Heather stood just a few feet from the Sovert family car, staring back towards the church. As usual, her mother lingered with the Reverend at the top of the steps. She could see the undulating tendrils of Darkness around the both of them, but took little notice. Her eyes were unfocused, as if looking off into some great distance.

"Hey, bubblehead."

Heather blinked, surprised not so much by the address as the softer tone of voice. "Huh?"

Melinda's lips twitched into a small smile. "Thanks for not messing with me for once in church."

"Oh. Um, yeah, that's fine, runt," Heather replied. Her attempt to inject some expected sarcasm into her voice failed. "I don't want you today anyway."

Melinda smirked. "Yeah, I know, you want to go boink Diane."

A ghost of a smile brushed Heather's lips. Thoughts of Diane made her pussy warm and damp through the Mass, and helped her avoid the temptation of toying with Melinda's libido.

"Something wrong?" Melinda prompted when Heather did not speak. She turned her head towards the church and wrinkled her nose. "Did you see something with them that I didn't?"

"No, nothing like that. I'm not even thinking about them."

"I don't want to either. Shit, even the freaking minister. You can bet Mom had something to do with that."

"I'd rather not speculate on that."

"And even when Dad comes with us to church, he doesn't complain anymore about how long Mom yammers with the Reverend," Melinda said. "Mom probably did that, too. She's trying to control everyone in the family!"

"Stop exaggerating, runt."

"I'm not! Look what she did to me when all you guys were off trying to stop Melissa!"

Heather shivered. "Believe me, you didn't want to be there."

"And when were you appointed my babysitter?"

Heather sighed and gave her a meaningful look. "Remember what I told you?"

"That we're on the same side," she said in a softer tone. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to take it out on you, okay? I'm just frustrated with everything."

Heather lay her hand on her sister's shoulder. The temptation welled up inside her anew. Play with Melinda's lust. Make her pussy wet. Have her come along and join in the fun.

Heather clenched her teeth and pushed these thoughts aside, though now her pussy ached. Her voice was strained but steady. "I know. All right, if you really want to know what's bothering me, I started having a vision again."

Melinda's eyes widened. "About you? About Halloween?"

Heather shook her head. "No, nothing like that. It was about the Book."

"What about it?"

"I don't have enough of it yet to tell you. It got a little more clear after yesterday, when we all fucked. I could see someone carrying the Book into someplace I didn't recognize. It was kind of hard to see."

"Which one of us was carrying it?"

"That's the problem, Melinda. I don't think it was any of us."

"What? You mean, someone stole the Book?!"

Heather frowned. "Keep your voice down. Don't panic, okay? It's not like it's happened already."

"You better tell Jason about this!"

"I will at the meeting later. I don't think there's any immediate danger. But this is the strongest vision I've ever had. It almost seemed real, like I was actually there."

"Oh no!" Melinda piped. "Maybe you were there! Or will be, I mean. Someone controls you into taking the Book from Jason and ..."

Heather rolled her eyes. "Stop reading more into it than I've told you. Anyway, you know as well as I do that Jason is not letting anyone else near that Book. He's refused all my requests to let me see it again."

Melinda snorted. "Yeah, until you use your seduction or whatever on him and get it that way."

"Look, runt, whatever I'm doing with this thing, it's only for sex and nothing else. I never had any desire to ask anything else of anyone."

"Asking for the sex is bad enough." Melinda frowned when Heather gave her a look again. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Same side. I'm trying, Heather. I'm not really mad at you, just the situation. I never wanted to deal with this shit. I just want things to go back to normal."

Melinda knew that neither one of them really wanted that. Normal meant they would never have encountered the House at the end of the street; Melinda would never have found Jason as a boyfriend; Diane would never have come out of the closet; Heather would never have stopped being so mean to Melinda; Ned would never have found Cassie.

And the Darkness would have still lurked, plotting its takeover of the town. Then normal would mean slavery when it succeeded.

Their mother started towards them. "Let's get in the car, runt," Heather muttered. She jogged around the other side of the car before Melinda could respond.

"So very kind of you, Sandra, to come pay your respects with me as well."

Sandra grunted in reply as she drove the car down Green Avenue. In the back seat, Richie frowned at the shrill voice of his Aunt Marilyn and leaned his head against his hand, elbow propped at the bottom edge of the window.

"It is so hard to do this alone," Marilyn said. She lifted a gloved hand to her thin face and uttered a sigh in obvious dramatic fashion. "He was such a good man, my Martin. So terrible that he was cut down in his prime."

Richie rolled his eyes. He hoped he did not have to endure her prattle the whole trip, screeched in a voice like an unoiled hinge. Bad enough that they had to visit this woman's house once a year -- or as Richie called it, the Lair -- just to prove they could be sociable. This time she had insisted Sandra take her to her yearly visit to her husband's grave.

Marilyn turned to Sandra, no more substantial than a silhouette in her black clothing and veil. Her beaked nose and thin, crooked neck gave her the appearance of a large bird of prey. Richie wrinkled his nose as some of her cheap perfume poisoned the air. "Looks like a vulture and smells almost as bad as one" was how Richie had always described her.

She lay a hand against Sandra's shoulder. "At least you've never had to go through this, Sandra, dear. At least you know your Mike is still alive somewhere."

Sandra's hands squeezed the steering wheel. "Marilyn, I really wish you'd ..." she began to retort.

"Wish I would what, dear?" asked Marilyn.

Sandra heaved a sigh, and her shoulders slumped. "Never mind."

Richie folded his arms, if for no other reason than to prevent himself from strangling his aunt. He wanted to demand where she got off making comments like that about his Dad. That his mother sounded at least half as annoyed with his aunt as he did allow him some solace.

Not that he would be enamored of this trip anyway without his aunt. Cemeteries gave him the creeps. He would not come within several blocks of one at night. Even now he kept glancing out the window, wishing the last of the clouds would disperse and let the sun out. He thought he could tolerate it if it were in bright sunlight.

"Really, Sandra, you should be a little more appreciative of your husband," sniffed Marilyn.

"For the thousandth damn time, Marilyn, he is not my husband anymore."

Don't fucking remind me, Richie thought.

"The Lord does not recognize such follies of man," said Marilyn. "In His eyes, the both of you are husband and wife. You would do well to remember that."

"And you'd do well to remember that I left the Catholic Church about ten fucking years ago."

Marilyn gasped in an appropriately dramatic fashion and sniffed. She turned her head away in disdain.

Richie smirked. Seeing his mother get angry with her sister was worth it if it shut her up. If they were lucky, Aunt Marilyn would no longer expect their yearly visit anymore.

The car remained quiet until Sandra pulled past the gate of the Mesa View Cemetery. Low hills sprawled over the grounds, the grass prim and neat even in brown winter dormancy. Interspersed among the hills were flat plots where graves lay in regimented rows of equally spaced rectangles.

Richie's arms tensed until they trembled. As they followed a gentle curve in the road, the sun slipped out from behind a cloud and cast a stark brilliance. Richie sighed through his nose, his arms loosening a bit.

The car pulled to the curb outside one of the plots and stopped. Richie got out of the car first and raced to the curb side. Marilyn got out next, her thin body standing erect like a black pole, a wrapped bundle of flowers clutched in her long fingers. She turned towards the graves and drew in her breath, letting it go as a proper emotional sigh.

Richie muttered "drama queen" under his breath. Sandra slapped his arm and raised a silent, admonishing finger. As soon as Sandra turned towards her sister, Richie stuck his tongue out at her.

"Come along, Marilyn, before you get too worked up," Sandra said in a bored voice as she took her sister's arm.

Yeah, don't want you crying and running all that makeup off your ugly face, Richie thought.

Richie trudged along behind them, keeping his eyes down, and tried to think of something else. The dead grass was a reminder that it was at least six months until he could play baseball again. It seemed he lived for baseball now, the only thing he cared about or was any good at.

Dad would be really proud of me if could've seen me ...

Richie stopped his thought. He wanted to kick his aunt in her scrawny ass for bringing up his father.

Marilyn and Sandra stopped before a grave, and Richie nearly ran into them. He backed off and shuffled to the side, standing near a headstone inscribed with the name "Martin Gardner," and beneath it, "1963 - 1998."

Marilyn approached the grave, uttered a windy sigh, and fell to her bony knees. She stretched out her gloved hand and spread her fingers on the ground over the grave. Her voice cracked as she spoke. "Oh, Martin, you were such a good husband. I'm so lost without you."

Richie restrained himself from rolling his eyes, yet even Sandra uttered a very small cynical sigh.

"Y-you had your faults. You had your personal demons ... but ... but I was always there for you. Always. If only ... i-if only ..."

Her words broke up into soft sobs, her head bowed. Sandra tightened her jaw against another exasperated sigh and dropped to one knee beside her sister. She fished out a tissue from her purse and passed it to Marilyn. "Come on, Marilyn, lay your flowers on his grave and be done with it before you really get unglued."

Marilyn waved the tissue at Sandra and shook her head. "I-I'm okay, just give me a minute ..."

Marilyn put down her flowers and blew her nose. Richie smirked. She sounded like a goose honking. He leaned to the side and rested his hand on the top of the gravestone.

Reality shifted.

Richie jumped backwards when confronted by more than a dozen people standing around the grave.

"Aw, crap," Richie muttered. He looked in accusation at the headstone, now pristine and perfect. A voice made him jump once more, and only then did sound explode around him, like a stereo amp suddenly switched on.

"Into the Kingdom of the Lord God we commend the spirit of Martin Gardner, to reside in Your holy presence in everlasting peace."

On the other side of the headstone stood a Roman Catholic priest in formal robes, holding a prayer book in his hands before his solemn face.

"We do not mourn for his passing, but instead lift our hopes to You, O Lord, that You may grant him passage into your Kingdom."

A burst of sobbing caught Richie's attention, and his gaze snapped towards it. Marilyn stood shaking with grief behind the same black veil that she wore in the present. As the priest exhorted the Lord further on the subject of the departed, she sobbed again and buried her face into the shoulder of her sister Sandra.

Sandra let out a tired sigh. She looked to Richie like she would rather be somewhere else.

"Makes two of us, Mom," Richie said. His voice shook as much as his heart pounded.

The priest sprinkled holy water over the grave. Only then did Richie look down and notice that the grave was open, having just been dug, and lying right at his feet was ...

"Jesus!" Richie yelled, hurtling himself back.

He stared at the casket, lying next to the grave, waiting to be buried. His eyes shimmered, and he wished he could will this vision to end.

"You'd better give Sandra a hand, Hank," Richie heard a whispered comment over his left ear. "I don't think she's much up to giving Marilyn comfort."

He heard a resigned sigh. Richie turned and held his breath as a broad-chested man walked right into him ... and then through him ...

... Goddamn, why do I have do this shit? I'm just the guy that likes to fuck her, not attend all her stupid family ...

Richie let out his breath and gulped air as if he had been suffocating during the moment of mental contact. Richie cursed under his breath. He hated that ability most of all. Bad enough that he could see or hear what happened in the past; seeing into people's heads as well spooked him more than the cemetery itself could.

Richie tried to maneuver to somewhere away from both the casket and the crowd of people, but he was hard-pressed to do both. He thought he had found the proper spot when a young man decided to take a step forward, and his leg passed into one of Richie's.

Yeah, figures the little chiseler would croak now. I should've gotten him to cough up that two grand he still owed me before he wrapped his car around that tree ...

Richie stumbled to the side to break the mental touch, though he smirked at the thought that Martin was not quite the model husband Aunt Marilyn had claimed.

Another figure advanced towards him. He side-stepped and avoided contact, but brushed the side of a young teenage girl ...

Like, why do I hafta be dragged out to the sticks for something like this? I don't even know this woman. Gawd, and look at Slutty Sally over there! Thinks she's soooo hot and soooo wonderful cuz her mother lets her wear high heels ...

Richie staggered forward. Before he could turn to find another place to stand, he lost his footing and stumbled. His right foot passed through the casket and the body within.

Richie felt as though his blood had frozen solid and ice had crystallized inside his bones. His body went numb from head to toe, and the sight and sound of the funeral dissolved into icy mist. The air still trapped in his lungs came out in a rattling breath rotten with decay. His mouth opened as if to scream, but his throat was frozen as well.

... Evil woman! ... Damned witch! ... No right to cry over me! ...

The thoughts entered his head like a raspy, wheezing voice in his ear, as if spoken by vocal cords already tattered with decomposition.

... Drove me to drink! ... Gambled to make back money you spent! ... Nothing good enough for you! ...

Richie tried to gasp in air, but his lungs felt like lead, as if his own diaphragm had withered away. His feet gave way to a wide, yawning darkness below him, fetid air drawing down in chilling invite.

... I wasn't drunk, you cow! ... Stop telling people that! ... I killed myself to get away from you! ... I'D TAKE YOU WITH ME IF I COULD! ...

Richie fell, swallowed up by the grave, pulled into the abyss by the departing spirit.

"Richard Gardner, how dare you?!"

Richie let out a cry and stumbled back, his eyes wide as he stared at Sandra and Marilyn. "Huh?? What?!"

Marilyn surged forward and grabbed Richie's wrist, yanking his hand into the air. Richie was so disoriented that he submitted without a struggle, staring at his aunt's gaunt face. He shivered with the lingering chill of the grave, hand clutching the air as if still convinced he was falling into the death void.

"How dare you touch my husband's headstone!" Marilyn screeched. "You will have more respect for the dead, or so help me, I ..."

Sandra's hand curled around her sister's and yanked. It came away with a force that made Marilyn gasp and wince in pain.

"Get the fuck off my son," Sandra declared. "You have a problem with him, you tell me, and I'll punish him."

Marilyn could only stare in shock. Sandra held her wrist for another few seconds before letting go.

Richie was still trembling. His heart hammered in his chest. His eyes darted towards the grave, as if he expected it to open up and pull him back in.

"You ... y-you ... your son was defiling my husband's resting place!" Marilyn finally squeaked, cradling her wrist in her other hand as if Sandra had broken it.

"Take a fucking chill pill, Marilyn. He was just leaning his hand against the headstone."

"He was muttering something. Something about my husband. Something about him killing himself!" She turned to Richie, her eyes wild with fury. "He didn't kill himself, he was drunk and crashed his car into a tree, you little idiot!"

Sandra sighed and turned to her son. "Well, Richie? Did you say something like that?"

Richie's glazed eyes shifted between the two women. "No, I didn't. I didn't say nuthin'."

"It's 'I didn't say anything,' you ignorant ..." Marilyn hissed through clenched teeth.

"That's enough, Marilyn," said Sandra.

"But he said it! I heard him!"

"No, just shut your mouth, I've had it for one day. You said your peace and laid your flowers. Now let's get the hell out of here."

Marilyn gave her sister a look of affront, then huffed and marched towards the car.

Sandra frowned at Richie. "And I don't want to hear a damn word from you about your aunt, even after we drop her off, you got me?"

"Yeah, Mom, no problem," Richie said, his voice still shaky.

Richie followed his mother towards the car. He looked back at the grave and shivered, quickening his pace until he came alongside Sandra, for once a source of solace rather than tribulation.

Diane Woodrow could not decide whether to be excited or worried.

Her anticipation was at a fever pitch. Her mother had pulled back her curfew, which meant nothing more meaningful than brief excursions to the mall during the weekdays. Worse, she had she had been dragged to a family function the first half of the weekend. Her desire had pooled and seethed until she could not hurry to the house fast enough late that morning.

Yet she had anguished that it would come to nothing. According to the calendar, she should have been in the heaviest day of her monthly cycle. Instead, there was nothing, not even a trickle, not even any cramping. Even her mother suspected something was wrong, peppering her with questions crafted to coax Diane into an admission of a missed period.

Thus she arrived at the house late, her mother having delayed her. She raced through the living room, vaulted the stairs, and flew into their favorite bedroom. "Heather, I'm sorry I'm late, I couldn't ... mmmph!"

Diane flailed until her head caught up with her senses. Then she moaned into Heather's mouth. Her body quivered as Heather's hands slid around her slim waist and over her rear.

Diane lifted two trembling hands to Heather's shoulders and nudged. Heather leaned into the kiss before allowing her lips to part from hers. "Something wrong?" she asked in a husky voice.

Diane swallowed. "No, not really, I just ... I just wanted to ask ... I-I ... oh my ..." Her body quaked in Heather's arms. Her pussy steamed behind panties that now felt too tight. Her nipples rose and tingled as they brushed Heather's chest.

Heather grinned. "Getting horny?"

"Good God, yes," Diane moaned. "It was just a-all at once ... you ... you didn't use a spell on me just now, did you?"

"No, I didn't, I just ... well, I wanted you that way."

Diane's eyes widened. "You did? You mean, you ... w-wait ... I ..."

She trailed off as Heather unzipped her jeans and sank her fingers into Diane's damp panties, squishing them into her soaked slit. Diane clutched at Heather, her knees weak.

All coherent thought flew out of her head. Her jeans slid down her legs, the slow glide of the fabric against her skin making her tremble. Even as she stepped out of them, Heather undid the buttons of Diane's blouse and pushed it back from her bra. Heather rubbed the pad of her thumbs against the raised bumps on the cups of the bra. Diane let out a quaking sigh and fell to her knees, panting, her pussy aching.

"Perfect position, Diane," Heather cooed as she undid the hooks in Diane's bra.

Diane tried to speak and whimpered instead. She shrugged the bra straps from her shoulders, letting the garment fall to the floor. Heather dropped her own jeans and stepped out of them. Moisture glistened on her panties.

She peeled them from her sex, fabric pulling away from aroused flesh with a sodden noise. She held them another moment, tilting her hips as if in tease, and let them drop to her feet. She pulled out one foot, and kicked them away with the other. Diane panted, enraptured by Heather's erotic display. She wet her lips with her tongue.

Heather sat down at the edge of the bed and spread her legs wide, a towel spread out under her between her feet. Her voice dripped with lust as her pussy dripped with moisture. "Come here, Diane, and show me how much you missed my pussy."

Diane crawled forward, her gaze never leaving her lover's sex. She shivered at Heather's mental caress as it drew out her submissive side and embraced it until Diane could do nothing but obey her Mistress' desires. Diane was as much her own enslaver as Heather, given the ease with which Heather could manipulate her lust.

Heather spread her legs and pulled off her shirt and bra. She shivered as Diane's hands slid over her inner thighs, fingertips trailing along smooth skin. Diane drew in a deep breath just to savor the smell of her lover's arousal. She let it out as a deep sigh of desire into Heather's folds as her tongue teased Heather's clit.

"Oh, yeah, Diane ..." Heather moaned, her arms trembling as they fought to hold her sitting upright.

Diane panted against Heather's sensitized flesh as her tongue curled up and flicked Heather's clit. Her own pussy rose in response. Was it at Heather's command? It must be, for it grew until she writhed her hips in helpless futility, unable to make herself cum without touching herself. But that was forbidden, for Heather wanted the privilege of consummating Diane's pleasure for herself.

Diane tried not to rush, as Heather would have none of that. She twirled her tongue in Heather's folds, listening to Heather's rising moans and pants, feeling Heather's thighs quiver beneath her hands. She eased a finger into Heather's tunnel and pressed her mouth to Heather's clit, taking it between her lips.

"Oh God!" Heather cried. "Oh yeah! ... Harder ... oh yeah ..."

Diane thrusted two fingers into Heather's tightening pussy, tongue lashing at Heather's clit. Her cheeks dimpled, drawing the center of Heather's pleasure further into her mouth. Heather panted hard, her hips bucking in time to Diane's fingers. Heather's pussy was shoved into Diane's face, which she welcomed with a deep breath that overwhelmed her senses with Heather's fever-pitched arousal.

Heather threw back her head. Her thighs tensed, her legs rising until her feet were on the tips of her toes. Her pussy gripped Diane's fingers, and Diane pushed harder in response. The dam burst. Heather's pussy gushed from around Diane's fingers, drenching her face. Heather let out another cry, and along with it another smaller spout of liquid sexual heat.

Diane moaned, a muffled gurgling noise against the torrent. Her own pussy rose nearly to climax, her body trembling with the aching need for release. Her hands shook and slid along Heather's thighs, her tongue still licking as Heather's cum ran down her cheeks and chin and dripped onto the towel.

Heather let out a single, long, pleased sigh as her climax abated. Diane drew back. Her face glistened, her eyes pleading as they rose to Heather's.

"Mmm," Heather murmured. She smiled down at Diane. "Very nice."

"Th-thank you," Diane said, her voice shaky. "But p-please, Heather ... I-I need ... I ... oh!"

Heather grinned as she slid her foot along the inside of one of Diane's thighs. Diane parted her knees, her eyes closing as she panted in excruciating arousal.

"You're really wet, aren't you?" Heather cooed. "You're already close."

Diane swallowed and nodded, not trusting her voice.

Heather's smile turned wicked. Her foot rose higher until it brushed Diane's swollen sex. "Even enough for me to make you cum with my foot?"

Before Diane could reply, Heather planted her big toe in Diane's wet folds and wriggled. Diane whimpered, moaned, and cried out. Heather slid her foot forward, mashing it against Diane's slick flesh. Diane shuddered and mewled as her pussy throbbed.

Heather withdrew her foot. A soft smile played on her lips, and her voice dropped to a near whisper. "Diane, stand up, please."

Diane paused to catch her breath before she slowly rose. Heather slipped her arms around her lover. Diane trembled as she was drawn close.

"Now, I'll do you right," Heather said. Her mouth closed in on Diane's eager and erect nipple.

March 23rd, 1954 - I am now convinced that there is something special going on in Haven, and I am quite excited at the possibilities. Ever since I opened this business, I've always had more than what I thought should be my fair share of matters relating to sex. I used to beg off trying to do anything for them, since I find no evidence that they are possessed or otherwise influenced by the supernatural. But where would I send them? Doctors and psychiatrists these days have such backward notions of human sexuality. They'd likely make these poor people think they were sick perverts. But now I welcome these cases and try to do what I can for them.

I really think what I am seeing is a validation of several theories of mine. I've already stated that sexual energy is more than what even my sister Witches or my fellow Pagans would believe. Nowhere am I seeing more evidence of a tangible force than in these cases of sexual addiction or supposed sexual "influence" from others. It's those latter ones that I need to study further. It raises the possibility that some can wield sexuality as a means of persuasion, as if the sexual energy itself could somehow influence the thinking of another.

But most of all, it points to something happening within the very earth beneath Haven. I am growing convinced that there is an unusually high amount of magical energy concentrated in this area, and that somehow people are tapping into it without realizing it. The energy has nowhere to go, so it picks the easiest outlet, which happens to be sex. If I can figure out that link, I can try to help these people take better control of their sexual energies and help them apply it to more creative pursuits and thus reduce their oversexed natures.

Jason put aside the page of Elizabeth Jellison's journal and turned to his computer. He made a note of the page, date, and subject in a spreadsheet filled with similar references. In the last column labeled with the header of "keywords," he added the words "sex," "power," and "energy."

He leaned back in his seat and sighed. The task was daunting, a commitment of several weeks to cross reference everything, and that assumed he dedicated two hours a day to reading the journal.

Reading random sections of the journal, hoping to find something that caught his eye, had failed. The chronological nature of the journal dictated he read it in order to understand references to past material, otherwise he became lost rather fast.

He turned in his chair and picked up the journal page again. He had hoped to be further along so he would have something to talk about at the meeting. This, at least, was a clue. It confirmed what later entries had implied, that sex was not just a tool used by the Darkness, but an energy in and of itself. Heather's recent actions now appeared less scary and more understandable.

The real disappointment, however, was the lack of any mention of the Book in his readings so far.

He put the page back with the rest and re-tied the string about the bundle. He stood and slipped it back under the bed, paused with an uncertain look on his face, then pulled out the Book.

It was over-sized, like an old single-volume encyclopedia. The cover was leather, as shiny and fresh as if the pages had just been bound within it yesterday. Inscribed in gold in the center of the front cover was a pentagram, pointing downward. In the center of the pentagram was a stylized eye.

Jason took a deep breath and tried not to shiver. He wanted nothing to do with this Book anymore. He would relish its destruction, but all damage repaired itself in seconds.

He opened it to a random page. Words ran in cursive script not so much written as burned into the parchment. Here he found a spell for redirecting someone's natural lust to another. He flipped to another part of the book. Now he read a spell that would flip its victim's sexual orientation.

"Show me the orgy spell," Jason said.

He gripped the cover of the book as the pages turned themselves to the requested spell.

He still could not make sense of it. Why all these spells about controlling another's sexuality, and just the one that had to do with the node?

"Show me the Rite of Power."

And then, to Jason's surprise, nothing happened.

He repeated his request, louder this time, but the Book remained still.

"Show me the spell that, um, lets someone take control of a girl's pussy."

The pages turned and presented the spell that Heather had once used on Diane.

"Show me the spell that let's a girl have sex without getting pregnant."

Once more, the book complied, and he stared at the spell Melinda had once insisted he use on her.

"Show me the Rite of Power."

The Book remained quiescent.

Jason remembered the approximate place in the Book where they had spotted the spell, but the Book revealed only more sex-related mind control spells.

Jason slammed the Book shut, frowning. He thought he would be happy to no longer have access to the spell. Instead, he had another mystery to solve, and was faced with the disturbing possibility that the Book was hiding it from him.

He put the Book back under the bed and withdrew the wooden box containing the pendant fragments. When it had been whole, the pendant shared a connection with the Book. Whoever wore the pendant would sense the world through the eyes and ears of the one holding the Book. Some of the essence of the Darkness had been trapped within it as a result of an aborted initial attempt to perform the Rite. It had influenced Melissa into attaining the Book and attempting the Rite once more.

He opened the box and stared at the fragments. He wished he understood the connection between the pendant and the Book better. He rejected the idea that the destruction of the pendant made the spell disappear from the Book, as that meant the Darkness was working against its own aims.

But it still implied a link between the pendant and the Book that was more than what any of them -- the Harbingers, Debby, and Jessica before her -- had assumed.

The pendant was supposed to act a focus for the power extracted from the node by the Rite. The link was forged by accident, when the energy had surged between the Book and the pendant. That was the accepted explanation.

To Jason, it seemed too inadequate, even too simplistic. An energy surge that just "happens" to link them in this indispensable way? It seemed far-fetched now. Even magic had to follow some sort of rules or work inside some sort of structure. Things happened for a reason.

He paused as he was about to put the pendant box away. He opened it and pulled out the piece that was still attached to the chain. He let it twirl in the air as he stared at it in a moment of internal debate. He shoved it in his pocket and pushed the box back under the bed. He stood up and left.

Diane lost herself to the moment.

Moments like this were rare anymore. Heather was always in a rush and went straight for Diane's pussy. Yet Diane's need in her sex was not ignored. Heather's fingertips cast furtive caresses on Diane's clit as her tongue teased Diane's hard nipple.

Diane was too excited to even think. Whether it was Heather fogging her mind or her own ecstasy mattered not. But the thought that Heather could use the pleasure to overcome her and turn her mind into putty was enough to send her lust skyrocketing. Knowing that Heather could take control of her excited her than the actual control itself.

She shuddered as Heather's fingers sank into her slit, her nipple tugged further into Heather's mouth at the same time. Heather could do what she wanted, and Diane would let her. She would drop to her knees and call Heather "Mistress" if asked.

She almost wished Heather would.

Heather had almost enslaved Diane forever. Diane still felt a chill at the memory of that moment of faint lucidity when she realized she was a single incantation away from total, mindless obedience. Yet Diane still craved the fantasy, the concept of helpless enslavement. She would not dare mention it. Jason would never let them use the spell again, and Heather had torn up her hand-written copy of the incantation, as upset as she was at what Melissa had almost made her do.

Diane's pussy rose. She spread her feet further apart in invitation, then lost her balance and leaned into Heather with a yelp. Heather grabbed her arms and steadied her. Heather drew back from Diane's breast and smiled. "I think you're too excited to stand up anymore."

Diane swallowed and nodded.

Heather stood and guided her lover to the bed. Diane's breath rose to an excited pant, her folds wet and glistening. In the moment of silence while they arranged themselves on the bed, muffled voices drifted to them from below.

"Oh no, I think we've taken too long. The others are here for the meeting," Diane said, her voice breathless.

Heather smiled as she crawled over Diane's body. Her fingers teased Diane's clit. Diane whimpered and trembled. "Then they'll just have to wait until we're done."

"But what if they come up here and ... oh! ... oh God ..."

Heather's mouth descended to Diane's sex, and all remaining protest vanished from Diane's head. She squirmed in sexual heat at Heather's teasing flicks of her tongue, so much so that Heather had to hold down Diane's legs. When she still writhed, Heather resorted to a different method.

Diane's mind was suddenly flooded with a single thought, as overpowering as a tidal wave. It was not expressed as a word or even an image, but the intent was clear: submit.

Instinct made Diane resist it, but for naught. Her body went limp, and her mind drifted into a formless haze of helpless pleasure.

Diane had no doubt; Heather had exerted direct control over her. What twinge of anxiety she may have felt was lost in a sea of sexual bliss. Heather didn't want her to worry, she only wanted Diane to feel good. That was all that mattered.

But there was more, just under the surface. Something faint, like a distant sound or a faint whisper. It told her that somehow this would bring them closer together, that it would eventually bring all of them ...

Diane arched her back. Her pleasure rose and drowned out coherent thought. Time and place became irrelevant. All that mattered was Heather's lips and tongue. She soared, then strained as if Heather were holding her back for just a few moments longer to make the anticipation as excruciating as ultimate release.

Diane crested to a shrill cry rising from her throat as her orgasm swept her body and mind. She reveled in her climax free of concern or worry, just as Heather had wanted.

Finally, it eased. Her faculties returned to her, like a landscape emerging from a lifting fog. Her pussy still throbbed as Heather's tongue lay lightly pressed against her clit, carefully drawing out the time it took her orgasm to fade. Diane went limp on the bed, not by command, but from satisfied exhaustion.

Heather drew herself up and smiled, though her lips twitched. "Are you okay, Diane?"

Diane stirred, sluggish with lingering sexual euphoria, and managed to sit up. "I think so. Wow."

"Diane, I think I got a little carried away. I sort of got in your head or something."

Diane's lips curled into a tiny smile. "It's okay, I really enjoyed it."

"Are you sure? I probably should have told you before we started that Jason and Melinda think I can, well, affect people during sex."

"I think I already knew that long before they did."

A weak smile tugged Heather's lips. "So long as you're okay with it."

"Of course I am. So long ... so long as it's never permanent."

Heather shook her head. "No, I don't think it is. It never is with Melinda and Jason."

Another few seconds and Diane's head cleared. "Wait. Melinda and Jason?"

Heather blushed and sighed. "I'm sorry, Diane, I had to do it with him. Melinda wasn't enough."

"Well, you don't have to apologize for it. I told you before that I understood, and that I wasn't jealous. I know you have ... well ... special needs."

"I just wish I knew why. I wish I could ..."

Diane tilted her head. "Wish you could what? Heather?"

Heather stared straight ahead, her eyes glazed and unfocused ....

The old chamber is musty and dank. Rotting floorboards lay strewn in odd piles at the edges. His footfalls beat against stone, his trench-coat billowing behind him in the clammy air. In his hands is the Book.

The cover of the magical tome glows in defiance of the dark. Its eye is afire with wavering emerald light. His hands grip the sides of the Book, as if afraid it is about to be wrested from him.

"I have brought it," the man speaks, his voice solemn, confident, though tempered by exhaustion. "I have forced them to relinquish it."

The light from the Book eye becomes bright and chaotic, like a trapped flame in a breeze. His fingers tighten reflexively around it, nails digging into the leather. The pages within crinkle and ripple.

A strange, mournful howl rises ahead of him, and his next words are lost. His manner suggests he is attempting to soothe it, to calm whatever agitation has arisen from his unseen companion.

The man stops walking. He is standing near something circular. It is too dark to see anything more. The air is suddenly tinged with energy. Something powerful is nearby, something that is choking off the light, even that from the Book. The stranger is struggling, as if someone were indeed attempting to pull the Book from his grip.

The man fights his unseen assailant, grunting with the effort. Another wail arises from somewhere in the center of the circular area. Acid green light blazes in his hands ...

"Heather!" Diane cried.

Heather flinched. She swung her gaze hard to Diane.

Diane nearly recoiled from the wild look in Heather's eyes. "What ...? H-Heather, are you okay?"

"I'm ... yes ... I was just ..." Heather trailed off. Her eyes widened in alarm, and she jumped off the bed.

"Heather, what is it? Please, tell me what's wrong!"

"I can't ... I mean ... I have to tell ..." Heather sputtered, her speech as disjointed as her thoughts. She rushed to collect her clothes and throw them on.

Diane was frantic. Something had happened and she had no idea what. All she could do was follow Heather's lead and get dressed.

Heather finished first and burst out of the room. Diane tried to call her back to no avail. She finished buttoning her blouse as she chased her lover down the stairs.

From the living room, Melinda looked up. "Well, well, here's the big bubbleheads now. Finally done with the boink-o-rama up ... hey!"

She huffed when Heather rushed passed her, then jumped to her feet when Heather looked as if to pounce on Jason.

"Oh no you don't!" Melinda cried, dashing after her sister and grabbing her arm. "Not again! You already just had ...!"

Heather yanked her arm from Melinda's grip without looking back. "Jason, where's the Book? Where is it?!"

Jason was so surprised by the sudden urgent question that he hesitated before answering. The others looked on in bewilderment. "Um, back at my house, where it usually is."

"No way, Heather, you're not getting to use it unless the rest of us ..." Melinda piped.

"Melinda, shut up!" Heather shouted, shocking her sister -- and most of the others -- into silence. She turned back to Jason. "You have to find someplace to hide it. You have to put it someplace safe."

"I can't think of any other place to ..." Jason began.

"Someone is going to try and take the Book," Heather said. "Do you hear me? Someone is going to steal it from us!"

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