She moved like a wraith between the flickering shadows and candles which lit the underground cavern. Her feet floated lightly over the arcane symbols painted on the floor and her hands glowed faintly as she gathered the magick around her. Everything was coming together. Tonight would be their finest hour.

Approaching the stone altar, she felt the corners of her mouth turn into a hungry smile. Her body pulsed and tingled with the magick, but she knew that it was not time yet. The moon had not reached its full apex . . . but it would soon. And then the moment would come. Cat like eyes traveled over the altar, taking in the details of the figure lying there. Not dead, dead would not do for this ceremony. The chosen one had to be alive – the chosen one had to be willing – or at least offer no resistance.

Long fingers with nails painted lacquer black, smoothed a hand affectionately over the dark hair of the chosen one. From the hair, her fingertips traveled to trace the arcane symbols painted on the face and exposed skin of the young girl. Already the spell and the magick began to take hold of their chosen sacrifice. The symbols flickered and glowed dimly with a pale, sickly red light. Soon that light would be bright and blinding; soon it would be hot enough to rival fire.

Soon. Soon was not soon enough.

Abruptly, the chosen one's eyes opened. Dark, empty pools that seemed to stare nowhere and focus on nothing.

And then the chosen one began to scream.

"You're worried too."

Cordovan lifted his head from the file folder in his lap, his eyes locking with the intense emerald gaze that met his own in the vanity mirror. Blue highlights reflected in his lover's hair as the woman pulled a brush through the raven tresses. "Worried, Giselle?"

Her full lips formed a slight pout as her hands continued to brush her hair. "You don't think the book was worth the trouble."

"I have never doubted you, witch." He said the last with an affectionate growl and her pout turned to the barest hint of a smile. "If you say that you need the book, then you need the book. However, I am as curious as Derrick. And you know that I'm not quite as endeared with your mystery as my undead friend is."

Turning on the vanity seat, Giselle placed the brush aside. "I don't need the book. You do." As she spoke, she rose from the vanity and moved across the bedroom with the grace of a dancer. The silk gown moved with her, hugging and clinging to her lithe and graceful form and Cordovan's eyes traveled the length of her body hungrily. Very few women had the magick and power that Giselle did and for not the first time, he was glad that he found her in New Orleans all those years ago. She had merely been a defiant child then, practicing black magick that she didn't truly understand. He had known; he had understood . . . and he had taught her or introduced her to those who could. Now . . . now she was his Dark Witch, and her soul belonged to the darker powers as much as his own did.

"But I'm no witch, am I?"

"For centuries the wisest and the strongest have used The Enslavement to create eternally loyal followers. Have you ever heard the stories of the zombies raised by voodoo priests and priestesses?" Giselle spoke slowly, her voice a sultry whisper as she crawled across the bed, moving towards him like a cat on prowl.

"Magick."

"Weak magick. A fool's magick. Mostly the power of suggestion and belief in powers that we can't see and control. Idiots who stumble around blindly because this is what their religion told them would happen to them." She stopped by his legs, her nails drawing a slow line from his kneecaps to his thighs. "The Enslavement is real, Kristoph. It's magick allows you to capture and control the soul – any soul, no matter how weak or how strong whether they believe in such things or not. But not just one soul, darling. As many as you could possibly want. Living, breathing slaves who bow to your every whim; and when you're done with them, you can feed on those very souls that you possess."

Kristoph was intrigued. He had heard rumors of such a spell, but he had not known that it was hidden within the pages of the spellbook that Giselle had so plainly wanted. He truly hadn't cared what was inside that book, only that she wanted it. The fact that she wanted it after waking from one of her trance-dreams – dreams which had saved his life and given him the power and position that he now held – only gave him more reason for sending Derrick after it.

Having this knowledge changed everything. He traced her cheek with his fingertips. "And why would you share this with me? Why not keep this for yourself."

"I share everything with you. I live to serve you. I just do it better than most of those you keep around here." Giselle's fingers wound a crooked path up his abdomen and chest. "Do you want to hear the rest, or have you turned into a man of small desires?"

"There's more?"

"There's always more." Dropping her hands, Giselle sat back on her ankles, turning from playful to serious. "Once every dawning millennium The Enslavement becomes more than a simple spell. It comes to mean more than merely enslaving the soul of another. Under the right conditions, it can provide one with ultimate power. There are those walking this world who have psychic powers that you can not even imagine . . . and when you trap and enslave one of those, their power is at your disposal. Properly maintained and you will have an eternal fountain of power and energy. The spell and the timing of it make it so.

"I've seen it, Kristoph. I've seen her in my mind's eye. I've dreamt of her."

"Her?"

"The source of your ultimate power. I've seen it all."

"Are you certain of this, Giselle?"

"Have I ever been wrong before?"

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