Cursed, page 13
part #1 of Coven of the Raven Series
So many questions burned on his tongue, everything from what she’d remembered to how Thomas had changed the spell so that if he spoke she’d forget. It was a clever move, he had to admit. Her fingers brushed his hard flesh and he had to remember how to breathe. It had been far too long. But if it had been a long time for him, how long had it been for her?
Had Thomas…? He cut off the thought. If there was one thing death magic practitioners had to give up, it was sex. Thomas would be impotent. But there were still plenty of other things Thomas could do. All of them bad. He needed to know. He drew back, even though it nearly killed him, and wrote in the book.
Did he hurt you? Not being able to talk was going to get old fast. Especially when they needed to make plans.
She shook her head and began undoing her dress. He stopped her and touched her collarbone. You know how he changed the spell?
In the silvery light her lips curved into a grin of delight. But she placed her fingers over his lips and shook her head.
Even he got that. She didn’t want to talk about it now. I will write you a letter tonight, later. She underlined the last word.
He nodded, then pushed her dress over her shoulders. She seemed to shiver in his hands. He kissed her cheek and down her neck—avoiding the necklace—down her collarbone and to the pale swell of her breast. Her dress puddled on the floor like spilled ink. The moonlight made patches of the floor silver. Black and white, like a checkerboard.
Yet he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t work any magic tonight, not without Mylla’s consent. But he could at least see what was between them, to see if he could even do what was required. Maybe this was exactly what he needed. Her fingers grazed along his shaft. His body certainly thought so. He’d just have to be careful because he was pretty damn sure she hadn’t brought condoms.
He eased off her underwear, much plainer and larger than their modern-day equivalents. Beneath all the fabric, she was beautiful. Delicate curves and dark hair. As he ran his hands up her arms, he felt the scars, but she didn’t flinch away. He cupped her face and kissed her again, he wanted to make sure she hadn’t changed her mind. But she kissed him back and her grip on his cock tightened before giving him a long, slow stroke that scattered his thoughts faster than any spell. If she kept that up, it would be over too soon. And yet he didn’t want her to stop, it was nice to feel another’s touch on his body.
Is that what she was thinking too?
The way she moved in his hands, the way her breathing quickened as he kissed her.
She seemed to have no plans on leaving until she was done. In his mind he built a quick circle around them, a kind of shadowed camouflage that he’d come up with that would hide any sex magic that might accidentally form. The last time he’d used this circle, it had been to hide him and Noah from the cops. Thomas was smarter than a cop—he knew about magic, whereas cops didn’t believe and didn’t want to know. He added an extra layer of protection, a reflective layer on the inside to make sure nothing showed up.
Mylla opened her eyes and looked up at him as if she’d felt what he’d done. Her lips parted and he saw the question in her eyes. Damn, she had noticed. He should’ve known she couldn’t have lived here for so long and not know what magic felt like. He rolled one tight pink nipple between his finger and the heat returned to her eyes, but he knew he’d be answering to her later. Then she’d know what he was, and if Thomas asked, the game would be over.
In his mind he saw the checkerboard as the white queen knocked the white king off and into endless darkness. No. He re-wrote the picture. The white queen holding the black king in checkmate. Mylla was the most powerful piece on the board and Thomas didn’t realize.
He scooped her up and laid her on the bed. She needed to eat more, the moonlight made stairs of her ribs and highlighted more fine scars on her thighs, more than a dozen and all too personal. What had Thomas done to her while she was helpless? She dragged him close, as if not wanting him to look too hard and see. This was about her and what she wanted. Nothing else. He could do that.
Her lips pressed against him, demanding his attention. And he gave in, letting her take what she wanted. He slid his hand over the silken skin of her stomach, cupping her breast, then breaking the kiss to move lower. He flicked his tongue over her nipple, trying to take his time when all he wanted was to be sliding into her. His shaft twitched, brushing against her thigh, and her legs moved, spreading as if ready. He wasn’t.
While the crackle of lust was building, sheeting across him like a building thunderstorm, it was dampened and didn’t feel quite right. But he either stopped to analyze or he kept going and tried to work it out later. Later was looking really good, especially since he wasn’t planning on doing any magic tonight and she was running her hands over his skin as if relearning what a man felt like.
Her back arched as he sucked on her nipple and then moved to the other one. He shifted his position, putting his knees between hers. He could feel the heat between her thighs. Her fingers pressed against his back as if she didn’t want him to stop.
Resting on one arm, he slid his other hand between her legs. Her dark curls were already damp, and when he touched her clit, she jumped. He almost spoke, biting his tongue at the last second. He wasn’t used to being silent, he wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, that he hadn’t been with anyone in nearly a year, and that he wanted her so badly. But it all remained locked in his throat, unable to be said because of a power-hungry control freak.
To avoid accidentally talking, he kissed her, keeping his tongue busy and his brain off. He could spend the rest of the night thinking. Right now he just wanted her to enjoy—and he wanted to enjoy her. She lifted her hips, eager for his touch.
While Mylla may not be able to talk, she was still able to moan, her body pressing against his, her hips moving as his fingers slid over her clit and dipped into her. She threaded her fingers into his hair and hooked one leg over his hip as if she couldn’t wait. He adjusted his position so the tip of his shaft pressed against her wet heat. There was still time to walk away, but he wasn’t that strong. Mylla was like a gift from his Goddess, the key to breaking the curse, and she was in his bed, willing and wet.
Refusing would be just as bad as accepting.
He let himself ease forward a fraction, watching her carefully to see what her reaction would be since she couldn’t say a word. And neither could he now—not to her anyway. There were a few choice words he’d like to say to Thomas.
Mylla drew in a breath, but she didn’t push him away. Her eyes were dark pools of desire. Her lips parted as he slid deeper. It had really been too long. The initial crackle of attraction changed, the electrical snapping was still there, touching nerves and running over his skin like lover’s nails, but a deeper resonance developed. Again, he could feel the hum in his blood but it was missing something.
As she met him thrust for thrust, her hips lifting and her fingers pressing into his buttocks, he wanted to let go but he didn’t want it over. Not yet. He tried to pay attention to what was happing to the magic, the magic he’d have to find a way to use to take down Thomas and break the curse.
Her back arched and her eyes closed. A shudder ran through her and her pussy gripped him tight. He managed another couple of thrusts before pulling out and coming on his sheets. He rested his forehead on her shoulder, unable to move for a moment. That was like ordering a whisky on the rocks and then only eating the ice.
The magic was still there. He could gather it up and use it, or let it dissipate. There hadn’t been much. He frowned. There should have been more. He let the feel of the magic tumble through his mind and let his mind pull up pictures he could translate. Blue static electricity, like one of those balls. He could touch the glass all he liked and the carge would be drawn to his hands, but he wouldn’t be able to feel the charge.
He drew back, Mylla was the glass ball and all of her charge was trapped inside, unusable and untouchable. Some people were like that, or they were absorbers of power without even realizing—he’d had a girlfriend like that once, sex with her had been draining, literally.
But Mylla had been deliberately encased. Now as his breathing returned to normal and he looked at her smiling face, he could sense it. He could sense more of the magic around the necklace. Death versus life.
Thomas had encased everything that could damage his magic, and that included Mylla and her lust and fertility. He eased back, still kneeling between her legs, and ran his hand down her body and over her stomach. In his mind he could see that ball of static charge responding to his touch—there’d been no doubt of that—but as his hand passed over her belly where her ovaries and womb were, the static sputtered and died to a few thin threads.
She was frowning now, not knowing what he was doing. He didn’t know what he was doing. If he started something now, he would have to finish it sooner rather than later in case Thomas realized he’d tampered with Mylla.
The need to speak to her was overwhelming.
As if she knew, she placed one finger to her lips. He scrubbed his hands over his face and pushed his fingers through his hair. She eased up to sitting and placed her hand over his heart. She smiled, then placed a light kiss on his lips and got up.
He was pretty sure he’d been used. She’d wanted sex and he’d given in without a fight. But it didn’t feel like a set up by Thomas. She dressed and tidied her hair while he picked up the book. I need to know. He pointed at her collarbone as she read it.
I’ll give you something tomorrow. She looked at him for a moment as if she had more questions. I need to be able to talk to you.
Same. Then he smiled. Be careful.
She cast a final gaze over him. Thank you.
Chapter 11
Mylla lay in bed for a little longer. She could feel the need to get up and get started on her chores building in her body. Soon it would be an order she couldn’t ignore. She smiled, enjoying the few heartbeats of rebellion. A moment that was her own when she could be herself and have her own thoughts.
The fog swirled through her mind, masking and then revealing memories. Not all made sense. Some were just images, smudged and faded. Despite the temptation she didn’t try to chase them. If she did, she’d become lost in the fog and it would swallow her up. The only reason she wasn’t lost now was because she’d hidden away the light like Oskar had told her. When Mr. Quigley had cut her and made her drink, it hadn’t reached her hidden light. It had taken her a while to work out how to hide it, but if she imagined a lantern she simply drew the shutters.
Now the lantern hung on a post and kept the fog away, and she stayed close, not daring to leave the safety. Last night the light had burned bright.
Her heart gave a flutter as she remembered Oskar’s touch and the feel of his body against hers. Her skin trembled afresh and the lamp flared brighter and hotter, the fog sliding further back—but it hadn’t been enough to set her free.
As much as she’d enjoyed herself, she’d been hoping that something would happen. That somehow the spell would’ve been broken. She’d skirted Mr. Quigley’s order to get ready for bed and had almost lied to him before hiding just how much she remembered, and yet she was still trapped.
If she could never get free, perhaps it would be better to live each day as if she knew no other, because knowing what was going on and being helpless hurt. She swallowed and pressed down on the anger and the unclean feeling that Mr. Quigley created. That odd smell in the house was back. Or maybe she’d just forgotten about it. Sweet, yet cloying, and it left an aftertaste at the back of her throat that was sour. She couldn’t place it. Not yet anyway.
Perhaps Oskar would be able to tell her more.
Her limbs began to move, throwing her out of bed. Instead of being controlled by the order, she got on with it. She needed a few extra moments to be able to slide her letter under Oskar’s door. Short and to the point, it only covered what she remembered about the ritual Mr. Quigley had done.
The one thing she’d looked forward to had been hearing Oskar talk at morning tea. Now she didn’t even have that. Her lips curved as she finished dressing and did her hair. Maybe she couldn’t hear him, but she could still touch him and feel his lips on hers. As long as she was careful, Mr. Quigley would never know about that.
Downstairs the house was quiet and dark; she made her way through the kitchen and down the hall to Oskar’s room, then slid the note under his door. For a moment she hesitated, wanting to see him again. She wanted to tell him how much last night had meant to her—even though she was still locked inside her own body—but instead she turned away from his door. If she went in and startled him, he might speak to her and then she would forget him. That would be the worst punishment of all.
Behind her, the door cracked open. She turned, one finger to her lips and her heart beating too hard. He stood there, half dressed in pajama pants, his hair mussed and her note in one hand. He mimicked her and put a finger to his lips.
She sighed with relief. He remembered.
For a moment they just stood there. She’d been in his bed, but it had been her choice, there’d been no promise of marriage or anything else. She had been as cheap and as bad as Mr. Quigley told her she was. And she loved every minute of it. As she looked at Oskar, she realized she might be falling for him. The way he spoke to her and the way he looked at her. The way he was looking at her right now. Did he realize the heat in his eyes and the way it sent a shiver of longing down her spine?
He took a couple of steps and swept her into his arms. For a moment she couldn’t breathe, then he kissed her on the cheek and let her go, as if realizing that what he was doing was too risky. He needn’t worry. Mr. Quigley rarely got out of bed before morning tea—and yet she didn’t entirely trust that knowledge. The warmth of Oskar’s touch began to fade already. How was she going to get through the day?
She rose up on her toes and kissed him on the lips, but before the kiss could become something deeper, she stepped away. The lingering taste of his lips on hers and the rapid beating of her heart in her ears would have to be enough. She’d get through the day, because Oskar would be hers at night, and in her dreams, and he’d find a way to set her free.
He said he would.
Mylla pointed to the note in his hand.
He nodded and mimed writing, which she took to mean he’d write her something during the day. That would have to do. This would be so much easier if they could talk. Five minutes and everything would be in the open. But for that, the necklace had to be off.
With a last smile, she turned and walked away. Her stomach knotted. Part excitement, part fear, and part hope. She felt reckless and happy and worried and things she hadn’t known she could feel in so long. Freedom was so close. And yet she knew she had to hide it all in case it was snatched away. She had to pull up the mask and shutter the light so the fog could draw closer.
When Mr. Quigley looked at her, all he’d see was her blank face and the fog. She was sure he could see the fog. A man who could bind her will must be able to read thoughts. He must also be in league with the devil. She suppressed the shudder and slipped inside of herself. He must not see.
Oskar read the letter as he lay on his bed. It was too early to be up and working in the garden, dawn had barely broken and the sky was dull and grey. Mylla had written what Thomas had done in the margins of a piece of Shakespeare, the bit where Romeo and Juliet killed themselves before they could save each other. Deliberate? He shuddered and hoped not. Not that he was in love with Mylla. No, he was just helping her, like any good witch would do. Like any decent man would do.
And the sex was necessary.
He winced, not even believing his lie. He’d tipped and fallen straight into what she was offering without even blinking because he was so desperate for a screw. Using magical research to justify it had been a tissue-thin excuse last night, and in daylight he could see straight through the tears.
While he wanted to hate himself, he couldn’t. Not when she’d grinned like that and pressed against him, and all he’d wanted to do was hold onto her. Not being able to talk had the upside of no awkward morning-after chat. No, instead there was the pulsing blood ritual that bound her. He’d have rather had the chat. He wanted to hear her voice. He wanted to be sure she was willing to go the full way with the magic, as there were no half measures.
If what the Morrigu was suggesting was true—and for all that She was a shifty bitch at times, She didn’t outright lie and deceive. In fact he was hard pressed to find a time She had ever deliberately mislead a follower. Her way was usually to offer a deal and hope no one read the fine print. Most people didn’t. Most people ended up paying far more than they wanted. When making deals with Goddesses or Gods, it was always a good idea to have the contract checked by a witch, preferably one who’d studied law.
Of course, most people either didn’t believe or didn’t want to believe, or chose to believe witches worshipped the devil. Some did, but the devil burned through people like cigarettes. You could tell a satanic witch as they looked like junkies seeking a magical fix—they died young and often tragically, but that didn’t stop more from trying to take the easy way to magical greatness.
It would almost be easier if Thomas was into that kind of magic.
He re-read Mylla’s note again.
From the blood taking, the words she remembered—including the binding that would make her forget him if he spoke. That made an unexpected lump form in his throat. He tried to imagine her looking at him as if he were a stranger instead of her eyes sultry like summer dusk, full of promises neither of them could keep, but happy to play anyway.
He sighed, he was more than happy to play, but was he ready to pay the consequences? Would Mylla be? Fuck, he didn’t even know if he was able to do what was expected. He crunched up the note and hoped he’d have more luck than Romeo.
By the time he made it to the kitchen for breakfast, Mylla was gone. He had to remind himself it was for the best. He had yet to figure out how to respond to her note. And yet he had to say something. And that was the crux of his problem.
