Vanquishing

“Viejo!” exclaimed Mikayla as she pushed harder off the Scot’s shoulders, begging for more. His body moved into auto-pilot, acting like a piston pounding into her clenching ass. She strained, arching her back, and resting her cheek on MacLeod’s chest, surrendering whole-heartedly to Methos’ usage. He twined her hair around her fist, forcing her to raise her head, her eyes flying open to meet the chocolate brown eyes of the man underneath her. MacLeod’s hands met Methos’ where they clenched tightly to Mikayla’s hips. He arched his back off the mattress to angle his balls into contact with his friend’s. Methos’ muscles bunched and clenched, releasing and contracting at a wicked pace until finally with a guttural sound that sprang from deep in his chest, his head dropped onto Mikayla’s back and he sent his seed deep inside her. Mikayla’s eyes rolled back in her head as his cock swelled in the milliseconds before his release, and her orgasm wrenched another from the boy scout.

Boneless, she collapsed under the weight of the man on top of her. MacLeod used his own strength to shove them both off of himself and to the side. He curled into the woman, pulling her against him as Methos pressed against her from the other side.

“Now what, Shiova?” the Viejo whispered to the drowsy woman.

“We sleep, of course,” she snipped.

“And the succubus?” MacLeod asked in concern.

“The trap waits,” Mikayla mumbled. “Jus’ needed bait.”

“Bait?” queried Methos.

“She will be lured by the remains of our encounter and his dreams,” Mikayla added sleepily, patting MacLeod’s cheek reassuringly.

“And,” he hesitated, “luring is good?”

“Luring is very good,” she mumbled. “Muy bueno, sleep now boy scout. We may be required to lure more, later.” She snuggled into his chest and pressed her backside against her other partner in a quite satisfied manner. Within minutes, the two men were sleeping. A very sneaky woman eased out from in between the sticky bodies. She padded softly to the dresser on the opposite side of the room. Reverently, she lifted a rusty-red clay bowl and lid from the top of the dresser and carefully carried it back to the bed. Setting it between the two men’s legs, she lifted the lid and set it aside. Inside the bowl was a miniscule amount of liquid with a few herbs floating on the surface, Mikayla used two fingers to scoop at the remnants of their lovemaking and began to coat the rim of the vessel with the combined fluids. She repeated the process until the clay lip of the bowl practically gleamed with the moisture. Pleased with the results, she stopped only to climb onto the bed, and sit cross-legged between their legs with the vessel cradled in hers. Resting her hands on her knees, she began to sing softly, offering a pleading invitation to the disturbed soul that had become the succubus. Mikayla closed her eyes, trying to reach out and feel for the other’s presence. Methos shifted in his sleep, bumping her with his knee. The abruptness of the contact in a place he didn’t expect woke him, but he remained still, listening to her wavering voice as she crooned the cajoling invitation to the succubus. He kept one eye open, curious and waiting.

Minutes passed, and the succubus did not arrive. Mikayla paused slightly in her singing to stretch her back, reaching out a hand to each pair of legs surrounding her.

Sighing, she tucked her hair behind her ears. Cradling the pottery in her hands, she began to sing again: softly, more pleadingly, a different tune, haunting and strangely familiar to the old immortal. He didn’t recognize the words but the melody. Mikayla lifted her head to peer out the window.

“Yes, come.” She whispered before returning to the song. Slowly, a silver-white entity floated before the glass, hovering uncertainly, wary of the strange circumstances of her prey. MacLeod groaned in his sleep, sealing the succubus’ resolve. She heard his call. Sliding into the room, she floated towards the bed, towards her reward. Her ghostly eyes didn’t even register the crock. As the succubus attempted to pass over Mikayla, she was sucked into the liquid and Mikayla quickly sealed the bowl with the matching lid. “YES!” the black-haired woman hissed triumphantly. She stroked the bowl almost lovingly, great sadness in her eyes.

Carefully unfolding her legs, Mikayla stood, carrying the bowl, and stepped to what Methos thought was her closet door. The strange woman lay her cheek on the wood, and whispered to it. He picked his head up to watch her more closely. She stepped back enough to tug the door open, revealing a moonlit garden and a dark black lake beyond that.

“What the fuck?” thought the immortal. He slipped out of the bed as she slipped through the door. Moving quickly, he stepped through the door behind her, to find himself stark naked on a flagstone portico; a very cold to his bare feet flagstone portico.

“Damn!” he cursed aloud.

Mikayla whipped around to glare at him.

“Viejo, you shouldn’t have followed me!” she accused him harshly.

“Why not?” asked Duncan as he emerged from the stone archway just behind his friend. Methos spun around just in time to glimpse the bedroom disappearing from view in the center of the stone gate.

“Neither of you belong here,” Mikayla growled angrily. “You couldn’t let me take care of my business.”

“I think some of your business is mine,” the Scot chided her.

“Cualquier,” she hissed as she set the pottery coffin on the low stone wall to free her arm to raise it as a perch for the rapidly approaching falcon.

“Fallon!” Mikayla’s joy radiated on her face as her familiar falcon landed gracefully on her outstretched arm. The bird eyed the interlopers suspiciously. “All right, they’re not going to hurt anything,” she soothed. With a few indignant plucks at Mikayla’s hair, the falcon took flight again.

“In there,” she commanded, pointing towards the double French doors leading into her house. “I have to bury our friend here, then I’ll be back.” She glared at both men. “You will wait in there.”

Duncan and Methos moved towards the doors, reluctantly obeying the authority in her voice. She turned, picked up the pottery, and strode purposefully down the path towards the lake.

“Where do you think we are, Mac?”

“Loch Laren,” he rolled his eyes. “Where else?”

Shivering, Methos held the door open for his friend. As the door pushed in, the fire in the grate sprang to life.

“Interesting,” the oldest immortal commented drily.

“No, that is interesting.” Duncan indicated back out the doors to where they could both see Mikayla diving into the black waters of the lake with the bowl in her hands.

“Fucking freezing cold is more like it,” breathed Methos.

“Good thing the fire is self-starting then, eh?”