Invitation
: MAIN STORY: The Alembic Plot
Monday, 16 March 2572
Sara Blackfeather read the invitation for the third time, still not
sure if it was real or a poor joke. Inquisitors were most emphatically
not known for their hospitality, and it seemed incredible that the
notorious Cortin, of all of them, would invite a journalist into her
home for a week. Especially a journalist who made no secret of her
antipathy for Inquisitors in genera
particular.
It would be a professional triumph, of course, which was what made it
an almost irresistible temptation. On the other hand, it could as
easily be a trick, to find out if her stated sympathy for the
Brotherhood hid actual membership in the organization--though it would
seem more logical, if that were the case, not to bother with such
niceties, simply have her picked up for questioning. Though, she
thought a bit smugly, they weren't likely to be quite so blatant with a
reporter!
Fortunately, she didn't have to depend purely on her own judgement,
which could be flawed by considerations like professional glory; in
something that had this much potential for benefit or harm, she could
ask her patron for help. He'd be busy, of course, at this time of day,
but she was free to interrupt him--on this, he'd be upset if she didn't!
So, minutes later, she was on the way to his home, the invitation
tucked carefully in her purse.
* * * * *
Lucius studied the invitation, both amused and disturbed. So Cortin
wanted Blackfeather to visit for a week, did she? That could be either
good or bad, and he couldn't decide which. On the whole, though, he
couldn't argue against the visit, since Sara had no valid--no
believable, for that matter--reason to turn down such a professionally
valuable invitation. "It should be safe enough," he said at last.
"She wouldn't dream of hurting an invited guest unless you do something
stupid, and you certainly know better than that. You can also find out
for me just what the hell is going on."
Blackfeather nodded; he'd made no secret, from her, that he had to be
extremely careful about using his "psychic gifts" where Cortin was
concerned. "You don't think she knows I'm your mistress?"
"She must--I did acknowledge you as such." Lucius smiled. "By this
time I'm sure she has guessed--or been told--my real identity, but that
can make no difference to her publicly."
Blackfeather returned his smile. He claimed to be Shayan, and
sometimes he used his gifts to assume some of the Hell-King's
attributes, but she didn't believe he really was; he was too different
from the Shayan she'd been told about while her parents were alive.
Her first meeting with him was still vivid in her mind, though she
tried to remember only the part where he'd rescued her--something the
real Shayan never would have done.
Shannon smiled to himself, reading her thoughts. Rescuing Sara had
been little more than an impulse triggered by his respect for courage;
a five-year-old who killed one of the men trying to rape her was hardly
usual. She'd interested him enough to keep her alive against his men's
wishes, taking her home until he could decide what to do with her.
She'd proven interesting to have around, and he'd almost immediately
discovered that she also added a dimension to his McHenry identity, so
he'd quickly decided to adopt her--a procedure his McHenry identity
made both fast and simple.
But his then mistress hadn't wanted to be burdened with a child, and
hadn't been worth the effort of reconditioning, so she'd left. He
really should have replaced her; not doing so, and raising a child
alone, had caused a minor scandal. Sara had claimed all his free time,
though, and he'd been fascinated by the idea of making her his
mistress. She'd agreed, a formality he insisted on from all his
live-in partners--except Victor, who'd made himself the exception by
his presumption--in spite of the fact that she couldn't possibly know
what she was agreeing to. Some simple physical modifications had made
her capable of accommodating him, and some judicious conditioning had
insured she would enjoy, but never reveal, their "touching games".
Even then he'd refrained until her birthday, wanting the first time to
be special for her.
It had been, with him changing shapes and techniques to amuse her.
She'd enjoyed all of them, not surprising since that was how he'd
conditioned her--but he was surprised that she had decided she liked
his "classical" shape and technique best, especially that early. And
she'd kept that preference through the years. She'd become his
mistress openly at 16, causing another minor scandal, but that had only
amused her.
He came back to the present, reading her apprehension at the upcoming
visit, and held out his arms.
Blackfeather clung to him. "I know you said she wouldn't hurt a
guest--but I have a horrible feeling I'll never see you again."
"Don't be silly," Shannon said. "Of course you will--unless you decide
Enforcement and Inquisitors are respectable after all, and stay with
them. She can be quite persuasive." And, an unwelcome thought said,
there was more to it than persuasion. Cortin had dissolved the
compulsions he'd imposed on Chang without even knowing it; what if the
same happened to Blackfeather? An even more unwelcome thought said
that would be for the best, and he concealed a scowl. Sara was the
first human he'd cared about as anything more than a plaything; did he
really want her spending eternity in his realm, even as his Queen?
"Not that persuasive, I don't think." But Blackfeather's apprehension
was still there, and she was reacting as she usually did before a
dangerous assignment, with growing desire. "Could we, just in case?"
If she were that worried, Shannon thought, it wouldn't hurt to indulge
her. Indulge both of them, rather, because the idea of letting the
Enemy have her was becoming more attractive. Most humans were
disgusting weak things, not fit to be more than toys for his minions,
but Sara was different. She was strong, attractive--and she loved him.
Part of that was the conditioning he'd given her, of course, but even
at first that hadn't been all of it; she'd taken to him without any
prompting, unless you counted the rescue itself. And he hadn't felt
Cortin using her power, even unconsciously, for some time, so perhaps
it wouldn't be too much of a risk using his own. It would take so
little to transport them to his realm, and Cortin should be either
asleep or too preoccupied to notice anyway. Giving in to temptation,
he kissed Blackfoot hard, pulling her blouse open to grasp her breast
as he set himself for the transfer.
Blackfeather gasped in startled joy as her lover's power surrounded
them for the first time in months that seemed like years. She felt a
sensation of movement, and they were standing before ruby thrones at
one end of a great hall hung with rich dark draperies, brightly lit by
flames that moved at random, without burning anything. This had to be
an illusion, she told herself at more normal moments, because they
could be here for hours, even days, with no time having passed when
they returned--but it felt real, and while she was in it, she didn't
question that reality. This was Hell's throne room, he its King, and
she his Queen.
She remained herself, only her clothes changed; instead of a proper
tailored suit, she now wore gold streamers generously sprinkled with
rubies. They hid almost nothing even when they fell quietly from
shoulders to feet; stirred as they usually were by her movements, they
swirled open at random times and places.
But he changed completely, more spectacular in his nudity than even the
most ornate robes could make him. Flame-red hair and amber
slit-pupilled eyes emphasized alabaster skin, as did huge wings with
gleaming jet-black feathers. This was her favorite of his
forms--though it shocked her to see that for the first time, he wasn't
erect. Taken aback, she stared at him. "Is something wrong, beloved?"
"That is." His wings spread, shadowing them. "I love you as well, you
see, which is why I cannot continue to let you love me. It must be
love, because I find your welfare more important to me than my
pleasure, which is the classic definition. It is also an emotion I
never felt before, in all my millennia, and one I find both unfitting
and remarkably inconvenient."
Blackfoot started to speak, but he stopped her. "Let me finish.
Despite your disbelief, I am Shayan, and I will prove it to you
shortly. Although I am inclined to keep you here with me, your welfare
demands otherwise. So you will go to Cortin, and you will become one
of her followers, perhaps even--" He broke off. There was that
possibility, yes, and if it worked it would guarantee her spiritual
safety and happiness, though not her bodily survival.
"Perhaps even what?" Blackfeather was confused, a little hurt--though
she could feel his harshness was because he had her welfare at heart.
He bent to her, brushed her forehead with his lips. "Let me
concentrate, beloved. The Enemy has, by this time, undoubtedly given
her a priest or priests to build her a personal staff equivalent to
mine; there may still be a place on that staff for you."
"But . . ." Blackfoot was getting even more confused. "Even if there
is a place, what makes you think they'd accept me? Or that I'd want
it?"
"They would accept you because you know me and are almost sinless--and
you will want it once the compulsions that have held you for over
fifteen years have been dissolved. Now be silent; what I need to do
will be dangerous, even without distractions."
Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he reached out, searching for
mental traces he'd never felt before but didn't think he could mistake.
The Protector's priests should feel both free of sin and erotic, an
unmistakable combination he'd kept from coming together for millennia
. . . yes, there was one . . . another. One male, one female--Sister
Mary Piety and Father Mike Odeon. Piety was no surprise, but he'd have
thought it too early for Odeon's tempering, and he frowned at the
timing. He'd expected perhaps another year; now, it seemed, contact
and final testing would be within months. Part of him regretted that
the speed would cut short his enjoyment of Odeon's suffering--at his
hands, anyway; if Odeon survived the tempering and made the correct
final decision, his foes in the wars to come would insure far more
suffering than Shayan himself could hope to inflict. Well, time to
begin the tempering, with a lesson his "student" would never forget.
*Wake up, Priest!*
More
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