Sparks in the Darkness Pt. 04

Oscar grabbed Lucinda's head with two hands, and bounced it off the concrete floor, as she wailed in pain, then fumbled at her waist to recover the cold iron knife. His hands closed around the hilt, but before he pulled it to his side, Lucinda grabbed ahold of his wrist, and twisted, with enough force to make Oscar cry out in pain.

With inhuman strength, Lucinda tossed Oscar off of herself, and he slammed to the concrete, back first, knocking the wind from him. As he took a desperate gasp of air, Lucinda - half succubus, half seductress, her body curved, lascivious; her flesh red and sinewy muscle, charred black at points - sat atop him, pinning him down. The cold iron dagger was held high in her hands, ready to plunge into his chest. "All that will - and you do nothing with it. Fucking worthless," she hissed at him.

He struggled, feeling the color drain from his face. He was out of options. He could reach for the Dark Power, and live - or, choose not to ... and die. But die free.

Closing his eyes, he chose. He exhaled, and thought of the heat of Zoey's lips. It had been a pretty miserable life - but the last week or so; it'd been pretty good. It'd been really good, he thought, waiting for the bite of the knife.

Zoey's eyes rolled back in her head, under her closed eyelids. The cold iron binding her arms may have held her magic at bay, but it did nothing to diminish Zoey's will. Intensely, she focused, as she bent her foot, and the key slipped effortlessly into the lock. The lock clicked.

Fantisma exhaled.

"Hey. Cunt," Fantisma snarled. Lucinda's eyes widened in horror, and she turned her head slowly towards the voice, her jaw wide open. Fantisma was floating up, both hands glowing with unearthly green fire; the crates, candles, and occult kitsch from the factory floor now telekinetically floating around her like a cloud. Her ferocious glowing-red eyes glared straight at Lucinda. She gestured sharply, bringing one arm forward, and the other back, both performing arcane signs, as dozens of tiny projectiles hurled forward at the demon.

As the creature shrieked, and threw her arms up to protect her face, Oscar twisted, so that the tumbling cold iron dagger missed his head. Fantisma gestured again, and a pair of crates hurled forward, colliding with Lucinda. While the crates may have been unable to harm her, their impact was still enough to knock her off Oscar, sending her tumbling across the factory floor. With a snarl, she scampered into the clothing racks, as the flames began to visibly lick around them, black smoke starting to roil up, collecting and the ceiling, and descending rapidly.

"Hey there, handsome," Fantima smiled, closing the distance to Oscar as she descended to the stone floor. As Fantisma saw his face, she gasped, and the red disappeared from her eyes. "Ohmygod, did she hit you? Did she break your nose? My poor brave ..." she said, as she reached for his face.

"Nono," he interrupted, grabbing her hand. "That was," he thought for a moment, trying to recall. "Oh, yeah. Peter, uh, kinda."

"Alright. It's okay," Fantisma cooed, squeezing his hand. "He tried to unlock me, but I dropped a chair on him. We're gonna get him out of here, and we're gonna put some ice on your nose - Mommy just has to fuck a bitch up, then we'll go get you taken care of." Her eyes abruptly blazed red again, as she floated up a few feet then added, "And dinner! I'm feeling pizza?" She cast her gaze over to the rapidly-escalating blaze. "Fuck, where'd that bitch get to?"

"Can't you just ... grab her? Crush her with your telekinesis?" Oscar asked, getting to his feet. The cold iron dagger felt paltry in his grasp; heavy, but almost inconsequential compared to Fantisma's magical power or the demon's malevolence. Fantisma shook her head. "I can't affect living - well, animated things; 'things that move'. The ability imbues 'life to the inanimate' - I can't even move a fucking roomba, if it's switched on."

A strange limit - but not the strangest Oscar had ever encountered. He nodded. As he did, a snarling, winged creature burst from the flames, straight at him. He turned, but didn't even shield himself - as he expected, Lucinda was thrown off her pounce by a hurled chunk of concrete pillar that slammed her back into the opposite wall.

"Me, bitch. Focus on me. Believe me - I'm your problem," Fantisma hissed. "Oscar, get out of here; this place is going up like a centenarian's birthday cake." She waved her hands, one after the other, and hurled two bolts of sickly green flame - but compared to the inferno, their impact was immaterial. She sailed towards the fire, audibly growling, and with a flick of her wrist telekinetically hurled two of the flaming pillars of clothing to the other side of the building, revealing Lucinda.

"Let's go," Fantisma hissed, taking up a fighting stance. Lucinda responded with a snarl, and hurled herself through the air, in a pose reminiscent of a pouncing jaguar.

Fantisma simply dropped vertically, allowing Lucinda's dangerous claws to sail wide over her head. She gestured, and a series of green flame bolts launched with a fwip fwip fwip. Their impacts against Lucinda were meaningless - except to hold her attention.

Oscar stumbled through the rapidly growing black smoke towards Peter. Fantisma and Lucinda both were immune to fire, could see through the smoke, and wielded flames; Fantisma could telekinetically hurl objects; Lucinda could hurt them back with her lash. They could fight for hours without one finding the upper hand - but over the long term, the odds were in the demon's favor, not the diabolist's.

Fantisma ducked under the crack of Lucinda's flame whip, and pulled herself back. Lucinda surged forwards, hissing and tearing at Fantisma again. "I'm going to make him watch as I gut you," she snarled.

Fantisma sneered. "Lady, I'm a woman running a multimillion dollar finance company. That isn't the meanest thing I've had someone say to me today," and bobbed out of the way of Lucina's anger-blinded attack. Fantisma considered. The problem was - Lucinda wasn't tiring, and Fantisma was. Moreover, Lucinda only had to land two, maybe three good blows, whereas Fantisma lacked ways to cause her opponent serious harm. And - also - the building was on fire, and that wasn't great for Oscar long-term. Or Peter, she supposed.

Time was in the demon's favour - and Fantisma didn't have an easy way to wrap things up. Then her eyes caught on something on the floor that presented ... an opportunity. It happened to be literally the perfect way to wrap things up, actually, with a little help from Oscar.

Oscar crouched over Peter's body, checking for a pulse - surprisingly strong and steady. Oscar nodded to himself - necromancers notoriously clung to life. "Okay, Peter, I guess I'm gonna drag you, because ..."

From somewhere through the smoke, Oscar heard the sound of metal scraping on stone, and then the whine of metal warping and twisting. He held the dagger out at his side, ready to guard Peter's unconscious body if necessary.

From somewhere in the now-dense black smoke, he heard Fantisma shout, "Incoming!"

Oscar held his arm out, the cold iron stiletto set out like a spike. He didn't even have time to yell that he was ready.

Hurtling through the air towards him, wrapped up tightly in the aluminum garage door, came Lucinda. Fantisma's aim was spotless, and the aluminum of the door shrieked as the cold iron pierced through it - and straight into Lucinda's sternum.

From inches away, even in the dense smoke, Oscar watched the creature's eyes. Over just a few instants, they glowered at him in hate, then widened in pain, then shock, and finally, they trembled in fear. "N-no," the creature murmured, shifting back into Lucinda and shaking her head in denial. There was a scent, like burning bacon, and Oscar watched Lucinda's lip quiver. "... what's gonna happen to me?" she sobbed, as her hands and feet, still bound in the wreckage of the door, began to crumble to dust.

Oscar shook his head at her. "Nothing at all," he said.

And then the creature was gone.

Fantisma streaked through the smoke towards Oscar. "That was metal!" she shrieked Fantisma, scooping him into a hug. "'Nothing at all'?! Veins of ice, this motherfucker!" She laughed, and Oscar laughed, too, and heard the cold iron dagger drop to the floor. They kissed, a long moment, and Oscar brought his hands up, and stroked Fantisma's hair, and felt wonderfully alive. And sore. Quite sore. But alive.

... But then, Oscar pulled back and said, "Uh, the fire ..."

Fantisma blinked, then looked back over her shoulder at the roaring inferno that was beginning to engulf the building. "Oh! Yeah. Let's get Peter out of here."

Chapter Thirteen

Intimacy. Laying bare.. Saying thanks.

The immediate aftermath was a blur. Zoey had Oscar stand right beside her - often holding hands, but never more than arm's length away. Dozens of firefighters and police officers flowed through the scene, but it felt like the emergency personnel were outnumbered by daCosta Finance Group lawyers. At one point early on, Peter, Keith, and David were carted away in a trio of ambulances, each flanked by a detective - and a handful of daCosta Finance Group lawyers.

Zoey - and the lawyers - had given Oscar strict instructions not to answer any questions, not to offer any information, not to speak. For the first lengthy period, the favorite words of the half-dozen lawyers permanently stationed permanently around them were, "no comment". And the whole time, Sam leaned on the Rolls-Royce, occasionally exchanging what seemed to be pleasant, casual words with emergency responders admiring the car.

Finally, one of the lawyers nodded at Zoey; Oscar noticed no difference between this gesture and the thirty other wordless communications she'd had with her legal team, except to see a clever smirk crawl across Zoey's face. "Alright, we're going," Zoey said, and gave Oscar a light tug. Confused, he followed, but to his surprise, rather than climbing into an ambulance or police car, he climbed into Zoey's Rolls-Royce, as Sam crossed to the driver's seat.

"Just like that?" Oscar asked. "You get kidnapped, burn down a warehouse, Sam crashes a Rolls -"

"I didn't crash," Sam corrected.

Zoey nodded, "Sam doesn't crash. That's why they had to drop the reckless driving, even."

"Right," Oscar said. After a pause, he added, "I feel like you're avoiding the question."

In the rearview mirror, he saw Sam smirk, as Zoey smiled, and said, "I mean, that's what lawyers are for, Oscar. Not to mention, I was actually the victim here, remember. I was kidnapped. It's actually fortunate for the police that you and Sam were able to locate me before that accidental fire caused more serious harm. In my lawyer's opinion, the city owes you gentlemen a debt of gratitude, not legal charges." She took a long pull from her vape, and smirked, as Oscar stared in disbelief.

"So, the police don't ... know? I just always figured they knew, that you're ..." Oscar started. Zoey firmly shook her head.

"Nobody does, except you. Well, and Sam," she gestured to the front of the car, where Sam nodded. "He figured it out for himself, when I was, like, in my teens, before I had, you know, my feet under me. Covered for me. A lot." She winked at the rearview mirror, and Sam's eyes smiled. She looked back at Oscar. "He helped me make good choices. Well. Good, bad choices."

Oscar leaned back in the seat of the car, and shook his head, a smile crawling across his lips. He nodded to himself, looking out the window, and watching the city drift by, as Zoey held his hand, stroked his knuckles with her thumb, and smiled as she looked out her window.

The elevator doors opened on Zoey's spacious apartment, the city's light glittering outside her window. Oscar exhaled, and paused by the table, when he felt Zoey's hands running up his back, then running around his sides, and then pressing against him from behind, as she ran her hands up under his shirt, and pulling his fingernails across his pecs, as she kissed the nape of his neck.

He murmured, and turned around. Zoey's bright blue eyes stared up at him, as she bit her lip. He set his hands around her, at the small of her back, as she slowly blinked at him. "After everything tonight?" Oscar asked, with a light chuckle. "I smell like smoke, and sweat, and ..."

"Get into the bathroom," Zoey murmured, raising herself onto her tiptoes, so they could kiss.

Oscar crossed the apartment towards the washroom, peeling his shirt off on the way. Zoey followed in behind him, stripping her blouse off as she followed.

In the bathroom, silently, Oscar first pulled off his socks, then undid his belt. Watching, and smiling, Zoey did the same. Oscar's socks, and sweat-and-smoke coated shirt, crawled across the floor, and up into the hamper, followed by Zoey's blouse, then Oscar's pants, and Zoey's skirt.

With a flick of Zoey's hand, hot water began to flow from two of the shower heads. Oscar stepped into the massive shower, getting under the hot water. As the clean water hit his body, he started to feel the ache of his muscles, the tension of the battle - the heat, the adrenaline, the fear - flowing down off him, into the drain.

From behind him, and slightly above him, Zoey's hands ran down his chest, scooping up water, then splashing it on him. She worked her hands against his shoulder muscles, as he reached an arm forward to stabilize himself against the shower wall.

She ran her fingernails over his scalp, as the hot water rolled down over him. He inhaled the heated steam, and felt Zoey's forehead pressing against the back of his head, her wet chest pressing against his back; her arms moved to embrace him from behind.

Zoey's fingers traced his arms - muscled, but not rippling; scarred, but long healed; stronger now than they were before. Healthy. She ran a finger over each little singe, new marks on his body that he'd given himself to save her. She pressed her lips to the back of Oscar's neck, then exhaled on his ear, and he gave one of his delicious, baritone moans.

She poured a generous handful of the body scrub into her hand, and ran it over Oscar's chest, feeling its delightful texture from his patchwork of long-healed scars; she traced the most significant, a wicked-looking run of four scars that trailed across his abdomen, with her fingers. She worked the scrub into a lather, as he groaned in appreciation. Then, she ran her hands up and down his back, feeling his muscles - tight but relaxing, under the heat and her fingers.

Another bit of lather worked its way into Oscar's hair, as Zoey gave him a scalp massage with her fingernails. She chuckled, as he moaned more lasciviously at the scalp massage than when she rubbed his chest.

Then, she trailed a hand down, and dragged it through the hair around his cock and balls; scrubbing, shampooing with the body wash, but still exploring and appreciating him, as he sighed.

He turned slowly, so that their eyes met; he set his hands around her waist, and shifted her, even as she drifted above the shower floor, trading her places in the hot water.

He took a moment, as he fetched her loofa and her body wash. He applied the scrub to the loofa, and then began to slowly, in methodical circles, run it over her body. He scrubbed her shoulders, and she felt soot and dust and debris run from her shoulders to the drain. He knelt, and plucked a few stray splinters from her calves, before he ran the loofa over them, too; her feet, and up to her thighs, inside and out. He caressed the loofa around her hips, across her abdomen, then up, and in circles around her modest breasts, and then up her neck.

She sighed, as it was his turn to massage her scalp, working his fingers into her hair, now heavy with water. She lowered herself, letting him be taller than her, looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes. She glanced downward; his cock swung about a half-mast, as he appreciated the curves of her body; she sighed, and smiled to herself, quietly pleased.

She effortlessly floated forward, past Oscar, and out of the shower; with a gesture, the heated towel flew up, and drifted across her skin, just enough to take away the dripping wet. A flick of her wrist threw the towel to Oscar, who followed her, wiping himself down.

By the time Oscar had stepped into the living room, he saw Zoey padding in towards her bedroom. His brow furrowed, and he followed after her; gestures from her fingers pulled her covers back, and fetched body pillows from the closets.

"Lay down," she directed. She turned her head to him; her eyes were literally glittering; not glowing red, but almost a golden sparkle, and she smirked at him. "... please," she added, as an afterthought.

He smiled as he walked past her. "You don't have to say please, Mistress."

Zoey licked her lips as he walked by. She watched his cock - not yet erect, but definitely not at ease, either.

As he lay down, he quietly added, "I'm actually, like ..." he guffawed. "I'm actually kind of sore," he chuckled.

"Too sore?" Zoey asked, as she crawled up the foot of the bed.

"No no. Not too sore. But like. ... maybe gentle-sore."

Zoey set her hands on his knees. "Gentle," she purred, and they both nodded. She ran her manicured fingernails down his thighs, and repeated, "Gentle, then - for my Prince," as his thighs shuddered, and he made a delightful groan, that was almost a prayer.

Zoey held his gaze as she moved up, and made a show of her pink tongue teasing over her nude lips, as her hands made their way down Oscar's thighs. His cock throbbed; still not at full mast, but definitely making Oscar's eager excitement clear.

"You ... literally saved my life," she cooed, as her fingers traced along the line between his thighs and his groin. His hips twitched, and he grunted, and then whimpered, and she felt herself smile, delighting in how excited he was. With only the tips of her nails in contact with his skin, she slipped her hand around to cup Oscar's balls, then let them rest against her palm, feeling the weight of them; she squeezed - not tightly, but, like ... enough.

"Hnngh," Oscar moaned, then added, "Mistress, I - I ... I got you into that ..."

Zoey pressed the nails on her thumb and index finger onto the opposite sides of Oscar's rapidly expanding cock, and he interrupted his sentence with another deep grunt. She tried not to squeal in delight. She licked her lips, very purposefully again.

The dull ache in Oscar's shoulder, the rasp in his throat, the ringing in his ears, and the heavy, post-adrenaline exhaustion were all pressed away. In that moment, as Zoey held his cock in her hand, he could feel it throbbing, and part of him was worried that this moment was going to come to a rapid climax.

He audibly gasped, as she pressed her lips to the purple head of his cock, giving it a soft kiss. She left a glistening coating of saliva atop the head of his cock, and Oscar felt like his whole body was trembling with anticipation. Zoey's voice was quiet, her vocal fry purposefully exaggerated, as she said, "Thank you," and spat on the head of his cock, then gently ran the tips of her fingers up and down the length of Oscar's cock.

"Thank you," she repeated, before licking her lips. She dipped her head down, and opened her mouth slowly, while lowering her head, so that Oscar could see the purple of his cock-head compared to the pink of her tongue, reveling in her moment as his personal porn star. Oscar obliged her by giving a low moan, and his cock throbbed.