Chapter 84: Clair de Lune, Part 2

Sam snapped back to reality, violently and suddenly, just as he had during the other times. The horrifying reality where he could barely move his body and was being used as Hunger's plaything.

There was nothing he could do to resist. All his powers were beyond reach. His body refused to respond properly, leaving him practically catatonic.

Hunger kept moving up and down on top of him, gyrating her hips in a depraved mating dance. Her plan may have required her to conceive, but it was clear she was enjoying every second of it. And of course, that wasn’t surprising. Having power over another person was intoxicating. The ability to do whatever you wanted, whenever, and wherever you pleased.

The absolute control it entailed.

If the soul was the essence of the self, then dominating someone else expanded your soul. A strange metaphor, perhaps, but it was the first thing that came to his mind regardless. Maybe it was the most accurate one, even if he spent days trying to find another way to describe that feeling in words, precisely because it had been instinctive and instantaneous.

“Get... your hands off me... you bitch.”

That’s how Christina would feel if she knew the truth. She didn’t love him; she loved his brother. If he hadn’t replaced the real Sam—the former, inferior one—it was true that he likely never would have responded to her feelings. He would have always seen her as she was: his sister.

Without him, she wouldn’t have experienced the happiness she felt now, but it didn’t matter.

All that love would turn to hatred in an instant. The girl who adored him would see him as nothing but an impostor, a murderer. And everything would end in blood, as perhaps it should have long ago.

“So what?” he thought. “So what the hell?” He pushed that useless thought away.

He didn’t need something genuine. Out of nothing, even something as fleeting as love would suffice. What he needed was control.

And for this bitch to get off him. He couldn’t take it anymore. Sam couldn’t even touch her, much less muster the strength to push her off him. But he did get some relief, if it could be called that.

Inevitably, he was dragged back into hell. Perhaps he had a chance to gather strength, to push her off, but he simply wasn’t granted enough time. He couldn’t hold on to his consciousness, pin it to reality. Instead, strange winds dragged him to a hell that existed mostly in his head.

The real hell—the cage where Satan resided—was surely a thousand times worse. A place with no rest. No peace.

"I don’t have any goddamn peace either," he thought.

Seconds before his knee exploded. He knew the injury was fake, that the only real thing happening was the violation. Physically, he was intact—at least until Hunger filled her womb with his seed. If she did.

But he couldn’t control himself. The pain was real enough, as was the horror of looking down, seeing that bloody mess, and the bone shining like a scythe, blinding white.

Falling to one knee. Falling forward, as if losing every trace of energy, lips pressed tight to keep from vomiting.

And Satan didn’t even bother to turn around and mock him. He just kept running. Every second that passed, he got farther away. Sam’s chances of catching him dwindled, his chances of waking from this nightmare before it was too late fading.

Satan might be the prince of lies, but at least this felt true: until Sam got his hands on that bastard, he wouldn’t wake up.

Sam stood again, gritting his teeth, trying to overcome the pain. But the pain wasn’t the worst of it.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

His knee was shattered, practically gone. His eyes told him so, the pain sent a clear message, and worst of all, his body seemed to believe it. He moved clumsily, as if he really had lost a significant chunk of his leg. A critical part, in any case.

Running was entirely out of the question.

Or was it?

Sam used his powers on the ground, generating ice, making it slippery. Far from an ideal solution, but it was a way to pursue him. The best he had.

It would have to be enough.

Sam shot forward, sliding across the ice with his broken leg at high speed, accelerating with each second. He kept firing, creating a path as he went, a ramp to carry him toward his hated enemy.

All he managed to do was nearly fall into lava as the ground opened before him. He landed on the other side, fortunately, without even losing his momentum, but it was close—too close. He needed to keep that in mind. The environment wasn’t entirely real. It could change at any moment, either at Satan’s whim or simply in reaction to the intruder.

He still wasn’t sure if dying in the dream meant dying in reality, but he wasn’t about to risk it.

He was moving fast, regaining lost ground. But even so, Satan seemed too distant. As if he would never catch him. And while he wasted time here, Hunger was riding him like a stallion, determined to extract his seed. To conceive and bring an abomination into this world.

If it were only a matter of luck—hoping she wouldn’t conceive on the first try and wouldn’t have time to try again—the odds would already be grim enough.

But this wasn’t about luck.

Hunger had made that clear, and he didn’t think she was lying. Her womb was fertile. One shot was enough.

How much longer could he last when he wasn’t conscious enough to resist, to deny her satisfaction? Maybe it had already happened without him realizing it, just as he was unaware of everything else happening around him in the real world.

No.

He couldn’t be sure, but he believed that if it had happened, he would have known. He would have woken up at that moment, horrified. He would have—

He woke up, and as if seeing the future, he felt it. Hunger let out a guttural roar from the depths of her throat, a ghastly mix of moans and triumph, as Sam released every drop of his seed.

Too late.

He had given all he had, overcoming the pain, but it was already too late.

Sam didn’t return to hell.

He gathered enough strength to grab Hunger and throw her aside, but what did it matter?

It was already too late.

The horsewoman was pregnant.

He had killed War and impregnated Hunger—it sounded like the beginning of a bad joke. But jokes were never his strong suit, anyway.

The cruelest joke of all? He hadn’t even regained his strength or returned to normal. The only reason he’d managed to shove Hunger off the table was a brief surge of anger. And, of course, because that bitch no longer cared. She had gotten what she wanted.

She had humiliated him, used him like a toy in his own house.

And now, she was pregnant. Pregnant with his child.

“Bitch. Damn bitch,” he muttered.

Sam dragged himself forward, too weak to do anything else, until he collapsed onto the floor. Even the slightest impact felt like a knife stabbing into his chest. Yet he kept crawling, inching toward that monster, who looked like she ruled the world, sprawled out and smug. She lay there, exposing herself like the queen of depravity, as if proud of the act she’d forced upon him.

“Stop laughing at me! You’re nothing! Less than nothing! A cheap whore, and I… I am a god!”

Sam slammed his fists into the floor like a tantrumming child. Even he recognized how petulant it looked. But from the point of impact, sharp icicles shot forward, streaking toward Hunger at incredible speed.

They never reached her.

The ice stopped mere millimeters from her legs.

Hunger laughed even louder.

“Looks like you’re having some trouble performing, Sammy.”

Of course, the words made no sense—he’d just spilled himself inside her. His trigger had worked perfectly, though for once in his life, he wished it hadn’t. She must have been mocking his failed attack, but the stupidity of the joke only infuriated him further.

And that was the point.

It worked. Her words pushed him over the edge, fueling his rage. Like gasoline to a fire, it sparked something primal in him. Sam lunged at Hunger, teeth bared, a savage beast ready to tear her apart.

But he never reached her.

An explosion rocked his world, throwing him back into the table. He clung to it desperately, searching for anything to hold onto. Then a crushing weight slammed into him, knocking him to the ground and pinning him there.

Naked flesh. Slick with blood and other fluids.

Pestilence, he thought, even before his mind could fully register her form.

Her mere presence made him feel weak, sick—but frankly, he barely noticed any difference from how he already felt.

Pestilence rose off him, using far too many limbs to push herself up and aside. She seemed disoriented—or at least as disoriented as something could appear when its form looked like a nightmarish combination of a cancerous tumor and a mass grave brought to grotesque life.

She didn’t attack him.

Instead, she turned toward the hole in the wall, the one she had burst through so suddenly.

And through it, Sam saw Christina.

She was standing there, breathing heavily, with a twisting, writhing serpent of water coiled around her. Its movements were taut, poised to strike at any moment. Sam could only imagine what went through her mind as she saw him lying there, pants down, the undeniable evidence of what had occurred glistening at the tip of his manhood.

Clair de Lune, Part 2: END