Whiskey & Witchcraft

by Kiki Howell

  Grabbing at the hair clinging to her in long, wet strands, she curled into a tight ball, rocked back and forth, not caring about her white dress as she curled her toes in the wet earth flooding her sandals. She fixated on her willingness to run to him, to throw herself into harm's way for any sort of relief from this suffering. She hyperventilated, gasping for air despite the wicked wind pushing its way into her nose and mouth. The nausea rose from where it had initially curled in a tight ball in her stomach until it threatened her closing throat. The chill bore through her aching muscles, creating phantom punches, blasts of pain on her thighs, her arms, her back. Yet nothing proved worse than the pain slicing through her heart, beating out of her chest. Abused again, it fought for escape, she sickly mused for her own wayward sense of amusement.

  The bleep of her phone alerting her to a text startled her. Her mom had confirmed she was on her way.

  "Bring whiskey," she texted back as she sighed and then started to cry.

  She let the tears come freely, the storm masking them along with her sobs, endlessly crying until his magick whiskey came along with her ride.

  "Are you okay?" her mother shrieked to see her sitting there in a puddle, the girl seemingly more worried about her clothes than anything else on earth most days. A ruse. A necessary distraction made of creative energy.

  "I'm fine," she sobbed, choked on the words as she grabbed for the full bottle of whiskey in her mother's hand. "Get me home."

  As only a mother could, she understood the severity of the moment, nodded her head, and unlocked the car. No questions asked. At least, not for now.

  Chapter Three

  Ciaran couldn't believe Allanah, beautiful beyond reason or explanation in his eyes, sat across from him, in his private living room on the second floor. He'd spent the last few days leaving her messages, apologizing for the other night, for whatever made her run from him. He didn't care if it was his fault or hers, he planned to apologize, beg and plead, if necessary, to get to see her again. One good thing about having an inner beast, being wealthy, and so on, he had all the accolades he needed to feel a man. So, when it came to her, and only her, he had no problem groveling. Not this time. His life might not be perfect, or even good yet, but now that he'd seen her, tasted her again, he would never let her go again.

  Fuck you, dad, he hissed at the air above him until a heinous thought about his father's true possible eternal resting place pasted an evil smile on his face, a hateful and convoluted upturn to his lips. Fuck you, dad, he hissed it again, louder this time, only at the floor, an image of the fires of hell prevalent in his mind.

  On top of his apology calls, he'd sent her flowers and wine and anything else deliverable daily, until she'd finally called him to demand he stop the overdone apology gifting. He'd gotten her talking then, first about the weather, stupid, but it bought him time to hear her voice. He'd changed the conversation, then, over to her work, something he'd chastised himself for not bringing up at his party to spend more time with her. Eventually, when he'd loosened her up enough, made her relax, he'd carefully requested seeing her again. He made it a dare, challenging her to spend a little longer with him. And, when the time felt right in the conversation, he even risked teasing her that she wouldn't be able to keep her hands off him. She finally stood up for herself, took his dare, and in the process had agreed to come visit him again when it would only be the two of them.

  Worked every time, he thought, tapping a loose fist against the heart bumping around in his chest.

  She'd never brought up his red eyes, or the crushed mantle, or anything else from the other night, but maybe she had found rational explanations for it all. Most people did, because what other explanation could they imagine. They'd blame the lighting, or a storm, for a trick played on their eyes. They'd blame faulty construction when his strength went beyond human. Always an explanation that had nothing to do with a legacy of evil, of magick, which led to all sorts of nefarious feats courtesy of a demon lurking within.

  He'd had the same excuses ready. For his red eyes, the color of the flames of hell, he'd claim it had to be the lightning reflecting in his eyes, or maybe the fire. For being able to crumble large stones to gravel with his bare hands, he'd claim the mantle had been unstable from the weather and in need of repair. Since the demon his father had summoned into him to maintain his son's magick, to ensure his loyalty to the coven, had appeared once Allanah had gone from his life—as in, days after—he'd made up excuses for his strength, his eyes, even his anger when out of control. Though few had seen him as the creature the demon turned him into. Sadly, those few had not lived to tell of it. Regret fluttered through briefly, until the beast within wouldn't allow it, fed off the guilt, slurping it up like coffee, re-energizing with it.

  Despite the fact he knew she couldn't read his mind, his brows drew closer together as he looked away, avoided eye contact. Thumbing his ear, then tugging on his shirt, he sighed, stopping such inexcusable signs of weakness, while out of the corner of his eye he watched her inspect her surroundings. Turning to the window to witness the magnificent view he knew all too well, along with her, he ran his hands through his hair. Moments later, he tugged at his waistband. His jeans grew uncomfortable as he beheld the sight of her: the slight arch of her back, the curve of her hips and ass, all tiny but generous enough. Perfect for his large hands to consume. The darkness inside lurched in a lustful glee, forcing him to grab the cushions of the chair he sat on to remain seated. He sucked in a slow, long breath lest he shred the cushions with his bare hands.

  Usually he had control over the damnable beast, giving it just enough leeway to satisfy it with women, while reigning it in enough not to appear too much of a dick in the bedroom. With Allanah, though, he didn't want it anywhere near her, but what choice did he have here today? He felt the demon ooze through his veins like slime on a daily basis. So, he'd kept his distance from her all of these years.

  He'd yet to find a way to get rid of the blasted curse, especially given his family's need to keep him in the coven. The demons were insurance. Each man in the coven had one. They were each controlled by the head of the coven, his father before, and now him. If a man dared betray them, his demon had the ability to trigger any other man's demon in the coven in order to destroy that man.

  Even now that his demon controlled them all, the failsafe being if he could somehow manage to exorcise his, the coven would join together to go after him the same way. He'd find himself the unnatural beast the demon turned him into permanently. Even if he could find the power to destroy it, send the serpent back to hell, another coven to help him maybe, his family would never hear of it. He couldn't imagine the fallout after. They'd put the little devil back in, through ritual, through sacrifice, the same way his father, being the kind and generous parental figure he was, had put the hellion inside his son to begin with.

  Ciaran had often feared, since his father's death, that one of his brothers may even let the demon destroy him, take him over permanently, in order to take over the coven, the business, for their own. Then he'd have never seen her again. He shook off the horrible thought, a chill snaking down his spine, tingling through his heart. If any of it had been his choice, he'd have laid it all at their feet long ago; the money, the business, the coven, the damnable beast, if only he could walk away a free man. His only choice was to find a way to destroy all the demons at once, but so far nothing in all his father's crap had led him to think it possible. He'd searched, too. Not through it all yet. His father had amassed more crap concerning the cult than any man he knew of.

  First, he needed a solid plan to not only rid himself of the fiend, but to ensure his getaway permanently from them all. So far, even an idea of where to start a plan had eluded him. He'd spent the time since his father's death working on just that, figuring out the best scenario to get out of it all, the business, the coven, the family even, and just disappear with enough money to hide out long enough for things to die down and then go and find Allanah. He'd se
arched for a blocking spell, one to hide his demon from the others, to no avail. The goblin served as a satanic tracking device to the demons in his brothers and the other men in the coven.

  In the meantime, he'd been funneling money into secret accounts, looking into locations, even buying a few, unseen since he couldn't risk being followed. Then, pictures in hand of remote islands, cottages, and such, he'd daydream about being there with Allanah. Admittedly, the latter had taken up the biggest chunk of his free time. He had two places so far. One he already had a small staff of two, a husband and wife without family, living on and tending to. Next step, he'd buy a false identification and a private plane. Once he learned to fly the damn thing, he'd take it there and stay forever so he couldn't be followed. Of course, it all came down to silencing or abolishing the monster within first. But, he took care of what he could until then.

  Seeing Allanah unexpectedly, out of his time line anyway, last night, had set him off, made everything about him off kilter. And, he couldn't deal with that. It just didn't work for him. Not for a man with a demon ever present, always lurking in wait for an excuse to force the transformation, to beast out, and possibly to destroy or kill. The blood lust alone could drive a man insane, make the beast the permanent controller of a man's being, his very nature, if not careful. And, long ago, his wonderful father had even threatened to force his beast to kill Allanah if he disobeyed the family, didn't take on his proper roll. His brothers, now, could easily do the same.

  He shook his head as he adjusted in his chair, secretly studying her as she took in the view from the window. How could he tell her such a thing? Ever? As the prickling of his scalp echoed the quiver in his stomach, self-hatred escalated to self-loathing. The ludicrousness of the whole thing, the unbelievable reality factor alone, put him over the edge even imagining her finding out. Those facts kept the men in the family, in the coven, in check. Tell and be locked up in a straight jacket for life, medicated, or who knows what. Not like anyone would believe him, and if he turned as proof, they'd probably not live to tell about it. Or, if even possible, humans could trap one of them, and then what, side show attraction? Medical study? None of the options were a life, so allegiance it was. For them all.

  He became overheated for more reasons than the one obvious in front of him, and the one not so obvious hidden inside of him. He needed a plan, needed to be in control of it to banish it, without his brothers and coven knowing. Or, he needed a reliable protection spell to make his whereabouts unknown to them. His and Allanah's. It had been his dream his whole life since meeting her, since acquiring, by force, his demon.

  Ariazurel, it whispered its name. A current of electricity skated under his skin, begging to be let out, to devour the girl.

  Never, he hissed back in his head. I will banish you one day. I promise you that.

  The demon only laughed, causing his blood to rush like a current of flames through his veins until he heard the thunder of his own internal tempest in his head. If he didn't get control of it, it would soon storm outside again. The power within could become strong enough to affect the weather. He had to channel the demon somehow. If she stayed any longer, and he couldn't have her, the man in him have her, the demon would happily feed off of his sexual frustration. He would have no choice but to channel that energy into the atmosphere until he feared someone may have to build an ark.

  "Did this room look like this when your father lived in the house? This is the main suite, right? Was it once his domain? You took it for yourself?" She asked, silencing his frantic, wayward reverie as she turned from the window to look him in the eye.

  Even though he suddenly felt exposed, as if she could read his errant thoughts, he kept her gaze, challenged it, in fact. Turning toward her, he squared his shoulders, letting his spine straighten him up to his full height seated still. Never one to back down, she pushed back her own shoulders, showing off her two perfectly formed breasts. Her hands found her hips, making his fingers itch with jealousy.

  "No, not at all. I mean, yes, it was his, but I reclaimed it by gutting it and starting over like I did downstairs. I had to do away with every last trace of him. Again, reclaim the space in order to make it mine. Too much here, too?"

  "You did go crazy here. Well, you went all out, but not like you did downstairs. This is beautiful. I can't imagine having a room like this of my own to lounge in. I'd never even have thought to do such a thing. I have a flat."

  "In New York. Yes, I know. Sorry. Go on."

  "That's right," she laughed, giving him a teasing lift of one eyebrow, but the genuine light that twinkled in her eyes nearly shook him to his core. "I simply added furniture, a few paintings and knickknacks I've gathered along the way in my travels. My decorating style is eclectic, at best, yet more an album of memories; a travel diary, if you will."

  "I'd love to see it sometime. I can't, however, take the credit for this. My designer came up with several ideas, and I merely said yes or no until this happened."

  "I love it. So pure. So cozy. Yet, so...wow."

  He looked around the room, as if he could see it again for the first time, as a neutral observer through her eyes. It was simple, especially color wise, if that was what she meant by pure. Whites and woods with clean cut lines pervaded the space. Still, if the hues made it look simple, it was so in a truly extravagant way. An infinity edge hot tub sat up against another wall of windows, overlooking the ocean. When in it, it appeared the water flowed to the ocean, and he liked the connection to nature. With the tub being huge, big enough for at least eight people, it served as the focus of the room, surrounded by deep cream, leather couches and recliners. A few tables of dark wood left quite the contrast to the water and leather.

  "Do you mind dinner in here?" he asked. "We can lounge in the water, actually. I have tables that hook on the edges of the tub, or we can eat on the couches. I didn't want to be as formal as eating in the dining room. Hope that is okay?"

  "No, I prefer it actually. And I would take you up on the hot tub dining if I didn't have to do it in my birthday suit. You didn't mention bringing a bathing suit."

  "Ah, while the birthday suit gets my vote," he said with a smile and wink to let her know, hopefully, that he was joking, even though that would be a lie in all honesty. "But, seriously, just through those doors is my bathroom. The hallway in to it is lined with closets that are like going to the store to shop for a bathing suit. Should have every style, size, shape and color you could image."

  "Of course you do. Why wouldn't you? I mean it would be crazy to not think you had something so insane in there as to have a store in your closet," she said, attempting to tease him, he could tell, even though the banter covered her truth of maybe mild distaste or disbelief.

  He couldn't know. He just wished he could.

  "It was my decorator's idea, too, actually. That way, she said, a dip in the hot tub need never be planned no matter who was visiting. She even bought all the suits, men's and women's. I just supplied the credit card."

  "I kind of figured that."

  "You know, all of this extreme decorating, all of this stuff, it's just therapy, really. I hope you don't take the extravagances for arrogance or to show off my wealth. I hope you know me better than that. When my father died, I had such a hard time. You can't mourn one you hated, outside of finally mourning the loss, the possibility of ever having a real father, one to love, who loved you. I hated so much about him that I felt the need, right or wrong, to destroy all he had done to the house. Maybe tearing it down would have made more sense, but I needed to reclaim. Plus, I needed to waste some of his money on myself, on things that were just me. Not that he didn't invest money in me, but it was all for his gain, and I can't explain it, but doing this was like a fuck you, I can be my own man sort of thing. Childish. Sure. Therapeutic, more importantly. I had the money. So, I did it up right. Sorry, I hope that doesn't lessen me in your eyes."

  "Not at all. I met the man, remember. I don't think anything you could do for re
venge, no, that's too strong a word maybe, for healing, for whatever, could be misunderstood, or held against you. He made your life hell in so many ways. I know that."

  "Hell. Yes. Good choice of words. Thank you for understanding. It means so much to me."

  "No problem. But, suits. I want to go shopping and then heat, so, lead the way," she stated, enthusiasm in her voice that proved so easily contagious.

  While she shopped for a suit, and then toured his bathroom and bedroom, he took her comments as teasing rather than criticisms. Her demeanor had changed, in a good way, from the party. He'd given apologizing to her everything he had, going for honest. Well, as honest as he could be. No matter what it took, he'd no intention of letting her get away from him again. The time may not be ideal, but maybe love, something he could only experience with her, had given him hope.

  He'd not experienced such emotions in over a decade: hope, happiness, love. Just like a man yearning and devoted to a woman, she made him better, completed him. Of course, back then, during the short time he'd been blessed to call her his, he hadn't had a slithering servant of hell moving around inside of him, always fighting for control.