by S. K. Yule
In one uncharacteristic moment, one split second, he had let his guard down, and she’d pounced. She had never let him explain that he was an Akem soul-demon who took only the bodies of those who were truly evil. Instead, she had immediately condemned him as an abomination.
Most humans, at least the ones who knew of his kind’s existence, considered him an abomination for no other reason than because he was different. Humans didn’t like things they couldn’t explain away, and he was undeniably unexplainable in their minds.
He had wanted to ring Lily’s graceful neck at the time. There were too many murders, rapes, and abuses being committed that he could stop. He had a conscience, damn it, and he helped people by removing harmful assholes off the streets.
But his anger at Lily had faded over time, as he came to an understanding of why she had done what she had. She thought she’d been doing the right thing, because she had confused him with Creod soul-demons. Even though technically the Creod were his brothers—he preferred to think of them as the yin to his yang—he hated the cold bastards. They were non-discriminatory in their hunts and didn’t care whose soul they stole—women’s, children’s, men’s—it didn’t matter. All were prey to them.
He considered himself one of the good guys, although that might be stretching the truth a bit. He tried to be fair and honest, and he truly wanted to erase evil off the face of the earth, even though, deep down, he knew it was an impossible task—this, ironically, coming from a creature born of Hell.
He was judge and jury of the unsavory, and dealt quick, irrevocable sentences that were always the same—one-way tickets to Hell. There were times, though, when the sentence wasn’t quick, like when he came upon an exceptionally evil soul. Those got his special treatment. The kind of special that consisted of him drawing out the suffering for as many long, agonizing breaths as possible.
If getting satisfaction from an evil soul’s realization that there would be no chance for its survival, and the sheer terror that set in as a result, made him unsavory, so be it. Cyrus fed off that fear and enjoyed the knowledge that he gave it a taste of the agony so many of its victims had endured.
The murderer would experience the panic, the sadness, the anguish of knowing that he would never see a loved one again. The rapist would feel defeated, used, angry, and ashamed. The abuser would feel the frustration, the fear, the anxiety of wondering when the next blow would come. The molester would feel the confusion, the complete helplessness that a child felt at the hands of an adult who should be the protector instead of the inflictor of pain.
Relief bled through him like thick molasses, something he’d not experienced in fifty years. It was almost time to resume his duties. The witch’s soul was slipping from her earthbound body. He could feel it happening at this moment, and when she drew her last breath, the spell would be broken.
He took a deep breath and felt the invisible ropes binding him slowly unwind, tendril by tendril. So close. The witch was nearing her last breath. He waited in anticipation of his freedom.
Then, as suddenly as he had been bound, he was freed.
Cyrus sighed in relief and immediately began hunting for a meat suit, as he liked to call his earthly host.
His nearly invisible form—appearing to anyone who might spy him as nothing more than a trail of mist—floated through the streets until he found a particularly seedy part of town. A bar with a large neon sign blinking over it that used to say Ruby’s before the B burnt out sat like a beacon of invitation. About thirty motorcycles were parked out front, and the deep thumping base of music playing inside spilled out into the streets and floated through the night breeze.
Yeah, this was the kind of place one could find some evil son of a bitch to possess. If Cyrus had had a nose, he was sure he’d be able to smell the depravity wafting in the air.
He drifted inside and floated over the occupants. The waitresses were hardened to the pawing and rude behavior of the men, and appeared worn, frazzled, and tired. Probably had a houseful of kids to get home to and a deadbeat husband lying on the couch drinking beer and watching sports—or porn—on a tiny television with aluminum foil wrapped around the rabbit ears.
The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke, booze, piss, and body odor. The brown paneling was old and peeling in several places, and the wood floor had several mismatched boards from patch jobs. Most of the ugly, chocolate-brown bar stools had tears in the seats, and the bartender was sitting behind the bar puffing on a cigar.
Cyrus observed the occupants for a while. Three drunks—two with beer bellies, and the third an old skinny guy—sat at the bar, each with a glazed-over sloshed dullness in their eyes. When he peeked into their minds—mind reading was a curse and perk all rolled into one neat ball—there was nothing in them but the fog of a blissful high. Ten greasy bikers surrounded the pool table, placing bets on the next shot, anticipation running high of a possible win and even higher at the prospects of a fight. A group of men playing cards sat at two tables pushed together, holding on to the last shred of hope that enough money would be won to buy the next fix of drugs. None of them were prime prospects, but then…
Sitting in a dark corner were a man and a petite, red-haired woman. Cyrus drifted closer and listened to their thoughts and conversation.
The man’s name was Jimmy and the woman’s, Daisy. Not that names mattered much since he used his own name, Cyrus Drakar, once he took possession of a body. He was a pretty decent looking guy—tall, thick black hair, and clear gray eyes. Cyrus didn’t want to be vain, but, hell, if he was going to putter around in someone else’s body for a while, he wanted to be good looking. If he took the man’s body, the first act he’d perform in his new digs would be showering with lots of soap.
“Look, you’ll do what I tell you.” Jimmy’s voice came low and threatening. “You understand?”
“Jimmy, please don’t ask me to do this.” Daisy wrung her hands then suddenly stopped, dropping them to her lap as if trying to avoid drawing attention to the action.
Jimmy slapped her across the face then leaned close. “I’m not asking.”
Daisy didn’t cry. She sat, numb, as if used to the abuse.
Apparently, Jimmy had a drug distributing business going on and wanted Daisy to play whore to his potential customers. Jimmy seemed a bit too pleased with his abuse of Daisy, as if he were proud of the way he had her too scared to do anything but what he told her to do. He’d threatened to kill her if she left him, and she was obviously too frightened to do so. Cyrus had no doubt Jimmy would carry out his threat, since he had killed before. Daisy’s time would be limited if she stayed with Jimmy, and she wanted out…bad. If Cyrus took his body, he would be helping Daisy and saving countless others that Jimmy might come across in his lifetime.
The way Jimmy’s brain replayed the horrible things he’d done, relishing them, as though those memories would tide him over until he could perform some other depraved act, made Cyrus itch to get his hands on the bastard.
The anticipation of getting a body after fifty years crept through him, warmed him, excited him.
Almost as good as sex.
He called upon all his self-control, waiting impatiently for the bar to close before following Jimmy and Daisy back to their crappy, tiny trailer in an even seedier part of town. He wanted to wait until the over-indulgence of alcohol lulled Jimmy into the false security of sleep before taking his body, but if the bastard started rutting all over Daisy, he’d do it before Jimmy could hurt her again.
Thankfully, as soon as the two got inside, Jimmy fell face down onto the couch. Daisy went to the cramped bedroom in the back. Cyrus waited until Daisy was asleep and made his move.
He floated over his next body and pushed through the middle of Jimmy’s back.
Cyrus looked forward to the fight that would momentarily ensue, especially since he always won. Souls were not easy to steal. They were resilient, tough, had a zest for life. He hadn’t yet met a soul that was keen on the idea of death.
/>
Too bad, Jimmy Boy, your time is up.
Cyrus found Jimmy’s black soul crouching near his heart, and engulfed it. It fought admirably—they all did—but Cyrus was stronger. He suffocated the soul, giving it no choice but to vacate its home for a chance of survival elsewhere.
Within moments, Jimmy’s mouth opened, and when he gasped, his black soul, nearly invisible to the naked eye, floated out and sank toward the floor. Cyrus opened what were now his eyes, and watched Jimmy’s soul disappear.
Yeah, you rot in hell, you bastard.
Instinctively, human souls knew there was a chance for survival outside a body, but they weren’t aware that there were only three choices available for that survival. Up, down, or floating around in limbo. Cyrus and his kind were the only ones capable of possessing a body and keeping it alive after the original occupant died—or managing a hostile take-over, as he preferred to think of it.
Humans rarely survived possessions because most spirits were only capable of compromising weak souls, souls that were tired of living. They were easy to overtake and control. On the rare occasion possession happened to a strong-spirited individual, the traumatic event was likely to cause some form of mental damage.
When Cyrus was first created, and learned that spirits could not invade a body unless invited to do so, he wondered how possessions could happen at all. People didn’t casually throw out invitations to the undead.
But, live and learn he did.
Invitations came in many unwitting forms. A body could become receptive to possession by a simple wish—maybe something as seemingly innocent as the desire to be more open to the world—and the mentally unstable were especially vulnerable.
For the most part, ghosts had no desire to possess the living, or didn’t realize they could do so. Mainly, those lost souls floated around in limbo until whatever tied them to Earth was gone, whether it was a loved one, a task not finished, or simply not being ready to move on.
However, not all entities were so benign. There were also the Havoc spirits. They were nasty entities who liked to cause problems simply for the hell of it.
Cyrus ran his fingers through his greasy hair and dragged them over his face and skin, feeling the physical features he’d been deprived of for fifty years. It felt damn good.
But it was time to get the hell out of Dodge, and wipe out the stain Jimmy left on Earth once and for all.
Cyrus got up and started for the door when he heard a soft voice behind him. “Jimmy, are you okay?”
He turned to find Daisy standing in the bedroom doorway, failing miserably at trying not to look scared. She seemed lost, and he was glad she would get a fresh start without Jimmy. For once, Jimmy would be kind to Daisy. “Yeah, darling. Go back to bed.”
Daisy’s eyes widened, as if shocked by his soft tone.
Cyrus sighed and walked toward her, watching as she tried to stop herself from shrinking away from his approach, an act she most likely got slapped silly for. He raised his hand, and Daisy flinched before he softly stroked his knuckles down her cheek. She kept her eyes tightly closed, as if she were waiting to be punched.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. I’m sorry I’ve been such a prick to you. You’re a beautiful, special woman, and you don’t deserve to be treated like shit.”
Her eyes opened wide. “Are you sure you are okay?”
Cyrus watched tears pool in her eyes and read thoughts that drifted to earlier times when Jimmy had been gentler with her, and she had loved him—times before the money trouble and drugs.
Cyrus kissed her on the forehead. “Go back to bed. I’m going to get some fresh air.”
God, he ached for a woman. He could have Daisy, and he’d make it enjoyable for her, but that would make him no better than Jimmy or the next scumbag. He’d be a rapist, and he wouldn’t sink that low.
He didn’t mind making a woman submit, was pretty open to bondage and other fun games, but only if the lady was willing. He would never intentionally make a woman uncomfortable during sex, and Daisy would be uncomfortable, if nothing else.
Cyrus turned and walked to the door where he was stopped once again by her soft voice. “Jimmy, thank you.”
After everything Jimmy had done to her, she was thanking the bastard for a few kind words? Jimmy didn’t deserve Daisy, and she certainly didn’t deserve the likes of Jimmy.
“Don’t thank me. Just promise me something. Don’t settle for anything less than your dreams, okay?”
Cyrus turned his back and walked out of the trailer, and away from Daisy. Daisy would never see Jimmy again, and soon she would realize what a true blessing that was.
He got on Jimmy’s bike and made his way out of town. He didn’t care for motorcycles much. He preferred sleek, fast sports cars, and he would remedy that situation tomorrow. He also didn’t like dirty, beer-soaked clothes, greasy hair, or body odor. He would take care of all that tomorrow as well.
Tonight, however, he would ride as far away from here as the next twelve hours would take him. Wherever he was at that time, was where he would form his new life…at least until he took another body and moved on. Things never got redundant or boring.
He exited the sleazy town and roared onto the highway. The cold air felt good on his skin. Cyrus experienced nothing when he was in demon form. Not caresses, pain, pleasure, taste, nor smell…nothing. He had missed the sensations of corporal life. He couldn’t wait to bite into a giant steak and savor the taste of the meat and juice as it coated his tongue. He also looked forward to sinking inside a woman, to feeling that incredible warmth and wetness surround his cock. His new body twitched in anticipation at the mere thought. There were many things he’d missed, and he didn’t know which one to do first.
He tossed his head back, laughed at the joy of existing in the flesh once again, and throttled the motorcycle hard, sending it roaring down the highway.
* * * *
“Isssabellllle, I’m commming for you.”
Isabelle tossed and turned, fighting the invading nightmare. It had been a while since Stephen had invaded her dreams, but his slimy face was making a re-entry into her subconscious tonight.
“I’m going to find you again.” The whispered voice was similar to fingernails on a chalkboard, grating down her spine.
She wanted to cover her ears with her hands, but she knew it wouldn’t block out the unwanted words crawling through her brain. “What do you want, Stephen? I’ve never done anything to you.”
“Oh, but you have. You can’t imagine how long I waited for the opportunity to possess a juicy tidbit like you. But you had to get clever, didn’t you? Just as I was about to win. Next time, I’ll get you. Next time, you will be mine. I’ve never liked losing, and you inspired feelings of revenge in me like I’ve never known.”
“It’s my body. How can you want revenge for losing something that was never yours to begin with?”
“I don’t care about your body, you stupid bitch. I only care about winning.”
“Then what? You want to kill?”
“It’s not as though I have anything better to do. Now, why don’t you be a good girl, and let’s get on with it!”
“No! Stay away from me, Stephen!”
Isabelle ran, but no matter how long she kept up the pace, Stephen stayed close behind.
The fight for her soul was happening all over again, drowning her in pain, fear, and anguish. She wanted to give in.
Just as Stephen was clawing at her soul, the pain receded, and fog swirled thickly around her, comforting her. She sighed, but her relief was short-lived.
She jumped when another man suddenly appeared with his back to her.
Curiosity eventually won out over apprehension, and she cautiously started toward him. “Who are you?” Her voice floated and echoed softly as it always did in her dreams.
The man remained motionless. He was tall, with an impressive muscular physique and thick black hair.
“Hello? What are you doing here?”
/> As she walked closer, the man took a few steps away from her. When he turned his head she caught a glimpse of his profile, which showed a straight nose, sculpted cheek and strong jaw line.
Damn. He was freaking gorgeous. He might be the sexiest man she had ever laid eyes on, and she was only getting half of a picture.
His lips moved as he whispered something, but she couldn’t hear what he said. He was getting farther and farther away, the fog closing around him, stealing him from her view.
“Wait! I can’t hear you.”
The man disappeared, and she was left standing alone in a nightmare gone…what, exactly?
Her body calmed, and she slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter Three
Isabelle woke the next morning with vivid memories of her dream. She shivered, disturbed by the mere thought of Stephen Banks.
But who was the mystery man who had made an appearance? It was as if he had chased Stephen away. Why would he do such a thing? Was it her mind’s way of coping with Stephen?
It may have been silly, but she felt as though the newcomer had been protecting her. She wasn’t one to shrug dreams off as inconsequential. She believed dreams were doors to the unknown, to the spirit world. One’s subconscious was receptive to things considered out of the norm when awake.
Not every single dream had to have a deep meaning, of course. Sometimes it was as simple as a warning to quit eating chocolate before your butt exploded out of your jeans.
Yet, many could contain important messages. The trouble and confusion lay with trying to filter the meaningless from the meaningful. The bigger problem was deciphering the code of the dream to figure out the message.
Isabelle laughed. I am pitiful. This is how I spend my spare time? She giggled again, then sighed. She needed to get out more.
She tossed the comforter back and looked at the clock. Good grief! It was eleven already. The session last night must have been more draining than she’d thought.
