Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

Chapter 146: Hitchcock Blonde

IN THE HIGH GOTHIC HALLS of Salem: one of the three resident houses at the witch academia known by its spooky acronym, [C. A. W]; in a fancy suite which would soothe only a truly villainous heart, a dark sleeping beauty stirred on a large bed. She was the warped vision of fairytale Princess Aurora—but no less smoking hot.

Aya Naamah gingerly opened her sultry violet eyes.

Four other beautiful pairs of eyes were settled on her, roundabout.

The one closest to her took her hand: Ravenna, with pupils rich green as the tropic marshes. "We heard about the Hyde," she said, "I'm sorry. Rafel should have brought us along, or in the very least, told us where you both were headed." She turned a disapproving glance to the young man on the ornate chair beside the bed.

Rafel only offered a ruthlessly disarming smile to the coal-haired belle.

Ravenna was wearing her hair up today: a marvel of ebony waves. The two others in the room were Rosamunde and Percival. It was a school day, the first in the week, but Rafel had hacked into his dorm room's alarm system, corrupting the magic so that the would-be ringing didn't chirp when it should.

Either way, the bell tower of those faithful to the Martyr, coming from their early morn devotion still went tolling into the blue skies.

Spring was in the air. You could smell it.

Rafel imagined the trees starting to color again at Emberfall—or at least the forsaken ruins of it. He was grateful for the interruption of Ravenna's soft voice again. "Are you strong enough for your classes, babe?" she asked Aya.

The succubus sat up in bed and clutched a small pillow to her rather ample chest. She shared a secret smile with her Lord Master few feet away, as she replied Ravenna.

"Yes, I am. His Eminence gave me his blood. The poison of the Hyde monster had no chance. And now that I've manifested the Pegasus blue Arc, I have amassed quite the healing factor. Spirit magic flows within me. I heal a hundred time faster than a spawn of my species would.

I'd see to my classes today."

Rafel admired his [Bond]; because he rather disliked slothfulness.

Bred in the castles of the infamous underworld, Rafel got the best sexual experiences sinful Hel could give, but his Uncles tolerated no such indolence. You fucked to your heart's content, and then you fought—to the crowd's content.

Plain as the chest on a ten-year old gypsy boy child.

Percival leaned in on the bed, and said, "Now that we're all here, what do we do about the five million solid of ours in weapons currently sitting dormant in a shadow dimension pocket world? Do we sell, to get the gold? Or keep?"

The girls turned to Rafel. He said, "we vote."

And then he raised his voice on the chair. "All in favor to sell?"

Everyone raised their hands. The decision was unanimous among the five friends.

"So we sell then," Rosamunde chirped.

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Rafel's gold eyes fired up like a treasure chest. "But not just any sale, Mon Coeur..." He left the words hanging.

"What's the plan, Your Eminence?" Percival asked.

Rafel leaned into his felonious beautiful brethren, and told it to them.

Rafel decided to rock the maroon blazer for the day: it was a custom make with the proud insignia of the Phoenix Arc. The Roving Reds! Although, he could equally rep the Raven Arc with their goth black tuxes, he figured bloodred suited his mood for the day. The plan he had concocted with his friends in the clave of his bedchambers he was about to execute.

They all had their parts to play in it. And it required the participation of a rather trendy vivacious blonde.

Rafel's first class as a Red was the [Winds and Wild] class.

The seating area was top-notch; a domain on the high side of tower with a prolific view of the island, and opal windows filling the class with blessed air. The classroom smelled of honeycombs and orchids, and the climbing magnolias granted bright white to the vanes and sills which they wove around.

The classroom did match the teaching.

A willowy woman stood in front, a wreath of south oceanic sunflowers in her hair. She introduced herself—the class was mostly filled with Griffins, a few Pegasi and Phoenixes like Rafel, and only one Raven Arc member, who looked lonely as fuck in his solitary crow-black ensemble.

He looked like he'd rather fit in at the [Midnight Mastery] class.

Rafel listened in to the tutor's words, because she was quite fetching: like a bride of a faerie prince.

She was saying, "Hello, class. This is the Winds and Wild honorary class. I am pleased at the variety I'm seeing—we only get those of the Griffin Gold most times. But this. . .this will be fun.

For those of you who are just joining us, my name is Aelind of the Guiding Light fae.

Today, we'll be looking through the journal of the fifth Empress of the Nine Realms, Queen Margaery; her notes on Sunfire magic and wildling races. . ."

And that was where Rafel stopped listening.

To study clouds and the stars was cute, but in his world, fire and blood would serve you better. From Tutor Aelind's fair golden eyes, he could tell she had Van Imperia blood in her. She could probably command a Griffin, or lynx. The generation of Van Imperias had unique command of such epic beasts.

It was in the bloodlines: the House of Gold.

Any other wildling who would try it was quickly made mincemeat of the creatures. But it helped that half the fae species were bastards, so a near total population had the blood of Imperia in them.

Their wildling lords did love to whore around.

Rafel didn't even know when the class ended. But he did watch the Tutor's pert ass sway out the room. She was slender as a virgin pine. A slim thick miracle.

Chairs scraped the classroom floors as students all around him rose and left the area. Rafel spotted the key player in his auction plan rise from her regal perch at the forefront of the class. A true fey princess, that one. She wore her gold jacket like a royal robe. The way in which she carried herself was spectacular.

This girl was the type who'd only smoke the finest English cigars, light and puff like a Duchess, wed the prince and bed the pirate:

Erika fuckin' Burgess.

She was blond down to her freaking lashes.

The girl was rising just as Rosa, Aya, and Ravenna were stepping in.

Right on time.

Right on motherfucking time!

The classroom was empty. He watched Erika lift her pretty little head to the troop cornering her. She looked scared. Rafel and Percival also sidled in from their former seats. The five accosted Erika.

"Hello, Miss President," Rafel said in a dark voice.

Erika looked behind and tried to maneuver her way past. Aya blocked her. She held her books tightly to her chest. For the first time, she seemed fragile. "Look if this is about the Duchess, Lady Fairfield, I had no idea she would spring that line of discussion on you. She just asked me to invite—"

"This isn't about Lady Fairfield." Percival toned.

Rosa stepped up to her. "Sit down, Hitchcock Blonde."

Rafel finished. "We have a proposal for you."

As Erika lowered her cute little butt back to the cinder-gray classroom seat, it was Ravenna who explained. "We require the services of a hostess to host an auction of ours. Private. Exclusive. Stupid fucking expensive. We want the kind of affluent circles who aren't scared to get down dirty.

The objects of sales range from miner lamps from the distant lands of Alexandria, to the giant sickle swords of Achaemenes empire, further to the hammers of occult freemasons of Loegria."

Erika crossed her legs on the chair, regaining her regent poise. "You want to sell your weapons. And you want me to be your party planner?"

Rafel baritoned at her twinkly irises. "This isn't a fucking party."

"Oh darling," Erika touched a hand down his arm, "every auction is a party. To get the rich to spend, you've got to give too."

"I know that." Rafel growled. "I just don't want any of them getting funny ideas about an orgy or any of that weird shit rich people tend to want at this sort of things."

"You're rich too," Erika offered with a smile. "—but I get what you mean," she added when she caught Rosa's hard stare. The student president, blond as sunrise on the beach, with a rocking wildling bod and [dignitas] of a Roman [Domina] to boot, sat back, perfecting her shapely brows in a perfect arch.

"So how much are we talking?"

Everyone in the classroom looked at everyone, and for the first time throughout the conversation, all six collaborators lit up in shared smiles.

[A/N: Hitchcock Blonde is termed to mean sophisticated ladies. Not Gyaru, but with a highclass living style. A proper Gagnam Style.]