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.