Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (Sword of the Gods Saga)

by Anna Erishkigal

  “Of course." Lucifer's wings trembled as Zepar gave him the one thing his adopted father never had. “You're right. You're always right. I must ensure the survival of my species before I start thinking of myself." He curled his wing around his crotch so Zepar wouldn't see him 'adjust' himself. "What was her name again?”

  “Hemaniel,” Zepar said. “And you've just wasted ten minutes of your hour. You don't have time to break her in naturally.”

  “Knock five minutes before I need to be out of here for the post-sex niceties." He resumed the fake persona he assumed for the rest of the world, the charismatic leader who could give everybody their heart's desire. Zepar gave him an approving nod.

  It had been the Emperor who had taught him to always show his 'good side' to the world. The habit was so deeply ingrained that he automatically projected whatever his audience expected to see without even thinking about it. As soon as his wings cleared the door, he flared them like a raptor swooping in for the kill, a pose female Angelics found irresistible.

  “Prime Minister Lucifer,” Hemaniel stammered. “It's an honor." The pretty blonde Angelic's hands clutched at her chest, her eyes wide with awe at the privilege of being this close to the Eternal Emperor's adopted son. She realized she'd forgotten to salute, as all enlisted military were supposed to do with the Alliance's highest-ranking civilian authority, and did so belatedly, nearly poking out her own eye with her thumb. Everything about the young woman broadcast inexperience.

  “Have you ever attempted a mating before?" Lucifer inhaled the subtle pheromones of an Angelic coming into heat. His olfactory nerves relished the scent of lutropin, a heady drug to a species bordering on extinction. He reached out to tuck an errant strand of golden hair behind her ear, a level of familiarity few Angelics ever exchanged.

  “N-n-no." Hemaniel looked out of place in the lushly furnished temporary sleeping quarters, the rich burgundy and black décor clashing with her sandy blonde wings.

  Lucifer cleared his mind so that he could use his ‘gift’ to receive images of the subconscious longings all sentient creatures projected beneath their words; telepathy gifted not from his adopted father, who had inadvertently bred the ability out of his armies in an effort to eradicate the pesky bonding gene, but from his half-Seraphim mother. He pushed gently into Hemaniel's mind to find out what she secretly desired. Images of a Mantoid soap opera, a certain actor she had a crush on, came into his mind. Lucifer adjusted his posture, his voice, his demeanor to mimic the archetype of her ideal lover.

  “It can be quite pleasurable." Lucifer drew close, moderating his voice to the husky pitch her archetype possessed. “If you allow me to make it so." He didn't touch her, but formed an image of himself kissing her neck and projected it into her mind as he spoke.

  “I’ve only been told…” she stammered. “I don't…." She shuddered as he followed through on the projection by exhaling upon her neck, just below her ear. He didn't touch her, but goose bumps of anticipation appeared upon her flesh.

  “What have you been told?” he whispered into her ear, his body inches from hers as he encircled her in his wings. He projected an image of taking her into his arms without actually making physical contact. Over the years, he'd discovered that anticipation of being touched was often more erotic to the females he fucked than the reality of it. “What do you fantasize about when you touch yourself?”

  “I have always wanted …” she said, embarrassed.

  “Then do it." His voice was a leonine purr as he projected an image into her mind of unbuttoning his shirt and admiring the taut muscles that rippled beneath. “I'm here to make your wildest fantasies come true."

  Her hand trembled as she fumbled each button out of its buttonhole, helped along with the images he imprinted into her subconscious. Two hundred and twenty-five years of non-stop practice had honed his ability to seduce others down to an art form, the ‘power of persuasion’ he jokingly called his gift.

  "Touch me," he whispered. "I like to be touched."

  Closing his eyes, he soaked up the feel of her touch, tentative and filled with awe. Touch … the gift hybrids were forbidden to give one another for any purpose other than to create offspring. It was he who trembled now, his need to be touched far greater than others of his species because he'd been raised in a home, by a half-Seraphim mother who had cuddled him every chance she got. Asherah had refused to farm him out to one of the Emperor's youth training academies as was done to every other hybrid child to condition the instinct to be touched right out of them.

  He reached tentatively into her mind, hoping that this one would see him. Not that he made it easy to get to know him! The Emperor's abandonment after his mother had died had taught him to be wary. If you let people inside, they would thank you by tearing out your heart. The one time he'd ever foolishly let down his guard, the female had spurned him after the test had come back negative, refusing to answer his three beautifully hand-written missives!

  He projected the same thought he had asked of every woman he had ever fucked, the same heartfelt yearning which only a true mate would ever answer.

  'Can you feel me? Can you look into my eyes and see my soul?'

  He saw Hemaniel's thoughts as clearly as though he were inside a movie. His cheek twitched with disappointment as he picked up the image which had caused her to become aroused. It was not him she saw, but the archetype of the movie star she'd spent half her adolescence worshipping. They didn't ever see him, or if they did, it wasn't the real him, but one of the bullshit publicity stunts Zepar filmed depicting him doing something 'manly' such as riding a land-dragon shirtless through the tundra with a miniature pterodactyl on his wrist to hunt.

  "Is this … okay?" Hemaniel's hands slid down to touch his slacks. In her fantasy, she was the aggressor. Words from the movie which was her entire basis of what it meant to have sex came into his mind; words he sensed that if spoken aloud, would transform her into a bold temptress.

  "Your touch is like the rain upon my flesh." He whispered the poetic words she longed to hear. He touched the underside of her chin to look into her eyes before kissing her. It was not him Hemaniel saw as he slid his hand up to cup her breast, but the actor of her dreams. He gave her what she wanted. "Touch me, Hemaniel. I want to feel what it's like to bathe in your touch."

  She trembled as he expertly slid the pretty dress she'd worn for today's appointment down from her shoulder, bending to nip the base of her throat and leave his mark. He could tast the lutropin. The scent of fertility was so strong it made him dizzy with the urge to mate. But not for the brainwashing instilled from birth, unattached hybrids would become aggressive and fight one another for the privilege of mating with an unattached fertile female. His wings flapped involuntarily, slapping against her smaller beige ones as that small, aggressive voice which forever lurked in his subconscious egged him on, whispering promises that this time the union would bear fruit.

  "Touch me," his voice filled with hunger. "Touch me, please. I need to be touched."

  That small, vicious voice taunted him, teasing him for the yearning no amount of conditioning had been able to eradicate from his psyche, the need to have somebody touch him; not because they needed something from him, but because they loved him. The images his gift enabled him to see within her mind showed him Hemaniel did not touch him, but the actor who he showed her.

  'See! It's not -you- she wants! But prestige you can bring to her if she bears your child. She is only after your position of power...'

  His touch grew rougher as he sensed this was what she wanted, their wings knocking the pictures off the wall as he allowed her to get the better of him and shove him down upon the bed. Yes! This one desired to be the aggressor, a different flavor than the endless stream of females Zepar lined up for him to fuck.

  Feathers flew as he used his gift to egg her on and urged her to take him forcibly. For all the propaganda about Angelics being icy and unemotional, the fact was, if not for the conditioning they received to sub
due the animal half the Emperor had endowed them with when he'd spliced together their genome, hybrids would be rutting in the streets like beasts every time a female came into heat.

  Projecting image after image into her mind, when she finally pinned his shoulders to the bed and impaled herself upon his cock, she was so aroused that she barely felt the pain of her hymen tearing. He withheld his seed until he heard her cry out with pleasure, helped along by his projections into her mind as he taught her how to satisfy her own desire, before giving her what she'd come here for.

  Release caused his eyes to roll back into his head, giving him just for a moment that feeling of oneness with the universe he'd yearned to feel again ever since his mother had used her Song to heal him as a little boy. The Song reached into emptiness, finding nothing to attach to, for how could you bond with someone who didn't feel you? No sooner had Hemaniel collapsed, panting, on top of him, when the knock came upon the door. They were out of time.

  "Thank you," he murmured as he gathered his clothing and gave her a kiss goodbye. "You will let me know if things were successful?"

  The female nodded, her hand moving to touch the womb they both prayed he'd been able to fill. He gave her a wistful smile, knowing in his heart the answer would be the same. But these trysts were not without some benefit beyond the momentary release he felt each time he spilled his seed. So deeply had he imprinted the subconscious connection between her deepest desire and him that she would fantasize about their union for the rest of her life. Every male who came after him would fall short. With the mere whisper of another tryst, if he ever needed anything, she would deliver.

  Lucifer had long ago learned the secret to getting what he wanted. Figure out people’s darkest, most secret desire. Encourage them to fantasize about it. Convince them it was their own idea. And then give it to them.

  Chapter 17

  Galactic Standard Date: 152,323.02

  Command Carrier: 'Light Emerging'

  Colonel Raphael Israfa

  Raphael

  The sub-light impulse engines of the command carrier Light Emerging vibrated reassuringly through the deck as Raphael commiserated with his second-in-command. The sparsely decorated officer's lounge was where the higher-ranking members of his crew met to eat, play cards, and yes, get stinking drunk, away from the gossiping eyes of the enlisted men.

  “We all warned you this would happen.” Major Glicki tipped a slender, green antenna in his direction, the feathery green tip trembling with suppressed amusement. “The fact this was offspring number twelve she asked you to sire should have been warning enough, if the five-hundred page waiver didn't get that through your thick skull."

  Glicki lifted her glass and downed the fluorescent green liquor in a single gulp. Raphael followed her example, grimacing as the potent liquor burned its way into his gullet. Come morning, he knew he'd seriously regret the indulgence, but at the moment, all he cared to do was eliminate the ache which had taken up permanent residence in his chest. While most Mantoids could drink every species in the galaxy under the table, the Eternal Emperor had seen fit to bequeath upon the Angelic species a woefully low tolerance to alcohol.

  “I had hoped I would make a good enough impression that Jophiel would want to keep me around.” Raphael stared down into his now-empty glass. "She definitely seemed pleased with my performance during the … um … you know …"

  Raphael trailed off. He didn't wish to go into detail about just how many stops he'd pulled, or just how pleased Jophiel had appeared to be while he'd been servicing her.

  “The Emperor should have pulled other races into the military millennia ago,” Glicki said. “The price you've paid for being policemen for the entire galaxy is too high!"

  “Hey!" The alcohol caused Raphael to be uncharacteristically caustic. “I should be grateful. I’ve got command of my very own command carrier in the middle of east buttfuck!" His golden feathers rustled with irritation.

  “Shhhh….” Glicki hushed. Several lower-ranking officers leaned their way, pretending not to listen. Glicki leaned back, and then spoke louder than was necessary to be heard. “Jophiel doesn't promote people to positions they can't handle. She chose you because you were worthy of promotion, not the other way around.”

  “I think I liked Prime Minister Lucifer’s proposal better." A mischievous pucker appeared on Rapael's left cheek, making him look far younger than his 36 Galactic Standard cycles. “Keep the little woman confined to a homeworld, barefoot and pregnant, like Shay’tan does with the Sata’anic females."

  Glicki clicked her two furthest legs together; the sharp, disapproving crack communicating better than any words just what she thought of that proposal. In Mantoid culture, it was usually the larger, stronger females who typically went to war.

  Raphael scoffed at her expression of disbelief. "Hey! I'm not greedy. I don't need three wives. Just her.”

  “You saw how fast Jophiel shut down that cockamamie scheme!" Glicki whirred her under-wings in disgust. “It was the one time Jophiel ever defied the Emperor and skipped a mating cycle."

  “As Jophiel goes,” Raphael raised his glass to toast a common saying about their Supreme Commander-General, “so goes the hybrid fleet."

  “Here, here.” Glicki clinked Raphael’s glass before downing it. “Every female hybrid in the fleet refused to show up for their mating appointments until Parliament shot Lucifer down. Including Lucifer's!”

  “I think it was the only time the alpha-stud ever experienced a dry spell,” Raphael laughed. The Alliance Prime Minister was both an example, and a caricature, of what their species had devolved into. The brightest and most beautiful of all the Angelics, in his desperate attempt to perpetuate his own bloodline, had become a symbol of their pending extinction.

  “Jophiel showed him who was boss!” Glicki laughed. She leaned forward and whispered, “there's some sort of history between those two, if you ask me…”

  “You’ve been watching too many of those Mantoid soap operas again.” Raphael took another sip of the potent green beverage. “Though she sure has a way of sweet-talking others around to her way of thinking.”

  “Females are better commanders then men,” Glicki's heart-shaped head tilted to one side. “That’s why Mantoid females leave the males home to rear the mantids.”

  “And bite their heads off after mating with them.”

  Raphael kicked her hard exoskeleton under the table in a Mantoid gesture of joking.

  “Urban legend!" Glicki's under-wings hummed in a Mantoid laugh. “Our females haven't done that for millions of years." She held out her glass in a mock-toast. "Unlike Angelic females, who still regularly indulge in the practice."

  Glicki kicked Raphael right back.

  “Ouch!" Raphael protested. His smile, and his dimple, disappeared. He stared down into the potent green liquor which swirled at the bottom of his half-empty glass. “Though perhaps it's an apt description of the way I feel right now. Perform … and be cast aside. As far as the Emperor is concerned, all hybrids are expendable.”

  “Jophiel is the best commander the Alliance has ever had,” Glicki said. “And very beautiful. It's only natural that you're smitten with her.”

  Raphael toasted Glicki and downed the rest of his shot. Glicki immediately poured two more.

  “Unfortunately for our poor, beleaguered race,” Raphael's buff-gold wings drooped, “forcing hybrid females to join the military only made our numbers go down, not up. Our females can only conceive one offspring at a time and it takes our young many years to mature. It's too bad the Emperor didn't engineer us to lay eggs like your species does.”

  “Poor planning on his part, if you ask me!” Glicki said. “Probably why Shay’tan chose the Sata’anic lizards to be the basis of his armies. They possess all the benefits of humanoids, but none of the problems!”

  “At least the lizards get to see their own hatchlings,” Raphael said. “-If- Shay’tan lets them live long enough to be gifted a wife. Or three. Now th
ere’s a temptation worth putting your rear-end in the line of fire to receive! A home. Three wives. And a few hundred hatchlings to perpetuate the glory of your name.”

  Glicki swirled her glass, her bright red compound eyes focused downwards on the swirl pattern.

  “The Eternal Emperor has done the best he could to solve a problem,” Glicki said. She downed another shot and poured herself another glass, her antenna tilted in a thoughtful angle. “You always speak fondly of your days being raised at a youth training academy?”

  “I didn't mind.” Raphael ruffled his feathers. “At least not until I went to basic training and they paired me with Mikhail. He was raised by a real family, you know? Even though he refused to speak of it, it always made me wonder…”

  “I know,” Glicki said. “And see what it got him? He refuses to let the shipboard Angelics even touch him, much less reproduce with one of them.”

  Raphael donned a mock emotionless expression as he mimicked his best friend. “Seraphim only take one mate for life!"

  They both laughed. Raphael's laughter died as that hollow, aching feeling in his chest reminded him of why he was here.

  “Personally, I think he has the right idea," he spoke more softly this time. "The older males say that’s the way it was for us until the Emperor made his ‘be fruitful and multiply’ decree to save our species from extinction.”

  Glicki touched his forearm with an armored limb.

  “At least one of your mating attempts is bearing fruit. I hear the number of younger hybrids who've been unable to produce even a single offspring is now up to eighty-nine percent."

  “Everything the Emperor tries has failed,” Raphael said miserably. “If the Emperor doesn’t pull a coinín out of a hat soon, within my lifetime our race will cease to exist!”

  “I hear the Leonids are fewer than 3,500 now,” Glicki said. “And the Centauri aren't too far behind them. It's rumored that even if every single one of them were to start bearing offspring tomorrow, it'd still be too late.”