Dream Gate

By Mikala Ash

After the attack on her home and family, Faerie witch Lady Carlyle is taken in by the gallant Captain Justin Quin. Together they investigate the sacrificial murder of a scientist connected to the defense of the British empire.

With the assistance of Dr. Keane, demon witch, Lady Julia Molyneux furthers her bloody attempts at redemption, while Lord Lucian Carlyle continues his obsessive quest to visit alternate worlds. At risk is the centre of empire, the teeming metropolis of London itself, where the innocent will pay with their souls the price of unbridled ambition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Changeling Press
• Release date: Jul 2, 2022

Book preview

Chapter One

Lady Julia Molyneux’s Diary

The border between pleasure and pain, it has been said, is hair thin, and one woman’s titillation is another man’s torment.

The man in question lay naked on the vast mahogany desk and whimpered in a most piteous manner. Like a wounded animal his nostrils flared with each fearful breath, though I believe his reaction to be premature, his ordeal had not yet begun. Spittle and white flecks of foam coated the gag that stretched across his jaw, and glistening tears leaked from his sad grey eyes. His struggles against the ropes that bound his hands and feet to the desk’s stout legs had weakened, but not before breaking the skin at his wrists and ankles. Crimson globules trickled rhythmically to the carpet keeping time with the fellow’s accelerated pulse. The metallic stench tickled my nostrils and tingled at the back of my throat. I licked my lips in perverted anticipation, tasting his fear.

The man, Dr. Ramsay Warren of Harley Street, catered to the highest echelons of society including the Queen herself. I easily understood why, for he was a fine specimen of masculinity. Clearly a sportsman, trim and muscled, his clean-shaven face tanned, his calves and thighs strong and well defined, his hips narrow and his stomach banded by muscle. Had I been so inclined, and if circumstances had been different, he might have proved an interesting bed partner. Unfortunately his current predicament did not allow him the opportunity to display his manly attributes to their best advantage. Indeed, the pink head of his manhood, terrified into timidity, peeked shyly from the thick thatch of black curly hair. Out of curiosity I stroked the wrinkled worm, and in response it retracted even further into itself, and all but disappeared.

I tut-tutted with disappointment and Dr. Warren’s pathetic whine became a hopeless drawn-out moan. Gone now was his arrogant challenge when first we entered his laboratory, the bluster of his deep imperial voice now a distant memory. Beside me, Dr. Ernest Neale, my partner in this appalling deed, recited the litany of the man’s crimes in a voice pitched unnaturally high betraying his own elevated state of arousal. This was his first sacrifice, and the zealous manner in which he embraced the ritual surprised me exceedingly. His usual demeanour, when fulfilling his role as alienist attending to the mental hurts of his patients, was one of calm and seemingly infinite patience, yet now the bulging eyes, the tight set of the jaw, and the saliva collecting at the corner of his mouth as he addressed our victim suggested a passion I’d not hitherto suspected.

You bring deep and irredeemable shame to our profession, he continued, his voice bordering on the hysterical. You sir, are a venal swine!

Calm yourself, Ernest, I whispered in his ear. His Christian name sounded unnatural. For months he had been wise Dr. Neale, the font of self-knowledge, who had provided me a measure of solace I’d not thought possible. Our recent intimacy had created a certain awkwardness in my mind.

He glanced at me and held my gaze for a long moment before giving me a slight embarrassed nod. He took a deep breath and shifted his eyes to look at Dr. Warren again as he continued in a more measured and slightly less feverish voice. You willingly used your authority to commit six sane women to mental asylums so their husbands could access their fortunes. These women subsequently died after years of unspeakable degradation and neglect.

Despicable indeed. Though to be honest I did not care about the man’s crimes. I had needed someone of importance in this world to sacrifice to my demon goddess. Tana was displeased with me, and I strove to mollify her. I’d meddled in the machinations of Sir Myles Stafford whose harassment of Lady Carlyle and her family had drawn in my dear Justin. I could not suffer him being hurt, so I’d asserted myself on her behalf. Tana, an ancient and single-minded demon, demanded her witches to deliver unto her souls sweetened by pain and fear. It was at Dr. Neale’s urgings, and my need to take a half-step in the direction of redemption, that I now offer up evil people rather than the innocents I’d sacrificed in the past.

Ernest’s recitation continued. Dr. Ramsay Warren, a relation by marriage as well as close friend of the Foreign Secretary, continued to wriggle uselessly within his bindings. At this point I’d have preferred him drugged and comatose, but Dr. Neale, Ernest, had insisted on him understanding why he was to die. It was a pointless exercise; the knowledge would serve no purpose. In the shadows at the corner of my vision Tana herself lurked, a huge warlike wraith. She’d responded to my summoning spell and waited impatiently to breathe in the man’s soul as it left his quivering body at the moment of mortal climax.

At last Ernest concluded his diatribe and the ritual proper could begin. To draw the pentagram on the forehead I needed some blood -- mine and Ernest’s. I gave the scalpel to him and chanted the blood consecration spell. He took a deep breath and grimaced as he carefully sliced his palm. He then dripped three drops of his blood onto the silver plate I held for him. I held my other hand out to him, and he slid the blade expertly across my palm. The pain was hardly noticeable, and I added the requisite three drops to his. As Dr. Warren watched our activities with wide-eyed terror, I dipped a forefinger into the pool and chanted the appropriate charm as I drew the magical sign on his sweating forehead.

Prepare yourself, I told Ernest as I began the gruesome aspects of the ritual. While I recited the homage to Tana, hypnotically rhythmic phrases from the Siberian steppe of a millennia ago, I used the point of a jewelled dagger to remove Ramsay Warren’s eyes. His muffled screams caressed the oppressive darkness of his laboratory.

I won’t record every detail of the ritual as there are quite a few; special invocations while removing the tongue, slicing the cheeks from mouth to ear, severing the ears and positioning them in the blood-filled mouth, and carving the symbols into the heaving breast. At this point I invited Ernest to make his seminal contribution.

With trembling fingers Dr. Neale opened his trousers and extracted his fully hard cock. I raised my eyebrow at him. His earlier moralistic reservations had not lessened the primal response of his body. The shaft of his long cock was gently but noticeably curved like a scimitar ending in a bullet-shaped head. He avoided my gaze and cleared his throat, eager to get the ordeal over with.

Despite his unrecognised hunger for physical intimacy with me, Dr. Neale -- Ernest -- had been reluctant to participate in the full ritual. I’d known from the moment he first saw me that he desired me. He hadn’t seen my disfigured face at that point, of course, hidden as it was behind an exquisitely fashioned veil, but my body he certainly lusted over. Of course, I dressed to accentuate my feminine features: a waist a wasp would be jealous of, and a decolletage the envy of a Parisian courtesan, all to draw attention away from the hideous mystery behind the veil.

Is it absolutely necessary? he’d asked, his voice quavering with embarrassment when we had discussed the ritual a week before. You’ve neglected this aspect of the… ceremony… in the past.

Through necessity, I said, caressing his warm blushing cheek with my forefinger. I had no male accomplice, and my mistress Tana forgave me the deficiency. But now that you have agreed to assist me, she will require it forthwith.

He had taken a long shuddering breath.

Come now. Is the act so repellent to you? Surely you’ve pleasured yourself in the past.

It’s… I… He could not finish.

It had been an awkward discussion. He’d identified the target of our endeavour and I had versed him in the words and deeds the ceremony would demand of him. I was happy to delegate some of the chanting, performing the sacrifices alone was a frantic affair which left me exhausted and dazed at the end.

A pathetic moan from Ramsay Warren drew me back to the task at hand. I reached down, and with bloody fingers stroked Ernest’s cock, I couldn’t help but compare it to Justin’s. Don’t get me wrong, it was a perfectly adequate if not impressive example of the male generative organ. It was not the long, thick and heavy cock of my beloved Justin, or the jewel-ribbed monster that belonged to Sir Myles Stafford, or the bulbous-headed version of Henry, my late husband. It had its attraction, though. That tantalising curve which I imagined sliding into my tight wet sheath, the bowed shaft causing the head to rub that particular place within which invariably lifted me to explosive climax. So far we had exercised restraint and not given in to our natural desires. Perhaps after we returned to his house I would breech his gentlemanly reserve and claim him entirely.

Ernest stuttered as I rubbed the tight flesh of his shaft. He apologised and wrapped his hand around my fingers and accelerated the action. It took only a few minutes for his cock to jerk sending his essence into the red cavern of Ramsay Warren’s empty belly.

Dr. Warren was past caring. He was unconscious. It wasn’t until I’d lifted his weakly beating heart from the broken cage of his ribs did he give a final convulsive jerk and expire. Invisible to Ernest’s wide eyes the doctor’s relieved soul fled his tortured body. Tana, in all her fearsome glory, then emerged from the shadows, her armoured chest expanded as she sucked in the wisp of sparkling light, diverting it from its journey upward to the heavens. I concluded my chant and lifted my eyes above the steaming corpse to look to Ernest.

Did you see her? I asked, though I hardly expected it. Tana rarely showed herself to ordinary people.

Ernest stepped into the light. His face pale with fear. I did not. Though shocked and appalled by what we’d done, I saw too the thrill and excitement dancing in his eyes.

It’s for the best, I told him. She is a terrible sight to behold.

Did you see the man’s soul? What did it look like?

I thought for a moment. It’s not much to behold. I pinched my finger and thumb together. Thinner than the wisp of smoke that escapes a snuffed-out candle. He gazed at me in awe. Kiss me, I commanded.

He leaned into me and with his thumb brushed the splashes of blood that had reached my lips. With a mischievous glint in his eyes he licked it clean before kissing my lips.

So, here you are. The voice was smugly amused.

I turned to face the intruder, the bloody dagger raised.

Who the devil! Ernest demanded and took a step toward the voice before coming to an abrupt halt, frozen in motion like a statue.

Myles. Why are you here?

Sir Myles Stafford, powerfully built, immaculately dressed, glared at Ernest with iridescent green eyes that shone eerily in the dim light.

He stepped past Ernest and stood before me. To apologise.

I had not expected that. I studied his tanned face, supposedly from his decades in India. His was an arresting countenance, high cheekbones with a livid scar by his left eye. He was a powerful demon witch, like me, but far more practised, commanding more powerful magic than I. He was not to be trusted.

I said some beastly things to you when last we met.

That was true. Outside the house of Lady Anne Carlyle he had called me an ugly bitch and spurned my kiss. He had deeply injured my pride, for I had thought my womanly charms had him in my thrall. He’d been angry, smarting from the ruin of his elaborate scheming.

I was not myself. The evenness of his voice and unwavering gaze betrayed the insincerity of his apology.

I ran my forefinger along his jawline. You’d failed your mistress, I said, reminding him that despite his pack of demon beasts he had botched the capture of Lady Carlyle and her children. I understand and forgive your rudeness.

He took a deep breath, and I could sense the effort he was making to contain his anger. He suspected my involvement in the thwarting of his plans, and he was not incorrect in that assumption. It had been I who’d spirited Lady Carlyle’s family, mother, sister and twin children away from London.

He turned to Ernest, studying his face close up. His sideways glance to me was menacing and unmistakeably a threat. Another puppy?

Leave him. He is my alienist, I said. He is helping me with my neurosis and is under my protection.

Stafford gave a bark of laughter. Ah, that’s right, you tossed the insufferable Captain Quin aside when you threw yourself on my mercy.

That’s not how I remember it, I said cautiously. I offered you my assistance and you spurned me, and made clear, in no uncertain terms, I might add, that I was not welcome in your presence.

I was, as I said, not myself. Things have changed. He flicked his gaze to the shadows where Tana had been. Our mistress wishes me to use your skills in her name.

Ah, my continued existence was explained, and why she hadn’t struck me down with a bolt of lightning. Tana needed