The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

When I get home Olivia is laying right where I left her on the couch. I’m sure that she hasn’t moved an inch . . . A part of me was really hoping that between the time I left and the time I got back she would be up and about, criticizing me for leaving her alone when she was in trouble, as if nothing had ever happened at all.

Of course that can’t be the case. At least she doesn’t look any worse. I sit next to her and carefully slide my hand across her cheek. “Come on Olivia . . . I know we haven’t been together nearly long enough but . . . you gotta pull through this so that we can be together long enough . . . I don’t know. Maybe I should confess all of my feelings to you now? That usually snaps people out of comas . . . or I could talk about how now I’ll never get to tell you that? That works sometimes too . . .”

Olivia may talk in bad puns more often than I do, but she never treats life trivially. Even when she’s being silly she’s not pretending like life is anything that it’s not. She never uses story terms to describe her life. She might not always come off as the brightest but no one can say she doesn’t try.

She’s only stayed in Midas because of me. This wouldn’t have happened if she’d gone back to California. I should have grudgingly let her go, but it was a much nicer thought to have a partner.

To be fair, she wanted to stay.

None of that matters now. Thinking about this is only going to make me more and more depressed. No one that I’m ready to call answers their phone anymore. I wouldn’t know if the people I’m not ready to call yet do, because then that would mean I’d been ready to call them. My head just keeps going around in circles. I can’t think of any way to find out more information without some contacts but they feel pretty dried up.

Whatever is happening, that black puddle is behind it. I saw it the night before The Poetess. It melted off of The Poetess and off of The Pen. If it’s an infection of some sort then Aureus has it, but she isn’t acting any different. Well, she is. She’s not acting like anything at all.

How do you track down a black puddle? Even if I did have more contacts how would I explain this to them? If this is someone targeting me, who would it be?

It could be Lida, but I don’t think she would do this. Besides, if her powers are anything like mine then it would be a bunch of sparks melting off of them, not a puddle of sludge. The only one with powers even similar to this was Yanuka . . . but The Domina took care of Yanuka didn’t she? She certainly made it seem like she did. Besides, she didn’t play out her game this far before and if she wanted me to be a mindless husk she already had her chance.

Yanta didn’t go after Chronos to get to me. Getting me was just luck and she didn’t even seem to think that getting me was any more of a bonus than getting a new hot piece of ass. She was sure that shoving a rod into my head would be the end of rebellion.

If The Lady hadn’t helped I’m sure it would have been.

Yanuka had seemed more than satisfied with just sucking up my powers, keeping The Domina, and sending me on my way. She hadn’t even been the one to ruin Jade’s mind. That had been Mind Bore’s doing. She’d gone inside of Dust, but that was only one person. The game hadn’t gone on nearly this long and if she wanted me she could have just magiced me away. This seems a little extensive for having already claimed we were even . . . Not that I’ll claim to believe her one hundred percent.

Whatever is affecting Olivia isn’t mechanical so it’s not Mind Bore. She’s not cold to the touch so I doubt that it’s Mourning Frost. It’s not Dust. It’s not Pink. It’s not . . . anyone I know of or have even heard of.

Short of calling Jade I might really be out of options. The police are sick of dealing with me and besides I doubt they have any more leads than I do. It’s tempting to try my luck with the Silver Sentinel but it’s not as if his number is listed. He would have some clue how to deal with this. I’d had some details passed to me from him before, but always by proxy. He was fond of saying if you’re not a part of the team then you get your information last.

He wasn’t ever a jerk about it, he was just honest. I wonder if he ever found it amusing that there was a Silver Girl in Midas. Did anyone ever try and spread a rumor that I was his wife or his daughter?

No one would ever think Patina had any relations to a hero or heroine in Midas. Thinking about it, the “P” makes me think of Psyche but . . . well . . . I still need to find her, apologize, and well . . . I need all the friends I can get, and she wouldn’t be a bad friend to have.

This isn’t helping me deal with Olivia’s problem. “Come on world . . . Olivia . . . Something . . . I know it’s cliché, I know it’s stupid, and I know it never works but . . . give me a sign?”

My phone rings and it’s the loudest ring I’ve ever heard in my life.

I’m glad that I’m still wearing my belt, because it would take me a lot longer to get to it if I wasn’t. Very few people have this phone number, so it has to be one of them. Hell, if this is Jade calling at this point I don’t care. She really doesn’t call me as often as Mystic can make it seem but . . . Without even checking the caller ID I click talk and hold the phone to my ear. “Hello!”

“Hello, Patina . . . Or should I call you Lucia Colloten? Sarah LaSilvas? Silver?” This is not a voice that I have ever heard before. It sounds much more like liquid silk. It’s definitely a woman’s voice, a very sexy woman’s voice, but I can feel my blood run cold and a shudder shoot down my spine nonetheless. “Oh you look sexy when you’re scared. I think the name you react to the most, is Silver. So I’m going to call you Silver. How does that sound, Silver? Oh it sounds just like you are, sweet, sexy . . . shimmering . . .”

Every “s” sound is over sexualized. Each of her sentences ends as if it’s piercing into me and not letting go. For a second it feels hard to breathe, but impossible to ignore how good it feels at the same time. This woman knows me way too well not to know me. I don’t like it, but it is compelling.

“My name . . . is Sarah.” I take a deep breath and slowly wrap my hand around the teardrop pendant hanging around my neck. She can hear the breath but that’s okay. Anyone would need to center themselves after that . . . though I don’t think everyone would be aroused as they were terrified. “I am not ‘Silver’ and I would appreciate it if you didn’t call me that . . . but who the hell are you?”

Her response is laughter. Her laughter seeps into me like a fog and then spreads, making me feel nauseous but unbearably pleased. Something about her laughter feels familiar in a way I can’t place but in a way that my body remembers. It makes me feel smaller. I don’t like feeling smaller. “I . . . am the only one who can tell you who laid the seeds of your latest misfortunes and how to pluck them from the fertile soil of your life. I am the only one that knows what has happened to your dear sweet Olivia enough to cure it. I am the plot twist that you’ve been waiting for since your unfortunate run in with the more seductive side of poetry.”

I do not like this woman. She might make me tingle and twist in ways most enjoyable but she gives me the creeps too. Nothing about her feels safe. She knows all of this and she only contacted me now? There are fishing boats with less of a suspicious scent.

Even if I don’t like her, I have a responsibility to find out what’s going on and what she knows. This could be a trap – I’m pretty sure that this is a trap – but it’s a trap that I need to walk right into. Maybe knowing what I’m walking into will change things. I don’t know of any time that it’s made things better before, but there’s a first time for just about everything but not quite.

“A plot twist, huh . . .? You seem a little contrived to me—maybe even a little cliché.” There’s no response, but I pause for effect anyway. “But if you know anything about what’s happening to her, I want to know. Tell me what’s happening, whose behind this, and I will make it up to you.”

“Over the phone?” Her voice bursts into laughter again and I clench my first around the phone so tightly that I’m afraid it’s going to snap in half. “If she’s already gotten herself inside of Olivia, do you really think that your phone is safe sweetheart? Can you even be sure that you’re safe? I’m not about to tell you what I know over the phone. You’ll have to come here and I’ll tell you face to face. This woman isn’t some silly caped menace, she’s a force to be reckoned with.”

This is a trap. I still have to go, but I am completely sure now that this is a trap. If there was anyone I knew who was good for it, I would place bets on just who was setting it. “All right, if that’s the way that it is . . . Tell me where I need to go and I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

“My humble abode is on the corner of Twenty Third and Woodman. I’ll be expecting you, my tarnished heroine.” The line goes dead and I feel a wave of dizziness wash over me.

If I leave right now, I can get there in no time. I would bring Olivia with me, but it’s hard to drive Sylvia with human shaped dead weight. If Aureus fell off the bike, as she was so fond of telling me, she’d be fine. She’s not golden . . . If she fell off Sylvia it would be for her what she kept saying was going to happen to me sooner or later.

Will this be like going to investigate Chronos? Will this be worse? I don’t even know what to think. So much of me is enticed and yet afraid. It could be some plot to turn me into another of this woman’s minions like The Poetess or The Pen . . . or this woman could just lack people skills.

Maybe she just knows too much and she’s not very good at expressing it. She would not be the first woman to ever be surrounded by dark things and have it turn her dark. When I met The Lady I wasn’t exactly sweetness and light but I was a lot closer. I was a waitress who helped people get home. I used my powers that could overload minds to distract and blind them instead . . .

“No time for this, Sarah. Olivia is counting on you. You have to make this count. You have to not let her down.” I press my lips to Olivia’s forehead and hope it’ll be enough to keep her safe. There’s no place safer to take her. The only places I can think of are The Midas Touch or some police facility . . .

Both would just be dangerous, probably both for Olivia and everyone else involved. There’s a parasite inside of her brain that is no doubt tied directly to who is behind all of this bad luck I’ve been having.

Hopefully a quick ride on Sylvia later, I’ll know all of the answers.

Sure enough, the ride feels like it takes a million years but it couldn’t have been more than half an hour. The tight almost latex like material of my redesigned uniform clutches to me so tightly but in such a sweet way . . . I should get a watch built into the wrist. Maybe I could just get some sort of watch with a built in spiral program. It would surely have its own fair share of uses.

“Twenty Third and Woodman . . .” Sure enough, the signs at the corner confirm it. To be honest, this is not a part of Midas that I’ve been through much. It’s a more upscale neighborhood, and while that does mean they have more valuables to steal it also means they can afford to protect them, and have alarm systems.

There’s nothing wrong about protecting the rich but it just doesn’t seem as important as protecting the less fortunate. It’s not really like they have any way of doing it themselves . . . unless they end up like me.

And it doesn’t take super powers to make a heroine, but that doesn’t mean I want to encourage it en masse!

In front of me is a building that if it were in any other part of town I would be sure it was an old styled apartment complex. Instead, the entire building must be owned by a single individual. It’s nowhere near as tall as Chronos’s headquarters, but it’s definitely bigger than my apartment building. Just thinking of how many people could fit in there . . .

All of this is just an attempt to stall long enough to talk myself out of it. Whoever called me is inside. So, I need to be inside too. Beside the door is a microphone system. Olivia and I, our apartment has the other side to one of those in it complete with the talk, listen, and door buttons. It just doesn’t link to anything. It’s an archaic system and during a remodeling they pulled most of it out but didn’t feel like fixing the walls. This one probably still works.

When I walk up past the gate and get ready to press the talk button her voice interrupts me. “Come right in, Patina . . .” The way she says that makes me feel the need to make sure I’m wearing my mask. Her voice just has this way of making me feel so naked.

Sure enough, my mask is still on. I am Patina. Right now, that is all I am: Patina, the lost orphan of Chronos looking to use what she was trained in for good. It’s a better title than anything else I can come up with.

On its own the wooden door opens. Unlike the door that leads to the stairs in my complex, this door is real wood. Unlike when I walk into my apartment building, I’m cautious. Maybe this woman is just a bit of an oracle. Maybe she has her home lined with cameras. Either way I want to see everything before it gets to me.

Once I’m inside the door closes behind me. A part of me wants desperately to check if it’s locked but that seems like more of an excuse to stall.

All of the lights are turned off but several wall sconces are lit by small candles. I don’t know what I’d expected, but this is not it. The foyer is elaborate enough, and even the rug obviously meant to clean ones shoes on must cost more than everything I’ve ever owned in my life. I can see to the den easily, and it’s filled with bookshelves. There’s a painting here or there, and it just looks . . . like I just stepped out of my life and into someone else’s far more affluent one.

Before I follow the lit sconces up the stairs I look down to the shoes sitting beside the rug. There are three pairs of shoes. This could either be three of one woman’s shoes, or a hint that they are the most commonly worn shoes of three women. Two are sensible flats with a bit of a school girl look to them, and the other is a pair of high stiletto heeled knee high boots.

My guess is there are three different women living here. The shoe sizes all seem just different enough . . . Maybe I’m getting a hang of the more detective parts of being a heroine.

Each candle flickers when I walk past it. It’s the same exact flicker every time. Just to make sure I even step back and then past one of them again, and it moves the exact same way. All of the candles are black. That could mean anything but I want to be sure not to jump to any conclusions quite yet. I don’t know enough to truly size this woman up yet. All I know is that she knows how to set the mood and she’s worth more than I am.

The staircase even exudes elegance. It doesn’t go directly up but instead subtly curves. Every step is covered with alternating colors of black and red velvet. It eliminates the clicks my boots would make on tile or the like but something tells me that she knows every time I take a step.

It feels like the entire place is . . . alive, and watching me. It feels the same way as when a stranger trails their eyes along my curves.

A gold colored picture frame hangs on the wall right where the stairs reach the height of their curve. Inside is a gorgeous portrait done in an ancient style, but the woman inside seems rather modern. Her hair is long and black and carefully not melted over her shoulders. Her clothing looks like silk, black with ruffles and lace details . . . but the most glaring feature is her face.

Never in my life have I seen paint look so . . . creamy. I might be pale in what Olivia insists is a good way, but she . . . she looks like she’s honed avoiding the sun to an art form. Her eyes really look black . . .

Maybe it’s just an over zealous admirer’s work. I’m sure that if I painted a picture of Valerie and I was any good I would make her look like a goddess and not “simply” a gorgeous mortal. I meant a picture of Olivia. Their names sound a lot alike and I’m just worried, that’s all.

“It is gorgeous, isn’t it? It’s one of a kind. I’ve playfully called it my Dorian as opposed to a portrait, but the artist is hardly a Basil . . .” From behind me that revealing voice speaks, and I turn around to face her a little too quickly to hide how caught up I was at staring at the portrait. The woman I turn to face is the same as the one on the wall, and except for the barest amount of embellishment of her . . . or her . . .

No, if it would crawl out of the wall I would say it was her. She looks so regal, so commanding, and without my heels she would probably be taller than I am even if only a little. “Yes . . . it is pretty . . .” I wish I could say I understood the reference. Does she mean Dorian Gray? Who’s Basil?

“Of course, I would hardly go about calling myself as innocent as young Dorian before I had that picture painted, and no older voice akin to the most arrogantly observational Lord Henry whispered into my ear any such nonsense that my youth would fade and with it all that mattered. If that were true, I would not still resemble that picture so closely. I certainly did not trade my soul, not to the portrait, nor any under worldly forces.” She’s even dressed exactly as she was in the picture . . . Something about her seems so familiar but I can’t quite put my finger to it. The curve of her cheek screams that I should know something, but for some reason her hair disagrees with me.

“I’m sorry, but you’re going a bit over my head . . . I really don’t know what you’re referring to . . . or your name. If I can’t get both, I’d prefer the later.” Carefully my posture adjusts to a taller more intimidating one as I attempt to make my expression disinterested as apposed to rapt or enthralled.

Seeming disappointed the woman huffs and slowly steps closer. Her stride moves in such a way that her skirt seems to melt like fluid as her legs adjust the fabric again and again. Every motion is fluidic. Just barely the fabric of that dark black skirt covers her shoes or feet and she doesn’t look like she could ever trip over it. It’s more impressive than I can put into words, the grace that she exudes seemingly without effort.

Once the distance between us has been halved, she drapes her arms over the railing that extends up around the stairs and leans her chin down onto her hand. “It’s a classic. For Oscar Wilde’s sake, it’s even public domain! The story of Dorian Gray went as such . . . Dorian Gray was a young wealthy socialite who happened to grace the eyes of the innocent painter Basil Hallward who paints him an exact likeness. During the finishing touches upon Basil’s masterpiece, an older, more experienced socialite, Lord Henry Wotton – who just happens to be the nephew of the woman who has taken it upon herself to protégé the young Dorian – tells our hero that the painting will stay pure as he withers and looses his only true virtues . . . youth and beauty.

“Of course, this deeply effects the impressionable, and supposedly gorgeous, young Dorian. He waxes over the sorrows of the painting’s own immortality, and his lack thereof. He even pleads that he would trade his very soul to be able to have the painting age in his stead . . . And so it does. Lord Henry further corrupts Dorian by telling him that the way one’s spirit grows strong is not by refusing temptation, but by submitting to it. So, Dorian delves into depravity . . . and the painting mutates into a monster. When Basil learns of this, Dorian kills him. He later kills himself by destroying the portrait . . . and thus . . . his own grip on immortality.”

There must be nothing that this woman enjoys more than hearing herself speak. I’m sure it’s only a stronger bliss knowing that she’s making herself seem smarter for doing so. At least I knew to what she was referring even if I didn’t know the actual story.

She only has eyes for her own portrait. Not that I can blame her for finding it beautiful, but at least I’d like to imagine that my vanity knows some bounds. When I was trapped staring in a mirror, at least she was alive and not just a picture that I’d apparently had for quite some time. She looks at most twenty seven, and a young twenty seven. She must be either some lucky widow, a lucky woman who divorced someone rich, or there’s money in her family.

When she doesn’t say anything more, I sigh and continue to climb though at a steadier pace than before. “You still didn’t tell me who you are. Your knowledge of my situation and classic literature is impressive but your ability to answer a straight question is a bit rusty.”

“Oh please, the oxidized once metallic heroine referring to anything about myself as rusty . . . There’s following the rules of your medium, and then there’s cliché and a horrid sort of camp where one takes themselves too seriously for their material. We are dealing with the loss of your lover’s very mind. You’ve already attempted to reach everyone who would know how to help you . . . and turned up nothing.” My lovely hostess snorts, and repositions herself to instead lean back against the railing with her hands clasped together behind her back. “For Peitho’s sake, consider the gravity of this predicament with the utmost care?”

“I’ll do my best . . .” Even if her arrogance is already starting to heavily grate on my nerves something about her radiates more than just the ability to back it up . . . but the desire to have a need to. As much as I want to infuriate her it would be stupid in too many ways to count to even attempt it.

She talks like I’d imagine someone from another age to talk. Even if she’s nothing more than a woman squatting in a rich apartment – which I find unlikely – she considers herself royalty or above. Royalty is too mortal and my lovely dark haired hostess has already subtly implied that she believes herself to be well beyond that.

Finally my feet step over the stairs, and all of the candles that lead me up flicker out in an instant. I could just be imagining it, but from the corner of my eye it seemed like that woman blew out a small puff of air just before it happened. A mere moment later similar sconces line the new hallway but I keep my eyes on her. Knowing my surroundings would be good but I’m not good enough to do it without her noticing and taking careful note of what not to rely on or what to rely on . . . or she gives me that feeling anyway.

I can’t let some self important snot make me feel like an amateur . . . but that’s just what she’s doing. I feel three feet tall in muddy overalls being lectured by a cliché harsh British head mistress . . .

“My name . . . is Yana. Though I do love my name, I would recommend you keeping it memorized. I won’t repeat it just because you’ve forgotten.” Yana half flashes her teeth in a grin that I remember making at a few women I’ve thrown down in front of police departments. “Shall we retire to my study? All of your questions can be answered there, and rather quickly too.”

Yana . . . My blood runs cold anew and I tighten my fingers around the railing until my knuckles hurt. Yanta. Yanuka. Black ink. When I met Yanuka she was even pretending to have black hair . . . I can still remember the feeling of that pen . . .

Her name fits the convention of the Nesatealia. Her behavior reminds me of Yanuka. She has the same everything-should-go-as-I-desire attitude Yanta had before I fried her brain into a worthless husk.

Just thinking of Yanta makes me feel angrier and more frightened too. I can feel myself start to sweat, and it is a very cold sweat. Anyone who personifies so much of that woman . . . She had all of those other women just locked away in some other place, some other world, some of them with such shattered minds that even with Windy and The Lady working on them for days we couldn’t fix them. I let go all of the women we could fix, but the remaining . . .

I never found out what happened to them, but I’m sure the media used it to shine more enmity down Chronos’s way . . . That’s one charge The Lady doesn’t deserve even if she deserves some others.

“I see the name strikes a chord in you. I’m glad. Admittedly, a part of me was convinced you would either miss that common thread or choose to dismiss it, but you have grown since then. You’re hardly a little girl playing heroine anymore, are you? You looked so cute as Argentia, I’ll admit . . .” She turns away from me again, and begins to walk away down the hall. “Follow me, and learn more . . . or leave. The decision of how to proceed, as always, is left to you . . . Patina.”

She takes far too much amusement in my name. I want to insult her so badly but that wouldn’t do any good at all. I want to deck her just like I decked Yanta, like I’ve wanted to deck Yanuka . . . at least The Domina claimed to have taken care of that one, so I did by proxy.

This is a trap set by a witch. My feet should be carrying me out the door right now, but then I won’t learn anything and I’ll be back where I started. I just need to keep my senses sharp . . . “I’ll bite.”

Even though I can only see the back of her head, I swear that I can see her grinning. Every step she takes makes her ass move in just the right way that despite myself I want to grab her for dear life. Something about her reminds me of Lida, too. I can’t quite place it but something is just different about her from the other witches. None of them seemed so graceful or caring of appearances.

Yanuka enjoyed playing but it was for her benefit. Yanta liked playing, but after she’d already broken your mind over her knee and had you strip bare to prostrate yourself like an erotic photo shoot. Yacawa . . . I don’t remember enough of her from my time as Lida, but . . . she seemed just vicious.

If this wasn’t for Olivia, I think I would be gone. What I wouldn’t give for some sparks right now! Even if she could freeze them like Yanta could I doubt that she could stop them if I delivered them in direct blow, or a mind searing kiss.

Her lips were so full and so black . . . She seems to have a much darker motif than the other Nesatealia. I could be wrong, but she pretty much confirmed my unspoken words . . .

The door to her study is actually two doors, very elaborate wooden doors with too intricate of details spanning across them. If there was a wooden bar to put across them incase of a pitchfork wielding mob it wouldn’t look or feel out of place. The hallway is sparsely decorated with landscape paintings with scenes of women lounging in various intellectual vistas, like a temple, or at the edge of a cliff. They don’t look about ready to jump off, it looks too . . . plotting even if lavish.

Stepping into her study makes me feel at the disadvantage but I’ve felt at that since I stepped through the font door. Ceiling height bookshelves fill the room, and the only spots not left to books are replaced by lavish book ends or elaborately mystical artifacts.

For all I know, the crystal ball and the overly fancy quill pen could be just for show and of no value or power at all . . . but something about Yana tells me that she doesn’t keep around anything without immense value even if the value is only to her and no one else. Nothing seems unperfected about her, besides her attitude.

As soon as I finish surveying the room, the fully opened doors are closed by two very gorgeous women who had been hidden behind them. Once the doors are closed they stand in front of them, smiling devotedly. Both of them are dressed in black from head to toe.

One of them looks a bit taller and has very long black hair that looks as if it just starts to curl in a wave below her ass. She wears a skirt that goes down almost to the floor like Yana’s, but has a slit up the center that doesn’t quite come together until it has to and shows off a sight of black, nearly transparent lace thong. Her skin has more of a tan than Yana’s, but anyone’s would have to be. Her upper half is covered by a very tight piece of latex that only covers her from above the upper half of her well curved breasts. The ending line shows the lower half of both of her . . . black areolas.

The other is obviously shorter, and her hair looks like its trying to reach her shoulders but can’t, stylized to be purposefully messy. Her skirt is a strip of latex that shows off the lowest curves her own black lace thong and could almost be called a belt. A hint of her waist shows that it even tries to look old fashioned with criss-crossing lacework. Her legs are long, and almost tan . . . Her modest breasts and slender upper half is covered by a flowing lace shirt with a very low cut neck showing off where her cleavage would be were she just slightly more endowed.

Both of them have eyes blacker than ink that look twice as wet. Just seeing them makes me a little wet and I’m thankful my own suit that quite resembles latex doesn’t darken so easily. They’re atmosphere . . . If she’s anything like her fellow witches I shouldn’t need to worry about them, but just incase, I think I might anyway.

“Now that you’ve admired my assistants, Helena and Celia, shall we get down to business? There’s so much to discuss and such little time to do it. Granted, nothing is pressing this time limit besides my own patience but . . . I have anxiously awaited this moment, so that patience is already stretched quite thin.” When I turn to face her Yana is sitting in a rather lavish leather chair behind her desk.

There isn’t a chair on the other side. Gracefully as can be managed with my swelling arousal and peaking worry I stand where a chair would be. “Yes . . . Let’s. Since you don’t seem to really care for questions . . . what information would you like to offer up?”

Yana huffs again, and a part of me worries that I really am trying her patience. I’m in a witch’s place of power and that was too close to blatantly disrespecting her. Even if I still had my sparks that would be a stupid thing to do. Even if Lida had her own sparks and magic to boot she was worried enough facing one of those witches I felt her face, not even counting that there were three of them . . . and that was on neutral ground.

Right when she seems about ready to blight me off the face of the earth with a clenching fist . . . her fingers release it and she melts back into the chair with a pitying sigh. “You know, I think I’d expected more of you than that even if I doubted your ability to grow. Do you really want me to show you what I can . . . of course you don’t. That’s a foolish thing to imply. You are quite simply frightened. I can respect that. In fact, I love it. Don’t try to hide it any more than your pride demands it . . . you’re not very good at pretending, anyway.”

As much as I do want to deck her and get the hell out of here . . . I did come here for Olivia. She needs help, and if this woman can help me do that for her, then I need to just bite my lip and deal with her as much as I hate it and as much as every moment my gloves feel wetter with sweat. “Yana, Please . . . You called me here because you said you had information that could help Aureus . . .”

“That I did, and I wasn’t lying. I do have all of the information about what was done to your poor sweet ‘Aureus’ . . . and how to remedy the poor darling’s condition . . .” Her lips curl into a very satisfied grin, and she leans over her desk. Even though her top has no cleavage, she has a sweetly formed body and that position always brings attention to a thing like that. “But surely you know such information comes at a price. You see . . . much like my mother . . . I am a Nesatealia with a delight for deals. Well . . . a would be Nesatealia may be the better word.”

Yana is Yanuka’s child. Great. I might have escaped Yanuka but only by her terms. My suspicions about a link between the two were a lot closer to the truth than I’d hoped for. If she’s willing to make a deal, I can at least hopefully use that to save Olivia . . . but what else do I have to surrender?

That’s not the only thing curious about what she just said. “What do you mean, a would-be Nesatealia? If you’re who I think you are, well . . . that would count in my book. You certainly have the aura of one.”

“Thank you.” Her tone is genuine, but it still drips with a spark of sensual self gratification. “You see, Sarah . . . Like you, only one of my mothers had witch-blood. The other had her redeeming qualities about her, but none of them were mystical. You do guess correctly, I assume. I am Yanuka’s daughter. However . . . I do not pass scrutiny. I’ve seen how often your eyes drift to my hair . . .” Her finger curls around a lock of it, and she frowns. “This isn’t a disguise. It refuses all dye, and all attempts to change its hue or luster. I am not Nesatealia because my bastard blood fostered a daughter without red hair.”

As amusing as it is to me, telling her that she’s the opposite of a red headed stepchild is not something I should ever do. Something I half remember from my time in Lida’s given memory was how important my middle name was to her. Lucia. It followed some tradition of the LaSilvas family . . .

It only makes sense that the Nesatealia would have traditions beyond their naming limitations. “So we’re both cursed with black hair then . . .”

The smile on Yana’s face slowly changes. Something in her black eyes glistens with . . . hope. It’s a twisted hope, but I recognize that look. “Exactly. Your hair is a curse given by my mother, just as mine is . . . Because of it, unlike your witch-mother who showed you at least temporary affection . . . my own shunned me from as soon as the first strands blossomed.”

Something about this makes me fill with hope. We have something in common! We have a common ground . . . Maybe she actually genuinely wants to help me and just wants my help in exchange. It would make sense. Her mother is after all a mutual enemy. Even if my other half is sure she stopped her, maybe she didn’t. Maybe this goes beyond Yanuka. I can’t be sure yet, but this is a good start. She didn’t start this off by pulling out an ink covered rod . . .

Just thinking about that nightmare again makes my sweat a little bit more before it starts to wane. “What do you want then, Yana . . .?” Her attitude seems justified, if not a little overdone. We’re both half bloods, if the term can apply to this situation. We both only grew up with one mother . . .

The absent mother only brought us pain even if she pretended not to . . .

“Quite simple, my sweet LaSilvas . . . For you are a LaSilvas, just as I am a Nesatealia, even if we both lack the characteristic locks of our family lines. The difference is that while your hair differs due to a lack of power . . . Mine differs due to an extreme. . .”

Slowly she raises a hand above herself, and presses her thumb and her pointer finger together. As she pulls them apart, a black goop begins to spread between them, and then drips with an unceremonious splat onto her desk, staining the already black wood surface as it melts into it. It looks . . . just like what I saw that night . . . just like what The Poetess had . . . The Pen . . .

I feel so stupid for ever doubting my intuition. This woman is . . . She’s . . . “Oh, come now . . . Is it so much of a shock? Are you disappointed that you allowed yourself to think differently, or disappointed in the truth? It’s obvious. It was me. I was the one responsible for The Poetess. She was going to deliver you to me, where I was going to restore your mind and have this discussion with my arms around you. When that failed, I had The Pen disable your dear sweet Olivia so that I could have a reason to lure you here . . . but I do have every intention of awakening her, Sarah . . . believe me.”

“Believe . . . Believe you?!” I want to calm down, but I’m beyond upset. If I had my sparks right now, I would fry her twice as much as I want to fry her mother. She’d wish she was lucky as her aunt. Well, she would if she would keep a mind in her head capable of wishing. “You tried to have me kidnapped, and then poisoned my lover!”

“Poisoned?” Yana sounds truly hurt, and frowns as she presses her fingers together again, and the ink pulls out of the desk to melt back up towards her fingers. “Olivia is safe. She is unharmed, just unconscious. She’s dreaming, and I made sure they were pleasant dreams . . . of you.”

She can control that ink the same way that I used to be able to control my own sparks . . . Yanuka used an ink pen, and even if she had many, she still had to use the pen or chose to. Yana is the pen, and the ink, and the leashing power behind it! I’m out matched here, but I . . . I don’t know if I can trust her enough to make a deal or if Olivia would want me to make one with her. I told her about how I lost my powers, about all of it, and I know she wouldn’t want me turning into some slave for her freedom.

Olivia would just spend the rest of her life miserable . . .

Taking a deep breath, I turn away from her but keep my eyes on the carpet. The sight of her two slaves . . . Helena and Celia? They’re far too distracting. I need to center. I need to save Olivia, and I need to protect the city at large and the world beyond it. This is bigger than just my desires.

After I can think without the words “kill” or “strangle” or “stab” coming to mind I turn to face her. “Fine, I have no reason not to believe that. Mystic even told me that what was inside of her was a parasite . . . and if you control it like I think you do . . . so fine. I’ll believe you, at least up to that point for now. What do you want? That’s why you brought me here. You want something. Tell me what it is.”

“You.”

My hands beg to turn into fists but I resist the urge. It’s just so tempting to do something physical to her. She just begs to be taken down a peg or fifteen . . .

At seeing my response, the black haired witch simply laughs and very slowly shakes her head . . . as it occurs to me that Lida only had silver eyes. That’s not important right now. Yana is. “Oh no, not like that . . . I don’t want you as a lover, or a sex toy. I have both needs attended to. As I told you, we are both half breeds without recognition. Both of us have become something we don’t want to be as a result. You’re a powerless heroine with no family history. I . . . am an increasingly bitter woman unable to be happy with the fame I earned myself before secluding myself. I want more. I need more. So do you.

“So I want to give us more. I want you to be my companion in this – my partner. The Nesatealia and the LaSilvas have been blood enemies for generations before our parents, but we are not of them! We are their discarded flotsam . . . but amongst that driftwood lies promise and desires! I can give you a new power, Sarah . . . I can share it with you . . . and we can take what we crave from the world. You can have your family again, your Chronos . . . Which no matter how loudly you tell yourself otherwise . . . you still crave. You can have that. You can have Olivia. You can have Valerie. You can have yourself as you crave to be . . .

“You can be whole.”

My hand clutches the silver teardrop hanging around my neck and my eyes close tightly to hide the tears brimming behind them. She . . . she sees through me . . . It’s like she’s reading me, reading me like some sort of book . . . or . . . no. She’s recalling me, like a book she’s already read, just like Dorian . . .

She would give me all of that but . . . I . . . Patina is not Silver. I’m not Silver . . . I can never be that again but . . . “And what do you want, in return . . .?”

“I will have my wishes fulfilled. I could do this alone, but it is lonely being on top. It is lonely having no one who understands you. My dearlings, they understand me to a point, but not innately. You are kindred as surely as if you were my sister.” Yana stands, and her dark eyes are full of that hope, and a deep weariness. “I crave to make my family . . . To make our families regret throwing us aside . . . I can give you everything you ask. Everything you wish . . . All I ask is that you aid me with my wishes . . .”

“It’s that simple, huh?”

“It is that simple, that devoid of guile, that . . . that desperate. Yes.”

Chronos . . . I could have The Lady back. I could have Olivia and Valerie. I could raise Sylvia as my own and even have a child with Olivia if we ever . . . I could still protect the world just like I . . . It would be so . . . She hurts the same way I do. My heart is physically broken as hers is emotionally.

There are so many unanswered questions about her . . . so much I need to know, but . . . I . . . no. I knew the choice I would make as soon as she told me what I could have, before she even told me the price.

“No.”

“No?! Sarah . . . This is everything you want! This is everything that I want!” Yana starts to walk from around the desk, eyes frantic, mystified. She almost actually trips over her skirt. “I planned this out for so . . . so carefully . . . I didn’t think I could find another like me, and when I did I . . . I could give you more if you need it! I could give you a place in my bed . . . Don’t you see how important this is to us, Sarah? This isn’t what The Domina did. This isn’t controlling the world, this isn’t . . .”

A moment after her outburst of emotion, Yana turns away and bows her head. She was so frantic . . . Her eyes were mostly whites. She really doesn’t realize how mad she’s driven herself. She really doesn’t know . . . “No, Yana. I can’t do this. I can’t do that. That’s not who I am, not anymore . . .”

“Fine . . .” Yana laughs, and it’s a sorrowful laugh. The regal quality returns to her, but it is a sad twist on its former self and I can hear the pain in her. “If you refuse to listen to reason, then spoken words will have no effect . . .”

“I’m sorry Yana . . . I’m going to go now. You can think this over . . . If you need my help, I’m willing, but not to change the world like that. I might not think the world is perfect like this, and I might love and crave what I had with Chronos, but . . . It wasn’t right then. It wouldn’t be right now. I’m sorry Yana. I have to refuse.” Without another word I twist on the balls of my feet and move towards the door. Yana’s guards, dearlings, whatever, don’t frighten me.

Something wet and slick sloshed into the back of my head with so much force that I fall to my knees. All of my scalp tingles and burns like hair dye, and I moan as my body shudders. Frantically I reach up and try to pull it out of my hair, try to push it off . . . it’s the goop . . . its her ink . . . I know it is . . . I need to get it off of me! I need to stop it .. . stop it from getting in . . .

“If you won’t listen to the spoken language . . .” I can hear her voice with my scalp . . . With . . . under it . . . Oh it tingles, it burns, but it feels so good . . . its expanding . . . I can feel it growing, changing shape, conforming . . . Wrapping over my shoulders . . . down my arms . . . over my fingers, wrapping . . .

Oh it feels so good, but so wrong! I can’t pull it apart, tear it apart . . . I can barely move! No matter how hard I try my whole body is fighting me . . . sealed off from me. It wraps around my breasts, around my back, hugging so tight as it twines around both of my legs and spreads them tight. I can feel it melting through the fabric, melting inside of me . . . oh goddess, it’s conforming, it’s . . .

Nraaaa . . . I can feel it like it is my suit . . . or like it’s melting away my suit . . . I can feel it holding my chest, kneading it . . . melting into my breasts, melting into my nipples . . . into my chest, into my heart . . . into my pussy . . . oooh it knows just how to conform, and its so warm and weeet . ..

It feels like it’s . . . oh like it’s fucking me, but not just . . . it’s mooore . . . I’m losing to it . . . losing so badly . . . I can feel it coming up over my neck from in front . . . around my lips . . . around my eyes . . . I know so soon it’ll encompass me . . . Its just around the holes of my ears, just waiting to drown me whole . . . but it’s waiting for her . . . oooh I’m waiting for her, want to struggle, want to fight it but she’s too . . . too much . . . too strong . . .

“Then perhaps . . . you’ll listen to the written word.” The ink melts into my eyes, into my mouth, and into my ears . . . and I can feel it in my mind just like I used to feel my silver . . . and just like I could with my sparks . . . I feel the ink fucking me into toe curled helplessness.