She writhed atop Sweetblood's amber sarcophagus, ancient incantations issuing from her mouth as she rubbed her body against its unyielding skin. Her magick slipped across its surface, hungrily searching for a way inside, and for a moment, she thought she had succeeded.
The chyrsalis shuddered, and Morrigan exerted even more of herself, eagerly grinding her sex against her prize in an attempt to coax the magick from the entrapped sorcerer within. If she searched for the flaw from without, and she could cause Sweetblood's own power to search for an exit from within… she sensed the power building within the amber and called to it sweetly in the voice of the ancients, urging it to burst forth from its confinement.
The chrysalis shook yet again and she cried out with passion. Morrigan was riding the crest of everything she had ever hoped for. The renegade Fey sorceress could see it all before her mind's eye as it came over the rise, glorious to behold. Her enemies vanquished, the world of Blight and then Faerie bowing to her every whim, with so many others to follow.
And all in the name of her true love. Her true passion. All that I do and all that I am, I dedicate to you, she thought. For though she had desires of her own, they existed solely for the glory of another. She would have all that she craved, but what she craved the most was the glint of loving approval in the eyes of The Nimble Man.
It is all so close, and coming closer. Close enough to touch.
Morrigan suddenly cried out, not in pleasure, but in excruciating pain. The chrysalis lashed out at her defensively, a pulse of arcane energy that repelled her, sent her sprawling across the room with such force that she struck the wall, cracking the mirrored glass, and fell limply to the floor.
The Corca Duibhne were terrified, but for the moment their fear of the mage was overwhelmed by their loyalty to their Mistress. Or, perhaps, their fear of Morrigan was simply greater. They swarmed around her, concerned for her safety, but none daring to put a hand upon her.
She lay upon the wood floor, her body smoldering. Morrigan had known that it was unlikely she would be able to breach the chrysalis so simply, even with its flaw, but still her blood burned with rage and humiliation. She wanted Sweetblood's power now.
Fury consumed her, and she gave herself over to it willingly. Morrigan sprang to her feet, lashing out at the Night People that huddled about, concerned for her. Her claws tore into their dark flesh and stinking blood spattered off the ballroom's mirrored walls. Rage contorted her features, surged through her veins, and magick would not satisfy her. She used her hands to tear at them, to break their bones, to eviscerate them. It had been some time since she had let herself go, giving into the bloodlust that had been with her since birth. It was ecstasy.
Dead Corca Duibhne lay at her feet, their blood collecting in shimmering dark puddles as Morrigan wrestled the rage back under control. The stink of new death around her, she took several long breaths before she felt capable of looking once more upon the object of her desire and her fury. The chrysalis stood unchanged, untouched, in the center of the room. But not for long. She would have the power she desired.
"Mistress."
The word was spoken by two voices in concert, and Morrigan turned toward the broad double doors of the ballroom. There stood Fenris and Dagris, the twin Fey warriors who served as her lieutenants. Each of the brothers held in his arms a struggling human child. The twins were freaks amongst their own kind, psychically bonded, one unable to exist without the other. They had some skill with magick, and great skill in battle, and their loyalty to her was the only emotion either of them felt that was not clouded with insanity.
The twins entered the room with proud smiles upon their gaunt faces. They had done precisely what had been asked of them, as always. As she had many times before, Morrigan congratulated herself on the decision she had made to free them from their imprisonment in Finvarra's citadel. She could not have found dogs more loyal.
The children wailed in terror, beating at their captors. Morrigan motioned for Fenris and Dagris to approach. The twins stepped forward, each of them holding out their terrified package. The babes were young, a boy and girl each no more than four years of age. Perfect, Morrigan thought, reaching out with a single claw to prick each of the children's mottled cheeks, drawing beads of blood. The babes screeched all the louder, and she brought the taste of them to her mouth.
"Yes," she said, satisfied with what she had sampled in the blood. "They should do nicely."
Morrigan smiled, her pleasure gradually returning. She had been impatient. Attempting to breach the chrysalis with only her own power had been vain and self-indulgent. Now, though, her hopes and dreams were only a blood ritual away.
"Do you have any sour cream?" the twisted little man with the strangely pointed ears asked her, even as he helped himself, yanking open the refrigerator to peruse its contents.
Julia Ferrick couldn't bring herself to answer. It was as if she were trapped in some bizarre fever dream, aimlessly walking around familiar dreamscape locations as the horrors continued to unfold. The odd, dwarfish man was but the latest addition to an equally strange cast of characters that had taken up residence in her home. Sitting at the marble-topped kitchen island, she gazed toward the window above the sink and saw the thick red fog swirl ominously about outside. The usual view of the trees in her backyard was completely obscured by the bizarre weather that had supposedly engulfed the city and its suburbs, at least that was what her visitors told her.
"You got some old milk in here… Christ, it's got the Lindbergh baby on the carton!" Squire turned toward her, wide-eyed. Then he gave her a terrifying smile, something out of Grimm's Fairy Tales. "Just kiddin'. Heh. But seriously, the sour cream gives it that little bit of extra somethin'," the man… she thought he was a man
… said as he pulled himself out of her refrigerator, arms filled with ingredients.
Julia went over to the oven and opened the cabinet above it. She pulled down a bag of Oreos and set it on the cooktop, then fished behind a jar of peanut butter to grab an unopened box of Winston Lights. Her fingers quivered as they retrieved the cigarettes. Then, quickly, she dug through a drawer for matches. It was her emergency pack. Her fallback, held for a time when it wouldn't matter anymore what Danny's reaction would be to her smoking again. She imagined it stenciled with the words In Case of Apocalypse, Tear Plastic.
There were no matches so she turned on one of the gas stove's burners and bent, shaking, to light the cigarette. The first intake of carcinogens was harsh relief. Her fingers stopped quivering. She gnawed her lower lip, then took another puff before blowing out a plume of smoke. Her back was to Squire.
"Feel better now? You needed a smoke, huh? I know the feeling. Not that I smoke but… Oh, hey, Oreos!"
When Julia spun to look at him again, Squire had already picked up the bag of Oreos and was helping himself. The package crinkled as he drew out a pair of cookies and popped them in his mouth like they were dog biscuits. She expected him to throw back his head and gulp them down, but instead he stared at her and then spoke up once more, talking with his mouth full.
"So. Sour cream?"
"What?" Julia asked him. "The sour cream… for what?"
Squire rolled his eyes, snatching another Oreo from the pack and then going back to the open fridge. He retrieved a couple of items from within and then closed the door with a bump from his hip. "For the omelets we're making for the hungry troops? Remember?"