savoring the feel of his soft skin against hers, the tickle of his chest hair against her cheek, the way his flaccid magiwand nestled in her pubic triangle as he slumbered. His musky scent engulfed her—a sexy combination of maleness, perspiration, and pluneria, the rich scented oil in which her Vessels daily bathed. Bron D’Extrian had made love to her three additional times that afternoon. His cock had stayed almost rock-hard the entire session—quite a feat for a mere mortal—and the amount of magical energy now surging through her veins kept her wide awake. She lifted her head and turned toward the wall of windows. The sinking sun cast the room in deep amber and momentarily blinded her. “Ci donu sétu,” she whispered, raising a hand and motioning with her fingers from left to right. The thick drapes swept closed, plunging her chamber into semidarkness. The crystal on her necklace, however, still blazed with light; 16
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her lover’s handsome features glowed crimson. Vita couldn’t believe so much magical energy had come from one Vessel. Then again, he had kept his seed bottled up for two whole weeks, just for her. With her fingertips, Vita lovingly traced his full lips and enjoyed the roughness of the dark stubble above his mouth and on his chin. She flicked her tongue over one of his nipples and smiled when it peaked. What a sexy creature, she thought for what must have been the hundredth time since he’d fallen asleep. She ran her hand over his furry belly and into his pubic forest, while her clit tingled with renewed interest. Should she wake him, beg him to thrust his magiwand into her hole yet again? No, she decided, as much as she wanted to feel his pulsing erection deep within her, he needed his rest. In the old days, she likely would have summoned one or more of her other Vessels to service her. But with Bron declaring his love for her, and her heart aching with desire for him, she couldn’t imagine using her other Vessels for anything other than supping. No, from now on, that special part of her body would be open only for his enjoyment. She wondered if her Witch Mothers before her had experienced these same feelings of adoration for their chosen Vessels. The written history of B’Atrani gave examples of countless Royal Witches through the ages. From what Vita recalled, the most powerful, more often than not, were those who mated with a Vessel they loved. It seemed the seed of a lover—as opposed to a mere “supplier”—had extra strength, almost as if a Vessel in love with his Royal Witch somehow melded his heart with his loins to produce a superior essence of magic. The textbooks claimed no scientific basis for this phenomenon, yet Vita had noted the pattern, and had not forgotten. Still asleep, Bron moaned and pulled her closer to him. She entwined her legs with his and planted light, lingering kisses on his 17
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chest. He had come into her life just nine months earlier. Had one of her twelve Vessels not perished under mysterious circumstances, leaving an opening in her Force, she might never have met him. She still recalled the grueling days she had spent in the palace’s receiving room, the hundreds of medically approved applicants ushered in and out, hour after hour. Even though she had a panel of Warlock Advisors who screened out the hundreds of men who did not meet her criteria regarding appearance, body type, intellect, and personality, so many possibilities passed before her eyes. At first, sitting upon her throne and viewing the endless parade of naked male flesh, had seemed a licentious dream come true, but it quickly grew tiring. Only when the door opened and that one tall, strapping mortal stepped through did she sit up and take special notice. How magnificent Bron D’Extrian looked that day, his physique a wealth of rippling muscles and sinew. Even strutting before her in the nude as instructed, he possessed an aura of elegance, a princely dapperness, most men did not. He seemed to radiate a unique alliance of strength and gentleness, which appealed to her. From his handsome head down to his perfect toes, his excessive masculinity arrested her eyes. Vita remembered how she had instantly imagined drinking from his magiwand, then dreamed of taking him into her bed, somehow knowing his prowess as a lover would satisfy even the most jaded of Royal Witches. She had been right, she thought, hugging him and recalling their energetic, unbridled lovemaking since her return just hours earlier from the spas. Yes, she had wanted Bron D’Extrian when she had first laid eyes on him months ago, and God bless the Queendom, she wanted him now, endlessly. As if dreaming her salacious thoughts, he stirred again in slumber, only this time, a hardness developed against her lower belly. Vita reached between them and wrapped her fingers around his magiwand, 18
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the satiny soft skin encasing a granite-like interior, inch after inch of thick, pulsing flesh. Her nub throbbed to the same tempo, and moisture flowed into her tunnel. She kissed a trail down his torso, following the pattern of hair to his crotch. After their many joinings that day, his pubic forest smelled of pure sex, making her clit expand and pound even harder. In the glow from her crystal, she observed his impressive cock and traced the many purplish veins with her fingertips, then her tongue. His meaty taste invigorated her most primal desires, and she scooped the bulbous crown into her mouth and sucked. Since the age of eighteen, like all Royal Witches, she had been drawing power directly from Vessels, but never in the past six years had she relished a Vessel’s magiwand like she did now. Her tongue feasted on the delicious flesh, and she crammed more of him into her mouth, unable to get enough of him. “Planning to cast a global spell and need extra power, Your Highness?” asked Bron, his voice heavy with amusement. Vita reluctantly pulled her mouth off his shaft and laughed. “I’m not doing this out of magical necessity, but for my own enjoyment— and your satisfaction.” “Thank goodness. I thought maybe my seed had lost its potency.” Vita shuddered. She peered into one dark corner. “Baqui vu sei.” On a table, several candles sparked to life. She turned toward the other corners of the room and voiced the same command. Before long, the entire chamber glowed with candlelight. “Bron, please. Don’t even jest, my love.” Stories of Royal Witches consuming “negative seed” cluttered the B’Atrani history books. Supping from a Vessel who possessed a strain of khancashia—a relatively harmless disease in mortals that affected only a male’s sperm count—could have disastrous and long-term negative effects on a Witch’s entire body. Usually, the seed, when ingested, would drain magical power instead of supply it. Thankfully, modern medicine had lessened the occurrence of the disease in mortals, 19
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and the Royal Physicians now thoroughly screened Vessel Applicants, unlike in the past. Still, the notion of supping from a diseased Vessel sent shivers of fear up the spine of every modern-day Witch, including Vita. So much for childhood horror stories told around the fireplace… “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to alarm you.” “I know,” said Vita, tonguing the small band of skin where his foreskin and penis connected. “And I know that will never happen to you. You are much too virile—much too healthy. Besides, I love you too much to allow anything bad to happen to you.” Bron propped himself up on his elbows. His face displayed a mixture of wonder and mystification. “You really do love me, don’t you, Your Majesty?” “Did you think I was lying earlier?” “You never lie. That much I have learned about you in all these months. I admire you for that, and so much more.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Still, your declaration of love, it…it shocked me.” “Why?” Vita nuzzled her cheek against his cock and playfully licked his balls. “Tell me.” “I—I hardly feel I’m deserving of your love.” “And what makes you undeserving?” “It’s not like I’ve accomplished anything noteworthy in my twentyfive-year existence. I’ve not scaled mountains, slain fire-breathing rumbledons, invented an air-sailing device…I’ve done nothing except live my life as modestly and as humbly as I could.” “And you think those traits are unimportant to someone like me?” She kissed her way down one of his hairy legs, enjoying the firmness of his muscles and the warmth of his skin beneath her lips. “Not at all. But you deserve…you deserve so much more. You are a Royal Witch, breathtaking to behold, and me…well…I’m just a seedproviding Vessel.” “Oh, Bron, you are so much more in my eyes.” 20
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“I am?” “Yes, my love,” she answered, bussing his ankle bone and teasing the sole of his foot with her fingernails. “You are a gentle, honorable, caring man. Intelligent and thoughtful. Humorous and sensitive. I’ve watched the way you respectfully treat others, how you counsel your brother Vessels when personal troubles plague their souls. Even the way you play in the courtyard with the children of the Coven Supreme every Worship Day, and the adoration your mere presence generates in their eyes. They adore you! I could go on and on…” She kissed, then sucked each of his toes. “Besides, you’re as sexy as sin.” His resultant smile went straight to her heart. “You will one day make a good husband, a good father—a good Witch Father.” His eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. “What are you saying, Your Highness?” “First, that you cease calling me ‘Your Highness’ or anything formal.” She started nibbling on his other leg, working toward his crotch. “I am Vita, and that is what you shall call me from this moment forward.” “But that privilege is reserved for only—” Bron gasped. “You mean you want me—? I am to be—?” “That’s right, my handsome love.” In one long lick, Vita ran her tongue from the bottom of his furry balls to the tip of his hard magiwand. “I have selected you for my Sovereign Vessel. We shall be wed and magically blessed in a few short weeks. Do you accept?” “I—I’m speechless.” She kissed her way to his mouth. “Then who needs words?” Vita pressed her lips against his. Their tongues explored and jounced in passionate harmony. She reached between their bodies and slid the tip of his cock into her opening, already moist and more than eager for him. In a single movement, she lunged backward and down, impaling herself on his solid pillar of flesh. 21
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For a long moment, she sat completely still, clutching him with her muscles, savoring the way his pulse pounded and made her tingle deep inside her core. How she longed for the day when they could truly mate, when her womb could receive his hot, magical essence with the Coven Supreme’s blessing. Bron cradled her lower back, then rose into almost a sitting position, making their upper bodies take the shape of a contorting, perspiring “V.” He leaned forward to suckle her nipples, his lips alternately cool and careful, flaming and fierce, driving her wild with wantonness. Clutching the rear of his head, her fingers plunging into his silken, ebony hair, Vita arched her back and stifled a groan. With her buttocks snuggled against his crossed lower limbs, with his ironite-hard shaft crammed within her vaginal walls and throbbing delectably, she felt almost imprisoned by his hold. Never had any Vessel enslaved her with such passion, had ever captured not only her body within his solid frame, but her heart and spirit as well. “I love you, Vita,” he growled, his breath a hot, hungry caress against one of her rock-solid nipples. “I have always loved you, to the depths of my being.” His fingers kneaded her back while he feasted on her breast, his frantic tongue-lashing gifting her entire body with heated chills. “I vow on my life, dearest, I shall prove myself worthy of your love.” His large, powerful hands gripped her waist. The muscles in his arms and chest bulged enticingly as he lifted her several inches off his crotch, then yanked her back down, his thick shaft filling her hole. Again he raised her trembling frame, then skewered her with his meat. Over and over he filled her, each thrust swifter and more demanding, until a furnace of bestial lust ignited within her core. Sweat trickled through the valley between her breasts; Bron lapped up the copious rivers, as if needing them for sustenance as she required his seed. Her vaginal walls seeped with what felt like gallons of 22
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moisture, baptizing his pistoning phallus with her ever-expanding love. Behind her closed eyelids, a galaxy of stars sparkled and exploded, while deep in her womb, the celestial heat blossomed into a tingling inferno and jetted through her veins. Gasping her lover’s name, Vita shuddered in climax. In a series of delicious bursts, fire poured into her limbs. Her heart galloped, her head hummed, and she felt herself whirling in a vortex of absolute bliss. Before Vita had time to catch her breath and regain her senses, Bron lunged forward, pushing her onto her back. Her legs, still encircling his waist, clutched with renewed vigor, while her arms clawed at the rippling muscles along his backside. He held her trembling body against him, his crinkly chest hair teasing her nipples and his cock spearing her with deep, determined thrusts. Before long, she realized the fire within her had not completely died, had only lain dormant, and once again, her lover’s expert invasion brought it back to life with a savage vengeance. Her groin muscles spasmed around his shaft, clenching with almost depraved unruliness, as if attempting to swallow him whole. She seized his buttocks and yanked him forward, averse to the idea of having so much as an inch of her tunnel free of his erection. Indeed, at that moment, she couldn’t imagine an existence without Bron’s cock trapped within her grasping hole. He ground his hips against her, their sweat-dampened pubic bushes melding, until another orgasm tore through her. She howled as tremors overwhelmed and conquered, leaving her body drained of strength, anesthetized of sensation, and gasping for air. When he withdrew his hardness from her, she had never felt so empty. Vita watched in benumbed silence as Bron checked the crystal on her necklace, still ablaze in crimson light. Obviously realizing she needed no further magical nourishment, he stroked his lengthy shaft 23
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several times and shot wave after wave of creamy white essence onto her belly. “Someday soon,” she whispered, dipping her fingertips in his warm, seductive juice, “I shall have your seed inside of my womb.” He plummeted onto the mattress beside her, dragging her on top of him. “And I, my dearest Vita,” he said, burying his face into her hair and crushing her satiated body to him, “shall welcome the sweet invitation.”
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CHAPTER 4
The next morning, blissfully sore in her womanhood from her endless encounters with Bron, and bursting with magical energy from his seed, Vita reluctantly adhered to the breakfast chimes and pulled out of her lover’s embrace. “Ci donu sétu,” she intoned, sweeping her arm from right to left. The crimson drapes swooshed open, revealing a lush countryside immersed in fresh amber waves of sunlight. Throughout the city of Wynorian, towering above the bustling streets, gardens, and courtyards of the mortals, vast spires of the Coven Supreme’s Worship Buildings—all fashioned in the shape of a phallus—lifted majestically against the blue-green sky. Their solid, chiseled forms reminded Vita of the magiwand she forfeited in her bed, just waiting to be savored and tasted again and again. But she shoved aside notions of sexual abandon with Bron, knowing tradition came before her cravings. Tradition. Yes, she could not boycott the traditional breakfast feast with her mother and sisters, as much as it killed her to abandon her 25
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intended Royal Sovereign Vessel’s loving arms, his beautiful and rigid cock, if but for an hour or so. She spent some hasty moments in her adjoining bathing chamber, then returned feeling revitalized, her skin smelling of rosentia. At the vast closets, she selected a crimson gown of soothing velvet and dressed. Just as her hemline covered the bottom of her satin petticoats, she heard Bron rouse from slumber. “Leaving me so soon?” he asked, wiping sleep from his luscious green eyes. They glowed with sardonic humor. “I welcomed another day-long romp in which to satiate you, my dearest.” “I’ll return before long.” Vita strutted up the marble steps. She crawled onto the mattress and snatched Bron’s magiwand, already as firm as steelite, pulsing against her fingers, and tempting as hell to her hungry tongue. Knowing just sampling his organ would result in her forfeiting adherence to duty, she quickly released him. “Stay here and slumber. I intend to put good use to this tool before long.” She allowed her face to display her lecherous designs. “And, believe me, Bron, you’ll need the energy.” He laughed. “For you, I need no extra energy.” His gaze centered on her cleavage. “Just viewing the rise of your bosom rushes blood to my groin. But do what you must. I shall be fully erect and more than willing to satiate you upon your return.” Vita loved the sound of that, and as she gazed upon his handsome face, peered into his intense eyes, she knew she loved him even more. She kissed the big toe of his right foot. “I shan’t be long.” Yanking herself from the depths of sexual temptation, she rushed from her bedchamber and down the hallway, barely nodding to her other Vessels, already stationed at their posts and waiting to be supped. She navigated her way to the palace’s central common area and into the vast dining room. Beneath a glittering line of blazing crystal and gold chandeliers, the 26
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well-appointed table stretched before her, lengthy enough to accommodate a party of twenty-eight. Servants, standing at food-laden sideboards, snapped to attention. The room smelled of fresh bread, eggs from the palace’s hennery, roasted boaradite from the nearby Forests of Ghanita, and percolating, savory pots of Witch’s Brew—a liquid concoction of nuts, fruits, and Vessel’s seed, which gave the recipient a boost when magic levels needed energizing. Still ablaze with power, Vita shunned the intoxicating brew and requested nothing more than a plate of eggs, boaradite, and water. The last thing she needed this morning was the jitters. Within minutes, her mother, the reigning Queen of Travéttica, entered the room, a bevy of personal attendants in tow. Cillancia D’Abo, donned in a layered gown of ivory silk that lightly shimmered a rainbow of colors when she moved, her head of richbrown tresses topped with a crown of bejeweled elegance, graced her firstborn with a prim yet generous smile. The smile turned erudite when her dark gaze latched onto the blazing crystal dangling from Vita’s necklace. “So, my darling, you have not only restored yourself to healthy levels, but have achieved an enormous offering from the spa’s Vessels. They should be commended for their power.” “ ’Twasn’t the spa’s substitutes.” Vita grinned in self-satisfaction. “Nor was it even my personal Force, Mama. ’Twas a single Vessel.” Cillancia’s jaw dropped nearly to the floor. She seated herself at the head of the table, while servants blustered like a flurry of insects around her, setting brimming platters of food and chalices of steaming Witch’s Brew within easy reach. “How is this possible?” “One of my Vessels stored his power specifically for my return. He is choice—” “Who is this mortal?” “Bron D’Extrian.” The Witch Queen’s brows momentarily drew together. “The newest 27
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of your Force? Ah, yes, I recall his face and mien. How much he reminds me of your sire. Virile and charming, even-tempered and allegiant, not to mention in possession of a visage and physique that could flutter any jaded Witch’s heart.” She pointed to Vita’s pendant. “And if that is any indication of the power he provides, he is more than choice, dear Vita Omnia, he is golden.” “How true. And, Mama, I have made a—” The double doors burst open, robbing Vita of the opportunity to happily blare the news of her Royal Selection to her mother. Irritated, she watched as her Witch Sisters sashayed into the room and took their places at the table. C’Esset Yancia—the youngest of the sisters—wearing a blue-silk dress to match the moderate glow of her crystal pendant, sat across from Vita. To C’Esset’s left, adorned in a low-cut gown of forest-green satin to coincide with her blazing crystal, sat the middle sister, Lancine D’Olica. Both offered Vita smiles of welcome, though not with the same enthusiasm. C’Esset’s smile seemed genuine; Lancine’s faux. “Welcome home from the spas,” said C’Esset, filling her empty chalice with Witch’s Brew. “I trust Madame Amorite and her crew treated you well. To look at your brimming crystal, one would think you had sojourned for many months. And your face is all aglow.” She giggled. “I mournfully admit, I’m envious. I never had such an invigorating sojourn at Petrik.” “It wasn’t the Petrik Spas,” offered Vita in reply. “Than what was it?” asked Lancine D’Olica before shoving a strip of roasted boaradite into her mouth. Although Vita would have preferred to tell her mother the news in private, she realized she might not get the chance. She supposed now was as good a time as any to voice the latest development. “I have selected.” 28
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“What?” said Cillancia, her Queenly aura evaporating, replaced by a motherly appearance. She grasped Vita’s hand. “Do tell! Is it the Vessel you mentioned a moment earlier?” “What Vessel?” asked Lancine, her pretty face twisting sourly. Vita ignored her sister and addressed the Queen. “Yes, Mama. I proposed last evening upon my return. I cannot live without him. He is, as you said just a moment ago, golden to me.” “Do you…?” “Yes, Mama. I love him. I truly love him. To the depths of my soul. And, God bless the Queendom, he loves me.” The Queen nearly jumped out of her seat with joy. “Just the other day, that old nincompoop Dazznic predicted you would choose correctly, and I see, my darling, you have indeed. I am pleased. The love shared between you and your chosen Vessel is paramount, like it was with your sire and myself. Oh, how I wish my darling were still alive to witness your day of Joining with the man who has captured your heart. Your father would have been just as pleased—” “Really, Mama,” uttered Lancine, her green crystal blazing ominously. She gulped a chalice of Witch’s Brew with the same desperation as if her crystal registered no light. “Try to curb your enthusiasm.” “Silence, Lancine!” declared the Queen. “I beg of you, none of your usual sass this morning. You know as well as I ’tis a blessing your higher sister has selected her Vessel. And not a moment too soon. Her Day of Achievement ceremony is but weeks away.” The young woman fell into apparently dismal silence, scooping at her platter of eggs. The Queen’s fingers tightened on Vita’s hand. “I had silently feared you would have not selected in time, thus it would have been difficult for me to do my duty as Royal Law dictates.” Vita knew her mother had fretted over her forthcoming selection. As law decreed, the Reigning Queen would turn over to her firstborn 29
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daughter on her Day of Achievement the entire Queendom. She would pass along her hue-changing gowns and bejeweled headpiece and thus go into retirement as a Supreme Regal Counselor. Cillancia had nagged Vita for what felt like centuries to make up her mind, to select a Vessel upon which to base future generations, but to do so with love in her heart, and not foolhardiness. “But now, my dear Vita Omnia, I can clearly view your extreme delectation—and the news of your love for this mortal…well…” Cillancia paused to wipe tears from her cheeks. “How I had prayed to the Gods and Goddesses of Legerdemain you would follow the same path—the strong path—that will lead the next Witch Generations into a mighty and stable future. I shall gratefully accept Bron D’Extrian as my first son-in-Witchhood.” “Bron D’Extrian?” barked Lancine, choking on a fresh mouthful of boaradite. She pushed back from the table. Her dark eyes flashed with a strange light. She swallowed her food and stared at Vita. “Why him?” “Many reasons.” Though magic did not give Vita the power to read thoughts, her gut instantly churned with tormenting perception. Her mind raced—she knew Lancine’s Vessel Force consisted of mortals, all blond and wellbuilt, with hairless torsos. How could a dark-haired, resplendent, furry animal such as Bron interest Lancine? Had the girl altered her tastes in mortal men? Vita scooted back her chair and stood to face her sister. “What is Bron to you, Sister?” The girl’s pale cheeks flared with furious magenta. “He’s nothing to me! Nothing!” “Than why the dramatics? Why the outrage?” “I—I don’t want my brother-in-Witchhood to be—to be—” “To be what, Lancine?” “To be—” The Witch choked off her words and raced from the room, leaving Vita, C’Esset, and their mother speechless. 30
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“What in the Queendom has gotten into her?” asked C’Esset before drawing another sip from her chalice. “I don’t know.” Vita’s blood suddenly boiled with barely suppressed jealousy. “But I certainly intend to find out!”
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CHAPTER 5
“What does my sister mean to you?” The simple question made Bron D’Extrian’s face drain of color and the bronze-toned flesh on his arms visibly horripilate. His green eyes, once ablaze with lust, now took on a cast of— Of what?—astronomical ruefulness?—unmitigated fear? His mighty erection, the one he had started pumping the moment Vita returned to the bedchamber, shriveled in his hand. “Your Highness, I never meant to—” Vita seethed with instant rage. The use of the formal address, along with his guilty expression, sent blades of jealousy into her heart, slicing it in two. “Then my sister, Lancine D’Olica, has supped from you? She has tasted the power of your seed?” “Only once.” “Damn you, Bron!” He planted his bare feet on the marble floor of the bed pedestal and stood. “She demanded my essence—” 32
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“Is that one of the reasons you felt yourself unworthy to accept my proposal last evening? Do you want her mouth and body more than mine?” “No, Your Highness!” “Did you give her your essence during these past two weeks, then lie to me about your sole offering—” “No, Your Majesty!” Bron descended the pedestal toward her, his feet slapping the floor. His right hand stroked his hairy chest, while his handsome face bore a fusion of forthrightness and anger. “It happened many months ago, just after my initial appointment to your Force.” “What?” “Once I was no longer a novice in the rules of Vessels and Witchdom, I refused your sister’s subsequent attempts to drain me, denied her further access to my magiwand. In the ensuing months since that one occasion, all I stored was for you. I simply adore you! I tell the truth! You know the power I ejected yesterday. Is that not enough to prove my innocence? Please believe me, Your Loveliness, I have remained steadfastly loyal after that infamous day. I beg of you to believe me. I beg of you!” Vita viewed his eyes, brimming with an honest intensity she could not ignore. Nor could she ignore the magic power of which he spoke, still rushing through her veins and keeping her crystal ablaze. His fierce manner and serious expression took on a stoic cast, as if maintaining his words to the depths of his soul and daring anyone to question the veracity of his confession. “She supped from me, yes. I freely admit that. The same as she has supped from my brother Vessels in the past few months and—” “What are you saying?” “You did not know, Your Majesty?” “Know what?” barked Vita, her insides turning to mush with the suggestion of a betrayal by her sister. Bron stood before her, his athletic physique within touching 33
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distance, his masculine scent playing havoc with her primal urges. “Like myself, most, if not all, of my brother Vessels have loathly allowed your sister to—ingest—their magical gifts. If you will forgive me for saying so, Royal Witch Lancine D’Olica cannot exist without a constant resupply of essence.” “What? “She is akin to a mortal nymphomaniac of the highest extreme and—” Vita slapped his face, hard. “How dare you!” Moisture shimmered in his eyes, not from the pain of her hasty abuse, Vita suspected, but from the truth he continued to voice without restraint. “Damn your sister! I know, Your Highness, I can be cast upon the Pits of Sequestrian and broiled to the death for my traitorous words, but you must believe me…you must…” In a flash, Vita recalled the days when Lancine D’Olica, a Witchmaiden of eighteen with a fierce gleam in her dark eyes, insisted on supping from various Vessels, irrespective of the Vessel’s loyalty, and using her Royal Witchiness as coercion to do so. Vita also remembered the times when Lancine tromped through the streets of Wynorian with the sole purpose of draining the essence of magic from unapproved Vessels, then daring those around her to claim she gained her blazing green crystal by means other than the rightful and Royal ones. Oh, youth—rebellious youth! But once rumors of Lancine’s activities reached the palace, Queen Cillancia and the Coven Supreme, even Dazznic, had reprimanded her. And after weeks of undergoing intense counseling and suffering limited privileges, the girl changed. Apart from her sassy tongue and several other less-than-praiseworthy habits, she seemed to have redirected herself onto the straight and narrow path befitting a Royal Witch. Or since those scandalous days, had Lancine simply grown more cunning in hiding her more objectionable activities? 34
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Vita knew all too well her sister had always possessed a proclivity for mischief, not to mention the home-stilled Rhunatox she continually purchased from several shady farmers. “An addictive personality,” Dazznic had once proclaimed of Lancine, and now those words spiraled through Vita’s head, making her almost dizzy with the painful truth. Lancine indeed held the power to demand a Vessel spew his essence into a Royal Witch’s willing mouth, regardless of which tattoo and loincloth adorned his body, regardless of Royal approval. Vita thought of her dozen men—her Force—and an ache came to her heart. Had all of her Vessels faced the necessity of offering their loads to Lancine at one time or another, or else confront savage punishment, even hideous death, at the Pits of Sequestrian? She suspected so, especially now as she looked upon Bron’s face, his cheek stained red from where she had slapped him. Good God of Queendom, what had she done? Her stomach churning in guilt, her heart bleeding for exoneration for her actions, Vita stood on tiptoes and kissed his neck and earlobes, his abused cheek. Bron’s mouth met hers, his lips conveying both his forgiveness and his sympathy. “You did not know, Your Majesty. I understand.” “Call me Vita.” “Then I am free, Vita, from—from the horrible roasting Pits of Sequestrian?” She shuddered at the thought of Bron’s sexy carriage being slowly turned over a pit of volcanic flames, his beefy, sinewy flesh charbroiled and his succulent, juicy magiwand castrated by fire. “You are free.” As she expected, vast relief imbued his face, but also a surprising expression of what she could only describe as barbarous tenacity. It momentarily scared the hell out of her. “Then you do not mind if I protect you with my body?” asked Bron. “Do not mind? I don’t understand. What are you saying?” 35
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He glanced from side to side, as if expecting to see her chamber littered with listening devices. “Your Highness”—his green eyes glowed with an adoration that went straight to her core—“my darling Vita, since your two-week leave, rumors have abounded throughout the city.” “Rumors through Wynorian? Of what?” “Of treason—most foul.” Vita’s backside suffered a wave of shivers. She instinctively hugged the naked man against her, unable to bear the sensation of singleness. “Tell me, Bron, tell me.” “I’m only paraphrasing, mind you…” “Damn it, Bron, hold nothing back. As the rightful heir to the Queendom, I must know what treachery is afoot.” “You’ll forgive me for my—honest words?” Again, she recalled the slap she had given him moments earlier, and her heart thumped with repentance. If only he could forgive her…if only she could forgive herself. “Yes, Bron, voice the truth as you know it.” “All right, My Future Queen…” He ushered her up the pedestal steps to the bed, then sat on the edge of the mattress, his body inviting and magnificent to behold. Even now, Vita’s fingers itched to bury themselves into his jungle of chest hair, while her clit ached to be skewered by his cock, now limp yet still appetizing, dangling thick and long from his black bush. “ ’Tis the future of the Queendom…” said Bron, instantly whisking aside all of her licentious ruminations. He clutched her at the hips, the heat from his strong fingers seeming to seep through the velvet gown to scorch her flesh. “The Queendom—your Queendom is at stake, my dearest.” “From Lancine?” She parodied a laugh, knowing the seriousness of his accusations and her sibling’s nature, yet not wanting to believe it. “My love, you must be insane. Certainly, Lancine has done many 36
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things she likely regrets, but she has never gone against—” “What? The Laws of Legerdemain?” His eyes shot the venom of animosity. “Despite what you have been led to believe, that young Witchmaiden has drained many Vessels in the past months—not only her own, but yours and your sister C’Esset’s, along with an untold number of non-approved mortals in the city.” “And how do you know this?” “Do you not think we Vessels share secrets when in our private quarters? And while visiting the city, many of us have overheard the whispered conversations, the gossip, flourishing quicker than a mortal plague.” Vita shuddered again when her earlier ponderings rushed back to her. Perhaps her sister had indeed grown more skillful in masking her unacceptable habits, her addictions, from her family. Bron kissed the crimson velvet of her gown that shielded her female triangle. “From what I can gather and piece together, Lancine is plotting something. She’s obviously accumulating power, keeping her crystal aglow day and night, stockpiling essence in the Royal freezers.” “But for what reason?” she asked, her mind recalling her sister’s blazing jade-green crystal at the breakfast table. “Perhaps a takeover of the crown.” Vita froze, while her mind raced back through the lessons she had learned in history classes… Many centuries earlier, when the Craft of Witchdom began overrunning mortal-controlled territories and countries throughout the planet B’Atrani, nefarious takeovers and assassinations had been the norm. Then, Warlock Kingdoms seemed forever muddled in political chaos and bloody intrigue, and every few months new rulers would occupy the various thrones only to also find themselves assassinated by the next power-hungry usurper. As history books indicated, however, Queendoms had much less trouble in this area. As the old saying went, “Witches ruled with their 37
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loving brains; Warlocks ruled with their bursting balls.” That’s why, in this modern age, Kingdoms had become a thing of the past, and Queendoms reigned supreme. Unlike Warlocks, whose hearts tended to easily blacken with mortal-like greed, corruption, and delusions of imperial grandeur, the Witch’s inbred penchant for peaceful and patient control and a gentler, less egocentric constitution kept Queendoms running smoothly, with little of the political back-stabbing and sinister conspiracies so rife in B’Atrani’s former Kingdoms. Albeit, rare exceptions to this rule had occurred. Who could forget the infamous Yonni-Hei-Yonnig, Queen of Craxtix in the southern hemisphere, who, seven centuries earlier, had her eight older sisters kidnapped and taken to the Isle of Blortox, where each suffered disembowelment and beheading so Yonni-Hei-Yonnig could claim the throne? Or the vile Queen Chiti-Ohranj of Immaj—the chain of volcanic islands in the center of the Gillinic Ocean—who had imprisoned her eldest sister in the fiery Pits of Sequestrian, roasting the rightful heir to the Queendom for weeks before mercifully allowing death to consume the poor Witch? But nothing so contemptible and repugnant had ever occurred in the Queendom of Travéttica, or at least, not since the beginning of recorded history. Vita had always felt blessed to have been born into this particular royal family, in this model of nearly perfect Queendom. In her complacency, she sometimes forgot how small the world could be, how easily a Witch could lose the battle to remain steadfast and true to her destiny if she allowed an iota of a Warlock’s predisposition to consume her own soul and heart. But Lancine D’Olica? Certainly the Witch Maiden had never been what one might classify a “perfect Royal Witchling.” But to turn on her family in a bid for the throne? 38
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Desperately attempting to pinpoint another reason for her sister’s behavior, Vita told Bron what had happened during breakfast. “Then if my sister does not have designs on snaring you for her own Vessel, on feasting from your magiwand to the end of her days, why would she react in such a fashion to the news of our Joining?” Bron settled her on his lap, nuzzling her bodice-covered breasts with his mouth. “Your sister detests me—after all, I have rejected her demands to drink from me. I suppose I am the only Vessel who has done so, making no secret of my firm loyalty to you. Her threats to have me roasted mean little to me, and she knows it.” “Do not take this the wrong way, but a few moments earlier, you begged me to not have you sent to the Pits of—” “I would gladly dive into the Pits rather than betray you with Lancine. But the notion of you, my dearest darling, ordering me sent there for voicing the truth? Knowing I caused such terrible grief and heartache that you would have me executed? Well, I will sooner kill myself than to do anything that might force you into such action.” The last part of Bron’s pledge ushered in the eerie chills of déjà vu. Vita’s mind grappled for a fleeting memory, and she pulled out of his arms and stood, pacing the pedestal. After a moment, she recalled from whom she had once heard a similar pledge. Zoran Alegré—the same Vessel whose mysterious death led to Bron’s appointment to her Force. Vita recalled that evening less than a year earlier when Zoran had visited her candle-lit chamber… After draining his essence, Vita had noted an odd look on Zoran’s face. He had tenderly stroked her cheek and, without prompting, without justification, had uttered almost identical words. Apart from the pleasure she had felt at hearing such a pledge—what Royal Witch didn’t love when Vessels affirmed their stalwart devotion?—Vita had thought them only the words of a mortal fully satisfied after her adept oral administrations. 39
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Yet, just weeks later, on one of the palace’s many balconies, the guards had found Zoran lying dead, a char-blackened crater in the center of his chest. Royal Investigators and Physicians deemed the poor man the unfortunate victim of nature—lightning had apparently struck him during the previous evening. Why Zoran would have been outside in the rain remained a mystery, as well as the fact that, by all accounts, only a light drizzle had fallen that night, not a storm that might have produced lightning. Coincidence? Vita wondered and stopped pacing. Could Zoran have been the victim of some savage retribution, some retaliatory Witchcraft for something he had done? Or more to the point, had not done? No, no, that was crazy, Vita decided. Certainly Witches had the power to summon lightning, but only after years of intense study and days of consuming magical essence. Vita, an apt pupil, had enough trouble even now casting the Spell of Lightning without draining her strength for hours. Lancine, younger and hardly a stellar pupil in the Art of Legerdemain, would have been bed-sick for weeks had she attempted such a feat. Vita chewed her lower lip and pondered. Had her sister been indisposed all those months ago following Zoran’s death? Vita could remember little of those terrible, chaotic days, her grief having consumed her at the time. Yet again, the rumors of Lancine draining from numerous, unapproved Vessels, the stockpiling of magical essence, sent a blade of uncertainty into Vita’s heart. Had Lancine murdered Zoran with lightning, then ingested remedial essence from numerous unauthorized sources, thus masking from the family any adverse after-effects she may have suffered as a result? Vita sighed and rubbed at her suddenly throbbing temples. If only she knew the truth… 40
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She faced Bron. “So you believe Lancine detests you and not that she craves your magiwand for herself?” “It makes sense, after all. I know what she’s about, my love, therefore, I suspect it was fear, and not jealousy, that drove her to anger upon learning of our intended Joining.” “Fear? Anger?” “She’s likely afraid you’ll learn from me during our pillow talk the truth regarding her ‘unapproved supping’ and question her motives for doing so.” “You may be right,” admitted Vita, hating the notion yet unable to ignore the possibility. “You have wondrously selected me—someone you love—for Joining, and the vast power our union will provide to you probably frightens her.” “And you believe her supposed machinations against the throne are also genuine?” “Unfortunately, I do.” Bron’s dark brows pulled together. “And to make matters worse, Royal Witch Lancine D’Olica realizes she now has another enemy, one with the power to coerce a desperate, petulant Witch to act rash.” “You?” He shook his head. “Time.” “What?” “If your sister is indeed plotting against you, your proclamation has reminded her that she has only but weeks before we are to Join.” Vita tilted her head and stared at the stained-glass skylight, fighting to hold back tears of despair. As if to allay her concerns, Bron grabbed her wrist and tugged her onto the mattress. He rolled his naked body on top of her and held her protectively against him. “But I promise, my love, we shall learn more of what is happening before it’s too late.” “How? My sister will hardly admit the truth, so what do you 41
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propose?” “With your permission, I will make secret inquiries throughout Wynorian. I have friends in the city who would gladly unearth the information we need.” “What sort of friends?” His intense gaze shifted toward the wall of windows. For a moment, an unreadable expression overtook his face. “I—I’d rather not say. But I assure you, my dearest, these friends are devoted to me and are determined to see that the throne passes into the hands of the one who’s most deserving.” “But can they be trusted to uncover the facts? To voice the truth?” “Not to just anyone. But to me? Yes.” “Then permission is granted,” proclaimed Vita, stroking her lover’s muscular back. She reveled in the warmth of his closeness and felt she loved him even more than she had yesterday. Yet, memories of Zoran Alegré raced through her head and made her shiver. “But Bron, just promise me one thing.” “Of course. What is it?” “That when the skies blacken with storm clouds, you remain indoors. Keep ever vigilant.” “I promise.” Bron gave her mouth a fiery kiss, his tongue stroking and caressing hers in reassurance. “And I meant what I said earlier, my love. I will shield you with my body”—he kissed her again—“at all costs.”
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CHAPTER 6
“I want him dead,” cooed Lancine D’Olica into her lover’s ear. “Understand? And tomorrow, before it’s too late.” The muscular Vessel slammed his cock into her womanhood and froze. She could feel his erection losing its mass, and it infuriated her. Just when she was so close to orgasm. So damned close! She supposed it was her fault. She should not have mentioned her plans in the heat of passion. But throughout the day, notions of bloody, necessary murder had become a heady aphrodisiac, and she had been unable to curb her tongue. With one hand, Lancine grabbed a chunk of Swenton Vorak’s blond hair and yanked. The talon-like nails of her free hand dug into one of his butt cheeks. Swenton winced, but as trained, made not a whimper. “Fuck me, you worthless shit,” ordered Lancine, “or you’ll feel my nail slice your sensitive anal bud.” “Please, no, Your Highness—” “Or perhaps, I’ll once again order your brother Vessels to plug your 43
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hole with their cocks to show you how a real man fucks.” More soundless whimpers; more soundless tears. “You didn’t like it the last time you disobeyed me, did you?” She twisted his hair in her fingers and inched her sharpened nail toward his hole. “Answer me!” He clenched his teeth. Pebbles of sweat shimmered on his scrunched brow. “No—no, Your Highness.” “Then fuck me, damn you! Fuck me!” Under the threat of additional abuse, Swenton started pumping into her again. Soon, his shaft regained the hardness it had lost. Only then did Lancine release her punishing hold on his head and remove her nails from his buttocks. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sensations his thick, lengthy magiwand provided. In minutes, to Lancine’s satisfaction, Swenton’s straining efforts proved commendable. From out of Lancine’s core, a flood of electrifying heat rushed through her veins, her shrieks of climax trouncing over her Vessel’s grunts and groans. Moments later, she shoved him off of her perspiring body, then victoriously sucked the crown of his magiwand into her mouth, capturing his creamy seed. Hardly a massive dose, she decided, milking Swenton of his final drops. She barely felt an increase in magic levels, but she did feel overwhelming jealousy and hatred toward her sister, Vita. Vita Omnia, the next in line for the throne. Vita Omnia, the star pupil in MagiClasses and the darling of the entire Queendom. Vita Omnia, the Royal Witch who commanded powerful Vessels, including the one whose balls contained an essence of magic so revitalizing as to put all of Lancine’s Vessels to shame. Damn Vita Omnia, and damn Bron D’Extrian! Their Joining would never take place! Lancine would see to it! She released Swenton’s magiwand from her mouth and cursed 44
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when she studied her crystal pendant. Certainly it blazed green, which would have likely pleased any other Royal Witch throughout the planet B’Atrani. But not Lancine. She hated the notion that it had taken all twelve of her Vessels to bring this level of color to her crystal tonight. She detested the fact that they didn’t provide heftier loads, couldn’t deliver more potent seed. Their scant offerings usually forced her to don her black cloak, escape the palace via the underground tunnels, and hunt the city of Wynorian for additional men to drain. She loathed the idea of having to hide her actions from prying eyes, but she couldn’t face another intervention from her mother and the Coven Supreme, especially now that time was against her and she needed as much magical potency as possible. Lancine glared at Swenton. His rueful expression said that he knew he had displeased her, and the fear clouding his blue eyes voiced his concern for his future. Lancine liked her Vessels to maintain this state of anxiety. In her mind, a fearful Vessel was a compliant Vessel, especially Swenton, who Lancine had saved for last this evening since she planned to use him in her latest scheme. She rose from the mattress, the green satin sheets crusty and stained from a night-long romp with her Vessel Force, and descended the pedestal. Turning toward the chest beside her dressing table, she raised her hand toward the ceiling. “Si boré.” Prodded by her magic, the chest’s heavy lid creaked open, revealing a plethora of instruments Lancine had found useful in keeping her Vessels submissive and obedient. Though she had no intention of employing any of her “toys” this evening, she concluded that having a visible threat in hand when giving Swenton his orders would make him even more biddable to her will. Lancine grabbed the top item from the chest and turned toward the bed. She smiled when Swenton’s eyes rounded in alarm. He gulped 45
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when Lancine strutted toward the pedestal, whacking the ugly black metal phallus against her open palm. The thick, fifteen-inch rod stung her hand with each loud crack, but she didn’t care, so long as she got the reaction she desired. Swenton backed away from her as she ascended the pedestal. “Please—please Your Majesty, I beg of you—please, not that—” “Shut up, you sniveling coward.” She knelt on the mattress and crawled toward him, aiming the fat crown of the phallus toward his crotch, where the head of his own cock had retracted within the marginal protection of his foreskin like a frightened oöberdon, hiding its head in its body shell. “Should you do as I ask, I may not have to insert this particular device into your tight little hole. “But, Your Majesty, I beg you…” “Wipe the sweat from your quivering upper lip, you insufferable craven, and listen closely.” His head bobbed frantically. He swallowed, his eyes glued to the monster stick in her hand. “Before the morrow is out, you will kill Bron D’Extrian.” “H—how?” “Slit his throat, poison his food, shove him off the balcony. I do not care, just do it!” “But D’Extrian is always on the alert. And he’s stronger than me and—” In imperial outrage, Lancine thumped Swenton’s shin with the heavy metallic phallus. The Vessel yelped, touching the wound with his trembling hand. Lancine aimed the ebony shaft toward his balls. “I want no feeble excuses. You will kill him, or this lovely metal rod will be only the first of many to impale you in weeks of endless torture.” “But—but—” “Once I am done with you, I’ll make a gift of you to your brother 46
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Vessels before dispatching you to Morquéte Castle.” As expected, Swenton gasped in terror. The vile place, located in the volcanic Mountains of Kilgarn, had become the residence of B’Atrani’s most wicked cutthroats and rapists, and the guards who ran the world’s largest prison had a reputation for creative torture. Lancine suspected the prisoners and guards alike would welcome the addition of a handsome, muscular blond like Swenton to do with as they pleased. “Imagine your holes filled day and night for as long as you live,” Lancine whispered with a diminutive giggle. “Which, as rumors abound, will not be long.” “But why me, Your Majesty? Why have you selected me for this task?” “Because as much as I hate to admit it, you are the most capable of my Force.” “Your magic? Your lightning spell? Why not use that again?” Lancine recalled all too well the energy she had utilized to summon the single deadly bolt of lightning all those months ago. Certainly she had achieved her goal by slaying Zoran Alegré. The cunning scoundrel had not only refused to allow her access to his magiwand, but had also threatened to expose her secret ventures into Wynorian to “feed,” and had even divined her scheme to wrench the Queendom from her sister’s hands. Damn Zoran’s loyalty to Vita Omnia! For that alone, he’d deserved the fierce bolt of lightning. But after casting the spell, Lancine had suffered. It had taken more than a week for her to regain her normal strength, even after supping from dozens of Vessels on a daily basis. And hiding her condition from her family, the Royal Advisors, and servants had been no easy feat. “I dare not use my powers for this particular task. The death of one Vessel in that manner proved successful. The death of two, however, would cast suspicion my way. Besides, I can’t cast a complicated spell 47
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that will drain my valuable resources. All I have in reserve is needed for—something special.” “Which is?” “You’ll find out in due time. But for now, you’ll do as I say…” She tickled his shrinking testicles with the tip of the phallus and giggled when he shuddered. “Or live to regret it.”
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CHAPTER 7
As the first rays of dawn streaked gold across the clear, blue-green sky, Bron D’Extrian, clad in civilian attire as opposed to his normal loincloth, slunk out of the palace. With a plan firmly in mind, he hastened into Wynorian, heading straight for Harrix Row in the south end. This district of the capital city, an area encompassing several garbage-strewn blocks of over-crowded tenements, housed many of the Queendom’s criminal element. Amid the endless taverns and brothels and gambling dens, mortals freely engaged in all vices, and as Bron sidestepped piles of refuse, puddles of urine and vomit, and drunken and snoring beggars blocking his path along the cobblestones, he pulled his cloak around his face to shield his nose from the offensive mephitis. Buried in his pocket, his free hand clutched the sharply honed dagger, which would help stave off any trouble should it arrive. His feet ground to a halt when he came to the alleyway adjacent to The Rumbledon’s Tongue, one of Travéttica’s most notorious drinking 49
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and whoring establishments. After looking in all directions and seeing not a soul stirring in the chill morning, he slipped into the dark passageway. Piles of rotten food, broken glass, and fresh bloodstains littered the walk, remnants of last evenings frolics within the tavern, Bron surmised. He stalked to the back door and rapped out the appropriate signal. Within seconds, the door squealed open. A wave of stale aromas instantly assaulted him—boaradite grease, sour-mash liquor, torabella smoke, and frequent, no-holds’-barred sex. Bron entered the building, blinking against the new darkness and waiting for his eyes to adjust when the door behind him snapped shut. Thankfully, down the hallway, another door stood open a crack, allowing the glow of firelight to escape into the passage. “He’s waiting for ya,” growled a deep voice from behind. In thanks, Bron waved a hand to the unseen doorman and stepped to the end of the hall. When he entered the tavern proper, he peered through slitted eyes toward the far end of the room, away from the warmth of the crackling fire. He barely detected the giant silhouette of a man within the shadows, sitting at a crudely fashioned table of scarred wood. “Did you find one as I requested?” asked Bron, anxiously taking a wobbly seat beside the bewhiskered gent who held a full tankard of ale in his beefy hand. “Want a drink while we talk, my friend?” The man’s husky, resonant voice, as clear and deep as the lowest notes on an ninestringed symphonica, had the force to rumble the floorboards, or so Bron had always imagined. “Ale came in fresh this morning.” “As tempting as that sounds, I can’t.” “Ah, yes, I forgot. One of Her Majesty’s high-falutin’ Royal Vessels mustn’t indulge in wicked toxins. Must always keep the manseed clean and fresh for their intake, ain’t that what they say?” The man’s thick mustache and beard parted to reveal a gap-toothed smile. 50
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He chuckled, then drew a sip from his tankard. “Not like the good ol’ days when you used to frequent my fine establishment on a nightly basis, tearing up this place in your drunken revelry and screwing every one of my girls with that monster pecker until they begged for mercy.” Bron smirked at the good-natured ribbing. “I don’t quite recall them begging for that…although from those drunken days, I truly don’t recall too much of anything.” “Well, I do recall quite a lot. And the gals will never forgive you for taking your gift-to-womanhood elsewhere. And to royalty, no less. For shame, for shame…” Another laugh. “And now you don’t drink, don’t smoke, and are waving the banner of respectability for all to see. The rebel has left ya. Not certain if I’ll ever get used to this ‘new you,’ my lad.” Bron couldn’t help but laugh. With his eyes adjusted to the meager light, he glanced affectionately at the towering, brawny Obreé Kai’Lesh, owner of The Rumbledon’s Tongue. Though most Travéttica outsiders might assume the tavern’s name came from the colossal, fire-breathing reptiles that frequented the steamy jungles of Kentock along B’Atrani’s equator, all the Queendom’s insiders knew the bar’s name paid homage to its infamous owner. Obreé “The Tongue” Kai’Lesh not only possessed a quick temper that slew many unwelcome visitors with verbal fire, but he also owned a lengthy tongue that made him popular with many of the area’s wenches. Although the Royal Witches of Travéttica had ultimate magical power over the Queendom, Obreé had mortal power in Wynorian and most of the surrounding cities. His arm of influence stretched far and wide. Both law-abiding citizens and the corrupt element of humanity respected him. When he made you his friend, you remained one for life; when he deemed you his enemy, life didn’t last very long. Though Bron knew the whole truth. Obreé’s “bark” at times seemed mightier than a rumbledon’s, but his staunch friendship, his generous 51
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nature, his patriotic heart made up for any of his shortcomings. He inspired fear in many hearts, but only to those who possessed wicked ones. “So, Obreé, did you locate one or not?” “Sure did, my friend. ’Twasn’t difficult, as you might expect. Not in this area of the city, anyway.” “That’s what I had hoped. And he’s willing?” “For a modest price, of course. But what man in his condition, or otherwise, wouldn’t be willing with the chore you have in mind?” Bron smirked. “You’ll cover the payment for me until I can supply the funds he requires?” “Not only will I cover the payment, it will be my treat, no matter the cost.” “I can’t ask you to—” “None of that nonsense, boy. After all you’ve done for me in the past, ’tis the least I can do for you. Besides, ’tis rare I find myself in a position to actually do something for the betterment of the Queendom. I deem it an honor.” “I appreciate it.” “Hell, I appreciate the situation.” “So those rumors I mentioned…?” “Alas, by all accounts, they are true. After I received your note last evening, I interviewed as many of my sources as I could locate. Royal Witch Lancine D’Olica has been regularly spotted throughout Wynorian. Nary misses a night drinking from our local men, ’tis what I’m told. My guess is she’s planning one helluva spell.” “Damn it! That’s the last thing Vita needs to hear…” Obreé studied Bron through dark, shrewd eyes. “Who would have thought a boy from Harrix Row—the son of a prostitute, no less— would end up residing in the Royal Palace? And not as a mere servant, mind you, but a Royal Vessel! And a soon-to-be Sovereign Vessel! So you have indeed lost your heart to Her Royal Witchiness, huh?” 52
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“At first sight, my friend.” “Then Vita Omnia must be as special as folks say.” “You have no idea how special,” admitted Bron, his entire body aching in love-sickness. Even now he itched to return to the palace and sweep Vita into his arms, rain kisses upon her beautiful face, and make frenzied love to her. “Never before have I felt this way about a woman, mortal or Witchly. My heart melts when I gaze upon her. And to have her in my arms—well, no words can truly describe how I feel when I’m in her company. I’d do anything to keep her safe, Obreé, to keep her by my side for all eternity.” “And the feelings, I take it, are mutual?” “Believe it or not, yes…she loves me.” “I do believe it. The Witch would be a fool not to fall for your charm and handsome kisser. But does she know of your past?” A wave of shame washed over Bron. “How can I tell her the truth? About my mother’s occupation? That I don’t even know my father’s identity? That I survived my early years by begging and thieving and doing jobs that weren’t exactly on the up-and-up and—” Blood heated his cheeks. “Sorry, Obreé, I meant no offense…” “None taken. Those many jobs you performed on my behalf—quite admirably, I might add—will forever stay between us.” “Thank you, my friend. Anyway, I just don’t want Vita to think less of me. The truth isn’t pretty.” “ ’Tis only one side of the truth, you forget. Despite the hell of your early years, you straightened out your life. With inbred intelligence and sheer persistence, you toiled hard—and by legitimate means—to put yourself through school and make something of yourself. You’re a fine, moral, self-made man, Bron D’Extrian, and make no mistake about it. Your Royal Witch might be just as proud of you, of all you’ve accomplished, as I am.” Bron grinned. The man’s bolstering words went a long way in alleviating some of sting he felt over hiding the truth from Vita since 53
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joining her Vessel Force. “But do what you must, son. Tell her or not, ’tis your business. Just know she’ll not hear of your wild, drunken, whoring past from me. Oh, and all the gals upstairs are sworn to secrecy as well, despite their continual craving for your thick slab of meat.” Obreé laughed, then drained his tankard of ale and patted his paunch. “So when is the Royal Joining?” “Only weeks away, which is why our scheme is critical. How much time will it take, do you think, now that you’ve found a qualified and amenable participant?” “Days, perhaps, maybe longer. And that’s if our ‘mark’ finds him immediately. And even if she ‘bites,’ who truly knows a Witch’s constitution? Plus I’ll need a bit of time on my end.” “Why?” Obreé guffawed. “Oh, Royal Witch Lancine D’Olica doesn’t just drink from any man—even she has taste, if you’ll pardon the pun. Our ‘applicant,’ though far from homely, needs a touch of grooming. Some of the gals are upstairs with him even as we speak, shaving and bathing and primping him. And I’ve sent for a tailor and a tutor—a quick lesson in proper speech is needed before we can put our boy in place. She ain’t gonna nibble if the bait ain’t attractive, nor a gentleman.” “Good point.” In impatience, Bron tapped his booted foot on the floorboards, while his fingers drummed a counter-rhythm on the sticky tabletop, a custom he had possessed since childhood when living in a tenement just down the street. “But the waiting is agonizing. And even if we make him presentable, will she accept him? What if she doesn’t? Then what do we—?” Obreé covered Bron’s moving fingers with his immense hand, surprising his friend and returning the room to silence. “Better rid yourself of that unbearable habit, boy, or after wedding your lovely Witch, she’ll kick your hairy ass out of that grand palace quicker than a skullimun farts its stink in the woods.” 54
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“Oh…sorry…” He patted Bron’s hand. “You worry way too much for a man your age.” “It’s just that I want nothing bad to happen to Vita, or her Queendom. Not for my sake, but for hers.” “I’ll have my spies watching Royal Witch Lancine D’Olica’s every move. We’ll steer our chosen accomplice right into her path.” “But—” “Don’t fret. After all, you’ve come to the right man for aid, did you not?” Bron nodded. “You know I’ll get the job done as planned—as entrusted to me?” Again, Bron nodded. “You know I’ll—” Obreé’s booted foot slammed down on Bron’s. His action would have brought another welcome silence to the room were it not for Bron’s yelp of pain. Obreé’s chair crashed to the floor as he pushed it backward and leapt to his feet. “And for Queendom’s sake, you impatient oaf, take my damned advice and shed yourself of that nasty, insufferable tapping habit before I murder you myself!” With his empty tankard in hand, Obreé stormed across the tavern toward the casks, his fiery curses and thundering boot heels shaking the building’s very foundation. Despite his friend’s brutal reproof, Bron pulled off his boot, rubbed his sore instep, and smiled.
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CHAPTER 8
An hour later, his foot still sore from the stomp Obreé had given it, Bron limped into the palace via the underground tunnels. Although worries continued to plague him, he did feel more optimistic regarding the scheme, especially after meeting the man Obreé had hired for the important task. Blond, muscle-bound, with a hairless torso—thanks to a razor expertly employed by one of Obreé’s girls—and a sizeable magiwand, Nordain Gyrick did appear the perfect bait, considering Lancine D’Olica’s taste in men. Obreé had indeed selected well from the likely candidates. Once the tailor fitted him with a gentleman’s threads and the tutor gave him a crash course in the art of proper speech, Nordain would be ready for the task. But would Lancine fall for the ruse? Bron could only pray she would, and that when she did, Nordain’s “gift” to her would take immediate effect. He entered the palace proper, rushed through the servant’s corridors 56
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and into the well-appointed quarters he shared with his brother Vessels. He went to his pallet, stripped off his clothes, then donned nothing but his usual crimson loincloth. Before leaving to report to his Royal Witch, his love, he studied the tattoo on his right shoulder and experienced an enormous surge of pride. He raised his arm and kissed the center of the Travét. “For you, my dearest Vita, for you…” Minutes later, in her sunlit chamber, Bron’s heart skipped a beat. Vita wore a crimson dressing gown, the sheer watered silk revealing the outline of her curvy figure, her dark nipples, and feminine triangle. She rushed into his outstretched arms, and the warmth of her sweetsmelling flesh as she molded her body to his instantly brought his dormant cock to life. He wanted nothing more than to fling her over his shoulder, whisk her up to the bed, and feel her moist, satiny tunnel walls encompass his shaft. After giving him a long, tender kiss, she stepped back to look into his face. Her dusky eyes, fringed with full lashes, glowed with adoration, yet her brow scrunched in anxiety. “Did you discover any information from your sources? Shall I fear the worst?” For the moment, he shoved aside his carnal notions and nodded. “I’m afraid so, my love.” When he saw her shiver, he pulled her against him. “Yes, it appears Lancine is planning to cast a huge spell. Mayhap it’s an attempt to steal the throne, mayhap not. How can anyone be certain? But we do know she has indeed ventured, almost nightly, into Wynorian, supping from non-approved Vessels.” “What am I to do?” whispered Vita, her heated breath ruffling his chest hair. “I suppose I should inform my mother, although the news of Lancine repeating her old behavior will probably kill her—” “Do nothing yet.” Again she backed away and studied him. “You have something in mind, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. What have you done to Lancine?” 57
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“Done? Nothing yet.” “Then what have you set into motion?” “I’d rather not say, my dearest, just in case my plan doesn’t succeed.” “At least tell me there’s hope.” “As far as I’m concerned, there’s always hope, especially when not only the Queendom but our love might be at stake. I suggest, that until word arrives from my friends regarding the scheme, we stay together. I don’t want you left alone for one second.” A coy smile played upon her lips. “Why Bron…whatever shall we do to occupy our time?” In reply, he lifted Vita into his arms and raced toward the pedestal, unable to restrain the blood from rushing into his groin. By the time he settled her on the mattress and knelt beside her, his cock pointed toward the stained-glass ceiling. She tugged off his loincloth and stroked his solid length, then gave the shaft several licks and the bulbous head a lingering kiss. “I love you, Bron D’Extrian.” “And I love you, Vita Omnia.” Crawling on top of her, Bron slid open her silk robe. He took one of her puckered nipples into his mouth, reveling in her taste, and praying his passion could erase the notion of sibling treachery from her mind. * * * Later that night, Swenton Vorak stood in trembling silence before Lancine’s bed pedestal, watching her drain the last drops of essence from his brother Vessel’s magiwand. Although he said nothing, his avoidance of her direct gaze, the way he shuffled from foot to foot, the sweat beading his forehead, advertised his failure. Feeling instant rage instead of increased potency from the fresh man-seed she had ingested, Lancine released Faygor Jancia’s shrinking cock and ordered him out of her chamber. As if sensing a violent storm about to break, the blond, sinewy Vessel snatched his discarded jade58
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colored loincloth. He scrambled off the mattress and high-tailed it out of the room, the chamber doors slamming behind his firm, bare buttocks. “Your Majesty—” began Swenton, his voice cracking like an adolescent schoolboy’s. “Did I not give you a direct order?” asked Lancine, her gut churning and her entire body quaking in rage. The man nodded and hung his head. “And you failed me?” “I had no choice but to fail.” “One always has a choice! The same as I have a choice on selecting which of the many tools I will use to teach you a lesson in obedience!” She spun toward the chest beside her dressing table. “Si boré!” The lid lifted, and the metallic instruments of pain and pleasure glittered in the flickering candlelight. “Your Majesty, please—you don’t understand—” “I understand all too well, you worthless imbecile! I understand that Bron D’Extrian continues to draw breath!” She descended the pedestal and stomped to the chest, where she plucked out the fifteen-inch, ebony phallus, along with a pair of ugly, serrated nipple clamps. “And I also understand that now you must pay the consequences for disobeying my orders!” Swenton plummeted to his knees, his pathetic whimpers both annoying and gratifying to Lancine’s ears. His hands fisted and fell into the plush forest-green carpet. He lowered his head to rest on his thumbs. “I would have followed your orders, Your Highness, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t—” “Couldn’t what? Spit it out, you unbearable cretin!” “I couldn’t get near enough to him. He has been in your sister’s chambers all day. Please, Your Majesty, allow me more time. I’ll kill him, I swear I will, I just need an opportunity …” Lancine stalked across the room, studying the trembling pile of 59
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muscle and tanned flesh practically curled into a ball beside the bed pedestal. The sight excited her, and an invisible finger of warmth slid into her damp womanhood, tingling her womb. “An opportunity, you say?” “Y—yes, Your Highness.” “And how will you achieve this?” “I don’t know, Your Royal Loveliness. I need time—time to think of a way to get him alone so that I may do as you request.” Lancine postured herself before him, her legs slightly akimbo. “You’re right.” His head snapped upward; his trembling quelled. His moist blue eyes sparkled with hope of a reprieve. “Then—then you’ll allow me additional time to formulate a plan?” With her free hand, she stroked glossy, flaxen-blond bangs off his perspiring brow, her touch as delicate and as loving as her temperament would allow. “Time to think? Is that all you need to do my bidding, you say?” “Yes, Your Majesty.” She snatched a handful of his downy-soft hair and yanked him forward, cramming his handsome face into her pubic bush. As trained, he instantly started tonguing her nub, kissing her folds, fucking her with his hot, moist, jagged exhales. “Then time, my darling Swenton, is what you shall receive.” His tongue frantically dug into her tunnel, his way of thanking her for the gracious reprieve. Lancine waggled her hips and pressed his head closer to her, allowing the fool a few extra moments of naïve happiness and herself a degree of pleasure. All the while, she gripped the metal phallus and nipple clamps in her other hand, and eyed the green velvet sash beside the door. “Lon vello,” she mouthed soundlessly, watching the sash silently lower, as if being tugged by her hand and not the magic spell. “Yes, Swenton, I shall give you time. Time! Time to ponder your course of 60
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action! All the time you need!” Obviously hearing the rising impatience, the unmitigated fury in her voice, he withdrew his tongue from her dripping snatch and looked up at her. His eyes rounded in alarm when he also heard the rapid staccato of boot heels and the clanking of weapons in the hallway, growing louder by the second. The chamber doors burst open. With swords drawn, Lancine’s two bulky MagiGuards, wearing lime-green-and-white livery, entered the room and snapped to attention. “It seems my easily distracted Vessel needs some time to ponder a perplexing problem,” said Lancine, addressing her personal guards. “Escort him to”—she grinned—“the thinking chamber.” “No, Your Majesty!” cried Swenton, his face a study in terror. “I beg you—please! No!” As the guards each grabbed one of Swenton’s arms and dragged his shrieking, bucking frame out the door, Lancine donned a dressing gown of delicate jade-green silk, taking a moment to savor the way the material brushed over her taut, puckered nipples. By the time she exited her chamber, her “toys” firmly in hand and ready for use, she saw no sign of her guards or their prisoner, but Swenton’s frenzied, pathetic cries for mercy continued to echo through the hallway. Lancine strutted past her eleven other Vessels, all standing along the corridor at their appointed stations. Each of their handsome faces and muscular bodies shimmered with sweat, while fear clouded their eyes when they viewed the items in her hand. She smiled. How she loved setting an example of what could happen to one who defied her!
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CHAPTER 9
Although the evening prior to Worship Day promised tempestuous weather, Lancine D’Olica refused to miss a night hunting for fresh essence in Wynorian. For the past several days, ever since she had punished Swenton Vorak for his disobedience, she had ordered her Vessels to drain their offerings into their chalices, at least four times per day, thus adding to her ready supply of magic power in the freezer. Instead of relying on their gifts for her daily intake of energy, she supped only from outside sources. Her plan, set to proceed the following day, necessitated her draining as many mortals as possible, otherwise, the spell she intended to hold her sister Vita in check would leave Lancine feeble. And Swenton, physically recovered from his session in the dungeon and more determined than ever to succeed lest he face another round of torture, had devised a worthy plan to slay Bron D’Extrian. His scheme needed to coincide with hers, however, so Lancine grabbed her dark cloak, sped through the underground tunnels, and trekked once again 62
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into the city. Though the rain and thunder couldn’t stop her from her mission, it proved enough to stop the citizenry from venturing outside. To Lancine’s mounting frustration, the streets lay nearly deserted, most occupied only with the echoes of thunder and flashes of lightning. The few mortal men she happened upon in the initial half-hour of her quest either appeared homeless or drunk, neither the sort she would talk to, let along drag into a dark alleyway to sup from them. Soaked to the skin, her skirts heavy with water from sloshing through endless puddles, she tromped from one lonely avenue to another, cursing both the elements and her sister, Vita Omnia. When the storm increased rather than diminished, she huddled under the welcome shelter of a storefront awning and weighed her few options—return defeated to the palace, or continue her ostensibly fruitless hunt for warm seed? Neither choice pleased her, angering her even more. So wretched she felt watching the solid sheet of rain flood the world around her to thwart her plans, she actually considered retracing her steps and seeking out those few inebriated beggars she had met earlier that evening. Desperate times, after all, called for desperate measures. Then she saw the tall silhouette, a man moving toward her, strolling along the cobblestones under the relative protection of a wide umbrella. Lancine wiped rainwater from her slitted eyes and studied him. His balanced gait suggested sobriety, while his attire and top hat advertised at least modest, if not considerable, wealth. Finally, a worthy prospect. She waited, shivering as savage winds played havoc with her sodden clothing. After what felt like a century, the stranger noticed her and slowed his progress along the sidewalk. When he paused before her and lifted his umbrella, an opportune series of lightning bursts revealed his handsome features, the blond hair and sideburns, the way his dark clothing hugged a muscular frame. 63
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Not only a worthy prospect, Lancine decided, but a perfect one. He tipped his hat and made to pass, but she stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “A miserable evening, is it not?” asked Lancine, knowing how silly the question sounded, but frantic to gain his attention without magical means. Every ounce of energy she possessed she would need for the coming day, and any spell, no matter how small, could make all the difference between failure and victory. “Fit for neither man nor beast, and especially not a pretty young woman such as yourself,” he countered, his rich, amiable voice as welcome as a roaring fire. “Might you be lost, Miss? Are you in trouble? In need of assistance?” “Assistance” was hardly the apt word, she thought, as more lightning splintered the churning black skies. “Nothing that a drink of warm, spiced Myrion ale or a shot of Rhunatox liquor couldn’t cure.” With accelerated intensity, thunder pounded from above, rocking the world beneath her feet. Lancine suggestively opened her cloak, revealing her low-cut, lime-green bodice, now clinging to her full bosom. It thrilled her when the stranger licked his lips and his gray-blue gaze clawed over her breasts, following the rivers of water trickling down her throat and into her cleavage. Both the raging wind and his lecherous stare hardened her nipples into tender, aching points. Through the intermittent sparks from the heavens, she could see the bulge forming in his trousers. She swallowed, imagining the salty taste of his creamy essence as it coated her famished tongue. Like a flurry of enraged ice-pecks—nasty winged insects found only in the Northern Queendom of Mitronia—raindrops swept under the awning to sting her cheeks, but the sudden and violent heat flowing from out of her center and into her veins mitigated the chills. The gentleman shielded her with his umbrella and leaned in close. His minty breath warmed her face, while his sinewy body smelled of 64
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soap, spicy aftershave, and man. “I just so happen to have several bottles of Rhunatox at my apartment. Fresh from the countryside this afternoon, actually.” “You don’t say…” His voice dropped to a sensuous whisper. “Imagine, if you will, lazing on a rug of imported kulpaca fur, a roaring fire in an enormous hearth whisking away the chill of this horrendous evening…” Lancine needed to hear no more. She wove her arm around his and barely trimmed the impatience from her voice. “Then lead the way, my good man.” With a chuckle spilling from his moist, kissable lips, he escorted Lancine down the avenue, the storm raging around her curtailed to triviality by the one tearing up her loins with hunger. * * * Fifteen minutes later, with a shot of Rhunatox buzzing through her limbs, Lancine knelt on the fluffy kulpaca rug, a snapping fire pouring from the hearth to heat her bare skin. She had stripped her “rescuer” of all but his underdrawers, and planted kisses on his smooth, muscular chest and belly. He stroked her flesh with his slender fingers and seeking mouth. Her gaze clamped on the magnificent protrusion at his crotch, noting the damp, growing circle of pre-essence staining the white material. He lifted the bottle of Rhunatox to his lips, pulled a healthy swig, then offered her another gulp. She shook her head. The thing she wanted—she needed—to drink only he could supply from within his hard tube of flesh. She practically tore the underdrawers from his hips, then gasped her excitement when she saw just how huge a magiwand he possessed. None of her Vessels had this man’s length or girth, and when she attempted to wrap her fingers around his shaft, she discovered she could not. “Like what you see?” he asked, firelight shimmering off his teeth 65
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and dancing in his gray-blue eyes. Lancine nodded, but said nothing, using both hands to stroke the gigantic cock. She gently traced the purplish veins with her honed fingernails, marveled at the thick foreskin that periodically shielded the large crimson crown, and drooled her desire as a clear globule of juice formed at the slit and slithered down the shaft. Gods of Legerdemain, if she didn’t need to taste his essence so badly, she would have impaled herself on this pillar of flesh, needing to experience for once in her lifetime a magiwand like his inside of her. But all in good time, she told herself, listening to the rain pelting the windowpanes and the raucous thunder shaking the apartment building’s foundation. She wouldn’t be leaving the sanctity of this room anytime soon, if she could help it. No, she decided, she would milk this stranger throughout the night, if need be. She lowered her head and lapped up the river of essence before it escaped into the confines of his bushy blond pubic forest. When the seed coated her tongue, she blinked. Not only had she never viewed such an impressive cock, she had never sampled an essence so sweet, so tangy. Instantly, shivers overwhelmed her, while a mesmerizing hum filled her ears and relaxed her. The man continued to drink from the liquor bottle, while she opened her mouth as wide as possible yet could barely wrap her lips around the head of his cock. She sucked greedily as more droplets of magical essence bit her tongue. Another surge of tingles made her almost giddy with delight. How could any man in the Queendom with his good looks, feastworthy body, and exemplary magiwand have escaped her notice for so long? If only she had an opening on her Vessel Force, she would certainly recruit this mortal. And as she continued to milk him of his juice, thoughts of murder filled her vibrating head. Who was to say one of her Vessels wouldn’t meet with an “unfortunate accident” in the near future? 66
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With his free hand, he gripped the back of her head and forced it toward his crotch, filling her mouth with several inches of his mighty erection. Lancine gagged and breathed through her nose, keeping him in her mouth as long as her jaw could bear it. Her tongue went wild over the pulsing crown, coercing more of the heady sweetness from him, and she happily slurped up every drop. How long she stroked and sucked him, she didn’t know. Time seemed to slip away, and for a boundless eternity, she floated on a cloud of mind-numbing ecstasy. She drank and drank, growing tipsier by the minute, by the lick, until his groans warned her of the feast starting to erupt, which dragged her out from the ether and back to reality. She swallowed as fast as she could, but his creamy essence spewed in an endless wave of sweetness. Much of it seeped out of the corners of her mouth, over his shaft and her stroking fingers. Once he finished, she spent untold minutes consuming all she had lost. By the time she closed her sore mouth and released his still-throbbing shaft from her hands, she could barely see straight. It felt as if she had ingested a seed unique to Witchdom, and she reveled in the notion that this mortal’s testicles contained untapped power to which only she was privy. He finger-combed her long, dark tresses, still wet from the evening storm, and smiled. “Oh, darlin’, I ain’t never had my fuck-stick sucked like that.” She blinked and rubbed at her eyes. “What did you say?” Her new lover opened his mouth to reply, then paused and drank more Rhunatox liquor. He cleared his throat. “I said, I have never had my man-organ sucked like that.” Lancine squinted in momentary confusion, then shrugged. “Oh…that’s what I thought you said…ahh…what’s your name?” “Nordain…Nordain Gyrick.” He started stroking his semi-erect cock, and in seconds, had it once again stiff and thick. He waggled it in her face and swept the fat crown against her lips, like a mother 67
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attempting to coerce a stubborn infant to take a bottle. Absently, Lancine licked the slit, painted saliva over and around the head and the ridge. From the corners of her eyes, colors seemed to fade in and out of her peripheral vision, as though somehow filtered by a thin gray fog. But she didn’t care. Never before had she ingested such powerful, mind-bending essence, and she wasn’t about to stop now… * * * Groggy and confused, Lancine awoke alone. And she realized, after stumbling through the rooms seeking her new lover, a silent, empty apartment greeted her. Returning to the bedroom that reeked of recent sex, her head pounded when sunlight pierced the slits in the drapery and stabbed her eyes. She staggered to the chamber set in the corner, dampened a cloth with tepid water from a pitcher, and dabbed her cheeks and forehead. Her stomach did somersaults, and bile crept up her throat. Were it not for the fact that she had spent the night being skewered to perfection by an enormous cock and drinking powerful man-seed instead of alcohol, she would have thought she suffered the effects of a hangover. She stared at the rumbled bed. Where had her lover gone so early in the morning? They had made love—correction—had fucked throughout the stormy night. Nordain Gyrick, though he looked and spoke like a cultured gentleman, had rutted like a common street thug. His wild, animalistic pounding, his unwavering, relentless energy, had known no bounds as he plunged into her again and again, working her body into screaming frenzies and bringing her to countless orgasms before filling her mouth with numerous loads of potent seed. Certainly Nordain should be asleep, recovering from a sex romp that would have left most mortal men completely drained and just as sore as she felt when attempting to walk. As if in response to her query regarding his whereabouts, bells began to chime through the city streets. 68
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Then reality hit her—Worship Day! Snapping to attention and doing her level best to ignore the nausea threatening to subdue her, Lancine entered the living room and donned her discarded clothing. With grim determination, and panic settling in, she shambled to the door and fled the apartment. Worship Day! Damn it! How could she have forgotten? Today would be a day for her to celebrate! A day that would go down in B’Atrani’s history as the one when Travéttica’s carefree rule ended. A day she would begin her scheme to take over the entire Queendom, and in time, the world! And the day when Vita Omnia and Bron D’Extrian disappeared from the Queendom—her future Queendom—forever!
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CHAPTER 10
His stomach bound in knots of panic and his muscles taut with nervous tension, Swenton Vorak spent the better part of the morning searching room after room of the sumptuous palace, but could not find his Royal Witch. Like his brother Vessels, he knew Lancine D’Olica had spent the previous evening on another “Wynorian seed mission,” as the men had often joked in hushed, nervous tones in their quarters, yet Swenton had never known her to not return to her wing before the dawn. She couldn’t risk missing the breakfast bell without casting suspicion on her activities, especially on Worship Day. He hadn’t even located her in the underground punishment rooms, the last place he dared search this morning, the place where he had recently spent days in brutal agony. Swenton shivered at the recollection of being chained, arms and legs akimbo, to one of the wooden racks, of having his dual orifices expertly invaded by not only numerous instruments Lancine personally employed, but also the hard, unrelenting flesh of the many dungeon 70
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guards assigned to continually “punish” him for his disobedience. Indeed, his jaw and anus still ached from the unmerciful abuse, and the clamps had left his nipples red and raw. He supposed he should be thankful his eleven brother Vessels, the men with whom he shared quarters, had not been ordered to use him for their extra pleasure…at least he could live without that added disgrace. Once had been bad enough, and to this day, their occasional expressive glances and whispered gibes infuriated him. Still, this morning while searching for his Royal Witch, the smirks he’d encountered from the guards who had professionally and gleefully abused him like a common whore, sent shivers down his spine. Their wicked taunts of “The Royal Blond Bitch” boiled his blood, while the memories of their stiff, sizeable magiwands and the seed they poured into his sore holes haunted him—and would bedevil him for life, he supposed. One burly guard even attempted to force Swenton to his knees, to again exploit his mouth for sexual gratification. Thankfully, Swenton had enough brawn and renewed strength to fight off the lecherous brute and flee the torture rooms to continue his seemingly fruitless search for his Royal Witch. How ironic, he mused, stomping through the dingy underground corridors and licking his knuckles, swollen and sore from his recent fisticuffs with the guard. For the first twenty-two years of Swenton’s life, his well-to-do, prestigious parents had molded him for his current position. Their dreams for his glorious future knew no bounds. “Only the best for a Vorak offspring,” his father used to say. Encouraged by his natural good looks and well-developed physique, his parents had shipped him to the choice schools, hired the finest tutors in etiquette, all in a bid to groom him for a life in this magnificent palace with the enviable position as a Royal Vessel. But how quickly their proudful expressions would disintegrate, Swenton decided, should they discover exactly what had happened to him in the past two years since his appointment to Lancine D’Olica’s 71
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Force. His rapacious, scheming, fiendish Royal Witch had reduced him to nothing more than a source of man-seed, a whore for the vile ruffians employed in rooms with slimy walls and cluttered with equally repulsive sexual devices, and now, a would-be murderer. Yes, Papa and Mama, he reflected, so much for all the years of hard labor, not to mention the funds, needed to create a mortal befit a Witch Princess. Now only a flimsy loincloth clad his body, instead of impeccably tailored garments. Now he shared quarters with eleven other men, instead of lounging in his own munificent surroundings. Now he suffered pain and mortification after being used by men unworthy to be his family servants, instead of using his own family servants for his every sexual fantasy. Yes, Papa and Mama, his internal voice screamed while he whacked the dungeon wall with his aching fist, would you be proud of me now? Muttering vulgar and inventive curses, Swenton continued through the various tunnels, his bare feet digging angry trenches in the dirt floor, his mind reeling with the notions of what he could have become without aggressive parental influence. Yet the recent encounter with the guards not only provided fuel for his dismal ponderings and abject humiliation, but also a fierce determination within him—never again would he find himself in that deplorable, evil place, strapped to a rack and used like a piece of meat. Yes, he would kill Bron D’Extrian as planned—damn it—or die trying! During his horrendous time on the rack, he had mentally escaped from the incessant fucking by recalling all he knew of Bron’s character. He had used those tidbits to plot various schemes, finally selecting one that bore possibilities of success. But where was his Royal Witch? He couldn’t begin his chosen scheme to separate Bron D’Extrian from Witch Princess Vita Omnia without Lancine ready to take whatever action she had in mind. Had something happened to Lancine last evening? he wondered, a 72
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nimbus of hope niggling at his brain. Something that would thwart her unknown plans and save him the trouble of adding murder to his résumé of sins? Of course not, he concluded dismally. He wouldn’t have been so damned lucky. Yes, he hated his Royal Witch, detested the air on which she feasted, the ground on which she sashayed, the bed on which she screwed and slumbered. But with her in command of every aspect of his life, he had no choice but to slay Bron D’Extrian as she bid, or suffer additional abuse by the dungeon guards, perhaps his brother Vessels, not to mention the entire prison colony of Morquéte Castle, until the end of his miserable life. Which made him hate himself for his pusillanimity even more than he hated Lancine. Swenton sped through the dungeon’s gloomy corridors toward the stone steps leading to the palace proper. With renewed tenacity to prove himself worthy of the chore assigned him, his blood raced. He had just reached the stairs when, from out of a connecting passageway, his Royal Witch suddenly appeared. Light from the flickering wall torches revealed her pale face, her cloudy dark eyes. Her normally pretty features looked sour with confusion and fury, while her cloak lay wrinkled, her green velvet gown matted, across her shapely figure. And she stank of a heady concoction of mildew, Rhunatox liquor, and sex. Lancine’s disheveled appearance, however, didn’t stop her lips from twisting in ruthless mockery when she spotted him. “In the dungeon for additional pleasure from your new lovers?” Swenton swallowed back his scathing retort and marginally reined in the urge to throttle her with his bare hands. She was, after all, his legal “reason for being,” regardless of the pitiable, indigestible state in which he currently found himself. “I’ve been searching for you all morning, Your Highness. Where have you been?” 73
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“Since when is that the business of a mere Vessel?” “Since your presence and readiness ensures success in my scheme!” “Trim that sassy tone this instant, or I’ll happily call the dungeon guards and order them to stifle you in their unique manner!” Swenton stomped down the fear threatening to unman him, while rage poured heat into his face. “At least tell me you’re prepared to begin whatever it is you plan.” She nodded and began climbing the winding, stone stairway. “I shall be ready just before the Coven Supreme congregates for their Worship Ceremony. Now, leave me alone, you miserable oaf, and do your job, or prepare yourself for another spirited invasion by the guards!” In seething and brooding silence, Swenton followed his Royal Witch up the steps, his guts churning and his pulse racing regarding the bloody murder he planned to commit within the hour. * * * With heightened alacrity, Bron’s solid, throbbing cock entered Vita’s welcoming and glorious tunnel again and again, plunging toward the heaven he knew from broad experience existed deep in her core. Her screams of orgasm echoed in his ears to gladden him, victoriously muffling the grunts of impending satiation spilling from his own mouth. While her seemingly incessant outflow of fluid bathed his magiwand in invigorated warmth, her strong fingers clutched his buttocks and clawed at his back, while her wet lips planted flaming and electrifying kisses along his neck, shoulders, and upper arms. He squeezed his eyes closed, gasped, and galloped toward euphoria. Could a woman, a Royal Witch, truly be as sexually gratifying, as carnally addictive, as the creature whose satiny bare flesh molded to his, whose moist channel walls milked and caressed him with untold passion? Caught in the untamed revelry of his approaching climax, he pondered the question and nearly forgot to withdraw from her heat 74
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when he edged to the verge. Only his lover’s whispered and panicked reminders in his ear regarding the rules—the damned rules!—brought him crashing back to reality. Damn it, how he couldn’t wait for their official Joining, when he could finally empty his seed into her womb. Bron yanked his shaft from his lover’s grasping vagina not a moment too soon. Before he collapsed on top of Vita’s perspiring frame, the first blast of essence spewed from his cock, baptizing her belly in a creamy river of whiteness. She crushed his spasming body against hers, clamped her teeth into his shoulder, and growled her ecstasy, while the sparse area between their torsos swiftly grew sticky with his hot offering. For uncounted minutes—or exhilarating centuries, he couldn’t be certain—he humped her flesh, liberating himself of the load he’d stored for only the past few hours since last he’d ejected. His heart felt as if it would rupture with the measure of love it held for her. He rained kisses upon Vita’s seeking mouth, conveying some of his pent-up emotions, yet imparting only a scant summary of the words left unspoken. Nevertheless, she seemed to understand. She reached between them, wrapping her fingers around his slippery, still-hard magiwand, and sliding it into her gaping hole. Her legs enwrapped his waist, welcoming his reentry, while her muscles clutched the full length of his tingling organ within her, as if daring him to escape. The foolish Witch—if she only knew escapement was the farthest thing from his mind. But the sound of bells, pleasantly tolling in harmony from the city outside her windows, reminded him of the day. “Shouldn’t you prepare yourself for Worship festivities, my love?” “I have at least an hour. Why do you ask? Are you attempting to leave me empty and wanting more of you?” she whispered, her tone ripe with teasing sarcasm. “Not if I can help it.” He gave her a tongue-lashing kiss, and crammed his softening cock as far into her as possible. “I would gladly 75
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spend all my future days doing nothing but please you.” “Be careful what you wish for, my dearest, or you might find yourself doing just that.” Bron snickered, while his magiwand stirred at the enticing prospect. “I welcome the glorious penalty.” Again their lips and tongues united. Bron rejoiced in his intended’s passionate caresses, her undying love and devotion clearly on display. He could not have blueprinted such a wonderful destiny had he tried. Just as his reanimated cock expanded to cram the empty space within the velvety walls of her canal, additional sounds eclipsed the consistent Worship bells. A cacophony of running feet, clanking weapons, and shouts of panic filtered into the chamber, unnerving him and putting him on guard. He yanked his organ from Vita’s tunnel just as urgent knocking rattled the chamber doors. Vita pulled a sheet around her naked flesh, a habit she had developed since proposing marriage to him, Bron had noticed. “Enter!” The doors burst open, and there stood Eucrax, one of Vita’s crimson-clad MagiGuards, sunlight from the windows glistening off his drawn sword. His normally expressionless features now twisted in both concern and annoyance. “Your Highness, I fear there’s a situation at the Royal Temple.” “What is it?” “One of the young lads—Pentar Grovniac—” Mention of the youth’s name made Bron’s stomach clench in alarm. He bolted upward to a sitting position, uncaring of his nudity. “What has he done now?” The burly guard momentarily looked toward Bron, but his eyes narrowed in uncertainty. Vita seemed to understand the man’s hesitancy in replying, and propped herself up on her elbows. “You may answer Bron D’Extrian’s query, Eucrax. As you know, he’s my intended, therefore, his voice is now my voice.” 76
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The guard nodded and slid his sword back into its sheath. “The brat has got himself into one hell of a predicament. Stuck on top of the temple roof, he is. His fat head got wedged into one of them fancy latticework designs surrounding the bell and he can’t seem to pry himself loose!” Amusement instantly replaced Bron’s apprehension. The eightyear-old lad—Dazznic’s grandson, no less—possessed a proclivity for mischief and continually got himself into numerous scrapes. Whether climbing a vine-covered trellis to peep into private Witch chambers, or dropping bags of horse manure onto approaching palace visitors from the many balconies, the boy had been a thorn in the sides of the palace guards since his birth. Bron, however, had developed a special rapport with the lad, as he had with most of the Coven children, and seemed to be the only one who could control him. Vita laughed. “And let me guess…Pentar won’t listen to anyone but my handsome Vessel, correct? And he’s raising a royal stink over the courtyard, cursing and hollering not so much his rage, but his embarrassment for another prank gone awry?” Again, the guard nodded, his gruff face now adopting a look of exasperation. “He’s already kicked three guards smack dab in their magiwands for trying to help him, the miserable whelp! Won’t listen to reason, damn the little pecker!” Bron groaned. The last thing he needed to interrupt his lovemaking was a rebellious youth caught in a jam—or a latticework, as the case may be. Reluctantly, he snatched his discarded loincloth and jumped off the mattress. “I’ll be there momentarily.” “Thank you, Your Royal Sovereign Vessel.” The title stopped Bron short of securing the loincloth over his groin. He blinked several times and looked toward the doorway from which Eucrax had disappeared. Vita giggled. “Get used to it, my dearest. Soon, all shall address you with that term.” She tossed back the sheet, then got on her hands and 77
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knees and crawled toward him. “But not I…no, I shall refer to you as my husband…my love…” She kissed the crown of his magiwand, then helped him fasten the loincloth. “But for now, your way with children has put a damper on our fun. Though fear not, that is one of the reasons I have lost my heart to you. They adore you.” “And I, them. But Pentar—” His gaze swept over her full breasts, his mouth hungering to savor the warmth of her flesh yet again. “I could throttle the brat now.” Stamping down his misgivings about leaving Vita, his carnal urges to spend every free moment with his cock buried deep in her hole, he stood erect and hastened to the doorway. “I’ll be but a minute, I pray. Until then, take care. Promise?” He turned back to her. “I promise, my lover.” She stretched out on the mattress and spread her legs. Her right hand clutched her pert left breast, while her left hand slid over her flat belly and dove into her bushy triangle, where she inserted her slender index finger into the pink hole he yearned to taste. “But hurry back.” Again, his cock stirred in need against the loincloth. “Count on it!”
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CHAPTER 11
Although fierce sunlight heated Bron’s bare back, the crisp morning breeze brushed against his naked flesh, tickling his chest hair and making his nipples hard as stone. It also stirred the hair on his testicles, irritating him that he’d been forced to leave his lover’s cozy bed for this insane rescue mission. Tiny peaks in the craggy rooftop stabbed the soles of his bare feet as he raced toward the rebellious lad, whose mischievous ways reminded him so much of himself at that age while living in the tenements. All the way up to the Temple rooftop, its magnificent ivory, phallus-shaped spire towering above the city, Bron had cursed the situation. He actually pictured himself giving the lad several mighty wallops on the buttocks, but knew he would not. His heart just couldn’t embrace violence as a viable option in rearing children, which is what made it so ironic that in the past he had performed so many barbarous deeds on behalf of his friend and mentor, Obreé Kai’Lesh. But doing a vicious job for needed capital against someone who would happily slit 79
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your throat was one thing; purposefully causing physical harm, no matter how justified, to a scatter-brained lad for simply reveling in the joys of carefree youth seemed utterly malevolent. No, talking the boy into developing a level head seemed altogether more reasonable, and palatable, then beating him into doing so. But that didn’t stop Bron from threatening physical punishment once he neared the boy. The youth’s backside wiggled almost comically as he attempted to free himself from the clutches of the closely bound latticework surrounding the bell, and now, his neck. “Cease your caterwauling, brat, or I’ll give you something to caterwaul about!” “Bron? Is that you?” shrieked the boy, his futile movements coming to a halt. “Of course it’s me, you obnoxious mischief-maker. Who else do you think they’d summon for such an absurd task as to free your scrawny neck from your latest failure at roguishness?” Bron reached Pentar’s side and dug his fingers into the latticework, attempting to pry the firm structure from around the boy’s throat. “How the hell did you get yourself into this situation? And why the hell did you call for me?” “But—but I didn’t,” answered Pentar. He turned his face toward Bron. His small gray eyes, alive with fear, dripped with rivers of moisture. “I didn’t do this myself! I swear, Bron! Someone grabbed me from behind, brought me up here, and shoved me into—” Only as the knife blade sliced into Bron’s shoulder and sent ripples of pain throughout his body, did he realize his mistake. Knees buckling, his ears filled with the cries of terror from the trapped boy and the groans of agony pouring from his own lips, he sank to the rooftop and thought only of Vita. * * * Long after her lover had left on his mission of mercy, Vita Omnia continued to finger her delicate nub, closing her eyes to the blinding sunlight while dreaming about Bron’s muscular, hirsute physique. She 80
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wedged one, two, then three fingers into her moist canal, yearning for the moment he would return to fill her with not only his expert tongue, but his prized magiwand. Dear Gods of Legerdemain, how lonely she felt without her intended’s soft flesh pressed against hers…how barren she felt without his thick cock deep inside her…how dismal she felt without… “I see you miss the bastard already!” Shocked into reality by her sister’s voice, Vita scooped handfuls of the mussed bedclothes around her body. Her brows knit together in embarrassment and fury. “Since when has knocking fallen from the rules of etiquette, Sister?” “Since I’ve decided to alter the rules!” “What the hell are you talking about?” Lancine D’Olica, looking more than a touch disheveled, hitched toward the bed pedestal, her eyes alive with a manic fire Vita could not comprehend. And it scared the hell out of her. Before Vita could utter another syllable, Lancine plummeted to her knees, her stained and mangy green skirts crunching against the crimson carpet. She lifted her hands toward the ceiling and smiled. “Si bori avenji tu sem, entume di vertué cotique ke…” Vita knuckled her eyes and sat up straight. Her mind, still engulfed in heated fantasies of Bron, seemed unable, no matter how hard she tried, to make sense of the faint chanting pouring from her sister’s mouth. “Si bori un toretté, e’questo myan rajit…” “What are you doing?” Lancine didn’t move, didn’t respond, just kept uttering words, her face scrunched in concentration. “Si bori nuit crodéte mor broquét…” When Vita attempted to pull herself from the mattress, she discovered that her limbs suddenly felt heavy, as if weighed down by an invisible force. She stared in confusion and horror at her wrists and ankles, wondering why she couldn’t see either the hefty stones or the 81
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ironite bands that seemed to be securing them in place. A wave of panic rushed through her. “Lancine! What are you doing?” Again, no direct response, only the insufferable chanting that made Vita dizzy with incomprehension. She glared at the crimson bell-pull dangling beside her chamber doors. “Lon vello!” she cried, but her voice sounded as if muffled by a mountain of blankets and didn’t quite reach her ears. “Lon vello! Lon vello! Lon vello!” she screamed again and again, until nary a hoarse whisper escaped her throat. And all the while, her gaze focused on the crimson sash, which refused to budge under her magical demands. “Si bori drago seteme, blendo siréte vu dar…” Where were her guards? Where were her Vessels? Where was her lover? “What have you done to him, Lancine?” she cried in hysteria, unable to hear even a hint of her voice in the suddenly buzzing air. He is dead, Sister Bitch! came the response through her brain, although Lancine hadn’t ceased her endless chanting. Dead and gone, forever— “No! Dear Gods of Legerdemain! No! No!” Vita’s head lowered toward her chest, now aching with a grief that clutched her body and twisted it with agony. Her screams bombarded her heart, but not her ears. Only then, when she eyed the crystal pendant, dangling from her necklace and devoid of color—dead—did she realize her dreams for a glorious future with Bron D’Extrian at her side had evaporated. * * * Blinded by manic rage and feverish conviction, Bron punched and kicked upward toward his attacker. One, two, three direct hits. Yet his blows appeared to do no good as the relentless fiend continued to swipe at him with the malignant dagger. Bron yelped as jagged crimson gashes appeared on his forearms, on his thighs, on his chest. Beneath him, the original wound below his 82
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right shoulder ached with a heat befitting the Pits of Sequestrian, and he felt blood puddling on the rooftop in a sticky pool of gore. But he bit back his groans, gathered his strength, and finally managed to grip the wrist above him. He clutched and twisted the flesh of the arm that wielded the deadly blade, saw his own blood dripping from the evil point, and combated the nausea and agony threatening to rob him of his energy. But with Vita, his darling Vita, filling his mind, and the maniacal screams of the boy Pentar bombarding his ears, he wouldn’t allow death to consume him! Finally, his moist, pain-wrenched eyes focused on the attacker. He recognized the face—the fair-haired Swenton Vorak, Lancine D’Olica’s Royal Vessel—the mortal who now looked at him with coldblooded murder in his deranged eyes, with a determined pucker on his perspiring brow. Bron kicked out yet again, catching the maniac in the groin, the sole of his bare foot feeling the mushy crunch of the attacker’s magiwand and testicles. Finally, success! He tromped yet again—another savage crunch to the man’s genitals—and felt the attacker’s manic hold on the dagger give way. Bron twisted the wrist, shrieking his oath of allegiance, his feelings of love for Vita, and dared the assassin to do his worst! The man seemed to hesitate, seemed to ponder his fate now that Bron had bested him. He opened his mouth as if to produce a groan of exoneration. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Bron snatched the bladewielding fist and slashed upward, skewering the man’s gut with his own dagger. Swenton Vorak uttered a horrid gasp. His entire body quivered. His lips formed the unheard words, “Papa…Mama,” then went still. Bron shuddered uncontrollably, not from his own multiple wounds, 83
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but from the bloody saliva that spewed out of his attacker’s mouth, speckling him in crimson filth. With all of his might, he pushed the dead assailant off of him, over the edge of the rooftop, and prayed his ravaged body could generate enough strength to reach Vita before it proved too late. * * * “Where…where…am I?” “In the palace, and as good as dead to all who know you!” Lancine D’Olica strutted before Vita Omnia, her gown snapping in the noxious breeze pouring throughout the dungeon, her smug expression daring anyone to reprove her. “You have done this to yourself, Sister Bitch! You have done this to yourself…” “What are you talking about?” gasped Vita, her mind spinning incorrigibly. Nausea spiraled through her insides, and she felt not a drop of magical energy flowing through her veins. “Always the perfect Witch! Always the darling of the Queendom! I’ll show you what power means, you worthless piece of nothing! I’ll show you!” Naked as the moment she had teased herself while imagining Bron D’Extrian fulfilling her, Vita yanked at the brutal chains binding her arms. Only after several moments did her eyes comprehend that nothing but a glow—a lime-green glow of magic—enveloped her wrists, securing them to the wall. “Sister…Sister, you do not mean to do this…” “Oh, I do mean to do this! Your gentle outlook for the Queendom is nothing but a false dream! How can anyone think to hold mortals in a peaceful state when peace is the farthest thing from their nature? They must be ruled with an ironite fist! They must!” Lancine’s pace accelerated, his skirts snapping around her like the cracking of invisible whips. “You think to control the mortals of Travéttica with the same hackneyed rules? They’re brainless—powerless! They need guidance to move toward the future! They need me to show them the way!” 84
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“But Mama—” “Screw Mama and her antiquated days of ruling! My way of ruling is now the only way!” “You’re demented…” “Fuck you, Sister Bitch! You know nothing of our power! Despite your years of achieving good grades in MagiClasses, you are hopeless. True power is in seeing the mortal society leveled and enslaved to our superior race.” “Do you not realize”—Vita paused to choke back the bile of whatever ailed her—“that mortals truly control normal society? Do not forget, there are many more of them than us. Our patient governing and global enchantments aid their leaders, of course, to make a tolerable life for the majority of mortals, and we’ve made great strides in helping the less fortunate throughout the world. But the rules of the mortals—” “Piss on their rules! Mortals have no true power! My rules will now dictate their society!” Lancine strutted before her, her pretty features distorted into those of a deranged madwoman. “The old rules are gone! History!” “But what about the other Queendoms? The United Council of Legerdemain will hardly tolerate Travéttica altering its course, breaking treaties, enslaving mortals, returning B’Atrani to the chaos it experienced during the age of Kingdoms.” “They will do as I say, or suffer the consequences!” “You are mad! Mother will certainly not allow you to continue on this ill-chosen path.” “Mother will adhere to my outlook, will eventually agree to my decrees and even aid me—that is, once it is known that you and your mortal lover have fled Travéttica to establish your own Queendom and weaken the throne. The great world tragedies about to occur, the magical acts of war against our neighboring Queendoms”—she laughed—“those will have your stamp on them.” “Then you attempt to lie yet again? Saying my darling Bron and 85
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myself have—” “Have become mutinous and absconded, are attempting to take over the neighboring Queendoms for your own? Yes! I will let it be known far and wide that you have turned your back on Travéttica, on the United Council of Legerdemain, in a rapacious bid for world domination.” Lancine paused to smirk. “A price shall be on your heads for all eternity!” “Mama will not buy into such insanity. She’ll instantly see through your deception and—” “Mother can’t see much of anything at the moment. She’s in no position to stop me.” Vita gasped, the statement harrowing her. “What have you done?” “ ’Tis not your concern, Sister Bitch! Just know the forthcoming global disasters, the fierce invasions of neighboring lands for which you will be blamed, will come to an end when I am satisfied. When the time is ripe, I’ll step forward with your traitorous head on a silver platter, and the world will praise my efforts for slaying you, for putting your reign of terror to an end! They’ll make me reigning Queen of all B’Atrani! Me!” As her sister’s maniacal cackles of triumph grated against her eardrums, Vita sank into abysmal despair. She eyed her colorless pendant and groaned. Never in her life had she felt so utterly helpless. Lancine yanked Vita’s hair, lifting her head and shoving a chalice against her dry, cracked lips. “Drink, bitch! Drink and save yourself from a gruesome death…at least, for the nonce.” Her giggles reverberated off the slimy walls. “What is this…?” “Nothing too horrible…just a dose of phorphitia. You’ll be flying higher than the moon Zeta before long. Fear not, stupid bitch, you’ll soon grow used to it.” Lancine snatched another handful of Vita’s hair, forcing back her head and pouring the narcotic into her gasping mouth. Despite her best efforts, Vita swallowed the bitter concoction. She 86
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broke down and wept, uncaring for her misery, the loss of her destiny as a Queen, but reeling over the death of the man she loved more than life itself. Her sister might as well have taken a blade and carved out her heart. The notion of living her life without Bron held little appeal, and she wanted to die. * * * Huffing both his extensive pain and frazzled nerves, Bron peered over the Temple’s rooftop, eyeing many stories below Swenton Vorak’s dead carcass. The bloody tines of a pitchfork protruded from the man’s chest from where he rested atop a bale of hay. Horrified bystanders gathered around, oohing and gasping and muttering words of faith to the heavens. Bron breathed a sigh of relief. Yet his entire body, engulfed in agony, refused to budge. He only prayed some well-wisher from the crowd below would come to his aid, as well as cease the incessant rails of Pentar, whose shrieks of terror not only shattered the morning quietude, but lent emphasis to his ghastly and precarious predicament. And his mind turned and rested on Vita Omnia. Had something sinister happened to her, coinciding with his fate? His guts churned in panic and alarm at the prospect. Then, as blackness and pain overtook him, blocking out reality, his mind settled on one obstinate thought—he would slaughter the soul who harmed Vita, if it was the last thing he ever did.
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CHAPTER 12
“She is gone, Bron D’Extrian,” said a familiar voice, slicing through the vortex of pain engulfing his wounded body. “I wish I could say otherwise, but ’tis the truth, I fear.” Bron blinked several times, attempting to clear the triple-vision greeting him as he opened his eyes. Obreé Kai’Lesh’s pockmarked, bewhiskered features eventually came into view, as did the smokestained, beamed ceiling of an upper fuck-room in The Rumbledon’s Tongue. A sickening wave of dread accompanied his returning memories. When he attempted to sit up, pain wracked his nude body, now partially wrapped in blood-stained bandages, and shiny and sticky with floralscented lotion. His moans of agony and heartbreak pounded his own eardrums. “She—Vita—she can’t be—” “Rumor has it that your darling Witch has turned anarchistic and ravenous for power. She supposedly fled the palace with you in tow.” “No one will believe that! Vita, being anything but loyal, level88
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headed, and meek when it comes to the way a Queendom should be ruled? Never!” “Alas, many in Travéttica believe it now, especially after the official proclamation.” “What did the Queen say?” Obreé snatched a parchment from the bedside table. “She states, and I quote, ‘Royal Witch Vita Omnia and her intended Royal Sovereign Vessel Bron D’Extrian have turned traitorous, fleeing Travéttica to locations unknown. All Queendoms found aiding or harboring these fugitives will face all the military might Travéttica has to offer.’ Shall I continue?” Bron gripped his friend’s wrist. “What could Lancine have told Queen Cillancia to incite her to believe such falsehoods? I must see her…must tell her the truth…” He struggled to get up, gritting his teeth to the throbbing agony his movements provided. Obreé firmly held his shoulders against the mattress. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere, lad. Besides, you won’t get two steps inside that palace before you’re captured or killed. The Queen’s placed a price upon your head, or didn’t you guess? You’ve been out for more than two days, my friend. But fear not…I have you. No one shall find you here.” “I…didn’t do anything but…” “Don’t explain yourself to me, lad. I’m not the problem. I know you did nothing wrong, damn it!” “How do you know?” “It’s not in your nature! Besides, a trusted acquaintance saw what happened to you on the Temple rooftop. He instantly got word to me, and we whisked you here before Royal Witch Lancine D’Olica—acting in her mother’s stead, or so she claimed—either killed you or rounded you up with the rest of ’em.” “The rest of them?” “Your Royal Witch’s Vessels…your brother Vessels. Rumor has it 89
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they’re to be carted to Morquéte Castle for imprisonment before the week is out.” “No…no…Queen Cillancia has never acted in a barbarous, militaristic fashion. She maintains a cool head at all times. This can’t be happening in this day and age.” “It is happening, lad. And make no mistake about it.” Obreé swept a cloth over Bron’s forehead, mopping up the hefty perspiration. “But what do we do about it, is the question at hand.” Bron’s mind swam through a sea of despair. Could his darling Vita be dead even now? No, he decided, performing a desperate inventory of his emotions, his gut feelings; his soul would have noted the loss of one so precious. But then again, where was she? What fate had befallen her? “Obreé, we need to find her and—” “Don’t you think I know that, idiot? She’s the Queendom’s best hope for maintaining the status quo. Apart from preparing to storm the palace, if necessary, using whatever mortal power we can generate over the Witch Magic, I have every man on my payroll hunting and searching and questioning and—” “Thank you.” The man’s gruff features softened, his true self shining through the mask of irritation. “No need to thank me, you ingrate. Just get yourself well and we’ll analyze the dilemma and plan a strategy!” Closing his eyes, Bron reluctantly gave in to the nausea and misery flowing through his body. Yes, get well, he thought as he drifted into tormenting slumber, just heal…just heal… * * * “That’s it, Your Majesty,” whispered Lancine’s newest Vessel, shoving his engorged cock in her mouth. “Suck me…oh, yes…suck my magiwand…drain all the energy you need…” Lancine D’Olica had hastily recruited this man to replace the deceased Swenton Vorak after the latter’s infuriating incompetence on 90
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the Temple’s rooftop. Damn Swenton’s inept soul! If the clumsy oaf hadn’t died during his struggle with Bron D’Extrian, she would have had him filleted alive and roasted over the Pits Of Sequestrian. As it was, she had ordered her Royal Guards to chop up the body and toss the worthless pieces into the fiery Pits, then had his parents and eight young siblings beheaded in Wynorian’s town square—a lesson to the mortals who would think to betray her. But now she had her newest recruit to service her, the man she had met the night of the recent storm, he with the enormous magiwand and narcotic-like essence—Nordain Gyrick. He stood before her in her chamber, feeding her as much of his erection as she could take, and issuing words of encouragement. After a blissful morning of riding his magnificent cock to a series of spectacular orgasms, and partaking of his gift several times, her entire body hummed with magical energy. Lights flashed behind her eyelids like fire-rockets, and her mind floated on a luxurious sea of confidence. Between this man’s robust seed and that of her other Vessels, and the endless chalice-filled essence from the Royal freezer, she could continue to maintain her various spells—the one holding Vita in the dungeon, and the other that had placed both her mother and younger sister in a coma—and perhaps even have enough potency to conjure an earthquake in the neighboring Queendom of Cyron by the following morning. The first of many disasters she had designed to befall the planet B’Atrani, which she would blame on her “rebellious” sister, Vita. Lancine crashed back to the moment when Nordain’s groans bombarded her ears, and the magiwand filling her mouth began to twitch. She stroked the thick base with both hands and swallowed fast once his essence began to flow. Damn, he never ceased to amaze her with his hefty loads, and like always, she had a difficult time draining him without some of it leaking from her mouth. But she managed just fine, blissful in the notion that she finally had a Vessel of enormous 91
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power on her Force, one all too willing and able to provide her with an endless supply of magical energy. She climbed to her feet, running her palms over his muscle-ridged belly, his beefy chest, and peaked nipples. It took her a moment to gain her balance, so lightheaded she felt. In a show of affection that surprised even her, she stood on tiptoe, hugged him to her, and planted several kisses on his lush mouth. Could she be falling in love with this mortal? she suddenly wondered, amazed at both the notion and the possibility. Never before had she lost her heart to any Vessel, either approved and non-approved, and didn’t know if the idea pleased her. Her fingertips traced the firm lines of his handsome face, while her gaze scanned his blue-gray eyes, aglow with something besides sexual satiation—something she could have sworn bordered on humor. “Did I do something to amuse you?” she demanded, her tone less harsh than normal when questioning one of her Vessels. For some reason, with his recent essence causing her entire body to tingle, her mind almost giddy with drunkenness, she couldn’t seem to gather the strength in her throat to deliver her patented verbal sting. Or perhaps she was indeed falling in love and didn’t try as hard as she might… His mouth quirked. “Amuse me? No, Your Highness, nothing you do has ever amused me in the least.” She blinked. Had her ears detected a note of sarcasm in his rich voice? A note that might have normally marked a Vessel for future punishment in the dungeon? As she studied his sensuous mouth, now flashing a jocund smile— or was it a cognizant sneer?—her vision momentarily wavered. Vainly attempting to clear her mind, she shook her head several times. A bad idea, as the movement only doubled her vision. She rubbed at her suddenly pounding temples. For some reason, she felt as she did that morning in his apartment after the storm, as if she had a hangover from ingesting too much Rhunatox liquor. When she climbed 92
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her bed pedestal to sit on the mattress, her legs felt wobbly, while the room started a slow rotation and produced a wave of queasiness in her gut. What the hell was happening to her? she pondered, falling face-first on the mattress and plummeting into a deep, troubled sleep. * * * Bron awoke that evening to a medley of dissonant noises—drunken carousing from the tavern below, grunts and groans and giggles of sex from the adjacent fuck-rooms, and the sound of knuckles rapping wood. He opened his heavy eyelids just as Obreé Kai’Lesh, his constant companion since he had first awakened, opened the bedroom door and took a sealed envelope from one of his busty wenches. After breaking the seal, withdrawing and scanning several sheets of parchment, Obreé turned to Bron, a victorious smile cutting through his bewhiskered face. “Finally, some success! Better than I would have dreamed!” “What?” asked Bron, swallowing his pain when he pushed himself up to a sitting position. “Believe it or not, our man, Nordain Gyrick, has actually infiltrated the palace!” “What? How?” “The death of that skullimun’s fart who attempted to kill you left an opening on Princess Lancine’ Vessel Force, and she recruited Gyrick!” Obreé’s laughter overwhelmed the tavern’s licentious bedlam and quaked the small room. He plopped down in the bedside chair and swatted his knee. “You know I ain’t never been one to croon my own praises, but damn it, I selected well! I knew our boy’s whopper fucktool would be too much for that Royal Witch to resist!” “And…?” “Don’t you get it, lad? She recruited him just last evening. You remember your rigid screening for Vita Omnia’s Force, don’t you? It took nearly a week! But Lancine apparently didn’t even have our man 93
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tested by the Royal Physicians. Now, with him in the palace feeding her his meat, she’ll be gettin’ daily doses of rotten seed. If the poison ain’t took yet, it will soon. You had a good plan, my lad, a good plan indeed!” Bron wiped perspiration from his brow and, for the first time in days, found himself smiling. He rested his back against the mountain of sweat-dampened pillows, ignoring the fiery ache in his shoulder, and silently thanked Vita for unwittingly planting the scheme in his mind. All those days ago, when he had innocently joked to her about his seed dropping in potency, she had fearfully reminded him of the one thing that could drain a Witch’s power besides magic itself—supping from a Vessel who possessed a strain of khancashia. The mortal disease gave an afflicted male only a lower than normal sperm count, but it would strip a Witch of her magical powers. If Lancine had indeed recruited Nordain Gyrick without the prerequisite medical screening, she would certainly contract the disease before long. But how long would it take? And would they locate Vita even if Lancine’s powers diminished? Restlessly drumming the mattress with his fingertips, itching to gain back his strength and flee his sickbed, Bron pondered the dismal thought. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Obreé barked a jubilant exclamation. “Gyrick’s also privy to the happenings in the palace.” Obreé’s gaze flew over the pages in his hand while he muttered curses over the man’s less-than-spectacular mastery of the pen. “From what I can gather, he says Lancine, and not Queen Cillancia, issued the proclamation against you and your darling Witch. Indeed, he says the Queen and her youngest daughter haven’t been seen since this insanity began.” “I knew that official proclamation sounded faux. Queen Cillancia would have never believed these horrific lies about Vita. But then, where is the Queen and Royal Witch C’Esset Yancia?” 94
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“Nordain doesn’t say, but he claims Lancine is supping from him and her other Vessels almost around the clock, as well as partaking in something called ‘frozen essence’—you’ll have to explain that little tidbit to me one of these days when we have more time to chat! Anyway, he believes she’s plotting a major spell, and even hints it might affect nature.” “Nature? Like casting storms or earthquakes or making volcanoes erupt?” “It’s been known to happen throughout the centuries with these Witches in command. Who knows, who knows…” His forehead scrunching in deliberation, Obreé stood and paced the room. The sound of his heavy boot heels as they thumped the hardwood floor ricocheted like cannon blasts off the bare walls and beamed ceiling. Finally, he stopped and stared at Bron, his shrewd eyes narrowing in revelation. “Your Witch lover must be in the palace.” “How did you come to that conclusion?” “Logic, my lad. Remember our dearly departed Doràk?” Bron nodded. For many years, Yilldon Doràk—a schemer at heart—had been one of Obreé’s trusted minions. As Obreé had correctly predicted, however, the man had secretly attempted to steal away some of Obreé’s thriving business ventures and set up his own “competitive” organization. “But what does that scoundrel have to do with this?” “Even after the rumors began regarding his clandestine deeds against me, I kept him around, did I not?” “Yes, which is something I could never understand.” “The closer Doràk remained, you see, the better I could watch him! For all intents and purposes, our dual worlds—mortal and Witchly— run in precisely the same manner, my friend. Now, if you were a rapacious Witch attempting to overtake a throne, what would make more sense—sending away your enemies, or keeping them close at hand?” 95
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“Yes, yes, keeping them close, watching what they do and making certain they received no aid, would make better sense.” “Exactly! Which is why I believe Vita Omnia is close at hand for Lancine to watch. And this information regarding Lancine preparing a global spell? Think of what happened with Doràk.” “You had us boys do some—err—nastier deeds, then made it look like Doràk ordered them done.” The full light of understanding filled Bron’s head. “Oh, now I see what you’re getting at. Lancine declares Vita and myself insurrectionists and fugitives of the Queendom, she creates some global disaster—” “Or plural, if my guess is correct, against various Queendoms.” “Then she places the blame on Vita, ‘captures’ her when the time is right, then comes off to the world smelling like a garden of rosentia.” Obreé’s chest puffed out in pride. “That little strategy worked to remove Yilldon Doràk from my ‘mortal’ world, don’t forget—put me firmly in charge of my business without the added worry of interference or competitors—and it will likely work for Lancine. Unless, of course, we can stop her before it’s too late.” “But how?” asked Bron, gritting his teeth and fidgeting. Obreé snatched his hand. A warning flashed in his dark eyes. “Now that our comrade is in the palace, we just have to remain calm and think. And for pity’s sake, boy, don’t make me break these fingers because of that damned tapping…you may very well need full use of them in the days ahead.”
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CHAPTER 13
When Lancine rolled over on the mattress and opened her heavy eyelids, the unrelenting noontime sun speared through her stained-glass skylight, lancing her sensitive eyes with murderous rays. She draped one of her arms over her face, turned her head into a pillow, and moaned as the anguish in her temples and belly persisted. The tenacious humming in her head took on a somniferous call, luring her back into slumber, but she battled against the lassitude and attempted to focus. When her mind finally started to clear and remembrances flooded her brain, she sat bolt upright. After daring to open her eyes yet again, she licked her dry lips and swallowed, gagging on the sand that seemed to be coating her tongue. She drew several deep breaths, eventually stilling the world that teetered and spun out of control around her. Cursing, she pushed herself up from the mattress, plopped down again, then tried several more times until she could steady herself. She blinked away her double vision and settled her gaze on the green bell97
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pull beside her chamber doors. “Lon vello,” she gasped, her voice cracking. The sash shifted downward several inches, stopped, as if snagged, then continued. Lancine rubbed her puffy eyes, deciding that whatever ailed her had provided the brief hallucination. Moments later, the doors opened and her MagiGuards came to attention before her. “A pitcher of water and a steaming kettle of Witch’s Brew,” she blurted before they could open their mouths. “Now!” As a team, the men backed out of the room and shut the doors, but not before their bellows for servants acted as dual blades to Lancine’s ears. More epithets spilled from her mouth as she staggered down the pedestal steps and to her closets. By the time she stepped into a green velvet gown and fastened the ties at her bosom, a feeble, irresolute knock sounded on the door. At her command to enter, two servant girls appeared. With heads lowered in servility, they stepped into the room, guiding a cart laden with the stipulated beverages. The cart’s squeaky wheels grated on Lancine’s frazzled nerves, and the girls fled the chamber when she spat threats of punishment at them. Feeling an iota stronger from the act of dressing, Lancine minced to the cart, poured herself a full helping of Witch’s Brew, and with a shaky hand, guided the goblet to her lips. Aromatic steam filled her nostrils as she gulped down the liquid, ignoring the way it singed her tongue and throat. She could think only of the expected jolt the brew would supply. By the time she drained half the goblet and her stomach burned from the liquid heat, she felt even better, more level-headed and energetic. She sighed her relief. But a second later, when she bent forward and started to refill her 98
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goblet, she gaped her horror. Her gaze locked on her crystal pendant. Its green light, no longer the usual vehement blaze, looked dull and frail, and it sputtered sporadically as if gasping its dying breaths. The goblet slipped from Lancine’s trembling hand. It clanked on the floor, the liquid from within defiling her skirts and gathering on the carpet like a lake of muddy water. Harrowed to the point of madness, her nerves again jagged with pregnant panic, Lancine kicked aside the goblet and snatched a fresh one off the cart, then poured herself more brew. Her eyes, she decided after sifting through a mosaic of plausible answers. Yes, whatever had caused her recent malaise also affected her eyes, made her see things that didn’t exist, like the hesitating bell-pull. She poured more fervid liquid down her throat, gulping the last creamy drops. Once again—this time, with anxiety pinching her gut— she peered at her necklace. The green glow did appear healthier, though each occasional flicker sent a coinciding shiver of alarm through Lancine. “It can’t be,” she muttered. But could the spells she had cast upon Vita and her mother and younger sister have exhausted that much energy? Impossible, she deemed. After all the essence she had ingested in the past few days, especially from her newest Vessel, her energy couldn’t have drained so much as to snuff out her pendant’s light. Indeed, she had supped from Nordain Gyrick and her other Vessels that morning and— Another horrifying thought struck her—what day was it? With both hands, Lancine gripped the empty goblet to keep it from falling like its predecessor and tried to recall her most recent actions. She remembered she had spent the long morning fornicating with Nordain, then had knelt before him, accepted yet another load of his magic-restoring seed, and…and… 99
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She eyed the rumbled bedclothes, then squinted up at the skylight, where the commanding sun continued to shoot rays of light directly into her chamber. How long had she been asleep? At least a full day, she concluded with dread, once again studying the dying glow of the crystal. But even a full day without fresh sustenance, even with the various enchantments she maintained, couldn’t have depleted so much magical power. Then her mind sang a warning, providing a possible answer. Someone must be using magic against her. Yes, that was it! That had to be it! And with her mother and younger sister asleep and hidden away, only one possibility remained. Vita Omnia had found a way to escape—or more likely—had charmed one of Lancine’s own Vessels or a dungeon guard to supply her with essence! Her heart twisting in fury, her head pounding in distress, she imbibed another full helping of Witch’s Brew, now lukewarm and growing as bitter as she felt. She flung aside the empty goblet and stormed to her dressing table, where she grabbed the vial of phorphitia sitting beside her hairbrush. Insane with rage, she started to turn toward the door, yet cognizant enough to distrust her currently diminished Witchly powers, she hesitated. She opened the table’s top drawer. There lay her Royal dagger, its handle inlaid with a series of sparkling green gems, its honed, serrated blade gleaming in the harsh sunlight. Lancine snatched up the weapon and stomped to the door, intent on making an example of her enemy. * * * Vita Omnia awoke to the shuffle of moving feet, or rather, to the presence of another soul. She blinked several times, hoping to negate the narcotic’s evil side-effects from her mind; phorphitia had a way of making one hallucinate. Yet no matter how many times she blinked, she continued to see the blond Vessel standing before her, his lime100
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green loincloth raised, stroking his magiwand. “You need me, don’t you?” said the mortal. His handsome face twisted in a mocking, lecherous sneer as he ogled her nudity. “You want to taste my man-seed?” Was this a dream? Vita wondered. Could Lancine’s Vessel actually be offering her aid? She lowered her head and studied the crystal pendant—still devoid of all color—dangling from her necklace. “What…?” He bent forward, rubbing the crown of his foreskin-enclosed cock against her lips. “Lick me, Your Highness! Suck the power out of my balls.” Drunk with phorphitia and famished for energy, Vita extended her tongue and did as instructed. Though grateful for this man’s aid, she pictured Bron D’Extrian before her, offering her his succulent magiwand. The Vessel, whom Vita now recognized as the one called Faygor Jancia, suddenly pulled away. His gruff chuckles hammered at her eardrums as he continued to stroke his flesh. “My Witch—the one with all the power—means to torment you, and I intend to do just that! To prove my loyalty to her! She’ll make me her Sovereign Vessel one day!” Despite her groggy condition, Vita comprehended this new torture. Disheartened, she groaned her frustration. She despised this man for his actions, nearly as much as she detested her sister for placing her in this horrible situation. When she slumped forward in defeat, however, she noticed something else, or perhaps the phorphitia had created another hallucination, she couldn’t be certain. All she knew, or thought she detected, was that the bonds of enchantment holding her to the wall appeared to give way ever so slightly, looked to have lost some of their stalwart glow. She tested one of her wrists, then the other. Whereas before she could not have moved either of them more than an inch from 101
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the slimy dungeon wall, the bonds now seemed flexible, fragile, as if one mighty magical tug could perhaps free her. She needed only a generous helping of essence and a clearer head, she concluded, and perhaps she could secure her emancipation. With this first ray of hope glimmering through the blackness of her predicament, Vita peered up at her tormentor, more desperate than ever for what he could provide. “Please—please come closer, Faygor.” “You actually know who I am, Your Grace?” he asked, his formal address ripe with derision. “And here I thought you had eyes only for your own Vessels.” “Of course, I know you,” she countered, hastily plotting her strategy. With this man’s apparent craving for recognition and elevation in life more than evident, she hoped to appeal to his vanity. “I always take note of handsome, virile men.” “Then how come you’ve never drained from me?” “You’re my sister’s Vessel.” “That never stopped her from sampling other men, including your Vessels.” Vita stammered for a plausible comeback. “As…as the firstborn daughter, rightful heir to the throne, my actions were always under close scrutiny. I couldn’t risk disobeying ancient traditions, crossing the lines by supping from a sibling’s Vessels…no matter how much I craved to do so…” A smile haunted his lips. His hand moved faster along the length of his magiwand, now shiny with pre-essence. “Then you have fantasized about me, Your Highness?” “Yes, I have fantasized…many times…” she replied, licking her lips while ogling his hardness, only half-acting. She so desperately needed his seed. “And if you help me now, Faygor, I vow I shall give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of having.” “Riches?” “Of course.” 102
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“Power?” “Absolutely.” “Your body?” “What?” He wedged one of his bare feet between her legs and wiggled his big toe against her clit. “You’ll allow me to fuck you? Right here? Right now?” Vita tried her best to mask her revulsion, but realized too late she had failed. “I knew it,” he muttered. “You don’t want me. You never wanted me. You wanted only Bron D’Extrian! You were just trying to trick me!” “No, that’s not true!” His hand moved with lightning speed over his organ, the crown pointed toward her mouth, just inches away. He tossed back his head and laughed. “But in your situation, you need my essence. You’d do and say almost anything to get it, wouldn’t you? Well then, come and get it, bitch.” He altered his aim just as a flood of creamy, magic-restoring seed pumped out of his cock, streaking the dungeon’s dirt floor. Vita shrieked her despondency and struggled with her bonds. Though flexible, they still proved stronger than her physical might. She cursed not only this Vessel for his actions, but herself for destroying her chance at freedom. Faygor leaned over her, wiping the final drops of his essence on her forehead. He snickered. “Poor Royal Bitch, hungering for power. Don’t you know Lancine D’Olica will prosper? Don’t you know I’d sooner die than gift to you my seed and—” A swish cut through the stale air. Faygor’s eyes rounded in shock. A gasp of agony poured out of his open mouth, and he clutched his chest and plummeted to the floor. It took Vita a moment to recognize the jewel-adorned handle of a dagger sticking out of the man’s 103
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backside. Lancine stormed forward, her face haggard, her hair a web of blackness, her eyes wild with rage. “Thought to enslave one of my Vessels to your cause, did you?” “No, Lancine, I—” “You will receive no further essence, bitch! You shall rot and become but a worthless mortal before I have you beheaded! How dare you coerce one of my Vessels to give you aid!” “I didn’t. He came to me—” Lancine bent forward and backhanded her cheek. “Liar!” “But Lancine—” More slaps, rising in brutality as the volume of her accusations increased. “You liar…Liar…LIAR!”
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CHAPTER 14
Bron D’Extrian planted both feet on the hardwood floor and slowly scaled to his full height. Obreé stood beside him, holding onto his elbow in case he needed support. Thankfully, he didn’t. Still cloaked in nothing but a variety of bandages, his flesh still reeking of floralscented healing ointment, he staggered to the small stone fireplace, where he gripped the mantelshelf with both hands. He buried his toes in the fluffy kulpaca hearthrug, the shabby fuck-room’s only correlation to the luxury he had experienced in the palace. “There now,” he said, smiling his triumph. “You see? I’ll be fine.” “Fine my perfect pecker! You can barely walk, lad.” “Ah, but I did indeed walk, didn’t I? That was the point. And if I can walk, I can certainly ride a horse.” “Get you hairy ass back in this bed while I fetch Kildra and Stancia. When I’m gone, you’ll remain here and let my fine wenches handle you!” “Yes, how well I know their capabilities, but no thank you,” 105
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countered Bron. Days of being lovingly bathed, patched, fed, and nursed back to health by the tavern’s busty whores might have been any wounded man’s dream come true, but Bron itched to put his plan into action. He would be damned if he didn’t accompany the rescue party, already assembling in the tavern below. “Please fetch the items you stored for me, my friend.” “Bron D’Extrian, you ignorant oaf—” “Bring them! Now!” “So there ain’t any arguing with you, is there?” “You know better than to ask.” “Damned ingrate,” mumbled Obreé, stomping to the door. “First I shelter your sorry ass in my tavern, have the gals piece together your tattered flesh, and now you plan to kill your fool self like the idiot you are and…” The words trailed away when he left the room and pounded down the hallway, his boot heels thumping his protest. Bron couldn’t help but smile. Feeling more stable, he turned toward the bed and spanned the short distance with relative ease. Upon reaching the pallet, he retraced his steps back and forth several times, thankful his legs seemed to gain strength with each step. His shoulder still ached, as well as several of the other nasty cuts on his arms and legs, but at least the healing balm had gone a long way in mending his wounds. Finally, he plopped down on the mattress, scratched his scruffy whiskers—“a man’s natural disguise,” Obreé had advised, urging him to let his facial hair grow— and tapped his foot in impatience. Before too long, Obreé returned, black clothing draped over his shoulders, and black, knee-high boots cradled under his beefy arms. He handed the clothes to Bron and dropped the boots on the floor, where they landed with a bang. “Ignorant fool! And how, pray tell, do you plan to wield a weapon in your condition?” Gritting his teeth to his aches and pains, Bron slid into the trousers, pleased to see they still hugged his lower body like a second skin. It 106
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had been many months since last he had worn this garb on a “mission of import” as part of Obreé’s organization. He had prayed the clothing, especially the trousers, wouldn’t need adjustments, but he now saw with relief that his recent “cushy life” in the palace hadn’t altered his trim frame. “Damn it,” snapped Obreé, making it all too obvious he’d prayed for the opposite to have happened and that Bron would’ve had no choice but to leave the rescuing to the others. “Do you think a split crotch would have stopped me from doing what needs to be done?” “I suppose not, lad, but can you blame me if I worry a bit?” “And I thank you for that.” Bron fastened his waistband and sat on the mattress. When he attempted to pull on a pair of socks, he couldn’t stifle a groan as his sore flesh stretched. Obreé knelt beside the pallet and stuffed Bron’s feet into the socks, but he no longer argued or complained over his friend’s decision. As soon as Obreé helped him into the boots, Bron pulled the shirt over his head and tightened the drawstrings at the V-neck. Again, he climbed to his feet and took a deep breath. “Well, how do I look?” “Like the grinning imbecile you are! But I suppose your darling Witch will appreciate seeing your ugly mug!” “That is exactly my wish,” said Bron, adorning the black cape. He saved the headpiece for last. He had always detested the thing; the stiff black leather covered his entire head, leaving only thin holes for his eyes and ears, and a gaping cavity for his mouth and nose. Hot and uncomfortable, if he remembered correctly, but at least it would disguise his face from any bounty hunters who thought to collect the hefty reward for his capture. Obreé, wearing similar attire, wedged his headpiece under his arm and pulled on his black leather gloves, then secured his sword in its sheath. It was rare “the boss” performed any field work himself or 107
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accompanied his small army of enforcers. Him doing so now emphasized the magnitude of the situation, advertised his loyalty to Travéttica, and it made Bron cherish the man all the more. “Are you ready, lad?” Bron held out his right hand. “All but my sword, if you please…” “It’s downstairs with the boys.” Obreé huffed his irritation. “I’ll ask you one more time, ’cause there ain’t no turning back—are you certain about this?” “As certain as my heart belongs to Vita Omnia.” With that, Bron hobbled out the door and toward the staircase at the end of the hall, praying his latest scheme would work as well as the last. In the wee hours of the morning, they had received another hastily scrawled letter from Nordain Gyrick, who informed them about Lancine’s recent “bout” with illness. But of greater importance, Nordain also penned that, according to one of Lancine’s Vessels, Vita Omnia was indeed being held in the palace’s dungeon, chained by magic and being fed large doses of narcotics to keep her quiet. Supposedly, her magic power had completely drained, which sparked Bron’s idea. He recalled all too well the day Vita had supped from him after her two-week sojourn at the Petrik Spas and the amount of energy he had provided. Being wounded for almost a full week, Bron felt his forced celibacy would benefit Vita now when she needed it the most. And once Bron learned that the wagon carting Vita’s other Vessels to their dire fate at Morquéte Castle had left only the previous evening, he surmised that those men, likely chained and sequestered during the past week, had also stored their essence. Now, as he descended the staircase into the tavern, his gaze took in the small brigade of black-clad and hooded men, their swords gleaming in the firelight. His former comrades, whom Obreé had summoned within the past few hours, cheered his appearance, raised tankards of ale in his honor, and toasted the safe emancipation of their much108
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adored Witch Princess. One man handed Bron his sword and sheath, then helped him secure the belt to his waist. Bron wrapped his fingers around the hilt and drew the sword from its home, raising it aloft and ignoring the pain coursing through his body. “Are you boys with me?” he blared. Each man lifted his sword heavenward. “Aye! Aye! Aye!” came the fierce chorus. With that, the men filed out of the tavern through the back door, but Obreé held Bron back until the last man had exited. He masked his face with his headpiece, then stared Bron directly in the eye. “Now, I want no bickering from you—no matter what happens today, you are to stay mounted until we locate your darling Witch. You’ll need to reserve all of your strength for her. No sword-fighting! The Queendom may very well depend on it, my boy.” Bron didn’t even think to argue. Vita had become, and he knew she would always remain, the most important thing in his life. He followed Obreé into the cool morning air and toward a sleek black stallion prepared especially for him. The animal, at least sixteen hands high, practically screamed power, with its muscular frame, elegant withers, and steel-shod hooves. Pleased, Bron patted the animal’s neck and mounted, saying a silent prayer that his scheme would gift Vita with enough magical energy to bring her vicious sister to her knees. * * * At midday, along the heavily forested road just ten miles outside the city of Wynorian, one of Obreé Kai’Lesh’s advance scouts galloped back toward the main company of enforcers, his mount kicking up thick clouds of gray-yellow dust. “Found ’em,” reported Myrain Hel’Shua, reining in his snorting mare. Although, like all the others, Myrain worked for Obreé, he now addressed Bron. Obreé had made it clear to all that, in this mission, he would take a back seat and allow his former employee to direct the 109
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action as he saw fit. “They’re camped for a noontime repast in a clearing beside the River Izo. A stone’s throw ahead, just around the next bend.” “And their number?” asked Bron. “About a dozen men accompanying each of the two prison wagons.” “Good. We have double their number. Arms?” “Swords only, no archers.” Bron smiled at the information and gazed at the six men in their group carrying both swords and bows. “You boys trot on ahead and get into position.” When the men snapped to obey his orders, Bron turned back to Myrain. He grimaced, not from pain, but from the possible response to his forthcoming question. “Any noticeable enchantment?” The man snickered. “Not even so much as a green glow.” “The Royal Bitch didn’t protect them?” said Obreé, his long beard undulating in the gentle breeze. “Well, then, that’s another good sign she’s fallen victim to Nordain’s ‘gift’ and has no energy to spare.” Bron agreed. “And my brother Vessels, Myrain? What is their condition?” “Bound and gagged, naked as newborns, a bit ragged looking, but for the most part, they seem in good health.” “You boys,” said Bron, gesturing to another group of six men. “Target the guards nearest the wagons. If Lancine D’Olica is truly as evil as I suspect, she’ll have given orders to slay the prisoners should any trouble arrive. Like you, those men are my brothers, and I cannot let any harm come to them.” The men smiled and nodded in understanding. “Okay, then, boys…” said Bron, turning in his saddle to address the dozens of “professional muscle” and “trained assassins” behind him. “Let’s do our part to save the Queendom.” With that, the body of men eagerly hastened toward their prey. * * * 110
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Fifteen minutes later, the cry of war sliced through the clearing. The two Royal Guards dousing the blazing campfire with buckets of water instantly fell, arrows sticking out of their chests. Chaos ensued as other arrows snapped through the air, piercing the legs, arms, and torsos of several guards who stood beside a team of tethered horses. One of the prison wagon’s teamsters crashed to his knees, clutching the thin wooden stake that had savagely torn into his chest. Birds sailed from the treetops, fleeing the escalating bedlam. Horses whinnied and stamped their fright. Wounded guards shrieked their pain, while the others either stood in confounded silence, peering into the surrounding woods, or tore helter-skelter in various directions, bellowing orders and yanking swords from sheaths. In the dual wagons, the prisoners struggled with their bonds and turned their heads in all directions, their eyes alive with both hope for eventual safety and gratitude for their would-be rescuers. As Bron had anticipated, the order to murder the prisoners blared through the air like a wicked trumpet. Several guards rushed toward the wagons, their weapons glittering in the brutal sunlight with the promise of agonizing death. His stomach knotting in dread, Bron bellowed the order to charge. From the three forested sides of the clearing, Obreé’s enforcers burst out of the foliage on foot, capes flying behind them, looking like a swarm of sword-wielding ravenetti, the official bird of the Queendom. The Royal Guards, obviously familiar with the infamous black-clad force, either threw down their swords in surrender, or grew more bold. Enforcers expertly surrounded their prey, even stopping several guards from escaping via the sun-speckled River Izo. Swords clanked and hacked into undefended body parts; arrows sang with deadly accuracy; screams and curses rent the air. The guards who had elected to fight suffered gutted bellies, slit throats, or amputated limbs. Those who hadn’t died a hideous death cringed before the men in black, whimpering like babes and pleading for their 111
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lives. The guards who had raced toward the wagons on their mission of cold-blooded murder put up a commendable battle, but they didn’t stand a chance against a more adept and cunning force. By the time the enforcers assigned to target them stepped aside, a collection of severed limbs, butchered torsos, and decapitated heads littered the ground in a gory legacy. The blood-covered enforcers, all perfectly intact with nary a scratch from their swift and victorious assault, gathered together and encircled their half-dozen cowering prisoners. Myrain Hel’Shua towered over one of the kneeling guards. He gripped the man by his hair and yanked back his head. From out of his knee-high boot, he produced a dagger with a wicked upward curve at its tip and positioned the blade against the quivering man’s throat. “No!” Bron, true to his promise to Obreé, had kept himself out of the mêlée. He now stepped from the trees, making his presence known. “Put down the weapon.” “This man’s an enemy of our future Witch Queen,” argued Myrain, “and deserves death, as do all these pusillanimous traitors.” “The man was simply following Royal orders from Princess Lancine, yet he surrendered to us. For that, he deserves a chance to redeem himself.” “But we always—” “I said no. The man’s punishment, if any, will be determined by Queen Cillancia, or Vita Omnia once she assumes the throne. Until then, put these men to work, digging graves and burying their fallen comrades. For the nonce, that is punishment and lesson enough.” With that, Bron hastened to the prison wagons, where his brother Vessels still struggled to free themselves from their bonds while surveying the gruesome battleground through horrified eyes. Only then did he remove his headpiece. Jaws dropped in astonishment and faces lit up in both relief and glee. 112
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Bron turned toward Myrain and held out his hand. “Your dagger, my good man, if you please.” His comrade finally released the guard he had been clutching and handed over the weapon. Bron climbed onto the wagon bed and turned to the prisoner nearest him. He pulled the gag from the man’s mouth. “B…Bron D’Extrian…as I live and breath,” stammered the nude Hillage Pruétte. “ ’Tis me, Brother Vessel.” “When your men first burst out of the trees, I thought we now faced a different, yet equally hideous fate at the hands of Travéttica’s notorious black-clad enforcers. But here you stand…as their leader, no less…” He shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t understand…” Bron made short shrift of slicing through the rope securing the man’s wrists and ankles, but didn’t acknowledge the comment. Rubbing his raw wrists, Hillage lowered his voice to a shaky whisper. “But how in the name of the Queendom did you persuade these vile assassins to help you to rescue us?” “I’ll try to explain it to you one day, Hilly, but for now, there are issues of greater import, don’t you think?” Bron slapped the dagger into the man’s palm. “Like, for instance, emancipating the rest of our brothers…” The man’s cheeks mottled in chagrin. He plucked the gags from the mouths of the other Vessels in his wagon, then started cutting their bonds. Bron jumped to the ground, then stepped back to address the men in both wagons. “When you’re all free and have had a moment to shake off your fright, head to the River Izo, yonder, and take a much-needed bath. When you’re done, find me and we’ll talk about what comes next.” A snicker cut through the air. Obreé Kai’Lesh rested a hand on Bron’s left shoulder and stood beside him. “A bath? That’s one of the ‘issues of greater import’ you mentioned?” 113
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“Of course,” replied Bron, turning to his friend and mentor. “After all, if they are to be soon presented to my darling Princess, they must look their finest.”
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CHAPTER 15
The following morning, just as dawn began painting pink streaks across the blue-green sky and tipped the snow-capped peaks of the Ciddalla Mountains in an orange glow, the first Royal Guard fell. His counterpart, the only other sentry on duty before the palace’s brushshielded dungeon entrance, died seconds later without a struggle. “Two down, and only the gods know how many to go,” muttered Myrain Hel’Shua, his uneven teeth cutting through the pale light in a jubilant smile. Obreé’s army of enforcers had traveled through the moonlit night, returning to Wynorian an hour earlier with two wagonloads of bathed and optimistic Vessels, and bound-and-gagged war prisoners in tow. After gathering strength, then leaving the mounts with the main group of men sheltered in the forest behind the palace, Bron led an advance team to the dungeon entrance, ignoring his need for sleep and the many aches and pains pestering him. There, the black-clad assassins did what they did best—soundlessly surrounded their prey and struck without 115
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warning. Once inside the dungeon, Bron prayed they could mask their presence, slaughtering in silence without raising a furor, until they discovered Vita Omnia. When his comrades removed the bodies from his path, Bron stepped forward. He swept aside the foliage and surveyed the dungeon’s thick door. Ever since peace had reigned over the Queendom, the door had remained unlocked. Still, Bron had expected some sign of enchantment, yet found none; another indication that Lancine had indeed succumbed to the diseased seed Nordain had supplied. “Send for the others, Myrain,” whispered Bron. The man nodded and raised his hands to his mouth. A high-pitched, triple cawing sound took to the wind in a perfect representation of winged ravenetti. After several minutes, Obreé Kai’Lesh appeared before Bron. Behind him, the full brigade of men gathered, apart from several apparently left behind to care for the horses and guard the prisoners. In the center of the group stood the Royal Vessels, surrounded by the men in black lest a vigilant watcher from the palace’s many towers, windows, or balconies spot their naked flesh tones in the fragile light. Bron started to open the door, but Obreé stopped him. “Not you.” “But—” “You ignorant oaf. I know you’re anxious to find your darling Witch, but restrain your urges to rush forward into peril.” Obreé gently yet sternly shoved aside Bron, held his arm, then ordered several of the other men to take the lead. Bron trembled, not from any anger he might have felt from being justifiably reprimanded before the others, but from his impulse to tear through the tunnels, shrieking Vita’s name, and driving his sword into whatever defiant obstacle might block his path. Obreé’s interference had come in the nick of time, or he might have done just that. Only after the majority of the enforcers crept through the door and into the near blackness beyond did Obreé release Bron’s arm. “All 116
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right, lad. Go on in, but keep with your brother Vessels at all times. And remember, your success this morning could very well make or break the Queendom.” * * * Reeling with nausea and panic, her head throbbing with fever and rage, Lancine D’Olica pitched another empty chalice across her bedroom chamber, where it clanked among the mountain of previously drained goblets. She tossed back her head and shrieked vulgar curses at her Travét-patterned skylight, now pale with dawn’s gray illumination, while her mind swam in an ocean of confusion. Throughout the long evening, battling the need to slumber, she had supped at least twice from each of her eleven remaining Vessels as well as C’Esset Yancia’s blue-clad Vessels, and consumed goblet after goblet of frozen essence, yet she could actually feel her powers depleting, as if being sucked from her body by an unseen entity. No amount of essence could return her crystal pendant to a healthy glow. The last time she had checked on her mother and younger sister, both sequestered in one of the towers, she found their breathing energized, their heartbeats stronger, their bodies twitching as if her Enchantment of Slumber had worn thin. And after beating Vita Omnia to within an inch of her life for attempting to entice Faygor to aid her, and pouring another dose of phorphitia down the bitch’s throat, Lancine had noticed how her Spell of Binding also appeared to have weakened. Must she continually resort to mortal ways to accomplish her goals? she wondered dismally, snatching up the blood-stained dagger she had yanked out of Faygor’s back hours earlier. Yes, she concluded, as much as she hated the notion of her grand schemes disintegrating. So much for her planned earthquakes, her plotted global disasters that would turn the other Queendoms against Vita Omnia and demand her head on a pike. Her schemes would have to wait until she could regain her strength. Somehow her drugged sister—the perfect Witch Princess, the 117
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perfect Witch Student, the perfect Royal Bitch—had cast a spell to exhaust Lancine’s powers, and now, she realized, only one solution remained open to her. Vita Omnia must die. Steeling herself against the malaise tearing through her guts, Lancine staggered to the door, the dagger in her hand. She made it only halfway down the hall when Nordain Gyrick, her favorite Vessel—the Vessel who had, in such a short time, consumed her heart—left his post to block her path. “Your Majesty, you’re in no condition to—” So enraged at his interference, no matter how well-meaning, she slashed at him. She ignored the sound of Nordain plunging to his knees while holding his ripped and bleeding throat, disregarded the expressions of pure horror on the faces of her other handsome Vessels, and stampeded down the hallway, muttering her savage vengeance. * * * For fifteen minutes that, to Bron, felt a millennium, the men slunk through the dungeon’s many tunnels. Even rodents scurried away in surprise when the force of assassins came upon them, so silently they tread the dirt paths. Several Royal Guards died as they opened their mouths to shout a warning cry, while others hastily tossed down their weapons and surrendered in quaking silence. Most prisoners could give no information regarding Vita Omnia’s whereabouts in the underground maze, but a few, under the threat of swift and hideous death, managed to point the men to tunnels they thought correct. With every step he took, with every empty vault he searched with his comrades, Bron felt his stomach tighten in fear. His mind conjured wicked images of Vita being tortured or lying dead in some malodorous, stygian, rodent-infested cell, and several times he blinked back tears, thinking he would go mad with anxiety. It took all his willpower to expunge the black notions from his mind and continue the seemingly fruitless quest, tunnel after tunnel, torture chamber after 118
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torture chamber, hellhole after hellhole. Several members of their team scouted various corridors. Some returned with whispered news of empty dead ends, while others reported finding only long-forgotten rooms where long-forgotten skeletons resided. Only when the scattered wall torches grew more numerous did Bron realize they had entered an area of the dungeon that had seen more recent activity. Suddenly, a sense of Vita’s closeness washed over him. Although he attempted to stamp down the feeling, to not let his hopes soar without foundation, he could not ignore it. Could he truly sense her presence? Had the undying love between Witch Princess and mortal man somehow bound them as to be able to sense each other’s nearness? Or had his frantic mind simply assembled falsehoods to alleviate the heartache he felt without her? He didn’t know the answer, but he went with his gut as his beacon, urging the men down specific paths until he thought he would burst with excitement. They were close…so very close… When the group came to another connecting corridor, the feeling overwhelmed him. “This way, I tell you, this way!” he said, realizing too late he had lifted his voice above a whisper. His self-castigation could not alter the outcome he knew would follow. As expected, from out of various doorways, alerted Royal Guards suddenly appeared. As before, many dropped to their knees in terror upon seeing Travéttica’s infamous black-clad enforcers before them. They threw their swords in the dirt and pleaded for mercy. Their counterparts, however, fewer in number yet as fierce as patriotism would allow, raced forward with weapons aloft. Only marginally aware of several men shoving Vita’s other Vessels to the safety of the rear, Bron drew his sword for the first time since leaving The Rumbledon’s Tongue the previous day. In the firelight, the brilliantly polished blade glistened with mirrored brightness, inspiring him to act. He gave the weapon several experimental slashes and jabs 119
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until bloodlust drove him forward and into the ensuing mêlée. Shouts and curses and cries of agony instantly clogged the air, along with a swirling cloud of dust, kicked up from the floor by the many trampling feet. In every direction, swords clanked and knives plunged. The metallic bedlam swelled to a haunting din. Enforcers surrounded and slew with expertise, their butchery a warning to those guards still swarming out of the doorways ahead. A towering and brutal warrior, his sleeves proudly displaying Lancine’s green Travét, rushed toward Bron. Without hesitation, Bron hefted his sword with both hands and struck at the guard. The man countered, then re-countered with his weapon as Bron advanced, step after step, grunting his fury and adeptly swinging at the representative of the Witch Princess who had dared harm Vita Omnia. The look of shock on the man’s face, likely at chancing upon such a lethal, enraged combatant, would have seemed almost comical were it not for the situation. For minutes, or hours, he couldn’t be certain, Bron pushed forward, finally pinning the man against the wall beside a flaming torch. “To whom are you loyal?” shouted Bron through the turmoil. “To Princess Lancine D’Oli—” Before the guard could utter the bitch’s full name, Bron buried his steel into the man’s belly, silencing him forever. Someone gripped his sore right shoulder. With a shriek pouring from his mouth and adrenaline pumping through his veins, Bron spun on his heels and raised his sword, eager to slaughter another enemy. Obreé Kai’Lesh, blood dripping from his whiskers and leather headpiece, slammed Bron against the cold stone wall. His eyes blazed with murderous fury. “I thought I gave you an order yesterday, fool! No fighting!” The man’s verbal thunder whisked Bron out of battle fever and back to reality. He stammered for a response, but Obreé didn’t let him finish. Instead of silencing him with a sword like Bron had the guard a 120
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moment before, Obreé hurled him toward the back of the line. Unable to catch his balance, his sword flying out of his hand, Bron slammed onto the floor, face first. With the aid of his brother Vessels, he climbed to his feet, brushed himself off, and spat bits of dirt from his dry mouth. “Find your Witch, damn your hide,” yelled Obreé over the racket, “while we make mincemeat of these fighting imbeciles!” With that, he turned back to the battle, already lessening in intensity as enforcer after enforcer did exactly as Obreé had stated. Only then did Bron realize they had fought past the corridor into which he had started to steer the men before the skirmish commenced. He gathered and sheathed his bloody sword, snatched a torch from the wall, and hastened down the seemingly deserted tunnel. By the dancing, blaring firelight in his wake, he knew his brother Vessels followed closely on his heels, wielding torches of their own. Bron came upon various cells. He poked his head into each for only a moment, then moved on once he discovered it empty. As the distant echoes of hand-to-hand combat dropped in volume, the irrepressible sense of Vita’s closeness escalated. Soon, Bron’s heart pounded with such urgency, he thought it might explode. And then, in the last cell before the corridor twisted yet again, he found her. Vita lay unconscious on the floor, filth defiling her bare flesh and bruises discoloring her beautiful face. Too overjoyed to wallow in his fury over her condition, Bron flung aside his torch and hastened forward. “My love, my dearest love…” When Vita groaned at the sound of his voice, Bron’s heart chorused praises to the heavens. “She’s alive!” he trumpeted to his brother Vessels, now coming up behind him, panting and swatting dirt from their bare feet. Shunning the sight of the graying, reeking corpse adorned in a limegreen loincloth a few feet away, Bron gathered Vita into his trembling arms. Only as he attempted to lift her did he notice her wrists, 121
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imprisoned in a faint, greenish glow that connected to the walls. He tugged on one of her arms. Although the bonds of enchantment seemed flexible, Bron quickly realized they remained secure enough to hold Vita in place. His gaze took in his lover’s pendant, dangling from its necklace and wedged between her full breasts. It didn’t surprise him to see the crystal devoid of crimson. “All right, Brothers, help me rouse her, then prepare yourselves for the duty I mentioned yesterday after your baths. It appears we’ve arrived not a moment too soon.”
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CHAPTER 16
Once again, Vita found her mind whirling in a sea of confusion. A kaleidoscope of bright-colored pain filled her head when she attempted to open her eyes to this latest phantasm. The past few hours—or even days, perhaps—had run together in a swirl of narcotic-induced hallucinations, and although she wanted to see who jostled her body, who spoke to her in deep, reassuring tones, she also feared staring into the face of yet another false hope. Her cheeks stung when a palm brushed over her face, while her wrists ached from someone yanking her arms. At first she envisioned more of Lancine’s Vessels surrounding her, vying for an opportunity to torture her. Or perhaps Faygor’s corpse had reanimated, cozying up to her and reeking of death as he attempted to have his way with her. Nevertheless, she battled to focus her fuzzy attention on the speaker’s voice—so gentle, almost loving—and to peel open her sleep-encrusted eyelids. “Vita…my dearest…please come back to me…” 123
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Winds of memories breezed through her mind. Memories of Bron D’Extrian deftly loving her to carnal gratification and whispering sweet endearments in her ear. Memories of his heated breath sending shivers along her spine and engendering even more lustful desires throughout her body. “Bron…” she whispered, either to herself or through her lips, she couldn’t be certain. “Yes, my darling, ’tis me. Please wake, please wake…” Callused yet tender hands combed strands of hair from Vita’s forehead before a rain of caring kisses moistened her brow. More than anything, those lips against her skin touched the quick of her most passionate emotions and compelled Vita to focus her thoughts. Gritting her teeth, she pried apart her eyelids and blinked at the darkness above. No, not darkness she sluggishly realized, as firelight danced over the repulsive walls of her prison cell. But the man who loomed over her did appear cloaked in murkiness, or rather, in black clothing. At first her eyes detected only a stubble-covered chin, then a firm nose, then eyes cutting through a leather headpiece. Green eyes that looked oddly familiar and… Tremors of sudden terror raced through her. She knew that uniform—indeed, everyone in Travéttica knew that dreaded uniform. The mortal police force had done nothing to disband the gang of blackclad cutthroats, mainly because they usually committed their acts of violence against Travéttica’s even darker elements, which in irony, helped the police maintain control throughout the Queendom. Still, their catalogue of supposed crimes filled volumes, or so Vita had heard. And seeing one of the enforcers in her cell could mean only one thing— Lancine had hired the assassins to murder her. She opened her mouth to issue a Spell of Protection, fought to remember the words, then realized no amount of spell-casting would do her any good without energy. Her stomach churned in misery, and sobs 124
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gathered strength in her throat. Obviously seeing her fright, the man withdrew his hands from her flesh and struggled to remove his headpiece. “Don’t be frightened, my dearest.” His voice, so similar to Bron’s, made Vita ill. She knew she shouldn’t have opened her eyes to this new hallucination. She should have remained unknowing to this latest threat. Now, she actually wished for another dose of phorphitia so she wouldn’t have to suffer through her imminent demise at the hands of a notorious enforcer. “Vita, look at me! Look, please!” Damn that voice, she thought, unable to fight the urge to follow its unyielding demand. Death would be bad enough, but to have her final hallucination be of Bron as her murderer would certainly cause her soul to reel in agony for all eternity. When the man swept off the headpiece, his dark hair, matted and dripping with sweat, framed his face. The same handsome face that had dwelled in her mind and heart since the day she had first laid eyes on it. “B…Bron?” she questioned, unwilling to fully accept that he, and not some ghost of a dream, knelt by her side. “But you’re dead…Lancine said she’d had you murdered…it can’t really be you…it can’t…” In reply, he lowered his face to hers, bringing together their mouths—one dry, one moist—in a flaming kiss. No man had ever kissed her with such searing passion, and now, it proved without a doubt this man’s true identity. Unbidden tears blurred her eyes as relief washed over her. The sobs her throat had assembled over her impending death now turned to unmitigated bliss and burst forth in a tidal wave of raw emotion. Bron cradled her head in his arms and hushed her, his reassurances of her safety and his undying love making her heart throb with joy. “Bron, I don’t understand.” Vita collected her thoughts and peered into the face she had prayed she would one day see in the afterlife. 125
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“Why…why do you wear the disguise of a wretched, villainous enforcer?” For an instant, his face became a battlefield of emotions, until suddenly his expression cleared, like a slate being wiped clean with a sponge. Before Vita could question him further, she again felt her wrists being tugged and tested. Only then did she realize a group of men surrounded her lover. Blinking aside the tears, she viewed a panorama of bare male flesh, muscular limbs and hirsute torsos, handsome faces mirroring her relief and exultation. “My…my cherished, faithful Vessels…you’re here, too…” “Yes, darling, we’re all here to aid you.” Bron released her head and removed his cape, which he used to partially blanket her nude body. “But the damned bonds on your wrists…can your magic obliterate them, or at least lessen their strength enough for us to pry you loose?” “My…my magic…” Forcing herself to think, she peered down at her lifeless crystal. “But I have no power…” “That’s why we’re here, Your Majesty,” offered Hillage Pruétte, hunkering beside her. “We’ve come to contribute our essence, Your Highness,” another blurted. “As much as you need!” “Remember how much energy I provided upon your return from the Petrik Spas?” asked Bron. “Since your abduction, every one of us has had a forced abstinence. And our contained power we now happily give to you.” For the first time in days, Vita felt undiluted optimism. She nodded in understanding and acceptance of the plan. “Boys,” said Bron, climbing to his feet and opening the buttons at his waist, “give us some privacy, if you please. Remain outside the cell and prepare yourselves. When you’re ready to deliver, holler.” He pointed to the corpse. “Oh, and please, some of you get that damned 126
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thing out of here.” As the men filed out of the cell, either stroking their dormant magiwands to hardness or dragging Faygor’s body out of sight, Bron straddled Vita’s chest. When he pushed his trousers down over his hips, his cock sprang forth, already thick and rigid. He grabbed it at the base and brought the tip to her mouth. “Now feed, my love…ingest my magical power.” With an animalistic hunger that made her senses tingle in anticipated nourishment, Vita wrapped her lips around the head of her lover’s erection, the magnificent cock she had thought would never again be hers on which to sup. Her tongue wildly teased as she suctioned him, and she reveled in his pulse, galloping against her lips. When she coerced the first salty drop of pre-essence from him, she shivered in delectation. The sampling made her suck even harder, and subsequent droplets provided her with an inkling of her former power. Bron helped himself along by stroking the base of his cock and gently thrusting into her mouth. All the while, his whispered words of encouragement filled her ears. But Vita needed no encouragement, especially when she sensed him nearing the brink. She pumped him with escalating speed, savoring the heat of his hard flesh and basking in the tingling sensations that started to enliven her blood. When Bron moaned in pleasure and his body shuddered, Vita clamped her lips around the ridged crown. His seed burst forth in a seemingly endless torrent. She greedily swallowed time and again, and even long after his creamy cascade had ended, she milked his petrous flesh. By the time Bron withdrew from Vita’s mouth, her body thrummed with energy for the first time in days. Gasping and licking her lips, she looked down at her breasts, where a soft and flickering crimson glow lit the cavern of her cleavage. She peered up at him and smiled her thanks, wishing she could touch and taste every inch of his body and show him exactly what his presence—his “resurrection”—truly meant to her. 127
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He rested his buttocks on her lower belly, then bent forward and kissed her. “Give me at least several minutes, my dearest,” he whispered against her lips, his voice sultry and loaded with promise, “and I’ll be able to gift you with more.” “I love you, Bron D’Extrian, with every fiber of my being.” Vita thrust her tongue deep into his mouth and quivered at the fiery emotion he displayed as their lips ground together in unity. Just then, Hillage’s voice cut into the cell, proclaiming his readiness. Bron broke the fevered kiss and chuckled. “Looks like I have some additional time to prepare myself. Now feed, my love. Drink our power and free yourself.” With that, he scrambled to his feet and bid Hillage entry. And for the next fifteen minutes, Vita did as instructed, feeding off her generous Vessels one by one and slowly reclaiming the magical power of which she had been bereft. By the time Bron returned to deliver another load of essence, the crystal on Vita’s necklace blazed, casting the cell in an eerie, blood-red glow. “Do you even want me again?” he asked, one eyebrow quirking in jest. Her gaze slid from his smiling face to his magiwand, jutting out from a field of black clothing, hard and ready. “I will always want you, my love,” she replied, her voice boasting a lascivious tone. How she couldn’t wait to play with his beautiful organ in the privacy of her chamber, but for pure sexual gratification and not nourishment. All in good time, she prayed. Now, she eyed the withering bands of green encircling her wrists and tugged. They still proved too strong for her to break away from the wall without the aid of legerdemain. “Need any help?” asked Bron, trousering his cock and hunkering beside her. He, too, attempted to yank one of her wrists from the wall, but to no avail. 128
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“You’ve helped already, my intended, and I shall be grateful for eternity.” Vita gathered her thoughts, easier to do now that magical power flowed through her veins to overwhelm the effects of the narcotic. After a moment, her gaze zeroed in on one of her wrists. “Si bori del lentio, reversité quaree tu.” The brittle band of green instantly started to waver, becoming streaked with a grayish fog that looked like smoke traveling through a beam of sunlight. The gray eventually changed to a robust crimson. A battle between colors quickly ensued until only the crimson remained, victorious. “Try now, my dearest,” she said, loving the way his expression had turned to one of childlike awe when he viewed the changing colors. This time, Bron barely touched her arm. With an almost soundless pop, the crimson band of light disintegrated in a galaxy of minuscule sparks. He jumped in surprise, and his laughter went straight to Vita’s heart. “That seemed almost too easy, Bron. Even in my delirium, I noted how Lancine’s bonds had recently weakened. Still, I expected the battle of hues to take much longer.” “There’s a good reason for what happened.” He quickly told her about Nordain Gyrick. Vita winced. “So my sister now suffers from khancashia? That was the plan you set into motion?” “Are you angry?” “Angry?” With her free hand, she took a moment to caress his cheek, the beard stubble like sandpaper against her fingers. “Hardly. Indeed, I applaud your brilliance.” Bron brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. Vita turned to look at her other wrist. “Si bori del lentio, reversité quaree tu.” Like before, crimson swiftly annihilated green. Without aid, Vita 129
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plucked her arm away from the band of light before it, too, exploded into nothingness. She pushed herself upright, then tossed both arms around Bron’s neck and bathed him in voracious kisses. From somewhere in the dungeon came a sudden and prolonged howl. Vita started, and she felt Bron twitch against her. The hellish wail repeatedly rose and fell in volume and pitch, concurrently sounding human and animal, even alien. It grated against Vita’s eardrums like talons being scraped across a schoolhouse slate. The unnerving screech continued as Bron helped Vita to her feet and wrapped his cape around her quivering frame. In the torch-lit corridor, the Vessels stood with mouths agape. Hillage visibly shuddered and addressed Vita and Bron. “I think you’d best see this.” With Bron’s arm protectively draped around her shoulder, Vita stepped into the passageway and viewed the source of the ghastly sound. A gang of black-clad enforcers paraded toward them, and in the lead, four men battled to hold a mass of flailing arms and legs and ebony tresses. Normally the sight of so many enforcers might have terrified Vita, but not so much as the prisoner they carted, hissing and spitting and issuing more insufferable shrieks. As the men approached, Lancine D’Olica’s features came into clear view, her face a hideous caricature of its former beauty. When Lancine saw Vita in the corridor, she clamped her mouth shut, effectively killing the infernal scream in high pitch. The deadly silence that followed felt even more disconcerting. A giant of a man with thick whiskers and blood-drenched clothes stepped forward. With a grace that belied his bulky frame, he bowed in reverence to Vita, then looked at Bron. “What do we do with this Royal Bitch now that we got ’er?” Obviously realizing what he had said, he returned his attention to Vita. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. It’s just that she came at us with an upraised knife, muttering some foreign mumbo130
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jumbo that had several of my boys a bit fearful. But when her spell produced nothing more than a few irritating stings on our skin, we nabbed her. And as you can see”—he paused to look over his shoulder—“she’s putting up quite a shindy.” “Set her down,” said Vita, her confidence on the rise when she noticed the pendant dangling from Lancine’s necklace. “But my dearest,” countered Bron, “she might try to—” “She’ll do nothing, if she knows what’s good for her.” Vita plucked her own necklace from within the confines of the cape. The strength of the crimson light overwhelmed even the glow of the torches. Some of the squinting black-clad enforcers, obviously respectful of her vast power, took a step backward in uncertainty. Yet once on her feet, Lancine appeared undaunted. If anything, renewed fury twisted her lips and mottled her pale cheeks, while her eyes came alive with hatred. She stumbled a few steps forward, her body bent like that of an ancient crone. When she lifted a hand, she pointed an index finger with a chipped nail at Vita. “Si bori enstraffite morano.” From out of the broken nail, a menacing trail of bright green sparks burst forth. Bron thrust Vita behind him and prepared to take a direct hit to the chest. But Vita patted his arm in reassurance and watched as, one by one, the sparks lost their color, dropped to the dirt floor, and fizzled out. She stepped before Bron and faced Lancine. “It appears your power has diminished, Sister. Whatever shall you do now?” “Si bori enstraffite morano!” screamed Lancine. Again, sparks shot forward, then petered out and vanished. Her face now a study in panic, Lancine turned her attention to Bron. “Watch your lover die, Sister Bitch!” She pointed both hands toward Bron’s legs. “Si bori ragarato grumash!” Dirt and dust from the tunnel floor started to gather and swirl 131
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around Bron’s feet. The mini-tornado accumulated mass and sped faster. It rose to the height of his ankles, then all at once, stopped spinning and deteriorated, leaving behind nothing but streaks on his black leather boots. Her eyes brimming with frantic, unvoiced questions, Lancine stared at her outstretched arms and hands. As if finally realizing their uselessness, she lowered her head and her shoulders slumped even farther. “I told myself just this morning,” she said so softly that Vita had to strain to hear the words, “that I might have to resort to the way of mortals to accomplish my goals.” “Your goals?” asked Vita. “What are they, Sister? To turn a relatively peaceful world into warring factions once again, singlehandedly whisking B’Atrani back to the Age of Chaos? To rule the world with an ironite fist and a black heart, enslaving the mortal society and all the Queendoms? Yes, Sister, what are your goals?” “At the present, I have only one.” “And what, pray tell, is that?” Slowly, Lancine lifted her head, and her eyes pierced Vita with malignant hatred. “To see you dead!” She hobbled forward, her clawlike fingers with their ragged nails aimed at Vita’s face. Bron’s comrade, the bewhiskered assassin who had addressed Vita earlier, snagged the back of Lancine’s filthy green dress. He whipped her toward the army of enforcers as though she weighed no more than a feather. When the men lifted her into their arms, she squirmed and kicked, and issued another series of spine-tingling shrieks. “She’s absolutely insane,” whispered Bron. Vita nodded, doing her best to hide her sorrow. She had loved her sister—a part of her still did, she supposed, recalling the years filled with childhood giggles and Witchling camaraderie. But the sister she had known had died, and Vita couldn’t help but mourn the death. The bearded man again stepped forward, his gloved fists clenching in obvious annoyance. “Your Majesty,” he shouted over the beastly 132
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howls, “with your permission, might we gag her?” “Allow me,” said Vita, lifting her hand toward the struggling woman. “Si bori sillentiàn.” Although Lancine continued barring her teeth and twisting her drool-speckled lips, her throat muscles bunching, the sounds instantly ceased. “Bless the Queendom,” whispered Bron. Vita turned and pressed herself against his firm body, welcoming the fierce comfort of his arms as her tears seeped into his shirt. “Yes, my love, bless the Queendom…”
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CHAPTER 17
Queen Vita Omnia stood in her vast bathing chamber and opened her ivory silk robe, exposing her bare flesh to the late-afternoon sunlight flooding in through the wall of open windows. From the city of Wynorian, the bells of the many Royal Temples still chorused the day in celebration. A nimble breeze, laden with the wedded aromas of mowed lawn and fresh blooms from the palace gardens, teased Vita’s nostrils and laved her face, sore from the smile she couldn’t seem to shed since the half-day of ceremonies began. She peered over her shoulder toward the tub of black marble, flirtatiously batted her eyelashes, and allowed the robe to slide ever so slowly down her shoulders and back. “For the Queendom’s sake, woman,” growled Bron, brushing dripping dark locks from his forehead, “don’t force me to get out of this tub and chase you.” “If I did, what would you do if you caught me?” Bron’s gaze followed the descent of her robe, now unveiling her 134
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buttocks. “I’d spank that beautiful behind, for starters.” “You would dare spank your Queen?” “I would—gleefully—when she delights in games of torture.” “Torture?” “For making me wait all these many hours for the one thing she damned well knows I want more than anything.” Since the “unfortunate incident,” as Vita preferred to call the nightmare with Lancine, Bron had rarely left her side. For the past two weeks, he had provided a sympathetic ear and a ready shoulder to cry on when the full emotional sting of what had occurred overwhelmed her. The attention he had shown her, his gentle caresses, tender kisses, and impassioned lovemaking, had gone a long way in helping her to forget, or at least to live with, what had happened. Last night, however, on the eve of their official Joining, her 25th birthday, and her ascension to the throne, they had spent the night apart, in accordance with archaic tradition. And she, like him, had hated it. She had grown accustomed to waking up each day in his strong arms, basking in the heat of his bare flesh and reveling in their love. Still, no matter how much she longed to plunge into the tub and impale herself on his cock, a wicked part of her enjoyed watching him squirm. She giggled at his expression of faux agony, then, continuing her game, inched the robe down to her ankles. “ ’Tis only a day and a half since last we coupled, Bron D’Extrian.” “That’s correct, and as I said, woman, ’tis torture.” “Patience has never been your greatest virtue, my love, how well I know.” “And what does that mean?” “It means you had best stop tapping the marble with your wet fingernails—and whacking the side of the tub with your foot, if that swirling water is any indication—or you might not like my first official command as Queen.” 135
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“Oh? So now you dare to threaten me, Your Royal Highness?” His green eyes twinkled, making Vita quiver in delight. “And what will you command, my dearest? Pray tell, give it your best shot.” Vita turned to face him, and as she had expected, his gaze instantly clawed over her breasts. She fondled and squeezed her mounds of flesh, swiftly palming her sensitive nipples to hardened peaks. “Perhaps I’ll order that your hands and feet be bound to our Union bed and—” “You call that a punishment? I’d definitely enjoy that.” “You didn’t let me finish. What if I bound you face down and celebrated this joyous day by spanking your behind.” His teeth flashed and a lecherous chuckle poured out of his mouth. “I might enjoy that also.” “Yes, I suppose you likely would, you fiendish rogue.” Vita slid one of her hands down her belly, where she buried her fingers in her pubic triangle. Again, Bron’s fervent gaze followed the action, and he licked his lips in anticipation. “So try again, my dearest. Give me good reason not to jump out of this tub and make you pay the consequences.” “I know…I’ll order you to sleep amongst your former brother Vessels this evening. You can bemoan your sad tale to them.” Bron gasped. “Is that so?” “Why do you think I had them leave your pallet in their chambers?” “You evil Witch! You would actually spend the night of our Joining, the first night of residence in the Queen’s chambers, without me?” His sensuous lips twisted in a cognizant smirk. “I think not!” “How can you be so certain?” “You play a good game, my dearest, but I know you want to taste every inch of my body just as much as I want to savor every beautiful, curvaceous inch of yours.” “I do?” She slipped her index finger between her legs and shuddered when she touched her swollen clit. “Of course. Even now, I can read your face and divine your 136
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thoughts. Admit it, just the notion of my tongue burrowing into your juicy tunnel is driving you insane—” He paused, his smile momentarily fading. Vita knew he regretted his choice of words, considering that Lancine now resided under heavy guard in Grûngmöre, an asylum for the criminally insane located at the southern tip of Travéttica in the mountainous city of Pangiosh. Vita forgave her lover’s innocent slip and expelled the horrible memories from her mind. Nothing, not even the remembrances of her sister’s recent actions, would cast so much as a shadow on this glorious day. Besides, Bron’s word had been quite apt. Vita did feel insane, crazed with carnal desire. The feeling had consumed her since she had viewed him awaiting her beside the altar that morning in the Coven Supreme’s Temple. He had cut a dashing figure, his tall, princely frame donned in nothing but form-fitting trousers that left little to the imagination, their ivory color matching her simple yet elegant Joining gown. Both his masculine scent and the heat from his muscular body had played havoc with her senses when they stood, side by side, exchanging their vows. But near the end of the seemingly eternal ceremony, when Vita slid the Joining necklace over Bron’s head, she had seen how the clear crystal pendant came to rest against his ocean of swirling chest hair. The crisp fur sparkled with beads of perspiration in the hot, stuffy Temple, and it had taken all of Vita’s willpower not to attack her lover’s torso with her greedy hands and hungry mouth before the entire congregation. Now, the delectable recollection engendered her to insert her index finger between her heated folds. Her middle finger quickly followed. “I’m sorry—” “I know what you meant, Bron,” she whispered, unable to mask the truth any longer, “and you’re correct. I do want your tongue—your cock—right here.” 137
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“Then come to me.” “ ’Tis your first official demand as the reigning Sovereign Vessel?” He started to kneel in the brimming tub, where spice-scented steam wafted around his sinewy torso. Even before he exposed his ridged and hair-blanketed navel, his stiff magiwand poked its head into the air. Water dripped from the slit like crystalline pre-essence and shimmered in the sunlight. He extended a hand toward her. “Yes, ’tis my official demand, but not as a Sovereign Vessel, as your eager lover.” Admiring the many ridges and valleys and plains of his nakedness, Vita needed no further coercion and immediately stepped into the water. The hot liquid, rich with pluneria oil, caressed her flesh like the finest satin. Bron submerged all but his head and outstretched arms and rested against the far side of the tub, his smile a beacon to her lustful needs. She swam toward him, intent on partaking in the smooth yet rock-hard flesh of his cock before her cupidity pushed her beyond the limits of rational thought. But when Vita reached him, she gasped in surprise as Bron grabbed her hips in his large hands and parted her legs with one of his knees. He lifted her and guided her forward. Vita’s nether lips deliciously skimmed the surface of the steaming water until her lover’s extended tongue met and flicked over her nub. Whimpering her joy, Vita draped her forearms over the tub’s flat, wide edge and clung to the other side. Bron dove into her passage. His tongue drew circles of pleasure within her folds, while he palmed her lower buttocks and pried her open with his fingers. She basked in the heat of his exhales against her pubic mound and tingling vagina, and closed her eyes to the escalating bliss. Like a plundering army, his tongue forayed in an out of her exposed canal, taking no prisoners in its rampage. Eventually, her husband’s skilled, determined administrations propelled Vita to the zenith of euphoria. Specks of multi-colored lights 138
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streaked and flickered behind her eyelids, and her chest heaved as the first in a series of electrical charges burst out of her center and through her veins, growing more intense as Bron continued to taste her. When he withdrew his tongue and waggled the tip over her clit, she shuddered before going limp with satiation. Vita plunged into the water. Bron slid her down his solid torso, settling her buttocks on his belly, where the lips of her still-spasming vagina brushed against his course pubic hair. His magiwand acted as a thick post, its base wedged between her butt cheeks and its crown caressing her lower spine. He buried his face in the valley between her breasts and massaged her back, still aching from the hours during which she had stood before the altar without rest. She clutched his head as he either feasted on one of her nipples or licked the spicy water from her skin, while her heart sang a pounding and passionate rhapsody. Could any Royal Witch—could any mortal woman, for that matter—have ever been so much in love? she wondered not for the first time that day. She thought not, lifting Bron’s handsome face and sliding her tongue deep into his welcoming mouth. A chuckle issued from deep within his chest, interrupting Vita’s thoughts as well as the kiss. She traced his mouth with her index finger, painting their mingled saliva over his full lips. “What’s so funny?” “I was just remembering the ceremony.” “You found something amusing regarding our Joining? Should I take offense?” “Not the Joining, my dearest, but that—that bizarre ending ritual.” Since the ceremony, Vita had wondered when Bron would question her about that, and it surprised her it had taken him this long to ask. “What about it?” “Have all Sovereign Vessels before me suffered that mortification? And what exactly was it all about?” Despite her best efforts, Vita smiled. She recalled the moment when the wizened Grand Priestess of the Coven Supreme hobbled forward 139
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with the aid of her golden walking stick and came to stand before Bron. Then, with giddiness flavoring her crackling voice and avid interest staining her gray eyes, the Priestess instructed him to shed his trousers and expose his genitals to the entire congregation. With mouth agape in astonishment and cheeks aflame in chagrin, Bron had looked at Vita for confirmation that he’d heard correctly and the Royal command wasn’t some wickedly outrageous and colossal joke. “Your expression was priceless, my love. I wouldn’t have missed seeing it for the world.” “I thought the Grand Priestess—old enough to be my grandmother’s grandmother, for the Queendom’s sake!—was either a horny old broad or had taken complete leave of her senses!” More laughter burst from Vita’s throat. “Or probably a little of both.” He playfully splashed water into her face. “Oh, yes, laugh to your heart’s content, my Queen. ’Twasn’t you who stood naked before hundreds of strangers as they ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ over your business.” He hadn’t exaggerated, Vita decided, recalling how Bron had reluctantly did as instructed, then, closing his eyes to the obvious humiliation, displayed his body to all. The smiles of widespread approval had provided Vita with more than a touch of sinful pride. “You certainly have nothing of which to be ashamed,” she countered, squeezing her buttocks around the base of Bron’s hard shaft and reaching around a hand to stroke its impressive length. “Indeed, I can pretty much guarantee I’m now the envy of every woman who attended the ceremony.” “That’s beside the point!” For a long moment, he closed his eyes, groaning as her caresses continued. “What exactly did they—did you— do to me—to it? It certainly doesn’t look any different, but it feels like something has changed.” Again, Vita smiled at the memories. The leaders of the Coven Supreme—a dozen Holy Witches in total, including the Grand 140
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Priestess—had formed a Circle of Protection, joining hands as they encompassed Bron. Once their preliminary chanting ceased, the Grand Priestess called for the Royal Wand. As the Witch In Joining, it fell to Vita to retrieve the golden, bejeweled, phallus-shaped rod from the altar. Afterward, she stepped into the circle and faced her intended. With the Grand Priestess guiding her hands, Vita brushed the head of the Royal Wand over every inch of Bron’s genitals, around and under his testicles, up and down the length of his cock. More chanting followed as sparks of varicolored lights burst from the tip of the Wand, making Bron’s balls twitch and his magiwand flood with blood. Before long, his cock pointed toward the Travét-adorned ceiling in all its throbbing glory, at which time, Vita bent forward and kissed the crown while the Coven Supreme uttered a final benediction. “It was an enchantment,” she explained. “A blessing for enhanced essence, my love. Nothing more.” “A blessing? For a while there, I could have sworn my balls were on fire and my cock would spit flames!” “Without the blessing, our future children would have been born with life-threatening diseases or horrible defects. I would likely suffer grievously, perhaps face death, if I ever gave birth to a child with mortal blood and no blessing to protect me. Now, with the Coven’s enchantment flowing through your testicles, we can conceive without fear.” She continued to toy with his stiff rod, her palm now slick with water, pluneria oil, and pre-essence. “Plus, every load of seed you gift to me has additional magical power, and it doesn’t matter how—or rather, where—you deliver it.” “Now that’s the part I’ve been longing to have clarified,” whispered Bron, then wrenched her hand off his magiwand and gave her a stern look. “But neither flattering me nor tantalizing me with your touch will get you off the hook that easily. Why did you not think to warn me of that particular ritual?” 141
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“I didn’t even think about it, and by the time that point in the ceremony began, it was too late to warn you.” “Didn’t think about it? I’ll bet.” “ ’Tis the truth, my love.” “ ’Tis a load of horse manure, and you know it! It amuses you to see me squirm!” Vita pursed her lips, combating another intense round of giggles. “Oh, and how well you know horse manure, do you not, Bron D’Extrian? You have flung your share in these past two weeks.” Color drained from his clean-shaven cheeks. He arched an eyebrow. “Refusing to respond to questions is not the same as ‘flinging manure,’ my dearest. I told you, ’tis better off you don’t know certain things.” “Mayhap, mayhap not. But one of these days, you will confess all you’ve kept hidden from me. How you came to find Nordain Gyrick, may the poor man rest in peace…where you hid while recovering from your wounds…why you hired Travéttica’s most vile assassins to help you, let alone how you talked them into aiding you without them slitting your throat…yes, Bron, one of these days, you will confess.” “At least I confess the love that fills my heart, do I not? And is that not most important of all?” “Yes, I suppose it is.” Expelling from her mind all the nagging questions that had puzzled her since her rescue, Vita lowered her head to Bron’s hair-matted chest. With her cheek, she nudged aside the clear crystal pendant on his necklace and flicked her tongue over one of his nipples, then kissed a path to his mouth. Their lips united, and their tongues jounced in fevered harmony. Bron’s ravenous kisses, his strong arms hugging her against his body, ignited renewed lust within her, while the detectable throbbing of his erection, more than the scented bath water, slickened her tunnel. “So, my love,” she said, pulling her mouth from his and panting, “are you prepared to ravish your Queen?” 142
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He clutched her at the hips and moved her back and forth, her butt cheeks gliding over the top of his thick pillar of flesh. “Just give the command, Your Majesty…” “Now, Bron, now!” He slid her backward another few inches, then wedged his bloated crown into her aching canal. After containing her waist with one powerful arm, he planted his free hand on the tub’s rim and pushed himself to his knees. Water, oil, and their natural juices formed a slick conspiracy, allowing Vita to effortlessly slide down his lengthy pole until his thick flesh filled her to the core. She tossed back her head and gasped, while Bron stuffed his mouth with one of her breasts and muffled his groans. For a long moment, Vita sat there, her muscles clutching his pulsating erection, and quickly realized, something had indeed changed since the Coven’s official blessing. No, the size and shape of her lover’s cock had not altered in any respect, for which she felt enormous gratitude. She had wanted nothing to alter the magiwand to which she had grown so salaciously accustomed. But something else had changed…something that had to do with the way it throbbed against her channel walls. Yes, that was it. A hardier, more rapid pulse drummed through the shaft, the enlivened vibrations making her tingle in ways she had never experienced, and within areas of her core previously foreign to her. Now, these newly revealed regions came alive with amazing vitality, screaming a rousing chorus of pleasures heretofore unheard. How thrilling, she thought, groaning and squeezing Bron’s cock even tighter within her, that both she and her life-mate had received blessings that day. Bron began thrusting his hips upward, stabbing her with every inch of his magnificent tool, his pace at once manic and rigorous. Vita wondered if he, too, experienced heightened sensitivity in his genitals, for he couldn’t seem to fight the urge to expel his load of seed as expeditiously as possible. 143
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Vita clung to his heaving torso for dear life, but the sleek wetness of his skin and his wild, shuddering movements made it difficult. Plus, the orgasm building with tempestuous alacrity inside her womb made it equally difficult for her to concentrate, let alone conquer the tremors that took possession of her limbs. All around her, oil-scented water splashed in miniature tidal waves, increasing in size along with their animalistic coupling, while their merged grunts and shrieks of unbridled rutting effectively quashed the sounds of the bells still chiming from the capital city. “Damn it!” growled Bron, his deep tenor reverberating through her like a thunderbolt. “I—I can’t stop myself—can’t hold back—” “Then don’t! Release your seed! Fill me with your essence for the first time, my love! Fill me now!” With his face scrunched in passion and his neck corded with straining muscles, Bron plunged into her depths a final time. His seed gushed forth, filling Vita with heat so all-encompassing, so mindbending, she had trouble breathing. Not only did she feel her muscles twitching and spasming around his spewing cock in mutual climax, but with the addition of his essence inside her core, she experienced the same buzzing sensation, the same tingling of her blood, as she usually did when supping from a Vessel. For untold minutes, Vita delighted in the unrivaled stimulation and held her lover’s still-pounding shaft within her, while water crashed against her hot, perspiring skin in cooling waves. When she finally opened her eyes, she saw Bron peering down between their torsos. His face, a handsome mask of childlike wonder and sexual gratification, began to glow in a series of various hues. “What does this mean?” he asked. “It means I am Queen. Like my clothing, which will now be fashioned in ivory yet contain hints of all the colors in the rainbow, my crystal will reflect that.” She frowned. “But you know all this. You’ve been in my mother’s company before.” 144
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“No, no, Vita, what does this mean?” Bron reached between them and pulled out the source of the flickering glow. Only then did Vita realize that her pendant lay hidden within her cleavage and what he held in his palm was his own crystal. He looked at her, blinking his confusion. She laughed. “Didn’t you know, my love? Now that we are Joined, we share everything—including a portion of my magical powers.” “What?” “See that stack?” She gestured to the far side of the tub, where clean wash cloths and bath towels stood in a fluffy pile of white. He nodded. “Focus on the stack, imagine grabbing the top towel, and say these words—Si bori juvane duoné.” At first, his verdant eyes twinkled with skepticism, but then he turned toward the towels. His forehead rucked in deep concentration. “Si bori juvane duoné,” he whispered hesitantly, then gasped when the top towel lifted off the pile and floated in the air toward him. Vita giggled her pleasure. “And you thought I might be lying!” He snatched the towel from the air and gave her a look of pure astonishment. “How in the hell…?” “Just another part of the Coven’s blessing. Now, wasn’t it worth those few embarrassing moments you spent bare-assed naked during the ceremony?” Before he could respond, she kissed his lips. “You have so much to learn, my love, and I intend to teach you, slowly and surely. But for now,” she added, clenching the muscles of her womanhood around his still-hard magiwand, “I think it’s time we fill both of our crystals with extra power, don’t you?”
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PARIS DIXON Paris Dixon was born and raised in the “steamy South”—Savannah, GA., to be exact—an undisclosed number of years ago. According to Paris, having grown up in a city filled with countless historical homes and avenues where hanging moss lazily sways from live oaks did much for her vivid imagination, especially after majoring in history in college. Her period of focus has always been the antebellum era of American History. “The decades prior to the Civil War,” says Paris, “have always fascinated me. This was a time when dresses became wider, tempers ran shorter, and a horrific institution called ‘slavery’ was the norm. I’ve often wondered what might have occurred within the walls of some of Savannah’s grand estates and plantation houses when a combination of humid-heavy summers and society’s strict mores played havoc with the urges of handsome young gentlemen and their nubile ladyloves. As personal accounts of the period clearly indicate, courting lovers of the era were wont to raise a glass of mint julep on their shady verandahs and complain about the weather while batting eyelashes at one another in the company of matronly chaperones. But what happened during these heat-filled summers when these passionate young adults with raging hormones decided to ditch these observant sentinels in favor of some ‘alone time’? Unfortunately, I suspect some of the more fascinating history of mankind never made it into the history books.” Paris is the award-winning author of several historical erotica books and the forthcoming Cry Merci. Additionally, both of her short contemporary erotica stories, Lechery For The Devil and Morning Ritual, are now available, as well as her paranormal erotica novella
Passion Knows No Boundaries. Other stories of erotic romance are either coming soon from Amber Quill Press or are in the works. Additionally, Paris sometimes collaborates on various books in the erotica genre with award-winning author Catherine Snodgrass under the pen name Caitlyn Willows. White Lies is available now, while the novels Déjà Vu and Treasure Hunters are scheduled for release from Amber Quill Press. Paris loves to hear from her readers, so feel free to email her at
[email protected]. You can also visit her website at http://bythunder.org/ParisDixon/index.html or join her newsletter by emailing
[email protected]. *
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Don’t miss Hot For Teacher by Paris Dixon, available 2004 from Amber Quill Press, LLC When the invitation arrives, Paige Gillette has mixed emotions about attending her ten-year high school reunion. Until she views the guest list, that is, and discovers that Vincent Martinelli, the man voted “Most Popular Teacher” by the class, will also be in attendance. Just recollections of the sinfully handsome “Italian Stallion”—as the girls loved to whisper behind his back when they weren’t too busy fainting— sends adrenaline rushing through Paige’s veins. In high school, he had obsessed her, and now the temptation to see him again becomes too great for her to bear. It doesn’t take long for her to make a final decision—she will indeed attend the reunion, and make it one steamy night to remember…or die trying!
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