This choice: Will Prescott? Maybe once, in the past... • Go Back...Chapter #5Lost Souls by: imaj   You awake in the fashion you have been accustomed: Wrapped in soft satin sheets with a warm bed mate still slumbering beside you. You brush a stray strand of honey blonde hair back behind your ear and examine the person beside you in bed.
It’s a girl this time, and so not the type you usually sleep with – Dyed black hair with purple streaks, pale skins and plenty of silver piercings. Something of a goth or emo or whatever they call themselves these days. It’s never been any concern of yours. But she is so adorable, with a cute and more importantly innocent looking face. Doubly so now she is sleeping.
You lift the sheets and take a look at her body. She is slim and pale, with budding barely there breasts. Tattoos dot her body with a sleeve on her left arm being the largest and most detailed of them.
Memories start to filter in from last night. She’s a freshman at the college, just a few short months of living away from home and the confines of her family for the first time. Another thought arrives: You stole her away from her boyfriend last night. How perfectly wicked of you, you think, licking your lips.
The first temptation is to add her to your collection and your hand hovers at your face for a few minutes until you dismiss the notion. The second temptation is to wake her and spend the rest of the morning in bed, exploring her more thoroughly. Sadly you have much to do today. A few other ideas pop into head and you file them away for later.
Reluctantly you slip out of bed before fishing through your discarded clothes. Ah, it looks like you ripped your dress in the excitement last night. A pity, it was one of your favourites. Plenty more where that came from though. You find what you are looking for – a tiny black thong – and pull it on. It feels warm against your shaven crotch. Then you grab the silken bathrobe than hangs from the door and wrap it around yourself. It hangs short, stopping at mid thigh and you leave it just open enough for your breasts to peek out.
You catch sight of yourself in the tall free standing mirror opposite the great double bed. You can’t help but move closer and examine yourself. The face you’ve worn for the last two years stares back at you, her lips curled in amusement. Her name is Chelsea Cooper and this is who you are now.
You glory in her appearance, bending forward to show her cleavage to the mirror and running your hands down her smooth and shapely legs. Golden blonde hair cascades down as you move. Her personality, so gloriously acute in the matter of manipulating and pushing people around lies subservient to you own and you skim along the surface and feel its warmth. You feel her pleasure at the life you have crafted for her.
You take one last look at your still sleeping bed mate from last night. Her name finally surfaces in your mind: Becca. You leave her for now, exiting the master bedroom and heading down to the library.
The dawn light shines through the great windows at one end of the library. Time has accustomed you to the library and revealed its secrets. The strange dissonant ticking of the grandfather clocks no longer unsettles you. Instead you listen carefully to it, using it to judge the wakefulness of the gwarcheidwad. It slumbers almost completely here, its attention focussed almost entirely on the second of the locations it is bound to.
You lazily circle the library, letting you eyes run over the titles written on the spines of the books. Professor Blackwell never fully realised the value of what he had here. Many of the books in the library are beyond him. Even the ones that he would be able to manage by himself would take him an age to decode and understand. It’s amazing to think that when you first met the Professor he seemed a font of knowledge on the occult. You now know how pitifully limited he is.
You pass the alcoves in the shelving. One houses the small statue of Cerberus, the three headed hound that guards the underworld. It was some past resident’s idea of a joke that it opens the secret door that leads down to the basement prison. The strange chimerical stuffed hairless monkey that houses the gwarcheidwad’s physical presence is in another. In one way it is perhaps the most terrifying thing in the entire house, in another it is simply a loyal guard dog that barks at your command.
You come to the alcove that houses your own addition to the library. It is a pair of statues of young men. Brothers, of a sort. They are captured in a greyish claylike material, forever stuck at the age of eighteen or so. You would have to look very closely indeed to see that the statues are still breathing.
Blackwell is sitting at one of the desks in the centre of the library. A cup of coffee sits in front of him undisturbed as he reads the morning paper. He hasn’t changed much since you met him – his hair is a little greyer, his paunch a little larger. He is still a snake, but one easily charmed by whatever scraps you see fit to drop from your table.
“Good morning William,” he says, lowering his paper. The Professor must be feeling particularly brave or obnoxious to use that name.
You won’t give him the pleasure of rising to his bait, even though the Chelsea persona within you screams to be cut loose and vent its feelings on the old pervert. “I’ve told you a hundred times Aubrey,” you reply, using his given name to stress the point. You lean forward and give him an eyeful of Chelsea’s chest, always a sure fire way to reign him in. “Will Prescott is dead. He died in a terrible auto crash. Although that might have been a mercy for him since the cops were about to arrest him.”
“How could I forget,” replies Blackwell stiffly. He’ll be stiff all over right now, most likely. “Is your latest conquest still asleep Chelsea,” he rallies.
“Ah,” your raise an admonishing finger.
“Mistress Chelsea,” he says furtively. It’s a simple acknowledgement of his place. You are the master here now and he is a mere acolyte at your feet.
With that price paid you stand back up straight. “I left her sleeping,” you admit. “I was thinking of using her for that experiment we talked about.”
“Which one,” asks Blackwell, his eyes narrowing.
“Oh the Libra one,” you say airily, casually referring to your most treasured possession, the Libra Personae. “I’ve reached the hard limit of what I can do with golems and those mesmeric words of yours only result in a clumsy idiot that I have to watch over constantly.”
“Which hasn’t stopped you using the latter to constantly quench your thirsts wench,” spits out Blackwell.
“Oh Aubrey,” you dimple, yet your tone remains acid. “You say the sweetest things.”
“You could always release those two,” says Blackwell, nodding at your statues. “Since you keep telling me you know how to do it.”
“They’re terribly tiresome,” you complain. “And they would just keep asking for the Libra.”
“Kill them them,” says Blackwell offhandedly. “And make new golems.”
“They might be useful when their family finally returns for them,” you sigh.
“Hardly something to make light of,” he mutters, but you ignore them.
You smile at him wickedly. “Still if you are so set on me not using little Becca for my experiment, perhaps I can offer an alternative for you.” You pause just long enough to attract his attention. “Perhaps you’d like to walk around with her face for a little while?” His eyes light up. Blackwell doesn’t even bother to hide his perversions anymore. “She has a boyfriend you know. I’d imagine some hot and dirty make up sex is in her future if you play your cards right,” you whisper in his ear
You sneer as you watch him. He’s torn between complaining about your vulgarity again, and agreeing instantly to take the girl. “I’ll need to see what she looks like first,” he says awkwardly. He’s so predictable, pushing him around is easy.
“Since when did I bring home anyone who wasn’t drop dead gorgeous,” you sigh. Blackwell can do nothing but nod.
The door to library opens and your bed mate, Becca, walks in. She’s crawled back into the clothes she wore the previous evening – tight fitting jeans and a lacy black corset. They are rumpled looking and her hair is a mess.
“Oh hi… uh… Chelsea,” she squeaks. “I didn’t know…” she fumbles. “Uh… did we…”
You walk away from Blackwell, over to Becca and round behind her. You run a hand along her bare shoulder. She squirms a little but does not move. “This is my uncle Aubrey,” you say quietly to her. “Don’t worry, he’s very liberal.”
“Perhaps you’d like a coffee my dear,” Blackwell asks Becca, his voice just a little too sleazy.
“Oh, I really should be…”
“It’s no problem,” you interrupt her, guiding her gently over to the desks in the middle of the library. “Please take a seat,” you add gesturing at the desk opposite Blackwell. For a minute you think you might have to the mesmeric word you dropped in her ear last night as Becca shifts uncomfortably under your hands. She breaks from your grasp and sits by the desk.
“I’ll be over in a sec,” you coo at her. First you have to see what Blackwell thinks. He hauls his not inconsiderable bulk up from his chair and moves beside you. “Well,” you whisper quietly in his ear.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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