Bentley Little - Dominion

She hated all of them. But fighting would not work. That was not the way to go. She might have the element of surprise on her side, might actually be able to knock her mother down, but she was still no match for Mother Janine. And all of her other mothers would be on her in a second.

No, she had to play this cool, try to find some other way out of this.

She caught Dion's eye. She saw fear there, and horror, but also ...

what? Complicity? That made no sense. Dion wasn't the reincarnation of a god. She didn't believe her mothers' story But she did.

Yes, she realized, she did. She believed it. She bought it all.

And the fresh blood on Dion's erection did look pretty damn enticing.

She turned forcefully away, was grabbed by Mother Sheila. "We need you."

"You're one of us," Mother Felice said. "We want you to join us."

She shook her head. "I can't."

"Run!" Dion yelled.

Mother Janine looked up from Dion's feet. "We want you to fuck him."

Penelope's. refusal died in her throat. What? What was this? What were they asking? She glanced from one mother to another, saw no sign that any of them thought this even the slightest bit unusual, saw only support and encouragement.

"We can bring Him back," Mother Felice said. "But only you can bring back the others. He must mate with you."

"Your union will bring forth gods," Mother Margeaux announced.

"Fuck him!" Mother Sheila ordered.

Penelope started crying, unable to stop herself. "No."

Mother Janine grinned. "Look how big his cock is. Don't you want to feel it inside you?

She did, and they knew she did, and that was the worst part of it all.

She was what they were, and they knew it..

Maenads.

"No!" she shouted.

"No!" Dion echoed. But when she looked at him, she saw a lust in his face that mirrored her own.

She turned toward her real mother, Mother Felice. "You can't force me to do what you want."

"No, it's your decision," Mother Felice admitted, and there was a softness in her voice, an understanding that wasn't there in the words or tones of the rest of her mothers. "You don't have to go through with it if you don't want to. There are others waiting for the return of Zeus and Artemis and Aphrodite and the others, but we don't care if they come back or not. We have our god. So it's up to you. Whatever you want to do, we'll stand by you."

Penelope looked over at Mother Margeaux for confirmation. Mother Margeaux nodded.

"You'll want to when you see Him," Mother Margaret promised.

"We'll all want to," Mother Sheila said, and the others laughed.

There was an edge to the laughter that Penelope did not like, that frightened her. She was one of them, yet she was not one of them, and she did not know what was going to happen, how things were going to turn out.

She did not know what she was going to do, and that's what frightened her most of all. Intellectually, she still thought that the best thing was to run and get help, go to the police. Her mothers would let her go.

They would not kill her, would probably not even try to stop her.

But she could not do it. She could not renounce her family, no matter what they had done. And she could not leave Dion here with them alone. Besides, chances werdl that even if she did try to get help, she wouldn't be bacfcl in time to save him. She wouldn't be back before he* changed.

Before he changed.

It was going to happen. She didn't just believe it, she knew it.

They were chanting now, repeating what sounded like the words of a ritual in a language she could not understand. Bottles of wine had appeared from somewhere to supplement the flagons and were being passed indiscriminately from one mother to another. Mother Margaret stumbled over the eviscerated body of one of the policemen, fell to her knees, stood up laughing. Dion, still being held, twisted in the arms of Mother Janine and Mother Margaret as if he were in pain.

Mother Felice took a swig from one of the bottles and handed it to Penelope. The wine smelled good, but Penelope threw the bottle behind her, into the meadow, where it landed on the grass, its contents spilling onto the ground.

"Hey," her mother said. "What'd you do that for?" Her speech was becoming slurred, and she looked at Penelope with a hostility that made Penelope realize that maybe she wasn't as safe from her mothers as she'd originally thought.

She backed up, away from the altar, and glanced quickly around the meadow to determine which way she should run if it came down to that.

It was then that she noticed the others.

Dion still wasn't sure what was going on.

He was on top of the altar. He knew that. And he was naked. And Penelope's mothers were holding his arms and legs and ... doing stuff to him. He tried to call out to Penelope, but his head was forced back and one mother held his mouth open with strong, sinewy fingers while another poured wine down his throat. He felt the hands of the others anointing his body with the blood. He gulped down the sweet, intoxicating liquid, swallowing it so he could breathe. Fingers grasped his penis, stroked it, and against his will he felt himself growing, becoming hard. From somewhere he heard the sound of Penelope yelling.

His head was let go, and he opened his eyes, looked down. His erection was huge, quivering, and covered with blood.

He wished he could shove it in Penelope's mouth and down her throat to gag her and stop all that infernal racket.

No, he didn't.

Yes, he did.

He turned his head around and looked into the trees at the carved god with his face.

What the hell was happening?

More wine was poured into his mouth. That was one thing that was happening: they were trying to get him drunk. He tried to spit out the wine, but it only dribbled down his chin.

God, it tasted good.

They were chanting, the mothers, singing, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. The words were all Greek to him. He giggled. Greek to him. Oh, God, he was already getting drunk. He'd never be able td| get out of here if he didn't concentrate on keeping " wits about him and trying to stay sober His mouth was jerked open again, more wine poured down his throat He gagged, tried to swallow, almost choked, but the warm liquid went down smoothly and he \ was filled with a pleasant lightness.

He understood some of die words the mothers were! saying now. Not all of them, but some of them. They were foreign, but he'd heard them before somewhere. In dreams, perhaps.

He realized that they were praying.

To him.

This wasn't right. This shouldn't be happening. He struggled against the mothers' hold, but they were stronger than he was, their fingers and wrists like iron.

They gave him more wine.

He looked out across the meadow. Others were gathering, appearing at the periphery of the field, emerging from between the bushes and the trees.

They were pale, slack-jawed, and nearly all appeared to be drunk. They were walking like remote-controlled zombies, men and women, some with flashlights, some with knives, some with dead cats or dogs, some only with bottles of liquor.

They saw him, waved to him, called to him.

He was communicating with these people, he realized, acting like some sort of homing beacon. He saw in his mind's eye all of the intoxicated men and women of the valley suddenly cocking their heads to hear an invisible sound, like pod people in a monster movie, suddenly dropping what they were doing to come here, to this meadow, to him.

The mothers let go of him, but he couldn't move. He was like a statue, frozen in place. They'd done something to him, put some sort of spell on him, trapped him here in his body. Mother Janine was still rubbing blood on his toes, but he couldn't feel it. He wanted to kick her, to lash out and smash her face in with his foot, but he was unable to move. Tears of rage and frustration slid down his immobile face.