BMOC: Black Mage on Campus, Chapter 4: Masquerade — “Scenes from a Maul”

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Drake Harrington was hastily pulling on his pirate costume in Ally’s deserted sorority house. The costume was tight across his broad stocky frame. He had just finished tying on his bandanna when he heard an ominous pounding at the front door. He leapt quickly through the empty house. The pounding continued like irritated thunder. He wrenched open the door and stepped back stunned.

Damien Vaughn filled the doorway with his broad shoulders and gloomy black folds of clothing. He regarded Drake with contempt from behind a pair of dark sunglasses. “Drake, you’ve joined a sorority, have you? How appropriate.”

Drake shuffled uncomfortably. “Hi, Damien.”

“Where’s my sister?”

“She’s not here…”

Damien’s eyebrow rose quizzically over the rim of his dusty glasses. He turned and walked to a waiting stretch town car.

Drake hesitated then launched forward. “Hey Damien… wait!”

Damien got in the back seat of the car and disappeared behind tinted glass.

Drake plowed around to the other side and jumped in. Two opposing seats faced each other and Drake slid in opposite Damien.

“Excuse me.” Damien said.

“Look… Ally wants me to talk to you.”

Damien considered this, “About what?”

“She’s worried about you, Damien.” Drake felt silly and stupid in the costume. Damien looked as immaculate as ever. His inky black hair was styled spiky over the sunglasses. He wore a high collared black dress shirt and pinstriped pants which were both covered by a long black trench.

“What ever could she be concerned about?” Damien’s voice was gravely and slick. It had a definite malevolent tone.

“Damien,” Drake whispered, “You know what she’s upset about. She thinks you’re out of control.”

“That suggests that I was at some point in time… in control.”

Drake took a deep breath and trudged forward, “She thinks you’re going to end up just like Medea.”

The mention of Damien’s sister made his face contort in a monstrous scowl.“SHE’S A BUSYBODY LITTLE DO-GOODER!” Damien snapped.

Drake gave him a confused and sympathetic look. “I’m worried too…” Being cruel to Drake was like beating a puppy. “You’re acting like a monster… I don’t get it.”

Damien shrugged, “She’s pissed because I’m blocking her. She wants to get inside my head and help me. She overestimates her abilities.”

“Whatever’s wrong she might be able to fix it,” Drake offered.

Damien smiled broadly and for the first time Drake noticed his features seemed more vulpine… edgy and… demonic. He tipped the glasses forward and for an instant Drake could see an eerie azure light. He looked back and Damien had replaced the glasses. “It’s gone beyond fixing it.”

There was another long pause, and the sound of a beer being cracked from the town car’s mini-fridge. “You’re weird.” Drake said over his beer.

Damien sighed, “Yeah I am.”

“You weren’t this weird in college.”

Damien shifted his weight under the folds of his heavy coat. Drake was considered with a haughty look that melted quickly. Damien turned to the window before answering, “Yes I was, Drake. You just didn’t know me that well.”

“We dated for an entire semester,” Drake corrected defensively.

Damien laughed a low rolling belly chuckle. “Smoking pot, playing RPG’s and sloppy blowjobs in no way constitutes a relationship. I think being in that frat for too long has affected your perpetually intoxicated brain.”

Drake pounded his beer back fiercely and threw it at Damien’s head. It made a heavy thud against the rear window and the driver swerved a little. “Fuck you. Heartless Prick.”

Damien raised an eyebrow and wiped a stream of beer from his forehead. “Closet Case.” He spat. “How’s dating my virgin sister going? Still pretending you can breed cunt?”

Drake recoiled humbly, “We’re not dating.”

“That’s not what the Sigma’s think… or fucking anyone else on campus. You’re Ally’s Prince Charming. She gets to stay an untouchable paragon of virtue, and you get to not have to touch her.” Damien smiled. “Queerbait.”

“It’s easier if people think I have a girlfriend… there are fewer questions. You never understood.” That was Drake’s only lame defense of a situation he knew Damien had never, and would never sympathize with.

“No.” Damien’s eyes grew angry for the first time. “I’ve never had the luxury of not having to be MYSELF.”

“Ally’s fine with it. Guys leave her alone, and we are really good friends.” He was grasping for straws now. And Damien didn’t seem to give a fuck. “This was a mistake. You should just drop me off here,” Drake said apologetically. He was crestfallen. He was disappointed. He had envisioned a reunion with an old friend. A little beer. A little pot and then crazy wild man sex. Instead he was in the twilight zone with a total Dick. “You have no idea what it’s like pretending to be something you’re not.”

“I might…” Damien conceded… “I tried to change myself for a man once… Tried to not use magic… be a regular guy… Even had some divine intervention to help it along.” Damien’s voice was distant and his gaze was locked on the window. He remembered vividly trying to live a normal life after his last night with Gino… and how trapped he felt in the mundane humanity. “The rehab didn’t take … being without my power… was like being a painter and making myself blind. No matter how hard I try… I’m still a Vaughn… Still a witch… still a hopeless fag.”

“I know I’m still gay! I’m not denying that… I’m only trying to get through my senior year.” Drake said defensively, “As soon as I graduate…”

“You’re going to… what? Join PFLAG and get yourself a rainbow bumper sticker? Face it Drake. You’re as trapped as I am.”

Drake grabbed another beer. He pounded it back and threw it again. “Fuck you.” He burped.

“Sorry frat boy, not again.” Damien managed to surface from his self-involved reverie long enough to notice Drake’s costume. “What’s with the advertising, butt pirate?”

“I’m going to Ally’s Sorority Masquerade ball.”

Damien’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “But her sorority house was empty… so were all the other sorority houses on the block.”

Drake began to shift anxiously.

“Drake. Where is she having this party?”

Drake mumbled an answer and flinched as Damien put his hand through the car window.

Upon arriving in the small Hamlet of Remington, Desiderata Vaughn commissioned the construction of a house. It wasn’t so much a house as a local monument. High on a bluff that overlooked both the town and the nearby river, she built a monolith of Victorian architecture. Desiderata bought several acres of forest and in the heart of the deepest wood she built, the ancestral home of the Vaughns. Deep in a hollow of the woodland she erected a sprawling manor house, which she christened “La Maison Du Coeur Creux.” An elegant French title which roughly translates to the heart of the hollow or simply, the “Hollow Heart”.

The Estate itself was an imposing four story leviathan of slanted roofs, turrets and balconies. It rose out of the forest as if it had grown from the soil like the nearby Oak Trees. The Manor of Coeur Creux was as beautiful as a fairytale castle and as disturbing as an Inquisition dungeon.

Inside the house there were no clocks and no mirrors and three locks on every door. The floorboards sparkled like water and the walls were covered with the dead eyes of family portraits. Fifteen different sorts of wood had been used for the window seats, the doorways and the huge staircase in the grand foyer. If you squinted you could see your reflection in the polish of the banister and if you were very quiet you could hear music in empty corridors.

It was dark in every room, even at noon, and cool all the time. Anyone who dared stand on the porch, where nightshade and ivy grew wild, could try for hours to look through the windows and never see a thing. It was the same looking out; the green-tinted window glass was so old and thick that everything on the other side seemed like it was under water.

Coeur Creux had seven bedrooms, four floors, an arbor, a conservatory, a library, a surgery, and three stairwells that led down to a huge grand foyer. The ballroom-sized foyer was overlooked by a great mezzanine balcony that seemed better suited for a palace than a simple country home. Currently, the entire foyer was packed to the gills with Remington College’s entire population of fraternity and sorority members. The marble floors were lined with young students, the old walls echoed with a DJ’s music and beer and wine were flowing like water.

“Dear Ally, what a splendid party, the product of a bright new year. I must say I’m impressed,” Amy told her best friend happily. Amy was dressed for the masquerade party in a cute little genie costume that showcased her bubbly personality.

“Well, one does one’s best.” Ally demurred. Allysandra was draped head to toe in a gleaming white toga with golden accents. Her lustrous honey-colored hair cascaded over one shoulder and she looked to all the world like a Greek goddess descended to earth.

“I must say all the same, that it’s a shame that your brother Damien isn’t here,” Amy mused.


The resounding sound of a tympani being struck echoed through the crowded foyer. At the head of Coeur Creux’s wide stairway stood a figure in flowing black. Damien began to descend with a look of supreme self-pleasure. A toga, so black it seemed to eat the light, was draped over one shoulder, exposing his large deltoid and muscled pec. The drape of the fabric shifted and undulated beneath his powerful frame and flowed outward with his every step. His face was framed by a wide cowl that trailed into a long and sinuous cloak of liquid night, it spilled out from behind him and trailed up the stairs.

The face shone with amused grandeur and was decorated with a painted silver face mask which led up to two gleaming silver horns. His hair was back to black and was gelled into a slick crew cut that matched his black goatee.

“I’ll meet by moonlight, Fair Titania.”

“I should have known…” Allysa murmured.

“You didn’t really expect me to pass up the chance to put on a costume, did you?”

Alyssa gave Amy a dark look, “Are you happy? Speak of the Devil, and he appears.”

“He insisted,” Drake had joined them at the foot of the stairs. His pirate costume lacked a certain amount of dignity but he did look quite handsome in the torn shirt and breeches.

“You shouldn’t have told him,” Alyssa fumed, “He never passes up a chance to make an entrance.”

“That wasn’t an entrance,” Damien replied flippantly, “Nothing even exploded.”

“Not yet,” Ally and Drake said in unison.

“Ah, young love,” Damien snorted with an eyebrow raised in irritation.

“Did you have a chance to talk to him?” Alyssa asked.

Drake gave Damien a considering nod. “He says he doesn’t want help… and I don’t think he approves about our… er… arrangement.”

“Oh bugger that.” Allysa swore uncharacteristically.

Damien gave Drake and Alyssa a scathing look “I love a charade.” He turned his back to them and the billowing cloak disappeared into the crowd.

Damien searched the throng of elaborately dressed and sometimes barely dressed students until he found his quarry. He was behind one of the large couches and facing a window. He held an untouched beer in his hand. “No costume, rabbit?”

Peter turned. He was sullen and seemed to be deeply brooding. He shrugged at Damien and ignored him. Peter was secretly praying that the witch would just go away.

“I bet we can fix that.”

Peter looked down at his beer and realized that it was now a big plush carrot. He dropped it angrily. He put two tentative hands on his head and his suspicions were confirmed. He snatched the rabbit ear head band off and threw it at Damien. “Fuck you.”

“Oh Peter, no. I’m so out of your league.”

Peter’s face contorted in rage. “Why won’t you leave me alone? Why are you tormenting me?”

“Better the Devil, you know?”

“Go away.”

Damien’s eyes began to glow with that eerie azure light. The light Peter had first seen when… Rob… became… Javier. Peter had been trying desperately to forget the thick mulish voice begging him for help. But Rob’s… Javier’s pleas still woke him in the dead of night. The blue light flickered out. The witch’s eyes were doing that a lot more frequently now. “Why? So you can sit over here all alone and feel sorry for yourself?”

“I’m not feeling sorry for myself.”

The Devil’s eyes rolled, “Sure you are, wallflower. Christ Peter! You’re such a victim. What would be more fun for you, huh? Sitting here all alone ruminating on your social failure or following me around and taking abuse?”

Peter’s lip trembled, “I don’t want to do either of those things.”

“Spit and Hades, you’re not going to cry are you? There’s no crying in baseball.”

Peter sniffed and avoided Damien’s eyes, “You know if you think I’m such a victim you could help me… you could…”

Damien’s laughter echoed in his ears, “I could help you what? Change? Hahaha. This is the life you chose little rabbit. If you wanted something else you could have chosen it long ago. Life is all about choices. Don’t look to me if yours are no longer satisfactory.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Peter sputtered.

“Of course you did… sure, you knew you weren’t like the other boys but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t have tried to be. You could have sucked it up… joined a couple of sports… tried to blend in… toughened up a bit… instead of hiding in your room, getting paler and skinnier by the minute. Choices, Peter. Choices.” Damien’s eyes gleamed maliciously beneath his silver horns. Peter had a sneaking suspicion that those horns were not a fantastic makeup job or the result of any kind of spirit gum adhesive.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Oh it is. You, little faggot, decided to roll over and play dead way back in junior high.”

“I thought you were my friend.” Peter whispered through tears of rage.

Damien’s smirk dripped contempt, “Your friend?” he spat. “Your friend? Well then little buddy, let me give you a friendly taste of what your choices could have been. It is a masquerade party is it not? I have just the costume for you.”

Peter stepped back.

Damien clapped his hands with a boom.

Pete stepped forward.

Damien began to disappear into the crowd “Mind the clock, rabbit. You’re on the same schedule as Cinderella.”

He returned to Allysa’s greeting line. She gave him an awful dark look, “Don’t make any trouble.”

“I don’t really think that’s up to me anymore.” Damien told her frankly. His eyes lit with a terrible azure light and continued to glow for as long as Ally could make contact with the luminescent radiance. “I’m pretty much bleeding magic from every pore.”

“WOW that was a cool trick!” A young bushy haired guy with glasses and a slipknot t-shirt yelled. “Do it again.”

Ally coughed loudly. “Damien, this is Eric Porter.” He was handsome in a boyish way, with slender shoulders and firm round biceps. “Eric, this is my brother, Damien.” They shook hands.

“Now do that eye thing again!”

“Eric why aren’t you wearing a costume?” Ally asked, desperate to change the subject.

Eric smiled broadly. “I’m a terrorist… they could be anyone, you know.”

“Oh…” Ally answered wearily. “Hey Eric I think Amy was looking for you…”

“Awesome!” The eager young buck grunted and melted into the crowd.

“Nice Ass.” Damien murmured and Eric bent over suddenly, giving him a better view.

“You should leave.” Ally gasped in horror.

“It’s my house too…” Damien shrugged.

“But you’re dangerous… you’ve probably affected things and not even aware of it…”

Damien smiled and mused, “Kind of like a homoerotic dehumidifier.”

Amy came bounding over with her boyfriend Bradford in tow. “Oh my gawd! Like everybody on campus is here!”

Bradford the consummately polite WASP, extended one big hand towards Damien, “Hi, I’m Bradford James McPherson, the third.”

“Damien, the first.”

Allysa rolled her eyes, “And God willing the only.”

Amy hung happily on Bradford’s arm. Her strapping red-haired boyfriend had fake hair glued to his face and a very inept werewolf’s makeup. He was tall and broad in the shoulders. His burgeoning beer gut only seemed to add to his masculinity. “Brad says this will be the social event of the season.” Amy giggled.

“Out of the way, losers!” Leo roared, and came barreling down the stairs. Reece and Preston followed behind him dragging a very drunk dude. The dude in question was Paulo Castonelli, the foreign exchange captain of the soccer team. The usually very formal Paulo was wearing a short skirt, a tube top and a cheap wig. His hairy chest looked ridiculous covered in the top and his thick hairy legs looked even sillier.

“Why aren’t you guys wearing costumes?” Amy demanded.

“Paulo’s wearing one!” Leo laughed pointing to his drunken buddy.

“It never ceases to amaze me how drunk straight guys have to get to do drag,” Allysa mused.

Damien gave the hunky soccer player an assessing look. “That’s a dude in a wig. That’s not drag.”

“I’m pretty!” Paolo roared, standing on his own for a second, then falling back into Reece and Preston’s arms.

The two guys drug him into the throng of party goers.

“Drink up, everybody!” Leo yelled to the mob, “We’re celebrating tonight!” and followed his buddies into the crowd.

“Why’s he in such a good mood?” Allysa asked aloud.

Amy’s pixie face contorted into a scowl, “You know that new running back that was stealing all of Leo’s press and hogging all his League deals?”


“He got caught with a bunch of coke in his dorm room. Expulsion and a criminal investigation,” Amy explained.

“Oh well then, by all means party on,” Damien grumbled.

Pete watched Damien wander away.

The dude was so fucking weird sometimes.

Good guy.

But fucking weird.

Pete cracked his knuckles.

A nasty habit from back when he was in high school. He’d be cracking his knuckles, over and over again, while sitting on the bench. Watching the rest of the wrestling team in their matches. Matches.

His hands flickered to his cigarettes. He wandered if he could smoke in here? Trying to drop the last four pounds he needed to before this weekend’s wrestling meet was murdering him. He thought hungrily about the huge spread of food that Ally’s sorority had provided and decided instead to light up. He hated smoking, but it did curb his appetite.

“Hey Pete! My man!”

Pete turned toward the crowd. Greg Douglas, his co-captain on the crew Team was walking toward him. Greg’s girlfriend was leading him by a big cartoon leash and her usually rocking body was covered in a giant yellow t-shirt.

“Yo Greg! Whaddup?” They roared at each other and bumped chests in macho bravado.

“Not much bro,” Greg answered, “You ain’t got no costume!”

“Yeah well what are you supposed to be?” Pete asked sardonically of his lithe and ripped partner.

Greg raised a cartoon mask to his face. Pete was still stumped.

Greg’s girlfriend huffed angrily. “We’re Snoopy and Charlie Brown!”

“Oh.” Pete said, faking recognition.

Greg put a friendly arm around his buddy, “I just had to tell you bro, I’m not going to be able to drive down to Baltimore tomorrow for that Orioles game.”

Pete stamped on his cigarette angrily. “Why the fuck not? We’ve had tickets for weeks!”

“Sorry bro, something came up.” Greg apologized “But you can take Rick or Stew…” Greg said pointing to two other members of the Remington crew team. Rick and Stew were wearing matching white and black striped prisoner costumes and fighting over a bottle of Grey Goose.

“Oh fuck man!” Pete fumed, “I can’t believe you’re punking out on me!”

“You should get a beer bro.” Greg said cajolingly.

“I can’t…” Pete mumbled. “I’m losing weight for a meet.”

“They have light beer!”

Eric Porter was investigating the grand house’s extensive and dusty library when he felt a rough hand on the back of his neck.

He turned quickly to find his lacrosse buddies, Tyler, Mike and Brent, standing aggressively behind him. They were all dressed like Desert Storm commandos in tan camouflage and wifebeaters. “Shit guys, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“We’re gonna do more then that you fucking sand nigger.” Tyler spat. Tyler was from a well-to-do family in Ontario… and definitely didn’t speak with the clipped Georgia drawl that Eric just heard.

“Yeah, but before we put your camel-loving ass back in your cell, we’re gonna have some fun with you.” Mike was one of the quietest students at Remington, he had the body of triathlete and the retiring personality of an accountant. He simply didn’t talk that way.

“Ha, ha, ha.” Eric replied. “Very funny guys, now you can drop the G.I. Joe act. I’m not…”

The slap came hard and quick. Eric’s ears were ringing. “Did someone say something funny, bitch?”

“No.” Eric panted rubbing his jaw. The three military men drew closer. They surrounded him in an angry huddle.

Another slap sent him reeling to his knees. “No what?”

“No, sir.” Eric answered automatically.

He knew what his jailors wanted. This was typical of the western scum. They wanted to debase him and use him. Break his spirit, but he would not let them. The three young privates released their ivory bald American cocks at his face.

“Put that dirty mouth to some good use.” One of the infidels demanded.

As he took the first dusty, warm cock in his mouth, and silently prayed that this would be his only humiliation tonight….

Pete grabbed a beer and found a corner to sulk in. He looked down at the floor, noticing his beat- up track shoes and tanned hands and hairless legs. He sipped his beer and checked his reflection out in the glass of one of the big dark windows. It fucking sucked that there weren’t any mirrors in this damn old house. Pete gave his reflection the usual once-over. Shit he looked good. Sure, he was weak all the time but getting his weight down to 175 made every one of his muscles tense and so cut that he looked like a fitness model. A fitness model who was ready to pass out at any minute but a model, nonetheless.

His tan worn face smiled back at him. Hours of practice in the sun and on the river had made him look a little weather-worn, but he was as solidly bronze as a statue. He ran a hand through his brown hair and toussled the blonde highlights. The fabric of his tight red polo, with its upturned collar, strained awkwardly at the movement. He would be embarrassed as fuck if the guys in his frat new he wore smalls just to accentuate his buffness. They would think that that he was gay. And they’d probably be right. And he wanted to make sure they didn’t find that out.

“Hey, Mr. Vain. Checking yourself out again?” Amy giggled as she approached him.

“Uh, no…” Pete fumbled. He was confident in his looks but he didn’t want to seem like some shallow douche bag. “I was, uh, looking at this painting,” He covered quickly.

Amy smiled beatifically. Her genie’s high ponytail swayed slightly with excitement. “I love this one. Ally and Damien look so cute.”

Pete gave the random portrait a closer inspection. An older woman with a tight bun of iron grey hair was surrounded by four children.

“That’s their family’s portrait,” Amy explained.

“Granny wanted it done when we were so young, because she wanted to be in the picture and didn’t want us to have to pose with a corpse,” Allysandra added wryly as she joined them.

Pete smiled at Ally, “So that’s your grandmother?”

“Oh yes,” Ally said proudly. “That’s Granny, and that’s my older sister Roxanna…” She pointed to a prettily chubby little girl with a surly look on her cherubic face. She moved her hand down to where a confused little toddler in pigtails stared curiously from the frame, “and that’s me.”

“That can’t be Damien!” Pete gasped. He pointed to a shy little boy in the foreground who was hidden behind a bright blue blanket and sucking a thumb. He had striking blue eyes behind thick plastic glasses and a mop of black hair.

“Oh that’s him allright, they couldn’t ever get that damn blanket out of his hand. Medea had to hide it from him when he started pre-school.”

Pete examined the picture and laughed, “Who’s the pretty tall chick? Your mom?”

Allysa’s eyes darkened and her perpetual smiling face seemed to become a mask of barely contained grief. She gazed at the willowy figure in the painting. The girl was stunning, with a lovely secretive smirk and glossy black tresses. “No. That’s Medea… our oldest sister.”


“I think I’ll go look for Drake.” Allysa answered and escaped back to the party.

“Yeah, I better find Brad before he gets to drunk to stand…” And then, Amy absconded too, leaving Pete with the Vaughn family portraits and the generations of ghosts looking out from them.

Bradford McPherson tugged angrily on his shirt as he stumbled into the moonlit courtyard of Coeur Creux. He could feel the heat on his body. The moon made the hair on his arms stand on end. The noises from the party were only a mild distraction as he ripped away the remaining constraints of his clothing. He lurched down to all fours and let the moon’s blessed glow bathe him. He was about to pad into the waiting glow of the nearby forest when his nostrils flared. There was a scent in the cold night air. He let his senses spread across the dark glen, and he itched idly at his shaft as it continued to throb to the other animal’s scent.

Greg Douglas felt terribly confused. He knew it was wrong to be hiding under the vast porch of Coeur Creux. He knew it made no sense that he was completely naked except for his collar and leash. But it felt so right. His unconstrained balls jostled against his naked thighs as he poked his head out of the porch’s overhang. He wanted to run. He wanted to sniff at things out in that big wood.

His tongue was lolling out of his mouth at the thought. There were probably things to chase out there in the dark. He bounded out of his hiding spot, oblivious to the scrapes and cuts on his knees as he crawled spryly toward the trees.

He was halfway to the forest when he saw the other animal. The other beast stared directly at Greg… Greg was his name… wasn’t it? The other beast growled. The other dog was much bigger and hairier then Greg, so he automatically dropped his eyes and tried to find the most submissive pose.

The other dog came forward. He emitted a low growl and Greg remained terribly still. His cock banged angrily against his stomach at the alpha male’s scent. The other dog sniffed at him intently, finding his bare ass of considerable interest. Greg felt the warm slick brush of the other dog’s tongue against his cheek. He barked happily in response, trying desperately to wag a tail that didn’t exist.

The bigger dog bounded off into the trees. Greg was happy for a playmate. He yipped eagerly and followed.

The two boys were naked and crouched low to the ground. Barking and tumbling around each other in the forest brush. Greg butted Bradford’s head and Bradford nipped at Greg’s heels. Their sweaty, dirty bodies clashed and crashed as their horseplay grew more violent. It wasn’t until Greg felt the other dog mount him and ride his butt with a thick prick, that Greg realized the real play his playmate intended…

The dance floor was alive. Allysa was tentatively making her way across it, when a large hand grabbed hers and pulled her into a tight embrace.

“Do you know why I went looking for you tonight?.” Her brother’s voice was low and malicious as he danced with her through the crowd.


“You tried to stop me.” Damien whispered in his sister’s ear. “I felt it.”

“I didn’t…” Allysandra protested.

His grip tightened on her waist. “I felt it. Don’t try and pit yourself against me, little hedge witch. You’re still an amateur and I’ve turned pro.” To illustrate the point his eyes blinked with that unsettling blue light.

“Well, it didn’t work.”

“I imagine it was quite painful.” He said with satisfaction.

Allysa touched her temple gingerly. She was reluctant to even remember the awful moment when she tried to bind Damien’s magic. She thought she had mastered the spell, and two weeks ago had decided to put an end to his trouble. Unfortunately, she cast the spell and woke up six hours later on the floor of her bedroom. She couldn’t hear or speak for two days, and could only stand for minutes at a time. She felt like she had run headfirst into a cement wall.

“Damien, listen to me. I thought this was all about trying to bind your powers. You’re more powerful now than when you first showed up. You’re like a goddamn nuclear event,” Allysa pleaded into her brother’s chest, as they glided across the floor.

“It was about that at first… but the power is quite seductive. I thought I wanted to be normal again, but …” His laugh was low and malevolent. “I’m having second thoughts.”

She pulled away but he spun her into a quick turn and brought her back to his chest, “It’s Dark Magic. You could do so much good… instead of this chaos … Things have got to come to an end. You should never have done this. You shouldn’t turn people into stories. You shouldn’t treat people like they were characters, like they’re just things. But if you do… you have to know how to end the story.”

Damien growled, “If I do… then I have to put on my red-hot shoes and dance the night away? Or perhaps climb happily into my oven?” He twirled Allysa around the floor and the waltz continued.

On the sidelines watching the melee of collegiate partying unfold, three members of the academic frat sat stoically. The academic frat was comfortably known as the Geek Frat. Fred, Kent and Howard were prime examples of this definition. Dressed respectively as a cop, a fireman, and a construction worker. They looked more like the Village People. Their meek frames swam in the large costumes.

Fred, the most dramatically brave of the trio, was tentatively sipping a beer. He was managing to conceal his grimace of disgust beneath his large fire helmet. Kent, tall and gawky in his cop’s uniform, was making a conscious effort to avoid eye contact with anybody. Howard’s construction helmet kept knocking his glasses down and forcing him into an awkward hunch.

These were the ruling body of the “Gambda Geeks” and were quite frankly the most gallant examples of their fraternity’s membership. Makes you wonder what the losers looked like.

Fred coughed uncomfortably, “Nice party.”

“Yeah.” Kent agreed.

“Quite,” parroted Howard.

“Interesting house.” Fred offered.

“Yeah.” Kent agreed.

“Quite,” parroted Howard.

“The beer is very cold.”



Fred fumbled with his firemen’s coat, “Perhaps we should go dance?”



But none of them got up.

As the three friends continued their self-conscious conversation, three other friends wandered by, drunkenly. “You know what this party fucking needs?” roared Leo.

“no… hic… what?” asked Reece and Preston.

“Strippers!” Leo mused.

“Fuck yeah!” Agreed Preston.

“Slutty, foreign ones!” Reece offered.

Leo clapped his buddies on the shoulders and led them back to the waiting revelry. “Yeah, that only know how to say “I want to fuck!”

“In cages!” yelled Preston.

“Yeah, cages!”

Fred watched the three notorious ringleaders of the jock frat stumbled off. “Well, that was rude.” he muttered.


“Quite…. Uh..uh… ahhhh…” Howard groaned as he bent forward clutching his arms around his body in pain. The construction hat rolled to the floor and his glasses slid off. He doubled over in agony.

Fred and Kent jumped up in panic. “Howard! What’s wro..uh… uh..ahhh….!” Fred bent over and grabbed the back of his chair as his body spasmed uncontrollably. Kent’s long-limbed form writhed beneath him on the floor.

Howard’s shaved heard erupted in a spray of dark locks. Tendrils of glossy and tangled black hair snaked down his shoulders like writhing snakes. Shiny and well kept dreadlocks framed the panicked white face. His grimace grew more profound as his jaw distended into a huge chin and thick masculine jowl. His teeth were huge and white, behind a grin that betrayed not a hint of intelligence. The lips parted and puffed until they protruded, purple and pendulous. His nose flared. And flared. And kept flaring. Heavy bovine nostrils hung from an elegantly delicate bridge. His eyes slanted slightly and lightened to a dreamy and unfocused light blue.

The pale texture of his skin darkened to a deep russet mocha with sunspots and freckles dotting his bi-racial hide.

The dull eyes squeezed shut in pain as Howard’s tiny 5’7”, 135 lb frame erupted beneath his costume, leaving tattered pieces of fabric to snow down around him. His body flexed and stretched to a tall 6’4”, and his scrawny limbs began to swell and bulge with meat. His neck grew thick beneath the dreads, making a trunk up to his thuggishly pretty face. His pecs inflated to ridiculous proportions, and his shoulders spread wide, to accommodate the mass of his big muscled tits. His biceps bulged like melons along the ridge of his toned and taut arms.

Howard grunted as he felt the miniscule weight between his legs drop like a sac of quarters had landed in his lap. A huge 13 inch cock snaked out from behind a pair of tiny little water patterned briefs. His thighs vibrated as they began to expand into awkwardly distended dimensions. His butt pushed out so far off the seat, he fell to his knees. The big huge ass wobbled, as his giant thighs hit the ground.

Howard struggled to stand. The ridiculous proportions of his exaggerated musculature made it difficult. On the lithe tight frame of a toned and athletic black man were a pair of bloated pecs, football sized biceps, a pair of thighs big enough to lift a Mack truck and an ass that could be a bumper on one.

Howard began to jiggle childishly to the dance music. His water patterned briefs set off his exotic skin tone, as did his huge white horse teeth. Howard could feel the riotous grin splitting his face in half with pleasure. The harder he smiled and jiggled, the harder it was to concentrate.

All thoughts of bio-chemistry, next semester’s study abroad program, and his DVD’s of Star Trek leaked out through the tension of that cadaver’s smile. Howard felt his now powerful and heavy islander’s body shimmy and shake. He pushed his giant man ass out rhythmically and succumbed to the joy in his wide, unflinching smile, and the giddy brainless joy in his dance.

Hakim bent down and pulled his construction helmet on over his dreads. He was so lucky to be here dancing. He was so lucky not to be back in the Dominican Republic paving gravel roads with his Grandpapi’s construction crew. He was lucky to have big muscles and big cock, for Americans to look at.

Hakim climbed up to a waiting cage, stepped in and as his inter-racial ass began to shiver, his shit-eating idiot’s grimace split for one second, so he could shout in a deep tilted roar, “I WANT TO FUCK!”

On the floor, Kent struggled beneath the confines of the policemen’s uniform and snaked out of them like he was shedding his skin. Kent, tall and ill at ease with his height since birth, began to shrink from 6’5” down to 5’11”. His dark brown hair began to lighten until it was the colorless shade of an icicle. The frumpy and unpleasant features of the Debate Squad regent captain and the campus chair on moral conduct, reshaped and realigned. His features now had the sharp angles and defined planes of an ice sculpture. An aquiline jaw led like a cliff to two impossibly high cheekbones that could cut glass. Pointed Slavic brows rose above sea green eyes.

His smaller body shivered as his body fat plummeted and his muscles quivered to perfectly proportioned specimens of perfection. Perfectly proportioned shoulders led to wide but perfectly proportioned pecs. Abs cut like diamonds led to a groin covered with a flimsy sea green thong that exposed the length and considerable girth of his translucently pale dick.

The hair on his body fell off like shards of glass, leaving him bald from his neck to his perfectly diamond shaped calves.

Kent lifted his bony angel’s face from the floor and stared at the cage in front of him. His hands ran aimlessly over the rugged planes of his muscled body. His still-long, pale fingers lingered on his ass. He felt the taut strip of his thong in the cleft of the rock hard manscape of his brutal brick ass. He felt the whispered urge to plug the long finger up into the hole.

Kent tickled his butt as he remembered the long days he spent letting men use it on the streets of Prague. After leaving his native Russia, after he was rejected from the Olympic gymnast’s team and refused entry to the Moscow Ballet. Kechyen didn’t mind the men who would use him. He preferred it. He did mind the police hassling him from tourist spots, and chasing him from hotels. That’s why Kechyen was glad to be in America. In America he could be a sex worker and a cop.

He jumped nimbly into his cage, his beautiful Slavic face devoid of any thought or emotion. Kenchyen undulated to the music. He began rubbing his severely cut body against the bars. His icy thoughtless resolve broke for one second when he said to the crowd, broken and heavily accented “Iya VANNA FUYCK!!”

Fred gripped on to his chair like his life depended on it. His body burned with an intense heat that swam up his cheeks and ignited his thighs. He shrugged out of the heavy jacket and slipped out of the suspenders and trousers. The heat pulsated under his pulse. But he was used to heat, growing up on the coast of Thailand he spent hours walking dirt roads in the squelching sun. No, he grew up in New Hampshire where it was cold and green. Desolate roads that he walked for miles so he could work in the city’s brothels until he grew far too big to please the tourists… Fred had never worked a day in his life, except for the college’s elite academic recruiting squad.

The fire in his veins seethed beneath his skin, bloating his shoulders out and pushing his flabby chest up until his upper body was a barrier of mass. The inferno rocketed down his torso leaving his waist tiny and his stomach flat and thin.

His shoulders were why he couldn’t stay in the brothels. They were why his father sent him to work at the quarry, where his unusual size could be useful… No, his father sent him to MENSA meetings and Boy Scout camp…

His long graceful legs stretched out beneath him and his plump swarthy ass blazed as it became a round and fleshy mass of cherubic weight. His long uncut dick was bundled tight in a red g-string that made the slender length of his penis seem like a hose.

Long lashes stretched from almond shaped eyes as black as coal. His eyes were hazel and he didn’t have yellow skin… yellow skin so bronze it looked like melting butter. Spikes of black hair erupted from his low forehead like flames and his button nose dotted a wide heart shaped yellow face.

He didn’t understand what was happening … He didn’t understand America… No he was an American… A Thai immigrant…

It was so confusing… He wasn’t a “Chink” dancer… it was confusing, he never knew if he was a good dancer or not.

He didn’t like what was going on… He did like the way his snake dangled beneath him, slapping against his leg when he shook… no, he didn’t…

Fred didn’t understand what was happening to him.

Phan Yo did not understand why Americans liked it when men danced like puppets.

Fred was desperately trying to figure out…

Phan Yo couldn’t figure out what the funny fire hat was for… but if it let the Americans know he was hot, like fire, he didn’t mind wearing it.

Fred didn’t know…

Phan Yo did know he was supposed to be in his cage beside the other two men.

Fred tried… but Phan Yo stood up and crawled bewildered into his place. Phan Yo began to jiggle to the music. The look of complete incomprehensive bafflement was only broken by the smile of joy he got when his long cock slapped against his thigh… He giggled like a confused infant and yelled, “Me Rike the Fouk!!”

The largest portrait above the grand staircase was disturbing. It was dark and the oil paints had faded, giving the massive picture a dreamy quality. A heart-breakingly beautiful woman stood aristocratically in the frame. Her hair was the color of midnight. Her skin was the color of snow. Her unsmiling lips were the color of fresh-drawn blood. And her steel grey eyes were the color of hate. Pete never thought that hate could be a color. But those eyes… they were the color of Hate. She was nude and only the barest black cloth covered her pert breasts and the secrets of her long thighs.

“She was one hot piece of ass.”

Pete turned to find Drake’s brawny form behind him. “Who was she?”

“You don’t know?” Drake asked incredulously. “Oh, but that’s right, you’re not from around here… That is Desiderata Vaughn. She built this house.”

“She looks scary.” Pete mused.

“She was one high-riding bitch.”


“Well the story goes… Desiderata Vaughn was born the daughter of a Gypsy king… (which means basically her father was the leader of a group of poachers and squatters on a local Lord’s land.)

Desiderata’s beauty was legendary, and her fame was widespread across Bavaria. Men came from across Europe to court her but she refused them all. She was devoted to her family and caring for her aging father. The local Baron, however, soon became obsessed with her and demanded she marry him. Again, she refused and spurned his attentions.

It wasn’t a great coincidence that shortly after, the local villagers began whispering about witchcraft and thieving Gypsies. Desiderata was accused of consorting with the Devil and confined to the Baron’s dungeon. The Baron razed her family’s caravan and dragged the surviving members of her clan to the stake. Devoid of family or protection, he forcibly made her his wife.” Drake paused and gave Pete a reassuring wink, “The morning after their wedding night, he was found in their marriage bed gutted like a pig, squealing and begging for death. Desiderata was nowhere to be found.

She escaped to the Mediterranean coast and took ship aboard a cargo freighter that was bound for the New World. The men on the ship waited until they were well clear of land and instantly took their pleasure with her. She was raped and used for months before they reached port.

She landed pregnant and almost dead on an empty ship… the entire crew dead of a malaria outbreak… she was the only survivor and the cargo was all mysteriously registered in her name. She sold the cargo and came here to Remington.” Drake paused, downed a beer and stared at Desiderata’s hate fueled blue eyes.

“That’s fucking awful.” Pete said horrified, pounding back his own beer.

Drake turned to him and whispered in a secretive voice, “The legend goes, that she gave birth to a daughter and baptized her in the name of dark gods. She swore that her revenge against men would be visited upon the world so long as a single Vaughn woman walked the earth. And ever since then any man foolish to love a Vaughn woman was doomed.”

Pete gave Drake a skeptical look. “How do you know all this?”

Drake blushed, “Well growing up in Remington… Everyone in this town knows the story… especially mine. My family’s all cops. Lots of “mysterious” deaths to investigate.” His eyes grew heavy and sad, “Plus my older brother was married to a Vaughn.”

“It was Damien’s sister wasn’t it?” Pete asked suddenly… “The one who …”

“… Jumped from the campus clock tower.” Drake finished.

There was a long uncomfortable silence, “Is that why you and Damien used to be such…” Pete smiled, “good friends?”

“Yeah I guess.”

Pete shifted his weight so Drake and he were chest to chest, their forearms brushed against each other. “I could use a good friend.” Pete propositioned boldly. His cock was rigid beneath his cargo shorts.

There was a moment of hesitation in Drake’s eyes. It passed quickly. “There’s a room at the end of the hall.” He said it quickly, desperate to get it out before he lost his nerve.

Pete followed him. The door closed behind them with a click. They were left in an austere bedroom, staring at each other expectantly. Drake shuffled his feet, “Pete… I…”.

Pete lunged at him. The heat from Drake’s body had whipped him into a state of frenzy. He pushed his groin into Drake’s and sucked the salt from his lip. Drake kissed back forcing Pete against a nearby wall. They grappled like animals. Hands searched taut muscles. Pete clutched Drake’s wide shoulders, feeling their weight as he intruded into the other man’s mouth. Drake savored engulfing Pete’s mouth. He could smell the other man’s sweat, taste it on his skin.

Pete grabbed hold of Drake’s throbbing dick. His hands massaged it through the fold of the costume. He head butted Drake lightly and forced him against the wall, “I want to fuck you.” Pete’s hand snaked underneath Drake’s balls and his fist began to rhythmically thump against his hole.

Drake spread his legs wider. He swallowed Pete’s lips and lower jaw in response. They were sticky with sweat and saliva. Two dudes enslaved by masculine passion, unbound and straining for release.

Drake was fumbling with Pete’s zipper when the alarm on his phone went off. “Shit.”

“What was that?” Pete barked as he put one athletic leg against Drake’s big ass.

“My alarm… I told Ally I’d meet back up with her at midnight.”

Pete rubbed himself against the wide ass, “Fuck your beard.” He mumbled.

“Ya,” Drake breathed, “fuck her.”

Pete ran a big hungry hand down the slope of Drake’s butt… “Wait, midnight?”

Rick had Stew’s stripped pants wrapped round his ankles and Stew’s shirt was tied tight around his wrists. Stew had him bent over the edge of a chair and was working his ass over with one crude finger.

“Sorry ‘bout this mate, but last time you damn near kicked me in the face.” His cellmate explained.

“Just fucking get on with it.” Rick demanded. In prison you take your pleasure where you can get it. Stew was gentler than most cons, but he did like to have his cock serviced regularly. He felt Stew’s big callused hands grasp his butt. Rick clenched his teeth, prepared for the pain. Stew slammed into him with a grunt and Rick bit back his scream. Stew’s groin slapped against his ass repeatedly and the con’s thick cock tore him apart with each thrust. Rick was whimpering and struggling against his bonds. It wouldn’t be so bad if his cell mate’s dick wasn’t so fucking huge. Rick felt like he was being scored by a goddamn flagpole.

“Say it!” Stew ordered. His breath was heavy and hot on Rick’s neck. “SAY it!”

Rick knew what to do now. This meant at least that Stew was close to shooting. “I’m your bitch.” Rick whispered.

“Who’s my bitch?” Stew roared, slapping his ass as he fucked it.


The frenzied energy of the party began to crescendo. Couple’s were breaking up, getting back together, marriages were proposed, affairs were carried out, long-hidden secrets were revealed and new ones were being kept.

In the center of it all, dancing like strangers in a burning room, were the youngest Vaughn siblings. Allysa and Damien stood solitary on the dance floor. Alone but surrounded by the student body of Remington University, they moved to a furious waltz.

“Allysa, You need to learn to squeeze a little more fun out of life.” Damien instructed as he twirled his sister across the floor to the booming orchestration of the waltz. “We were born to be bad… and the stories! Ha, to be in the secret hidden center of them? To be the butterfly that flaps its wings and spawns tornadoes in people’s lives!”

Allysa began to register the chaos surrounding them, “Is that what’s going on here?”

The Demon smiled triumphantly. “Of course.”

Allysa’s golden curls shook in disbelief, “You can’t affect this many people at once.”

The Demon laughed and rolled its eyes, “Can’t? You wouldn’t believe what I’m capable of, Madam, especially here on my home turf.” His black cloak spread wide as his arm swung motioning around the grand hall.

“Then why not do something beneficial, do some good?”

“Who says I’m not?”

They moved in unison, graceful and elegant. Black cloth soared next to swirling white as their frantic waltz leapt across the room. As He lurched her up from a quick dip, she rounded on him, “Tell me before I seek worthier pastures, and thereby restore self esteem… How can you be so short-sighted, to look never further than this week or next week… to have no impossible dream?”

They continued to bound across the floor. Damien was leading Ally and their cloaks were crashing like waves. He spun her wide and replied, “Allow me to help you slink off to the sidelines and mock your ado with three cheers! But first tell me who’d be delighted if I said I’d take on the world’s greatest problems, from war to pollution, with no help of solution. Even if I lived for one hundred years!”

Paulo laid on his back on the wide banquet table of Coeur Creux’s formal dining room. His thickly muscled soccer legs were pulled up tight against his hairy abs, and his ankles dangled in the air. The cheap skirt rocked back to reveal his stiff boner.

His well-toned and furry chest glistened with cum. He had a seriously dopey grin on his face and a look of supreme contentment.

Four of his frat brothers stood around his used and cum-stained form, jerking themselves off. He was so lucky to have such hot guys around his well fucked form.

He was so glad they were into him. He felt like the prettiest girl on campus. Not one, but four of his brothers thought he was so pretty they wanted to fuck him. He felt like the luckiest girl at Remington. He worried that he was an ugly girl, but after four totally studly frat boys fuck you till you’re sloppy and loose, it was confirmed you were pretty.

One of the guys above him moaned and Paulo smiled. The boy’s seed spewed across his smiling face.

“Fuck my pussy, boys!” He slurred and pointed to his red and swollen ass.

Drake and Peter staggered out into the hall. “I have to find Ally.” Drake said, shaking his head in confusion.

Peter steadied himself on the railing, trying desperately to regain his bearings. He pushed his glasses on and looked up at Drake, “Look Drake,” He fumbled feebly, “We don’t have to tell anyone about that.”

Drake gave him a baffled look, “About what?”

“About… what just happened.” Peter offered.


Peter shifted his weight shyly… “You know…”

“What? Me explaining that painting to you?”

“No about…” Peter looked down at one pale hand and his immaculately polished loafers… “You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?” Drake demanded Impatiently.

Drake was all too eager to grab his ankles for Pete but he barely had time to be polite to Peter.

“I gotta find Damien.”

Peter ran down the grand stairs in a hasty retreat. He was desperately searching for the witch.

He launched himself onto the dance floor and directly between the dueling Vaughns. “Damien! You got to help me.”

“His help has a price.” Allysa spat. She gathered her luminous white skirts and strode away. She turned with one last angry conflicted look, “Keep an eye on him, Peter. He’s got super-powers. Maybe he’s so powerful… “ She said the last part deliberately and slowly, making every syllable a stab wound, “He might just decide … to… fly.”

The words landed like a blow. The Demon’s face paled and for a moment Damien seemed all too human and wracked with a terrible wave of emotion. If Peter didn’t know better, he thought Damien’s lip trembled. It was just a moment though. He dismissed it and went on with his dreadful grimace. “Fuck you.” Damien spat, as Allysa stalked away. “What do you want, Rabbit?”

“You gotta do that again. Make me Pete again.”

Damien looked puzzled, “Make you… oh, you mean that spell… that let you see how things could have been different for you? The closeted jock costume I let you wear?”

“Yeah, that! I felt great! I was confident and hot, and Drake was totally into me…” He rambled on excitedly.

“No.” Damien laughed and walked away in an eddy of shadowy black cloth.

Peter chased after the voluminous black cloud. “Why not? You were right! I had been a coward… I did have choices… Now just…”

Damien spun on him, the silver painted Demon’s face twisted in scorn, and the eyes glowed azure blue, “No, Peter. I’m no fucking fairy Godmother. That was a lesson, not a gift.”

“But… a lesson? What was I supposed to be learning?”

The Demon dismissed him with disdain, “That there are no easy answers! No glass slippers that can make your dreams come true. Wishing gets you nowhere! You need to grab life by the balls, and twist till it does what you demand. I wanted you to see how pathetic you truly are.” He watched Peter’s face dissolve in humiliation, and reveled in it, before adding, “And that I am NOT your friend.”

“But…” Peter stammered.

“But, nothing! You are not my friend, you simpering little weaking. You are just a tool.” He laughed a rich rolling gale, and the azure light squinted in mirth, “I know you hear that a lot, but I mean it in the most literal of terms.”

Peter could feel the tears pouring from behind his glasses, “I hate you.”

The Demon smiled contentedly, “Good. I do enjoy being hated. It shows you’re having an affect. It’s like a cold bath on a warm day. When stupid people fume in their futility, when they’re beaten and all they’ve got is that yawning in the acid pit of their stomachs… well, to be honest it’s like a prayer. It makes me even more powerful.”

Peter wanted to just crawl away and die, “You’re a monster.”

Damien sighed, “It would be easier if I were, Peter, but I’m just honest.”

Peter yelped something inaudible and ran from Coeur Creux, stifling sobs.

The Demon that was Damien Vaughn had little time to enjoy the young collegian’s pain, however. From the front doors there was a large commotion and what Damien recognized as his little sister’s high-pitched scream.

Drake held Allysa tight to his chest as they both stared in horror at the scene playing out in front of Coeur Crux’s majestic doors. A young black man, looking beaten and bewildered, stood facing Leo, Preston and Reece. He was enraged and apprehensive. The poor kid looked like he had been through hell, and returned for revenge.

What made him slightly unsympathetic was the 6 round pistol he now had aimed at Leo.

The entire crowd pulled back from the scene, leaving the macabre tableau as the center of attention.

“You bastards set me up!” He yelled halfheartedly. The young African American assailant seemed to be painfully aware of all the bystanders and the inconvenient amount of witnesses. He was shuddering with terror.

Allysa recognized him immediately as Clive White, the young running back recently expelled from Remington.

“You planted that coke!” He almost cried.

Leo raised his hands and motioned for Clive to calm down. “Now just relax…”

“You relax, mother fucker! You ruined my life…” Clive twisted in conflict, then found some inner resolve, “YOU RUINED MY LIFE AND NOW YOU MOTHERFUCKERS ARE GOING TO DIE!!!” He raised the gun.

“NO!” Allysa screamed.

And then suddenly Damien was there, striding through the crowd, forbidding and unstoppable. He strode through the throng of horrified Greek celebrants like a force of nature unleashed, like a rush of blood to the head. He moved with inescapable and indomitable intensity. “Stop.” He commanded.

“No!” Clive roared. The pistol shook in his nervous hands. His face was a picture of desperate agony. The gun trembled violently. “They ruined my fucking life!” He turned his rage on Leo and aimed the gun. “You did it! You fucking did it! I know you did!”

Leo, no matter what he may be, was not a coward. He faced his execution with a stoic acceptance. Terror and fury bled from his eyes, but he did not shake.

The spell that was unleashed so long ago was done with games of fate and destiny. It had feasted on the party-goers, devoured Rob and Ben, and tainted and twisted Damien. These were simple. It wanted something tangible. It wanted something ritualistic. The spell wanted blood. Damien could feel the weight of the energy around him. The magic was twisting every possibility so that Leo’s blood would inevitably stain the marble floors of Coeur Creux. The weight of it was like the gravity of a smiling moon.

He wasn’t about to let that happen.

He raised a tense and straining hand. His mind blazed with a terrible fiery pain.


Damien’s nose leaked blood down his chin. His eyes blazed with light. “Yes, they do.”

Leo braced himself for the gunshot.

Ally screamed.

Clive closed his eyes and pulled on the trigger.

“BUT … not… like… THIS!”

The room exploded in a blinding blue light. The light evaporated memory, reworked history. It shoved aside reality and made the party nothing more then a midsummer night’s nightmare. A terrible tempest of fate and time whipped through Coeur Creux like a gale. The chaos spread out and consumed everything… and in the center of the maelstrom, basking in the glorious mystic pandemonium, was Damien Vaughn, laughing like a mad man.

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