Immortal
Deflagration
Immortal Deflagration
A Tale in 13 Chapters Story
By Savannah Verte
Published by
Eclectic Bard Books
USA
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased is coincidental. The characters, names, plots, or incidents within are the product of the author’s imagination. References to actual events or locations are included to give the fiction a sense of reality.
Copyright 2017, Savannah Verte
All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form, by any means without written consent from Savannah Verte.
Cover design: Suzanna Lynn, Funky Book Designs, 2017.
ISBN: 978-1548189563 (Trade Paperback)
AISN: (Amazon)
DEDICATION
For my amazing co-authors in Sultry & Sinful: The Femmes of Paranormal set where this story first appeared.
One person, reading one story that brings awareness to the under-represented genre of F/F stories is a win in my book. I wouldn’t have wanted to do it with any other group.
You all are my heroes forever.
Love Is Love.
Acknowledgements
To everyone. This story was part of a set that endeavored to show that there is more to romance than traditional pairings and M/M…which seem to have growing reader groups. While we didn’t break open the sky, we did succeed in parting the clouds…any person who had a part in that, or this going forward…this is for you.
Deflagration
The action of changing a substance until it burns from flames to explosion, driven by the transfer of heat; to burn or cause to burn with great heat and intensity.
Chapter 1
You would think that, “I know” was a sufficient response to the charge, “You’re a bastard Seychelle.” Once upon a time, I thought so too. But, as I have learned, we would both be wrong. What is true, is that it doesn’t matter if I respond or not, the opening volley is just that, an opening volley to a larger conversation listing the litany of my supposed sins because I didn’t know my paternal heritage. Actually, I know exactly who my father is, I’m just not inclined to share it with the rest of the world.
My mother, Cinnabar, learned that she was pregnant with me less than a month after her first golden invitation to one of Tyrian’s witch’s orgies. Tyrian was an elder. My mother was not. With her pregnancy, her first invitation became her last. I had no doubt that she blamed me both for the lack of repeat invitation, and for her abrupt return to the servant class.
I suppose, as orgies go, if you were only going to get to do one in your lifetime, Tyrian’s celebration for the Festival of Dionysus would be the one you wanted to go to. Somehow, that detail never factored in for my mother. I can’t honestly say I understood what the big draw was, but I’ll get to that later. She reminded me often that becoming pregnant with me had cost her the opportunity to move up the social ladder. It was a roundabout way of making sure I understood that I was a mistake. Believe me, I understood.
Others in our Coven, most of them anyway, managed to be less direct while I was growing up, whispering and pointing from corners as if I couldn’t see, or hear. Once I was older, that changed. Sure, I had heard the whispers all of my life, but there was at least an attempt, thinly veiled though it had been, to spare me. Once I was a teen, they felt compelled to directly cement my understanding of the situation. “Maybe when your ability finally appears, we’ll be able to figure out who your sire is.” They would say it as though I was an animal instead of a person. For me, there was a greater satisfaction in keeping the truth from them. Somehow, in my mind, letting them in on my secret meant they won. I was not about to let that happen. Just how long I could keep it that way, was a fear that grew daily.
For most witches, abilities reveal themselves somewhere around the time of our official “Coming of Age” ceremony. And, if they haven’t, Chantelier, the High Priestess, goes to great lengths when it is our turn, to try to force them to manifest in front of the group. As luck would have it, my ability became known early, at least to me. It was shocking, and an abrupt shift to my reality. I am a dreamwalker. One night, quite a few years ago now, I went to sleep like any other night, and woke later in darkness, tangled in damp sheets with my heart racing, fighting not to cry out for what I had become part of. People, witches included, dream some crazy shit.
With the arrival of my ability, I became nearly certain who my father was. Since abilities tend to stay within family groups, the number of possibilities got exponentially smaller for whom my father might be. Weeks upon weeks of searching to find out who of the dreamwalkers were actually present at Tyrian’s orgy reduced the number to two. If I’m honest, neither possibility thrilled me. One, Tyrian himself, actually terrified me. But, after several dalliances through his dreams, I became convinced it wasn’t him.
Sure, Tyrian liked his parties. It was well known that he got off from the power of directing activity. Sitting in his throne, for lack of a better word, up on the platform above the floor where mounds of bodies were often found gyrating, or in the throes of various activities, he didn’t bother to hide his arousal. If anyone else ever paused to actually notice however, they would find he never, or very seldom ever, participated. It wasn’t something that was actually advertised, or the topic of conversation, at least not in any conversations I was part of.
I started paying attention after finding myself in one of his dreams. I was a spectator, not a participant, not that I could have been. It seemed that Tyrian preferred his humps to be male. My mother was definitely not male, which left the other possibility, as the remaining probability; Tyrian’s brother Tybor was my father.
Chapter 2
Shortly after my 18th birthday, it was my turn for the ceremony. Every young witch of age was presented to the Coven, and his, or her, talent was revealed. The usual suspects were all present. Teleportation, alchemy, transmutation, and divination seemed to be popular. Waiting for my turn, I noticed that no one else was a dreamwalker. With Tyrian’s proclivities, and Tybor’s unmated status, I suppose the chances of another dreamwalker in the mix were slim.
My palms were sweaty, and my body was covered with goosebumps before it was my turn. I had to fight extremely hard to keep my nervousness at bay. Everyone that had gone before me had known abilities. I had no idea what to expect would happen if I didn’t reveal my talent. Actually, I did, but I was working hard at denial. I knew that when my turn came, if I announced that I was a dreamwalker, one of two things would happen. Either, one, some form of proof would be demanded, or two, there would be uproar over the announcement. For whatever reason, my paternity had been the source of gossip for so long now, that everyone was waiting expectantly.
I was next. I vacillated on what to do, deciding finally as I stepped up to be presented that unless somehow compelled, I would not be revealing what my ability was. I moved to the center of the gathering and stood next to Chantelier. “Seychelle Enteri, by the Goddess and her consort, we welcome you, and acknowledge you to be a member of our Coven today.” She said dramatically.
I dipped my head in response, folding one leg behind me gently. For the others, at this point they spoke in acceptance and proceeded to announce their talent. My mouth was dry as I raised back up to my full height. “Thank you Priestess. I accept my role, and the responsibilities of membership.” I managed to get out, barely above a whisper.
“Do you offer unto us your ability?” She prompted.
I shifted from foot to foot as delicately as I could manage. I could feel the eyes of every member present waiting for my next words. The energy
of the group was thrumming. I could feel it racing through my body and back to ground repeatedly. I hesitated my decision for just a moment, but in the end, couldn’t bring myself to do it. “No Priestess, I do not.”
The collective gasp from the gathered crowd was deafening. The look on Chantelier’s face was indescribable. A cross between something that resembled horror, shock, confusion, and disapproval flashed over her features and back again several times. If she wanted to rebuke me openly, she didn’t. Instead, as I have seen before, she moved closer to me before speaking, barely above a whisper, to me and me alone. “Do you mean to say that you will not share your ability, or that you do not know your ability to be able to share it?” She pulled back and stared me down.
Her direct question left little room to wiggle. For as cold as my mother had been most all of my life, lying was never part of it. I had always known definitively where I stood with her, and others around us, as no one deemed it necessary to keep their opinions hidden. I could see the crowd beyond the High Priestess leaning in, waiting for me to respond. My choices were to incite chaos, or lie. I chose to lie.
“I do not know what ability to share.” I answered finally. It was a delicate lie. I knew full well that the crowd was waiting for my greatest ability, the talent that would most likely align me to my paternal lineage, but I also knew that I could possibly still keep it hidden and comply with the question. It would mean revealing a lesser ability. Or, it could mean that I would not get to choose. The risk was high, and growing, but I placed my bet.
Chantelier studied me. For as often as I had been scrutinized by others during the course of my lifetime, her inspection was the only one that managed to unnerve me. I nearly caved before she finally stepped back. Unfortunately, her retreat was temporary. She stepped up again, dropping her voice, and spoke just above a whisper. “Do you find that you have more than one ability?” She asked with her head canted sideways as her eyes narrowed again.
Utilizing my nervousness, I offered a lesser talent in answer. “I have found that I’m fairly proficient at scrying. It just doesn’t feel like a very big thing to offer.” I replied quietly.
The moment I feared came up suddenly. As she responded, “No, I suppose not.” she brought her hands up, palms facing my skull with fingers spread, and began chanting. I had seen her do this before to reveal latent talents. I clenched everything in my body that was clenchable, but tried to remain appearing relaxed to the rest of the group. I needed to lock down my ability from being revealed. I had no idea if I could actually do it or not. I put my will into overdrive.
What she found, or didn’t find, I don’t know. When she was done chanting after a third round, she dropped her hands, and turned to the crowd. “Seychelle offers scrying to the Coven.” She announced.
The energy that had raced my veins, died abruptly. The entire gathering deflated before my eyes as the anticipation went unfulfilled. It did not escape my notice that I had been saved for last. It took everything I had not to snicker at the notion that the crowning jewel of the ceremony had been snatched away and was still mine for now. At least, I hoped.
Chapter 3
Three years after my ceremony, I tripped into a dream that changed everything. Up to that point, I managed, surprisingly, to keep from sharing my ability with anyone else in my Coven. Things change quickly when you find yourself in the dream of the Coven’s High Priestess though, or rather, that she notices you in her dream.
It was a remembered dream, that much I could tell. Chantelier was an observer of herself and a male from another time and place. What had transpired up to my intrusion, was mysterious. The male, whom she addressed as Pan, was set off from her by some unseen barrier. The Priestess was taunting him. I watched her change forms between that of herself, and that of another female in the process. Judging by her breathing, she was enjoying the replay now, as much, or more as she had then.
In the dream, Chantelier was cupping and plucking at the hardening peaks of her nipples, teasing them mercilessly. She let out a breathy squeak at the pressure. She didn’t smile or gloat when Pan’s eyes flew open at the sound, instead she increased her assault to the angry blushing tips. He was transfixed. To tell you the truth, so was I.
Testing her command of his attention, she walked a few steps around the barrier beyond his peripheral vision. His head followed her progress. She moved away to where a cloak laid on the floor and deliberately set herself upon it. Not fully facing him, but not turned completely away either, she resumed stroking her body in long gliding movements, stopping between them to pull at the hard points of her breasts. The male was obviously fighting hard not to be aroused by her actions. He wasn’t succeeding.
She changed the path of her strokes to run up the junction of her thighs, obviously turning herself on. Pass by pass, she crossed and re-crossed the apex of her sex before allowing one leg to fall aside. His hands came up to run through, and pull at his own hair. The thong that bound his long locks was abysmally askew.
She was slick. As if he wasn’t aware, she brought her wet, glistening fingers up to her vision before cleaning them off with her tongue. His response was a loud groan.
With one hand firmly encasing a breast, she slid the other one down, and through the seam of her parted legs. She made a show of coating the layers of flesh between her thighs liberally with the abundant nectar of her body. Pan was pacing. He tried repeatedly to turn away, only to return to the point nearest her perch to watch her stroke herself higher.
She made an exaggerated show of dipping her fingers deep inside. She released the hand from her breast and moved it down to pull back the hood that covered the cleft of herself before pulling the thick liquid from her center, and putting her slick fingers on the revealed hardening knot. She began turning.
I’m not going to lie. It was incredible to watch. Pleasure for her, torture for him. His guttural objections died in his throat as she rolled her fingers faster over the swollen, angry bead.
He moved his hands to cover his ears when she cried out from the growing waves of pleasure that threatened. She was close…so close to releasing, but she eased off just enough to drag the event out longer. I was as frustrated as Pan seemed.
Try as he might, he could not keep himself looking away. Chantelier made sure each time he tried, to make an irresistible noise to draw him back. Once she was panting, and starting to randomly buck against her own hand, he stopped trying not to watch.
I found myself transfixed too. I also found myself busted. At what point exactly she stopped watching herself, and started watching me watching her dream, I really had no idea. When I noticed, there was no doubt whatsoever she knew I was present. Her eyes were locked on mine when I finally glanced up.
My escape was temporary. The shock of being seen woke me abruptly. It was only a matter of time before she hunted me down, or I was summoned to her. The better option was to go to her first. I was dreading it like nothing else.
My body and senses were undeniably aroused. There was no time to explore the sensations. I washed quickly with cold water, and grabbed a loose fitting sheath. When Chantelier’s chamber doors opened, I was already waiting. She summoned me in with the crook of a single finger. The door was unceremoniously closed behind me with a loud ‘click.’
“How long have you been able to dreamwalk?” She opened without formality.
There was no advantage to lying now. The best I could hope for was to control the exposure. I was betting it was highly likely she would not want it known that I had been in her dream, or what I had seen. “For nearly seven years.” I answered quietly.
The already high arcs of her eyebrows shot even higher. “Seven?”
“Yes Priestess.”
I watched her blink more times than I could count in rapid succession. I guess I had the answer to whether or not I had successfully locked down my ability the day of my ceremony. She was obviously surprised. “And yet you chose to keep this to yourself?” She asked challengingly.
Surprisingly, her tone softened. “Will you tell me why?”
If it was a pebble, it was a boulder now lodged behind my larynx. I was finding it difficult to breathe, never mind get enough air to make words. I made a show of grabbing for lungful’s of air. If she minded, she didn’t reveal it, only stood waiting for me to eventually respond. For the lie I told her the day of my ceremony, I owed her the truth now.
“Because it was something everyone else wanted, but it was just mine. It was like somehow the sum total of my life was about that announcement, and who I was or wasn’t, all hinged on that one answer. I couldn’t bring myself to allow it. Even if no one else notices or knows, I am more than my ability and my father’s offspring.” I rambled out rapidly.
Chantelier didn’t immediately respond, instead stared at me for a long time, but it was not judgment I saw in her expression. “Does anyone else know?” She finally asked.
I shook my head. “Not that I am aware of. Up to now, I have managed not to be in the dreams of any other Coven members, or at least not long enough to be caught.” I answered, glancing away.
Her face was changed when I looked back at her. “I’m so pleased to know I could hold your attention.” She baited.
“Yes Priestess.” I offered simply. There was no way I was getting into a conversation about what I did or didn’t see, what I did or didn’t feel about what I saw, or the potential betrayals of my own flesh in response to what I did or didn’t witness. For seven years I had managed to keep my ability a secret. The circumstances of my discovery, could stay a secret at least that long as far as I was concerned.
Immortal Deflagration Page 1
