Daphine lived on Earth, in an alternative dimension where women were
expected to be totally subservient and docile. She always knew there
was something wrong with her existence, but what was the alternative?
To be exiled, to live among the hunters outside the safety of the
cities, where life would hard and comfortless, and where, if she did not
fit in to this society either, she might well end up as no more than
bait to trap wild animals.
And yet, Daphine was certain there had to be something more. She
had to find it; she had to run. But even in her wildest dreams, Daphine
could never have imagined that her destiny, her love, waited for her
far across the Universe in another Realm altogether. And even in her
most terrifying nightmares, she would not have dreamt that her partner
would be a demon… no, not just a demon: her partner was The Demon King.
The Demon remained silently gazing across the desert landing
field; across the shuttles he had been awarded to build a fleet, towards the
cavern that contained his vault and riches of nelam
gem befitting a king, and towards the palace built deep into the side of a
solid vichan mountain. Desolatia’s orbit
matched their own, blocking them from the sun. Palacia remained in eternal night, with the
light from its three small moons reflecting off the desert sands and the black vichan nelam found in abundance
on the Eighth Realm world. The Demon’s
eyes rose to the naturally formed spires rising from his palace. “We have accomplished much, Magistrate.”
Victorel touched his arm, drawing
his attention away from his kingdom. “Will she do it?” Their eyes
met. “All these riches and power mean
nothing without her. I know this. I know your pain when your Dark Queen
withered. I see the anger deep in the
depths of your eyes as you try to rejoice with those of us who are mated. We have no secrets, Marcerell. Will she do it?”
The Demon’s attention drew to the Third Realm shuttles
departing the surface. “She says she
will try.” The Celestial’s Commander was
aboard one of the vessels, carrying a vial of his marker in her pocket. Rue could be trusted with his secret. Both he and Victorel
knew she was his only hope. “She is not
pleased. I could see it in her eyes and
hear it in the evasiveness of her words. She fears me, and balks at the task and thought of leaving a woman with
me.” The Demon sighed. “If my mate is found among the primitives of
her world, she may never bring her to me.”
“This Ark they speak of…” Victorel
began.
“Is the same vessel that was commanded by Tirella.” The Demon watched as his own newly acquired
shuttles departed, delivering the disgraced former commander and his crew to
exile on the small world orbiting Palacia between the
second and third moons.
“Commander Isari says the ProcurerEthram now commands the Ark. He has spent nepits
with the Gardeners learning their scrolls. His experience and knowledge will overrule Rue’s fear. His only concern is for the marker. If he finds one that matches, he will see she
is brought to you,” Victorel reasoned.
The Demon gripped Victorel’s arm,
almost breaking the bone.
Victorel remained calm, though
wincing under the pressure. “I did not
tell Isari. I
merely asked who would command the Harvesting Fleet now that Tirella was relieved of the duty.”
The Demon released his arm. “I should have known you would not divulge my weakness.”
“It is not a weakness to desire a mate. I remember my depression before I met Vistasa.” Victorel avoided mention of the Demon’s despair since the
Dark Queen withered. His King had not
rebuilt his nest, and spent many nights sitting in his chair beside the empty
space in his chamber, drinking Vulturian wine or
liquor until sleep claimed him and tortured him with dreams that turned to
nightmares. Victorel’s
guilt lay in the way he studied the Demon’s eyes and the shadows beneath them,
searching for signs of regression. As
long as the King remained hopeful a true mate would be found for him, he could
hold the darkness at bay. “She will
bring her, Marcerell. Ethram will find her, and Rue will bring her
to you.” I just hope it is in time.
The Demon King nodded, and walked towards his chamber,
leaving his Magistrate to join the celebration already underway in the banquet
hall. Marcerell
could hear the distant voices of his people echoing off the nelam
walls of the corridor as they rejoiced another success towards reclaiming their
reputation after the disgrace Vulchana had brought
upon them.
Alone, the Demon sat in the darkness, once more letting
drink enhance his weariness and desperation. His thoughts turned to dreams of a new mate; a true mate. A slight smile smoothed his brooding
expression as he searched for her face and tried to envision her. Her features sharpened, and soon the pleasant
dream turned into the nightmare that had become his Dark Queen. His glass slipped from his fingers. “Damn you,” he murmured. Even on this night, with a vial of hope being
carried across Realms to the Ark, the creature would not let him go. Her talons clawed at his memories, spinning
him back in time as they always did.
He watched her closely… the way her hair fell over her
shoulders and trailed over her small breasts, her pale skin slickened with
sweat shining in the torchlight and causing the wispy dark strands to stick to
her skin like dozens of thready snakes. Her thin arms showed no contoured muscle as
she hung limp in her chains, her hands no longer able to grip the links. Her small wrists held all her weight as her
toes curled backwards towards the soles of her feet, refusing to support her.
She had been captured two days ago, and it had taken Marcerell that long to free himself from his King’s petty
tasks to visit her cell. She looked
wasted and defeated by her isolation in the stone chamber. The guards had done little but strip and
secure her in their haste to leave to the safety of the corridor and lock the
strong door behind them.
The reason was clear; for the woman, the creature,
represented the darkness that threatened to consume all who fell into the
lustful depravity and excesses Vulturia offered. The emaciated form did not struggle in her
chains. She had already succumbed to the
reality of her fate. She was but another
regressed citizen, too frail and fragile to curb her desires. A sad representation of what was becoming a
more regular inhabitant of the Demon’s dungeon.
Here, in the black vichan
catacombs that made up the Royal Prison, Marcerell
was a god. The King had no presence in
this place, preferring the luxuries of his palace and to leave this
unpleasantness to his High Guard. Their
ruler turned his back on the truth of the darkness sucking the light and life
from his citizens.
Traveling the passages and corridors since he was a
child, Marcerell needed no torch to light the way as
he followed his father, the High Guard before him. And Marcerell
learned the tenuous line between erotic fulfillment
and regression. His painful
ministrations to prisoners became legendary and caused fear in the village
beyond the palace walls. It was there,
in Vulturist, he first heard the frightened whispered
voices call him ‘Demon’.
The moniker suited him. He could emerge unnoticed from the darkness of the shadows with only the
dim light from distant sources reflected in his pitch eyes. Silently striding through the corridors, his
black hair hung past his shoulders and rested on his spine between his
luxurious span of ebony quills. His
muscles were honed to perfection, kept taut and lean through the continual
exercise tormenting and torturing prisoners with the pleasurable devices at his
disposal and the leather whip coiled at his side.
It was this shining coil of pleasure resting against the
man’s thigh that caught the woman’s attention. Her eyes fixed on the whip, and she wailed a pitiful, yearning
moan. And as the Demon removed his vest
and allowed his wings to spread open in a frightening display, Marcerell stared at her and felt his stomach clench and his
shaft respond. Her form had not changed
from the wasted mongrel he had seen when he first entered her cell. Ah, but her eyes. The black soullessness shone with a subtle
green flare in the center. She licked her lips in a mixture of fear and
anticipation.
She goaded him. Encouraged him to whip her. Promised him the erotic pleasures denied to him because of what he
represented and who he was. And as his
whip lashed out she responded in passion, climaxing as the leather stroked her
skin and moaning with her need.
She promised him everything for the kiss of his whip,
long past necessity. For at this first
meeting, perhaps when her eyes first looked into his, the Demon knew he loved
her.
When the new King ascended, Marcerell
left the dungeon. He retired to his
apartments on the outskirts of Vulturist,
securing his creature in the darkness of his rooms. Marcerell spent
years watching the shadows engulf the village below, scheming a way to stop the
regression. The King he had served
ignored the warnings and now neither the new ruler nor the Demon’s successor as
High Guard had ambition to issue or enforce laws to keep the darkness at bay.
Though far removed from the palace, Marcerell
knew what transpired behind the vichan walls. It was soon after he moved to his apartments
that a boy knocked on his door. The
Demon could see the terror in the young man’s eyes, but there was a burning
commitment and knowledge in his wide stare. His name was Victorel and he swore allegiance
to Marcerell, offering to help him try to return Vulturia to the light. He became the Demon’s spy.
Nepits passed with the
inky blackness of corruption leaching through their world and grasping at the
last of the light. When Vulchana became Queen, the depravity and excess was
encouraged. Though few knew her secret,
the Demon was fully aware that the Queen, herself, was regressed. She was the first child born of the darkness,
inherited from the sexual exploits of her parents. Victorel became her
confidant and Magistrate, insinuating himself as her lover until her erotic
tastes became too dangerous and dark. By
then, she relied on him and allowed him to keep his position, as long as he
provided her with lovers and the ‘other things’ she needed to satiate her
desires.
Vulchana’s ambition
threatened their world as her needs grew from merely encouraging Vulturia to embrace the shadows, to sucking the very light
from the worlds surrounding them. Her
manipulations and deceptions began Ninth Realm’s Chaos Wars that raged for
almost a nepit before she was defeated.
And while she conquered world after world, striving to
capture the light from Allustaria, Victorel remained faithful to the Demon. He stole some of the nelam
from each successful battle, hiding it far into the Wasteland beyond Vulturist. Victorel waited only long enough to see the Dark Queen
plummet from the sky, shrieking as her wings burned. Vulchana’s fall
from the throne left her singed and blinded on the surface of the ice-world of Allustaria.
Returning to the safety of their shadowed world, the
warriors left the warship, spreading their wings and flying to the surface of Vulturia to commiserate the loss of their Queen by drowning
in erotic debasing excess. The time to
end the dark reign had come and Victorel met with the
Demon. With regressed citizens in frenzy
over Vulchana’s defeat, it was easy to collect the
fearful citizenry that had not succumbed to darkness. From the hidden place in the Wasteland, they
shuttled the pilfered nelam needed to power the
warship and left Vulturia to sink into the fathomless
pit of depraved lust and shadows the creatures craved.
And the Demon brought his lover. In his eyes, she had calmed and tamed with
his careful training and was returning to the light. Marcerell named her
his Queen.
Victorel carefully masked
his horror, realizing Marcerell had not only kept the
creature from the dungeon as a toy to vent his anger at the darkness, but also
that the Demon could no longer see her regression. During his visits to the Demon’s quarters, Victorel shivered when the new Dark Queen spoke to
him. Her raspy guttural lisp enhanced
the insanity of her words. But if the
Demon thought it unusual that his Queen remained in chains, hanging in the
corner of his warship’s compartments, he gave no indication.
A seeping, anxious dread filled Victorel
as he realized the further they traveled from the
darkness of Vulturia, the more the Demon’s lover
wasted in her despair. By the time they
settled on the surface of Palacia, the creature could
barely stand. Within a year, Marcerell took her down from her chains and placed her in
the nest in his chamber.
Victorel sat with him,
quietly sipping whiskey and realizing the Demon understood that by removing her
from the darkness, he had killed her. It
was only when she lay curled and decaying in the black feathers of his nest, no
longer enticing him with her gaze, Marcerell could
see he spent his years with her talons gripping his heart. To all but Victorel,
the Demon concealed his anguish over her loss as he built his new kingdom on Palacia.