Prologue
Sound was always the first to return. It sounded like a carnival far, far away. Over a hill in the night. Little by little, the sounds grew louder, the voices clearer, the sentences more decipherable. Hesperos felt his chest explode, an outward motion so violent and sudden, it almost hurt more than anything he’d experienced in two thousand years. Since the last time he’d been reborn.
His eyes flew open, and a blurry world slowly came into view. It was a view from a new perspective, and one he would have to get used to.
Oh gods, he thought. Here we go again.
“Your majesty,” came a female voice not far away. “It’s good to have you back.”
Hesperos… no, not Hesperos, he thought. He would have to get used to that now. The new Nightmare King swallowed hard, clearing away the dryness of rebirth. Then he cleared his throat and sat up as the carnival of sounds came fully upon him, clarifying into the noises of far-off traffic, phone lines beeping, an intercom buzzing, and the silence of a private office as insulated as it could be from the world beyond.
He blinked a few times and turned his head, taking in his surroundings.
He was in an office. He was laying on the floor of that office. It was a stately office, very well appointed, with an entire wall made of windows. Even from where he was sitting, he could see the tops of skyscrapers, which meant this office was proverbial miles off the ground itself. High above. Up where humans thought important shit happened.
Well it’s sure as hell happening right now, isn’t it? he thought.
He looked down at his clothes, taking in the expensive tailored suit, its dark colors and tiny pin stripes. The suit would have cost a small fortune. He looked at his hands next, turning them over. Long fingers, manicured nails. On his wrist rested a Zenith Christopher Columbus wristwatch worth more than most people’s homes.
“Who the hell am I this time?” he asked softly, a note of wonder to his words. His voice was laced with a new accent. Hesperos – no, damn it, no longer Hesperos – the Incubus King had existed a very long time and lived in a good number of locations. He would place this accent somewhere near Beattock, Dumfries and Galloway in Scotland.
“Your name is Nicholas Wargrave,” said the female voice.
Nicholas, he thought. I can live with Nicholas. But – Wargrave? “You’ve got to be shitting me,” his Scottish accent said derisively. “Why not Battlecoffin? Or let’s go ahead and saddle me with Homicidetomb.” He felt the stirrings of a headache. “I’ve always been partial to the ring of Combatcrypt.”
There was silence from the woman as Nicholas gracefully pushed himself up. He was admittedly grateful that his new body was at least strong enough for such grace.
He turned around to face the two people he knew he would find in the room with him. A man and woman stood several yards away, watching him with mixed emotion. Both were beautiful and dressed in business attire. Both were strong, healthy, and immensely capable individuals. And both were familiar to Nicholas, despite the fact that he hadn’t seen them in more than two-thousand years.
They were his Preceptors. They were guides to the king in the process of his rebirth.
The blonde woman pursed her lips and shrugged. “I admit it’s a tad ostentatious, but….”
“But it’s your name none the less, your majesty,” chimed in the man, who happened to be the woman’s husband.
“I’m an incubus, Andros. No woman in the world is going to come near me with a name like Wargrave. She’ll be scared out of her wits.” Nicholas looked down at himself, specifically at the area between his long legs. “What, am I impotent or something? Is this man compensating? Is he still a virgin?”
The man named Andros grinned, flashing bright white teeth that appeared in stark contrast to his chocolate dark skin. “Oh no, your majesty. That’s… not the case.” Andros glanced at his wife, and the grin widened.
She rolled her eyes. “He’s right. Quite the opposite, I would say.”
Her name was Minnaea, and she was the most no-nonsense person the Incubus King had ever known. He supposed she had to be, what with her being the only female to live amongst their kind. “In fact, you’re a playboy,” she continued. Then she rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin. “You’re kind of a jackass, really. Well, not you specifically. But Nicholas.”
Nicholas Wargrave pinched the bridge of his nose. The headache was getting worse. It always did. “Bloody hell,” he whispered.
“That’s it,” said Andros helpfully. “Wargrave says that all the time. You’re falling into the role brilliantly.”
Nick looked up, narrowing his gaze on the Preceptor. Andros averted his eyes, rocked to the front of his feet, and began to whistle. Nick sighed heavily. He turned in the room, looking for a mirror or reflective surface.
“You’re in luck,” said Minnaea, who’d been watching him closely. Nothing scared her. Not even making eye contact with her irate king. “Wargrave loves mirrors. There’s a massive looking-glass in your private bathroom.” She nodded her head toward a closed door across the office.
Nicholas moved to the door, noticing that he was light on his feet. That was a good sign. He wondered how far his luck would take him as he opened the door and automatically reached to flick on the light. But the light came on without any work from him. It was motion-sensitive.
The mirror was the first thing he noticed. Most likely because it was meant to be the first thing one noticed upon entering the restroom. The room itself was large enough to be another office, but the mirror was floor-to-ceiling, and framed. With enough imagination, he supposed someone could step right through it and end up on Alice’s giant, living chessboard.
Chessboard, he thought suddenly. And as he stared at his new visage and his new body, other images passed before his mind’s eye as well. Images of kings and dragons and fire and death. He blinked, took a slow and deep breath, and tried to prioritize.
A very handsome man stared back at him from that mirror. He would have expected as much, in all honesty. Each time he’d been reborn, he’d been encased in beauty. It was his nature. He was an incubus, known in supernatural circles as Nightmares – and the king of the Nightmares, no less. Only one Nightmare King existed, had ever existed, and ever would exist. When he died, he was simply re-created.
The man he became was a complete fabrication, woven into the memories of humanity like a magic spell. No, not like a magic spell, Nick thought. It was a magic spell. A very powerful one.
Each time he was reborn, the man he became was somewhere between thirty to forty years old, and his entire past solidified in the split moments it took for the Nightmare King to return to life. As far as anyone around the new king was concerned, he’d been that man since birth. Everything that man had done, said, and been was a lie, because it had simply been made up and injected into time. But in that sense, it was also true. Even if it seemed to have taken decades when in fact it had taken mere seconds. The body, the mind, and the very character of the man were created solely for the king.
And now the Incubus King – the Nightmare King – stood tall and strong, staring at the latest materialization of his spirit: Nicholas Wargrave.
He had thick black hair. That was nothing new. Most of his physical forms had black hair. He was well over six feet tall. That was nothing new either.
On a sudden whim, he lifted his suit coat, pulled his belted pants out from his taut abdomen and took a peek. Okay, so no problems there, he thought with more relief than anyone should really feel about the generous size of their manhood. But he was a guy, after all, and an incubus. So he could be forgiven, right?
He readjusted everything, smoothed his expensive suit coat, and straightened, taking another look in the mirror. He filled out the suit well, and he could only hope the reasons behind those hidden muscles were genuine and not produced through vanity and chemicals. He would need them to be genuine. Desperately.
All of that was good, and all of it gave him hope. But one thing left him unsettled. One thing was different than it had been in his previous manifestations. Decidedly different.
Cold gray eyes gazed back at him from his reflection. They were gunmetal and harsh, and felt like the razor’s edge of a killing blade. They were stark and unforgiving. He felt uncomfortable meeting his own gaze, and he frankly didn’t see how any woman in the world would be willing to do so.
His previous manifestations had possessed warm eyes. Beautiful and vivid, but welcoming. This man before him was anything but warm. He felt like the very essence of smooth and charming cruelty.
With eyes like this, eyes that saw through you and stripped you to the bone, and a name like “Wargrave,” he didn’t stand a chance in the dating world. Why would fate suddenly decide to saddle him with these new burdens?
He turned from the mirror and made his way back out into the office. His two Preceptors were exactly where he’d left them, calmly awaiting their instructions. Both watched him carefully, no doubt curious as to what he thought of his new appearance.
“Minnaea, you said I was an ass. What did you mean by that?”
“I said you were a jackass,” she corrected calmly. “I was trying not to swear, and a jackass is after all just another name for a donkey or mule. But yes, you are. Nicholas Wargrave uses people. His power and influence give him the impression he’s allowed to do so, and he has yet to face punishment for this behavior. Granted, his heart has not yet gone completely cold. He isn’t without morals, and he does compensate people for what he does to them.”
“He compensates them?” Nick asked, his discomfort rising and his head now pounding. “Exactly what does he do to them? And how does he compensate them?”
“Long hours, broken promises,” said Andros with a shrug. “The usual jackass stuff, paid off with ample raises, expensive gifts, and purchased loyalties. For what it’s worth, your employees would bend over backward to protect your interests. That’s how well they are compensated.”
Holy shit, Nick thought. I really am an ass. And then a horrible, nightmarish thought occurred to him. His eyes widened. “Tell me I’m not a politician.”
Now Minnaea smiled, which was rare for her. “No your majesty. You’re not. Though you do have several in your pockets. So to speak.”
A wave of cool relief washed over Nicholas, but it was short lived. He had pressing matters to deal with. The shortcomings of his latest persona were going to have to await adjustment. He needed to contact the Kings and get “reinstated,” so to speak, one of them was a son of a bitch traitor, and there was an Entity to face.
But even more pressing was the reason behind his hope that the strength and grace of his new body were the result of real training and exercise. And this was the fact that each time the Nightmare King was reborn, he was forced to prove his worthiness as king.
With each materialization of his new form as king came the materialization of another. This other form, this other new-born creature was known as the Challenger. The Challenger was always a Nightmare of immense power. Though no incubus possessed the beauty of their king, the Challenger could nonetheless charismatically win over legions. He could then lead them in battles with strength and grace nearly unequaled. And his sole purpose in life was to usurp the Nightmare King’s throne.
Every time he faced him, the Nightmare King barely won. It was always – always – the most difficult thing the he had ever done.
“Do you know the whereabouts of the Challenger?” he asked softly. It was probably what they’d been waiting for him to ask, and he admittedly wished he could have put it off. As it was, sound and light were beginning to lace the pounding between his temples. His headache had become a migraine. But on both sides of his damned handsome head.
He closed his eyes again and gingerly rubbed his temples. Unfortunately, when he was reborn, it took a little while for him to regain all of his Nightmare abilities, including the abilities to quell his own pain or heal his own wounds.
“Not yet,” said Minnaea.
“But we know he’s materialized. And….” Andros’s voice trailed off, and Nicholas looked up, catching an exchanged glance between his two Preceptors. They looked worried. And they looked like they were keeping secrets.
“And what?” he asked, his tone hard.
Andros turned back to him. “And he’s more powerful than ever before, your majesty. I’m afraid this time… well, this time….”
“This time it’s different,” said Minnaea. The two always did finish each others’ sentences.
“Different how?” asked Nicholas. Though, he had a feeling he already knew the answer.
“This time it’s different because this is your final form,” said Andros plainly. His expression had changed, and his face was suddenly as hard as Nicholas’s tone. “This time it’s different because this time, there’s a queen,” he said.
Nicholas Wargrave knew where they were headed before they got there, and he felt the floor tilt a little under his feet as he sensed the weight of the cards stacked against him.
Minnaea picked up the reins, just as he knew she would. Her tone was as serious as her husband’s. “And I hope you regain your strength quickly, your majesty. Because your Challenger is going to do everything in his power to get to her first.”