Excerpt of Immortal Possession by Louisa Crane

ELIC SHUCKED OFF his T-shirt and jeans, drew a deep,
cleansing breath, and cleared his thoughts to prepare
himself. So as to avoid injury during the transmutation,
he lowered himself to the floor, carpeted in a centuries-
old Oriental rug, and knelt on his haunches, naked and
ready. Closing his eyes, he whispered the words he’d
learned as a boy, the rhythmic, age-old incantation that
brought about The Change.

It began as always, with a slow roiling from within, then
the trembling and nausea and terrible sense of wrongness.
And the pain. There was always pain, but somehow that was
easier to deal with than The Change Sickness, as he
thought of it.

Elic hunched forward, his fingers digging into his knees,
eyes squeezed tight, lungs pumping, as the worst of it
peaked and then faded. The only lingering discomfort was
the sense of being starved for air as his bones
compressed and his muscles softened. The narrowing of his
ribs always incited a sense of panicked asphyxiation, but
within a minute or so his breathing steadied; his pulse
slowed.

Then came the part that he always found both unnerving
and thrilling, even after all these years: the tightening
and pulling inward of his loins, as of a dark, secret
furrow being plowed into damp earth. His cock, throbbing
from the excitement of The Change, contracted into a
tight, pulsing little knot; his nipples itched as the
flesh there swelled into buds, then breasts, heavy and
soft.

Where there had been Elic, there was now a new
incarnation, identical to the former in certain respects—
same hair, same eyes—yet with a body whose form and
chemistry were fundamentally different. He was She now,
the female Elic might have been but for a fluke of nature
at the moment of conception. Elic was not so much
replaced during these occasional metamorphoses, as
subsumed, incorporated into a being whose feelings and
desires were purely female, but whose thoughts and
memories—whose self—were still very much Elic.

Sitting back on her heels, she stretched her back and
rotated her shoulders to the accompaniment of muted pops
and cracks. She massaged her hands, flexed the delicate
little fingers, and brought them to her breasts, which
she lifted and squeezed. The part of her that was still
Elic, still He, marveled, as always, at the softness of
them, their weight and resilience. She pinched the little
nipples, feeling a sting of arousal all the way down to
her clit.

And then she turned her attention to the man in the bed
across the room.

Viktor Larsson hadn’t moved this whole time. The big
Swede still lay sprawled on his back, arms and legs
outstretched, like a Viking washed up on the shore.
Shafts of moonlight illumined the hard musculature of his
chest, the broad shoulders and striking face. He was
magnificent—powerful, yet with an innate athletic grace
even in sleep. Elic’s female persona, the succubus,
understood Lili’s captivation with Larsson in a way that
Elic himself could never hope to, especially given that
Lili’s high-test hormones made her that much more
susceptible to the allure of a man who was, despite his
flaws, utterly breathtaking.

Rising carefully to her feet, she shook out her legs and
arms. She was tall for a woman, almost six feet, but that
was still half a foot shorter than Elic. The difference
in height conspired with the smaller, peculiarly balanced
body to produce a slight disorientation for the first few
minutes after The Change. When she felt as if she could
walk without falling over, she took two guarded steps
toward the bed, only to recoil with a gasp of pain as
something sharp stabbed the sole of her right foot.
Larsson turned his head, let out a grunty little breath,
and stilled.
Bending down, she lifted the offending object: Heather’s
engagement ring.

Mega-carat diamonds didn’t end up on the floor unless
they were thrown. It would appear that Heather was
rethinking her future as Mrs. “Real Man” Larsson.

She slipped the ring onto her right hand and held it up;
it flashed like lightning in the moonlight. Crawling up
onto the bed with catlike stealth, she knelt next to
Larsson and stroked her fingertips ever so lightly over
the bulge between his splayed legs. Even through the
sheet, and even in its flaccid state, his cock felt so
warm, so vital. She stroked it again, and again, very
slowly, a featherlight caress, until it began to thicken
and stir.