Spellbinder: A Love Story With Magical Interruptions

by Melanie Rawn

  “Didn’t they tell you? I’m the chief entertainment.”

  She met his gaze, her brows arching. She hadn’t approved him on her host’s list of participants.

  “Ringmaster only,” he added. “I leave the … celebrating … to others. How did the spell work, by the way?”

  “Well enough.” She gave a shrug. In fact, her efforts appeared to have had little, if any, effect. But she wasn’t about to admit that to Noel.

  He required no such admission, evidently. “They must have something on you—something powerful.” He paused to sip his drink. “Mojo bag? Poppet? Maybe even your Measure?”

  Denise laughed to cover annoyance—and nerves. “The first two are beneath their exalted scholarly notice. As for the third—if they did, and if it really worked, would I be here tonight?”

  “Depends,” he replied in an infuriatingly casual drawl. “Are we talking the Magistratum here? If so—”

  “You’re extremely curious,” she remarked, looking up at him through her lashes. “One might even say ‘nosy.”’

  “I like my merchandise to give satisfaction,” he countered. “If it doesn’t, I like to find out why. What you’re up against that’s so potent.”

  She started to reply that it was nothing that need concern him, then abruptly reconsidered. He knew a lot; he had resources at his store; there was a certain power about him. Perhaps he could help her. Galling though it was, she had to acknowledge that maybe she did need some help. She wanted Elias Bradshaw and Holly McClure damaged.

  So instead of telling Noel to mind his own business, she murmured, “If you run across anything useful against a Spellbinder, let me know.”

  His shock was everything she could wish. But whatever he might have replied was lost when a young couple, neither of them older than twenty, approached. The boy was even taller and lankier than Noel, wearing doeskin pants, a white silk shirt with unmanageably full sleeves, and so many ear-cuffs with dangling charms that he clinked when he walked. The girl was a study in black and silver Goth with piercings in improbable places.

  “I think it’s just wicked cool that you’re here tonight,” the girl enthused to Denise. “My parents didn’t think you’d come.”

  “Denise,” said Noel, recovering himself, “this is Serenity, daughter of the house. And her friend, Scott.”

  “Hi,” Scott said.

  “Good evening,” Denise replied, not showing her interest. He didn’t much intrigue her personally — too skinny for her tastes, and much too young—but his presence here was a coup. His name on the list had made her laugh for a full ten minutes. The boy’s father had spent an entire hour on someone’s talk show excoriating her and her books as the Devil’s work. Delicious.

  “I’ve never been to a real Black Mass before,” Serenity was saying. “But I turned eighteen last month, so I’m finally old enough — according to my parents.”

  Noel laughed. “Psychodrama, nothing more. Something to shock the children.” He fixed his pale blue gaze on Scott. “Are you shocked?” But before he had a chance to answer, a bell rang. “Ah. I think we’re about to begin.” He held out an arm to escort Denise. “May I have the honor?”

  Five minutes later everyone had changed out of whatever they’d worn to impress each other, and wore plain, utilitarian, equalizing black robes. Denise and Noel led the way down an appropriately dark stone staircase, carrying black candles, to the basement room fitted up for the rite.

  Like the rest of the house, it was just a breath short of excessive. Outside, just one more turret or tower would have rendered the whole preposterous; inside, especially within this chamber, a single additional yard of dark crimson velvet would have created a parody. As it was, the surroundings were luxurious without opulence, atmospheric without exaggeration. Bare, rough-hewn stone walls with high, opaque transom windows in small alcoves; velvet chaise longue rife with pillows; silver-veined black marble plinth on which rested the ceremonial tools. Denise approved.

  As people arranged themselves — the twelve chosen men claiming their places, the other men and women finding vantage points — Denise inspected the accoutrements. The candelabrum was particularly fine: thirteen fat black candles, six to either side of a high central taper, the whole made of silver stems writhing about a beautiful young man with delicate horns. The bell was brass, as were the thurible, incense boat, chalice, and aspergillum—the last in the shape of a phallus of exceptionally heroic dimensions.

  When everyone was in place, Noel nodded to their hostess. She rang the little bell nine times. Noel sighed quietly into the ensuing silence.

  “In nomine Magni Dei Nostri Satanus introibo ad altare Domini Inferi.” In the Name of our Great God Satan I will go in to the altar of the Infernal Lord.

  Denise gave a sigh of her own. Latin; swell. She supposed the decisions of Vatican II regarding use of the vernacular wouldn’t have much influence on this bunch. Noel had an amazing voice: deeply resonant, compellingly sensual. As she stood beside the chaise, bare feet warming the cool stones beneath her, she mused that a voice such as his might almost make her start believing in all this shit.

  “Domine Satanus, Tua est terra. Orbem terrarum et plentitudinem ejus Tu fundasti. Justitia et luxuria praepartia sedis Tuae. Sederunt principes et andversum me loquebantur, et iniqui persecuti sunt me. Adjura me, Domine Satanus mew. Thine is the Earth, Lord Satan. Thou hast founded the Earth and the fullness thereof. Justice and luxury are the preparation of Thy Throne. Princes sat and spoke against me, and the wicked persecuted me. Help me, Lord Satan.

  Noel spread his arms wide as if to embrace the assembly. “Dominus Inferus vobiscum.”The Infernal Lord be with you.

  And they responded, “Et cum tuo.”And with you also.

  The thurible and incense boat were brought forward by their host. Noel reached into a pocket of his robe and sprinkled incense on burning coals once, twice, thrice, saying, “Incensum istud ascendat ad Te, Dominus Inferus, et dencendat super nos beneficium Tuum.”May this incense rise before Thee, Infernal Lord, and may Thy blessing descend upon us.

  She watched him, this long and lanky bookseller who ought to have been awkward but was instead oddly lithe, disturbingly graceful, as he censed the chalice, the candelabrum—and her. But all response within her dissipated when the smell of the incense flowed across her. This was her least favorite part of any rite: the stink. Asphalt from the streets had been specified long ago by some fussy idiot, so asphalt from the streets it was, mixed in with the bitterness of myrrh and the traditional “flying” herbs: henbane, datura, and nightshade. Knowing these to be psychedelic, hallucinogenic, and deleriant if cured in certain ways, Denise closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the smoke. Despite the stench, it would add to the experience.

  She kept her eyes shut and listened to the resonant cadences of Noel’s voice, gradually recapturing the pinpricking excitement of her own sensuality. South, then East, then North, and finally West, he circled her with scent and power and sound.

  “In the name of Satan, I bless thee—in the name of Lucifer, the Morning Star, I bless thee—in the name of Belial, Prince of the Earth and Angel of Destruction, I bless thee—in the name of Leviathan, I bless thee.”

  “Ave Satanus,” responded the congregants.

  Hail Satan.

  “WHEN DO WE EAT? More importantly, when do we—?”

  “You’re incorrigible. Just relax and enjoy, okay? This next part is from Aunt Lulah—she sent me the wood chips.” Holly took a little bag from the pocket of her robe and upended its contents into her palm. As she sprinkled the slivers into the cauldron, she half-sang,

  “Birch to honor the Lady of Summer,

  Oak for the Lord of the Day,

  Rowan for magic

  Willow for mourning,

  and Hawthorns for the fey.”

  She paused. “That’s faerie folk, just in case there are any hovering about.”

  “Don’t expect me to be skeptical, lady,” he told her. “Granna
Maureen always said her family had its very own bean sidhe, who yelled its head off whenever a man of the clan was in danger.”

  “Really? You didn’t tell me that when we talked about Ireland last fall.”

  “I was kinda distracted back then,” he explained blandly, “tryin’ to figure out how to get you in the sack.”

  “One-track mind,” she sighed. “Where was I? Oh,yeah—

  “Hazel for wisdom,

  Apple for love,

  Vine for the Earth,

  and Fir for rebirth.”

  The wood chips blazed, a mix of scents that merrily tickled his nose. “One of these days I’m going to have to rework that so it all rhymes.

  “We celebrate the Year’s renewal

  With Flame and Wine, witch Scent and Jewel

  We honor Life and Love this night

  And with desire our troth do plight.”

  A gesture to the wine and glasses invited him to pour for them both. When he had done so, she toasted him and said, “Beltane is the night when our ancestors in Ireland met in the greenwood after the long cold winter, and reaffirmed that they were alive by making love. It is Tana’s Day, symbolized by the Sword of Nuada, one of the four magical treasures of the Tuatha, which we in modern times call the athame. Beltane is a night of fire and flowers, of light and energy, of feeling and being. It is the music of the lute and the guitar, all stringed instruments whose notes weave the song of the universe.” Smiling, she toasted him once more. “And tonight, a chuisle, that song is me and thee.”

  THEY WERE ALL NAKED NOW, except for Denise. As she gave a shrug of one shoulder and her black silk robe cascaded to the floor—exactly as it had been designed to do—she was gratified to see that every man, even those not among her twelve, instantly responded. She let her body slide sinuously onto the chaise longue, and within seconds their visible response had become imperious need. She saw it glitter in eyes of brown, blue, green, and gray, heard it rasp in quickened breathing, smelled it in their sweat-beaded skin.

  Except Noel. He was still wearing his robe, no indicative swelling outlined by the material as he moved toward her. Neither did his eyes flicker, nor his nostrils flare, nor his flesh exude the musk of desire. He approached her, seeming to float, so supple were his movements, and extended his hands, palms downward, over her body.

  “Dominus Inferus, miserere nobis. In spiritu humilitatis, et in animo contrito suscipiamur a Te, Domine Satanus; et sic fiat sacrificium nosterum in conspectu tuo hodie, ut placeat tibi. Veni, Magister Templi. Veni, Magister Mundi. Pleny sunt terra majestatis gloriae tuae.” Infernal Lord, have mercy upon us. In a humble spirit, and with contrite heart, may we be received by Thee, Lord Satan; and may our sacrifice be so offered as to be pleasing in Thy sight. Come, Lord of the Temple. Come, Lord of the World. Earth is full of the majesty of Thy glory.

  Denise shifted slightly, anticipating. But Noel wasn’t finished. The bell rang again—the silly thing was beginning to get on her nerves—as he went on, this time in plain English:

  “O mighty and terrible Lord of Darkness, we entreat You to accept this rite, which we offer that You may make us prosper under Thy protection, and cause the fulfillment of our desires and the destruction of our enemies.”

  Then he did something Denise had never seen done before at such rites. He took from his pocket an elaborately carved wooden crucifix, about eight inches tall and touched here and there with gold, and held it high to all assembled.

  “Behold the body of Jesus Christ, lord of the humble and king of the slaves. Jesus,” he sneered, “crafter of hoaxes, swindler, deceiver! Since the day of your birth from the bowels of a false virgin, you have failed. Imposter, Filth of Bethlehem, cursed Nazarene, we drive deeper the nails into your hands, cram the crown of thorns upon your brow, bring blood from the dry wounds of your sides.”

  Denise was annoyed. And bored. If she’d wanted a sermon, she would’ve stayed home with the television tuned to an evangelical channel. Why didn’t he just get on with it?

  “Great Lord Satan, Infernal Majesty, condemn the pretender to suffer in perpetual anguish. O Prince of Darkness, call forth Thy legions and send the Christians to their doom!” Noel spat on the crucifix. “Vanish into nothingness, fool of fools! You are nothing, compared to the majesty of Satan!” He immersed the painted wood in the cauldron and fire leapt a full ten feet high, crackling angrily.

  Denise repressed a peevish sigh. Ringmaster, he’d said? Exhibitionist.

  “NOW COMES THE ’LET ME count the ways’ portion of the evening,” said Holly. “We take turns wrapping a ribbon around the candle, and say what we love about each other.”

  Evan took one end of the red ribbon. The candle smelled of vanilla, and the combination with cinnamon made him think of baking day at Granna Maureen’s. “Me first,” he said, passing his end of the ribbon to her around the candle. “I love your freckles.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him, and gave him her end of the ribbon. “I love your dragon’s eyes.”

  “I love your hot Irish temper.”

  She grinned. “I love your hot Irish ass!”

  He winked back. “I love your smarts, writer-lady.”

  After a moment’s pause, she turned serious. “I love your total dedication to everything you do.”

  “I love your face when you’re sleeping.”

  “I love your power.”

  “My—? Oops, sorry. I love your voice.”

  “I love yours—except when you start singing!”

  “I love your rasty sense of humor.”

  “I love it that you can match me quote for quote from A Hard Day’s Night and Star Wars.”

  “I love your lectures.”

  “Liar! I love your stupid ostrich-hide cowboy boots.”

  “I’m a liar?” They were running out of ribbon, and he hadn’t even gotten started. “I love it when you call me a chuisle.”

  “I love it when you smile.”

  “I love it that most people have personalities, but you have character.”

  She looked startled for an instant. Then: “I love your pride.”

  Last bit of red silk. “I love your magic.”

  Knotting the ends, she replied, “I love you.”

  She lit the candle with a little flick of her fingers. “Y’know, I’m getting pretty good at that again. I lost the knack of it for a while.”

  “There’s something else you’re pretty good at. Do we get to practice now?”

  WITHIN A FEW MOMENTS THE wooden crucifix had burned to ashes. Noel sifted them down into the chalice, a tiny smile curving his wide mouth. His eyes were alight now, his brow sheened with sweat, as he used the huge bronze phallus to stir the ashes into the wine. He drank, then presented the chalice to each worshipper. “Accipe calicem voluptatis carnis in nomine Domini Inferi.” Accept the chalice of voluptuous flesh in the name of the Infernal Lord.

  Replacing the chalice on the black marble plinth, he turned to Denise. Now his face was radiant, exultant, and he ran his eyes over her body as he groped for the bronze phallus. He held the thing as if he were holding his own. Suddenly Denise realized that to him, it was his own.

  “Ecce sponsa Satanus,” he proclaimed. “Domino Inferi in medio ejus est. Qui stitit, veniat; et qui vult, accipiat aquam vitae.” Behold Satan’s bride. The Infernal Lord is in the midst of her. He that thirsteth, let him come; and he that will, let him take of the water of life.

  With the phallus he pointed to a wonder of Nordic manhood, who came forward and spread Denise’s thighs.

  “Fornicemur ad gloria Domine Satanus,” Noel invited in that rich, burgundyand-silk voice. Fornicate to the glory of Our Lord Satan.

  HOLLY HELD UP HER PALMS to Evan. He laced their fingers together, watching candlelight shimmer in her eyes. Quietly, almost formally, she said, “The Great Rite is ours to celebrate—in Greek, the Hieros Gamos, the Sacred Marriage of seed and soil, rain and earth, God and Goddess.” She smiled slightly, almost shyly. “Thee and me, a
chuisle mochroí.”

  It was strange and stunning, how different it felt, making love to her amid the candles and the wine and the scents and the little chunks of brightly colored stones. It was just him, just her, something they’d done a thousand times—but it somehow was more this time. Not only an act of love, an act of — belief?

  Or maybe even faith?

  The thought snagged in his mind. His Catholic education, in the form of Sister Mary Lazarus, advanced to bring her four-foot-long aluminum pointer down on his knuckles—

  Holly seized his face between her hands, laughed up at him, and demanded, “Hey! Pay attention!”

  So he let the word faith escape him, and chased more pleasurable and much less articulate things, and lost himself in loving her.

  Yet at some point, he couldn’t have said when, blue eyes darkened to brown — flecked green, russet hair paled to blonde, the sprawl of white silk beneath them transformed to the dark red of blood, and the giving body in his arms began to take —predatory, greedy, insatiable.

  It lasted only an instant; Holly was Holly again, in a circle of candlelight. And he was in her, and she was around him, and together they rejoiced in an act of true faith in living.

  “PLACEAT TIBI, DOMINE SATANUS, OBSEQUIUM servitutis meae; et praesta ut sacrificuum quod occulis Tuae majestatis obtuli, tibi sit acceptabile, mibique et omnibus pro quibus illud obtuli.” May the homage of my service be pleasing unto Thee, Lord Satan, and grant that the sacrifice I have offered in the sight of Thy majesty may be acceptable to Thee and win forgiveness for me and for all those for whom I have offered it.

  Not even halfway through her twelve chosen, Denise was tired of the whole foolish mess. Did they think she was a whore? Only there for them to fuck under the pretense of a ritual offering? Number Three—the Chinese guy from last November—had been a real stallion, and she was starting to enjoy herself when he unexpectedly finished, leaving her far behind. Number Five was occupied now, in full rut. Denise could have been his own right hand for all the attention he paid to her pleasure, and she was monumentally peeved. Despite several such evenings, she hadn’t had a truly spectacular night since —