Spellbinders Collection

by Molly Cochran

  "Yellow," she whispered. "You are a yellow rose."

  Her vision narrowed to a tunnel, and she lost touch with her body. The burning coals died in the darkness. The hornet stings left her flesh. The humming bees and the whisper of wind through the hedge died out of her ears, the warm green smells of grass and tree and earth abandoned her nose. All that remained was rose--the glistening velvet petals of the flower, the golden pollen on the stamens, the soft perfume of the nectar.

  Time froze around her. "Yellow," she repeated, as a mantra. "You are a yellow rose."

  She reached out and set her thumb and forefinger between the thorns. She flowed her will into the stem. She plucked it.

  It was yellow.

  Her vision opened out again. The roses around it were yellow. The swallowtails were yellow. Golden sunlight poured down around her, splashing on golden sandstone under her feet.

  The cats unfolded themselves and stretched, lazily, as cats do when they want to show they are granting you a favor. The gray-and-white female padded daintily back the way she had come, through space that had been hedge a moment before, and turned left. Maureen followed.

  They walked into grass and open sun. A thatched stone cottage sat in the midst of daffodils and azaleas and tulips, walls whitewashed into a travel-brochure for the Emerald Isle, waiting. The orange tom lay on a windowsill, basking in the only sunbeam falling on that wall. The rest was shaded by a tall rowan-tree guarding the side porch.

  Maureen opened the door, nervous, expecting further traps. It squeaked heavily on its hinges but showed her nothing except a tiled entry and an arch back into a modern kitchen. The cats scalloped past her ankles and strode inside.

  Have a cup of tea, Fiona's leafy face had said. Jimson weed? Or water hemlock? It would take a brave woman to brew tea in a witch's kitchen. Maybe there would be milk for the cats. That bastard brother of Fiona's had been buying milk at the Quick Shop. But he'd left it there, on the counter . . . .

  She stepped inside. Brian sat at the kitchen table, reading. He looked up when her shadow crossed his book, a smile breaking across his face. Then the smile died, replaced by blankness.

  Maureen understood, with a chill. He'd expected Fiona. She wasn't Fiona. That was the end of it. Nothing else mattered.

  He didn't look as if he even recognized her.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Brian paid no more attention to her than to the cats. He didn't speak. He acted as if Fiona had reached inside his brain and frozen part of it.

  Maureen shied away from him, her own thoughts scattered and useless. She groped for something to do, something to say, a way to break the wall of ice between them. She glanced out the window, at a thin plume of smoke on a distant hill. Maybe that was where Fiona had gone, squabbling with her fellow witches and wizards over the spoils Dougal left behind.

  Instinct had said, "Go to Fiona's place." As far as Maureen was concerned, instinct could damn well continue making suggestions. Besides, if she had come with some kind of plot in mind, had come looking for a fight, the hedge and the cats probably would have kept her out. Sometimes improv was the only way that worked.

  Other than Brian and the cats, the house seemed empty. And it was a house, even a farmer's cottage, not a castle or a palace. Maureen had seen no sign of servants, another difference between Fiona and Dougal.

  The orange tom rubbed her leg insistently and then padded over to a refrigerator purring in the corner, reminding her of milk. The machine seemed vaguely incongruous in the old cottage kitchen, but it held a stoneware crock of milk with a thick skin of cream floating on the top. She found three saucers, and filled them with cat-bribes, and drifted into irrelevant questions to avoid thinking about Brian. He was still ignoring her. The cats gave the cottage more of a lived-in feeling than he did.

  Electric refrigerator and microwave oven--Fiona had to have some solar panels on the roof, like the ones Dougal had. But the wood stove, oil lamps, marble counter-top with slate sink and hand pump, and lines of cabinets with buttercup-yellow paint worn back to bare wood along the edges and knobs made a comfortable mix of old and new. It looked as if centuries of feet had worn the slate floor smooth and darkened it to ebony. Bundles of herbs hung from the blackened beams of the ceiling, perfuming the air with sage and tarragon and rosemary and more exotic scents. It didn't feel like a dangerous place.

  A black laptop computer lay in one corner of the counter, somehow less clashing than it should have been. Maureen smiled at a vision of Fiona keeping her spells in a database, maintaining inventory on her eye of newt and toe of frog electronically to make sure she always had fresh stock--a thoroughly modern witch, perhaps with her own Web site.

  Brian sat at the table, ignoring her, reading. The damned man could at least say good afternoon, nice to see you, beautiful day we're having. She'd been counting on him.

  You're suffering from Snow White Syndrome, her critic snarled. Once Prince Charming is in the picture, he should take over and everything will be Happily Ever After. Ain't a-gonna work that way, this once-upon-a-time.

  This time, it was the Handsome Prince who'd eaten the poisoned apple, and the Princess had to wake him. A simple kiss probably wasn't going to work.

  Her hand was rubbing her belly again. Maureen jerked it away, bumping against the hilt of the knife. She pulled the heavy blade, sheathed, from her waistband and dropped it in the middle of Brian's book.

  "I think this might be yours."

  He didn't even look up. He did pick up the knife, running his fingers over some scars in the black leather of the sheath and then showing a couple of inches of steel to read the maker's mark.

  "It looks like my spare," he said to a point somewhere beyond her left shoulder. "Where did you get it?"

  "Dougal had it. I killed him with it, this morning."

  He blinked. "I gave it to David before we came here. Dougal must have taken it from him."

  That was all the response she got? Chop the villain into stew-meat and burn down his castle after spending a week or so naked in his dungeon, and all the man did was blink?

  Hey, girl, you've got a serious problem here. The man's a zombie.

  "Where's David?" she asked.

  "Dougal bound him to the land. He's in the forest, near the dragon." Brian put the knife down and turned back to his book.

  She snatched the book out from under his nose and threw it into a corner. Cats scattered and glared at her. Maureen glared back, and they vanished.

  Brian still stared at the table. She grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled his face up to meet hers. "Goddamn you, what fucking dragon?"

  "David killed a dragon." He spoke slowly and patiently, as if he was talking to a young child. "It belonged to Dougal. Dougal bound David to the land in a blood sacrifice, for revenge." He reached up and squeezed the sides of her hand, forcing her fingers loose from his hair and driving white-hot pain into her pinched nerves.

  So that was what was rotting in the forest. Maureen stared into his eyes, forcing him to recognize her. "Take me there. Help me set David free." She massaged her hand, wiggling the fingers until they all worked again.

  "Ask Fiona. If she says I can go, I'll show you where he is." He paused for a moment, frowning as if he was almost starting to notice the woman standing in front of him. "If you killed Dougal, you own his lands by right of conquest. That's the law of the Summer Country, as much as there is any law. If David is still alive, you can set him free without my help."

  Maureen exploded. "Damn you, I want to find David and Jo and get the fuck out of this freaking place! I need your help!"

  "Ask Fiona."

  She backed away from him with a sick feeling in her gut. She remembered the tree's picture-show: Fiona dancing around Brian, singing to him, enslaving him.

  If you want him, you're going to have to fight for him, the whispering repeated in her head.

  How do I fight for a man?

  The answer only added to the flip-flops in her belly. She was
going to have to seduce him. That was what Fiona's dance had done. Maureen was going to have to turn into Jo. Maureen, the woman who was afraid of men. Maureen, the woman who had just killed a man for raping her. If she wanted Brian's help, she was going to have to break this spell.

  The only way was with a spell of her own.

  You slept with a monster, to get a chance to kill him. Why the hell can't you seduce the man you love, to save him?

  Her head hurt, and her eyes refused to focus.

  You. Must. Bed. A. Man.

  Just thinking the words made it hard to breathe. Dougal didn't really matter. She knew it had happened, knew a time bomb might be ticking in her belly, but she remembered nothing. She'd switched off that part of her brain and slept right through it.

  She remembered Buddy with perfect clarity. He was huge. He was on top of her. He hurt her.

  She remembered his face hanging over hers--panting, red, sweaty, the glazed look of animal hunger in his eyes. She remembered sweat dripping off that huge flat cave-man nose like scientists always showed on their Neandertal sketches.

  Brian had that nose. So had Dougal, and Liam before him. Sean didn't. Maybe that meant it was for tracking female Old Ones by their smell.

  Fear condensed into her bladder. It felt like it would explode any minute, reminding her of the night in her apartment, walking down the hall away from Brian's fading glamour. She remembered how she'd nearly killed herself in the tangle of insanity afterwards, how she'd hated him for tampering with her emotions. And now he ignored her.

  If Fiona used a hand pump, she probably had an outhouse. Maureen tried doors in the vain hope for an indoor toilet and found one, just off the kitchen. She emptied herself and sat in the universal refuge, arguing with the voices in her head.

  What do you want? they asked.

  I want him to help me find David and Jo. I want him to help me find a home. I want him to talk to me. I want him to smile at me. I want him to touch me.

  What are the first three words of all those sentences?

  I want him.

  What was he doing in your dreams, last night?

  Maureen clenched her fists, staring at the white knuckles standing out under her flushed skin. He was kissing me, she answered. He was running his hands over my naked body. He was . . .

  And you liked every bit of it, in your dreams. Those weren't exactly dreams. Those were Dougal. He didn't hurt you. He didn't even really wake you up. You aren't ten anymore. Your body knows something your brain doesn't. You're a woman now. Most women enjoy sex. We're programmed that way. It's how the species survives.

  She wiped cold sweat off her forehead. Give me time, she whimpered.

  You don't have time, the surly voices muttered. Fiona will be back here, soon. Once she's here, you've lost him. Lost him forever. If you want him, you'll have to fight for him. You'll have to break her spell.

  You’re going to have to bed him.

  She stood up and peeled off unbleached toilet paper and searched for a flush lever before noticing it was a composting toilet. Maureen shook her head, unable to visualize tres elegant Fiona shoveling out a year's load of composted shit. The Old One probably witched it directly to her rose beds.

  Shut up and quit stalling!

  "If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly," she quoted. "But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we'll not fail." And then she shuddered at the unintended pun.

  How did a woman seduce a man?

  Do what Jo would do, her voices nudged her. You've called her a whore often enough. You've seen her at her work. Learn from the pro. Turn into your evil twin. Let her possess you.

  Maureen studied herself in the mirror. How would Jo wear those clothes? You've tried to imitate her all your life, worshiped her, even learned to talk like her, hoping it would help. What would she do, fishing for a man?

  First thing she'd do, she'd show a lot more skin. Maureen gritted her teeth and unbuttoned her blouse, top and bottom, until it was barely decent and then one button further, and tied the shirttails across her belly. She tugged her bra down an inch beyond her comfort limit. She unsnapped her jeans and slipped the zipper and settled them on her hips, until white lace showed below her belly-button in an open invitation.

  Jo looked back at her from the mirror, Jo in her tomboy temptress phase. They matched except for the hair. Maureen borrowed Fiona's brush and flipped hair forward until curls half-covered one eye.

  That took care of the outside. What the hell could she do about the inside? Last time she checked, you still had to get close to a man to screw him. If she tried that, she'd go catatonic or grab for that knife.

  She gagged at what she did remember of Dougal, his arms enfolding her naked body, his kisses on her breasts, his hand between her legs. She felt filthy again.

  Think of some other man, the voices prodded. Think of a man you aren't afraid of. Think of a man who gave you joy instead of sorrow.

  A tune floated through her head, and she started singing softly to herself, remembering a child's nonsense song learned from her grandfather long before Buddy Johnson clouded her horizon. It was the only bit of Gaelic she'd ever learned, and she didn't know the meaning of half the words--if they even had meanings other than mouth-music and a lilting rhyme. She did remember dúlamán was a kind of seaweed.

  "Dúlamán na Binne Buí, Dúlamán Gaelach,

  "Dúlamán na farraige, 's é b'fhearr a bhí in Éirinn."

  Grandfather O'Brian was always warm and gentle and friendly, even when he reeked of Irish whiskey. She'd loved him. She still did. He'd never hurt her. She tried to visualize him as the handsome charmer he must have been when he was young. She'd marry a man like that in an instant, booze and all. She'd bed him without the blessing of the priest and to hell with contraception.

  Maureen stepped out of the toilet and met Brian's stare. He looked at her, not at the table, and she saw something in his face no man had ever aimed at her before. It was the way men looked at Jo. The look punched her in the gut, and she stopped singing. His eyes lost their focus. She forced herself to start again.

  "A 'níon mhín ó, sin anall ne fir shúirí,

  "A mháthair mhín ó! cuir na roithlé go dtí mé."

  Gentle warmth flushed her face and hands, not a blush but a reminder of her sexual dreams. She washed up at the sink, his gaze on her back again, and she remembered her vision of Fiona in the forest. The dark witch had been singing as part of her spell.

  So this is magic. How can it feel so natural?

  Now came the hard part. She had to retreat into her padded cell and let Jo take control. She walked over to Brian, conscious of a different sway to her hips. His eyes focused on the top of her zipper and the lacy cloth showing there.

  "Tá cosa dubha dúbailte ar an dúlamán gaelach

  "Tá dhá chulais mhaol ar an dúlamán gaelach."

  Her hands, Jo's hands, caressed his cheek and slipped inside his shirt. The heat of his body felt scorching to her, and his warm male smell twisted her nostrils. She took his hand and pulled him out of his chair, led him to the next room, pushed him to the floor where there was a rug and room to work.

  He moved like a putty doll--pliable, inert and yet living. Zombie was the word.

  His attention was riveted to her body, but he wasn't aroused. She knew enough about men to know that. Her hands, Jo's hands working without command, unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it off, slid her zipper fully open, performed the rest of a slow striptease. Her magic controlled her as much as it did him.

  "Rachaimid go Doire leis an dúlamán gaelach,

  "Is ceannóimid bróga daora ar an dúlamán gaelach."

  The voices in her head echoed Fiona's words in the frozen forest. He smells you, they said. You lead men around by the nose. You can make a man do anything you want.

  Her hands, Jo's hands, slipped down her body and probed the moisture between her legs. She brought a finger to Brian's nose and his nostrils flared. H
is body stirred against the spell that bound him, and she pushed him back to the floor.

  Jo's fingers deftly opened buttons and buckles, slid cloth over skin, laid his body bare on the rug. Maureen's stomach clenched at the sight, and she forced herself back into the song.

  "Bróga breaca dubha ar an dúlamán gaelach,

  "Tá bearéad agus triús ar an dúlamán gaelach."

  He groaned. It came out as a word, "Maureen," and he reached for her.

  "Shut up and lie still," she hissed. "The only way I'm going to get through this is if I do everything. Be a goddamned crash-test dummy."

  His eyes widened but he obeyed. Of course he obeyed, the voices muttered. You're making him your slave, just like Fiona did.

  She straddled him, forcing herself to look only at his eyes. His eyes lived now. They saw her. A mind sat behind them.

  Memory forced itself forward, pain and exhaustion and slick sweat and the stench of blood. The last time she was in this position, she was chopping a man's head off while his dying reflexes vainly tried to screw her. She fought the image back and reached down beneath her, concentrating on the simple mechanics of alignment rather than exactly what she actually was doing.

  'twere well it were done quickly . . .

  She lowered herself on him, and she felt the Power of the Summer Country throbbing through her blood to focus on the fire growing beneath her belly. She moved on golden light and wept.

  * * *

  She stood at a window in Fiona's parlor, naked, with her back to Brian. Their mingled fluids chilled her thighs and she ought to wipe herself, but she couldn't care. Enough of the magic still glowed in her body.

  I'll fucking kill Buddy if I ever see him again, she swore. He stole at least ten years of this from me.

  You're not out of the woods yet, her critic muttered. What are you going to do when Brian comes to you? What are you going to do when he wants to be on top?

  That, she answered, depends on Brian. Right now, I'm in a mood to negotiate.