Wild Fire

by P. M. Briede

  As we drove to school, Wesley’s ghost reminded me that we hadn’t discussed the exiled mole in the campaign since the morning after my attack. “Olivier, are we any closer to getting a bead on Banks?”

  Olivier frustratingly shrugged his shoulders and shifted in his seat. “Nothing’s changed,” he mumbled.

  I sighed and peered out the passenger side window. “Do you still have eyes on Wesley?” I asked out of nowhere. The car was slowing at a red light but at the mention of Wesley’s name it jerked to a halt. My head whipped around to Olivier.

  His head swiveled to me as he completely ignored the road and tried to read my face. “Why now, Charlotte?” he questioned. I shrugged my shoulders and turned to look back out the window. When Olivier reached out to pull my head back around I swatted him away. He answered me with a sigh. “I do but he’s not seeing anything more than what Paige has. Breaux spends his days with the brunette, whom no one can name or describe. He’s bookended by her and Abigail at campaign events. He spends his nights with Abigail.” My body involuntarily flinched as if doused in ice cold water at the mention that Wesley had found someone else to warm his bed.

  The only thing that was steady about me now was my voice. “So still all we’ve got is that she’s a brunette?”

  The car accelerated at the green light as Olivier took my hand in his. “We have a general height. Paige thinks she’s within inches of Wesley’s height, give or take what size heel she wears. I figure she’s got to be attractive to be the press secretary. At each event with Tristan, Paige tries to draw people into describing her, but no one can. I have to give something more than pieces and theories, though. At the moment, I believe Paige and you are safe. You both are no longer a threat to the exiles and you haven’t done anything to incur the wrath of the angels. As for Breaux and me, the same can’t be said.”

  I stared at him with wide eyes and clung to him. “What are you saying?” The thought of losing Olivier caused my throat to constrict.

  His thumb stroked the back of my hand. He didn’t answer until we pulled into the school’s parking garage. Taking a deep breath, Olivier turned to look into my eyes. “I’m saying the whelp is on the radar of the angels as a threat to the status quo. I am on the radar of the exiled if I don’t fulfill my purpose to make sure they get their little rebellion. I am also on the radar of the angels if I don’t keep my promise to stop the rebellion. We are both currently living on borrowed time because once the rebellion starts, which is the direction everything is progressing in, Breaux and I will be the first seized, by one side or the other, to suffer the consequences. Please don’t worry though, none of that is going to happen. We’ll get the proof we need, turn Banks in, and you and I will live that long life I promised you.”

  I didn’t know if he was lying to me or to himself. “How can you say that? How can you possibly know that? You just got done saying the rebellion is a foregone conclusion!” I screeched.

  Olivier leaned forward to caress my lips with his. “Because for the first time since I was banished to this earth, I have something to live for,” he confessed against them.

  * * *

  Olivier was holding my waist as he explained to the boys how their hold should be during class. His touch did nothing to make me feel more secure. Typically this was my favorite time of the week. There was truly nothing I loved more than dancing with him. But his ominous words from the car were swimming through my mind, he and I will be the first seized to suffer the consequences. There had to be something I could do. I’m a muse after all. Wait! That’s it! I’m a muse and my being in the mix was what had slowed the rebellion and caused everyone to make moves they normally wouldn’t. Without me there stirring the pot they were just trucking along with no obstructions. I had to find a way to get back involved in the campaign somehow.

  “Mrs. Grace?” A throat cleared. “Mrs. Grace?” A couple of the students were giggling as Olivier urgently tried to get my attention.

  Blinking, I pulled myself out of my epiphany and back to the class. “Yes, Mr. Cheval?” I answered.

  Olivier smiled as if there was a joke but his eyes held the concern he felt. My actions had to have him thinking I’d slipped into a daymare he was going to have to try and figure out how to pull me out of. Little did he know that my distraction had, for once, been useful. “Are you ready to demonstrate?” Olivier asked.

  At my nod we each did a plié. Using my own momentum, I leapt off the floor and pulled my legs together, crossing my ankles. Olivier lifted me until he could place my rear on his shoulder. Perched there, I bent my knees and tucked my calves under his triceps as I lifted my arms into fifth position above my head. It was a simple lift for experienced dancers but this was a beginner’s class. While most of our students were skilled dancers, they were not skilled at partnering.

  After Olivier put me gently on the ground, we wove through the class instructing the students and helping them with the lift. After that we worked on balanced moves. We talked the students through the exercise then examined and corrected their technique two pairs at a time.

  When the class was finished I heard the girls commenting on “Mr. Cheval” as their eyes lingered on him while they walked out the door. They were teenage girls with raging hormones and I couldn’t blame them for gaping at him. He was wearing tight sweat pants that hugged the muscles in his legs and a tank that didn’t hide his strapping chest and arms. He caught me looking at him in the mirror while he was working with a set of students, winked, and flashed me a gorgeous smile.

  “You’re so lucky, Mrs. Grace.”

  I turned to the two girls who were standing beside me. “I’m sorry?”

  They giggled as school girls do and blatantly ogled Olivier. “Excuse us for saying so but he’s just so yummy, ma’am. Do you think we could get a chance to dance with him before the summer session ends?” Their eyes looked hopeful as they oscillated from Olivier to me. It wasn’t a half bad idea. They should all probably partner us both to get an idea what the right kind of partner felt like.

  “We’ll see,” I offered with a smile before walking over to Olivier. He instinctively shifted his weight in my direction and told his audience it was time for them to get going as their parents were probably waiting for them. As he followed them to the door I trailed behind, stopping to gather my bag.

  I looked up at the sound of the door being locked and caught his devilish grin. Olivier closed the distance between us. The look in his eyes told me what was coming and my lips parted in anticipation. This was the first kiss I’d received since prom that came somewhat close to the passion he’d felt that night. “Charlotte, are you over him yet?” Olivier beseeched against my lips.

  With my heart pounding and desire burning deep within me, I wanted to lie to him. I longed to know what would happen when he finally let loose the tether he used to keep himself in check. But, I wasn’t over Wesley, not yet anyway. Every day I got closer, well that was until today. I knew I’d taken a few steps back but I didn’t think it would take Olivier long to make up the ground and then some.

  Not wanting to see the disappointment in his eyes, I left mine closed and shook my head. “My dear, change your shoes,” Olivier demanded. “I want to dance with you.” A tremble rocked through my body as the thought of dancing with him, just him and I, no audience, with barely anything between us, took over my mind. Kneeling down, I removed my toe shoes and tossed them in my bag. He was at the iPod selecting the song he wanted. I backed up, my eyes unable to look anywhere else.

  The music started. Olivier smiled at me with his fiery eyes locked on mine as he approached. His steps were in rhythm with the slow beats of the music. I expected him to immediately take me in his arms but he circled me as a predator does prey. My body pulsated to the beats and his body came up behind mine, matching my movements.

  His palms started at my thighs as he drew his arms up the contours of my body. The need to touch him was so strong that I reached back putting each of my hands on his hip
s. When I arched my neck back and to the side, the tip of his nose traced a line from my shoulder to my ear as Olivier inhaled deeply. My eyes grew hazy from the cloud of desire he was building within me and they longed to drink him in as I’d lost sight of him in the mirror.

  I spun to face him intending to wrap my arms around his neck, but his left hand caught my right and his right arm settled me into the crook of his arm. Olivier’s hips pushed me back as my feet instinctually followed his through box steps that swished my hips and twirled me through the space. His knees bent until we were face to face as his left arm lowered and the grip of his right changed. He was going to lift me. With that knowledge, I gave a slight hop and arched my back, extending my legs. Chest to chest and nose to nose, he spun us around.

  The most enticing thing about dancing with Olivier was the fact that we never choreographed anything. Our bodies spoke to each other on some other plane and our minds just went along for the ride. It was always a thrilling adventure that never disappointed. The melody of the music changed from staccato beats to slower rhythms. Olivier took advantage of this to elongate and exaggerate our moves and pull me even closer to him. At the moment his lips grazed against mine he’d caught me with my eyes closed as I just let the feel of him lead me. Breaking our connection, his arm wrapped around my waist while his hand pressed against my breastbone, encouraging me to arch back and away from him.

  The whole experience was what I would imagine an artist would use as a metaphor for sex. Olivier couldn’t make love to me at the moment but his body was telling me there was nothing he wanted to do more. There was a pleasurable purpose to each of his movements, a confidence that spoke volumes about the kind of lover he’d be. He made me feel sexy. He made me feel wanted. He made me feel worshipped. And he made me want him more than his kisses ever had before. If our bodies were so linked in a dance, how would they interact with the more intimate act?

  The music died away and we were both panting from exertion and lust. If Olivier had asked me again about being over Wesley, I would have lied to him and taken him up to my office. I was glad he didn’t. Olivier didn’t want me for short-term gratification. He wanted me to love him. Did I? It seems one dance had eradicated the backward momentum of my heart and plunged it forward and closer to being Olivier’s.

  “Seems we need to watch you with the young ladies in our class,” I teased in an effort to break the spell. His eyebrows shot up as his eyes became saucers. Before he could protest, I eased his conscience. “I’m not worried about you, dearest. It’s the girls. I think you’re going to need me as a chaperone for your own protection.”

  Olivier only focused in on one word. “Have you chosen a pet name for me finally, my dear? I’d wondered how long it would take. I like that it’s in line with my own for you.” Had I? Good grief, I had. Was my heart further along than I’d realized?

  Said heart was still pounding in my chest. I pulled away when Olivier attempted to kiss me again. He arched an eyebrow, but I just smiled and said I was ready to go home. I’m amazed his satisfied grin didn’t split his face in two. “Why do I need you as a chaperone?” he asked while we gathered our things.

  We walked to his car and I shared my observation of the girl’s appreciation of his finer qualities with him. Once in the car he twisted towards me, opening his mouth to say something. But the words never came. Instead he swallowed hard and his eyes raked over my body. “Olivier?” I prodded.

  “Use your name for me, my dear,” he begged. His face was millimeters away from my own.

  “Charissimus,” I purred, the Latin for dearest. Olivier crushed me to his body as his tongue took ownership of mine. I moaned with relief not realizing exactly how much I’d been longing for this kind of attention from him. Lust was driving him now and it was probably a good thing we were in his car because it kept his lower half from getting to mine. His knee slammed into the console and I heard him growl and curse before he sat back in his seat.

  “Charlotte, if I take you home right now I plan on claiming you as mine.” His declaration was breathy and ragged and desperate. “At this point I don’t give a damn if you’re over the whelp or not. However, I want to remain a gentleman so tell me where to go that is very public. No movie theaters, no secluded parks, no beaches, and it definitely needs to be within minutes of here because I’m about to throw you in the backseat!”

  Fighting the urge to bite my bottom lip because I knew it fanned his fire, I quickly ran through where to go. Problem was we weren’t really dressed to go anywhere. “Olivier, I don’t know what to say. Before we could go anywhere we’d have to go home and chan…”

  “NO! Not home,” his voice echoed in the car. He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. His body was visibly shaking from the effort it was taking to regain control of his desires.

  We ended up going to the Riverside Mall and buying new clothes. Once changed we meandered through the Riverwalk Marketplace for hours hand in hand. It was hot but there was a cool breeze sweeping in off the canal. As we walked I realized I knew really next to nothing about him.

  “Olivier.” His hand squeezed mine as he shot me a look from the corners of his eyes. Giggling, I started over. “Dearest, or do you prefer charissimus now?” he smiled, a thoughtful look on his face.

  “I believe my heart responds the same to both, although, you do know how I adore hearing you speak Latin.”

  Actually that wasn’t true at all. “There you go trying to lie to me again,” I teased him. “I believe it was my ability to speak Latin that freaked you out.” He chuckled at my assessment and gave me a sheepish shrug before nodding. “So before we met and you became my constant shadow, what did you do? What did you enjoy?”

  Olivier tensed. I wasn’t sure why my question made him anxious. “Carissime, nothing I was before you matters.” So it was the Latin he preferred. “I wasn’t someone you’d have wanted to know.”

  I remembered what he’d told me in the hospital. I hadn’t forgotten. He’d ferried souls to hell. But it wasn’t something he did anymore and there had to be things about this life he’d enjoyed. If I was going to love him, I needed to know all of him. “Did you do anything worse than what you’ve already told me?” His free hand ran through his hair as Olivier shrugged. “Did you murder?” He shook his head. “Did you rape?” With more conviction he shook his head. “Did you truly turn the righteous from heaven or just guide those who were already on their way?”

  “I never could force myself to be so persuasive as to turn a true believer from Heaven,” he confessed. I’d suspected as much. As much as Olivier said he loathed humans, I’d watched how kind and truly gentle he was with them. He was even more so with me.

  “Then play my game of twenty questions. I dare you to let me get to know the real you.” I shot him a wicked smile as the taunting words passed my lips.

  The afternoon was spent with him truthfully answering my questions. I learned he’d been a member of Edward IV of York’s court. He’d been a spy for Napoleon, which was when he’d taken the name Olivier Cheval. His preferred eras in human history had been the nineteen-twenties and the Renaissance. He’d met Da Vinci and Einstein and held a cabinet position for Kennedy. Landing on the moon had been the most inspiring achievement he’d seen the human race accomplish. While he enjoyed America and our optimism, his heart belonged to Italy, Rome to be precise. He favored their history and always found the juxtaposition of how they balanced artistry with brutality fascinating. He remembered every dance from every era and his favorite was the waltz.

  “For such an artistic spirit you seem to have been involved in many times of political strife,” I observed.

  “It’s the role I had to play,” he explained. “Before you I was cunning and manipulative. I had an affinity for languages and could grab the attention of those around me. Plus, I have a way with muses, well the female ones anyway.”

  That surprised me. We were sitting at a table in Café Roma for dinner and sp
eaking in hushed tones. “I thought you said angels avoid muses.”

  “I said in general angels don’t mix with muses,” Olivier clarified.

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’re a distraction,” he saucily said with an arched eyebrow and one side of his mouth curled upward in a wily smirk. “They can be addictive.”

  “Muses?” I asked as my brow furrowed.

  “And dreams.” Olivier took a deep breath before continuing. “That constant stream of encouragement to pursue dreams you’ve given up on, well it’s a potent elixir. A rush no drug can emulate. Many muses go unnoticed because the people around them only taste a spark. They don’t realize a person is the cause. For most muses their power isn’t strong enough to alter the course of a life.”

  “But mine is and that’s what has everyone’s up in arm?” I guessed.

  “Yes,” he answered. “In the beginning we all thought the whelp was the force to be reckoned with. The man with the will and ability and charisma to change the way people think. To call them to action. Then I stumbled upon you…” Olivier trailed off. He didn’t need to say anymore. According to the angels and exiles I was the force behind Wesley’s actions. I was Wesley’s inspiration. Then I quickly became Olivier’s. “…if I’d never told them about you,” he mumbled with his eyes closed.

  “What do you mean?”

  He sighed. “I was wondering how different things would have been if I hadn’t run back to my commander and informed her there was a powerful muse wandering the halls of that junior high school.”

  “They didn’t know beforehand.”

  “It’s not like you guys go around wearing a sign that say “by the way, I’m a muse,’” Olivier threw my words back at me with a chuckle. I laughed with him. When we were done he continued. “Events are typically the sign a muse is around other than that feeling you come to recognize over the years. When things change easier than they should a muse will be found at the center. Most know what they can do if not what they are.”