Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of Illusions, or any of its characters. Well. . . except Philip. He's mine! MINE!
Warning: Okay, you people know what this story's about. I personally hate Dorothea. She is a succubus. So I'm not gonna go easy on her. At all. If you don't like it, don't read.
"Flesh is a trap," the voice whispered softly in her ear. She cringed and struggled. "Flesh is a trap, and magic sets us free. . ."
Dorothea woke with a start. Panting and drenched in icy sweat, she pulled her blankets tighter, wide hazel eyes darting fearfully about the room. She sighed deeply. A dream. Only a dream.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, the widow sat on the edge and rested her head in her palms. She had been having the same reacurring nightmare since her second encounter with the cultists.
She tilted her head back, and, closing her eyes, replayed the scene in her mind. It was like a silent horror film, a terrifying memory she wished she could erase. But, as hard as she tried, she couldn't forget. She couldn't forget that night, nor could she forget him. Or maybe she didn't want to. . . Dorothea shook off the thought. Of course she did! She had Harry now, after all. But, nonetheless, she couldn't help feeling guilty. He had loved her, and now it was her fault he was dead.
Choking back unexpected tears, she stood and walked toward the door, not even bothering with a light. Once in the hall, she looked at the Victorian clock adorning the opposite wall. 12:30 a.m. Perhaps she would go downstairs and read for a bit. . . As she put her bare foot on the first stair, something creaked behind her. She whirled around. Nothing but empty moonlight. Shuddering but ignoring the sound, she continued down the staircase. The house was old- it made strange noises all the time, she reassured herself.
As Dorothea reached the bottom floor, she heard it again. The noise sounded almost like footsteps. She inwardly scolded herself. It was ridiculous- she was totally alone. Alone. . . somehow this thought managed to scare her even more.
Then she felt it. There was someone or something behind her, she knew, and it wasn't just her imagination. She gasped, and a beat of sweat dripped off her nose as she turned around, very slowly. A moment later, she screamed.
The figure smiled coldly, and stepped toward the frightened woman. "Hello, my love."
Dorothea backed away. "Philip. . .? But, y-you're dead!"
Her widower laughed softly. The sound was chilling. "I was dead, Thea, my dear."
She took another step back, and found herself pressed against the wall, her attacker only centimeters away. "Do you know why I'm here, Dorothea?"
Terrified of what the answer may be, she shook her head. Best not to upset the undead. . .
He smiled eerily again, and, locking his piercing blue eyes on her, touched her cheek gently. His hand was freezing. "To get my revenge, of course."
It was at this moment that Dorothea fainted.
When she awoke, she realized she was lying down. Keeping her eyes shut, she smiled. It was all a dream. Heck, maybe she was still asleep. These happy ideas were shattered a second later, when a voice cut through her thoughts. "Open your eyes, Dorothea."
Stunned, she obeyed, and realized right away that it was a mistake. She also realized that she couldn't move. Straining to see as much as her surroundings as was possible, she saw to her horror that she was bound to a table by her wrists and ankles. She also saw, now even more terrified, that a large and deadly blade hung directly above her stomach.
She continued to gape at the blade, as her pulse quickened and her breath came in short, strained gasps. Suddenly she felt a deathly cold hand on her shoulder, and looked up to see Philip standing beside her.
His eerie, mocking smile was gone now, and he was staring at her solemnly. Lifeless, ice-blue eyes held a look of pure malice as he fixed his withering gaze on his victim.
Dorothea fought the urge to scream. Instead, her voice sounded soft and pleading when she spoke. "Please don't kill me. . ."
The illusionist sighed, never taking his eyes off her. "I'm afraid I have no choice. I'm sorry, Thea."
With those final words he snapped his bony fingers, and the blade came down.
Warning: Okay, you people know what this story's about. I personally hate Dorothea. She is a succubus. So I'm not gonna go easy on her. At all. If you don't like it, don't read.
"Flesh is a trap," the voice whispered softly in her ear. She cringed and struggled. "Flesh is a trap, and magic sets us free. . ."
Dorothea woke with a start. Panting and drenched in icy sweat, she pulled her blankets tighter, wide hazel eyes darting fearfully about the room. She sighed deeply. A dream. Only a dream.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, the widow sat on the edge and rested her head in her palms. She had been having the same reacurring nightmare since her second encounter with the cultists.
She tilted her head back, and, closing her eyes, replayed the scene in her mind. It was like a silent horror film, a terrifying memory she wished she could erase. But, as hard as she tried, she couldn't forget. She couldn't forget that night, nor could she forget him. Or maybe she didn't want to. . . Dorothea shook off the thought. Of course she did! She had Harry now, after all. But, nonetheless, she couldn't help feeling guilty. He had loved her, and now it was her fault he was dead.
Choking back unexpected tears, she stood and walked toward the door, not even bothering with a light. Once in the hall, she looked at the Victorian clock adorning the opposite wall. 12:30 a.m. Perhaps she would go downstairs and read for a bit. . . As she put her bare foot on the first stair, something creaked behind her. She whirled around. Nothing but empty moonlight. Shuddering but ignoring the sound, she continued down the staircase. The house was old- it made strange noises all the time, she reassured herself.
As Dorothea reached the bottom floor, she heard it again. The noise sounded almost like footsteps. She inwardly scolded herself. It was ridiculous- she was totally alone. Alone. . . somehow this thought managed to scare her even more.
Then she felt it. There was someone or something behind her, she knew, and it wasn't just her imagination. She gasped, and a beat of sweat dripped off her nose as she turned around, very slowly. A moment later, she screamed.
The figure smiled coldly, and stepped toward the frightened woman. "Hello, my love."
Dorothea backed away. "Philip. . .? But, y-you're dead!"
Her widower laughed softly. The sound was chilling. "I was dead, Thea, my dear."
She took another step back, and found herself pressed against the wall, her attacker only centimeters away. "Do you know why I'm here, Dorothea?"
Terrified of what the answer may be, she shook her head. Best not to upset the undead. . .
He smiled eerily again, and, locking his piercing blue eyes on her, touched her cheek gently. His hand was freezing. "To get my revenge, of course."
It was at this moment that Dorothea fainted.
When she awoke, she realized she was lying down. Keeping her eyes shut, she smiled. It was all a dream. Heck, maybe she was still asleep. These happy ideas were shattered a second later, when a voice cut through her thoughts. "Open your eyes, Dorothea."
Stunned, she obeyed, and realized right away that it was a mistake. She also realized that she couldn't move. Straining to see as much as her surroundings as was possible, she saw to her horror that she was bound to a table by her wrists and ankles. She also saw, now even more terrified, that a large and deadly blade hung directly above her stomach.
She continued to gape at the blade, as her pulse quickened and her breath came in short, strained gasps. Suddenly she felt a deathly cold hand on her shoulder, and looked up to see Philip standing beside her.
His eerie, mocking smile was gone now, and he was staring at her solemnly. Lifeless, ice-blue eyes held a look of pure malice as he fixed his withering gaze on his victim.
Dorothea fought the urge to scream. Instead, her voice sounded soft and pleading when she spoke. "Please don't kill me. . ."
The illusionist sighed, never taking his eyes off her. "I'm afraid I have no choice. I'm sorry, Thea."
With those final words he snapped his bony fingers, and the blade came down.