Page 35 of Possession

What is happening is not the perfect scenario, Aris suddenly says.

My steps don’t falter, even as I’m surprised by the unusual force in his words. Why’s that? I goad, and we both know what I’m implying, but I say it as more of a joke than anything. It was established long ago that he does not and never will care about me. There are no delusions about that.

Simply put, when you die, I want it to be on my terms. You will not disappear on your own.

Of course. I barely stop a scoff.

Beyond that, I cannot be hurt and I cannot die when I’m in control. If I’m always in control, the body will never die, which means I will be in here forever. The only way for me to be truly released is for you to die when you are in control.

Oh. You miss your old body.

My old “form” is maybe a better word for it, but yes.

I consider what he’s said, a chill working its way through my body as his words meet their mark. When you die, I want it to be on my terms. What did he mean by that?

Silva stops at the top of the grand staircase, turning to give me a stare that’s nothing but disconcerting through his mask. “We will go down first,” he says. “The President and chapter leaders are gathered below, and we will prepare them for your presence. Once I announce you, you will descend.”

I try to peek over the railing to see exactly what awaits me, but I’m tugged back behind the wall. Wide-eyed from the force and Aris’ flash of fury, I stare in surprise at the masked follower who grabbed me. Aris is attentive, noting whatever distinguishing features he can to punish the person once he’s able.

“You will wait until you are announced,” Silva says sternly, redirecting my attention to him.

Even after I nod in understanding, he keeps his weird eyes on me for enough time to unnerve me. Silva eventually takes a step back and motions to the others, who immediately descend the stairs. He waits a moment, shooting me another look before following.

His figure recedes and eventually disappears around the corner of the wall, which I don’t dare to step out from behind, and I wait. Long after I hear them below, I’m still not called. My fingers grip my dress tightly, wringing the fabric.

What are they thinking, Aris?

Nothing bad. You worry too much.

As an immortal god who can’t be injured or die, I wholeheartedly think that Aris doesn’t worry enough. I’m about to point that out when I hear Silva’s voice ring clear throughout the hall. “Presenting the Dark Lord of the Maker’s hand, the Harbinger of Uncreation, the Great Chaos, the Forewarned, Aris.” He pauses. “And Mary.”

That’s us, I guess, I say, beginning my walk down. I don’t look at the crowd as I descend, not until I’m a few feet away and absolutely have to recognize everyone gathered.

Beyond Silva and his masked compatriots, there are several other individuals waiting for me. They aren’t wearing their masks yet, revealing a diverse range of ages and ethnicities, and I remember what Silva said about this being a worldwide religion.

These are the cult’s leaders, each important enough to warrant an early viewing and private introduction.

One man sticks out, and not just because he angles himself in front of the rest of them. In a black tuxedo with a handsome, youthful face, he has a certain magnetic quality. He can’t be much older than me, but the way he carries himself makes him seem timeless. His blonde hair is combed back and styled like a gentleman ready to set sail on the Titanic, hazel eyes twinkling with delight and mischief. The room seems to bend to his will, as if he’s mastered every form of charisma and presentation, and there is something about that, an uncanniness that goes along with all of this—the not aging, not dying, worshipping an evil entity.

He makes me think of Aris and what he might look like. I’ve never seen him, but I can picture Aris like this—self-assured, well-groomed, handsome and tall. And radiating something… other.

The man smiles brilliantly when he catches me staring and takes another step forward, extending his hand. “You must be Mary,” he says.

I glance at Silva, but I see nothing in his eyes. “Yes,” I say hesitantly and shake his hand. Through a white glove, I feel his strong grip and a zap of energy that makes me stand up straighter.

“I am Dominachion,” he tells me.

Ah, Aris murmurs in realization.

What? I ask, but he doesn’t respond.

Dominachion steps aside as the others walk forward, each shaking my hand and introducing themselves. I forget their names almost as soon as they say them, too nervous to learn. I quickly discover, watching them trail behind Dominachion, that their names aren’t important; it’s clear who’s in charge.

“I wanted a chance to meet you before the craziness of the gala. Everyone is going to want a piece of the two of you,” he says. My brow furrows at the inclusion of myself, though Dominachion is continuing before I can make sense of it. “Who you see before you are the most devout of the Forewarned. We have dedicated our lives to the service of our master.”

Our master. I twitch uncomfortably at the words.

Aris is, of course, unbothered. Pleased, really. Ask him who discovered how to change the amulet.

---