Page 21 of Possession

My revulsion is impossible to hide. If anything, I should be crying, but I can only watch numbly as Aris uses me.

An annoyed breath comes out of my mouth. Aris then pauses in interest. “That’s new,” he remarks, before speaking with me mentally. I have a right to use our body.

More than ever, I wish I could shut him out. I wish I could ignore him or kill him or myself. I’ve never felt more violated. I can’t even speak to him—I don’t want to.

Fine. Pout.

“To whom do I owe my gratitude?” asks Aris.

“We are the Following of the Forewarned,” murmurs Silva. “And you owe us nothing, Dark Lord. We ask only for blessings and mercy.”

“Though you have been ‘blessed’ already.” Aris walks away from the men, reaching for the first photograph I grabbed, of the gathering of the Following of the Forewarned in what looks to be the 1920s. “Or did you think I wouldn’t know?”

“Nothing escapes you,” Silva replies quickly, and Aris curls my lips into a smirk. “We would never dare to presume—we would never ask—” Silva takes a breath to calm himself, and when he speaks again, he seems to have gotten himself together. “We ask not out of greed. It’s only, reverence for you has spread since your existence was broadcast three years ago. Your following has grown to a massive degree, and we wish to bestow gifts upon our new and devout members so we can better serve you.”

“Who altered your mortality?” Aris asks, turning to study the two men on the floor. He tosses the picture frame onto the couch casually, now disinterested.

Silva hesitates. It’s only for a second, but both Aris and I take notice. “We prayed to you, called out to you,” he says quickly.

“Prayed to me… Yes, and how hoarse was your voice? How raw were your knees?” Aris’ voice takes on an edge. “Tell me who answered.”

There is a pause, and then, “Jaegen.”

Something stirs from Aris’ side, an emotion I can’t identify. I don’t have time to question him, because Silva is now frantically adding, “I couldn’t refuse! It would have offended him. And I didn’t call or seek him out—none of us did.”

“Oh, I believe that. I believe that he knew you were mine, and that is exactly why he came.”

Who’s Jaegen? I ask, but Aris doesn’t respond, folding my hands into fists.

Though he’s in control, I’m still free to think, and my mind is working up a storm. If Jaegen is able to “alter” mortality and can hear thoughts and prayers, does that mean he’s a god, too? Is he one of the other “true powers” that Silva mentioned? And, from Aris’ reaction, do they know each other?

The news is troubling, but not for the reason it should be. Obviously, another god complicates things, but why didn’t Aris tell me about him?

We were locked in a cell together for three years—not just that, we were locked in the same body together. I must’ve let him go through every memory I have, sometimes out of sheer boredom. We used to watch my life like it was a movie; he knows everything about me. Aris told me things about himself, too—he couldn’t show them, but he described his thoughts and various philosophies. Why not mention Jaegen?

And why does his lack of mention make me feel somewhat betrayed?

“The host body is weak,” Aris says suddenly. “She was not fed well.”

Silva, if surprised by the change of subject, doesn’t falter. He says, “May we have the honor of serving you?”

“You may,” Aris replies, “but I don’t care to eat. Mary will take the body.”

Though Silva goes stiff, he says nothing. It’s the bodyguard who finally looks up and whimpers, “Must you leave? Why return it to that girl?”

Aris’ rage is so sudden and fierce that it feels almost unwarranted, but he doesn’t voice this. Instead, he just stares at the man. The guard has at least a foot and a half on me and is built like an ox with a neck thick with corded muscle. He looks like he should be in a fitness magazine or on the side of a tub of protein powder.

But Aris feels none of my intimidation.

The large man looks away, avoiding Aris’ gaze, but that only inspires Aris; he takes a step closer, reaching down to cup his cheek with a small hand. The man’s reverence is clear on his face, and he stares at Aris like he’s God himself.

Sweet Mary, says Aris, I ate God.

What?

So taken aback by his anger and actions, it takes a second to catch up to his words; I’ve no idea what they mean. For all I know, he could be saying that quite literally: God did once exist, until Aris grinded Him down for dinner.

Instead of answering, Aris shifts his hand to the man’s right ear and, with a blurred motion, rips it plain off. With a squirt of blood and a scream of startled pain, the bodyguard falls to the floor, gripping his head as he pants and his large body shakes. Silva looks up at the disturbance but quickly back down when he sees Aris’ attention switch to him.

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