Dreaming of Sin Ch. 02

Chapter 2 - The Storm Gathers

"Please stay in your own seat," the train's ticket clerk said the words for what was probably the ten thousandth time in her life. Her eyes were not even really seeing Jack Walker, only that he had spread himself out across two seats of the Economy cabin. Her blonde hair done up in a tight pony tale to match the transit uniform.

In fairness to her, Jack was not someone who often received more than a first glance. Twenty-four years old, average height, average build, average weight, and wearing a t-shirt and jeans he was even of average fashion sense. In fact, Jack was only unusual in two ways. First, he owed a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in student debt for a history degree that did nothing to help him find work, and secondly, according to Samantha, he was the world's biggest asshole.

Apparently refusing to let Samantha use the tickets and reservations, that he'd paid for, was a great sin. Her argument was that he, "wouldn't even enjoy them without her there."

"I actually..." he said and pulled his phone out of his pocket. The screen was creased with a half a dozen fractures, but thankfully kept working all the same, "have two tickets. Girlfriend and I split up..." he said and showed the ticket clerk the two e-tickets.

Now the ticket clerk did look at him, ice blue eyes locking onto his. She was actually rather beautiful. Tired, a bit worn down, her uniform worn a hundred times and starting to show its age, her skin blemished and without make up, "and you feel the need to sit like a kid just because you can?"

"So, we're in agreement that I can?"

In fairness Samantha had been right. He hadn't much enjoyed the trip. He'd thought of her when Boston's skyline had come into view. He'd thought of her when the hotel waiter had brought up the dinner for two included in the hotel package he'd booked them. The waiter had done his best not to be too obvious as he wondered where the 'for two' was in the tiny room. He'd though of her as he walked through galleries that she'd picked out. He thought of her every time he pulled another twenty dollars out of a bank machine and saw his account balance.

He wasn't being unreasonable. Pay him back for the trip, and she could have the tickets and reservations if she wanted them. Or pay for her half and he would figure out somewhere else to stay and she could have the hotel. But he would be god damned if he was going to pay for a trip for his ex and her new "friend", whatever the fuck that meant.

The ticket agent exhaled a lungful of air warmed with frustration and moved on.

Cleavland was still two hours away and Jack decided to focus on the one good memory he did have from the trip. Opening his duffle bag, he pulled out an urn. Its surface was beautiful, the metal yellow, fresh, and intricately carved. Words in a dozen dead languages, some he didn't even recognize, wrapped around its surface like overlapping chains.

The one thing his history degree had come in handy for was giving him an eye for antiques.

Samantha had indulged him at first, but after a few months of visiting estate sales she'd started to complain about why anyone would want 'dead people's stuff'.

Never go to antique markets: they're a suckers game. Everything in them has already been examined and put down as trash. Estate sales, that's where the real action's at. Relatives with no idea what things are, or what they're worth, just looking to get rid of hundreds of pounds of stuff some distant relative left behind.

For example, relatives of the deceased had no idea that modern engraving machines were not programed to make characters from dead, or imaginary, or obscure languages. They didn't know that hand engraving was an art all but lost to time and either someone had recently spent tens of thousands of dollars having this urn carved, or the urn was more than fifty years old. And they didn't know that if the urn was more than fifty years old then copper, or bronze, would have tarnished. None of that was to say the urn was actually made of gold. But for fifty bucks Jack was willing to roll the dice and if he ended up with a pretty nick knack to sit on a bookshelf then so be it.

"Sir, please stand up," the voice was deep, officious, the practiced voice of a man giving an order. Jack looked up and into the face of a transit police officer. The man was wearing a uniform that could have been of a police man. He had a gun strapped to his right hip, a pepper spray bottle beside it, and a taser strapped to his left. He wore a ballistic vest, stretched tight across a voluminous belly, a gray shirt bulged from the vest's sides where rolls of fat were being squeezed out.

"What's going on?" Jack asked, he hadn't even heard the man approach.

"Sir! Please, Stand, Up!" the fat constable said, left hand on the handle of his taser.

Arguing seemed like the wrong approach and Jack stood, hands out to his side, his duffle bag, phone, and the golden urn, sitting on the seat beside the window, vibrating with the train carriage.

"What the fuck!" the fat constable was twisting his wrists around behind his back, the motion completely unnatural as Jack spun around painfully, like dancing with an incompetent partner. A plastic zip tie squeezed around his wrist.

"What the actual fuck!" he shouted, noticing a dozen heads popped up over their headrests, looking back at him and the action. He was marched along the corridor by the meaty guard, every single person on the train watching him go, face burning with impotent frustration, until he was at the front of the train. Then the guard dumped him, like a sack of gravel, onto an empty bench of seats just behind the locomotive.

"There you go, two seats just for you," the bucket of lard said and walked away.

Jack's face had stopped being flush with rage after the first hour. By the end of the second it was both asleep, and in pain from the pleated edge of the seat digging into his cheek when the train finally rattled to a stop.

Once everyone had departed and the carriage was empty the transit officer's voice reappeared behind him. "Now, are you going to behave from now on?"

Jack could see a list of replies in his mind. The first one was asking the officer if he enjoyed the taste of cock, because he was going to have a lawyer's dick rammed down his throat. That probably was an imprudent thing to say given the circumstance. Unfortunately, every option seemed to fall victim to the same flaw. From calling the officer's parentage into question, to just calling the officer a fatso. After fifteen seconds of trying, and failing, to think of something better, he simply said "yes sir," and with those magic words the plastic cuffs were cut off.

The perfect end to the perfect vacation. He rubbed his cheek as he walked back to his seat to get his things. The seat was empty. Jack closed his eyes, tilted his head back and let out a long, slow, heart-felt stream of profanity.

He would check the lost and found. It would take a miracle for his stuff to be there, but it was at least worth the attempt.

A minute ahead of him, unseen through the crowd of passengers moving through the Cleveland station, an elderly woman, grandchild wobbling along behind her, was teaching a lesson in civic duty. Her pace slow, carrying her own luggage and Jack's bag, but six decades of experience as a train rider illuminated her path to the station's lost and found office.

A faded station map, which did not have so much as a "You are here" sticker, was Jack's only guidance.

It had been six hundred and fifty two years since the urn had been made by the greatest Khan's most gifted craftsmen. In all that time it had been owned by someone. When one owner died the law dictated its inheritor without interruption, when one man coveted it and stole it from another, the urn's ownership passed when the thief set hands upon it. Even the old woman possessed it so far as the magic binding the urn was concerned.

But when the urn was placed on the shelf of the train station's lost and found office, something happened which had not, even for a single second, happened in all those centuries: the urn lacked a possessor. It was no one's. It was lost, and not yet found.

On the other side of the planet, after centuries of searching without success, Saliah leapt into the ether.

"Yes, a blue duffle bag, with a Samsung phone, the screen has six cracks running up and down from the bottom right corner. And there's a copper urn," Jack described his possessions.

The lost and found agent was even fatter than the train constable and rolled his eyes, "seriously, I just put that stuff away," he said and slowly stood, his soul complaining bitterly about having to stand and take a dozen steps, when he could literally have done nothing better for his own health.

Saliah was close. Europe was behind her. The Atlantic almost crossed. She could taste the Eye. After so many centuries she had never forgotten what she had been before, what she would be again.

Saliah wouldn't make the same mistake twice. She gathered up her strength as she passed over New York, seconds away now. Never before had she been so depleted, only a twentieth of what she once had remained. Yet it was power enough to seize the Eye back from Fort Knox and butcher every person who stood in her way.

The Eye screamed to be reunited with her. She was still too far away to draw power from it, but when she arrived she wouldn't hesitate. Whatever humans found themselves within her sight would know true power in the last heartbeat of their lives.

Jack's duffle bag, and phone, were set on the counter in front of him and he checked the bag as the agent waddled back for the final item. It was a miracle, finally some luck. Nothing appeared to be missing. Even his phone still worked.

The agent's shoes compressed under the weight of his feet with each step forward, the urn held in his hands bringing it to the counter top. He didn't believe it was his, and so it wasn't.

The urn touched the surface of the countertop. Saliah winked into existence, a dozen trains vented hot gas around her, cooling from a voyage or preparing to reembark on one. She had misjudged, the vessel was below her, the station a labyrinth.

She flashed down, materializing beside Jack. She saw the urn, fire blossomed from her skin, she would burn it all, the man in front of her, the station, the city block around it, just to ensure the vessel was hers... It was smaller than she had though. Had it been a golden caldron she would have acted like lightning, but that it should be a small golden urn, not even the size of a man's head, it hadn't been what she was expecting, it took a tenth of a second for her to realize what the vessel was. Jack's hand touched the urn - and it vanished.

"Holly shit fuck!" Jack stumbled back. It was less than a flicker, less than the blink of an eye, but something had been beside him, something bright and hot like opening the door of an oven, and then it was gone, the heat lingering.

In the ether Saliah raged. Storm clouds gathered over the train station as the world resonated with her fury. But she was not a child. Despite the setback this was progress yet. And she gave herself five seconds to steady herself enough to play her part.

"Whoa!" Jack stumbled back, and shock tinged with shame as he reacted exactly the same way twice in as many seconds. He still hadn't managed to convince himself that his mind was playing tricks on him when the figure re-appeared beside him. Though this time without any heat, not that Jack would have noticed. She was gorgeous. Hair as bright as fire, eyes that would have outshone emeralds, a body that seemed too delicate to belong to a real person. She was wrapped in white silk that combined a dress's ability to reveal the figure with a toga's ability to seem loose and in danger of falling off.

"I must have scared you, my apologies," Saliah said, and offered her small hand, nails perfect and painted white. She was barely five feet tall, and Jack was sure he had never seen a more beautiful woman in person.

Jack looked around him, no one else seemed to have noticed a woman blinking into existence, nor him, standing dumbfounded. Even the lost and found attendant seemed completely disinterested, having returned to his phone.

A crash of thunder echoed through the station softly and rain started to beat down on the roof almost inaudibly.

"My name is Saliah, you're a lucky mortal to have purchased my vessel," she said hand still elevated waiting for Jack's senses to return to him.

A huge grin spread over Jack's face, "no..." he couldn't help it, his cheeks pulled up by fish hooks even before his brain could process the feeling of happiness.

"Yes," she said, a coy smile playing across her face.

He took her hand, "Jack... "

Once he let go of her hand she looked around the station slowly, more appraisingly. "There is, obviously, a great deal for us to discuss. And it is better done in private. May I arrange for some transportation, as appropriate as possible in the circumstances?"

Jack simply nodded and Saliah moved to his side trying to lead the way out of the station without seeming to lead. Men liked that, just the gentlest of guides, the faint existing crease on a piece of paper that needed to be folded. "Make sure you haven't forgotten the vessel," she whispered into Jack's ear, her breath on his skin like settling into a hot bath.

He double checked, the urn was still there, tucked just inside his duffle bag. Saliah glanced over, seeing the impression the vessel made in the bag.

The station was busy with afternoon travelers. Tens of thousands of people going about their lives and squeezing past one another in their attempts to do so. Saliah didn't bother looking at clothes. Makeup would be a very minor help however, of course she could user her powers and in an instant transform a grime covered cross country backpacker into a bride on her wedding day, but even that tiny spark of power now had to be considered.

Unseen to Jack, a dozen yards ahead on their path, a brunette, pulling a rolling suitcase and wearing a pair of jeans too tight for comfortable travel, suddenly released her bag and dashed for the station doors. Her hair, done up with nearly perfect curls that tried to be casual yet had taken hours, danced as she ran.

Lightning flashed through the station's windows casting the travelers in sudden stark flashes of white, the rains came down almost as a monsoon and pounded the glass ceiling.

Jack didn't bother trying to talk, it was too noisy for it, and he was still processing what was happening. A magic vessel, a beautiful genie, had he just used a wish up in agreeing for transportation? A million questions and just as he thought to actually ask one, another more pressing one jumped into his mind, all the while Saliah kept him moving towards the doors.

The street outside the station was wet with rain, and sticky hot from the still boiling asphalt. A large, black, SUV with tinted windows caught her eye, and she was just about to reach out to it when a limo began a slow, awkward, too long turn onto the street leading to the station. Perfect. The limo came to a stop, in the middle of the street, and a man and woman wearing tuxedo and ballroom gown, climbed out of the back. The rain soaked the Limo's former occupants in seconds. Horns honked, but the man and woman stood dumbfounded in the middle of the road, as though the shock of cold rain pouring down had petrified them. The limo moved forward, leaving them behind.

Jack was trying to get his bearings, mumbling something about a bus stop a block away and different lines that would work. The limo pulled up beside the station, a dozen yards from them, and the brunette in jeans dashed in.

"I think this will be much more to your tastes," Saliah said, and after only a few second's pause, the limo came to a stop in front of them. Rain cascaded down over the half of its roof not covered by the station's overhang.

Jack had never seen the inside of an actual limo before. The deep cigar leather seats, the chrome door handles and buttons. The crystal tumblers and decanters of an exceptionally well curated, if small, bar on the side console. And the nude brunette, her breasts full and firm, her legs crossed, a pile of her clothes scrunched up on the seat beside her.

The only thing the woman wore was a golden ring on her left hand, that Saliah had wanted her to keep on. The Limo rolled away from the station with the gentlest of jolts, and the Brunette smiled, a finger moving to her left nipple, slowly stroking it as it hardened at her touch.

Saliah gave Jack a minute, but he only needed half that time for his mind to un-stick.

"How does this work?" Jack asked at last.

Saliah laughed, her voice crystal ringing. "Right to the heart of the matter. I like it," she said, hating that she would have to flirt with a pathetic, random, mortal. She had known hundreds of thousands of men, and only a few had been worthy of as much of a glance. The urn's magic protected Jacks mind from her inquiries but she was sure he was no Khan. This would be easy, if tedious.

"Think of me like a magical spirit that lives in the vessel. When you lost the vessel I awoke, and now, here we are. I'm not a genie. I'm not here to grant you wishes, or make your dreams come true. I am trying to find a mortal whom I could love and spend decades with."

With centuries of time, she had more than a few lies ready to be used. This one seemed the best in the moment.

"But I think I make for excellent company..." Saliah said and flicked her eyes to the brunette, who on command slid off her seat and began to crawl on the Limo's rich carpeting towards Jack, her breasts swayed as she, and the Limo, moved, until she had arrived at his feet and knelt, setting her hands on his jean-covered thighs. Her wedding band obvious, as her only accessory.

Jack's eyes were wild. If she couldn't read his mind, she could certainly read his pants.

"Who..." he asked, the brunette began to unfasten his pants, and while he didn't pull away his face flushed. "... is she?" he asked at last.

"I saw her in the station and thought you might enjoy her company while we talked."

"WHILE we talked?' he asked, her left hand took his manhood through his underwear, stroking it firmly and Jack's eyes closed for a moment.

"You're controlling her?" he asked each word punctuated by a pump from the brunette, and gasp from him.

"Yes, though not the details. She's just decided that the most important thing in the world for her is making you have the best orgasms of your life, and this is how she thinks she can best accomplish the task," Saliah explained.

"But..." her lips found the head of his bare, hard, cock. "Married..." he said as his head fell back in time with hers plunging forwards.

"You humans have a very amusing view of right and wrong. She wants to do this, you want to do this, she's enjoying herself, you're enjoying yourself. And once its over her husband will never even know it happened," Saliah said, the brunette moaned, and Jack's entire body shuddered.

It wasn't much. He had been thrown into the situation, he had his will assaulted by a magic much more primordial than Saliah's, but a trickle of corruption flowed from him, and Saliah's skin flushed, her first morsel of energy in centuries, she had forgotten how good it was. Though it was barely enough to pay for what the limo ride had cost her to arrange.

A great deal could be deveined about a man from how well he handled conversation while being felatiated. Jack drifted between incoherence as his pleasure crested, and the rushed rationality of a man greedy for food.

The brunette knew her business. Jack's hands wound through her hair, gripping her head and he exhaled more than groaned, body arching from the seat, and then collapsing back. Instead of pulling away the brunette stayed where she was, holding his member in her mouth, letting him calm, being gentle with it, loving, only the vibrations of the drive imparting any stimulation.