“Thing is, there’s so much I don’t know about you.” He removed the cocoa from the burner and poured it evenly into two mugs. “If I’m going to be the first man you’re with in ninety-five years, I want it to be perfect. I don’t want us to rush it.” He turned in the circle of her arms, a cocoa in each hand.
“But you’re human.”
“Yes. It seems like you won’t ever let me forget that fact.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll run out of time?”
He looked down into her eyes, her face close enough that an extension of his lips would touch hers. “I’d rather do it right once than do it wrong often.”
“You’re a gentleman.”
He snorted. “No. Not really. Just with you. For some reason, it’s more important to get it right with you.”
Her face softened and her mouth bent into a smile. “I’m so glad it was you.”
“Huh?”
Her eyes darted to the hot cocoa. “I… I’m happy it’s you.”
“Taste it.” He brought his own to his lips and took a languorous sip. Perfect, if he did say so himself. Over his mug, he watched her bring the cup to her lips. This is what he lived for. The first taste.
Polina closed her eyes and tipped the cup. “Mmm. How do you do it?” She looked at him from under hooded eyes.
“The secret is the fresh vanilla.”
“I don’t mean the cocoa.” The hint of a blush bloomed on her cheeks. “I mean, how you make me feel. You look at me like I’m the only thing in your universe.”
“You are a goddess,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“Demigoddess,” she corrected. “You could have a hundred different women. I pushed you away. And still you treat me like…”
“I want to know you, Polina. I’m not interested in dousing the fire. I want to kindle it. I want to know everything about you. Again and again I’ve told myself to stay away. But I can’t. And if we’re going to do this, I want to do it right. I want you to be honest about what you want from me.”
“What happened on the couch was exquisite.” Polina licked her lips.
Logan gave a smug half grin. “You’ve never had an orgasm before?”
She stared into her cocoa. “Not like that.”
Logan almost dropped his mug. For the love of all that was holy, he wanted to tear that skirt off her hips and show her all the different ways he could make her come. It took all his will power to take her hand and lead her to his glass dining room table. “Before this goes any further, I need you to tell me something. I want you to be honest.”
“What?” she asked.
“Why tonight? What made you change your mind?”
Chapter Nineteen
Most of the truth
Polina couldn’t tell Logan about the positivity potion. Nor could she tell him about the connection they shared from her sorting his soul. If there was one thing she knew about Logan, it was that he hated to be influenced or controlled by magic. If she told him, he’d accuse her of being just like Tabetha. He’d never talk to her again. She couldn’t have that. Not now. Not when, thanks to the potion, he held her heart in his capable hands. Instead, she told him another truth, one she hadn’t shared with anyone but Hildegard in centuries.
“I was married once,” Polina murmured, taking a seat at the table.
Logan’s jaw tightened and he lowered himself into the chair across from her. To his credit, he did a decent job of hiding his shock, taking a drink of his hot cocoa before saying, “Go on.”
“In my village, people married younger than they do today. It wasn’t unheard of for a girl to marry at fifteen or younger if the union was political in nature. I fell in love with Ronin around that age. He was an apprentice blacksmith and I was the daughter of a laird.”
“A Scottish landowner,” Logan clarified.
“Yes. We owned our land, which was a blessing back then.” She smoothed her skirt over her knees. “Ronin and I married in the year 1532. I was sixteen, and I was human. My father gifted us a small acreage of farmland and we built a home on it with the help of Ronin’s clan and my father’s laborers. It was a beautiful place with small stone rooms and warm fires. We were happy for a time.”
“For a time.”
“The plague came. In truth, it had been spreading for years, although our homes were rural enough to spare us direct contact with the early cases. My mother died and then my father. My brother fought valiantly but succumbed. His family. My sister. And then it came for Ronin.”
“What did you do?”
“I took care of him. I expected to catch it. Everyone caught it. I didn’t care. I cared for him through the bleeding and coughing, the aching bones, the diarrhea, the boils. I kept waiting for it all to happen to me. I pictured us dying together.”
“But that didn’t happen.”
She shook her head. “Even before we become witches, potentials are rarely ill. The latent magic in our blood keeps us healthy. And I always had a knack for herbal remedies. I wouldn’t have called what I gave Ronin a potion back then, but it worked almost as well as one. I did not die and neither did he. Unfortunately, the time he took to heal was a time our farm went poorly tended. I simply couldn’t do it all myself. In 1532, you did not reap what you did not sow.”
Raising her mug, she took another sip of the cocoa. Was she scaring him away? Reminding him that her existence dwarfed his own? She pressed on. Logan must understand what she was, the good and the bad.
“We almost starved to death that winter,” she continued. “We survived on pottage and only because we raided the homes of the dead and took their stores of oats and turnips. Very few people survived. At the time, I didn’t understand why we had been the lucky ones.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “Only later would I find out it was my nature as a potential witch that protected us.”
Logan shook his head. “How did you become a witch?”
“I…” She paused. “Would you like to see? I can tell you, but I’d much rather show you.”
Logan blinked, probably considering his tolerance to participate in additional magic. “Okay. Show me.”
Polina crossed the room to the satchel that waited for her on the floor near the sofa and removed from it a small mirror, unframed and with a jagged edge. She returned to Logan’s side and placed it on the table in front of him. She passed her hand over the silver in a long arc. “Reveal.”
Chapter Twenty
The Becoming
Scotland 1538
“Somethin’s scarin’ the sheep,” Ronin said.
“Dinna worry ’bout it, love. Come by the fire. I’ve somethin’ to tell ye.” Polina smoothed her white shift over the mound of her lower belly and lowered herself into a chair near the hearth of their stone cottage.
The bleating grew louder, more urgent. Almost too much to bear. The animals sounded like they were screaming. “Not now, woman. I won’ have the year’s work end in the belly of a wolf.”
“But Ronin—”
He held up one meaty finger. With his thick mass of red curls tied at the base of his skull, Polina had a clear view of the scar on the underside of his jaw where she’d lanced a particularly large black boil six years ago. She reminded herself that they’d been through worse than whatever was scaring the sheep.
“Ye reckon ‘tis the wolves again?” she asked. They’d been wandering closer to the house lately, becoming braver with hunger.
“Aye.” He selected a hickory bark torch from beside the door and moved to the fire to light it. “Only one way to ken for certain.”
“Ronin, don’t. I’ve a bad feelin’ ‘bout this.” Polina clutched her stomach. “The spirits hound me tonight. My skin prickles.”
“Weel then,” he said through a smile, “I’ll just have to face their magic. No one, ghost or wolf, is taking those sheep.”
He slipped out the door into the night. Polina fretted, pacing before the fire. The sheep continued as loud as before, but it was the distant sound of
Ronin’s screams that spurred her into action. Taking up another torch, she gathered herself and charged out the door.
The night was dark but warm, a waxing moon providing a touch of light. In the distance, down the glade from her stone house, Polina saw a dark figure holding a torch near the sheep’s pen. Ronin. She took off running, her slippers pounding the thick grass. But as she neared, she found it was a woman holding the torch, surrounded by seven deformed black dogs. At least, Polina assumed they were dogs. The closest thing she’d ever seen was a wolfhound. These were broader with fangs that protruded from their jowls. They circled the sheep, growling wicked and low.
“Who are ye?” Polina held the torch like a weapon between them.
The woman was tall as a man with long black hair that curled over the shoulders of her gossamer white gown. Her skin was visible through the body-skimming material. She may as well have been naked.
“I am the mother of night,” the stranger said.
“Have ye seen me husband?”
The woman pointed toward the pen. Ronin was there, frozen as a statue, hand still held high as if holding a torch that wasn’t there. The sheep ran to and fro in terror.
“Ronin!” Polina rushed toward him, scaling the fence to reach him. She shook his shoulder. “Husband. Wake, husband.” But Ronin did not even blink, such was his stupor.
The woman curled her thin mouth into an expression that couldn’t be confused with a smile. “He will not wake. He will remain thus until you’ve made your choice.”
Polina pivoted to face the woman. “Choice?” She patted Ronin’s cheeks and shook him again. His skin was cold, too cold. “What choice?”
“Six years heretofore, I answered your prayer and saved Ronin from death.”
Polina shook her head. “I did not pray to thee.”
“Not by my true name, but I could hardly hold your ignorance against you. Still, you called and I answered. Ronin lives because of my intervention.”
“What do ye want? Payment? A sacrifice?”
The dogs circled faster. “Of sorts. You, Polina, have my blood in your veins. It is time for you to embrace what you are and become like me.”
She shook her head violently. “What are ye? I know nothin’ of you.”
“Yes, you do. Look deep inside yourself. Like me, you are a sorceress of the dead, a witch, an immortal. Accept your duty and you will have the power to free your husband from my spell.”
Polina’s eyes filled with tears. The woman was obviously the evil spirit she’d feared. But what choice did she have? If she didn’t succumb to the witch, Ronin would die.
“Tell me what I must do.”
“Come here, child.”
Polina dropped her torch in the mud where it extinguished itself. On trembling legs, she approached the woman, who met her halfway, passing through the pen’s wooden barrier like a ghost. Polina wept with fear.
The spirit paused, her eyes focusing on Polina’s abdomen. “This is unfortunate. An immortal being cannot carry a child.”
Polina clutched her stomach protectively.
The woman tipped her dark head. “But this one will not live.” She shook her head. “The babe is ill. She will not survive another month.”
“A lass?” Polina asked, looking at her hands still gripping her abdomen.
“Yes, daughter. She is not meant to be born. Choose to join me and at least you will have your husband. Deny your rightful place and lose both.”
“But I… I cannot.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Be wise, daughter. You know what you are. Your potions heal. You are never ill. Your presence can make a flower bloom. You are never cold. You are a witch, Polina, a Hecate. A daughter of the night. Accept it and take what is yours.” She pointed at Ronin.
Polina raised her eyes to the woman whose glow rivaled the torch she’d dropped. Swallowing hard, she gave one curt nod.
The spirit smiled, looking genuinely pleased. She reached above her head, closed her fist, and pulled. There was a tearing sound. Confused, Polina focused on where her hand had been but saw only a distant star.
“Eat this,” the spirit ordered, extending her fist and opening her hand. In the woman’s palm was a piece of the night. Black. Foggy.
Polina grasped it with the tips of her fingers. It vibrated in her grip like a living thing, like a bee held by the wings. But as she brought it to her mouth, the strangest sensation flooded her. She was not afraid. The woman was right; deep inside, hidden somewhere out of sight, she had known she was something more. There was a reason she hadn’t caught the plague. She was different.
She wrapped her lips around the slice of darkness in her fingers and swallowed. The texture was of cooked pear, but it tasted of rare wild game. When she pulled her fingers away from her lips, they were red with blood. “What’s happening to me?” Polina asked, pitching forward from the pain that had blossomed in her innards.
“You’re expanding,” the woman said. “Don’t fight it.”
Fight it? Polina simply wanted to survive it. She fell to her knees, cradling her stomach and wishing for death. The night spun. The stars circled in her vision even with her eyes closed. The scent of wet foliage filled her nostrils. Another wave of pain brought cold. Her entire body plunged into a frozen loch without moving an inch. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Her muscles tightened as tendrils of ice branched from her stomach and infected her limbs. But when she thought for sure that she would die, the pain stopped.
She raised her head. Had the sun risen? No. The moon was its same waxing self. Only, Polina could see in the dark. Every blade of grass, the hair on each of the hounds, the slither of a snake winding over the woman’s feet—Polina could see it all. She breathed deeply and got to her feet. Everything around her was connected, held together by invisible string, all part of the same tapestry. The stuff she was made of didn’t end at her skin. She continued on into eternity.
“Come, my daughter.”
Polina staggered to the woman’s side. “Ronin?” she asked.
“Face him, extend your hand, and call to him.”
She did as the woman directed. Ronin’s eyes fluttered. “Polina?” he said.
“I am here, my love. Come to me.”
“What is wrong with your skin?”
She looked down at herself. Her skin was indeed glowing in the dark; the light shone through her clothing. “Nothing is wrong, Ronin. I have become. I am a witch. I am a sorceress of the dead.”
Ronin stepped forward, pulling his dagger from his hip. “What have you done with my wife?”
“I am your wife,” she pleaded.
He rushed her, thrusting his dagger into her stomach. “Where is my wife!” he yelled.
Her lips parted in a silent scream as she spread her arms and looked down at the dagger protruding from her stomach. Ronin backed away. Slowly, agonizingly, Polina wrapped her hands around the hilt and pulled the knife from her flesh. The pain abated as soon as it was free of her flesh. She handed it back to Ronin. “I am your wife.”
He staggered then, shaking his head. She caught him before he could fall and started guiding him inside.
“Wait, daughter,” the woman said. “I have a gift for you.”
The earth under her feet began to quake, and to her horror, spit out a large book. The symbols on the front were unfamiliar but somehow she understood them. Elemental Alchemy.
“Practice. The knowledge will come to you in time.”
Polina nodded. The woman disappeared.
Step by step, she dragged the massive man back inside as he mumbled, “My wife is not a witch.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The Penthouse
As the mirror finished its story, Logan turned toward Polina. “After all of that, after losing your…” He couldn’t even say baby. The thought was too horrible. “Ronin didn’t believe it was you. He tried to kill you.”
“Yes,” Polina said.
Logan was conflicted over
what he saw. On the one hand, he’d wanted to jump into the mirror and shake Ronin, to force him to listen to reason. On the other hand, he wanted to kill the already dead Ronin. Mine. From the moment Polina had appeared at his door, he’d considered her his. It didn’t matter that the man had lived over four hundred years ago. Just seeing him raised Logan’s hackles.
“What happened next? Did he come around?” he asked.
“We needed each other to survive. In time, he accepted our circumstances, although he would never accept what I was. We lived out our lives as a brother and sister might. I loved him dearly. He tolerated me. Still, he would not accept a cure from me when he contracted smallpox in 1585. By then, he was old and I hadn’t changed at all. He died in the fall, and I buried him on our land.”
“Polina…” Logan’s face betrayed his sympathy for her.
“Ronin made his choice. I could have cured him, but he refused me. Some part of him believed I was wicked to the very end. So, you see, when I left you in the kitchen that night, it was because I know what happens when a human and a witch fall in love. The human dies, and the witch is never the same.”
“I understand why you left, but it doesn’t have to be that way.”
“It doesn’t?” Polina scoffed. She leaned her elbows on the table. “What way can it be?”
Logan took her hands in his and kissed her fingers. “First difference is, I know what you are, and I don’t think you’re wicked.”
“Do you think you could trust me after what happened with Tabetha?”
“I trusted you enough to invite you inside.”
She laughed. “I’m not a vampire. It doesn’t matter.”
“No. After Tabetha, Grateful placed a protective enchantment around my apartment. Nothing supernatural can come in without an invitation. It’s why I didn’t invite you in the first night you came to my balcony. When I carried you through the door tonight, I was letting you in.”
“Oh, Logan.” She pressed her fingers into her lips. “Thank you.”
Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology Page 212
