Spellbinders Collection

by Molly Cochran

  She heard him stir behind her. She continued to stare out the window without seeing. The orange cat appeared out of nowhere and settled on the sill. She rubbed his shoulder, and he sprawled into her kneading fingers.

  "Someone hurt you very badly, a long time ago." Brian spoke just above a whisper, as if he was allowing her some space even in her ears. "Someone long before Dougal."

  "Eighteen years ago."

  He stood up. She felt the movement more than heard it, and he didn't come any closer.

  "Is he still alive?"

  "He's still alive. I'll kill him myself, thank you. How did you know?"

  "That night in your apartment, the things you said in The Cave, watching you just now. Few women regard sex as torture. At worst, they are indifferent. You forced yourself into this like it was surgery for cancer. Something, somebody, had hurt you deeply enough to scar you to the bottom of your soul. Logic said it was a man, when you were still a child."

  He wasn't getting dressed. Her old fears stirred, as if she'd stunned them but not yet killed them dead. There was going to be a problem in another minute or so, if she didn't get dressed. She couldn't clean up, with him between her and the door. She couldn't turn around. He had her trapped, as much as if she was back in chains.

  "Tell me about it, sometime. Wait until it comes naturally. I've heard a lot of pain in seventy years. I think you'll feel better if someone else knows what happened to you."

  That was one of the basic principals of psychotherapy or the Confessional, she remembered. Pain shared was pain diluted.

  "Maureen, is Dougal really dead?"

  "I cut his head off. I burned his tower with his body in it. If that isn't enough, I don't want to hear about it."

  "I love you, Maureen."

  Oh, God. "Of course you love me. You don't have any fucking choice. Ten minutes ago, you loved Fiona for the same reasons."

  "No. I've loved you since the night we met. You just wouldn't have listened if I told you. Besides, Fiona used a different spell than you did. I obeyed her. I didn't love her. You broke her spell and left me free. You ripped your own soul apart to do it. I love you."

  "I did the same things she did. The forest showed me."

  "Maureen, magic power is not a cookbook. You had a different intent in your heart, so the spell changed to meet your needs. You bound yourself to me more than me to you."

  He stepped closer, slowly, as if he was approaching a hurt and frightened animal. She felt the heat of his body on her back. The muscles along her spine crawled.

  "Men and women don't have to hurt each other. You set the rules. You set the limits. I promise you, I'll stop. No means no."

  She smelled him--smelled his musk, smelled her own sweat on his body, smelled the mingling of his semen with her mucus where their bodies had joined. She gritted her teeth against the urge to vomit.

  Maureen's hands clamped the windowsill, bracing herself to spin and flee or fight. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to hold her. She shouldn't give control to Jo this time. But it was too soon . . . .

  Don't live in the past. Don't live in the future. Do it now, while you still remember how good it can be.

  Brian loves me. I love Brian. What he is offering me is a sacrament between a man and a woman. He wants to give me joy, not pain. He is sharing his body, not using mine.

  Bullshit. He just wants to fuck you again. Once isn't enough for him. Buddy was like that. Goddamn rabbit, one afternoon he had you twice and still screwed Jo when she got home. At least he used a rubber for her: he never wasted one on you. You weren't old enough for sperm to hurt you.

  But his prick could. I bled after the second time. Bled for three days. It hurt to pee.

  She swallowed a scream and forced herself to hold still, sweating, trembling, eyes scrunched shut. She couldn't breathe.

  Brian loves me. I love Brian.

  His hands touched her waist, and she felt his hips snuggle against her bottom. She leaned forward and pushed back against him, and her world caught fire again.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  "Marmalade cat, marmalade cat, how do we leave?"

  Maureen stared down at the orange tom sprawled across her lap. She scratched his ears and repeated the question silently in her mind. How the hell could she get them out of this trap?

  She closed her eyes and slumped back against the smooth bark of the rowan by Fiona's kitchen door. Just doing nothing felt so damned good. The day had drained her, and it wasn't done yet. They had to get out of here. They had to find Jo and David. Somewhere out there Fiona and Sean waited for her.

  Especially Sean.

  The cat answered both her questions with a rumbling purr she felt deep in her belly. He was comfortable. If she left, who would provide a lap, scratch his ears, pour out cream on demand? Why should he help her leave?

  His paws kneaded the fabric of her jeans, claws slipping and catching gently. Possessive little beast. Everybody in the whole damn world thought they owned her lap, and all the appurtenances thereto.

  She wondered how long human sperm remained viable in the female body. Was Dougal waging a posthumous war with Brian for her womb?

  She shook her head. That would have been part of Freshman Health in high school, sex-education for hormone-ravaged ninth graders. Mom and Dad wouldn't sign the permission forms for either of the girls. They seemed to think Jo and Maureen would stay virgins forever if nobody mentioned the fact that men had penises and women had vaginas.

  Odd idea, and a little late in either case.

  The cat shifted on her lap, redirecting her hand to his left shoulder blade. She wished she could be that simple and straightforward. Cats didn't have any of those body hang-ups. If a cat wanted something, either food or sex or a warm sunbeam on his belly, he went out and got it. If he wanted his shoulder scratched, he told you which one and how long. Hedonist. Mister Marmalade had his harem and his windowsill and his milk; all was right with his world.

  Brian appeared around the corner of the house. He saw her and shook his head.

  "Nothing?"

  "The hedge is a solid wall. Fiona tells it to open when she wants to leave. Right now, it isn't even playing dead-end maze with me."

  Shit.

  "Can't you cut a way out with that knife of yours?"

  "That wouldn't be wise. The hedge has defenses."

  "Can't you magic it open?"

  "It's my sister's pet." He grinned down at the cat. "You seem to have better luck seducing them than I do."

  She blushed. Her quick smile faded as fast as it came. "What happens when she gets back?"

  "I don't know. Fiona's a wild card. She might say she's bored with me and let us go, or she might turn you into a toad. You'd make a very lovely toad."

  Somehow, she didn't think he was joking. Maureen shuddered.

  "Isn't there any way we can fight her?"

  Brian chewed on his lip for a moment. "Again, I don't know. She drained my power. My mana, if you will. It'll be days before I build up anything worth mentioning. I have no idea what your strength may be. It's obviously greater than Dougal thought, or you wouldn't be here."

  She closed her eyes. "I'm tired. Don't expect much from me. If this tree wasn't behind me, I don't think I could even sit up straight. Last night was just about the first sleep I've had since I left our apartment. You don't want to ask how I got it. And I haven't been eating much, either."

  "I know how you got it." His voice was gentle. "What I don't know is how you held out as long as you did. How did you escape?"

  She decided to put it in the simplest possible terms. He deserved to know.

  "I'm crazy, Brian. I'm schizophrenic. I turned him into a delusion and stepped aside into one of my private little worlds. I've had plenty of practice. Anyway, it fooled him into thinking he'd won. This morning, I just unchained the paranoia and let my own personal Doberman have him for breakfast." She opened her eyes, and met his glance, and held it. "Still interested in sleeping next to me?"


  He waited long enough for her to know he understood.

  "Yes." He grinned. "You'll keep me from getting bored." Then his expression sobered. "Maureen, you never told anyone about the rape, did you? Not even a priest or therapist?"

  Cold fire shot through her like a lightning bolt. "I didn't say it," she whispered, too quiet for him to hear. "Jo, I swear I never said it. God as my witness, I didn't break my promise. I never told."

  "No," she added, aloud.

  She shook her head. She had to learn to be honest with herself, even about this. Jo would skin me alive if she knew what I've covered up. She was just scared of Daddy, scared of what he would do if he ever found out about her and Buddy.

  But I couldn't say what he did to me without Daddy finding out about the rest . . . .

  Brian squatted down so she wouldn't have to squint up at him against the sky, and spoke softly. "There's something you ought to think about, something the psych-boffins are always sniffing after, in combat veterans like you and me. It's called 'Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.' Some of the symptoms are damned close to schizophrenia. I've walked that road myself. As you Yanks would say, 'Been there, done that.'"

  Maureen froze. She knew about PTSD. They'd had months on it, in her various psych courses back in college. But that hadn't applied to her. That hadn't explained the voices, hadn't explained the things she saw that no one else could see--hadn't explained the ways she had been "different" long before Buddy Johnson stalked into her nightmares.

  Her mind filled the gaps with its own added diagnosis. That's the Blood, magic, a whole world the shrinks won't admit exists. A lot of "crazy Maureen" has always been the power in my blood struggling with a world that doesn't believe in magic. Advice from trees was a strength, not a symptom.

  Brian seemed to read her thoughts. "Nobody here would call you crazy. You deceived Dougal by using your power. You killed him by using your power. In this world, you're not schizophrenic. You're a witch."

  She felt calm washing through her, the cool relief of a lanced boil draining pus. She hadn't told Brian, but he knew. The years of hiding were over. She'd never dared admit the true problem, even to herself.

  "My delusions are real?"

  "They aren't delusions."

  "I really was talking to the trees?"

  "How do you think Fiona controls her hedge?"

  Her glance dropped to the cat in her lap. Her hands had switched to rubbing his cheeks, pulling his eyes shut in an ecstasy of attention.

  "The rest was just Buddy Johnson?" She spoke softly, to the orange fur, as if naming her fear could summon it.

  "Buddy Johnson." Brian repeated the name. He sounded like he was underlining it, in his memory. "I wouldn't say 'just.' Men like him have crippled other women for life. You've survived both him and the battle of living in the wrong world. That takes incredible strength."

  "I really can talk to trees?" She picked up the limp cat, hanging his nose in front of hers. "Marmalade cat, take us out of here."

  {Can't.}

  She dropped him, in shock. The cat tumbled off her lap and glared at her, shaking his ears until they rattled. His tail switched indignantly.

  "Ingrate. I gave you cream and scratched your ears all afternoon, and now you won't do us a little favor. You brought me in here, you must know the way out."

  {Mistress won't let us.}

  "And a cat lets a human tell him what to do?"

  {Mistress commands us.}

  Maureen shook her head and looked up at Brian. "Can you hear him?"

  He smiled at her, tolerantly, not as if he thought she was nuts but more like he was amused at her confusion. "No. I told you I was drained. Obviously, you aren't."

  Jeezum! A human commanding a cat? Somebody had better get the morals squad down here. That sure fit the definition of an unnatural act.

  Suddenly, little oddities clicked in Maureen's brain, and she looked around herself with fresh eyes. The rowan overhead held the orange berries of autumn against the unblemished leaves of spring. Daffodil bloomed next to chrysanthemum next to climbing rose, ignoring their proper seasons. An apple tree held both blossoms and five kinds of ripe fruit.

  Fiona did too keep slaves.

  She was less obvious about it than Dougal, was all. She forced her plants and animals out of their natural ways to perform at her whim, like the hedge-maze and her answering service. Maureen laid her hand lightly on the grass next to her and felt pain. It wasn't allowed to grow beyond a golf-green carpet height.

  They weren't talking land-ethic and Wicca here. To hell with the unbleached toilet paper. This lady lived on the earth, not in it. Nothing around Fiona's cottage marched to a different drummer. Things stepped out smartly on her beat, or they didn't march at all. She'd break their kneecaps.

  How did she control the land? How did she speak to it?

  "Brian, what did Dougal do to David?"

  His face turned grim. "You've read about the offerings that archaeologists find in bogs? The gifts to the land, to bring fertility?"

  She nodded, and he continued. "Sometimes those offerings included human sacrifice. A priest would strangle a man with leather cords, slash a woman's throat. Then they'd give the body to the bog. Most times, the person was a criminal, an outcast, someone condemned to death for good reason. This way, their death could serve a higher purpose.

  "Archaeologists love the practice. The acid in the bog embalms the offering, and you get to find all sorts of perishable artifacts, wood and leather and cloth."

  He grimaced. "I'm wandering. Sacrifices. In really bad times, the sacrifice needed to be more powerful. An innocent was killed, sometimes even the leader or 'king' had to die to serve his land. Their blood was more potent. It fed the land, soothed the anger of the gods. Even gods have bled and died to renew the world. Jesus held no monopoly on that."

  A black pit opened in front of Maureen. "Dougal killed David? To feed his land? My land?" If that was true, she could never speak to the fox again. David's death would always stand between them.

  "Worse. David is still alive. The forest is drinking his blood and soul, slowly. The longer he takes to die, the more powerful his sacrifice."

  She swallowed sour bile. Suddenly, chopping Dougal into dog-food looked less ugly. Do unto others what they have done unto others.

  "Blood is powerful?"

  He nodded. "Blood is very powerful."

  "Give me your knife."

  Memories swam out of decades back, a book about a man who kept an otter. A vengeful lover had cursed his rowan tree. The rowan held the soul of the house, the seat of happiness or sorrow, the magic of threshold and hearth. Maureen twisted around and laid her palms against the tree-trunk behind her.

  "Rowan, do you bless this house?"

  The answer came clear, heavy with anger.

  {No!}

  She cut her left palm and barely felt the sting. She smeared her blood on the trunk of the rowan. She leaned her forehead against the cool smooth bark and drew strength from it, drew strength up from its roots and the hidden waters below and the rock beneath it all. Her blood trickled down the bark and dripped from her hand into the soil.

  Again, the mirror of another time entered her, the sense of having been here before. Maureen felt words force themselves between her lips.

  "Rowan, I curse this house. I break its hold over you. I sever the threads that bind you to it. I free the plants and creatures of this land from bondage to this house and to its owner. I call the earth below to witness this. I call the sky above to witness this. I call the winds to speak of it, I call the rains to write it in the dust, I call the sun and moon and stars to shine upon it. I curse this house. You stand free."

  Again the feeling came to her, the way she used to hear Father Oak speaking silently.

  {Yes!}

  A whip cracked in her ear, and her eyes snapped open. The worn stone threshold under Fiona's door had split in half.

  Dark spots wove through her sight. She fough
t to hold her balance. She felt Brian take the knife from her, and then he knelt beside her, wrapping his arms around her, loaning her warmth and strength. She sank into it, gratefully.

  "Remind me," he whispered, "to stay on your good side."

  "Beloved, right now you are my good side." She shook her head, trying to clear the daze.

  Rough wetness rasped over her cut hand. She pried one eye open and forced it to reconnect. Cats. Marmalade Tom licked her blood, then Tiger Stripe, then Gray Spot. Animals licked wounds, didn't they? To keep them clean?

  Maureen staggered to her feet, using the rowan as a guide to vertical. Her head spun and her knees seemed to lack some essential parts.

  "I thought being a witch was more fun. Don't I get to lure children into my gingerbread house and bake them for dinner?"

  "I don't know. I've never been a witch. Some of the noises you made earlier seemed to imply pleasure."

  She blushed. "I think we can talk to the hedge now."

  Brian was staring at the cracked threshold. "Leaving behind a house filled with turmoil and strife. You don't mind smashing a walnut with a sledgehammer, do you? My dear sister may find it easier just to move someplace else. How did you do that?"

  "I don't know." Shivers danced along her spine. "Words came to me. The blood, the rowan tree, the words, all came to me. Power seems to use me, more than the other way around."

  He shook his head. "With the Blood, as with other things, power is a matter of will. Most of us have to learn spells as a focus."

  {We go now.}

  The cats strolled across the lawn, tails up, stopping to sniff this and that as if to imply total mastery of the situation. Maureen found the strength for a faint grin. It was such a typical cat attitude: "We're leaving now. You may follow us if you wish. Take it or leave it."

  Brian tucked an arm around her waist, and they accepted the offer. She leaned on him in a pose that might have been a casual snuggle but actually was nine-tenths of her support. Her hand dripped red into the grass and she watched each drop fall, fascinated with the way the ground drank it in without a trace. Her sight pulsed with fatigue, the grass approaching and receding as if the ground was a heart beating in time with her own.