Istare at my mother in shocked silence for a long moment. “A succubus?”
Mother puts her hands to her heart and closes her eyes with a sigh. “I couldn’t be prouder.”
A ripple of revulsion moves through me, and I regret it at once. While I haven’t heard the best things about succubi, I shouldn’t be ashamed of being one—of being like my mother. If that’s what I am. Which I don’t entirely believe.
“I do have dream magic,” I say, a note of trepidation in my voice, “which I don’t yet fully understand, but I don’t think I’m…a succubus.”
Mother opens her eyes and her blissful expression drains. She blinks a few times, and I realize how plain I’ve made my distaste. The absence of her smile is like a splinter in my heart, sparking a desperate need to bring it back.
I force a grin to my lips. “It’s just that I create dreamscapes. I don’t…you know…”
Her countenance softens and she lets out a tittering laugh. “Ah, I see what’s making you apprehensive. I assure you, all that talk about seduction and arousal is highly exaggerated. It’s far more impressive that we share dreams with our subjects, yet all anyone ever talks about is our erotic allure. Sure, succubi are beautiful, and it certainly doesn’t hurt if my subject feels a…a tingle or two. But if they do, it’s of their own accord. Even so, arousal only strengthens my magic, allowing me to keep my subject asleep for longer and with less effort, and makes the dreams more convincing. I don’t rely on that aspect alone.”
That provides some relief, but my pulse kicks up as I consider the implications if she’s correct.
If I’m a succubus…
If I can do what my mother can…
“How many subjects have you framed?” she asks. “Do you have a favorite?”
I rouse myself from my growing panic. “I have a couple favorites. A meteor shower and a ballet—”
“Not scenes, my love. Individual subjects. People.”
My anxiety quickens. “I’ve only ever framed one individual, and it felt wrong to dream of him.”
Wrong.
Wrong.
The word rings through my mind, in sync with my pulse.
“It isn’t wrong; it’s your power. Any individual you frame becomes your subject to share a dream with later. You can do great things with this magic, darling. You can entice mates. Glean information. Or even just have a little fun. Have you struggled to keep your subject under?”
My stomach churns. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, the strongest succubus can keep her subject from leaving the dream until she willingly ends it. However, some of the weaker succubi have struggled to keep their subjects under and find them rousing on their own, jolting awake and fleeing the dream in an instant.” Her lips pull into a smug grin. “I’ve never had a subject leave a dream until I’m ready to awaken myself. That’s how I’ve forced contenders to the throne to oversleep. I’ve had to slumber for entire days to ensure our rivals miss their appointments to contest the throne. Though, like I’ve said, I have resolved not to use my magic like that—”
“Mother,” I cut in, my voice far sharper than I intend. My heart beats so hard that its frantic rhythm fills my ears. I force my question from my lips, half terrified of the answer. “You referred toshareddreams. Are you saying when a succubus dreams of her subject, he is having that same dream?”
“Oh, indeed!”
“And…are the subjects aware during these dreams? Do they remember them?”
Her expression turns thoughtful. “Every succubus is different. Weak succubi tend to share short, forgettable dreams with their subjects. Stronger succubi can alter the content of the dream, and that can influence whether the subject recalls it in the morning. Nightmares tend to give the subject more control to wake on their own and are harder to forget. Strange or curious dreams last longer and are easier to forget. Sexual dreams…well, those have the benefit of keeping a subject under for far longer, but they remember those.”
Oh, this is bad. This is very bad indeed.
Heat crawls up my cheeks while an icy chill fills my blood. Vertigo seizes me, and I step back until the backs of my knees meet the plush mattress of my bed. I sink down on the edge of it, eyes unfocused.
“What’s wrong, my love?” Mother crouches before me, but I can’t meet her gaze. “You shouldn’t worry, daughter. It doesn’t matter if your subjects remember the dream or not, for it’s merely a fantasy to them. Well, unless your subject knows you’re a succubus, which is the unfortunate case with me and many of your father’s rivals.”
Stars, that only makes things worse.
The only solitary figure I’ve ever framed is Thorne Blackwood.
A man who’s appeared in countless dreams, both intentional daytime imaginings and my uncontrollable nighttime ones.
