Author Scott Lynch responds to a critic of the character Zamira Drakasha, a black woman pirate in his fantasy book Red Seas Under Red Skies, the second novel of the Gentleman Bastard series.
The bolded sections represent quotes from the criticism he received. All the z-snaps are in order.
Your characters are unrealistic stereotpyes of political correctness. Is it really necessary for the sake of popular sensibilities to have in a fantasy what we have in the real world? I read fantasy to get away from politically correct cliches.
God, yes! If there’s one thing fantasy is just crawling with these days it’s widowed black middle-aged pirate moms.
Real sea pirates could not be controlled by women, they were vicous rapits and murderers and I am sorry to say it was a man’s world. It is unrealistic wish fulfilment for you and your readers to have so many female pirates, especially if you want to be politically correct about it!
First, I will pretend that your last sentence makes sense because it will save us all time. Second, now you’re pissing me off.
You know what? Yeah, Zamira Drakasha, middle-aged pirate mother of two, is a wish-fulfillment fantasy. I realized this as she was evolving on the page, and you know what? I fucking embrace it.
Why shouldn’t middle-aged mothers get a wish-fulfillment character, you sad little bigot? Everyone else does. H.L. Mencken once wrote that “Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.” I can’t think of anyone to whom that applies more than my own mom, and the mothers on my friends list, with the incredible demands on time and spirit they face in their efforts to raise their kids, preserve their families, and save their own identity/sanity into the bargain.
Shit yes, Zamira Drakasha, leaping across the gap between burning ships with twin sabers in hand to kick in some fucking heads and sail off into the sunset with her toddlers in her arms and a hold full of plundered goods, is a wish-fulfillment fantasy from hell. I offer her up on a silver platter with a fucking bow on top; I hope she amuses and delights. In my fictional world, opportunities for butt-kicking do not cease merely because one isn’t a beautiful teenager or a muscle-wrapped font of testosterone. In my fictional universe, the main characters are a fat ugly guy and a skinny forgettable guy, with a supporting cast that includes “SBF, 41, nonsmoker, 2 children, buccaneer of no fixed abode, seeks unescorted merchant for light boarding, heavy plunder.”
You don’t like it? Don’t buy my books. Get your own fictional universe. Your cabbage-water vision of worldbuilding bores me to tears.
As for the “man’s world” thing, religious sentiments and gender prejudices flow differently in this fictional world. Women are regarded as luckier, better sailors than men. It’s regarded as folly for a ship to put to sea without at least one female officer; there are several all-female naval military traditions dating back centuries, and Drakasha comes from one of them. As for claims to “realism,” your complaint is of a kind with those from bigoted hand-wringers who whine that women can’t possibly fly combat aircraft, command naval vessels, serve in infantry actions, work as firefighters, police officers, etc. despite the fact that they do all of those things– and are, for a certainty, doing them all somewhere at this very minute. Tell me that a fit fortyish woman with 25+ years of experience at sea and several decades of live bladefighting practice under her belt isn’t a threat when she runs across the deck toward you, and I’ll tell you something in return– you’re gonna die of stab wounds.
What you’re really complaining about isn’t the fact that my fiction violates some objective “reality,” but rather that it impinges upon your sad, dull little conception of how the world works. I’m not beholden to the confirmation of your prejudices; to be perfectly frank, the prospect of confining the female characters in my story to placid, helpless secondary places in the narrative is so goddamn boring that I would rather not write at all. I’m not writing history, I’m writing speculative fiction. Nobody’s going to force you to buy it. Conversely, you’re cracked if you think you can persuade me not to write about what amuses and excites me in deference to your vision, because your vision fucking sucks.
I do not expect to change your mind but i hope that you will at least consider that I and others will not be buying your work because of these issues. I have been reading science fiction and fantasy for years and i know that I speak for a great many people. I hope you might stop to think about the sales you will lose because you want to bring your political corectness and foul language into fantasy. if we wanted those things we could go to the movies. Think about this!
Thank you for your sentiments. I offer you in exchange this engraved invitation to go piss up a hill, suitable for framing.
Here follows is a non-comprehensive list of historical female pirates and sailors, women of color first:
- Ching Shih (1775-1844): controlled south China seas, had 80,000-man fleet at her disposal, outlawed rape, extorted retirement package from the Chinese government.
- Sayyida al-Hurra (1482-1562): Pirate queen of Morocco who bedeviled Portuguese and Spanish fleets after being kicked out of Spain by Ferdinand and Isabella in her youth.
- William Brown (1800s, birth name unknown): married Grenadan woman who disguised self as man after fight with her husband and became a sailor.
- Jacquotte Delahaye (1600s): half-Haitian woman who, according to some sources, took over an island and led a force of hundreds of pirates.
- Hingyuon (1800s): Filipina warrior/probable pirate who led armies in Cebu; relative of Humabon, “first truly wealthy person in Cebu”
- Lai Choi San (1900s): Chinese pirate who commanded 12 ships and was a model for the Dragon Lady archetype; thinly-sourced
- Mary Lacy (1740-1801): willful bisexual runaway who became first female shipwright; disguised self as man but claimed pension under own name
- Alfhild (400s): Viking princess who decided to become a pirate instead of getting married.
- Anne Dieu-le-Veut (1661-1710): French pirate who fought along Laurens de Graaf for many years.
- Anne Bonny and Mary Read (1700-1782, c.1690-1721): probably the two most famous female pirates of all time
- Granuaile aka Grace O’Malley (1530-1603): Irish pirate queen who led rebellions against England, personally negotiated with Elizabeth I, gave birth on a ship.
- Cecilia Vasa (1540-1627): Swedish princess who got into endless scandals, became a pirate briefly, was utter black sheep, hated the English.
- Mary Patten (1800s): Took control of ship when her husband suffered mutiny, learned medicine, navigated to port, all while pregnant
- Christina Anna Skytte (1643-1677): Swedish baroness and pirate, very ruthless
- Jeanne de Clisson (c.1300-1359): burnt down much of the Normandy coast and sank a ton of ships after her husband was killed.
- Charlotte Badger (1778-?): Australian convict/single mom who took over ship, sailed to New Zealand, settled with Maori tribe.
In conclusion: read a goddamn book, critic person.
You know, the trolls on the internet are not good people. Nor are they sane!
[Top]the gods & their retinue: Ares & Eris
Ares was the Olympian god of war, battlelust and courage, son of Zeus and Hera. He is the personification of bold force and strength, and not so much the god of war as of its tumult, confusion, and horrors
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and while his sister Eris calls forth war, Ares loves war for its own sake, and delights in the din and roar of battles and in the slaughter of men.
Eris was the goddess or personified spirit of strife, discord, contention and rivalry. She was often portrayed haunting the battlefield and delighting in human bloodshed, and even after all the other gods have withdrawn from the battle, she would remain rejoicing over the havoc that has been made.
When I first encountered the literary classic Lolita, I was the same age as the infamous female character. I was 15 and had heard about a book in which a grown man carries on a sexual relationship with a much younger girl. Naturally, I quickly sought out the book and devoured the entire contents on my bedroom floor, parsing through Humbert Humbert‘s French and his erotic fascination for his stepdaughter, the light of his life, the fire of his loins — Dolores Haze. I remember being in the ninth grade and turning over the cover that presented a coy pair of saddle shoes as I hurried through the final pages in homeroom.
Although I remember admiring the book for all its literary prowess, what I don’t recall is how much of the truth of that story resonated with me given that I was a kid myself. Because it wasn’t until I reread the book as an adult that I realized Lolita had been raped. She had been raped repeatedly, from the time she was 12 to when she was 15 years old.
As a young woman now, it’s startling to see how that fundamental crux of the novel has been obscured in contemporary culture with even the suggestion of what it means to be “a Lolita” these days. Tossed about now, a “Lolita” archetype has come to suggest a sexually precocious, flirtatious underage girl who invites the attention of older men despite her young age. A Lolita now implies a young girl who is sexy, despite her pigtails and lollipops, and who teases men even though she is supposed to be off-limits.
In describing his now banned perfume ad, Marc Jacobs was very frank about the intentions of his sexy child ad and why he chose young Dakota Fanning to be featured in it. The designer described the actress as a “contemporary Lolita,” adding that she was “seductive, yet sweet.” Propping her up in a child’s dress that was spread about her thighs, and with a flower bottle placed right between her legs, the styling was sufficient to make the 17-year-old look even younger. The text below read “Oh Lola!,” cementing the Lolita reference completely. The teenager looks about 12 years old in the sexualizing advertisement, which is the same age Lolita is when the book begins.
And yet Marc Jacobs’ interpretation of Lolita as “seductive” is completely false, as are all other usages of Lolita to imply a “seductive, yet sweet” little girl who desires sex with older men.
Lolita is narrated by a self-admitted pedophile whose penchant for extremely young girls dates all the way back to his youth. Twelve-year-old Dolores Haze was not the first of Humbert Humbert’s victims; she was just the last. His recounting of events is unreliable given that he is serially attracted to girl children or “nymphets” as he affectionately calls them. And his endless rationalizing of his”love” for Lolita, their “affair,” their “romance” glosses over his consistent sexual attacks on her beginning in the notorious hotel room shortly after her mother dies.
This man who marries Lolita’s mother, in a sole effort to get access to the child, fantasizes about drugging her in the hopes of raping her — a hypothetical scenario which eventually does come to fruition. Later on as he realizes that Lolita is aging out of his preferred age bracket, he entertains the thought of impregnating her with a daughter so that he can in turn rape that child when Lolita gets too old
Lolita does make repeated attempts to get away from her rapist and stepfather by trying to alert others as to how she is being abused. According to Humbert, she invites the company of anyone which annoys him given that the pervert doesn’t want to be discovered. And yet, he manipulates her from truly notifying the authorities by telling her that without him — her only living relative — she’ll become a ward of the state. By spoiling her with dresses and comic books and soda pop, he reminds her that going into the system will deny her such luxuries and so she is better off being raped by him whenever he pleases than living without new presents.
Given that Humbert is a pedophile, his first-person account is far from trustworthy when deciphering what actually happened to Lolita. But, Vladimir Nabokov does give us some clues despite our unreliable narrator. For their entire first year together on the road as they wade from town to town, Humbert recalls her bouts of crying and “moodiness” — perfectly understandable emotions considering that she is being raped day and night. A woman in town even inquires to Humbert what cat has been scratching him given the the marks on his arms — vigilant attempts by Lolita to get away from her attacker and guardian. He controls every aspect of her young life, consumed with the thought that she will leave him with the aid of too much allowance money or perhaps a boyfriend. He interrogates her constantly about her friends and eventually ransacks her bedroom revoking all her money. Lolita is often taunted with things she desires in exchange for sexual favors as Nabokov writes in one scene:
“How sweet it was to bring that coffee to her, and then deny it until she had done her morning duty.”
Lolita eventually does get away from her abusive stepfather by age 15, but the fact that she has been immortalized as this illicit literary vixen is not only deeply troublesome, it’s also a completely inaccurate reading of the book. And Marc Jacobs is not alone in his highly problematic misinterpretation of child rape and abuse as “sexy.” Some publications and publishing houses actually recognize the years of abuse as love.
On the 50th anniversary edition of Lolita, which I purchased for the sake of writing this piece, there sits on the back cover a quote from Vanity Fair which reads:
“The only convincing love story of our century.”
The edition, which was published by Vintage International, recounts the story as “Vladimir Nabokov’s most famous and controversial novel” but also as having something to say about love. The back cover concludes in its summary:
“Most of all, it is a meditation on love — love as outrage and hallucinations, madness and transformation.”
“Love” holds no space in this novel, which details the repeated sexual violation of a child. Although Humbert desperately tries to convince the reader that he is in love with his stepdaughter, the scratches on his arms imply something else entirely. Because the lecherous Humbert has couched his pedophilia in romantic language, the young girl he repeatedly violated seems to have passed through into pop culture as a tween temptress rather than a rape victim.
Conflating love or sexiness with the rape of literature’s most misunderstood child is dangerous in that it perpetuates the mythology that young girls are some how participating in their own violation. That they are instigating these attacks by encouraging and inciting the lust of men with their flirty demeanor and child-like innocence.
Let it be known that even Lolita, pop culture’s first “sexy little girl” was not looking to seduce her stepfather. Lolita, like a lot of young girls, was raped.
Source: http://www.mommyish.com/2011/11/16/lolita-novel-sex-rape-pedophilia-541/2/#ixzz3N4PFEyex
I was going through this at age 11 when i got my hands on the book, and i never read it as sexual. I cried and related to her on such a deep level. Anyone who thinks lolita is a love story is gross.
Too real. Lolita means so much to me, because I was raped by an older adult man when I was 15 and years later when I came forward about it people said it was my fault because I flirted with him. A friend of his even teased me with the comment “weren’t you his little Lolita?” Lolita. Is Not. A love story. The continuous sexual abuse of a teenage girl is not love.
What chaps my ass is that NABOKOV didn’t see it as a love story. He found Humbert repugnant and went out of his way to make him so.
He hated that people saw it as romantic when he’d meant to write a fucking horror novel.
I hate when people call themselves Lolita or that fucking Lana del Rey song.This book is about a little girl being raped constantly and they make it seem like a seduction or tease.Please people read this article or read what the book really is this story makes my gut churn.I was being molested as a kid and had mental games played on me.Please Please Please to save another persons life stop romanticizing this story let people know this isn’t no old century love this is rape
Rape is never ok. Nor is a relationship between an adult and a child. I read a lot but it is imperative that this be a truth of our age. Too many people refuse to stand up to protect that truth. Many of my favorite heroines were abused as children.
[Top]We’re prepared to scribe up,” Bella said. “And then we’ve asked for Last Meal on special service, because we’re doing movie day upstairs in the theater.” “ Magic Mike XXL just came out on DVD,” Beth chimed in. “We have a moral obligation to support the arts, even if they’re just the human ones.” “I haven’t seen the first one,” Autumn murmured. “They tell me his pelvis is double-jointed. Is that true?” Beth came forward and took the Neverfull. “Come on, you look like you need a girls’ night. Payne and Xhex are joining us. So are Cormia, Layla, Doc Jane, and Ehlena. We’re getting all of us the friendship that was being offered. It seemed … too frivolous when she thought about all she wasn’t able to do for that unknown female. Bella leaned in. “We’ve told the males that they can’t come in. Mostly because if they see that Channing guy up on the big screen—” Beth finished, “—we’re going to need to do a remodel after they’re done with things.” “Back to the double-jointed business,” Autumn kicked in. “I mean, how does he walk?” “Very well, my friend.” As Bella answered Tohr’s mate, she put an arm around Marissa’s shoulders. “Very, very well.” As Marissa let herself get drawn into the billiards room—where ink pots had been set up on one of the coffee tables and there was already a glass set out for her—she began to blink fast. Part of the emotion was the fact that that female who had died wasn’t ever going to have anything like this again—if she’d been lucky enough to find good people surrounding her while she’d been alive. The other half was a gratitude so great, her chest could barely contain the emotion. “Ladies,” she said, putting her arm around Bella’s waist. “Let’s do the addressing quickly—so we can get to the undressing.”…“I ’m sorry … they’re doing what ?” As Butch spoke, he looked at the males-only group sitting around the mansion’s dining room table. Not one of his brothers or any of the soldiers was laughing or talking loudly. The bunch of sad sack losers was just sitting in front of half-eaten plates and untouched rocks glasses of vodka, bourbon and whiskey like a roll call of bassett hounds who’d lost their anti-depressants. Not what he’d expected to find as he came late to Last Meal. When Marissa had texted him and told him she was working with the females on something, it had seemed like a good idea to with your sac or something?” Wrath inhaled like he was about to break the news of a death in the family. “They’re having a movie night.” Butch rolled his eyes and went over to his chair. Yeah, it was a little weird to sit down without his Marissa by his side, but for crissakes, it was nothing to go Prozac over. Besides, he was glad his woman had friends in the house— “They’re watching Magic Mike ,” someone said. “Is that a children’s show?” He sat back as Fritz put a heaping plate of lamb in front of him. “Thanks, man—oh, thanks, yeah, I’d love a drink. I’ll take a Lagavulin on the rocks—” Butch stopped talking as he realized the entire table of males was looking at him. “What?” “You haven’t heard about Magic Mike ?” Rhage demanded. “No.” He leaned back again as his drink was delivered. “Thanks. Is it like Barney?” “It’s about strippers,” Hollywood countered. Butch frowned and lowered the glass from his lips. “I’m sorry?” V came in from the pantry with a thick pouch of tobacco, a pack of rolling papers, and a scowl like somebody had stripped his favorite sex toy of its batteries. “Naked,” Vishous muttered as he sat where Marissa should have been. “Buck-ass naked. And they’re humans. Christ, it’s like being shown up by a pack of dogs.” “In thongs,” someone else bitched. “Dogs in thongs.” Butch followed through on taking a drink this time, swallowing the burn, welcoming the heat in his gut. Okay, fine, it was a bit of a surprise to find that he kept going until the glass was empty, but hey, he had a lot to think about. On one level, the fact that his shellan was watching a movie with her buddies, even if it did involve some nakey, really wasn’t a big deal. On another level, he wanted to find the electrical box and cut the power to that part of the mansion. Then torch the DVD. And the screen. And take his mate to bed just to show her all the tricks he had over some actor in a—oh, God, a thong? “It’s fine,” he heard himself say as he motioned to a doggen for a refill. “I mean, first of all, they love us—and second, it’s not like it’s an X rated—” the thing at the fallen angel’s head. “You keep talking like that and I’ma trim your hair. With my eyes closed.” Lassiter laughed. “Yeah, whatever, big boy. I thought you had more mojo than to get worked up over something like this. You really that insecure?” “You want insecure,” V said. “I’ll make you—” “Okay, okay,” Butch cut in. “Leave it, V. It’s fine, it’s great—they’re just enjoying themselves. What’s wrong with that? It’s not like they’re sleeping with the guy.” “You sure about that?” Lassiter smiled. “You don’t think they’re fantasizing about—” The collective growl that rose up from the Brotherhood was so loud, it managed to agitate the crystals in the enormous chandelier hanging over the table. And the fallen angel was an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid. Moving slowly, like there were multiple guns pointed at him, he put his hands up in submission. “Sorry. Whatever. I’ll stop before all this lame-ass uncomfortability you bunch of morons are sporting kills me.” “Wise choice,” Butch said dryly. “Not that I wouldn’t mind hitting you right now. Although that’s not specific to this sitch.” Lassiter went back to eating, shoving food into his face. The Brothers weren’t so quick to do a reset on things, those narrowed eyes and bared fangs still trained on the angel with the big mouth. “Come on, boys, it’s fine .” He cut a piece of lamb off and put it in his mouth. “Mmm. Delish.” In reality, the stuff tasted like cardboard, but he made a show of the yummies. He couldn’t keep it up, though. Two minutes later, he was shoving a full plate away and nursing his second whiskey. “Really. They should have a little independence. They don’t need to be locked at our hips, and listen, life here revolves around us. It’s about time they do something just for them. Really. This is great.” Next to him, V lit up a fat hand-rolled. “Is it. You like the idea of Marissa looking at some other male’s junk?” “It’s not an X-rated—” As his voice squeaked, he cleared his throat. “I mean, it couldn’t be … no, it’s not—” up again before the growling got even worse. “Jesus, you guys are so damn touchy.” Butch shook his head and decided the angel was on his own. “So, yeah, I mean, a little gyrating—a pec pump or two. It’s nothing to get worked up over. Fritz, can I have a refill over here again?” The butler hustled over to pick up the empty glass. “Would any of you care for dessert? We have homemade ice cream and Petit Gâteau .” Butch glanced at Hollywood. “What do you say there, my man?” When Rhage just swished his ginger ale around in his glass, Butch cursed and said to Fritz, “This one here will have some even if no one else does.” “Bring me the dessert,” Rhage spoke up. Fritz bowed with Butch’s glass in his hand. “But of course, sire. I shall fix you a plate directly—” “No. I want the whole dessert. All of the cake and all of the ice cream.” Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd that was how Hollywood ended up with a morose audience of however many playing witness to his consuming fifteen small chocolate cakes and two gallons of vanilla ice cream. It was like watching paint dry, except there was no chemical smell and the room was the same color before and after. The good news was that the booze was doing its job, fuzzing out Butch’s mind, making his body both numb and horny. “May I have another?” he asked a passing doggen who was removing the final chocolate-smudged plate. “Thank you so much.” When his glass came back, he pushed his chair away from the table. “I’m out. I’ve got some work to do.” And no offense to any of them, but hanging around in their vibe was just making him more depressed. Any more of this and he was going to start braiding the noose. Walking out, he paused in the grand foyer. Looked up the stairs. Tried to imagine his Marissa ogling some actor in his underwear. “Really. It’s fine. Good for her.” He took his phone out and called up their text string. Hesitating, he thought he’d just send her something, you know, to about something like this. Marissa wasn’t only the love of his life; she was a female of worth who would never cheat on him. And hello , it wasn’t like she’d checked into a seedy motel with the guy, for fuck’s sake. She was hanging with her friends just like he hung out with his. This was ridiculous. He was not the jealous type— The sound of shitkickers approaching had him glancing over his shoulder. It was Rhage, and the brother had a frothing glass of Alka-Seltzer in his hand. Hollywood looked up the stairs. And dollars for dipshits, he was thinking exactly what Butch was. “I’m going up,” the guy announced. “Now, wait, wait, wait.” Butch grabbed that huge forearm and squeezed. “It’s not like you can just burst in there.” “Why not?” “It’s girls’ night.” “So I’ll put on a dress.” “Fucking hell, Rhage. Really ?” Next out were V., John Matthew and Tohr. And everyone else, including Wrath—and even Manny, who, in spite of being a full-blown human, was right there along with the hound-faced rest of them. “We are not going up there,” Butch announced. “We’re going to go play some pool, and get drunk, and talk about all the kills we had in the attack on Brownswick. We’re going to have a great fucking night—day, whatever the hell it is. Now pick your balls up off the floor and let’s start behaving like men.” “He has skills. I’m just saying.” As Doc Jane spoke up, the captivated audience that was focused on the big screen was in total, very unmuted agreement. Payne let out another of her now-trademark wolf whistles. Xhex cursed and threw more Milk Duds at the image, yelling, “Damn, son, you get that shit! You get it!” Marissa just laughed again. She couldn’t decide what was more amusing, the movies or the company—probably the company. Although the humans were not hard on the eyes, she had to this hard. There was something about being with the girls that made the jokes both worse and better at the same time, and the giggling louder, and the silliness more stupid. All of which was a very beautiful thing, as it turned out. It also reminded her of how great it was to be accepted for exactly who she was, no external expectations laid on her, no shortfalls she hadn’t volunteered for cutting her down. No judgment, just love. Plus a number of naked guys who were almost as hot as her male? Not a hardship. When the final scene was over and the credits started to roll, they clapped like the actors could hear them all the way out in California. “Can you teach me how to whistle like that?” someone asked Payne. “You just put two lips around your fingers and blow,” the female replied. “Isn’t that a line from a movie?” somebody chimed in. “Are they going to do a third one—” “Magic Mike Ginormous—” “We need to watch one and two again first as prep—we’ve got a tradition to uphold—” “Anybody see Nine and a Half Weeks lately—” “What’s that—” One by one, they stood up from the padded leather recliners and stretched in the dim, windowless room, backs cracking, shoulders unknotting. And it was funny—Marissa felt the urge to cut through the conversation and say something profound and meaningful, just to acknowledge the space they’d been in. But the right words didn’t come. Instead, she said, “Hey, can we do this again?” Then again, maybe that was exactly what she meant. Well, what do you know, the peanut gallery was so on board: The rousing cheer was as loud as the hoots at the dance scenes, and the idea that this special time wasn’t a one-off made her feel a piercing kind of relief. “I think we need a Chris Pratt marathon next. Guardians of the Marissa wadded her empty Milk Duds box and made a rim shot with it into the trash. Abruptly, she realized that she couldn’t wait to see Butch—and not because of all the scenes of half-naked bodies. She missed him—which was ridiculous, considering neither one of them had gone anywhere. Heading for the door by the glass display of candy bars, she was smiling as she pushed open the— “Dear … God,” she blurted as she recoiled. The hallway beyond was filled with the males of the house, the Brothers and other fighters and Manny sitting on the floor with their backs to the bare walls, their legs stretched out, propped up, crossed at the knees or crossed at the ankles. Apparently there had been quite a bit of drinking going on, empty bottles of vodka and whiskey littered around them, glasses in hands or on thighs. “This is not as pathetic as it looks,” her Butch pointed out. “Liar,” V muttered. “It so fucking is. I think I’m going to start knitting for reals.” As the females emerged with her, each one of them registered shock, disbelief, and then a wry amusement. “Is it me,” one of the males groused, “or did we just perform our own mass castration out here?” “I think that just about sums this shit up,” somebody agreed. “I’m wearing panties under my leathers from now on. Anyone joining me?” “Lassiter already does,” V said as he got to his feet and went to Jane. “Hey.” And then it was group-reunion time. While the other pairs found one another, Butch smiled as Marissa came over to him and put out her hand to help him off the floor. As they embraced, he kissed her on the side of the neck. “Are you out of love with me now?” he murmured. “’Cuz I’m pussy-whipped?” She leaned back in his arms. “Why? Because you pined after me while I was watching a dirty movie with my girls that wasn’t all that dirty? I think it’s actually—and brace yourself—really pretty cute.” “I’m still all man.” As she rolled her body against him, she let out a mmmm as she and that meant a trip all the way downstairs, into the tunnel, and through the underground passage to get back to their bedroom. He wasn’t going to last that long. Not even close. The first available vacancy with any privacy came in the form of an unoccupied staff bedroom that had pulled drapes, a twin bed with no sheets on it, and a very handy brass lock. Butch didn’t bother turning the lights on; he just pulled his female against his body and kissed the ever-loving crap out of her as he kicked the door closed and worked that dead bolt like a pro. “I need you so bad,” he growled. “You’ve got me,” she said against his mouth. Fucking perfect, his cock roared in his pants. And talk about following orders: with a quick shift, he backed her up to the bed, sat her down and knelt in front of her. As he inhaled deeply, he started to laugh.“What?” she murmured, all half-lidded and wholly edible. “You’re aroused.” “Of course I am.” “You weren’t when you came out of the movie.” “Why would I have been? That was just good fun with the girls. Like going to a museum, you know? You appreciate the art, but you wouldn’t take it home with you.” “So I’m still your favorite flavor?” “You’re my only flavor.” Well, didn’t that make him go all robin-breasted, dick swing with the ego. Flashing his fangs, he said, “Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.” “Were you really jealous?” she said. “Of a movie?” “Yes.” The laugh that came out of her was so easy and relaxed, such a happy sound, that it made him hope she and her girls got together again and, yes, to watch sexy humans gyrate on the screen, if that was what made his mate uncoil like this. Granted, he wasn’t about to write that Tanning Chatum guy a fan letter, but he was more than grateful for those females and that friendship. Anyone, anything that took care of his shellan was all right in body down on the little bed. He had a lot of plans that involved him going down on her for two hours—but his cock wasn’t going to be able to wait for all that. He needed in her. Now. Zeroing in on the fastening of her slacks, he had her naked from the waist down with some quick hand work and one pull down her long, lovely legs. And then his palms were traveling up her calves, her thighs. With a moan, she spread further for him as if she wanted this as badly as he did, revealing her bare, glistening sex—and that was when he lost his damn mind. Outing his erection, he went right for the heart of her, no preamble, no foreplay—they were both beyond ready. “Marissa,” he groaned as he penetrated her, sliding in deep, the sensation at once familiar and bracingly electric. Cursing on the exhale, he reared up and his hips took over, grinding, thrusting, pumping—and he loved how she held on to his neck and shoulders. “Take my vein,” she ordered. His fangs had already punched out of the roof of his mouth, and he bared them with a hiss. Striking in his favorite spot, on the left side, he drew deep, drank hard, got high on her taste as well as the sex. He couldn’t last long with that, though. Shit was getting too hard, too fast down below. Licking the puncture wounds closed, he repositioned her so he could go even deeper—then he grabbed onto her hip bones and dug in, pistoning her body, rocking things so hard the thin metal frame banged into the wall and the tinny mattress springs became a symphony of wild creaking. He heard her come, which was what he’d been after, heard that common, nothing-fancy name of his erupt into the sex-scented air—and he wanted to stop so he could feel that rhythmic gripping of her core. He was too far gone, though. His balls were tucking up and going hot, his pelvis was doing that autonomic jerking shit that he was no more capable of reining in than he could stop his own heart, and his cock was that bizarre combination of numb and hypersensitive— Butch came so hard he got a load of fireworks across his vision, and even as he started to ejaculate, he knew he wasn’t finished. He kept riding her, shifting positions again, arching farther over her body until his weight was braced on the balls of his feet floor. But again, there was no stopping. He just walked along with it—until the frame fit itself obligingly into a corner. Talk about some leverage. Fucking. Perfect. Butch kept going at it, pounding her, his body doing an uncoiling of its own, the weeks—and maybe, if he was honest, months—of feeling somewhat separate from her disappearing like he was fucking that subtle distance out of existence. Lot of orgasms. The fantastic ugly kind where your face screwed up hard, and you were going to be sore when you woke up, and shit got really, really messy down below. When it was finally over, he collapsed on top of her. He meant to roll over, though, so she could breathe easier. He really did. Yup. Rolling over would be good right now. Uh-huh. In three … two … … one.
Touch the Dark Part 5 Around timeline anomaly 1
When Louis-Cesar grabs Tomas while Cassie’s spirit is in charge, Cassie barely has time to realize that a vision is coming before she is thrown back through time. When she arrives at Carcassonne, this time she is a spirit and Tomas has come along for the ride. Its a little later this time and they arrive in the torture chamber. This trip she hears the screams more clearly and there are thousands of them. Since she is a spirit she recognizes the thousands of ghosts crying for vengeance. They have made the corridor ice cold and the hallway is covered in a miasma of spirits, Never before has she felt so many ghosts in 1 place at 1 time and the spiritual mist fills the halls air to the point of suffocation. “It was despair made tangible, like a film of freezing grease on my face that ran down my throat until I thought I would choke on it. This time I was alone and, without the bully of a jailer to distract me, I could concentrate on the voices. Slowly they became a little clearer. I quickly wished they hadn’t.“ There was a feeling of intelligence, of many minds and so much rage that Cassie wonders at first if it is demonic, but she quickly realizes that its just ghosts. Ghosts typically haunt for three reasons-they died before their time, they died unjustly (which sometimes means murder), or they died leaving something unfinished. Of course, ghosts are left by people and so there are always lots of complicating factors, making every ghost as unique as the person they were. What Cassie was feeling was thousands of ghosts with all three issues and all the minor complicating ones that could be imagined. If there were psychiatrists for ghosts…but there aren’t psychiatrists for ghosts. All there is is revenge and it plays out with the ghost getting satisfaction, payback or hanging around lusting for vengeance until its energy runs out. Most fade until only their voices remain, but here Cassie can feel so many ghosts-some almost out of juice, some just made. The implication was beyond staggering-this spot had been used for torture for centuries creating so much dark energy that even the most nonsensitive person would feel the chill.
Cassie looks around but she’s a little scared. Her visions have always been predictable. She sees things that are going to happen and they hit her like a freight train, she cries, she moves on. But now the universe has changed the rules and no one told her. A cold wind hits Cassie as the ghosts are getting restless. She asks them what they want, but letting the spirits know she can hear and feel them was like hitting a hornet’s nest with a stick. Suddenly, she is inundated with flashes of color, flickers of images and the wind picks up in the hall and its like she is in the middle of a hurricane. She backs away and falls against the wall, realizing that she is in spirit and in the right body. She recognizes the torture chamber but she is alone except for the torture victims who don’t seem to notice her. She is there in spirit and in body, and its different. The witch Cassie just freed at the casino is laying on the torture rack but she is not burned yet. She looks behind her and sees the thousands of ghosts, standing quietly but there isn’t enough physical space for thousands of people. Cassie is surprised to see the witch looking a her and says that she doesn’t know what to do. The witch tried to speak to her but no sound comes out. Someone hands Cassie a dipper of water but it is gross. Cassie says that water is too gross and a voice responds telling her there isn’t anything else. Cassie is so disoriented she doesn’t recognize the voice as Tomas. Then she does and jumps spilling the water. Tomas is standing there holding a bucket of green slimy water. Cassie asks him what he is doing here. Tomas tells her that he was in his body and she took control of his body and then he was here. He asks her where here is and if that is Francoise. Cassie looks at the bucket and realizes he shouldn’t be able to have a bucket. She asks him where he got it and he says it was in the corner. Cassie decides to screw the metaphysics and just goes with it. If Tomas can move the bucket, maybe she can change whats about to happen. Her first priority is to get the witch out of there but she isn’t going to make it without something to drink and is casting longing glances at the slimy bucket. Tomas tastes the water and says it is another form of torture as it’s 1/3 salt. Tomas says he will go find water. Cassie tells him he has to stay here. Tomas asks what could happen and Cassie considers telling him that ghosts can cannibalize each other. Most don’t because it just isn’t worth the energy but the rules are changing and she doesn’t have a body to hide behind. They are foreign spirits on these ghosts ground. Billy Joe has been mugged before by other spirits because it is easier for spirits to cannabalize each other than to attack humans. There were several thousand angry ghosts and so far they weren’t being aggressive, but Cassie doesn’t want to chance it. She tells Tomas he doesn’t want to know and finds herself softening towards him since he seems to be so genuinely concerned about Francoise. And then Cassie begins to worry about Tomas. Billy Joe is inhabiting Cassie’s body and keeping it alive but Tomas’ body has no spirit to keep it from dying. But he’s a vampire so he dies every day anyway. Cassie puts the metaphysics aside and focuses on Francoise. Cassie focuses on Francoise and tells Tomas to help her get Francoise off the rack. They try to be as gentle as possible, but the ropes had dug into Francoise’s skin and the blood and tissue had dried over the ropes. It was almost as if they were flaying her alive again. Cassie looks for another source of water but all that she sees are men bound in chains and tortured in ways she never imagined. It is hard to believe they still breathe. Cassie turns away before she gets sick. Something nudges her elbow and it is a flask floating from the ghosts. It smells like whisky and maybe that will help with the pain. Francoise drinks a little and passes out. Cassie goes to try and free the men, but they are bound by chains. Cassie asks Tomas if he can break the chains. He tries, but both he and Cassie are tiring quickly. Cassie doesn’t know what to do-things look bleak. She doesn’t know where she is, how she was going to get back, or when the torturer would come back. When they do get back to Vegas its going to be in the middle of a fight they may or may not be winning. Even for Cassie its a banner raising bad day! Tomas tells Cassie that it’s useless-he is weak as a human so if they are going to save the woman they need to do it now. Cassie asks the ghosts if any of them know of a way out of the torture chamber. The ghosts shuffle around and eventually a young man who looks like a teenage version of Louis-Cesar comes forward and bows to Cassie. He offers to help using the same phrase Louis-Cesar did “A votre service,mademoiselle.” Cassie looks at Tomas and asks if he speaks French. Tomas tells her he only knows a few phrases because he is rarely allowed at Senate headquarters. Cassie asks when French became the language in Las Vegas and Tomas impatiently tells her that the European Senate is headquartered in Paris. Cassie tells him she didn’t know he was with them and he sullenly tells her there is much she doesn’t know. Cassie puts aside her confusion and tells the ghosts she does not speak french. After some shuffling an older man comes forward who was a wine trader and asks if he can help. Cassie tells him that she doesn’t know what she is doing here or where here is or what they want or how she can help. He tells her that he too is puzzled. They are as puzzled as she is. Cassie and Tomas are spirits like them but not. He asks if Cassie and Tomas are sent be god in answer to a prayer. Cassie almost laughs at the thought and tell them no, they aren’t angels. The younger man babbles in french at the older man and the older man looks shocked. The younger man fears for his lover’s life that she will die here as they all did. He said that he cares not if they be from god or the devil as long as they bring hope of salvation. The older man says that the young man did not really mean it. Cassie tells him its complicated and that she just wants to save the woman but doesn’t even know where they are. The man tells her that they are at Carcassonne, hell on earth. Cassie asks if that is in France and the man looks at her oddly. Cassie says she just wants to get Francoise out before she is killed and the older man asks if she is here to avenge Francoise’s death. Cassie loses her temper and says she would rather Francoise not die at all. Francoise wakes up as the young man and the older man are arguing in french and looks at Cassie with wide eyes. The older man tells Cassie that even if they help they may only save her for a few days and that is no reason for the rest of them to pass on vengeance. Cassie loses it again-she’s not there as the angel of death but is there to save this woman. If they want vengeance they should get it on their own. The older man tells her that if they could they would stop this place but there is some magic that keeps them from vengeance. She is a powerful witch-surely she can help and they will then be her slaves. This is just plain it for Cassie. She tells them there is no witch here, just your friendly neighborhood clairvoyant and she is getting francoise out of there. She gets the younger man to lead the out via a tunnel and Tomas carries Francoise. They get to a cottage and turn Francoise over to Louis-Cesar just as their strength gives out. The next thing they know Cassie is laying on the ground, but at least she is in the right body and the right time
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