Vasudeva Mahayana's reputation spreads

The Hypnotist’s Parlor

The Villa on the Hill

The last light of dusk bled across the sky as the Number 56 bus groaned to a stop at the foot of the hill. The air smelled of damp earth and diesel exhaust. A young woman—Chiara Lombardi, twenty-four, a law student with shadows under her eyes—stepped off, her heels clicking against the cracked pavement. She clutched the strap of her leather satchel, her fingers trembling.

The villa loomed above her, its once-grand façade now weathered by time. Ivy crept up the stone walls, swallowing whole sections of the arched windows. The iron gate shrieked as she pushed it open, the sound setting her teeth on edge.

A brass plaque, tarnished with age, read:

Guru Vasudeva – Disciple of Dr. Yasser Horus

Specializing in Trauma Relief & Spiritual Rebirth

Chiara swallowed. She had heard the whispers—He can make the pain go away. He can make you forget.

She needed to forget.

Chapter Two: The Waiting Room

The door creaked open before she could knock.

A man—tall, gaunt, his face carved from marble—stood in the threshold. His eyes were the color of dried blood.

"Signorina Lombardi," he said, his voice a velvet rasp. "You are right on time."

Antonio. The butler.

Chiara followed him inside, her pulse fluttering in her throat. The foyer was dim, lit only by flickering sconces. The air was thick with incense—frankincense and something darker, spicier.

The waiting room was a study in calculated serenity. Persian rugs swallowed her footsteps. Bookshelves lined the walls—****, Lacan, Freud, their spines cracked with use. A golden statue of Thoth, the Egyptian god of secrets, watched her from a pedestal.

A woman sat in one of the plush armchairs, her fingers worrying a pearl necklace. She did not look up.

Antonio gestured to a door at the end of the hall.

"Guru Vasudeva will see you now."

The Hypnotist

The chamber was bathed in low, golden light. Heavy drapes of Egyptian cotton pooled on the floor. A brass pendulum swung lazily from the ceiling, its rhythmic sway almost hypnotic.

And there, seated in a high-backed chair, was the man himself.

Guru Vasudeva.

Platinum hair, so pale it seemed to glow. Skin like alabaster, stretched taut over sharp cheekbones. His lips were full, almost cruel in their softness. And his eyes—red, like rubies held up to the sun.

He smiled.

"Chiara," he murmured. "Come. Sit."

She obeyed, her legs unsteady. The chair was warm beneath her, the leather supple.

"You have been suffering," he said. Not a question. A fact.

She nodded.

He leaned forward, his robes—fine Iranian silk, embroidered with Sufi symbols—whispering against the floor.

"Tell me," he said, "what is it you wish to forget?"

Her breath hitched.

(She did not notice the way his fingers twitched. The way the shadows in the room seemed to pulse.)

The Induction

"Focus on the pendulum," he murmured.

She did.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

"Your eyelids are growing heavy."

They were.

"Your limbs feel warm. Soft."

A sigh escaped her.

His voice wrapped around her, honey-thick. "You are safe here, Chiara. You can let go."

She felt herself sinking.

His fingers brushed her wrist—just a whisper of contact. A spark of heat flared in her belly.

"Deeper," he murmured.

The world blurred at the edges.

The Suggestion

"Imagine a door," he said.

She saw it—dark wood, a brass handle.

"Open it."

She did.

Beyond was a bedroom. Silk sheets. Candlelight.

And him.

Vasudeva.

His hands on her. His mouth claiming the young woman's luscious lips.

"Hmmmph..."

Her breath quickened.

"You want this," he whispered.

She did.

(She did not notice the way his pupils dilated. The way his fangs—sharp, too sharp—glistened in the low light.)

The Awakening

Chiara blinked.

"Huu..."

The room came back into focus.

Vasudeva sat before her, serene as a dervish.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

The pale beauty's skin hummed. Her core ached.

"Lighter," she lied.

The guru smiled.

(She did not see Antonio lurking in the shadows. Did not see how the goblin thrall's dull eyes followed her as she left.)

The villa swallowed her whole.

The Descent Begins

Outside, the evening air was cool against her flushed skin.

Chiara did not look back.

(She did not see Vasudeva—no, Stefano—watching from the window. His wings, black as sin, flexing in the dark.)

The Number 56 bus rumbled in the distance.

She would be back.

They always came back.