The Ninepenny Element

by K. L. Noone

  “And you found me,” Lia said. “You knew something was wrong in the first place. And you offered to help.”

  “What was I going to do, let you walk around with a hexed—”

  “That,” Lia said. “That’s what I mean. That’s you. Verity.”

  Her name, in that voice, became a charm itself: somehow new. Unfolding like a flower. New petals opening up. Possibilities.

  “Lia,” Verity said, because apparently they were saying each other’s names now, because words did have power, because she wanted to taste that sound on her tongue the way she wanted to taste Lia’s smile at the saying of it.

  “You are a witch,” Lia said. “And magic’s real and I’m wearing a famous writer’s pajama pants. And at this point I believe in enchantment and I believe in you and I really would like to kiss you and I think I might as well ask, with everything that’s already happened, so can I—”

  Verity lunged forward. Caught those lips under hers.

  Chapter 6

  Lia tasted like coffee and lipstick and startled pleasure; she kissed like someone who took kissing seriously, grave and sweet and attentive to every inch of Verity’s mouth. Verity leaned in more, plunged hands into that waterfall of hair, turned the braid into a loose exuberant flood; she licked at Lia’s lower lip, nibbled lightly, chased and teased that tongue with her own. Lia moved against her, under her; somehow they’d melted lower onto the couch, legs tangling, Verity on top.

  Lia’s hands snuck up under Verity’s striped shirt, found bare skin; Verity breathed, “Yes,” into the kiss, and tugged at that borrowed shirt in turn. Her body hummed with need; her nipples grew tighter, and heat built in her jeans.

  They sat up enough to lose shirts. Lia, spread out all pink and white across Dan’s couch, got adorably wide-eyed. “You’re beautiful.”

  Verity laughed.

  “No, you are.” One hand ventured up, stroked Verity’s arm, followed a constellation of blue stars to her collarbone; those eyes drank in vines, runes, leaves, the sigil under a bra strap. The fingers drew heat, lingering; Verity had not known that a simple touch, not even anyplace purposely erotic, could set her skin alight with sparks.

  She hadn’t worn a particularly fancy bra—black and simple, but not anything special. She blushed; she covered her own embarrassment up with words. “It’s just family tradition. Symbolic, mostly. Though a couple of them help with protection, wards, enhancement, stuff like that.”

  “They’re wonderful. Will you tell me about them?”

  “Now?”

  “No. Now you should kiss me again. Consider that, um, good legal advice. Suggestions you should act on.”

  Verity burst out laughing, and bent down, and kissed her fearless lovely lawyer; Lia moaned and sighed and grew wordless very satisfactorily.

  They fit together as if they’d been meant to. Shortness and height, the swell and press of Lia’s breasts under crimson silky fabric, the heat of skin and hands and long legs parting as Verity moved between them. Lia flushed more pink, roses and melting ice, and trembled and softened as Verity kissed her throat; she was not a shy or silent partner, full of delight and delightful sounds, and she did seem to like Verity growing more assertive, deeper kisses, taking charge.

  Verity touched one bra strap; Lia nodded, and Verity flicked fingers and flung the scrap of fabric away without touching it; Lia laughed more and said “Useful—” and Verity had to kiss her more.

  And more. Hand cupping a revealed breast, that firm enticing curve, just the right size for Verity’s hand, a rosebud nipple hard and tempting; Verity caught it between fingers, played, learned Lia liked slow deliberate fondling: commanding relentless sensation.

  She’d left her jeans on, and Lia’s borrowed pajama pants; they wouldn’t move faster than this. But she wanted to make Lia come apart for her; she wanted to see those pale winter-sky eyes lost in the rainbows of ecstasy, wanted to know how Lia looked and felt at the peak.

  She wanted Lia to feel good, nothing but good, here in her arms.

  Lia’s hands came up to unhook Verity’s bra as well, sharing the eagerness; Verity caught breath as those slim fingers moved over her breasts, found places that craved to be found, made more heat gather deep inside. Her jeans were growing damp; she thought that Lia must be wet as well, under those borrowed pajama pants and in the crimson silky panties that peeked out, and the thought demanded action.

  She bent and kissed Lia’s nipple, took it into her mouth, sucked: licked and lapped, employing tongue. Lia cried out in pleasure, arching up; Verity smiled, and did that again.

  She ran a hand over Lia’s flat waist; she touched the edge of that scarlet silk. Lia panted, “Please—you can, you can—I want—” and Verity whispered, “I want you, I want to see you come for me,” and slipped a hand into those panties, down between those long legs, where Lia felt so hot and slick, the way Verity had known she’d be.

  She explored, caressed, found that tight little bud of nerves; Lia’s clit was hot and stiff and wet as well, desire undeniable. Verity teased out more wetness, gathering it up, dipping fingers in; then traced circles over that taut tense nub of need. Lia moaned, hips lifting; Verity rubbed at her, found more friction, more pressure, and breathed over the mouth-wet pinkness of that nipple, “Come for me, come on, show me, let me see you, you’re so gorgeous…”

  Lia gasped, shuddered, and stiffened; wetness drenched Verity’s fingers, and she teased that clit just a little more, until Lia shrieked and squirmed and quivered and finally went almost boneless under the onslaught of pleasure, eyes huge and fixed on Verity, lips parted and soft.

  Verity leaned up and kissed her; Lia moaned again, faintly, and managed, “You…oh, God, please…that was…”

  “Please what?”

  “I don’t know! I feel…” Those long eyelashes swept down and up. “What can I do for you?”

  “Stay right there,” Verity told her, “like that,” and shifted position, straddled Lia’s slender firm thigh, rocked against the feel of it. She had not entirely meant to come—she’d wanted to care for Lia, to make Lia feel so good, a wave of tenderness that shocked her even as it swept her away—but abruptly she needed to; the urgency built into arrows, sharp and white-hot and burning. Her jeans were a lost cause, now; she did not care.

  Lia’s fingers stroked her breast, found her nipple, rolling, caressing; the other hand, though, came up to cup Verity’s face, holding her there as if in awe, or reverence, or pure happiness at being here.

  And Verity rubbed herself harder and faster against that leg between hers, and the bowstring of need grew tauter and tenser, and all at once it broke and spilled; the arrows burst into radiance as her entire core grew liquid, dissolving, enraptured. She rocked again in place, unthinkingly, making herself shake with it, her clit throbbing with delight, her center clenching and plush with release.

  Lia moaned under her as if sharing the sensation; Verity collapsed atop her, kissed her again, nuzzled exultant breaths into her hair, the coil of an ear, under her jaw.

  They lay still in afternoon sunshine, for a while. Silver glinted from Lia’s wrist; Verity’s tattoos found a home holding all that pale skin and those long limbs.

  Lia said idly, amused, “I’m going to need to borrow more clothes.”

  “We can do laundry.”

  “How long have we got before they get back?”

  “Um…about an hour? Sterling said three. And Dan likes being punctual. Are you…was that…how was that?”

  Lia’s lips quirked up: that wonderful smile. “Magical.”

  Verity poked her right in the ribs for that, and Lia surrendered to giggles, and after that also allowed herself to be scooped off the sofa and taken to the shower, where she gravely bent that head and let Verity wash all that shining hair and skin.

  In the shower, under the leap and waltz of water, Verity put arms around Lia’s waist. Felt the way they fit, again. Like the matching note in the universe’s melody. Like the low deep pul
se of energy of the heart of the world, alive as witchcraft, and contented.

  She thought about witchcraft; she said, the thought arriving all at once, “Someone did hex your earring. The hazel.”

  “Someone—” Lia blinked away curious streamers of water. “Someone who might want me to have a very bad day or two—”

  They said, simultaneously, “Kermit.”

  “Does he know about magic?”

  “I wouldn’t’ve thought so, but I didn’t know about magic.” Lia let Verity wrap her in a thick sage-green towel—Dan also bought excellent towels—and ran a hand through her hair, and twisted it into an unlikely knot. Shower-damp and naked, she was human and thoughtful and astonishing. Verity touched her arm, just to feel her. “I can’t think of anyone else who’d have a reason to do anything like that.”

  “Would he still be in your office?”

  “I think so—it’s still working hours—are you thinking—”

  “Yep. Let’s go find him and ask.”

  “If he can do magic—” Lia met her eyes, asking: protective in turn. Verity ended up strangely warmed by this ferocity. “You’re amazing, but what if he’s powerful—”

  “From the spell we broke, he’s not very good. But I’ll have Sterling meet us anyway. If your awful Kermit’s any kind of witch he’ll know the name.”

  “Verity Friday,” Lia said. “Fixing the world.”

  “I didn’t mean my name—”

  “I know. I did.”

  Chapter 7

  They arrived at McKillop and Stone at sundown, under the ruby and bronze of a city dancing with twilight. Lights came on around them, a ball gown sewn with electric gems; Verity thought that New York was beautiful, and Lia was beautiful, and probably even Sterling and Dan were beautiful, made of luminous love.

  She’d thrown on jeans and her boots and her jacket again, her armor; they’d met Sterling and Dan at Lia’s apartment, which was—as expected—in a high-powered and glamorous building that raised eyebrows at scruffy leather-clad witch intruders. Lia decorated in lush jewel-hues, blues and turquoises and coppers, dark wood and thick cashmere; Verity noticed the indulgence of textures, and grinned, and made mental notes.

  Lia had come out of the bedroom in a spectacularly tailored dark blue suit, pants and matching jacket and ivory blouse; her legs were miles long and her eyes were even bluer, framed by color, and the outfit was another stunning assembly, another kind of armor and charismatic presence. She’d left the hair down, a great white-blonde sweep that begged for hands to run through it. Verity wanted to kiss her more.

  Funny how quickly that’d happened. A day, a meeting, and magic. And she wanted to always hold Lia’s hand.

  Dan had made a phone call—being a celebrity author phenomenon came with some useful contacts—and intimated that he might be doing research into corporate real estate law for a book plot. Everybody’d fallen over themselves to be helpful. This was decidedly useful; Verity had said as much.

  Dan had laughed; Sterling had said, “So did you two enjoy yourselves, before having an epiphany and calling us?” and batted eyelashes at her. Verity had sighed and said, “Some of us don’t share our sex lives with the world, Sparkles,” and Sterling had unseriously threatened to curse her.

  Lia, a minute later, had inquired with studied casualness, “So, should I also call you Sparkles, if that’s your nickname?” Verity thought she might be in love.

  They emerged on the twentieth floor, and went looking for Kermit Waterson.

  He was easy to find; he looked up as four bodies arrived at his office door and stared at them all from under thinning red hair with affronted officiousness. “Amelia—I thought you’d left for the day, I’ve been working on the Stratos Hotel acquisition, you haven’t been here and I’ve taken it over and if you’re asking, it’s too late, you can’t have it back—who are these people?”

  “Hi.” Sterling tossed a lazy salute that direction. Casually stylish, sleeves rolled up, he leaned pixie height against the doorframe and tipped that head insouciantly. Verity was tempted to roll her eyes but refrained. “Sterling Friday. Since you do know at least something about magic, you might’ve heard of me.”

  Kermit went pale.

  “Oh, good,” Sterling said, “you have.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Kermit said. “I didn’t…I just wanted…I would never hurt Amelia! She’s so—she’s so pretty, so distracting, so nice to see in the office—but of course she can’t handle the big cases, she’s not experienced enough, she’s only getting them because the partners like saying we’ve got a woman—you know, you must know, you know how it is, with women…”

  “Have you met my big sister?” Sterling said. “She can kick your ass.” He grinned at Verity; Verity grinned back.

  Sterling, she thought, was on her side. Her brother thought she could do anything. And was here for her: not a case, not a client, not even his magical specialty. Here because she’d asked for his help, for the woman she thought she might be falling in love with.

  The world got a little brighter because of that.

  “That’s my project,” Lia said. “I did all the research. I submitted all the documents. You don’t get to take credit.”

  “Also,” Verity said, “you don’t get to, y’know, hex people.”

  “And what are you going to do about it?” Kermit crossed arms: a middle-aged mean-eyed tower of smugness. “I do know who you are. I’ve thought about it now. You’re psychic, not a real witch. I’m not either, I never thought I could do much, just little things out of this old book my aunt had. But I might be better than you.”

  “You might be.” Sterling gave him an exaggerated oh dear, whatever shall we do? gesture: entertained and aristocratic. “You’re not better than my sister. You’ve heard of me. You haven’t heard of her. Think about that. No rush.”

  Verity, just for fun, summoned up some fire. Made it dance in her hand. She actually couldn’t do that much, not being especially fire-gifted, but Kermit wouldn’t know that.

  The man in question gulped. His eyes darted to the flame, then away. “I didn’t really want to hurt her.”

  “And now you’ve confessed,” Lia said. “Oh, this should be fun…”

  Kermit shrank before their eyes: shriveled and pleading behind his desk. “Don’t hurt me…I didn’t hurt her, it was just the earring…I won’t do it again…I’m really not a bad person…”

  “Just horrible,” Verity said. “Lia? Your decision.”

  “I think…” Lia crossed arms. Put that chin up, all ice and steel and determination. “I want you to resign. I don’t care where you go, just don’t work here again. Verity, is there some sort of magical statute for abuse of abilities?”

  “Yeah, actually,” Verity said. “We could do a lot. Shut off access to his power, put a monitoring charm on him, send him upstate to a more secure location…” They wouldn’t—he wasn’t really a threat, as far as she could tell—but she wanted him to know that they could. He’d hurt Lia. Insulted Sterling. Insulted women in general. And was busy being spineless about it when confronted, to boot.

  “Please,” Kermit whimpered. “I’ll resign.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on you,” Verity decided. “Also I want your book. You can bring it over tomorrow when you come in and resign in person.”

  Kermit nodded, wordless.

  “Okay then,” Sterling said, and pushed himself up from leaning on the door and waved again on the way out. “We don’t want to be seeing you.”

  “Goodbye, Kermit,” Lia said, and followed. Her heels tapped emphasis under the word.

  Verity waited for Sterling and Dan and Lia—her family—to leave, and then took one more step into the office. Let more fire blaze up from her hand. “And if you’re thinking of trying anything else…she’s got powerful protections now. Ours. So…don’t.”

  Kermit went even whiter, and sagged into his chair, and nodded as if unable to stop.

  “Good,” Verity said
, with satisfaction, and left.

  Chapter 8

  Out of the building, standing just beyond heavy glass doors, Lia spun Verity’s way and threw arms around her. “We’re magnificent. You’re magnificent. Thank you.” Over Verity’s shoulder, she added, “All of you.”

  “Thanks for noticing,” Sterling said. “We’re here, too.”

  Dan kicked him in the ankle, then kissed him to forestall any protest.

  Verity hugged Lia right back, loving the feel of that body against hers: tall, joyous, intoxicating, perfect. She wanted that more; she wanted to learn everything, more touches, lazy mornings and late nights, favorite ice cream flavors and karaoke songs and which side of the bed Lia liked to sleep on, so that they could settle in exactly that way, every night.

  She said, unaccountably shy and pretending hard that she wasn’t, “You should be fine now.”

  “Yes…” Lia hesitated. “You saved me. You—I have your protection. Your ninepenny silver.”

  “Yes,” Verity said. “Yes.”

  “But you…will you be going home? Your life, your family…”

  “I don’t mind you staying with us,” Dan put in.

  “If you need to go…” Lia trailed off, biting that lip. Verity wondered how she could’ve ever thought about ice and snow; Lia might be pale and lovely, platinum and starlight, but her cheeks were flushed with passion, and her eyes were alive and hopeful and trying hard to be self-sacrificial if that was what Verity wanted. “If you have…other people to help…”

  “I was actually thinking about that.” Verity took her hand. The city twinkled around them, not cold at all, a welcoming night. “I already thought…I might not go home yet. I might stay. For a while.”

  “You might.”

  “I love my family. I’ll still have to go back, to help out with what they need, to handle major workings and renewals. But…I was thinking. About what I want. For me.”

  “You deserve that,” Lia said. “You do.”

  “I like books,” Verity said. “I like museums. I could get to know the local coven and sort of…make us less intimidating, maybe. The Fridays. Nobody’d be nervous around Sterling after the pancake batter story.”