Romantic Days, Romantic Nights

by Lynn Jae Marsh

  "No wonder you've gone bizzaro."

  "But I use whatever I need to get the job done, as you've discovered."

  "Dreamcast. So old-fashioned."

  "Yet you're here and my victory is in sight." Jock flicked his finger, and the wrap tightened around Lania, covering her from head to foot.

  "I don't want any of my brood to get the wrong idea. We are a fierce breed, and you are a quite a prize."

  "A spoil of war, as it were."

  "Not war, Lady. Destiny."

  "We're back to that."

  Jock turned from the screen to look at her. "Have you so forsaken the old ways, that you can no longer see the signs? Listen. What do you hear?"

  Lania turned away, rolling her eyes heavenward.

  "Listen. Thunder... Lightning... Wind. The First Sign of..."

  "...The Alpha," she finished. "Yeah, I know. I learned all about Wiccan Lore and Malki, the super-doom herald, when I was five. I also learned about the bogey man."

  "The Twelve Turns..."

  "News flash, handsome! Thunder is caused by expanding air along the path of the electrical discharge of lightning. That is, unless I get really, really, angry."

  "I remember," Jock said. "Once during the dreamcast, when I pushed you a little too hard, I saw a flash of your anger. It was like lightning. You remember. You took me in your mouth as I urged you to say the handfast words. You nipped me, right at the tip. I had the marks for days. The next night, I nipped you back when I exploded all over your bush."

  "They call it a nor'easter," Lania said as if he had not spoken.

  "I call it passion. I'm up."

  The circle on the computer screen was complete.

  An Asian boy-man with fresh-faced, good looks appeared on the screen. He spoke haltingly, his words out of sync with his image on the screen.

  "My liege," the lad said, "the lines here are erratic. I may not be able..."

  "Understood," Jock interrupted. "Time is short. We will continue."

  "Don't mind me," Lania quipped. "If you guys want to party, I'll just pack up and leave."

  "I didn't understand that, my prince." The lad craned his neck, trying to see the source of the feminine voice.

  "You need not be concerned," Jock spoke sharply, only to regret his temper.

  TaPai was a good kid, naturally inquisitive like most apprentices. Still, he knew better than to try to look at his liege-lady without the permission of his sovereign.

  "Brush up on your protocol," Jock said, softening the rebuke with a half-grin.

  "A thousand apologies, O Puissant Prince of the Darklings, for my lapse. My studies here have made me forgetful of etiquette."

  "Uh-huh."

  "That and the fact that it took you forever to succeed in the capture."

  TaPai's eyes mocked with laughter when he said, "I almost lost the bet."

  There was an outbreak of laughter as an international legion of faces flipped across the monitor screen. The languages were many; some of the accents, strange.

  Lania was impressed. Of course, she had heard of the might of the Darklings, but she had underestimated their strength on this plane of existence. They would be a formidable force once she was free.

  Jock scowled at the masculine raillery and then looked away. He allowed them their moment. In actuality, his brood was delighted that he had finally given them an heir. For years, they had been on his back about taking a mate, but Jock had known this destiny. He had known what would happen at the turn of the millennium within Twelve Turns of the Dark Moon.

  "If you're finished with the jokes at my expense," he said. "Let's begin."

  Chapter 3

  "Begin what?" the Whiteling princess asked.

  "You'll see shortly, Lady. Trust me, you won't be disappointed."

  Lania watched as Jock adjusted the circular window on the iMac computer. He rolled his thumb over the trackball and the window concaved until it was a pin-dot.

  "That'll give us some privacy," he said.

  Lania played her ace card. She could barely contain her glee.

  "Of course, you know that my coven will miss me. I'm due at our corporate meeting in oh, say, twenty minutes."

  "It's thirty minutes," Jock said, "and you won't be missed."

  "Okay, thirty minutes. Hard to tell time with your wrist chained to a wall. When I'm not there, some of the mothers will do a mental search. They will find me."

  "Not if they don't look."

  "You underestimate them. And me."

  "Never. I know your proficiency. Few of your race have reached the twelfth level. It makes you a worthy vessel to carry my son."

  "Then you know that they will find me."

  "They won't even look," Jock said. "I've covered all the bases. Even now as we speak, a dupleki demon is unlocking the door to your car. He'll take your place until after the handfast." He looked over at her. She was glaring at him as if she wanted to tear him limb from limb. He chuckled deeply. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear that you're trying to give me the evil eye."

  A hum in the background began, growing louder, until it was the distinctive sound of a chant. The rhythm was tribal, ancient, calling forth times forgotten by the many, remembered by the few, the dark forces, who still believed in magick.

  There was a sudden flash, so luminous that the light penetrated the heavy drapes. The walls shook with the force of it, and the cobblestone tiles beneath Lania's feet trembled. Then darkness.

  "Ooooooh," Lania said. "Somebody forgot to pay his electric..."

  She felt Jock's hands run over her body, pushing aside the clinging cloth. She felt the rough calluses of his fingertips, wondering how a man who was known for being bookish obtained them. He was so close, that even in the darkness, she could see the intensity in his eyes and the gleam of his scar.

  His hand zigzagged across her like a seductive snake. Her breast jiggled at his touch, growing firm and tempting. He stroked the nipple, then reached lower. His hand swept past her sweetly dimpled stomach, caressing her, wringing soft, reluctant moans of pleasure from her. Then, his hand swept lower, to cup her.

  Lania felt her the tight muscles of her vulva contract, tightening against her will. She fought against the sensations that he was inciting, commanding her traitorous body to remain passive under the assault. She willed herself to recite the rudimentary lexicon that she learned at the knee of the coven mothers, but her body refused to obey. She bit her bottom lip when he fingered her deep. Then gave up the fight, her body no longer able to resist. With knees quivering, she fucked his hand, moving in unison with his magick fingers.

  With the passion for completeness upon her, the prince plucked a few strands of her pubic hair. He cupped the treasure in his hand, growing hard-no, harder-at the pearly cum intertwined in the lock of her curly, white hair.

  He rubbed the treasure against the tip of cock and let the fire build in his loins. The heat was like a furnace in his balls as they flattened against him, preparing for his cum to shoot free. He came all over her, spurting like a high-powered fire hose, suddenly activated, until he drenched her.

  Resisting the urge to rest, he checked her eyes. They were glassy, her zombie-like stare gazing into nothingness.

  He smiled in satisfaction, knowing that his brood had served him well. He took a moment to telepath his thanks as well as his respect. The Curse of Strange Passion required a delicate balance of cooperation and intensity. His brood had not failed him and they had not failed the people of this plane of existence.

  Part of Jock regretted what he had done. He didn't want it to be this way with Lania. Although he knew the stakes-he knew that he had to marry her and that she had to marry him-he still wanted it to be right for her and for him. If truth were told, Jock was a romantic at heart. He couldn't read Merlyn's description of the love of Sir Lancelot and Lady Guinevere without getting choked up. Even though his destiny was mapped out at his birth and hers, he still wanted a courtship before the handfast.

&nb
sp; At the age of ascension, he had sought out information about his future bride. He couldn't believe that he was so lucky. Knowing the ultimate result if he didn't, he would have done his duty and married her if she had been a valveck crone, but he didn't have to face that fate. Lania was a beauty. White-haired, of course, the opposite of his midnight dark looks for she was the twin side of the same coin, and with long, long legs that went on forever.

  He had made all the right moves, sorting through the ancient text of Wiccan Lore to ensure that his courtship overtures were correct. His troth offering had been a delicate balancing of diplomacy and intimacy. It had taken him months to decide upon the right gift, and his brood had had a field day laughing at his rare indecisiveness.

  And what did she do? She threw it back in his face. Rejected him, as if he were some faerie. Him! He was the warrior prince of the Darklings, the absolute monarch of some 600,000 strong, living on this plane of existence. Was she crazy? Stupid? Foolish?

  He had to meet her.

  He had mirrored into her home, only for a few seconds. It was such a tiny, insignificant act, he had told himself. After all, he would never do anything like that to another woman. She was different; she was his future bride. Besides, she was being obstinate, refusing to accept her fate. He had stripped away the tapestry covering of the looking glass and had linked to her bedroom.

  She was lying on a canopied bed, her long hair indistinguishable from the plain white sleet draped across her. She seemed sleepless ... restless ... yet excited.

  Her hand touched her breast. It was a caress.

  She reached under the bed and pulled out a huge, black dildo. Jock's eyes widened. He had to wonder if he was outclassed.

  She pushed the button, and the head came to rotating life. She flipped onto her belly, giving Jock a delicious view of her plump ass in crotchless panties. She raised her ass up, pressing her breasts in the mattress. She inserted the dildo, slowly at first, but as her juices eased insertion, her thrusting became faster, faster, faster, until she humped the bed.

  She slumped into exhaustion, rolling onto her back. Her expression was relaxed, vacant in repose. Jock studied her face. She didn't seem happy or satisfied.

  Jock closed the link, ceasing to mirror. She would never have cause to be unhappy in his bed or to resort to devices for her satisfaction. He vowed that once she was his, once she was in his power, he would be in her often, pleasuring her often, so often she would barely remember when they weren't fucking.

  Now, she was in his castle, powerless.

  He checked her eyes again. The glassy stare remained, conclusive evidence that she was under influence of the curse. He propped his arm against the stonework, taking a few precious moments to enjoy looking at her. He studied each feature, trying to decide which was the most bewitching. He came to a rapid decision. It was her mouth. Full and made for kissing.

  He brushed his lips across hers, starting a fire in his blood. He leaned into her, letting her take his weight, letting her know him as a man. He plundered her mouth and the kiss grew deeper, more passionate, when she responded.

  She tried to wrap her arms around his neck, but the shackles stopped her. She whimpered, the chains striking against the stone from the force of her exertions.

  He unlocked the cuffs and swept her up into his arms. In three long strides, he had carried her to the ancient steps of the dais of the Darklings.

  The warlock prince stripped himself, then her. He rolled her under him, gasping at how soft her body was. He felt her hands busy at his hair. He raised her hips high, preparing for the deepest of deep penetration.

  She was quicker.

  She gripped his muscular ass, making him fill her with one cocksure thrust.

  He let her pump him for several seconds, giving her a taste, just a taste, of what she desperately needed.

  Then he pulled his prick out of her.

  "Lania, can you hear me?" he asked.

  She pumped against him, insistently.

  He withheld himself.

  "Lania, focus."

  She struggled, squirming.

  "Cease that," he said, planting his hand on her middle, holding her still.

  "Lania, listen. Do you want me to fuck you?"

  "Yes."

  "I want to fuck you. I won't. Not until after the handfast."

  His voice turned dark chocolate.

  "Do you remember the words?"

  She nodded her head.

  "Then speak them."

  "No."

  He fought down his anger.

  "I want to put my prick in you, Lady. I want to ride you, hard and fast and furious. I won't until you say the words."

  He circled her pulsing vulva with the tip of his prick. She panted at each circle, but did not speak. He put in the tip. She panted, harshly.

  "If you want more, talk to me, Lady. Talk to me."

  "I will never speak the words."

  "You will."

  He sheathed to the hilt. Sweat popped at his brow. He gave her three, swift strokes then stopped.

  A tear gathered at the corner of her eye.

  "Don't cry," he said.

  Her tears unmanned him. He didn't want her to be unhappy. Against his better judgment, he pumped her again.

  "Lady, make us both happy and said the words."

  "No."

  Hell and the devil. She was one strong-willed witch.

  Even in his frustration, he felt admiration for her ability to resist. The Curse of Strange Passion registered level nine, requiring three times the power of a normal witch to resist. Until now, he had never known of anyone who could do so.

  He tried a new tack.

  "You are?" he asked.

  "I am Lania Mills, the Sovereign Princess of the Whitelings."

  "I am?"

  "A bastard."

  "No."

  "A black-hearted scoundrel."

  "Try again."

  "A lying, no-good oath-breaker."

  "Lady, you push me too far."

  He withdrew from her, pulling from her cum-soaked muscles. His unexpected withdrawal left her wringing on the dais.

  "Never call me that again. Understand?"

  It took several moments, but she nodded. Jock could see the struggle going on inside her as her nature to dominate sought to be break free.

  "I am..." he asked again.

  "The warlock prince of the Darklings."

  "Good. Good."

  "What age is this, Lania?" He almost said, 'Lania, my truemate'.

  "The age of the new millennium."

  "What does that mean?"

  Her face crinkled in confusion.

  "Count the dark moons," he encouraged her, his hand stoking her breast. The nipple puckered to life. He bent his dark head and lathed it.

  "Twelve," she said.

  "The turns?" he asked.

  "Twelve."

  "Twelve Turns of the Dark Moon at the beginning of the millennium. What does it all mean?"

  "In Wiccan Lore?"

  "In Wiccan Lore. Recite it," he said, cupping her breasts together. They formed to twin globes under his gentle urging, the areolas very dark for one so fair.

  "According to Wiccan Lore..." she began, like a schoolgirl reciting the alphabet.

  "No, no, what does it mean. When she did not answer, he said, "It means this."

  He thrust in her, sending the message not only to her head above, but also to her delta below.

  "I don't know," Lania said.

  Jock's thrusting stopped in mid-thrust, unable to believe what he had heard. He stared at her, checking for the glassy eyes of the curse. She really didn't know, or in every fiber of her being, she did not-could not-accept her fate.

  She was passive beneath him.

  "Wiccan Lore, Lady. Wiccan Lore requires that within Twelve Turns of the Dark Moon at the beginning of every millennium, the princess of the Whitelings and the prince of the Darklings must handfast."

  "No."

  Sh
e shook her head, denying what she should have so plainly seen.

  "It has been commanded from the beginning of time, passed down from generation to generation. At Stonehenge..."

  "Legend," she scoffed.

  "Or the world will end."

  "No."

  "Yes."

  He spoke harshly. The scar at his temple flexed with his urgency, his need to make her see the truth.

  "The First Sign of the Alpha has already begun ... global warming in the mountains of Tibet ... tsunami tidal waves in Osaka ... tectonic quakes in Los Angeles. Do you want more people to die?"

  "No," she cried out, wrapping her arms around him.

  He ricocheted with passion from her embrace. He could wait no longer. He set the rhythm, she moved in tune, her body snapping against his. He adjusted her, raising her legs, opening her, exposing her, searching for the nub of her femininity. A bolt of ecstasy, like liquid energy, shot through him. White, then black.

  He rested his head in the hollow of her shoulder, still in her, still hard. The locks of his coal black hair checkerboarded with her ivory strands. When he could speak, he urged her again.

  "Say the words."

  "I..."

  The prince waited; his goal in plain sight.

  "I... I..."

  "Go on, Lady. You can do it."

  "I..."

  There was burst of loud static through the console speaker of the iMac computer. Through the crackle, TaPai's voice was heard.

  "Jock..." the young apprentice began.

  "Not now!" Jock roared.

  "Sorry, my liege, but Houston, we have a problem."

  "Not now!"

  "What the..."

  "Can't contain the connection," TaPai said.

  "I ... I ... I ... I..."

  "The program is designed for that," a disembodied voice broke in.

  "The lines are quirky here. I did try to warn..." TaPai's voice faded out.

  "Maintain the link at all costs," Jock ordered. "Reboot. Quickly. TaPai!"

  "Jock, we are losing Nepal." The disembodied spoke again.

  "Stay with it. Damn it."

  "That kid." Houston spoke with mild annoyance.

  "Hey, stuff happens..." TaPai shot back.

  Jock pulled himself from the tight, contracting muscles wrapped around him. Striding to the computer, he twirled the ball of the trackman, widening the window on the screen like the reverse of a movie fade-out. Then he punched the keyboard.