Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

Chapter 386: Merriam’s Rose Card

• THE ISLAND OF COLONY, FOURTEEN HOURS LATER.

’Set up an appointment with the [Maester] of Coin. Ser Ichabod the vampire has much to tell us concerning Governor Merriam Torres.’ This were Eotigan’s last commands to Inaia before falling into a deep sleep. He was still in it. However, his [subservient], Inaia paced the lounge arena of the penthouse at the Mayflower.

Fields of vibrant moonshade and needle towers pricking the heavens was her backdrop. It was her alone that stood awake, a rubenesque silhouette in front of the glass.

Her girlfriends—girls whom had become her friends because of the one man they all loved, were also fallen into slumber, cuddled into the large demon.

Eotigan had his big hands dominantly on each female. Significantly on their fat ass.

Thyra spooned his side. Kambili drowsed away on his chest, literally half his build. His grab on them, even in sleep, owned the girls. And their happy, dreaming faces showed an alchemy that’d make Morpheus, Lord of the [dream plane] green in envy.

"Ohh! praise the old fuckin’ gods." Inaia swore softly inside the cold, luxury suite. She made sure to put her voice down. "He’s finally able to sleep without my secret inducement potion." Her grey eyes danced over the love sofa in which her [Host] and her both sister consorts dozed on.

Eotigan did not know this, but he’d only ever been able to sleep because Inaia was clandestinely cooking up vials to aid his mind shutting down. He’d kill her if he knew. Still, she had taken the risk. Inaia favored use of the [wicca rot]—a potion with elements of hemlock that’d snuff out ten elephants in a heartbeat. But the [wicca rot] also had the weird ability to take on the scent of its primary caster. So Inaia was able to hide it in plain sight because the stuff smelled like her.

—and lucky her, Eotigan LOVED her smell.

But he didn’t love liars. Or secrets. Inaia battled with her sensibilities: ’I know I am taking a page out Lilith’s awful book but it ain’t like I’ve got another choice. I love this man but I have to shield him from his damn self.’

In all she’d seen him soldier through, Inaia knew better than any fucking creature, her Lord [Host] deserved his peace. Seriously, the man wouldn’t have slept a wink if she’d gone and played good servant. Too much shit just blasted in his head on repeat...terrible scars of battle, and he’d never go for therapy. So, perhaps the illegal sleeping medicine for dragons was really her only option.

Plus she hated him thinking about other women—dead or alive. But he did. It wasn’t a prolonged sexual marination or anything, just a part of him dealing with his hurt. The prominent characters in this tragicomedy of his mind that Inaia got to witness daily were Lilith—the evil pùta, and the beautiful girls she had murdered; it was either always the wet-haired succubus, or the smoking superfly tomboy. In everything she admitted to her inner girl— ’he don’t need to be thinking about any other bitch except me.’

Inaia didn’t need to sleep. Her present [corpus] could sustain endless days of no slumber. Being of an ethereal origin in the first place granted her the ability, if she wished, to abstain certain—if not all mortal customs. She didn’t need to sleep because she could live without it. Exist without it. And function properly without it. For this same reason she did not menstruate.

—not because she wasn’t female. No. But she was transcended above all bothersome afflictions native of the mortal plane. No sane goddess agreed to seeing blood leak out of her every moon, feel like shit, and be unable to fuck. Unless Lilith—who needed an excuse to act out. To be a foul cunt, to go and annihilate an ancient polis and blame it on cramps.

All the more reason why her Lord [Host] needed his beauty sleep. [Rank S] devils, like he should seldom be left to their own devices – the havoc the fuckers could wreak was diabolical. Not that her [Host] was a fucker. His whole extended family were a bunch of super-powered weiners, but him, nah. He was a winner.

Inaia bore a satisfied smile as she watched them sleep for a quiet while before turning her eyes to the glassy backdrop. As she moved to it, her feet padded off the parisian rug to the sparkling monochrome floors. The interior lighting of the penthouse was dusky low, courtesy of the vamp that’d been fucking here. May had come in with uniformed porters about an hour now to take out the couch where Ichabod Crane and that fellow had been doing what was initially presumed to be [Shatsvana] positions.

The weather beyond the reinforced dragon glass was black and white. The pompous hotel itself robed in the spooky tints of the dark clouds.

Inaia stood quietly in the noir scenery and touched a palm to the cool glass. Her smile faded as butter chucked into a cauldron.

In her hands was an exquisite card.

She mulled over the handwritten cursives of rose gold upon it as she turned it this way and that.

This had also being delivered by the concierge, May the Eighth, by hand—in a silvered tray when she’d come in to take away ’fag couch’. The rose card lay unopened in Inaia’s palm. It had been passed around from maid to maid of the Mayflower through gloved hands, and it now rested in hers. She could tell before she’d even turned it over what it was: bait, from a person of [dignitas].

An allurement...she would know.

All those years ago at Emberfall, it was by her covert instructions that the greatest goth cards of all time had been graphed and printed for the August Balls. Back then the parties her Lord [Host] the Earl, threw were the shit. They’d have faeries from the seely waiting in line on the estate. She expected to see some rich asshole’s signature on the rose line. But not the personal autograph of the Governor.

At the bottom of the card, the insignia read: signed, Merriam Torres.

The Governor of COLONY surprisingly had a terribly good writing. Inaia pulled her palm from the cold glass. She could see her silhouette reflected in the river-like plane. An invitation from queen bee herself. The card sparkled in her hands like magic. Her smile returned, "look who sends for us. Just the bitch we wanted to see."

She didn’t know she had voiced out her thoughts till a grumbly baritone joined her by the glass singularity.

"What ails my subservíena?"

Before he even shuffled in behind her, she sighted his shadow dwarf hers across the darkened floors. A slanting umbra of a giant man with four sprouts antlered on his head; his horns always did show on the shadow. If a vampire’s ill was a looking-glass, then a demon’s was his shadow. Other things that could reveal a devil’s true form existed such as their [Arcane] name, but one quick way to figure out if your—quote, unquote—date for the night was from a kingdom of flame and ash was their shadow. The same way vampires didn’t come up on mirrors, demons couldn’t hide their true forms in their shadow.

He came up fully behind her and she pondered how ridiculous she looked when compared to his giant frame. He was big BIG. "M’lord Host," she greeted, her smile growing in the dark penthouse as she admired him. He could fold her like a raffia any day.

"Yes...my fine wine?" Eotigan allowed his lupine gaze to stream the length and curves of her. It’d become his daily Ambien—ogling her. Better than any prescription. Inaia tried to turn and run her own heated stare over something more than a sexy, Irishman silhouette but his bass halted her tracks, "nay, subservíena. Eyes on the glass."

He slid up behind her, enclosing her in a big hug that further proved how little she looked in his arms. Eotigan had intended the embrace to be nothing more than that but Inaia was feeling all kinds of hot slammed up against him like that, especially as she was feeling the wickedly girthy and deliciously warm ridge cradling her bum. His morning wood. Was it morning? She could not tell. But she’d like to relieve some of fatness in his rod. The question if he was up for it wasn’t a question at all.

Eotigan watched the nimbi roll past with her. Being this high on the Mayflower offered the best view money could buy on the island. Literally. She was used to his silence and enjoyed the quiet with him. Just as he: her [Host] had commanded, she’d gone to work – the [Location Orb] she’d launched to narrow down Ichabod’s home address had come in, but not before the rose card of Governor Torres.

Her hands joined on top Eotigan’s over her belly, and he noticed the glittering thing between her fingers. Eotigan’s voice returned deeper. "Is that what I think it is? You got the appointment with that bloodsucker set up, already?" He playfully tugged her this way and that, "tell me something you can’t do."

"I had very little to do with this invitation card—" she murmured. But her [Host] was not listening as she tried to tell him she didn’t do nothing about it. He insisted on showering her with praises of how wonderful a [Subservient] she was. Inaia loved when he talked like this. She could live off his compliments. He rarely dished those, but when he did, it gave freely. Inaia allowed herself a moment of weakness to bask in his pride in her. She stopped correcting him, and rather told, "uh, my Lord, this is actually an invite from the Governor."

"Even better." He growled, biting on her neck—and Inaia was seriously deliberating bending over.

Since he seemed to care more for the softness of her skin—not that she was complaining, Inaia decided to expatiate, in between little moans of appreciation. "The orb I put on the vampire bitch has returned with an address. I can set a rendezvous now," the ’bitch’ in she referenced was the Master of Coin, "but I’m presuming you want me to move the appointment because of the Lady Governor’s invitation?"

Eotigan pulled down one sleeve of her large shirt—his shirt actually. "Keep impressing me, fine wine, and someone’s gonna get it."

Inaia laughed this off, though it really turned her on. She could feel the untoward press of huge dick against the small of her back. She gulped. How badly she wanted to get it.

"When?"

"—ahem. It’s tomorrow...today I guess." She looked up and out at the brimstone weather.

The meteorology of Colony had never been the appealing story of the island. It’s big thing was its cloud-fucking towers. But before he asked she quickly added, "we’ve got time." A brief pause reigned in the vintage suite where she debated saying what hung on her tongue, but then she did, "you know what I really want for being such a good help?"

"hmm...what?" Eotigan’s timbre made her shiver. His devious mouth stroked her naked shoulder.

Inaia bent forward slow, the shirt riding up her great hips. "—I want you to pound this pussy." She felt him surge in her asscrack. Her face touched the cold glass of the penthouse. "...pleeeaase?"