Dream Lover (15 page)

He gripped her hips, stilled them, then grasped her shoulders. She was consumed by the need to move, but he pulled her until her damp hair brushed his face; then his tongue came out to lick at one of the drops of blood gleaming on his lip. She remembered that tongue on her own lip, her own blood….

Jayne lowered her head and ran her tongue along the line of drops, then closed her lips around his and sucked gently until her mouth was full of the metallic tang. She swallowed. A tingle spread through her body in a frothing tide, ebbing just as he began to move, at last, in the demanding rhythm she craved.

Then she knew only the driving ache of pleasure, the mounting of the great wave that must break at last into the maelstrom of release. But he held her there, riding the crest, farther and farther, until they spun at last completely out of the world she had known.

The blaze of sensation faded gradually into glowing embers. Jayne became aware of the beat of wings. Still they spun on, ever slower, until at last familiar stone walls enclosed them and all motion ceased. She buried her face in his velvet chest.

He stroked along her hair and down her back. Her shoulder blades tingled. The sensation grew, swelled—and at last she understood, and felt her own power and gloried in the unfurling of her own great white sheltering wings.

The red-robed priest might think to hold a demon captive, but he could never resist an angel of seduction, and ecstasy and death.

 

 

 

 

 

R
ural Scotland, 1968

“I shouldn’t be here.”

Talking to yourself is one of the hazards of living alone too long. I stared at the clean, cold fireplace in Margaret’s old living room and wished she were here to answer me. Not that she’d have disagreed. It was a foolish visit, and I was the first to admit that I had no right to be back in Maybane.

But I needed to see him. How would he look? I knew the map of his face. After all the years I would recognize him—even if he’d changed and weathered with the passing time.

“Scott.” It had been so, so long since I felt that name on my tongue. It felt good. It tasted good. I looked at myself in the small, mottled mirror on my teacher’s mantelpiece. The house was far too quiet now that the witch Margaret was gone. She’d taught me enough to know that a home is alive, not merely four walls and a roof to keep the rain out. I missed her. The world had changed, and I was very different. Yet standing in
her old living room, I felt doors open in my heart.

I breathed in and smelled the lilacs in the garden and slowly gathered the haze charm about me. That night, I needed to be unseen. It made me sad, but there was no other way. The visit had to be strictly secret—I was only there because my heart was tired and bruised and yearning for a sight of his face.

Turning sunwise, I watched in the mirror as my reflection paled and shifted, until it was a shimmering mist in the glass, my black hair and tanned face a faded ghost you’d hardly have noticed. Around my neck the locket gleamed—that was harder to obscure as it contained old magic that wouldn’t be messed with, but I had to wear it if I valued my life.

“Protect yourself first, so you can protect the mortals,”
Margaret had taught a fifteen-year-old girl who knew nothing about the world.
“And keep away from Tommy Shearing.”

Sound advice. I wished I’d listened to her, but the local bad boy was a weakness that I couldn’t resist. Not even when it meant throwing away the chance of a good man’s heart, and long after it became clear that Tommy preferred his magic black. I shook myself and closed my eyes to say goodbye to Margaret’s ghost. I’d broken all the rules, and I’d spend the rest of my life learning to live with it.

I walked to the village hall, carrying my hazel wand. The early evening air was liquid against my skin. Bumblebees and moths brushed against my arms, confused. Good, I thought, cupping my hand to move them gently away. The haze is working.

The hall was strung with fairy lights. I could hear music already and it reminded me of all the other nights I’d walked past here, too afraid to show my face.

I had the cloak of power to cover me now, the knowledge that I couldn’t be harmed by anyone’s curious stares or hostile words. Only hard black magic could do that, and Tommy had been well
bound. I was safe. The odd, queasy shiver that ran through me must just have been left over from long-forgotten memories.

Inside, I made straight for the trestle tables where they were serving punch. The place was packed, and I was glad that none of the familiar strangers could see me. Not that anyone would have recognized the odd, gawky teenager they used to know. I’d become a woman polished, strengthened, and yes, maybe even hardened by magic. I recognized
them
, though: Trudy and Moira, faces bland and tired, voices lost among the clamor, their own children pestering them for cash; Richard, the skinny widow’s boy, cracking a joke, still trying to ingratiate himself with Don and Morgan, who ignored him as ever. My fingers twitched. I was tempted to give the two of them a blast just to show them some manners.

God. This is why witches don’t attend school reunions, as a rule.

And then all of a sudden it seemed that the place was overrun with us. I stopped in my tracks. Tommy lurked at the back of the hall, looking on with his twisted cool gaze. That made two of us here among the mortals—two too many.

From behind the safety of my protective magic, I gave him a good hard stare. His hair was razor short, and the brutish good looks of his teenage years had turned into a sharp-faced scowl. Next to him, Pamela folded her arms and made such a pinch-lipped pout it looked like she was chewing a wasp. So he’d ended up with her after all. I felt my tummy squeeze despite myself. Jealousy is hard to forget.

All I could do was keep walking and hope like hell that the haze would stay strong.

At the makeshift bar I bought some punch from Eric the butcher, who aimed a puzzled “Huh?” into the crowd as he handed me the paper cup. I drank it too quickly. Rum and
sugary orange stuck to my lips. Around me, the crowd surged and parted, and nobody seemed to notice the empty space that I created among them. My heart was dancing. I was thinking—
It’s okay; I can do this
.

And then my heart stopped.

There must be something as unique as a fingerprint in the way someone holds himself; in the set of his shoulders, the bow of his head. At once I knew it was him, and I felt the old days rushing up at me like a swarm. Maybe that’s what queered the magic; maybe that’s why the charm slipped for a minute. Because how else could he have turned to look at me, how could he have seen someone who wasn’t there?

“Amy?” he asked.

The voice that I remembered as honey sweet and soft as mist had got deeper, like an afternoon darkening. His eyes, when I turned to look into them, were as deep as the pit where we’d throw our stones and as black. His hair was still pale red, but brushed through with silver. Lines spread from his eyes, like the rays from sun behind a gray cloud.

“I’d been wondering when you’d visit.”

Usually I could read faces without even trying, but at that moment I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Perhaps the punch had clouded my abilities, or maybe I was just caught unawares. I knew there was something electric still there; I could sense a deep buried longing that flowed through his veins like an underground river—so strong it took me aback. But just what he desired wasn’t clear to me.

“How can you see me,” I said, blurting it out without thinking. “I mean, you know it’s me?”

Beautiful,
I thought.
Well done, Amy. Fifteen years away and you open with that?
I straightened my spine. “Scott,” I said, and it could have been a warning or an incantation or a plea.

“Oh.” His eyes looked full of gray clouds. “I’d know you anywhere.”

He had the most curious mouth, his lips fine and pale, drawn in a line so delicate and precise. At that moment they were open slightly and I moved a little closer. His gaze traveled over my face, as if reading a story. It wasn’t hard to imagine what kind of story. Especially not if he was sharing the same memories I was—stolen afternoons exploring each other’s bodies, how he used to look naked, how he used to touch me. I blushed. And then his eyes dropped, and I reached up reflexively to touch the locket around my neck.

“Why are you here?” Scott asked. Something in his voice grated like granite.

“I wanted to see you.” It sounded lame now that I said it out loud.

I looked around, embarrassed, and noticed that heads were turning. Scott must have looked curious, talking to midair. The haze was not a complete magic; it wouldn’t protect me forever, and if anyone was sober and shrewd enough, it might not protect me at all.

“Nostalgia?” He pressed his lips together. “What, a trip down memory lane, Amy?” He raised his voice.

To my left, I saw Tabitha Oldham and registered her frowning at me. Something was stirring in the crowd, some restless suspicion. I didn’t have long. The magic might start to slip. High emotion weakened my powers—and seeing Scott was draining me more than I thought it would.

“I can’t explain. Not here.”

There were murmurs on either side of me and suddenly I was claustrophobic. “Not now.” I shook my head. Desperately, I tried to keep my eyes fixed on Scott’s, wishing there were a way to explain.

It would have taken a hundred years. Longer than we’d ever have. Already, I was shrinking back, looking for the doorway behind me. The path was clear. I had time. Just like before, there was time to run, but nothing more.

Scott was watching me intently. “Not this time,” he said. “Not again.”

When I turned and started running a cry was torn from my throat. To leave Scott like that, to run from him a second time—it was too much.

I left like the soles of my feet were burning, heading without thought back down the roads I walked in my dreams, without deciding on a direction. Once outside of spitting distance I grabbed my hazel stick and pointed it toward the clouds. Just getting away was my only impulse. The stick rose into the welcoming sky, and I held on and followed its surging power, kicking hard until I had enough momentum to swing round and sit sidesaddle.

Please let the haze hold
, I chanted to myself.
Give me time to get away.

Only when the blood had ceased to pound in my ears did I notice where I was flying—up the winding road that led to Black Hill, the scene of all the old troubles. My heels trailed the tops of the willow trees and I could smell the river. There was the outline of the chestnut tree against the dusk sky, its shape as familiar as a much-loved friend. I aimed for it as if it had always been my destination. Perhaps it had, one way or another.

Buttercups grew over the field and what had been scorched earth was now covered with a lush tangle of grass and wildflowers. I came lightly to ground and walked toward it, remembering everything as though fifteen years had passed in a few hours. As I approached, though, my mouth went completely dry and I wanted to pinch myself.

“Scott?” I asked, my voice high and cracking. “How did you get here?”

The track up there was half-ruined, not an easy drive. And I hadn’t heard a car. But Scott was there, by the tree with his arms folded. His head turned as I approached, and this time I didn’t run.

The air between us was soft and clear and when I reached for his arm, the realness of it under my fingers was enough to make tears choke in my throat. His skin was warm and solid; the pulse of his body felt through the thin fabric of his shirt. Without even pausing I reached for a kiss and when he met me halfway it was like something broke inside me. I was shaking as I tasted him: the sweet, slight apple booze of his tongue and the scrape of his stubble and a lick of salt that I realized was from my tears, because I was crying. It was like drinking water after years in the desert and as I sank into him I felt that I was finally home.

He pulled away and held me at arm’s length.

“I thought you’d never come,” he says.

I tried a smile. It didn’t quite stick. “I came as soon as I could. When I thought the binding spell was fixed.”

I touched the locket automatically, reassuring myself it was still around my neck. Scott stared at it wordlessly. What storms were blowing through him? I couldn’t tell, and it puzzled me once more. My emotions must be clouding my vision.

“It’s okay,” I said, even though I knew it wasn’t. “Tommy can’t get past this.”

“No,” said Scott. “And neither can I.”

My heart seemed to slow to a halt in my chest. “What do you mean?”

“I want you. You’re the one I waited for, Amy. Not some stranger dressed up in a glamour magic.”

“This isn’t glamour, Scott. It’s protection. You understand that more than anyone, surely?”

“Magic is magic, Amy.” He bit his lip. “I can taste it on you.”

I thought of the talisman, Tommy’s charred hair tangled in with resin and blood. Sealed tight for fifteen years, worn close to my pulse points to keep the magic strong. It was true; you couldn’t use a spell without it affecting you. Truth be told, there were times when it was the magic using the witch. But to lose the locket—and on this, Tommy’s hunting ground—I felt sick at the thought of it.

“That’s madness,” I said.

Scott nodded. “And what do you call this visit if it isn’t madness?”

I bowed my head.

“You may be right. But the talisman is the only thing stopping him from taking revenge.” I paused. The thought of being stripped of magical protection was enough to curdle my blood. “Why does it matter?”

“Because it clouds you,” Scott said. “Because there’s no difference between a glamour and a haze and a love spell as far as I’m concerned. And because if I have you, I’ll have you naked.”