ROMANCE: Party of Three: A Lustful Collection of Menage Romance (Menage Romance, Bisexual Romance, Stepbrother Romance) (10 page)

Bonus!
CLICK HERE
to get instant access to my Insider’s List! Receive Updates whenever a fresh new title hits the shelves!

“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,” the Reverend intoned. “The Bible commands we root out this evil, and act with absolute force to eliminate the servants of Satan. Witness the harm worked on the youth of our community. Biting and pinching by invisible agents, thrashing about in fits, rending their clothes—we are under attack for the very fate of our souls.”

              The heat of panic reverberates among the congregation—women become pale, men look angry and impassioned.

Reverend Parris continues shaming the congregation. “We are born into sin, working at every moment to overcome our base nature. It is our sacred duty to root out the devil where we find him, even amongst our families and ourselves.”

              Even while he rants about the fate of our souls, I find my attention divided. By now most women my age are married, keeping house and bearing children, but my family’s past hinders any such contract. My father divorced my mother, citing adultery. In truth, he wanted to be with another woman, but my mother was still found guilty, and so my father was free to marry a new wife while my mother was whipped.

              He left me behind, arguing there was no way to know if I was truly his daughter, so I have little to offer a husband. Coupled with my living situation, I am unequivocally undesirable. In all honesty, I do not so much yearn for marriage. It ruined my mother, for no reason other than a man’s boredom. It might be a change to the monotony, but I am more curious about the physical aspects of marriage.

              Marriage holds little value for me, but men…men are another story. I can feel myself grow hot beneath the layers I wear, achy at the sight of him: Zachary Grove. From here I can see the broad outline of his strong shoulders, and I picture them without clothes. In town, I have seen how strong and muscled his forearms are and how large his hands are. His golden hair falls in a soft wave, and I long to run my fingers through it, knotting the tendrils around my fingers as I pull his lips to mine.

              It makes me want to jump out of my skin—the desire to be subdued by him occupying every spare moment. But I am invisible to him. So I watch from a distance, burning with the need to be filled.

After church, I walk with my mother and our maid, looking upon the others as they pass. The women bow their heads, feigning submission and piety, but they are only bored. Men pass with puffed out chests, standing tall and straight. Since posture is taxing, it can be seen as work, for men at least. Women who stick out their chests are vulgar.

My observations are interrupted by a young man who gallops into the town, his clothes stained and generally disheveled from his vigorous ride. As he dismounts, his eyes survey the periphery, briefly finding mine before they continue on. I’m instantly captivated, wondering who he is, where he comes from, and why he’s in Salem, but my mother takes an arm and pulls me along, gently.

Back at our home, we sit down to a simple meal of salt pork and bread. One of mother’s clients stops by, and brings news of the arrival along with some torn clothes.

“His name is Aaron Pryor. Both his mother and father have passed on, so he comes to find fellowship in Salem. He is a fisherman.”

              I picture his dark hair and agile frame drawing in fish. He dismounted from his horse more gracefully than I’ve ever seen, and though he is slim, there is power in his stride. My mind wavers between Aaron and Zachary, until I’m drawn into the conversation.

“Eden, we have some mending to do. Best start before the light is gone for the day.”

“Yes, mother. Thank you for calling, Mrs. Rowe.”

              The afternoon is spent in mind-numbing quiet, doing whatever mending or sewing we’ve been hired for, then seeing to our own clothes. While we work, Rashi, our maid, cleans the dishes, sweeps the house, freshens the mattresses with clean hay, and then leaves to complete some errands.

              It’s nearly dark, but Rashi is not back, and I wonder where she has strayed to, so I ask mother if I can quickly search for her.

“You must be back before dark,” mother insists. I am cloaked and given a lantern, just in case, and I then set out to find Rashi. The public places are deserted, and I walk through town, peering in the open windows just to check, but I do not see her dark face. It stands out against the pale white most women bitterly fight to keep, and the soft tan the farmers have.

              I’m on the edge of town when I realize Aaron is watching me from the porch of the boarding house. His eyes are dark and intense, staring as though they could see through my petticoat, and I blush. He smiles, seeing my reaction, and walks back into the boarding house. I’m not sure why, but I stand there until I see a light come on, three windows back on the side of the building. His hands part the curtain, and find me still watching. Part of me wants to walk up to that window and climb in, but I remember Rashi and turn to search the woods, keeping close to town.

              As I circle around the woods surrounding town, it’s not long before I smell smoke. In a clearing, I come upon a fire. Rashi is stripped to the waist, circling the fire wildly, leaping and chanting as though she is possessed. I am spell-bound, watching her with an interest never before felt. Everything is so vivid, from her gleaming brown skin to the red streaks across her breasts, the ecstatic movements of her body to the strange words she utters. My feet are rooted though my eyes panic, trying to capture every motion, every detail.

              Her hands fly out, flinging items into the fire, then powders, and the embers change color. A voice that seems to come from nowhere utters a warning: “You are not alone.” For the first time Rashi looks around, seeing me amongst the trees and bushes.

“I guess you’ll be wantin’ to report this,” she asks, her chest heaving, eyes holding mine.

“No. I want your help.”

              Rashi pauses for a second, then nods. I have been living with a real, live witch.

              Her dark hands close around my wrists, drawing me closer. The fire still dances, crackling and spitting.

“What power do you seek, child?” She searches my eyes, curious.

“I want to make men fall in love with me, lie with me, all at my own will.”

Rashi dabs something wet and sticky on my forehead, then begins to chant.

“Look upon this girl, a slave to her world, and set her free. Give her power over men’s minds, urges they cannot find release for, except in her arms.”

The deep voice from before emanates from the flames and channels through Rashi’s speech. “What would you offer for such a gift?”

“Life’s blood, spilled upon your flames.” Rashi grabs a rabbit from a small wooden cage near the fire, holding it by the scruff of its neck, and slides a dagger under its throat. Blood sprays at first, then falls in a cascade, hissing as it hits the fire.

“So be it,” the fire rumbles again through Rashi.

“Thank you for your gifts,” she reverently whispers, bowing to the fire. She then douses the flame with a bucket of water, and gathers up any remaining artifacts. We walk to the edge of town before I realize she is still topless.

“Rashi—your dress!”

              She looks down and laughs, then covers herself. It is well and truly dark, fortunately for us, because she would have drawn attention that way, dark skin or not.

              We make the short walk back to my home, but I am shy around Rashi after this experience and don’t speak. I want to ask if the magic worked, if I now have power over men; instead, we walk as quietly as possible. Some windows remain open, and any words might drift in. Now is not a good time to be thought a witch.

              Before we reach the door of my home, Rashi whispers a single word:

“Soon.”

              It is enough to give me hope.

              That night, my dreams are vivid—Aaron and Zachary swirl through my mind. I picture them bathing, skin glistening with water. Zachary is strong and wide, his jaw square and strong. Aaron is tall and slimmer, with a sloping jaw and pointed chin. Both are so handsome, but my mind struggles. Which do I choose? As I turn to either man, the other begins to walk away, but when I chase the other, the first begins to leave.

              In the end, Zachary is the image I’ve been pining for, so I focus on him. Slowly, he begins to remove his doublet, then the long linen shirt underneath. All that remains are his breeches, but the image fades before he is fully unclothed.

              When I wake from my dream, my shirt is stuck to my back with sweat. The house is still dark and I am drowsy, but yearning. I reach between my legs, finding the peak of my ache, and slowly begin to circle the little bead. I can feel my heart speed up, my breath grow haggard as the sensation builds. I’m close to finding release, but I stop.

              It’s always so secretive. Little movements in the dark while the town sleeps. What I want is a partner. Another person who wants to please me and does anything to achieve that end. The ache resumes and I am hungrier than ever for caresses that will send me over the edge, but I wait.

              Next morning, when my mother sets out to deliver the mended items and newly made ones, Rashi and I sit close together, knitting and talking.

“Did it work?” I whisper. “Is the power mine?”

“The power is within you,” she corrects. “But power can move between people; just as it was given to you it can be taken.”

“So how does it work?”

“You need to get something from the person you want,” she explains. “Hair is best, but clothes will do. Then you sew a little doll, and take something of yours, hair if you have his hair, a bit of your clothing if that’s what you got. Then, you make circles over a candle flame. The words are ‘For you, I yearn; For me, you burn’.”

“How long will it take?”

“Not long. But after it starts workin’ you got to keep that doll somewhere safe.”

              I hadn’t realized I would need to keep any traces of the magic. There are few secret places in my house, so I begin to plan where I can hide the doll; it must not be found.             

              Our discussion is interrupted by commotion outside, and we both run to the door. Mary Selwicke is bound, thrashing between the two men who walk her through town. A third walks behind yelling “Witch!”

              In the center commons, she is made to stand on the stage, while the men explain the meaning of it all.

“We found her in the woods, just outside town. There was a fire recently put out, and in that fire we found bones. Blood spatters stained the charred wood. And the smoke smelled like potions.”

One of Reverend Parris’ daughters bursts through the crowd, slobbering and raving. “She’s pinching me. Ow! Ow! And biting.” The girl falls to the ground, writhing and screaming, pointing at the stage where Mary Selwicke stands.

“Kill the witch!” a voice from the crowd screams.

“Burn her, or we’ll all burn!”

“STOP!” a voice shrieks. Mary Selwicke’s mother quiets the crowd with her bone-chilling screech. “My daughter is not a witch. I sent her to the woods for some sticks to put in our hearth-fire. She must have come upon that foul scene.”

“We must test her,” Reverend Parris intones, stepping up onto the platform. “For now she will be restrained on suspicion of witchcraft.”

              My eyes meet Rashi’s, and we both sense the fear of the town. For month’s we’ve been afraid of Indian attacks, sickness that has spread nearby, and trying to set up food stores for the coming winter. Witches are becoming the scapegoats for these problems, and finding the remnants of last night’s voodoo has tipped the scales. The theory has become reality in more people’s minds and only death will relieve their fears.

              As the town disperses and Mary is taken away, I see Zachary does not move. His eyes are fixed upon the stage where she stood.

“It’s so unexpected,” I murmur as I walk to his side. “We were the first two to remember the Lord’s Prayer in our lessons.”

He is quiet for a minute, his jaw set while his eyes take in the scene, trying to make sense of it all. “She is the only girl I ever intended to marry,” he admits.

“I’m sorry.” A thought flickers in my mind. “Zachary, I don’t mean to be untoward, but you have a string on your collar. I ran out here with my shears in all the commotion, may I clip it?”

              He nods, stooping so that I can reach his shoulders, and I stand on my toes. One snip, and everything I need falls into my free hand, which I hide behind my back.

“Done.”

“Thank you.” He tilts his head, and then walks away.

              I open my palm, and rub the little golden hairs. There should be a sense of victory, but my excitement is tempered by his mood. Mary Selwicke is the only girl he can think of? She’s exactly like the other boring girls in town. Always demure, hands clasped, head downcast. I bet she doesn’t even have stray thoughts in church! She probably likes the sermons.

              Rashi will know for sure, but Mary Selwicke is about as far from a witch as one can be. Just thinking about her makes me yawn. I begin to wonder if Zachary is just as boring, with his pining for Mary, but I’ve already gone far enough to get the hair, so I clutch the hair and head back to the house. For the rest of the day, Rashi mends while I make a doll. It’s quick work, and I decide to make another.

              While we work, Rashi confirms my gut feeling—Mary Selwicke is no witch. But, that doesn’t mean we are safe.

“Sometimes you hit the target, even by accident,” Rashi cautions me. Even though the witch hunters might not be adept at finding real witches, anyone could be randomly accused, including us. “Have you found a place to hide those dolls?”

“I was thinking under the floor in my room.”

She nods. “Better do it now.”

              There are several loose floorboards in my room, but I choose one under the woven rug. Quickly, we roll the rug aside, and then pry up one end of the loose board, hiding the dolls beneath. Mother returns soon after, and we all eat.

“It’s just awful,” mother shakes her head. “Mary Selwicke was such a nice girl. We must pray for her.”

              We all nod, but the rest of dinner is quiet. My thoughts are occupied with plans to retrieve the doll and complete my spell, but the trial will begin tomorrow, and the whole town must be present, so we retire early.

              The church is the only building large enough for everyone, so the trial is held there. My back begins to ache not long after the proceedings begin. We sit in the absolute last row, our usual place due to my mother’s label of adulteress. From here, I can see Zachary, his brow furrowed as he listens to the descriptions of the scene where the men found Mary Selwicke.

              Aaron sits in front of us to one side, and I study his profile. He seems bored, and his head begins to loll. He’s falling asleep! In spite of the circumstances, I smile and stifle my laugh. It is all a bit ridiculous.

              For what seems like hours they talk and deliberate. Then the test is chosen.

“Submersion,” determines the judge. It will happen immediately.

              The weather is still warm, but I imagine the water is growing cold already, and I shiver watching Mary be lowered into the river.

“Those who have not been baptized in the name of God cannot hope to have water pass over them. If this be and she floats, then there is proof she is a witch. Thirty seconds!” yells the judge, “starting now.”

              Her arms and legs are bound, so that she cannot hope to pinch her nose shut or paddle for the surface. At thirty seconds, she is heaved from the river by the ropes. She did not float, and so is safe from being ruled a witch. But she is also dead.

              Zachary deflates, seeing her lifeless body pulled from the river. He walks away before the judge finishes speaking.

“The witch is not Mary Selwicke. But there are witches among us. They tried to use Mary Selwicke as their shield, but God wins out. Now we must find the true culprits.”

              Reverend Parris’ daughter stands still, apparently unaffected by the dead body of Mary Selwicke. Her writhing and screaming have stopped for now, but I wonder when she will be gripped and who will be pointed at then.

              Mother, Rashi and I begin the walk home, and I think of Mary Selwicke. Even being declared innocent can be a death sentence, with the submersion test. This town is teeming with people so afraid of magic that the risk of killing someone innocent is far outweighed by the peace of mind from knowing with certainty who is a witch.

              It’s so funny—they think these little tests help them discover witches. Really, none of it works. Witches can drown, just like anyone else. The thought stops me cold. Their tests might not be accurate, but are still deadly.

              Voices echo in the woods, and I hear a raspy voice insist that we must find the witches responsible. It’s not a familiar tone, and I search through the trees for the source. Aaron. Our eyes meet, and he smiles grimly.

              The men head to the site where Mary Selwicke was found, Aaron included, and I realize it is not far from where he saw me last night, from his porch and then from his window. My heart drops, fearing that he might make the connection.

              One thing is clear—my relationship to Aaron is now more important than ever. If I can entrance him, I will be safe. Now all that remains is how to get something of his for the doll.